I surely love Maria Muldaur!
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Monday, June 30, 2008
Last to Leave: Arlo Guthrie
I have always liked this, a lesser known Arlo song. I don't think I can tell you why, but it always has a pull. This cut is from The Best of Arlo Guthrie, but it was originally released in 1974.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"No party is any fun unless seasoned with folly."
The rain was gentle and stayed for only a bit so we were able to eat on the deck last night. It was a wonderful evening with good friends, good food, great stories and lots of laughs. A breeze kept us cool and kept the insects at bay. The Moroccan food was a success from the muhammara to the dessert of fruits, dates and figs.
A thunderous rain woke me around five this morning. I closed windows then went back to sleep. When I woke up, it was to a gray, humid day, the sort of day which closes in on you.
My parents always gave the best parties. The house was full of people, and the kitchen was packed. It was the room where everyone gravitated. Pictures from the start of the evening showed friends sitting at the table and pictures from the end of the evening showed them sitting there still. People sang all the old songs. I remember listening to my dad and being amazed at his voice, deep and melodic. My mother too had a wonderful voice, and she and my dad would sometimes sing together with their faces close. My uncle fancied himself another Bing Crosby and crooned. Smoke whirled around the room and the high ball was the drink of choice. Food covered the dining room table. Uncles and aunts were in abundance, and my mother's high school friend Bekki always came and always sat in the kitchen. I remember her with a drink and a cigarette. When it got hot or smoky, I'd go outside for a bit. I could hear people laughing and singing and the clinking of glasses. All the lights were on and the house shined in the darkness.
A thunderous rain woke me around five this morning. I closed windows then went back to sleep. When I woke up, it was to a gray, humid day, the sort of day which closes in on you.
My parents always gave the best parties. The house was full of people, and the kitchen was packed. It was the room where everyone gravitated. Pictures from the start of the evening showed friends sitting at the table and pictures from the end of the evening showed them sitting there still. People sang all the old songs. I remember listening to my dad and being amazed at his voice, deep and melodic. My mother too had a wonderful voice, and she and my dad would sometimes sing together with their faces close. My uncle fancied himself another Bing Crosby and crooned. Smoke whirled around the room and the high ball was the drink of choice. Food covered the dining room table. Uncles and aunts were in abundance, and my mother's high school friend Bekki always came and always sat in the kitchen. I remember her with a drink and a cigarette. When it got hot or smoky, I'd go outside for a bit. I could hear people laughing and singing and the clinking of glasses. All the lights were on and the house shined in the darkness.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
"Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children. "
It's a quick post today as I have to get cracking. Guests are coming for dinner, and I have lots to do.
Where that phrase, get cracking, was hiding until it popped into my head this morning I have no idea. I think one or both of my parents used it, and it's been lurking in a memory drawer ever since. I suspect that same memory drawer is probably filled to the brim with all the stuff my parents said to us as we were growing up. I remember my father used to say someone was a good egg, the highest compliment he could pay. My sister Moe every now and then says it in just the same way my father did. My mother always told us to sleep tight and not let the bedbugs bite. Where she came by that I never knew. I figured it was from her parents, and I always wondered if they really had bed bugs. Every now and then my mother said how about them apples and not bad, not bad at all was one of her favorites. I hear my sisters say it, and it makes me smile to think of my mother. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye comes right out of the favorite sayings for parents handbook. You want something to cry about is on the same page. I think they come just after the secret handshake.
Where that phrase, get cracking, was hiding until it popped into my head this morning I have no idea. I think one or both of my parents used it, and it's been lurking in a memory drawer ever since. I suspect that same memory drawer is probably filled to the brim with all the stuff my parents said to us as we were growing up. I remember my father used to say someone was a good egg, the highest compliment he could pay. My sister Moe every now and then says it in just the same way my father did. My mother always told us to sleep tight and not let the bedbugs bite. Where she came by that I never knew. I figured it was from her parents, and I always wondered if they really had bed bugs. Every now and then my mother said how about them apples and not bad, not bad at all was one of her favorites. I hear my sisters say it, and it makes me smile to think of my mother. It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye comes right out of the favorite sayings for parents handbook. You want something to cry about is on the same page. I think they come just after the secret handshake.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
"A family vacation is one where you arrive with five bags, four kids and seven I thought you packed its."
Last night the possum dropped by again to visit. This time it was trapped behind my deck box, and Gracie was doing her darnedest to say hello in a bit more personal way. When I shined the light on the possum, it looked up at me, and I swear it was smiling.
Barbecues when I was a kid were hot dogs and hamburgers. If my dad wanted to get fancy, he'd add cheese to the burger. My mother made potato salad, bought chips and put out mustard and piccalilli. We thought it a feast. When we traveled, my mother always packed a lunch so we didn't have to stop at a restaurant. I remember sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and bags of cookies. We'd stop at a roadside picnic table, eat lunch, stretch our legs and let the dog do his business. My father always demanded we do ours as well. He hated stopping. It didn't matter how far we were going, we always got there in one day.
I think my favorite vacation was in Maine on the island. I remember the ferry ride and standing at the rail watching the island come into view. The house where we stayed was isolated, down a dirt road away from any other houses. It had its own little pier and a row boat. The house had a radio, and it was so long ago that we could still listen to a few old radio shows. My brother and I would lie on the kitchen floor and listen. I remember the kitchen had dark wood cabinets.
One afternoon my dad brought lobsters back for him and my mom. For some reason it is the clearest memory of all. He picked up each lobster and put it on the floor. We watched as the lobsters crawled around the kitchen. If one got close, we moved quickly. The dog barked the whole time.
The water was far too cold for swimming, but it was perfect for wading, skimming rocks and fishing. My dad would sometimes row us across to a small beach where we'd have lunch. The closest town was tiny, and I remember white buildings. It rained one day. That's all that comes to mind.
Barbecues when I was a kid were hot dogs and hamburgers. If my dad wanted to get fancy, he'd add cheese to the burger. My mother made potato salad, bought chips and put out mustard and piccalilli. We thought it a feast. When we traveled, my mother always packed a lunch so we didn't have to stop at a restaurant. I remember sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and bags of cookies. We'd stop at a roadside picnic table, eat lunch, stretch our legs and let the dog do his business. My father always demanded we do ours as well. He hated stopping. It didn't matter how far we were going, we always got there in one day.
I think my favorite vacation was in Maine on the island. I remember the ferry ride and standing at the rail watching the island come into view. The house where we stayed was isolated, down a dirt road away from any other houses. It had its own little pier and a row boat. The house had a radio, and it was so long ago that we could still listen to a few old radio shows. My brother and I would lie on the kitchen floor and listen. I remember the kitchen had dark wood cabinets.
One afternoon my dad brought lobsters back for him and my mom. For some reason it is the clearest memory of all. He picked up each lobster and put it on the floor. We watched as the lobsters crawled around the kitchen. If one got close, we moved quickly. The dog barked the whole time.
The water was far too cold for swimming, but it was perfect for wading, skimming rocks and fishing. My dad would sometimes row us across to a small beach where we'd have lunch. The closest town was tiny, and I remember white buildings. It rained one day. That's all that comes to mind.
Friday, June 27, 2008
"Quotes are nothing but inspiration for the uninspired."
The first time I sat down to write was about an hour ago. I sat and got nowhere so I went and washed a few dishes. While in the kitchen I noticed paw prints on the floor, this morning's evidence of last night's rain. I mopped them, put away the mop then came back to the computer. The screen was just as blank, and I was just as uninspired. Deciding I was hungry, I went back to the kitchen, noticed I hadn't emptied the coffee filter, did that then washed it, the counter and stove top. I forgot to get something to eat. I came back to the computer and had an inspiration. It lasted two paragraphs then I got stuck. My inspiration got deleted. I went back to the kitchen and watered the plants. I opened the refrigerator hoping something good to eat would jump out at me. I found nothing but did wash a few sticky spots. I finished and walked slowly down the hall to the computer and sat down. Still nothing. I looked out the window, patted the dog, straightened the couch cover, checked tonight's TV listings and then remembered I was hungry. I went and got a roll. I'm now sitting here eating the roll and sharing it with Gracie. I'm thinking of dusting the desk next.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Travelin' Mood/Chicken Reel: The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Today is a trip back in time. This first song is from 1970's Uncle Charlie & His Dog Teddy. This amazing album is a combination of so many styles of music, but my favorite is the fiddles and that jug band sound.
Oh yeah, Mr. Bojangles is on this album.
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Oh yeah, Mr. Bojangles is on this album.
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The Ballad of Mad Dogs and Englishmen:Leon Russell
We have to go all the way back to Russell's second album for this song, all the way back to 1971 and Leon Russell and the Shelter People.
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MP3 File
“It's difficult to understand why people don't realize that pets are gifts to mankind.”
Gracie and I are on the deck. The morning is glorious with a wonderful breeze, cool and constant. The sun is hazy behind a cloud surrounded by blue sky. The leaves rustle with the breeze, and I can hear squirrels in the underbrush of my backyard and birds in the trees behind me. Balls of light flick back and forth from the mirrors in the trees. I always think of Tinkerbell.
The possum was back last night. It was hiding behind the barbecue on my deck, and Gracie was doing her darnedest to get a bit more familiar. I hauled Gracie into the house hoping the possum would quickly move elsewhere. It eventually did.
We are a family of pet lovers. My dad never had one when he was a kid, and I don't remember about my mother, but it was my parents who gave us this love for animals. Our house was never without a pet. They were, at times, a dog, a turtle, a bird and an occasional gold fish. We got our first dog when I was five. There was my mother with a five year old, a four year old, a new baby and a six month old Boxer. I loved that dog, our Duke. He would sit and give you his paw and always picked the hand holding the treat. We used to play keep away with a ball. He always won.
My father never liked cats when I was a kid. He believed cats were pets for old ladies, for spinsters with buns and flowered dresses, and dogs were the pets for real men. That changed when we got our first cat. My dad said to get rid of him, but my mother said keep him. She figured my dad would come around eventually. He did but pretended he didn't. If people came to the house, he'd say the kids wanted it, sort of an apology for having the cat.
I remember he used to take that cat for rides in the car. The cat would sit with my dad, part of him on the seat and part of him on my dad's shoulder. The cat liked to look out the front window. My father used to say having that cat was just like having another dog, high praise indeed.
My parents were never without a cat after that, and my father stopped pretending the cats were for us kids. None of us lived there any more.
The possum was back last night. It was hiding behind the barbecue on my deck, and Gracie was doing her darnedest to get a bit more familiar. I hauled Gracie into the house hoping the possum would quickly move elsewhere. It eventually did.
We are a family of pet lovers. My dad never had one when he was a kid, and I don't remember about my mother, but it was my parents who gave us this love for animals. Our house was never without a pet. They were, at times, a dog, a turtle, a bird and an occasional gold fish. We got our first dog when I was five. There was my mother with a five year old, a four year old, a new baby and a six month old Boxer. I loved that dog, our Duke. He would sit and give you his paw and always picked the hand holding the treat. We used to play keep away with a ball. He always won.
My father never liked cats when I was a kid. He believed cats were pets for old ladies, for spinsters with buns and flowered dresses, and dogs were the pets for real men. That changed when we got our first cat. My dad said to get rid of him, but my mother said keep him. She figured my dad would come around eventually. He did but pretended he didn't. If people came to the house, he'd say the kids wanted it, sort of an apology for having the cat.
I remember he used to take that cat for rides in the car. The cat would sit with my dad, part of him on the seat and part of him on my dad's shoulder. The cat liked to look out the front window. My father used to say having that cat was just like having another dog, high praise indeed.
My parents were never without a cat after that, and my father stopped pretending the cats were for us kids. None of us lived there any more.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
The Gypsy Rover: The Highwaymen
It's the whistling I most remember on this song. The Highwaymen is one of the groups which gave me a love for folk music.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos."
One of the first signs of growing up is being able to keep pace with ice cream melting in a cone. When I was young, lines of melting ice cream rolled from the cone to my hand. It was never an inconvenience. Little kids don't notice mess, especially an ice cream mess. Stopping to clean would only have meant more melted ice cream. I remember my mother would wrap the cone with a napkin. It never really worked and just added to the mess. When I was really young, she'd take the cone and lick around the ice cream to keep the melting in check. I never realized she was just eating my ice cream.
Ice cream was always real. It was never a soft serve mix. The cone was always a sugar cone, brown and tasty. We used to walk uptown and get our ice cream cones at the drug store. The ice cream was in giant containers in a freezer right at the soda fountain. We didn't have a million flavors so the choice didn't take long. I usually had chocolate ice cream with jimmies though I'd sometimes be adventurous and get strawberry ice cream, also with jimmies. Around here, jimmies are always chocolate. The cone would be spun in a low dish filled with jimmies, and the finished product was a glory to behold.
Nothing tasted better, nothing looked as splendid and nothing meant summer so much as an ice cream cone.
Ice cream was always real. It was never a soft serve mix. The cone was always a sugar cone, brown and tasty. We used to walk uptown and get our ice cream cones at the drug store. The ice cream was in giant containers in a freezer right at the soda fountain. We didn't have a million flavors so the choice didn't take long. I usually had chocolate ice cream with jimmies though I'd sometimes be adventurous and get strawberry ice cream, also with jimmies. Around here, jimmies are always chocolate. The cone would be spun in a low dish filled with jimmies, and the finished product was a glory to behold.
Nothing tasted better, nothing looked as splendid and nothing meant summer so much as an ice cream cone.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Boots of Spanish Leather: Nanci Griffith
This is from my favorite of her albums, Other Voices, Other Rooms. It was my introduction to Nanci Griffith.
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MP3 File
"Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out. "
It was a mighty storm last night, and it came with all the best parts of a summer rain. The thunder came first, more of a rumbling than a roar. The rain came next, pouring out of the heavens with an unexpected ferocity. It rained a long while. I sat by the window and listened. Nothing sounds better than the rain. When I began to hear drops falling one at a time, I knew the storm was ending. The dog and I went out on the deck. The rain was dripping from the leaves on the trees in the backyard. It was summer music. When I woke up this morning, the air was sweet.
A while back I cleaned out my bedroom closet and was amazed at the pairs of shoes I had accumulated. Many were heels, shoes I vaguely remember wearing in another life. There was a hot pink pair I bought to match a dress. There were black heels of various heights, and I found two pairs of white heels obviously meant for garden parties where women wear wide hats and white gloves. The blue pair had such high heels I must have had nose bleeds from the altitude. A green pair looked brand new. It must have been another dress match, but I don't remember. I kept tossing the shoes on the floor behind me. When the pile got too big, I put them in a trash bag. A few days later, they ended up at the dump.
The shoes that were left included two pairs of high top sneakers, one in bright purple and the other in pink. Two pairs of my winter shoes, wool clogs, one black and the other red, three different pairs of my summer shoes, sandals, a pair of boat shoes for rainy summer days, a couple of different pairs of slippers, two pairs of low shoes kind to my feet and fit for festive occasions and some winter boot shoes, lined in fake fur and great for those really cold days.
I suppose I could say the whole process was symbolic, the out with the old, in with the new, but it really wasn't. I wore heels reluctantly. They were part of the job. I have always been a wearer of sneakers.
A while back I cleaned out my bedroom closet and was amazed at the pairs of shoes I had accumulated. Many were heels, shoes I vaguely remember wearing in another life. There was a hot pink pair I bought to match a dress. There were black heels of various heights, and I found two pairs of white heels obviously meant for garden parties where women wear wide hats and white gloves. The blue pair had such high heels I must have had nose bleeds from the altitude. A green pair looked brand new. It must have been another dress match, but I don't remember. I kept tossing the shoes on the floor behind me. When the pile got too big, I put them in a trash bag. A few days later, they ended up at the dump.
The shoes that were left included two pairs of high top sneakers, one in bright purple and the other in pink. Two pairs of my winter shoes, wool clogs, one black and the other red, three different pairs of my summer shoes, sandals, a pair of boat shoes for rainy summer days, a couple of different pairs of slippers, two pairs of low shoes kind to my feet and fit for festive occasions and some winter boot shoes, lined in fake fur and great for those really cold days.
I suppose I could say the whole process was symbolic, the out with the old, in with the new, but it really wasn't. I wore heels reluctantly. They were part of the job. I have always been a wearer of sneakers.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Let's Invite Them Over: John Prine and Iris Dement
This is from In Spite of Ourselves, a collection of duets released in 1999. We're Not the Jet Set which I've played a couple of times is also from this album. This isn't your typical Prine album, but that doesn't matter as these are great songs sung with powerful voices. They stand just fine with all his other music.
MP3 File
MP3 File
New York City: Mason Jennings
This song is from Century Spring released in 2002. It's probably my favorite song from the album.
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MP3 File
"I always give my grandkids a couple of quarters when they go home. It's a bargain."
Gracie and I are both outside on the deck. The day is overcast and damp, and the air has a bit of a summer chill. The birds have been in and out, but Gracie didn't care. Her interests were elsewhere. First my two neighbors walked by pushing their kids in carriages. Gracie barked hello but they didn't answer. Next there was a rabbit on the other side of the fence. Gracie wanted desperately to chase it, but she had to make do with a few deep I'm going to get you later barks. Next, she ran around the yard with a piece of tree trunk in her mouth, imagining, I suspect, she had the rabbit. She circled the yard at least three times then collapsed on the chaise lounge. She is there now in a Gracie deep sleep always characterized by a bit of pink tongue poking out of her mouth.
My mother was one of eight children. She was the third oldest. Her youngest sister is younger than I am. My grandmother and grandfather, her parents, seemed to be complete opposites in so many ways. My grandfather was Irish. He was blond and blue eyed and a bit of a rogue who enjoyed fun and an occasional wee dram of whiskey. The six oldest kids called him by name. He was always Bill. My mother adored him. My grandmother's father was Portuguese. His named got mangled when he arrived here and was anglicized to Rogers. My grandmother had dark hair and eyes and the darker skin of her father. She always seemed somber to me. At parties she kept a close eye on my grandfather who usually had two drinks close at hand, one with no whiskey in case my grandmother checked and his real drink delivered surreptitiously by one of his children. My grandmother had a sweet tooth and loved her pastries and desserts. She always wore slippers and shuffled when she walked.
We used to visit on Sundays, and the house was always crowded as everyone else showed up on Sundays too. The adults stayed in the kitchen. The rest of the house and the small yard were filled with kids as I have about a million cousins. My grandfather used to stay in his bedroom with the door closed to take refuge from the noise and chaos. He'd emerge periodically and sometimes he'd give us each a dime, a kingly sum in those days. We'd run to the corner store, which was, I believe, his intention. He'd have a bit of quiet for a while.
My grandparents were married over sixty years. My grandmother died in her sleep not long after that. My grandfather stayed a while. Each year we'd celebrate his birthday milestone thinking it might be his last. We had a few of those parties. I always believed it was the thought of the next party which kept him going so long. That man did love a good time.
My mother was one of eight children. She was the third oldest. Her youngest sister is younger than I am. My grandmother and grandfather, her parents, seemed to be complete opposites in so many ways. My grandfather was Irish. He was blond and blue eyed and a bit of a rogue who enjoyed fun and an occasional wee dram of whiskey. The six oldest kids called him by name. He was always Bill. My mother adored him. My grandmother's father was Portuguese. His named got mangled when he arrived here and was anglicized to Rogers. My grandmother had dark hair and eyes and the darker skin of her father. She always seemed somber to me. At parties she kept a close eye on my grandfather who usually had two drinks close at hand, one with no whiskey in case my grandmother checked and his real drink delivered surreptitiously by one of his children. My grandmother had a sweet tooth and loved her pastries and desserts. She always wore slippers and shuffled when she walked.
We used to visit on Sundays, and the house was always crowded as everyone else showed up on Sundays too. The adults stayed in the kitchen. The rest of the house and the small yard were filled with kids as I have about a million cousins. My grandfather used to stay in his bedroom with the door closed to take refuge from the noise and chaos. He'd emerge periodically and sometimes he'd give us each a dime, a kingly sum in those days. We'd run to the corner store, which was, I believe, his intention. He'd have a bit of quiet for a while.
My grandparents were married over sixty years. My grandmother died in her sleep not long after that. My grandfather stayed a while. Each year we'd celebrate his birthday milestone thinking it might be his last. We had a few of those parties. I always believed it was the thought of the next party which kept him going so long. That man did love a good time.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
"A family is a unit composed not only of children but of men, women, an occasional animal, and the common cold. "
The streets are a bit more crowded, and I saw bicyclists on the side roads. As I drove to breakfast, I saw the salt water taffy place opening its shutters, the summer chapel with a full parking lot and families already playing miniature golf. Summer seems to be in full swing here on Cape Cod.
My aunt and uncle used to visit us when we lived in South Yarmouth. Sometimes they'd bring my cousin Bobby, a beast of a child. They'd also bring great pastries from the Italian bakery near them so I could almost forgive their bringing Bobby. I always lost my bedroom to them and had to sleep on the couch. My father and uncle would sometimes fish. My mother and aunt shopped but never for too long. My mother was a shopper; my aunt was not. We always had barbecues for dinner whenever we had summer company. My cousin Bobby was a whining, spoiled brat. Once, he was calling me names and generally harassing me. I asked him several times to stop. I asked my aunt to have him stop. He didn't and she didn't so I socked him. He stopped. My mother wouldn't do anything to me even though my aunt got indignant. My mother said he deserved it. He didn't come down much after that.
After we moved to the cape, relatives we barely knew all of a sudden wanted to get reacquainted. My father's aunt Helen was one of those. She was an odd duck. I remember the story of her chest x-ray, and the doctor's amazement at the size of the mass he'd found. He wanted a second x-ray. She asked then if she should unpin the change purse attached to the top of her slip. Her daughter Ginnie, whom I'd never heard of before, also chose to visit her Cape relatives. She brought her husband Ray. He told us he never ate clams because he remembers swallowing one whole, shell and all. He also told us he still suffered from diaper rash. Their visits were a highlight. We'd get new stories we could tell for years.
I don't get the traffic my parents did. I used to invite relatives, but they never took me up on the offers so I stopped inviting them. I'm not offended, but I am a bit disappointed. I would like a few new stories.
My aunt and uncle used to visit us when we lived in South Yarmouth. Sometimes they'd bring my cousin Bobby, a beast of a child. They'd also bring great pastries from the Italian bakery near them so I could almost forgive their bringing Bobby. I always lost my bedroom to them and had to sleep on the couch. My father and uncle would sometimes fish. My mother and aunt shopped but never for too long. My mother was a shopper; my aunt was not. We always had barbecues for dinner whenever we had summer company. My cousin Bobby was a whining, spoiled brat. Once, he was calling me names and generally harassing me. I asked him several times to stop. I asked my aunt to have him stop. He didn't and she didn't so I socked him. He stopped. My mother wouldn't do anything to me even though my aunt got indignant. My mother said he deserved it. He didn't come down much after that.
After we moved to the cape, relatives we barely knew all of a sudden wanted to get reacquainted. My father's aunt Helen was one of those. She was an odd duck. I remember the story of her chest x-ray, and the doctor's amazement at the size of the mass he'd found. He wanted a second x-ray. She asked then if she should unpin the change purse attached to the top of her slip. Her daughter Ginnie, whom I'd never heard of before, also chose to visit her Cape relatives. She brought her husband Ray. He told us he never ate clams because he remembers swallowing one whole, shell and all. He also told us he still suffered from diaper rash. Their visits were a highlight. We'd get new stories we could tell for years.
I don't get the traffic my parents did. I used to invite relatives, but they never took me up on the offers so I stopped inviting them. I'm not offended, but I am a bit disappointed. I would like a few new stories.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
"Youth is a perpetual intoxication; it is a fever of the mind."
Today is the first true day of summer. If I were a kid, I'd be tapping my heels together in mid-air out of a feeling of pure glee, out of a sense of absolute freedom. Nothing beats being a kid in summer.
Bedtimes became far more arbitrary. School no longer hung over our heads like an impending rain cloud. Chores were as close to a job as we ever got. Mine was the garbage and my brother's the trash. My mother's timing was never good. She unusually asked us as we were heading out the door for our latest adventure, just cause on our part for the gnashing of teeth, a huff or two and some eye rolling. My mother, being the queen of guilt, would say in her most pitiful voice, "Never mine. I'll do it myself." She left us no choice but to put out the trash and empty the garbage. Mine was the worst of all possible jobs. Flies flew around the garbage pail, and I remember maggots, the stuff of nightmares. If I missed the pail, I used the sides of my sneaker to push in the garbage. Nothing was grosser than that.
We spent many days at the local playground. I played checkers and horseshoes and did crafts. Once I painted a tray for my mother. I remember it had a tree with birds and was about the best thing I ever made. We'd go early in the morning, run home at lunchtime and then return there until late afternoon. I figure my mother couldn't have been happier.
Some days we went to the pool or the zoo or rode bikes. A few times we went fishing. It took us a long time to get bored, until about late-August when we'd start our there's nothing to do whine. By then, our mother could barely wait for school to start. As for us, we'd rather have spend our lives in a perpetual state of boredom.
Bedtimes became far more arbitrary. School no longer hung over our heads like an impending rain cloud. Chores were as close to a job as we ever got. Mine was the garbage and my brother's the trash. My mother's timing was never good. She unusually asked us as we were heading out the door for our latest adventure, just cause on our part for the gnashing of teeth, a huff or two and some eye rolling. My mother, being the queen of guilt, would say in her most pitiful voice, "Never mine. I'll do it myself." She left us no choice but to put out the trash and empty the garbage. Mine was the worst of all possible jobs. Flies flew around the garbage pail, and I remember maggots, the stuff of nightmares. If I missed the pail, I used the sides of my sneaker to push in the garbage. Nothing was grosser than that.
We spent many days at the local playground. I played checkers and horseshoes and did crafts. Once I painted a tray for my mother. I remember it had a tree with birds and was about the best thing I ever made. We'd go early in the morning, run home at lunchtime and then return there until late afternoon. I figure my mother couldn't have been happier.
Some days we went to the pool or the zoo or rode bikes. A few times we went fishing. It took us a long time to get bored, until about late-August when we'd start our there's nothing to do whine. By then, our mother could barely wait for school to start. As for us, we'd rather have spend our lives in a perpetual state of boredom.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Beer Cans: Melvern Taylor
This is the third song I've played from Fabuloso. I'm figuring you can tell I just really like his sound. Melvern's voice is almost addictive.
I drop by his website periodically to see what's new.
MP3 File
I drop by his website periodically to see what's new.
MP3 File
"No matter how far we travel, the memories will follow in the baggage car."
My dad loved seafood. He was the best lobster picker I know, and my sister and I still aspire to be as great as he was. He loved steamed clams, and I remember watching his ritual. He'd open the steamer, hold it by its neck, swirl it in clam juice, dip it in butter then drop it into his mouth. My mother thought the whole process disgusting. Her clams had to be fried and, horror of all horrors, she didn't like the bellies.
My dad was the worst photographer. Most times we had no idea what we were looking at and neither did he. Many of his shots had the black outlines of his fingers. If he wasn't taking pictures, he was posing for them. I have a series I call the poop pictures. The first was in Belgium where we stayed at a farmhouse B&B and ventured into the barn. My dad pointed at the cow poop and held his nose for a visual depiction of the odors we were experiencing. He had me take that picture. It became a ritual. I have poop pictures from all over Europe. He always pointed and held his nose. Most times he also smiled. He thought them great fun and so did I.
My mother had us pose. We'd have to stand in front of a statue or a famous building. I don't think we have any shots of us together. One of us was always behind the camera. She and I both took slides. When we'd get home, we'd have slide nights. For Germany, my mother bought German foods, even to bread and butter, and invited people over for dinner and the show. My dad would regale the crowd with stories of where we'd been and what we'd done. My mother and I would add dad stories.
If, when I was a teen, anyone had told me that the adult me would choose to travel with my parents, I would have snorted and scorned, but those trips were some of the best I ever had.
My dad was the worst photographer. Most times we had no idea what we were looking at and neither did he. Many of his shots had the black outlines of his fingers. If he wasn't taking pictures, he was posing for them. I have a series I call the poop pictures. The first was in Belgium where we stayed at a farmhouse B&B and ventured into the barn. My dad pointed at the cow poop and held his nose for a visual depiction of the odors we were experiencing. He had me take that picture. It became a ritual. I have poop pictures from all over Europe. He always pointed and held his nose. Most times he also smiled. He thought them great fun and so did I.
My mother had us pose. We'd have to stand in front of a statue or a famous building. I don't think we have any shots of us together. One of us was always behind the camera. She and I both took slides. When we'd get home, we'd have slide nights. For Germany, my mother bought German foods, even to bread and butter, and invited people over for dinner and the show. My dad would regale the crowd with stories of where we'd been and what we'd done. My mother and I would add dad stories.
If, when I was a teen, anyone had told me that the adult me would choose to travel with my parents, I would have snorted and scorned, but those trips were some of the best I ever had.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Daddy's Oldsmobile: David Mallett
This song is from 1995's In the Falling Dark. I think I would write songs like David's if I could. They are memories.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“To myself I am only a child playing on the beach, while vast oceans of truth lie undiscovered before me.”
The days have been just perfect with sharp sunlight, a cooling breeze and the bluest of skies. Yesterday I did errands. Today I'll sit on the deck and read. I have a rule which I follow religiously. No two days are to be busy.
I remember summers and weekend days at the beach. I remember hauling stuff from the car and hoping the perfect spot wasn't too far away. I can still remember the tartan jug and the picnic basket each on a different corner of the blanket, keeping it from blowing away. I can hear my mother telling us again and again to keep our sandy feet off the blanket. She never learned to swim. Her job was to stay on the blanket and keep watch. My father was the swimmer. My two sisters were young and never ventured far from my mother. They had their pails and shovels. A shell hunt was a part of the day. The first few bites of the sandwich always tasted perfect; the next few tasted a bit gritty. We'd have lunch, wait out cramp time then go back into the water. My mother used to pack cookies, and I remember the Oreos. We'd stay all day, until late in the afternoon. Before we'd get into the car, my dad would wash the sand off our feet. I remember how hot the car was and how strange my skin felt, all salty and itchy. I remember the grit in my bathing suit. I don't remember the ride home. I was usually asleep.
I remember summers and weekend days at the beach. I remember hauling stuff from the car and hoping the perfect spot wasn't too far away. I can still remember the tartan jug and the picnic basket each on a different corner of the blanket, keeping it from blowing away. I can hear my mother telling us again and again to keep our sandy feet off the blanket. She never learned to swim. Her job was to stay on the blanket and keep watch. My father was the swimmer. My two sisters were young and never ventured far from my mother. They had their pails and shovels. A shell hunt was a part of the day. The first few bites of the sandwich always tasted perfect; the next few tasted a bit gritty. We'd have lunch, wait out cramp time then go back into the water. My mother used to pack cookies, and I remember the Oreos. We'd stay all day, until late in the afternoon. Before we'd get into the car, my dad would wash the sand off our feet. I remember how hot the car was and how strange my skin felt, all salty and itchy. I remember the grit in my bathing suit. I don't remember the ride home. I was usually asleep.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
"No price is set on the lavish summer; June may be had by the poorest comer."
I'm beginning to feel like Bill Murray in Caddyshack but substitute red squirrel for gopher. This morning I scared the beast away from the bird feeders by stomping my feet and waving my arms. The red menace took refuge on a branch, a close branch. I threw pine cones. The irony is they are the same pine cones the beast stuffed into all my outside lanterns. I wonder if he gets it, the irony I mean as I have yet to hit him with a cone. The animal watches me from the railing. It stands on its tip toes and keeps an eye on my every move. Oh, I know, you're thinking paranoia here, but I swear it's plotting revenge. I can see it in that beast's beady eyes. I can see it when he rubs his front paws together in glee.
Today I have a lot of errands, but it's a perfect day to be out and about. It's sunny but cool, the kind of summer day I would legislate if I could.
Our summer rituals have started. We've already begun having dinners on the deck. It has become our room of choice. Our summer restaurants are open. We had dinner at one of our favorite seafood places, the one with the best clam fritters, and had lunch one day at another, the one with the great onion rings. Lobster down by the harbor is next on the list. The plays are starting in a week and the town band concerts shortly after that. For those concerts we decide on a dinner theme and each contribute a course. We set up our table and chairs, uncork the wine and enjoy an evening of music. It's a weekly event.
I so love summer.
Today I have a lot of errands, but it's a perfect day to be out and about. It's sunny but cool, the kind of summer day I would legislate if I could.
Our summer rituals have started. We've already begun having dinners on the deck. It has become our room of choice. Our summer restaurants are open. We had dinner at one of our favorite seafood places, the one with the best clam fritters, and had lunch one day at another, the one with the great onion rings. Lobster down by the harbor is next on the list. The plays are starting in a week and the town band concerts shortly after that. For those concerts we decide on a dinner theme and each contribute a course. We set up our table and chairs, uncork the wine and enjoy an evening of music. It's a weekly event.
I so love summer.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
It'll Never Happen Again: Tim Hardin
This song is from Tim Hardin 1, his debut album released in 1966. Two of the songs I remember best, Reason to Believe and Misty Roses, are on this album.
In the late 60's Tim stopped writing music. He had begun to be increasingly overwhelmed by his growing drug problems, and by 1973 and the release of his last album, Tim Hardin 9, his heroin addiction had taken control.
He died in 1980 of a drug overdose.
MP3 File
In the late 60's Tim stopped writing music. He had begun to be increasingly overwhelmed by his growing drug problems, and by 1973 and the release of his last album, Tim Hardin 9, his heroin addiction had taken control.
He died in 1980 of a drug overdose.
MP3 File
Good Morning Today: The Pozo-Seco Singers
The song Time is the one I first remember hearing and is still the one I remember best. It was also the title of their debut album. The group formed in Texas in 1965. Lofton Kline and Don Williams had sung in a duo called The Strangers Two. After they added Susan Taylor, the three became The Pozo-Seco Singers.
The group formed in 1964 and was signed to Columbia Records. Two of their songs, I Can Make It with You and Look What You've Done, made the Top 40. The group disbanded in 1970.
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The group formed in 1964 and was signed to Columbia Records. Two of their songs, I Can Make It with You and Look What You've Done, made the Top 40. The group disbanded in 1970.
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"Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years.”
Last night it rained. The drops started lightly then gathered momentum. The thunder and lightning followed. I watched out the back door for a while then went to bed. I love the sound of a storm, and I was lulled to sleep by its rhythm.
Rain always brings me back to Ghana and the Peace Corps. Nothing is more wonderful for a lover of rain than the sounds of drops falling on a tin roof. It is being part of the storm without getting wet. It is being surrounded by rain and feeling its rhythm in your soul. I think I would like a summer house with a tin roof. I'd sleep there every time it rained.
Last night the air was sweet. I stood for a moment and tried to capture the sweetness. It was the scents of flowers mingling in the damp air. It was the curry plant in my herb garden. It was the grass, and it was the earth.
In Ghana, two of my first friends were Moroccans. I'd forgotten that until now. He was a doctor and both he and his wife were from Fez. They came to my house and introduced themselves. They had been friends with the volunteer I'd replaced. I remember he was short and stout and wore long shorts and knee socks which almost met the shorts a bit above his knees. His wife was taller with dark hair. She always wore a flowered dress. They invited me to dinner. It was the first of many visits. Their house was much bigger than mine and had a veranda. It was there I tasted my first curry. I can't believe I forgot that. It was chicken curry. It was in a huge bowl and was surrounded by smaller dishes holding cut fruit. My new friends went first and loaded their plates with chicken then they added a variety of the fruits and finally the curry sauce. I followed suit. That first taste almost defies description. It was hot and cool and hot again. It was chicken and it was oranges and it was curry and it was pineapples. It was magnificent.
My friends had been in Ghana a while, and my first year was their last. After they left, I missed their companionship, and I missed our evenings of music and conversation. That curry dish has become part of my cooking repertoire, and I love to serve it. Each time I do, I go first.
Rain always brings me back to Ghana and the Peace Corps. Nothing is more wonderful for a lover of rain than the sounds of drops falling on a tin roof. It is being part of the storm without getting wet. It is being surrounded by rain and feeling its rhythm in your soul. I think I would like a summer house with a tin roof. I'd sleep there every time it rained.
Last night the air was sweet. I stood for a moment and tried to capture the sweetness. It was the scents of flowers mingling in the damp air. It was the curry plant in my herb garden. It was the grass, and it was the earth.
In Ghana, two of my first friends were Moroccans. I'd forgotten that until now. He was a doctor and both he and his wife were from Fez. They came to my house and introduced themselves. They had been friends with the volunteer I'd replaced. I remember he was short and stout and wore long shorts and knee socks which almost met the shorts a bit above his knees. His wife was taller with dark hair. She always wore a flowered dress. They invited me to dinner. It was the first of many visits. Their house was much bigger than mine and had a veranda. It was there I tasted my first curry. I can't believe I forgot that. It was chicken curry. It was in a huge bowl and was surrounded by smaller dishes holding cut fruit. My new friends went first and loaded their plates with chicken then they added a variety of the fruits and finally the curry sauce. I followed suit. That first taste almost defies description. It was hot and cool and hot again. It was chicken and it was oranges and it was curry and it was pineapples. It was magnificent.
My friends had been in Ghana a while, and my first year was their last. After they left, I missed their companionship, and I missed our evenings of music and conversation. That curry dish has become part of my cooking repertoire, and I love to serve it. Each time I do, I go first.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Watching the River Flow: Steve Forbert
This Bob Dylan song just seemed perfect for my own mood today. I didn't have Bob, but I did have Steve.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Long Afternoons: Paul Siebel
Paul Siebel released three albums, two studio and one live. Philo/Rounder was good enough to re-release a compilation in 1995 called Paul Siebel, and that's the source for this song.
The Rounder album has all of 1970's Woodsmoke and Oranges and five songs from 1971's Jack-Knife Gypsy, both originally released on Elektra Records.
When asked how he'd be remembered, Paul Siebel said, "Well, 'He was a guy who wrote a couple of pretty good songs,'" he said succinctly, " 'What ever happened to him?' I guess it's gonna go down something like that."
MP3 File
The Rounder album has all of 1970's Woodsmoke and Oranges and five songs from 1971's Jack-Knife Gypsy, both originally released on Elektra Records.
When asked how he'd be remembered, Paul Siebel said, "Well, 'He was a guy who wrote a couple of pretty good songs,'" he said succinctly, " 'What ever happened to him?' I guess it's gonna go down something like that."
MP3 File
"When I get real bored, I like to drive downtown and get a great parking spot, then sit in my car and count how many people ask me if I'm leaving. "
Usually I trip over my own words, but today nothing comes to mind. Even Gracie's antics aren't worth chronicling. I polished yesterday which merits mentioning as it happens so infrequently. Fern threw up on the table again, but that happens frequently and is probably not worth mentioning, but then again I am looking for fillers.
The weather is always good for a few lines. It rained yesterday. Today it didn't. It was cold enough for a sweatshirt and socks last night. Today it isn't. The sun is out. Yesterday it wasn't.
My sister is flying out here today from Colorado. On our Sunday phone call, we discussed whether or not she should pack socks. That was the highlight of our conversation. We finally decided she could borrow some.
My neighbors are away for a couple of days, and I always know when they're gone. It's not that I'm psychic. They call and tell me, but I'd know even without their call. The blinds in their windows tell me their routine. Blinds down in the afternoon, half way up in the morning, down when they're away, fully open when they have company. My neighbors are nervous and have an alarm system. They never leave their front door open, and it's always double locked. I often tell them I saw a car load of thieves riding up and down the street casing their house.
Today I might just polish the mantle. I'm giddy with anticipation.
The weather is always good for a few lines. It rained yesterday. Today it didn't. It was cold enough for a sweatshirt and socks last night. Today it isn't. The sun is out. Yesterday it wasn't.
My sister is flying out here today from Colorado. On our Sunday phone call, we discussed whether or not she should pack socks. That was the highlight of our conversation. We finally decided she could borrow some.
My neighbors are away for a couple of days, and I always know when they're gone. It's not that I'm psychic. They call and tell me, but I'd know even without their call. The blinds in their windows tell me their routine. Blinds down in the afternoon, half way up in the morning, down when they're away, fully open when they have company. My neighbors are nervous and have an alarm system. They never leave their front door open, and it's always double locked. I often tell them I saw a car load of thieves riding up and down the street casing their house.
Today I might just polish the mantle. I'm giddy with anticipation.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
My Father: Judy Collins
Father's Day on Keep the Coffee Coming isn't complete without this beautiful song. It always makes me cry just a bit.
MP3 File
MP3 File
My Dad: Paul Peterson
Amazingly enough, of all the past songs I have played these last four years, this is the one most requested in e-mails.
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MP3 File
"Fatherhood is pretending the present you love most is soap-on-a-rope."
My dad loved to laugh and never minded if something he said made us laugh. He'd laugh along with us and keep asking what did I say, what did I say. He'd laugh so hard he'd have to pull out his white handkerchief to dry his eyes. We called these dad moments, and all of us have stories. One of my favorites was when my parents and I were traveling in Portugal. On the rear bumpers of the last of long lines of piggy back tandem trailers would be signs warning Vehiculo Longo. Once, after stopping, I pulled into traffic behind another one of those trailers. My dad said, "That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks." I had to stop the car I was so laughing so hard.
My father and I never agreed on politics. He was a conservative. I wasn't. Every election he'd tell me his vote canceled out mine. I'd tell him his vote didn't count either. Once we got into a shouting match, and he accused me of being a pinko communist school teacher poisoning the minds of young Americans. I laughed so hard he left the table. That was the last discussion, a term I use loosely here, we had on politics. We just never brought up the subject again.
My dad loved to play cards. He taught us when we were really young, but my favorite times were much later. I remember all of us in the kitchen. The windows were always open, smoke filled the air and drinks were on the table. My dad had his high ball. We would play endless games of high-low jack. If my dad lost a few times in a row, he'd throw a pack of matches on the table and tell us he'd thrown down the gauntlet. Mostly I remember the endless games of cribbage he and I played. We played everywhere. When we traveled together, my mother would take pictures of my dad and me hunched over the cribbage board. We have cribbage in Germany, cribbage in Ireland and cribbage in Portugal.
My dad was never handy. When he fixed the toilet, the plumber wanted to know who had destroyed the innards. He once sawed himself out of a tree. He cut his fingers fixing the fan and gave himself electric shocks when working on wiring. My mother went to visit my sister, and my dad strung a line in the kitchen for his socks and underwear. He didn't know how to operate the washing machine. When he retired, work gave him tools as they heard he was handy around the house. My mother thought it quite funny as she meant he was handy in emptying ashtrays and washing dishes.
My dad was really funny, and he had a great singing voice. He loved to fish, especially in the winter for smelt. He always made Sunday breakfast and would bring back donuts when he went out to buy the paper. His favorite was a plain donut. He always cooked meat perfectly on the grill. My dad loved a good time, and he told jokes better than anyone else. If we ever needed anything, my dad was there. We knew we could depend on him. We knew he loved us.
My dad left us far too soon. We still had lots of cribbage to play and lots of laughs to enjoy together. I miss him.
My father and I never agreed on politics. He was a conservative. I wasn't. Every election he'd tell me his vote canceled out mine. I'd tell him his vote didn't count either. Once we got into a shouting match, and he accused me of being a pinko communist school teacher poisoning the minds of young Americans. I laughed so hard he left the table. That was the last discussion, a term I use loosely here, we had on politics. We just never brought up the subject again.
My dad loved to play cards. He taught us when we were really young, but my favorite times were much later. I remember all of us in the kitchen. The windows were always open, smoke filled the air and drinks were on the table. My dad had his high ball. We would play endless games of high-low jack. If my dad lost a few times in a row, he'd throw a pack of matches on the table and tell us he'd thrown down the gauntlet. Mostly I remember the endless games of cribbage he and I played. We played everywhere. When we traveled together, my mother would take pictures of my dad and me hunched over the cribbage board. We have cribbage in Germany, cribbage in Ireland and cribbage in Portugal.
My dad was never handy. When he fixed the toilet, the plumber wanted to know who had destroyed the innards. He once sawed himself out of a tree. He cut his fingers fixing the fan and gave himself electric shocks when working on wiring. My mother went to visit my sister, and my dad strung a line in the kitchen for his socks and underwear. He didn't know how to operate the washing machine. When he retired, work gave him tools as they heard he was handy around the house. My mother thought it quite funny as she meant he was handy in emptying ashtrays and washing dishes.
My dad was really funny, and he had a great singing voice. He loved to fish, especially in the winter for smelt. He always made Sunday breakfast and would bring back donuts when he went out to buy the paper. His favorite was a plain donut. He always cooked meat perfectly on the grill. My dad loved a good time, and he told jokes better than anyone else. If we ever needed anything, my dad was there. We knew we could depend on him. We knew he loved us.
My dad left us far too soon. We still had lots of cribbage to play and lots of laughs to enjoy together. I miss him.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
“Common sense is genius dressed in its working clothes.”
The house is chilly so I came outside to the warmer deck. It may be Saturday morning but nothing is stirring. I hear no lawnmowers or voices or even dogs barking. I can hear Gracie making a rustling sound as she rummages through the leaves in the backyard, and I hear the click of her halter when she runs. I can also hear birds singing and the sounds of their wings as they fly in and out of the feeders behind me. The female oriole has been by for her jelly, and the chickadees drop in close enough to touch. A titmouse or two and a few nuthatches dropped by earlier, and I can hear a downy woodpecker tapping the pine trees. My deck is almost surrounded by trees, and I always feel a bit like one of the Swiss Family Robinson.
When I was a kid, my wardrobe was divided into play clothes, school clothes and a few Sunday dresses. My school clothes, in elementary school, were a white blouse, a blue skirt and a blue tie, the sort of tie I always think of as a cowboy tie as groups like The Sons of the Pioneers always wore them. My mother never had to tell me twice to change into my play clothes. It was similar in high school. We girls were stuck in uniforms with skirts. They just weren't blue. College wasn't much better at first. We had no uniforms, but we still had to wear skirts and dresses. During an especially cold and snowy winter my junior year, girls were finally allowed to wear pants. My school clothes and my play clothes were the very same for the first time.
In Ghana, we had to wear dresses all the time. The ones I had brought with me were quickly replaced by clothes made with bright, beautiful Ghanaian cloth. The dresses were so lovely I never really minded wearing them, besides they were much more convenient for those hole in the floor public toilets. My school clothes and my play clothes were still the same, only dressy.
When I was a high school administrator, I wore dresses every day, and the first thing I did when I got home was to put on my play clothes.
Four years ago I retired. Now, I only wear play clothes.
When I was a kid, my wardrobe was divided into play clothes, school clothes and a few Sunday dresses. My school clothes, in elementary school, were a white blouse, a blue skirt and a blue tie, the sort of tie I always think of as a cowboy tie as groups like The Sons of the Pioneers always wore them. My mother never had to tell me twice to change into my play clothes. It was similar in high school. We girls were stuck in uniforms with skirts. They just weren't blue. College wasn't much better at first. We had no uniforms, but we still had to wear skirts and dresses. During an especially cold and snowy winter my junior year, girls were finally allowed to wear pants. My school clothes and my play clothes were the very same for the first time.
In Ghana, we had to wear dresses all the time. The ones I had brought with me were quickly replaced by clothes made with bright, beautiful Ghanaian cloth. The dresses were so lovely I never really minded wearing them, besides they were much more convenient for those hole in the floor public toilets. My school clothes and my play clothes were still the same, only dressy.
When I was a high school administrator, I wore dresses every day, and the first thing I did when I got home was to put on my play clothes.
Four years ago I retired. Now, I only wear play clothes.
Friday, June 13, 2008
"How could such sweet and wholesome hours be reckoned but with herbs and flowers?"
Nobody had a garden when I was a kid. We had flowers in the front yard we called a garden, but we never grew vegetables or anything. My father usually planted marigolds. Lawns were big in my neighborhood and the greener, the thicker, the better. My father would yell at us to stay off the grass when we rode our bikes down his grassy hill in the front yard. The tire tracks always gave us away.
The big white house beyond the fence had pear trees, and they never minded if we ate some. I remember the pears were so ripe the juice used to trickle down our fingers. They also had apple trees, but the small green apples never tasted good so we mostly threw them at each other. I remember hiding behind the small tree trunks to avoid the green missiles.
The house on the corner had Concord grapes. We'd grab a few bunches off the white arbor over the patio. The old lady always waved. I wonder now how old she really was.
Having a garden, a real garden, is just not in my blood. I plant flowers every year, and the front yard looks great. A long while back, in a part of the yard where the grass didn't grow, I planted my first herb garden. I love that I can go to the yard and snip fresh herbs for whatever I'm cooking. It always makes me feel accomplished. The last few years I've had patio tomatoes. They just need water.
Every now and then I think about a vegetable garden, but I never get beyond the thinking. The local farm stands would miss my business.
The big white house beyond the fence had pear trees, and they never minded if we ate some. I remember the pears were so ripe the juice used to trickle down our fingers. They also had apple trees, but the small green apples never tasted good so we mostly threw them at each other. I remember hiding behind the small tree trunks to avoid the green missiles.
The house on the corner had Concord grapes. We'd grab a few bunches off the white arbor over the patio. The old lady always waved. I wonder now how old she really was.
Having a garden, a real garden, is just not in my blood. I plant flowers every year, and the front yard looks great. A long while back, in a part of the yard where the grass didn't grow, I planted my first herb garden. I love that I can go to the yard and snip fresh herbs for whatever I'm cooking. It always makes me feel accomplished. The last few years I've had patio tomatoes. They just need water.
Every now and then I think about a vegetable garden, but I never get beyond the thinking. The local farm stands would miss my business.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
We Dreamed Our Dreams: Cathie Ryan
I always figured that our names are so similar she got the singing voice I was supposed to have. Too late I guess to get it back.
This is from our 1998 album The Music of What Happens.
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This is from our 1998 album The Music of What Happens.
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Circle Dance: Bonnie Raitt
A comment was left on an earlier Bonnie Raitt, and it made me realize it's been a while.
This song is from 1994's album Longing in Their Hearts.
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This song is from 1994's album Longing in Their Hearts.
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Blowin in the Wind: The Kingston Trio
The first download doesn't seem to be working, and I didn't want to lose the comments so here it is again.
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MP3 File
"The summer night is like a perfection of thought."
The weather this morning is perfect. The humidity has gone, the breeze is cool and the sunlight sharp. I brought my coffee and papers to the deck. It was lovely though the squirrel probably disagrees. It had another fright this morning when I whacked the feeder. The squirrel fell to the ground, scurried to the nearest tree, climbed the trunk and clicked at me from one of the branches. I suspect I was being reprimanded.
I remember the summers of my childhood. I can still see the field overgrown with tall grass browned by the summer sun and filled with grasshoppers who leaped up and down in front of us as we hiked. I can hear their singing. I remember the swamp and the branches under the water and the frogs and the sounds of insects buzzing. I remember watching darning needles flit. Their wings glinted in the sunlight. I can see heat rising in waves off the tracks as we walked and I remember a brook where we usually stopped to get a drink. I can feel the coolness of the marble soda fountain at the drug store. I remember we used to build a fort in the woods almost every summer. Sometimes we'd haul wood from home while other times we'd use sticks and branches. They were always called forts, and we never made them tall. We had to squat or lie on our stomachs. Our forts always had a window. It was really just a hole in the side but to us it was a window. From home we'd bring our supplies. We'd bring a flashlight or two, snacks, something to drink and comic books to read. Sometimes we'd camp overnight. I remember falling asleep to the sounds of night birds and the chirping of crickets. I always slept soundly.
I remember the summers of my childhood. I can still see the field overgrown with tall grass browned by the summer sun and filled with grasshoppers who leaped up and down in front of us as we hiked. I can hear their singing. I remember the swamp and the branches under the water and the frogs and the sounds of insects buzzing. I remember watching darning needles flit. Their wings glinted in the sunlight. I can see heat rising in waves off the tracks as we walked and I remember a brook where we usually stopped to get a drink. I can feel the coolness of the marble soda fountain at the drug store. I remember we used to build a fort in the woods almost every summer. Sometimes we'd haul wood from home while other times we'd use sticks and branches. They were always called forts, and we never made them tall. We had to squat or lie on our stomachs. Our forts always had a window. It was really just a hole in the side but to us it was a window. From home we'd bring our supplies. We'd bring a flashlight or two, snacks, something to drink and comic books to read. Sometimes we'd camp overnight. I remember falling asleep to the sounds of night birds and the chirping of crickets. I always slept soundly.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
"Our language is funny - a fat chance and slim chance are the same thing."
This has already been a long morning. I cleaned the deck. I don't even like to clean my house yet there I was sweeping and mopping and spraying and polishing. The red squirrel which taunts me by sitting in my squirrel proof feeders was there when I came out. I whacked the feeder and he fell to the ground and went running up the nearest tree. I don't usually have this get him bent but I feel like Elmer after Bugs. All I need is a funny hat and a shotgun. Gracie played while I cleaned. She lost her halter somewhere in the yard. I have walked the lower forty and have yet to find it.
The weather is lovely with a breeze and much less humidity. It is supposed to be in the 50's tonight and the next few nights. Today is June on Cape Cod.
Last night I played a game with my friends. It had to do with antonyms, synonyms and homonyms. We agree on the first two but parted ways on the third. They are from New Jersey, a lovely place I'm sure, but their accents are pure Jersey. Mine is pure New England. This complicated the game considerably. It also meant a two against one vote. Some of my homonyms were discounted. One set was hock and hawk. Both of my friends agreed that in no way did those two words sound anything alike. I had to cross them off my list. Later we found a list of homonyms on line. Hock and hawk were listed. My friends poo pooed the list and claimed the author had to have been from New England.
My father used to take his shirts to the cleansers on Saturdays. We always thought he was just mispronouncing the word. Come to find out, cleansers is the word Bostonians used for cleaners. My friend, the same one from Jersey, calls a slide a sliding pond. That made me think about all the differences in American English. Fireflies cross a few state lines and become lightning bugs. I use a pail and my brother in law uses a bucket. I drink tonic. My favorite tonic is Diet Coke. My brother in law called it a crick. I was figuring he meant creek which I always thought was a brook. We go down cellar. When I was in elementary school, I used to ask permission to go to the basement. On the way back, I'd stop at the bubbler. I love frappes more than milk shakes. In my old house, we had a bulkhead to get down cellar. My favorite sub is chicken salad with pickles, onions and hot peppers. When I was little, I used to hosey the window in the car. Hyannis still has a rotary.
I figure if I ever leave this part of the country I'll have to hire a translator.
The weather is lovely with a breeze and much less humidity. It is supposed to be in the 50's tonight and the next few nights. Today is June on Cape Cod.
Last night I played a game with my friends. It had to do with antonyms, synonyms and homonyms. We agree on the first two but parted ways on the third. They are from New Jersey, a lovely place I'm sure, but their accents are pure Jersey. Mine is pure New England. This complicated the game considerably. It also meant a two against one vote. Some of my homonyms were discounted. One set was hock and hawk. Both of my friends agreed that in no way did those two words sound anything alike. I had to cross them off my list. Later we found a list of homonyms on line. Hock and hawk were listed. My friends poo pooed the list and claimed the author had to have been from New England.
My father used to take his shirts to the cleansers on Saturdays. We always thought he was just mispronouncing the word. Come to find out, cleansers is the word Bostonians used for cleaners. My friend, the same one from Jersey, calls a slide a sliding pond. That made me think about all the differences in American English. Fireflies cross a few state lines and become lightning bugs. I use a pail and my brother in law uses a bucket. I drink tonic. My favorite tonic is Diet Coke. My brother in law called it a crick. I was figuring he meant creek which I always thought was a brook. We go down cellar. When I was in elementary school, I used to ask permission to go to the basement. On the way back, I'd stop at the bubbler. I love frappes more than milk shakes. In my old house, we had a bulkhead to get down cellar. My favorite sub is chicken salad with pickles, onions and hot peppers. When I was little, I used to hosey the window in the car. Hyannis still has a rotary.
I figure if I ever leave this part of the country I'll have to hire a translator.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I'm Still Here: Lynn Miles
We'll Meet Again: The Byrds
This is the closing song on the Byrds' first album, Mr. Tambourine Man. I didn't realize until long after that the song was written in 1939 and Vera Lynn's version was especially popular during World War II.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“Fond memory brings the light of other days around me.”
Today is supposed to be the last day of this tortuous heat and August humidity. I sat and dripped sweat the whole day yesterday. It wasn't a pretty picture. Last night I couldn't take it any more so I decided to go to bed early. The air conditioner had been on in my bedroom long enough to give the room a chill. I went upstairs around eight, sat on the bed and let the wave of cold air wash over me.
My mother always kept an aluminum pitcher filled with orange Zarex in the fridge. The pitcher, I think, was blue. The glasses were different colors. My mother liked the set because the glasses never broke when dropped. They sort of bounced. She kept that set forever. My sister has it now. You can ever buy new sets which look exactly the same. Well, not exactly, our set has scratches and a dent or two.
It's strange how some every day things stay with you. I bought a set of bowls with tulips on them. I found them in an antique store. They were exactly like the set my mother had all through my childhood. The mashed potatoes were served in one and vegetables in another.
I remember my mother's electric fry pan. She used to put it on the counter. I can still see her cooking American chop suey and fried dough. I'm sure she used it for lots more, but that's what I remember the most.
Melmac dishes will probably never make a comeback. Our set came from the grocery store. Every week my mother bought a few new pieces. We had the whole set including gravy boats and divided vegetable servers. Our dishes were white with what looked like a wheat pattern. I remember a couple of pieces were put too close to the stove and they melted. We used those a really long time and used odd pieces even longer than that. My mother seldom threw anything away.
My mother always kept an aluminum pitcher filled with orange Zarex in the fridge. The pitcher, I think, was blue. The glasses were different colors. My mother liked the set because the glasses never broke when dropped. They sort of bounced. She kept that set forever. My sister has it now. You can ever buy new sets which look exactly the same. Well, not exactly, our set has scratches and a dent or two.
It's strange how some every day things stay with you. I bought a set of bowls with tulips on them. I found them in an antique store. They were exactly like the set my mother had all through my childhood. The mashed potatoes were served in one and vegetables in another.
I remember my mother's electric fry pan. She used to put it on the counter. I can still see her cooking American chop suey and fried dough. I'm sure she used it for lots more, but that's what I remember the most.
Melmac dishes will probably never make a comeback. Our set came from the grocery store. Every week my mother bought a few new pieces. We had the whole set including gravy boats and divided vegetable servers. Our dishes were white with what looked like a wheat pattern. I remember a couple of pieces were put too close to the stove and they melted. We used those a really long time and used odd pieces even longer than that. My mother seldom threw anything away.
Monday, June 09, 2008
"Remember that with her clothes a woman puts off her modesty. "
Real boys, at least those in my town, didn't wear shorts when I was a kid. They wore dungarees all summer. Their only concessions to the heat were short sleeved striped jerseys. Black high tops, usually Converse, were the appropriate foot gear. It didn't matter how hot. The only time those dungarees came off was when they replaced by bathing suits. My brother is a hold over from those days. He is still uncomfortable in shorts. Mostly he still wears dungarees, now magically transformed into Levis.
Girls dressed a lot cooler. We wore sleeveless blouses and shorts. We never wore short shorts, good girls just didn't in my town. On our feet were white Converse sneakers, and we always wore socks. Polishing the sneakers was part of the summer ritual. Clam diggers became popular, and we all had a few pairs. They went well with the sneakers and the socks.
Going to church meant wearing a dress and being really hot as we were all crammed together in pews with only a few stain glass windows open at the bottom. I figured it was the church warning us to change our ways, to save ourselves from eternal damnation. My brother and I used to try to get there barely on time or even late so we'd have to stand in the back near the door, the only source of air. If we were lucky, we'd have to stand on the stairs just outside. We figured it counted if we could hear the mass. Sometimes I used to wear shorts under my dress. I'd whip off the hot dress as soon as I got out of church.
When I was in Ghana, I had to wear a dress everyday, all the women did. My students explained that only yama yama girls wore pants. I knew exactly what they meant. In my day, yama yama girls wore short shorts.
Girls dressed a lot cooler. We wore sleeveless blouses and shorts. We never wore short shorts, good girls just didn't in my town. On our feet were white Converse sneakers, and we always wore socks. Polishing the sneakers was part of the summer ritual. Clam diggers became popular, and we all had a few pairs. They went well with the sneakers and the socks.
Going to church meant wearing a dress and being really hot as we were all crammed together in pews with only a few stain glass windows open at the bottom. I figured it was the church warning us to change our ways, to save ourselves from eternal damnation. My brother and I used to try to get there barely on time or even late so we'd have to stand in the back near the door, the only source of air. If we were lucky, we'd have to stand on the stairs just outside. We figured it counted if we could hear the mass. Sometimes I used to wear shorts under my dress. I'd whip off the hot dress as soon as I got out of church.
When I was in Ghana, I had to wear a dress everyday, all the women did. My students explained that only yama yama girls wore pants. I knew exactly what they meant. In my day, yama yama girls wore short shorts.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
"Don't knock the weather; nine-tenths of the people couldn't start a conversation if it didn't change once in a while. "
I'm late today. I was with a friend on her birthday.
Last night Miss Gracie got up close and personal with a baby possum. At first I thought she had a squirrel, but when I got nearer, I saw the baby lying on the ground with its mouth wide open. I feared the worst. Luckily, it wasn't hurt and, after I grabbed Gracie, the possum managed to scurry up the nearest tree to a small, thin branch where it hung tenuously with all four paws. Miss Gracie jumped a few times against the tree trunk hoping she'd magically ascend. I brought the beastie inside and gave the possum enough time to escape.
Today is summer. It is run through the sprinkler weather. It is shorts, a tee shirt and flip flop weather. It is do nothing and still sweat weather. It is the first day deserving of complaints about the heat.
We all do it; we all complain about the weather. We're seldom satisfied. We complain about the winter cold, and we complain about the summer heat. The spring is too wet. The fall is lovely and seems to elicit the fewest complaints, but some whiners would contend the fall is just winter's shill. Weather is one of the few things about which we all agree.
Last night Miss Gracie got up close and personal with a baby possum. At first I thought she had a squirrel, but when I got nearer, I saw the baby lying on the ground with its mouth wide open. I feared the worst. Luckily, it wasn't hurt and, after I grabbed Gracie, the possum managed to scurry up the nearest tree to a small, thin branch where it hung tenuously with all four paws. Miss Gracie jumped a few times against the tree trunk hoping she'd magically ascend. I brought the beastie inside and gave the possum enough time to escape.
Today is summer. It is run through the sprinkler weather. It is shorts, a tee shirt and flip flop weather. It is do nothing and still sweat weather. It is the first day deserving of complaints about the heat.
We all do it; we all complain about the weather. We're seldom satisfied. We complain about the winter cold, and we complain about the summer heat. The spring is too wet. The fall is lovely and seems to elicit the fewest complaints, but some whiners would contend the fall is just winter's shill. Weather is one of the few things about which we all agree.
Saturday, June 07, 2008
“I love the rain. I want the feeling of it on my face.”
It's finally stopped raining, and I'm hoping the sun will decide to come out from hiding. I could use some help keeping down the mold growing up my leg, and my kitchen floor from door to hall is covered in muddy paw prints. I did manage to see the silver lining. All that rain washed away the rest of the pine pollen, and my flowers got planted.
Last night, as I was watching television, Gracie's snores were driving me crazy. Fern and her constant meowing had me climbing up the wall. Maddie, jumping on and off my lap for pats, kept swishing her tail in my face. I wanted to tie it to her. I was glad I lived alone. Any roommate would have been in peril. I envisioned myself with a crazed smile on my face rubbing my palms together in glee as I headed toward the knife drawer. I think I was suffering from a classic case of cabin fever.
I can only imagine the horrors my mother used to face during days of rain in a small house with four kids. My brother and I used to come to blows on occasion. We'd start small then escalate. My favorite tactic, which enraged him and made me smile, was to lock myself in my room and taunt him from behind the door. I'd laugh so he could hear me. He'd get madder, scream louder and kick harder. My mother would yell and threaten us with our dad. My two sisters would play with their dolls. There was very little else to do inside when it rained day after day.
The summer was different. We loved the rain and always knew when it was coming. We could smell it. The air would change. A small breeze would get stronger and stronger. The sky would turn gray and huge drops would fall one at a time. They'd hit the ground and make holes in the dust. Steam would rise from the hot sidewalks. Then the few drops would become many drops, and the rain would fall in thunderous amounts. We'd run inside if there was lightning, but if not, we'd stay outside and stand where we could get the wettest. Nothing is finer than the relief of feeling cool and wet on a hot summer day. Nothing smells better than the world after a summer rain.
Last night, as I was watching television, Gracie's snores were driving me crazy. Fern and her constant meowing had me climbing up the wall. Maddie, jumping on and off my lap for pats, kept swishing her tail in my face. I wanted to tie it to her. I was glad I lived alone. Any roommate would have been in peril. I envisioned myself with a crazed smile on my face rubbing my palms together in glee as I headed toward the knife drawer. I think I was suffering from a classic case of cabin fever.
I can only imagine the horrors my mother used to face during days of rain in a small house with four kids. My brother and I used to come to blows on occasion. We'd start small then escalate. My favorite tactic, which enraged him and made me smile, was to lock myself in my room and taunt him from behind the door. I'd laugh so he could hear me. He'd get madder, scream louder and kick harder. My mother would yell and threaten us with our dad. My two sisters would play with their dolls. There was very little else to do inside when it rained day after day.
The summer was different. We loved the rain and always knew when it was coming. We could smell it. The air would change. A small breeze would get stronger and stronger. The sky would turn gray and huge drops would fall one at a time. They'd hit the ground and make holes in the dust. Steam would rise from the hot sidewalks. Then the few drops would become many drops, and the rain would fall in thunderous amounts. We'd run inside if there was lightning, but if not, we'd stay outside and stand where we could get the wettest. Nothing is finer than the relief of feeling cool and wet on a hot summer day. Nothing smells better than the world after a summer rain.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Leaving on a Jet Plane: Peter, Paul and Mary
This song was written by John Denver but is forever associated, in my mind with Peter, Paul and Mary for whom it was a big hit.
I had Album 1700 with me in Africa and played it enough that some of my students knew the songs by heart. They sang this one to me the day I left.
MP3 File
I had Album 1700 with me in Africa and played it enough that some of my students knew the songs by heart. They sang this one to me the day I left.
MP3 File
No Regrets: Tom Rush
I bought Tom Rush, the album, in 1965, and it began my love affair with his music. This song was first released on my favorite of all his albums, The Circle Game, and it is also on The Very Best of Tom Rush from whence this version comes.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Hearing nuns' confessions is like being stoned to death with popcorn. "
The last day of school was always a half day. It was the clean out your desk, get your final report card day. It was day you got promoted. The nun would call us up one at a time and give each of us our report cards. On the front, under the grades, was the section called Promoted to.
I have one report card of mine. It is from the first grade. Sister Redempta was my teacher, and I have vivid memories of her. I remember Sister Redempta with her veil flying in the wind behind her as she raced down the aisle to shake my friend Maryalyce who had peed under her desk. Maryalyce sat right beside me, and I can still remember the tell tale pool below her chair. Sister Redempta made Maryalyce cry and the rest of us cringe. I don't remember the aftermath, but I suspect I probably didn't have to go to the bathroom for weeks. Sister Redempta was really old, but I was six and most everyone seemed old.
That year I was absent three times: twice during the third quarter and once in the fourth. I was never tardy. My mother had signed for the second and third quarters. For some reason the first quarter was blank. I was a stellar student. All my grades were S for satisfactory. On the back, though, in the third quarter, was a no beside Does Careful Work and another beside Puts Forth Best Effort. They are the only grades not typed. Instead, they were hand written in black ink with a fountain pen. I can only believe I was devastated. For the fourth quarter each had become an I for improved.
When I got my report card, the only thing that mattered said Promoted to Grade Two.
I have one report card of mine. It is from the first grade. Sister Redempta was my teacher, and I have vivid memories of her. I remember Sister Redempta with her veil flying in the wind behind her as she raced down the aisle to shake my friend Maryalyce who had peed under her desk. Maryalyce sat right beside me, and I can still remember the tell tale pool below her chair. Sister Redempta made Maryalyce cry and the rest of us cringe. I don't remember the aftermath, but I suspect I probably didn't have to go to the bathroom for weeks. Sister Redempta was really old, but I was six and most everyone seemed old.
That year I was absent three times: twice during the third quarter and once in the fourth. I was never tardy. My mother had signed for the second and third quarters. For some reason the first quarter was blank. I was a stellar student. All my grades were S for satisfactory. On the back, though, in the third quarter, was a no beside Does Careful Work and another beside Puts Forth Best Effort. They are the only grades not typed. Instead, they were hand written in black ink with a fountain pen. I can only believe I was devastated. For the fourth quarter each had become an I for improved.
When I got my report card, the only thing that mattered said Promoted to Grade Two.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
900 Miles: Cisco Houston
When I played train songs a while back, I was reminded of Cisco and this song. I didn't have it so I went shopping. My visits to Smithsonian Folkways remind me of a kid left to her own devices in a candy store. I never buy one thing: I buy many. On this trip, I bought this album, Cisco Houston: 900 Miles and Other R.R. Songs, and three more. The nuns would call Smithsonian Folkways my occasion for sin!
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Happiness is excitement that has found a settling down place. But there is always a little corner that keeps flapping around. "
The morning is dreary, damp and a bit chilly. I woke earlier than usual and got to hear the birds' opening notes. They didn't seem to miss the sun and were just happy to greet the day. I followed their example.
Sometimes when I wonder why I made the choices I did or what made one road less attractive than another, I follow the way back to my childhood and wander through my memories. I see the world as it was and realize I saw life as an adventure. I rode my bike some days but other days I sailed a ship or traveled in a covered wagon. The swamp was only a swamp unless it was a jungle or Sherwood Forest. Books were maps to other places. Books were time machines. I dreamed of possibilities.
I have never questioned my wanderlust. It is as much a part of me as my brown eyes. I'm glad, though, it makes only periodic demands. The rest of the time I just enjoy sitting here. I'm even quite content wearing my pajamas all day, especially a day like today, a perfect day for lazing around the house, drinking coffee and having no ambition whatsoever. Today I don't need to dream of possibilities. I am.
Sometimes when I wonder why I made the choices I did or what made one road less attractive than another, I follow the way back to my childhood and wander through my memories. I see the world as it was and realize I saw life as an adventure. I rode my bike some days but other days I sailed a ship or traveled in a covered wagon. The swamp was only a swamp unless it was a jungle or Sherwood Forest. Books were maps to other places. Books were time machines. I dreamed of possibilities.
I have never questioned my wanderlust. It is as much a part of me as my brown eyes. I'm glad, though, it makes only periodic demands. The rest of the time I just enjoy sitting here. I'm even quite content wearing my pajamas all day, especially a day like today, a perfect day for lazing around the house, drinking coffee and having no ambition whatsoever. Today I don't need to dream of possibilities. I am.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
"Life expectancy would grow by leaps and bounds if green vegetables smelled as good as bacon. "
Today it is raining, a steady but gentle rain. From my desk, I can hear drops landing on the deck and on the leaves close to the window. I can also hear the red squirrel. He's especially chatty. I figure it's because of all that sugar he consumed when he ate the orioles' grape jelly. Last night was dinner on the deck. The barbecue was fired up, and we dined on pork tenderloin, roasted sweet potatoes, a tomato feta salad and orange honey bread. It was sumptuous.
We were never really picky eaters when we were kids. My mother usually served what we liked or doctored what we didn't. Potatoes appeared just about every dinner, except for Saturday's beans. We weren't big on vegetables. My mother didn't care; she always served one. I liked peas and used to mix them in with the mashed potatoes. They looked gross. My mother mixed mashed potatoes and carrots. They looked good together. Corn on the cob was probably everyone's summer favorite, especially my dad's, and no one ever wanted to sit next to him. He ate his with such gusto pieces of corn were known to fly off in the fury. He approached each ear as if it were a typewriter and went from left to right and row to row. Not a kernel was ever left.
When I was a kid, grocery stores had only a few fresh vegetables in the winter so we ate mostly canned. They were, in retrospect, pretty disgusting, and it's no wonder so many of us had to be forced to eat our vegetables. Nightmares from those vegetables haunt my dreams to this day. I still can't eat wax beans, and I wake up in a pool of sweat with a beating heart because of those canned French green beans trying to catch me with their waving, grasping arms. My father's asparagus could have been a science experiment gone terribly awry. It left its victims spineless, helpless.
If my life had been a B movie, I'd have yelled, "Run! Run! Save yourselves! The cans are coming!"
We were never really picky eaters when we were kids. My mother usually served what we liked or doctored what we didn't. Potatoes appeared just about every dinner, except for Saturday's beans. We weren't big on vegetables. My mother didn't care; she always served one. I liked peas and used to mix them in with the mashed potatoes. They looked gross. My mother mixed mashed potatoes and carrots. They looked good together. Corn on the cob was probably everyone's summer favorite, especially my dad's, and no one ever wanted to sit next to him. He ate his with such gusto pieces of corn were known to fly off in the fury. He approached each ear as if it were a typewriter and went from left to right and row to row. Not a kernel was ever left.
When I was a kid, grocery stores had only a few fresh vegetables in the winter so we ate mostly canned. They were, in retrospect, pretty disgusting, and it's no wonder so many of us had to be forced to eat our vegetables. Nightmares from those vegetables haunt my dreams to this day. I still can't eat wax beans, and I wake up in a pool of sweat with a beating heart because of those canned French green beans trying to catch me with their waving, grasping arms. My father's asparagus could have been a science experiment gone terribly awry. It left its victims spineless, helpless.
If my life had been a B movie, I'd have yelled, "Run! Run! Save yourselves! The cans are coming!"
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Wish Me a Rainbow: Astrud Gilberto
This song is from my all time favorite Astrud Gilberto album called Astrud Gilberto's Finest Hour.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“Luck is believing you're lucky.”
Okay, it's already been a morning. When I went to get the paper, I saw a droopy plant on the step so I went back inside to get water and noticed Miss Fern had finally missed the furniture. She had thrown up on the stairs. I cleaned it up, watered the plant and got my first cup of coffee. It is a warm beautiful morning so with coffee cup and newspapers in hand out on the deck I went. Silly decision because when I got to the deck, I saw it had magically changed color. A closer look revealed pine pollen covered every surface. Back inside to get cleaning stuff and back outside to clean off the glass table, the chairs and the deck itself. I finally sat down with the papers and a tepid cup of coffee. When it was time for my second cup, I noticed the candle holders, hidden under the table from the squirrel, were filthy. I took out the glass and cleaned the bases. When I went to get coffee, I took the glass holders with me to wash. Of course, I dropped one and it shattered on the wall beside the herb garden. Out I went to clean up the glass, and, of course, I cut myself. Blood dripped. I picked up the glass, came inside, got my coffee and went back out to the deck. It was by then 8 o'clock. I sat down and wondered if I should go back to bed.
I always believed in luck when I was a kid. I made wishes on every first star and every time I blew out birthday candles. When I walked the tracks, I jumped all the railroad ties with double o's. To step on one could break my mother's back. It was the same with sidewalk cracks. We all knew step on a crack, break your mother's back. Lying on our stomachs in the grass, we hunted for four leaf clovers, and we saved every feather we found. We all had a rabbit's foot. Mine was white. See a penny and pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck. Besides, a penny had value. It was one piece of candy. I always hoped for the larger piece of the wishbone so my wish would come true. Hoping with crossed-fingers gave my wish an extra edge.
Though I had a few bad luck symbols, I paid them great attention. It was risky to tempt the fates. I never walked under a ladder even with fingers crossed or opened an umbrella in the house. I knocked on wood. Breaking a mirror was the worst.
I know I kept the bad luck away. I was vigilant. As for the good luck, my mother's back never broke. I figured she owed that to me.
I always believed in luck when I was a kid. I made wishes on every first star and every time I blew out birthday candles. When I walked the tracks, I jumped all the railroad ties with double o's. To step on one could break my mother's back. It was the same with sidewalk cracks. We all knew step on a crack, break your mother's back. Lying on our stomachs in the grass, we hunted for four leaf clovers, and we saved every feather we found. We all had a rabbit's foot. Mine was white. See a penny and pick it up, all day long you'll have good luck. Besides, a penny had value. It was one piece of candy. I always hoped for the larger piece of the wishbone so my wish would come true. Hoping with crossed-fingers gave my wish an extra edge.
Though I had a few bad luck symbols, I paid them great attention. It was risky to tempt the fates. I never walked under a ladder even with fingers crossed or opened an umbrella in the house. I knocked on wood. Breaking a mirror was the worst.
I know I kept the bad luck away. I was vigilant. As for the good luck, my mother's back never broke. I figured she owed that to me.
Monday, June 02, 2008
“Without adventure civilization is in full decay”
It's a quick post day as I have to go over the bridge, a euphemism here for leaving the cape. I find it amazing that to some Cape Codders the bridge is over the rainbow to a whole new world, an exotic foreign world. Many are born here, raised here and die here without ever leaving the Cape. Hyannis is the big city. It has a mall, a huge movie theater and an Olive Garden. What more could a body ask for in this world?
You know by now I have always had a hankering to see the world, and I always believed I would. None of my childhood friends are travelers. They are perfectly content, some still living in the town where we grew up together. They ask about my travels but listen with only half an ear. Their lives took different paths. I listen about their children and grandchildren but with only half an ear. They used to ask why but stopped asking a long time ago. They don't understand why. They don't have that yearning. They had different dreams, no less than mine, just different. I am an anomaly to them, and they don't hesitate to tell me. I just laugh. They have been my friends far too long ever to give offense. They do ask where I've been and where I might be going next. Morocco was beyond their ken. They just wanted to know if I had a good time.
It's lucky I got the bug they all missed
You know by now I have always had a hankering to see the world, and I always believed I would. None of my childhood friends are travelers. They are perfectly content, some still living in the town where we grew up together. They ask about my travels but listen with only half an ear. Their lives took different paths. I listen about their children and grandchildren but with only half an ear. They used to ask why but stopped asking a long time ago. They don't understand why. They don't have that yearning. They had different dreams, no less than mine, just different. I am an anomaly to them, and they don't hesitate to tell me. I just laugh. They have been my friends far too long ever to give offense. They do ask where I've been and where I might be going next. Morocco was beyond their ken. They just wanted to know if I had a good time.
It's lucky I got the bug they all missed
Sunday, June 01, 2008
"The man who is swimming against the stream knows the strength of it. "
It is a Cape Cod morning. The fog hovers below the trees, the sky is a light gray and the air is damp. I went out earlier for my Sunday breakfast. The roads were quiet. Today is a sleep-in, stay cozy sort of morning. It invites lingering over coffee and the Sunday papers. I saw few walkers, only a jogger or two. My friend and I ate breakfast, said our good-byes, and I took the slower way home as I wanted to savor more of the morning. The slower way takes me by old houses sitting side by side, lining the road and close to the street. It is overhung and shaded by trees fresh with the bright greens of spring. I rode slowly, far below my usual speed. I gawked as if the scene were new and unfamiliar.
We didn't go away for vacations much when I was a kid. They were just too expensive. Instead, we'd have day trips. We went to Wingaersheek Beach. I remember the water was always cold. During low tide, we'd swim in the warmer tidal pools. I remember lots of rocks for climbing and big houses across the river. I remember sandy bologna sandwiches and orange Zarex in a tartan jug. A few times we went into Boston. We meandered through the Public Gardens, rode the swan boats and fed the pigeons. We went to museums and wandered the exhibit halls. I remember my voice echoed in a few of the larger rooms. My brother and I thought it far neater than my dad did. Once in a while my dad would take us to the town pool in the early evening. Kids could only be there at night with adults so it was never crowded like in the daytime. I remember watching my dad swim. He went from one end of the pool to the other without stopping. I thought he was amazing. Once, at a lake, my dad took each of us in turn on his back under the water. He told us to tap him when we wanted air. I remember never wanting to go back up. It was like riding a dolphin. We went way deep, and I saw fish I could almost touch with my fingers. I wished I could breathe under water. I wished I could swim like my dad.
We didn't go away for vacations much when I was a kid. They were just too expensive. Instead, we'd have day trips. We went to Wingaersheek Beach. I remember the water was always cold. During low tide, we'd swim in the warmer tidal pools. I remember lots of rocks for climbing and big houses across the river. I remember sandy bologna sandwiches and orange Zarex in a tartan jug. A few times we went into Boston. We meandered through the Public Gardens, rode the swan boats and fed the pigeons. We went to museums and wandered the exhibit halls. I remember my voice echoed in a few of the larger rooms. My brother and I thought it far neater than my dad did. Once in a while my dad would take us to the town pool in the early evening. Kids could only be there at night with adults so it was never crowded like in the daytime. I remember watching my dad swim. He went from one end of the pool to the other without stopping. I thought he was amazing. Once, at a lake, my dad took each of us in turn on his back under the water. He told us to tap him when we wanted air. I remember never wanting to go back up. It was like riding a dolphin. We went way deep, and I saw fish I could almost touch with my fingers. I wished I could breathe under water. I wished I could swim like my dad.
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