This is from that album I bought a while back called Terrea Lea, By Popular Demand. I only know what I read by hunting through sites so I'm sending you to http://thegarret.info/tlbio.php where you can learn far more about Terrea.
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Thursday, July 31, 2008
All My Trials: The Highwaymen
I know this has been covered by the best, and I probably lean toward Peter, Paul and Mary as they are the first I'd heard sing it, but The Highwaymen sing it just fine.
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"I'll tell you how the sun rose a ribbon at a time."
The morning is damp. The air has a richness and a depth. It smells of the earth, of the garden. I can smell the basil, tall and ready to be cut, and the rosemary, full and green. I can smell the lavender in the front beds and the flowers opening to the day. I can smell summer at its best.
Every now and then I take you back with me to Ghana, and I hope you don't mind the journey. The memories are precious to me, and when I put them down on paper, I give them a permanence.
This morning, when I stood on the deck and took in the day, I was taken back to every morning in Ghana. The air always smelled of wood fires, and I'd see smoke rising from the compounds behind my house. Women, on their way to the market, carried baskets on their heads and walked in single file on the dirt path close to my yard. In the dry season they were surrounded by tall, brown grass, but this time of year the grass was lush and green. It is the rainy season in Ghana. In the earliest part of the day, I could hear the rhythmic pounding of a huge mortar and pestle as my neighbor and her daughter made fufu for breakfast, and I could hear my students chatting in their own tribal languages as they swept the school grounds.
Every morning I sat on the front steps with my coffee and watched primary school students making their way across my school to theirs just outside the fence. The boys wore khaki shirts and shorts while the girls wore blue dresses as uniforms. They always saluted and greeted me. My breakfast was the same very day, eggs and toast cooked over a small charcoal fire. The eggs were cooked in peanut oil and had the most amazing flavor. The toast was laid against the sides of the burner and had to be turned often so it wouldn't burn. After breakfast, it was time to walk across the school grounds to the classroom block and begin teaching. It was time for the morning to end and for the day to begin.
Every now and then I take you back with me to Ghana, and I hope you don't mind the journey. The memories are precious to me, and when I put them down on paper, I give them a permanence.
This morning, when I stood on the deck and took in the day, I was taken back to every morning in Ghana. The air always smelled of wood fires, and I'd see smoke rising from the compounds behind my house. Women, on their way to the market, carried baskets on their heads and walked in single file on the dirt path close to my yard. In the dry season they were surrounded by tall, brown grass, but this time of year the grass was lush and green. It is the rainy season in Ghana. In the earliest part of the day, I could hear the rhythmic pounding of a huge mortar and pestle as my neighbor and her daughter made fufu for breakfast, and I could hear my students chatting in their own tribal languages as they swept the school grounds.
Every morning I sat on the front steps with my coffee and watched primary school students making their way across my school to theirs just outside the fence. The boys wore khaki shirts and shorts while the girls wore blue dresses as uniforms. They always saluted and greeted me. My breakfast was the same very day, eggs and toast cooked over a small charcoal fire. The eggs were cooked in peanut oil and had the most amazing flavor. The toast was laid against the sides of the burner and had to be turned often so it wouldn't burn. After breakfast, it was time to walk across the school grounds to the classroom block and begin teaching. It was time for the morning to end and for the day to begin.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
"I know every book of mine by its smell, and I have but to put my nose between the pages to be reminded of all sorts of things."
It's a laptop on the deck morning. Gracie is asleep on the lounge, and I'm finishing my last cup of coffee. The breeze is still around, and I'm hoping it will last longer than yesterday's did. I have plans to loll all day on the deck as I have decreed today my do little or nothing day. I will make my bed, and that's it other than some leisurely page turning.
It used to cost me fifty cents for a new book. I'd go up town to the Children's Corner where, in the back, they kept a shelf of Whitman Publishing books for sale. The books had colored cardboard covers, andthe main character was always on the front. I'd read the spines searching for the newest ones in my favorite series. When I'd find a book, I'd sit on the carpet and check out a chapter or two. The lady who ran the store never minded. I always figured she was a book lover and knew that choosing a book took time. This was, for me, a giant investment. Fifty cents was my whole allowance for the week. I'd find a Trixie Belden or a Ginny Gordon. I'd also check out the newest Spin and Marty or Zorro. I'd plunked down my money for Heidi, Black Beauty and Little Women as it was Whitman which introduced me to the classics. I knew the library had copies of those books but having my own book was owning a treasure.
I actually still have some of those books. Many of the spines are no longer attached. The glue didn't last over time. The pages are yellow and brittle. If I pull them out of the bookcase, I am very careful and turn the pages gently. I remember what those books meant to be, and I hold dear to all those memories, and I still thank those characters who taught me that girls could do just about anything.
It used to cost me fifty cents for a new book. I'd go up town to the Children's Corner where, in the back, they kept a shelf of Whitman Publishing books for sale. The books had colored cardboard covers, andthe main character was always on the front. I'd read the spines searching for the newest ones in my favorite series. When I'd find a book, I'd sit on the carpet and check out a chapter or two. The lady who ran the store never minded. I always figured she was a book lover and knew that choosing a book took time. This was, for me, a giant investment. Fifty cents was my whole allowance for the week. I'd find a Trixie Belden or a Ginny Gordon. I'd also check out the newest Spin and Marty or Zorro. I'd plunked down my money for Heidi, Black Beauty and Little Women as it was Whitman which introduced me to the classics. I knew the library had copies of those books but having my own book was owning a treasure.
I actually still have some of those books. Many of the spines are no longer attached. The glue didn't last over time. The pages are yellow and brittle. If I pull them out of the bookcase, I am very careful and turn the pages gently. I remember what those books meant to be, and I hold dear to all those memories, and I still thank those characters who taught me that girls could do just about anything.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Lafayette: Lucinda Williams
As you can probably figure, I am a huge fan of Smithsonian Folkways and have several of their albums. They are a source for the most amazing music, and this is an example of a song from one such album. It is from Smithsonian Folkway American Roots Collection.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"The most important political office is that of the private citizen."
My school district is a regional one made up of two towns, and both have to agree on the school budget for it to pass. This year, as it has in past years, my town voted an override to fund the schools. The other town, as it has in past years, did not. The law then calls for a regional town meeting where the budget is voted one last time. The meeting was last night, and it was an event.
My friends and I decided to go early and have a picnic dinner. We loaded up salads and sandwiches and brownies and arrived at the high school an hour and a half early. It looked like a circus. A huge tent had been erected on the football field. People were milling around while others were enjoying picnics on the grass. Small groups sat in lawn chairs and chatted. The concession stand was open. The ice cream man was jingling his bell. We unloaded the car and found a spot by the baseball field in a shaded area with a breeze and sat and enjoyed our dinner. We watched the shuttle buses arrive in a never ending stream. We watched voters lugging chairs and coolers. It was amazing.
We finished and made our way to registration then found a spot beside the tent on the grass where it was cooler. We set up our chairs. As my mother would have said, it was like old home week. I talked to former students and former colleagues. I caught up with old friends. I met the children of the children I had taught. All over the tent and fields people were chatting and laughing. It was amazing.
The meeting started and voters from each town spoke. The doomsday sayers spoke of dismantling their town. School supporters spoke of kids and meeting their needs. There were occasional boos and a bit of clapping, all stifled by the moderator. Someone introduced an amendment reducing the budget by a million dollars, and it was seconded. We had to vote, and they decided we would vote by ballot. We lined up and made our way to the ballot box then waited while they counted. This was the best time of all. People walked the track; others got refreshments; still others chatted and mingled. A few were listening to the Sox lose to the Angels. People were reading or listening to music. It was like a county fair.
The amendment was defeated and discussion was opened on the budget. The first speaker moved the motion, and it was decided we would vote without discussion. We lined up again and voted by ballot. After voting most people left. No one was waiting around for the final tally. It was after eleven, and the meeting had lasted four hours. We joined the throngs and left.
The town meeting has been a custom in Massachusetts since the state's earliest days. It is the place where every voice has a right to be heard. It's balky and unwieldy and always long. It is grass roots democracy. I love town meetings, and I love all that they represent. Last night was no exception.
The paper this morning had the results. The budget passed by a two to one margin.
My friends and I decided to go early and have a picnic dinner. We loaded up salads and sandwiches and brownies and arrived at the high school an hour and a half early. It looked like a circus. A huge tent had been erected on the football field. People were milling around while others were enjoying picnics on the grass. Small groups sat in lawn chairs and chatted. The concession stand was open. The ice cream man was jingling his bell. We unloaded the car and found a spot by the baseball field in a shaded area with a breeze and sat and enjoyed our dinner. We watched the shuttle buses arrive in a never ending stream. We watched voters lugging chairs and coolers. It was amazing.
We finished and made our way to registration then found a spot beside the tent on the grass where it was cooler. We set up our chairs. As my mother would have said, it was like old home week. I talked to former students and former colleagues. I caught up with old friends. I met the children of the children I had taught. All over the tent and fields people were chatting and laughing. It was amazing.
The meeting started and voters from each town spoke. The doomsday sayers spoke of dismantling their town. School supporters spoke of kids and meeting their needs. There were occasional boos and a bit of clapping, all stifled by the moderator. Someone introduced an amendment reducing the budget by a million dollars, and it was seconded. We had to vote, and they decided we would vote by ballot. We lined up and made our way to the ballot box then waited while they counted. This was the best time of all. People walked the track; others got refreshments; still others chatted and mingled. A few were listening to the Sox lose to the Angels. People were reading or listening to music. It was like a county fair.
The amendment was defeated and discussion was opened on the budget. The first speaker moved the motion, and it was decided we would vote without discussion. We lined up again and voted by ballot. After voting most people left. No one was waiting around for the final tally. It was after eleven, and the meeting had lasted four hours. We joined the throngs and left.
The town meeting has been a custom in Massachusetts since the state's earliest days. It is the place where every voice has a right to be heard. It's balky and unwieldy and always long. It is grass roots democracy. I love town meetings, and I love all that they represent. Last night was no exception.
The paper this morning had the results. The budget passed by a two to one margin.
Monday, July 28, 2008
"All the windows of my heart I open to the day."
Today I have dawdled. Last night I went to bed quite late, and this morning I woke up too early. A quick shower helped revive my spirit. Yesterday's rain left the deck soaked so I stayed inside with my coffee and papers. The window in this room looks out onto the branches of scrub oak trees. Their leaves seem to glisten in the sun, and even from here I can smell the sweet morning air.
My day used to be centered on work. The alarm jarred me out of bed, and I'd stumble downstairs for coffee. The papers got scanned rather than read. When I got dressed, my clothes were appropriate, sometimes comfortable and sometimes not. Work was always busy, and I'd eat lunch walking around the cafe when school was in session or at my desk during the summer. I never counted days until a vacation. They just sort of lumped together and became weeks then months. My work day was long. When I got home from school, I was tired. I'd have a cup of coffee, finish the papers and read my mail. Supper was early and so was bedtime as I usually got up around 5:15. If anyone had asked, I'd have said I had the good life with great friends, a job I loved and a home, warm and comfortable, but I now know I was missing huge pieces.
Since I've retired, I've begun to notice a few things. I notice moments more now than ever. They used to get lost in the shuffle, but now I live in more of them than I ever could. I stop my car when I see jaw dropping beauty. I forget where I was going and hold on to that moment with both hands. I like afternoon naps, especially in the winter. Getting cozy on the couch under a warm afghan is one of life's pleasures. Freshly brewed coffee is best sipped, not gulped. I sit on the deck and read for a whole afternoon. In the mornings I watch the birds. Sometimes I just sit, close my eyes and dream. That has become the difference.
My day used to be centered on work. The alarm jarred me out of bed, and I'd stumble downstairs for coffee. The papers got scanned rather than read. When I got dressed, my clothes were appropriate, sometimes comfortable and sometimes not. Work was always busy, and I'd eat lunch walking around the cafe when school was in session or at my desk during the summer. I never counted days until a vacation. They just sort of lumped together and became weeks then months. My work day was long. When I got home from school, I was tired. I'd have a cup of coffee, finish the papers and read my mail. Supper was early and so was bedtime as I usually got up around 5:15. If anyone had asked, I'd have said I had the good life with great friends, a job I loved and a home, warm and comfortable, but I now know I was missing huge pieces.
Since I've retired, I've begun to notice a few things. I notice moments more now than ever. They used to get lost in the shuffle, but now I live in more of them than I ever could. I stop my car when I see jaw dropping beauty. I forget where I was going and hold on to that moment with both hands. I like afternoon naps, especially in the winter. Getting cozy on the couch under a warm afghan is one of life's pleasures. Freshly brewed coffee is best sipped, not gulped. I sit on the deck and read for a whole afternoon. In the mornings I watch the birds. Sometimes I just sit, close my eyes and dream. That has become the difference.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
If You Can't Smile and Say Yes: The Nat King Cole Trio
V-Disc was a record label produced during the World War II era by special arrangement between the United States government and various private U.S. record companies. The records were produced for the use of United States military personnel overseas. Many popular singers, big bands and orchestras of the era recorded special V-Disc records. These 12-inch, 78 rpm gramophone recordings were created between 1943 and 1949. The "V" stands for "Victory".
From Wikipedia
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From Wikipedia
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"There is more to life than increasing its speed."
Last night we went back to those thrilling days of yesteryear and watched programs from our childhood, from the 1950's. The three of us sat on the deck close to the flickering screen of my laptop, which is about the size of the TV screen we had when we were kids, when these programs were new. We watched Roy and Dale catch the bad guys, and we sang Happy Trails along with them as they rode off into the proverbial sunset. We watched Captain Z-RO, my favorite of all the programs we've seen. It was a hoot. We watched all of Juvenile Jury and a little of Sheena, Queen of the Jungle. Programs with plots were our favorites, and we agreed we want more. We want more programs where we can root for the good guy, the one in the white hat, the one who always wins in the end.
I am no Luddite. I don't want to give up my HD television or my iPod, my DVD player or my computer. The microwave sustains me, and I can't imagine not having the air conditioner in my bedroom, but watching those programs reminded me of how simple my world used to be. There was an obvious distinction between good and bad. Gee whiz was about as vulgar as anyone got. Sunday dinner was a highlight of the week. The matinée had a cartoon, a serial and a movie, all for the price of a dime then later a quarter and an extra nickel for candy. My mother never had to worry about what I was watching. I always felt safe though I did get warned about taking candy from a stranger. I thought that odd and wondered why a stranger would want to give me candy unless it was Halloween. We trusted people. Rules of behavior never blurred across lines. We all knew good kids did one thing and bad kids did another. We played board games. Life was slow and easy. The summer seemed an endless stretch of days waiting to be filled. We stayed young a lot longer back then.
I am no Luddite. I don't want to give up my HD television or my iPod, my DVD player or my computer. The microwave sustains me, and I can't imagine not having the air conditioner in my bedroom, but watching those programs reminded me of how simple my world used to be. There was an obvious distinction between good and bad. Gee whiz was about as vulgar as anyone got. Sunday dinner was a highlight of the week. The matinée had a cartoon, a serial and a movie, all for the price of a dime then later a quarter and an extra nickel for candy. My mother never had to worry about what I was watching. I always felt safe though I did get warned about taking candy from a stranger. I thought that odd and wondered why a stranger would want to give me candy unless it was Halloween. We trusted people. Rules of behavior never blurred across lines. We all knew good kids did one thing and bad kids did another. We played board games. Life was slow and easy. The summer seemed an endless stretch of days waiting to be filled. We stayed young a lot longer back then.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Summer Love: Joni James
"Live in each season as it passes: breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit."
The sun is bright and warm already. I sat on the deck with my papers and coffee and felt like the Mad Hatter as I moved from chair to chair to keep the sun at bay until I could finish reading. When I came inside, I was blinded just a bit in the dark kitchen.
Summer permeates the senses. I love the smell of rain when it hits the hot pavement, and I can smell and feel the ocean on a damp day. The songs of insects fill the afternoon air. It is a familiar sound kept with me since childhood. At night, the air carries the scent of barbecue and stirs my taste buds. Exotic aromas waft from my Brazilian neighbors' kitchen. On cool nights I sometimes smell the sweet bouquet of wood burning and can hear the low murmur of voices. Mornings are a delight. When I walk to get the papers, the grass is glistening with dew. I never mind when my feet get wet. I sit on the deck and sip my first taste of morning coffee. I know it to be nectar left as a gift from the gods. I hear the birds, not just their songs but the beating of their wings, as they fly in and out of the feeders. I watch the chickadees who are so close I could stroke their feathers. I hear Gracie running circles through the yard as she shakes off the lethargy of sleep. The sun warms my face. I close my eyes and let the morning wash over me.
Summer permeates the senses. I love the smell of rain when it hits the hot pavement, and I can smell and feel the ocean on a damp day. The songs of insects fill the afternoon air. It is a familiar sound kept with me since childhood. At night, the air carries the scent of barbecue and stirs my taste buds. Exotic aromas waft from my Brazilian neighbors' kitchen. On cool nights I sometimes smell the sweet bouquet of wood burning and can hear the low murmur of voices. Mornings are a delight. When I walk to get the papers, the grass is glistening with dew. I never mind when my feet get wet. I sit on the deck and sip my first taste of morning coffee. I know it to be nectar left as a gift from the gods. I hear the birds, not just their songs but the beating of their wings, as they fly in and out of the feeders. I watch the chickadees who are so close I could stroke their feathers. I hear Gracie running circles through the yard as she shakes off the lethargy of sleep. The sun warms my face. I close my eyes and let the morning wash over me.
Friday, July 25, 2008
El Condor Pasa (If I Could): Simon and Garfunkel
This is from Bridge Over Troubled Water, the last Simon & Garfunkel album. It was released in January of 1970. My mother sent it to me in Africa as a gift, and I played it over and over and rewound it more times than I can remember using my handy dandy bic pen.
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MP3 File
All I know: Art Garfunkel
This song is from Angel Clare, the first solo Garfunkel album, released in 1973. I bought this in vinyl and finally in CD. I think this Garfunkel at his most beautiful.
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“We have normality. I repeat, we have normality. Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem.”
It's a late start this morning as I slept in about an hour more than usual. I'm guessing it was the beat of the rain which kept me sleeping so soundly. The storm started early yesterday afternoon and didn't stop until this morning. It left the day cloudy, the air still. Not a leaf is moving. The birds and the insects are the only sounds I hear. I feel as peaceful as the day.
People are strange. There's no getting around it. We all have these funny little quirks. Let me tell you about a few of mine.
No sandwich can ever have misaligned bread. The tops and the bottoms have to match. That's just the way it is. I can't abide ketchup on my hot dogs. It belongs on hamburgers. I don't even like to see other people abuse hot dogs. Speaking of ketchup, I have never understood smattering it on scrambled eggs. Those same people would never put ketchup in egg salad. Crooked pictures drive me crazy. I've even straightened a few in my doctor's office. I hate to throw out clothes. I wear them until they're not fit to be seen in public then I wear them around the house. They finally end up as rags or dust cloths. My socks are the best example. All of my pairs have holes in the toes, but as long as most of my feet are covered, I'll still wear them. My clothes live a long life. I never wear a watch, haven't since Peace Corps days. Knowing the time is not a priority. I always squeeze toothpaste from the bottom. I've already mentioned about toilet paper being over, never under. The same goes with paper towels. I hate the sound of snoring.
I'm betting I have tons more idiosyncrasies, but I think I'd be the last to recognize them. I just see them as me.
People are strange. There's no getting around it. We all have these funny little quirks. Let me tell you about a few of mine.
No sandwich can ever have misaligned bread. The tops and the bottoms have to match. That's just the way it is. I can't abide ketchup on my hot dogs. It belongs on hamburgers. I don't even like to see other people abuse hot dogs. Speaking of ketchup, I have never understood smattering it on scrambled eggs. Those same people would never put ketchup in egg salad. Crooked pictures drive me crazy. I've even straightened a few in my doctor's office. I hate to throw out clothes. I wear them until they're not fit to be seen in public then I wear them around the house. They finally end up as rags or dust cloths. My socks are the best example. All of my pairs have holes in the toes, but as long as most of my feet are covered, I'll still wear them. My clothes live a long life. I never wear a watch, haven't since Peace Corps days. Knowing the time is not a priority. I always squeeze toothpaste from the bottom. I've already mentioned about toilet paper being over, never under. The same goes with paper towels. I hate the sound of snoring.
I'm betting I have tons more idiosyncrasies, but I think I'd be the last to recognize them. I just see them as me.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Midnight Special: Odetta
This is from a 2 disc set called Odetta-The Tradition Masters which is a reissue of her albums Sings Ballads and Blues (1956) and At the Gate of Horn (1957). These are very early Odetta dating close to the start of her recording career.
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MP3 File
Cloudy Summer Afternoon: Bud and Travis
This is copied from an earlier Bud and Travis offering on Coffee. I figured it sounded just fine, and I'd hate to let it go to waste.
Bud Dashiell and Travis Edmonson have been overlooked, labeled simply a folk duo, but they sang so many different genres it would be wrong to pigeonhole them. You can find them singing calypso, blues and even songs from Broadway shows; however, Bud and Travis were and are most known for one musical form above all others: the bolero, a kind of Latin-American folk song. They released a Latin album with not only boleros but also serenatas, guajiras and juapengos. It was their last album together. Though they sang great harmony on-stage, their relationship was volatile off stage which eventually led to their break-up in 1965.
Most of Bud & Travis have been re-released, including their Latin album. This song is from The Best of Bud and Travis.
MP3 File
Bud Dashiell and Travis Edmonson have been overlooked, labeled simply a folk duo, but they sang so many different genres it would be wrong to pigeonhole them. You can find them singing calypso, blues and even songs from Broadway shows; however, Bud and Travis were and are most known for one musical form above all others: the bolero, a kind of Latin-American folk song. They released a Latin album with not only boleros but also serenatas, guajiras and juapengos. It was their last album together. Though they sang great harmony on-stage, their relationship was volatile off stage which eventually led to their break-up in 1965.
Most of Bud & Travis have been re-released, including their Latin album. This song is from The Best of Bud and Travis.
MP3 File
"An adventure is only an inconvenience, rightly considered."
Last night felt like retribution from the heavens. Thunder rolled and roared. Lightning lit up my room in a fireworks display worthy of the Fourth of July. Both were awesome in their fierceness. I, a lover of storms, was mesmerized and didn't dare to go to sleep lest I miss anything. When the rain finally came in torrents, I raced to shut the window and the back door and just a bit later fell asleep to the sounds of drops hitting the window and plunking the air conditioner. Today is breezy, dry and sunny. It was a perfect morning for the deck and my coffee and papers. The mirrors hanging from the trees reflected the sun and sent dots of lights dancing on the deck. It seemed a joyful celebration of the morning.
I loved summer rain when I was a kid. The storms came out of nowhere to drench us. We'd splash each other at puddles and slide down the grassy, wet hill behind our house. Our clothes got soaked and were dirty and grass-stained. We didn't care. We just had fun.
When I was little, we lived in a world of concrete playgrounds. Wire fences separated one paved yard from another. I fractured my wrist when I was four by jumping backwards off the fence gate. I was learning a fun new trick. A year later, when I was five and my brother was four, we moved from that city. We moved to the town with woods and fields and railroad tracks. We moved close to that swamp and the blueberry patch. My first memory of our new town was when my brother and I went exploring. We wandered through the field and into the woods. I remember we came out of the woods to a street and kept walking until our attention was diverted by a stream we could see behind a house. If I close my eyes to remember, I can still see that stream. My brother and I ended up staying there and playing in the water. We were gone a long time, but we were kids and time has little meaning for kids playing in a stream. Our parents got worried and called the police. They claimed we were lost. They were wrong. We knew exactly where we were the whole time. The police found us and took us home. We were thrilled to ride in a real police car. It was the perfect end to our first great adventure.
I loved summer rain when I was a kid. The storms came out of nowhere to drench us. We'd splash each other at puddles and slide down the grassy, wet hill behind our house. Our clothes got soaked and were dirty and grass-stained. We didn't care. We just had fun.
When I was little, we lived in a world of concrete playgrounds. Wire fences separated one paved yard from another. I fractured my wrist when I was four by jumping backwards off the fence gate. I was learning a fun new trick. A year later, when I was five and my brother was four, we moved from that city. We moved to the town with woods and fields and railroad tracks. We moved close to that swamp and the blueberry patch. My first memory of our new town was when my brother and I went exploring. We wandered through the field and into the woods. I remember we came out of the woods to a street and kept walking until our attention was diverted by a stream we could see behind a house. If I close my eyes to remember, I can still see that stream. My brother and I ended up staying there and playing in the water. We were gone a long time, but we were kids and time has little meaning for kids playing in a stream. Our parents got worried and called the police. They claimed we were lost. They were wrong. We knew exactly where we were the whole time. The police found us and took us home. We were thrilled to ride in a real police car. It was the perfect end to our first great adventure.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Heart With No Companion: Rani Arbo & daisy mayhem
One of my favorite lines in a review of Rani Arbo & daisy mayhem is they make Leonard Cohen seem joyful, but I beg to differ as I find their music hopeful and exuberant.
Rani more often takes the singing lead, but each of them sings and each of them plays. Rani is the fiddler, Scott Kessel the percussionist, Andrew Kinsey plays bass and Nayak is the guitarist.
MP3 File
Rani more often takes the singing lead, but each of them sings and each of them plays. Rani is the fiddler, Scott Kessel the percussionist, Andrew Kinsey plays bass and Nayak is the guitarist.
MP3 File
"Dirty hands, iced tea, garden fragrances thick in the air and a blanket of color before me, who could ask for more?"
We have had no rain, only overcast skies. Yesterday there was a breeze and less humidity. It made the deck the spot to be, and I sat outside and read.
We had a toaster sitting on the counter when I was a kid. It worked fine with Wonder Bread but anything else usually got stuck. We'd take a butter knife and reach down in to try to dislodge the English muffin or whatever else it was that wouldn't pop. It was a simple procedure of sliding the knife down the side of the bread, impaling the bread on the knife and yanking the bread upward. I have no idea why we weren't electrocuted. We'd climb trees and swing from branches. It was the best fun when the branch broke and sent us tumbling to the ground. We'd laugh, get up and swing again on another branch. I remember there was farm close to us. It was a mere walk from the house through the fields, up the hill passed the blueberry bushes and the water tower, across the street and down a few streets more. Horses were usually in the field near the street. We'd, my brother and I, grab a handful of grass to try to entice the horses closer to the fence. Our dream was to climb the fence and jump aboard those horses. We tried everything, even chasing them through the field. We never did catch those horses. That was probably a good thing as we had never ridden a horse, with, let alone without, a saddle.
The summer swamp was a great place to spend the afternoon. Darning needles flitted and swirled across the water. They would fly then stop and hover. I remember they were graceful and beautiful. Their wings glittered in the sunlight. We never tried to catch them. I'm not sure why, but I'm thinking they were just too fast. My little sister believed that darning needles would stitch her lips together. We never told her otherwise.
We had a toaster sitting on the counter when I was a kid. It worked fine with Wonder Bread but anything else usually got stuck. We'd take a butter knife and reach down in to try to dislodge the English muffin or whatever else it was that wouldn't pop. It was a simple procedure of sliding the knife down the side of the bread, impaling the bread on the knife and yanking the bread upward. I have no idea why we weren't electrocuted. We'd climb trees and swing from branches. It was the best fun when the branch broke and sent us tumbling to the ground. We'd laugh, get up and swing again on another branch. I remember there was farm close to us. It was a mere walk from the house through the fields, up the hill passed the blueberry bushes and the water tower, across the street and down a few streets more. Horses were usually in the field near the street. We'd, my brother and I, grab a handful of grass to try to entice the horses closer to the fence. Our dream was to climb the fence and jump aboard those horses. We tried everything, even chasing them through the field. We never did catch those horses. That was probably a good thing as we had never ridden a horse, with, let alone without, a saddle.
The summer swamp was a great place to spend the afternoon. Darning needles flitted and swirled across the water. They would fly then stop and hover. I remember they were graceful and beautiful. Their wings glittered in the sunlight. We never tried to catch them. I'm not sure why, but I'm thinking they were just too fast. My little sister believed that darning needles would stitch her lips together. We never told her otherwise.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Oklahoma Hills: Jack Guthrie and His Oklahomans
This is actually the state folk song of Oklahoma, but I didn't know that until I went looking for more information. It was written by Woody Guthrie though Jack Guthrie, also listed as Leon and Woody's cousin, is also credited: Woody with the lyrics and Jack with the music.
Jack recorded it first in 1944, but I don't know if this is that or another version. I do love the western swing sound of this song.
MP3 File
Jack recorded it first in 1944, but I don't know if this is that or another version. I do love the western swing sound of this song.
MP3 File
The Trees They Do Grow High: Joan Baez
This is from the 1961 album Joan Baez Volume 2. It was her second album, and it is filled with the pure voice of a young Joan singing the traditional songs which characterized her early albums, the ones which were my introduction to Joan Baez.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"A dream is a wish your heart makes."
The air is chilly with summer damp. The paper predicts a thundershower. The sky is whitish gray, too light yet for rain. Maybe later it will darken and bring the promised storm.
My parents once traveled to Egypt. It was, for them, the most amazing of all trips. Whenever they talked about their journey, they were still filled with wonder. They described their first views of the pyramids and the Valley of the Kings, and I heard awe in their voices. My father laughed about his camel ride. My mother described their trip down the Nile and how she felt transported back in time watching water buffaloes plow fields. The trip to El Alamein was a disappointment for my dad. There was nothing there. He still had memories of the importance of that battle in stopping Rommel and had hoped for more. Both of them joked about their travelers' ills, their being sick, and they regaled us with the disgusting details. My mother's memory of the Aswan Dam was limited to sitting on the bus and getting sick. They stayed at the Old Winter Palace Hotel in Luxon where Howard Carter once stayed, and my mother had my dad take her picture in the lobby. My dad told me later it had always been his dream to see the pyramids, and he still couldn't believe his dream had come true. I was glad for him. I am a firm believer in dreams coming true.
My parents once traveled to Egypt. It was, for them, the most amazing of all trips. Whenever they talked about their journey, they were still filled with wonder. They described their first views of the pyramids and the Valley of the Kings, and I heard awe in their voices. My father laughed about his camel ride. My mother described their trip down the Nile and how she felt transported back in time watching water buffaloes plow fields. The trip to El Alamein was a disappointment for my dad. There was nothing there. He still had memories of the importance of that battle in stopping Rommel and had hoped for more. Both of them joked about their travelers' ills, their being sick, and they regaled us with the disgusting details. My mother's memory of the Aswan Dam was limited to sitting on the bus and getting sick. They stayed at the Old Winter Palace Hotel in Luxon where Howard Carter once stayed, and my mother had my dad take her picture in the lobby. My dad told me later it had always been his dream to see the pyramids, and he still couldn't believe his dream had come true. I was glad for him. I am a firm believer in dreams coming true.
Monday, July 21, 2008
I Had Something: Lucy Kaplansky
This is from a Putumayo issue called American Folk. I love that label and all the different music I get to sample.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Black River: Amos Lee
Amos Lee has a new album so I thought it a good time to go back to the beginning.
This song is from his self-titled debut album which dates back to 2005. I couldn't listen enough to that album when I first bought it. It was good to hear it again.
MP3 File
This song is from his self-titled debut album which dates back to 2005. I couldn't listen enough to that album when I first bought it. It was good to hear it again.
MP3 File
"If it weren't for Philo T. Farnsworth, inventor of television, we'd still be eating frozen radio dinners."
Today is a down day, a day to do nothing but read and relax and stay completely away from my car. The sky is overcast, and the humidity is stuck on high. It looks like rain though it also looked like rain yesterday, and we saw nary a drop. Last night I had dinner with friends. I brought my laptop and my new DVD, filled with television programs from our childhood, and we sat in the dark after dinner and watched for a few hours. We figured the computer screen was about the size of the TV's we had as kids. We watched Kukla, Fran and Ollie, Andy's Gang, Howdy Doody, The Rootie Kazootie Club, Winky Dink and You, Sky King, Annie Oakley and The Cisco Kid. We could only stand a few minutes of some of the programs. They were just awful. The westerns were the best. The same bad guy jumped from horses and the old west in The Cisco Kid to pickup trucks, planes and Sky King. We laughed that our very young selves had been so mesmerized by these early television programs. My mother once told me their friends down the hall had the very first TV in the apartment building. Every night they would open their door and situate the TV at the best vantage point. All the neighbors would settle the chairs they'd brought and watch. People were even seated in the hall outside the apartment door.
Popcorn was a nighttime snack for our television viewing. My father would shake the pan for all he was worth to keep the popcorn from burning, and we'd listen for that first kernel to pop. My mother would melt butter, pour it over the corn, add salt and then mix it all up to spread the butter around. She'd put the popcorn in individual bowls so we wouldn't have anything to fight about. When Jiffy Pop came on the scene, part of the fun was watching the aluminum foil rise into the air as the corn popped. I remember only the bravest among us would open the top and risk getting burned from all that steam.
My mother got a hot air popper for Christmas one year, and when we visited, she'd make popcorn for our movie viewing. She'd still melt butter, add the salt and mix it all up to spread the butter around, but she didn't need individual bowls anymore. We had stopped fighting, mostly.
Popcorn was a nighttime snack for our television viewing. My father would shake the pan for all he was worth to keep the popcorn from burning, and we'd listen for that first kernel to pop. My mother would melt butter, pour it over the corn, add salt and then mix it all up to spread the butter around. She'd put the popcorn in individual bowls so we wouldn't have anything to fight about. When Jiffy Pop came on the scene, part of the fun was watching the aluminum foil rise into the air as the corn popped. I remember only the bravest among us would open the top and risk getting burned from all that steam.
My mother got a hot air popper for Christmas one year, and when we visited, she'd make popcorn for our movie viewing. She'd still melt butter, add the salt and mix it all up to spread the butter around, but she didn't need individual bowls anymore. We had stopped fighting, mostly.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Wedding Bells: John Prine
The song title is Wedding Bells/ Let's Turn Back the Years, but Hipcast doesn't like a /.
That would be Lucinda Williams with John on this cut from In Spite of Ourselves.
MP3 File
That would be Lucinda Williams with John on this cut from In Spite of Ourselves.
MP3 File
The Chicken Dance
In my day, no self-respecting wedding would be complete without this song and The Hully Gully. My two aunts always danced to this and my dad did the Chicken Dance.
This song is for my friend Mark who believes as I do about the sanctity of this song.
MP3 File
This song is for my friend Mark who believes as I do about the sanctity of this song.
MP3 File
"Love one another and you will be happy. It's as simple and as difficult as that."
The trip was 438 miles in each direction. I made it there and back safely but soundly is iffy. When I got there, I took a nap and the same when I got home. My body ached in different spots than usual so that was a good thing. I figure it's better to spread around the pains.
Traveling always has a bit of joy attached to it. On this trip, I drove through northern New York and saw preserved sections and old locks from the Erie Canal and thought how cool to see pieces of history. The sign which said Leatherstocking Region got me thinking about James Fenimore Cooper and all those places in his novel, and I was amazed that here I was where Cooper lived. I was so tempted to stop in Cooperstown and spend hours roaming through the Hall of Fame. It took all of my will power to keep driving. From the road I could see deserted barns which ached to have their pictures taken. Next time, I thought. I saw active farms and herds of cows resting and grazing. I could see the brick buildings in small towns and wanted to roam their streets, maybe find an antique shop or two. I passed the exit for the Howe Caverns and the Finger Lakes. I passed billboards touting local wineries. I decided I'd found a trip.
The fun of scanning the radio brought local flavor. I found the Saturday polka show and learned I didn't dislike polka as much as I thought. I heard all about the farmers' markets and the local fairs. On one station the guest was a no-show so they had to leave a message. The guest was an expert on all the new gadgets, but I'm thinking sticky notes would have served him better. Listening to the local stations felt a bit like eavesdropping on the neighbors, and I loved it.
The wedding was perfect. The bride and groom couldn't have had smiles any broader during the ceremony. I got the biggest hugs when they came to my table. I was so glad I had made the trip.
Traveling always has a bit of joy attached to it. On this trip, I drove through northern New York and saw preserved sections and old locks from the Erie Canal and thought how cool to see pieces of history. The sign which said Leatherstocking Region got me thinking about James Fenimore Cooper and all those places in his novel, and I was amazed that here I was where Cooper lived. I was so tempted to stop in Cooperstown and spend hours roaming through the Hall of Fame. It took all of my will power to keep driving. From the road I could see deserted barns which ached to have their pictures taken. Next time, I thought. I saw active farms and herds of cows resting and grazing. I could see the brick buildings in small towns and wanted to roam their streets, maybe find an antique shop or two. I passed the exit for the Howe Caverns and the Finger Lakes. I passed billboards touting local wineries. I decided I'd found a trip.
The fun of scanning the radio brought local flavor. I found the Saturday polka show and learned I didn't dislike polka as much as I thought. I heard all about the farmers' markets and the local fairs. On one station the guest was a no-show so they had to leave a message. The guest was an expert on all the new gadgets, but I'm thinking sticky notes would have served him better. Listening to the local stations felt a bit like eavesdropping on the neighbors, and I loved it.
The wedding was perfect. The bride and groom couldn't have had smiles any broader during the ceremony. I got the biggest hugs when they came to my table. I was so glad I had made the trip.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
"The car has become a secular sanctuary for the individual, his shrine to the self, his mobile Walden Pond. "
I'll be leaving shortly to drive quite a distance to a wedding. I've known the groom since he was in diapers, and that seems such a short while ago. Where have the years gone? Many of my friends are grandparents now. My little sister, Moe, is one as well. I always thought grandparents were old, but I must have been mistaken.
Last night we had a tremendous summer storm with thunder and lightning. The sky lit up and the earth trembled. Right now the day is still nearly dark though a touch of light has started to appear. The morning has barely stirred. Only the birds have noticed the new day, the birds and I. It will be another warm, humid day.
I got bored easily on long rides when I was a kid. Because I got carsick, I could never read. The car was always warm even with all the windows open. I'd sometimes stick my hand out the side window and aim the breeze my way. It didn't help much. We always got cranky after a long time in the car.
My pets have a sitter because I'll be gone over night. Gracie won't mind, but the cats will. They tend to dislike change. I'll be back late tomorrow afternoon, cranky from the ride.
Last night we had a tremendous summer storm with thunder and lightning. The sky lit up and the earth trembled. Right now the day is still nearly dark though a touch of light has started to appear. The morning has barely stirred. Only the birds have noticed the new day, the birds and I. It will be another warm, humid day.
I got bored easily on long rides when I was a kid. Because I got carsick, I could never read. The car was always warm even with all the windows open. I'd sometimes stick my hand out the side window and aim the breeze my way. It didn't help much. We always got cranky after a long time in the car.
My pets have a sitter because I'll be gone over night. Gracie won't mind, but the cats will. They tend to dislike change. I'll be back late tomorrow afternoon, cranky from the ride.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Tell Me Baby: Lightnin' Hopkins
"The summer night is like a perfection of thought."
Humidity hangs in the air, and I swear it's deliberately closing in on me. I think it's under consideration to be the next John Carpenter villain. The small breeze from yesterday is only a memory, and the deck brought little relief this morning. My neighbors live behind closed doors and windows. I can hear their air conditioner pumping. I wonder if they'd like company.
When I was a kid, my mother kept the shades down in every room during the summer. The house reminded me of a cave, but it was always a few degrees cooler than outside. We had a fan my father carried from room to room. It followed us to the kitchen when we had dinner and back to the living room when we watched TV. Each night it ended up in my parents' room. We didn't care. We never seemed to have trouble falling asleep, even on the hottest nights. After a day of bike riding or roaming, we were far too exhausted to notice the heat.
When I think of those summer nights, I remember lights shining from neighbors' windows. I remember my dad chasing mosquitoes with a rolled up newspaper. Our house always had plenty with four kids running in and out letting the door slam behind them. My father enjoyed the hunt. My mother hated the mess. I remember shorty pajamas and how they were my favorites to wear to the drive-in. I remember taking a bath just before bed and how dirty the tub water looked filled with the dirt and grime of a busy day. I remember closing my eyes to the sounds of the TV from downstairs and the muted voices of my parents.
When I was a kid, my mother kept the shades down in every room during the summer. The house reminded me of a cave, but it was always a few degrees cooler than outside. We had a fan my father carried from room to room. It followed us to the kitchen when we had dinner and back to the living room when we watched TV. Each night it ended up in my parents' room. We didn't care. We never seemed to have trouble falling asleep, even on the hottest nights. After a day of bike riding or roaming, we were far too exhausted to notice the heat.
When I think of those summer nights, I remember lights shining from neighbors' windows. I remember my dad chasing mosquitoes with a rolled up newspaper. Our house always had plenty with four kids running in and out letting the door slam behind them. My father enjoyed the hunt. My mother hated the mess. I remember shorty pajamas and how they were my favorites to wear to the drive-in. I remember taking a bath just before bed and how dirty the tub water looked filled with the dirt and grime of a busy day. I remember closing my eyes to the sounds of the TV from downstairs and the muted voices of my parents.
New Chad Mitchell Video
I received an e-mail from the creator of this video, Terry McMahon, and thought I'd send it along. It's a take off from their great song The John Birch Society.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oPngk3RSjc
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oPngk3RSjc
Thursday, July 17, 2008
If Not Now: Tracy Chapman
This is from her self-titled first album released in 1988. I listened to it everywhere: on the road in the car, at home and with my Walkman plugged to my ears in bed. It was a favorite for a long while.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Where Do the Children Play: Cat Stevens
I have always been partial to his Tea for the Tillerman from which this song comes. It was released in 1970 which boggles my mind. It doesn't feel that long ago.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things."
It was a fill the bird feeders morning, but, because I wasn't mindful I had put squirrel repellent into the seeds, the capsicum powder was blown into the air as I filled the feeders. It stung my nose and mouth. Immediately I was zoomed into a memory drawer and taken back to the Super Service Inn, a local spot in Bolgatanga where I lived. It was a favorite stop for coke during the day and for a bit of food, or chop, at night. Getting to it meant walking across boards stretched over the open sewers. Outside the inn, under the trees, all day and into the night, men sat on stools with oware boards balanced on small tables. They played with lightening speeds and amazing strategies, skills honed from years of game play. I'd watch a bit then stroll inside to a table. One night, I ordered Guinea fowl. I took a healthy bite and was hit with a burning sensation from so much hot pepper I started to cough. My fingertips hurt and my mouth was burned. The owner, whom I knew well, came running over to see how I was. He apologized, though it was my fault, took the Guinea fowl, with the bite, back to the counter to sell and brought me one with far less pepper. The key to eating Ghanaian hot peppered meat was to wrap it in bread, and that's what I did with the less peppered fowl. It took a while for the red ring to disappear from around my mouth.
A strange perk of being one of only a few whites in town was getting invitations to the Regional Chief Executive's home, the Residency Grounds. The cocktail parties were filled with minor officials, the principal of my school, the bank manager, local chiefs and merchants. Bolgatanga was remote and had been a regional capital for only a couple of years. It had a paved road through the center of town and another running parallel with it called the Tamale road in one direction and the Navrongo road in the other. The rest of the roads were laterite or just plain dirt. The electricity was iffy and water was turned off for days at a time during the dry season. The Residency wasn't finished and still wouldn't be when I left two years later. I seldom attended these events. There were two exceptions. The first was a luncheon where Kofi Busia, the newly elected Prime Minister, was the honored guest. Ghanaians love speeches, and there many that afternoon welcoming and lauding Mr. Busia. That's about all I remember except I do remember shaking his hand as I left.
The second event was forced on me by my principal. The Minister of Education, a cabinet member, had been at our school, and he was being feted that night at the Residency. I was lolling around outside my house when my principal drove up to talk to me. Georgina Intsiful was her name, and I thought her wonderful. She wanted to know why I wasn't dressed. I explained I didn't go to cocktail parties. She told me she'd wait while I dressed. Meekly, I got up, went inside, got dressed and accompanied her to the cocktail party. I met the minister. He introduced himself to me and told me he liked Peace Corps because he had seen a volunteer fetching her own water. He thought it amazing that a white woman would fetch water. He was also pretty much in his cups and swayed as he spoke. Shortly thereafter his aide came and led the minister away.
It's strange how a bit of hot pepper took away the years and refreshed the memories.
A strange perk of being one of only a few whites in town was getting invitations to the Regional Chief Executive's home, the Residency Grounds. The cocktail parties were filled with minor officials, the principal of my school, the bank manager, local chiefs and merchants. Bolgatanga was remote and had been a regional capital for only a couple of years. It had a paved road through the center of town and another running parallel with it called the Tamale road in one direction and the Navrongo road in the other. The rest of the roads were laterite or just plain dirt. The electricity was iffy and water was turned off for days at a time during the dry season. The Residency wasn't finished and still wouldn't be when I left two years later. I seldom attended these events. There were two exceptions. The first was a luncheon where Kofi Busia, the newly elected Prime Minister, was the honored guest. Ghanaians love speeches, and there many that afternoon welcoming and lauding Mr. Busia. That's about all I remember except I do remember shaking his hand as I left.
The second event was forced on me by my principal. The Minister of Education, a cabinet member, had been at our school, and he was being feted that night at the Residency. I was lolling around outside my house when my principal drove up to talk to me. Georgina Intsiful was her name, and I thought her wonderful. She wanted to know why I wasn't dressed. I explained I didn't go to cocktail parties. She told me she'd wait while I dressed. Meekly, I got up, went inside, got dressed and accompanied her to the cocktail party. I met the minister. He introduced himself to me and told me he liked Peace Corps because he had seen a volunteer fetching her own water. He thought it amazing that a white woman would fetch water. He was also pretty much in his cups and swayed as he spoke. Shortly thereafter his aide came and led the minister away.
It's strange how a bit of hot pepper took away the years and refreshed the memories.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Hills of West Virginia: Phil Ochs
Paul Siebel was the first song I uploaded and it somehow reminded me it had been a while since I'd posted Phil Ochs.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Any Day Woman: Paul Siebel
This is from a reissue of his Two Albums - 1969's Woodsmoke and Oranges and 1971's Jack-knife Gypsy. Paul is far too good to be forgotten.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"A man has one hundred dollars and you leave him with two dollars. That's subtraction."
Sitting on the deck early this morning was awesome in the true sense of the word. The air had that summer morning chill which belies the heat of the day but still hints of what's to come. The birds made joyful music, and the red squirrels chased each other from branch to branch and tree to tree. One fell from a top branch and safely landed on a lower one in a maneuver Tarzan would have envied. My mirrors sent dots of light across the deck and around the yard. The rest of the world had yet to waken, and Gracie and I were alone in the beauty of the morning.
The trees over the deck are trimmed. Tony, who has been my savior by rescuing me from sick squirrels and mice, came and protected me from mayhem. He lopped the branches. My job was simply to toss them over the deck. No persons were harmed during this procedure.
This morning has already been far too industrious. The cat boxes are changed, the bed made, the deck swept, the bird droppings washed and the plants watered, inside and out. I'm already exhausted. Getting up early induces me to be busy. Lying in bed and being indolent sets a gentler mood for the rest of the day.
I never liked arithmetic. In elementary school, when we'd have to do an exercise sheet of adding or subtracting, I'd try to hide my fingers under the desk so I could use them as a sort of primitive adding machine. The hawk-eyed nuns were always on the look out for illegal fingering, and I sometimes got caught. Over the years, I stopped using my fingers, but I never did get over my dislike for numbers. I still have trouble with arithmetic, and I sometimes subtract on paper and recite carry the one in my head.
Words were always my strength even though my mother used to tell me it was not what I'd said which caused the problem but how I'd said it. Over the years, I haven't yet changed that last part.
The trees over the deck are trimmed. Tony, who has been my savior by rescuing me from sick squirrels and mice, came and protected me from mayhem. He lopped the branches. My job was simply to toss them over the deck. No persons were harmed during this procedure.
This morning has already been far too industrious. The cat boxes are changed, the bed made, the deck swept, the bird droppings washed and the plants watered, inside and out. I'm already exhausted. Getting up early induces me to be busy. Lying in bed and being indolent sets a gentler mood for the rest of the day.
I never liked arithmetic. In elementary school, when we'd have to do an exercise sheet of adding or subtracting, I'd try to hide my fingers under the desk so I could use them as a sort of primitive adding machine. The hawk-eyed nuns were always on the look out for illegal fingering, and I sometimes got caught. Over the years, I stopped using my fingers, but I never did get over my dislike for numbers. I still have trouble with arithmetic, and I sometimes subtract on paper and recite carry the one in my head.
Words were always my strength even though my mother used to tell me it was not what I'd said which caused the problem but how I'd said it. Over the years, I haven't yet changed that last part.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Blowin' in the Wind: The Chad Mitchell Trio
The Chad Mitchell Trio was the first to record this song, but, according to the The Chad Mitchell Trio MySpace site, their record company noted that there had never been a hit song with the word death in the lyrics and refused to release it.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Baby, The Rain Must Fall: Glenn Yarbrough
This was the theme for a 1965 movie of the same name starring Steve McQueen and Lee Remick. This was Yarbrough's biggest hit.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“If you get up one more time than you fall you will make it through.”
My mother had a lovely voice. She used to play music while she'd work in the kitchen, and we'd hear her singing along with Frank Sinatra or Tony Bennett or Johnny Mathis. Her car radio was tuned to a station which played the same music, and she'd sing along there too. I had that station set in my car so if she was with me, she could listen. I never listened to it when I was alone. I didn't inherit my mother's singing talent. My sister did.
My father could out sell anyone. He was the proverbial sell ice to an Eskimo sort. Later, he ran his friend's company and turned it around from near bankruptcy. That was his talent, but none of us needed it. We did different things. My father, though, was not handy anywhere outside the office. He was clumsy with tools, messy with paint and dangerous with electricity. He fell down stairs, hooked his fingers when he fished, burned his hand at the stove and, as I've mentioned, sawed himself out of a tree. That is my inheritance. I fall downstairs and trip going up. I have black and blues from banging my toes, legs and arms. I've fallen off ladders and once did a dive off the top step of my deck. I have grown cautious from experience, but last week the sole of my shoe caught, and I slid down the last three stairs. My toe was so black and blue it looked painted. That is my lot in life. I do hope, though, that I'll notice before I saw myself out of a tree.
My father could out sell anyone. He was the proverbial sell ice to an Eskimo sort. Later, he ran his friend's company and turned it around from near bankruptcy. That was his talent, but none of us needed it. We did different things. My father, though, was not handy anywhere outside the office. He was clumsy with tools, messy with paint and dangerous with electricity. He fell down stairs, hooked his fingers when he fished, burned his hand at the stove and, as I've mentioned, sawed himself out of a tree. That is my inheritance. I fall downstairs and trip going up. I have black and blues from banging my toes, legs and arms. I've fallen off ladders and once did a dive off the top step of my deck. I have grown cautious from experience, but last week the sole of my shoe caught, and I slid down the last three stairs. My toe was so black and blue it looked painted. That is my lot in life. I do hope, though, that I'll notice before I saw myself out of a tree.
Monday, July 14, 2008
There's a Rugged Road: Judee Sill
This is from Live in London-The BBC Recordings 1972-1973.
I could not do justice to her story so please go here: http://www.dustedmagazine.com/features/367
MP3 File
I could not do justice to her story so please go here: http://www.dustedmagazine.com/features/367
MP3 File
House Where Nobody Lives: Tom Waits
It was seven years between albums for Tom Waits, between Bone Machine and Mule Variations, the album from which this song comes. The album was released in 1999, and it is one of my favorite Tom Waits.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"There are no rules of architecture for a castle in the clouds."
It rained early this morning which left the day muggy and uncomfortable. Not a leaf flutters and the sun pokes out, stays a bit then disappears. Thunder showers are a possibility for later so I figure the sun is just practicing. Gracie had another visit last night from the possum. The poor dog was a bit crazed running down one set of deck stairs, sniffing the backyard then running back up the other set to sniff behind chairs and the table. She figured out where the possum was but couldn't get it as the critter was hiding behind the deck box. It took me a long while to capture Gracie and get her into the house.
The wringer washing machine stood in the corner of the cellar right next to the sink. On the same side of the cellar were lines for hanging laundry on rainy or freezing cold days. Assorted bicycles, my sisters' doll carriages, picnic baskets, tartan jugs, the rake and lawn mower and anything else we couldn't figure where to put also ended up on that side of the cellar. On the other side is where we used to play. The oil tank took up part of a wall but that still left us plenty of room. I used to put a saddle on the end of the banister, and, when I did, I became Annie Oakley. The saddle was really a blanket, and I only had a pretend gun, but I had a hat, a real cowgirl hat. I'd make all the giddy-up noises, twirl my string lasso over my head and catch the bad guys. They never got away.
We used to play in the woods and in the tall, brown grass in the field near our house. I remember them as so many different places. Sometimes the woods became Sherwood Forest. We'd take turns being Robin and Little John or we we'd be one of the merry men. We'd shoot imaginary bows and arrows at the sheriff and his entourage, also imaginary, who dared to cross through Sherwood. Sometimes it wasn't a field but a prairie, and we were in a wagon train. We'd circle the wagons to defend ourselves from Indians, for in those days they were the bad guys. Once in a while one of us would get shot and die a most dramatic death, a long dramatic death.
Summer was an endless game of being heroes, of going forward and backward in time and of saving the world from villainy.
The wringer washing machine stood in the corner of the cellar right next to the sink. On the same side of the cellar were lines for hanging laundry on rainy or freezing cold days. Assorted bicycles, my sisters' doll carriages, picnic baskets, tartan jugs, the rake and lawn mower and anything else we couldn't figure where to put also ended up on that side of the cellar. On the other side is where we used to play. The oil tank took up part of a wall but that still left us plenty of room. I used to put a saddle on the end of the banister, and, when I did, I became Annie Oakley. The saddle was really a blanket, and I only had a pretend gun, but I had a hat, a real cowgirl hat. I'd make all the giddy-up noises, twirl my string lasso over my head and catch the bad guys. They never got away.
We used to play in the woods and in the tall, brown grass in the field near our house. I remember them as so many different places. Sometimes the woods became Sherwood Forest. We'd take turns being Robin and Little John or we we'd be one of the merry men. We'd shoot imaginary bows and arrows at the sheriff and his entourage, also imaginary, who dared to cross through Sherwood. Sometimes it wasn't a field but a prairie, and we were in a wagon train. We'd circle the wagons to defend ourselves from Indians, for in those days they were the bad guys. Once in a while one of us would get shot and die a most dramatic death, a long dramatic death.
Summer was an endless game of being heroes, of going forward and backward in time and of saving the world from villainy.
Arte y Pico Award
It is my turn to recognize blogs, to pass the torch as Kat, the other Kat, called it.
One of the fun parts of my morning is checking out favorite blogs. Some have music, some have poetry and others are political, my kind of political. Here are my five for the Arte y Pico award for creativity, design and interesting material. They are expected to recognize their favorites as well. Here are the rules and you'll find my list below them.
1) Choose five blogs that you consider deserving of this award
for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also
contribution to the blogging community, no matter what language.
2) Post the name of the author and link to each award winning blog.
3) Each award winner posts the award and the name and link to the
blog of the award presenter.
4) The award winner and one who has given the prize should post
the link of Arte y Pico blog, the origin to this award.
My choices:
1. Zoey and me at The Cat in the Bag
2. Greg at Enchilada's Blog
3. The Coffee Messiah
4. Locust Street
5. Cuidado at creative1
One of the fun parts of my morning is checking out favorite blogs. Some have music, some have poetry and others are political, my kind of political. Here are my five for the Arte y Pico award for creativity, design and interesting material. They are expected to recognize their favorites as well. Here are the rules and you'll find my list below them.
1) Choose five blogs that you consider deserving of this award
for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also
contribution to the blogging community, no matter what language.
2) Post the name of the author and link to each award winning blog.
3) Each award winner posts the award and the name and link to the
blog of the award presenter.
4) The award winner and one who has given the prize should post
the link of Arte y Pico blog, the origin to this award.
My choices:
1. Zoey and me at The Cat in the Bag
2. Greg at Enchilada's Blog
3. The Coffee Messiah
4. Locust Street
5. Cuidado at creative1
Sunday, July 13, 2008
"Every American child should grow up knowing a second language, preferably English. "
It is a perfectly lovely day with a cool breeze, an inviting breeze, so I figure I'll read on the deck for a bit this morning then in the afternoon I'll do a few errands. Miss Fern woke me up at an indecent hour for the second morning in a row. She keeps trying to scratch her way to the cat in the mirror. The bureau is an old one, and the mirror is not attached so it bangs the wall when Fern scratches. Tonight I'll cover the mirror so Fern won't have to worry about that cat.
I was, in my former life, an English teacher. I remember reading an essay my student wrote about TV and its effect on morality. The student contended that many people were losing their morals on the TV set. I won't even begin to describe the picture which popped into my head.
It's no wonder people have trouble understanding English with all its quirks. If I go to bed at three, I'm going to bed really late, but if I get up a three, I'm getting up really early. My nose runs which always used to make me wonder exactly where it was going. I never understood why one moose is a moose while a herd of them is moose. I always thought it should be like goose and geese. I was slightly confused when bad was good until I caught up with the change and by then it was different yet again. You take up arms to arm yourself which makes sense because what would you do with one arm? Some other words also have no singular like sunglasses, scissors and pants. I always figured it was because they each have two parts for two eyes, two fingers and two legs. If that's the reason, why is it a bra and not bras?
A soldier lives in a barracks which always stumped me. It would seem perfectly reasonable to live in a barrack. If you stay behind, you remain, but once you're buried, you're remains. A chicken is poultry but so are a thousand chickens. Look at all that poultry! I never understood a majority of one.
When I wasn't home, my African students went to my house and met my absence. When they visited but had to leave for a bit, they didn't tell me they were returning. Nope, they would go come. My students wanted to learn big words and the first one I taught them was bamboozle. They used it all the time. The history tutor told me that one student mentioned on her exam that the British had bamboozled the Ashanti. He thought the word a wonder.
I leave you with this one thought. Yhy do they call it a TV set when you only get one?
I was, in my former life, an English teacher. I remember reading an essay my student wrote about TV and its effect on morality. The student contended that many people were losing their morals on the TV set. I won't even begin to describe the picture which popped into my head.
It's no wonder people have trouble understanding English with all its quirks. If I go to bed at three, I'm going to bed really late, but if I get up a three, I'm getting up really early. My nose runs which always used to make me wonder exactly where it was going. I never understood why one moose is a moose while a herd of them is moose. I always thought it should be like goose and geese. I was slightly confused when bad was good until I caught up with the change and by then it was different yet again. You take up arms to arm yourself which makes sense because what would you do with one arm? Some other words also have no singular like sunglasses, scissors and pants. I always figured it was because they each have two parts for two eyes, two fingers and two legs. If that's the reason, why is it a bra and not bras?
A soldier lives in a barracks which always stumped me. It would seem perfectly reasonable to live in a barrack. If you stay behind, you remain, but once you're buried, you're remains. A chicken is poultry but so are a thousand chickens. Look at all that poultry! I never understood a majority of one.
When I wasn't home, my African students went to my house and met my absence. When they visited but had to leave for a bit, they didn't tell me they were returning. Nope, they would go come. My students wanted to learn big words and the first one I taught them was bamboozle. They used it all the time. The history tutor told me that one student mentioned on her exam that the British had bamboozled the Ashanti. He thought the word a wonder.
I leave you with this one thought. Yhy do they call it a TV set when you only get one?
Saturday, July 12, 2008
"I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn't itch. "
Boys wore black high tops and girls wore short white canvas sneakers and always with socks. Boys wore jerseys and shirts and girls wore blouses, sometimes with sleeves, sometimes not. Boys didn't wear shorts but girls did. We all wore dungarees. Boys had a zipper in front and girls had one on the side, usually in the pocket. Sweatshirts never had hoods. Sweaters all had buttons on the front. I used to leave mine buttoned and slip it over my head. My mother called me lazy. Fashion was never a consideration when I was kid.
When we got older, we used to wear our sweaters backwards, buttons in the back. They were quite fashionable with straight, fairly tight skirts. We wore socks, mostly white ones with cuffs, and I used to wear loafers, usually black. For really big occasions, we wore shirtwaist dresses, usually in a print fabric. They had a tailored look, almost like a man's shirt. Flats and nylons completed the look. We wore Bermuda shorts with matching knee socks. We never wore short shorts. They were for the girls looking for a bit more attention or for those girls who had already had some, attention that is. We couldn't wear pants to school, even when I first started college.
My junior year in college we had a frigid spell of weather so my school, a humane institute of higher learning, relaxed the ban on women wearing pants. It was, in my little world, the end of expected to wear and the beginning of wanting to wear.
When we got older, we used to wear our sweaters backwards, buttons in the back. They were quite fashionable with straight, fairly tight skirts. We wore socks, mostly white ones with cuffs, and I used to wear loafers, usually black. For really big occasions, we wore shirtwaist dresses, usually in a print fabric. They had a tailored look, almost like a man's shirt. Flats and nylons completed the look. We wore Bermuda shorts with matching knee socks. We never wore short shorts. They were for the girls looking for a bit more attention or for those girls who had already had some, attention that is. We couldn't wear pants to school, even when I first started college.
My junior year in college we had a frigid spell of weather so my school, a humane institute of higher learning, relaxed the ban on women wearing pants. It was, in my little world, the end of expected to wear and the beginning of wanting to wear.
Arte de Pico Award
Kat, the other Kat, from Poetikat's Invisible Keepsakes has honored me. She chose Keep the Coffee Coming as one of her five blogs worthy of the Arte de Pico Award. It is given to blogs considered deserving for their creativity, design, interesting material and contribution to the blogging community, no matter what language.
I am so thankful to her for this wonderful honor. Thanks, Kat!
I am so thankful to her for this wonderful honor. Thanks, Kat!
Friday, July 11, 2008
Can't You Hear Me Calling: Crooked Still
Dan, in one of his comments, mentioned my regular readers will think I've donned dungarees and are wandering my property with a wisp of field growth sticking out of the side of my mouth. He was talking about my venturing farther a field, into bluegrass at times. He is right, but I have come to realize that folk music has the widest boundaries.
Crooked Still is considered alternative bluegrass whatever the heck that means. This is from their second album, Shaken By a Low Sound.
MP3 File
Crooked Still is considered alternative bluegrass whatever the heck that means. This is from their second album, Shaken By a Low Sound.
MP3 File
"May you live all the days of your life."
I've done a few chores and I have a few errands yet to do. The bed was changed early this morning, the second wash is in and the first is drying. I have to pick up a few things at the grocery store, most especially toilet paper. In Africa we used newspapers and magazine pages, but I was young and I was living an adventure.
The walls of each room in my house used to be white. Every time they got repainted, they were repainted white. It's not that I lacked adventure, it just seemed easier. I didn't have to worry about stuff clashing. Everything matched the walls. A couple of years ago, it was time to repaint. I decided on color. The rooms in my house are now a riot of color. One bathroom is pink, a bright, where are my sunglasses, pink. The other bathroom is a light blackberry ice cream. I have red licorice and nutmeg, sunshine and blue bayou. I love the colors of my house. They make me smile.
It's a glorious day. The humidity is gone, the air is clear, the sun is bright and the sky is so blue it defies description. Today is a day to celebrate, just because.
The walls of each room in my house used to be white. Every time they got repainted, they were repainted white. It's not that I lacked adventure, it just seemed easier. I didn't have to worry about stuff clashing. Everything matched the walls. A couple of years ago, it was time to repaint. I decided on color. The rooms in my house are now a riot of color. One bathroom is pink, a bright, where are my sunglasses, pink. The other bathroom is a light blackberry ice cream. I have red licorice and nutmeg, sunshine and blue bayou. I love the colors of my house. They make me smile.
It's a glorious day. The humidity is gone, the air is clear, the sun is bright and the sky is so blue it defies description. Today is a day to celebrate, just because.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
"Life is really simple, but we insist on making it complicated."
In the old days, we did eeny-meany-miney mo or rock, paper, scissors to end an argument, solve a problem or make a decision. The rock, paper, scissors loser usually wanted the best two out of three, but the winner was too smart to be sucked into that. The result was binding on all parties so nobody dared whine. Childhood was simpler back then. One bike was as good as another. Adding streamers to the handlebar grips, a wire basket and a horn were the only upgrades. All our bikes were heavy, and you had to back pedal to brake. Every house had kids, and we were free to roam at will. My mother knew we were out because that's where we told her we were going. Out was the perfect destination.
We were content with small things because there was nothing big. None of us competed for the newest or the best of anything. We had a TV, and that was enough for the longest time. When my mother got her hi-fi, one of the first in the neighborhood, it marked the end of enough.
My friends and I collected 45's, and we all wanted our own record players. That, historians will note, was the beginning of the first big electronic revolution. We wanted transistor radios next. The idea of a portable Woo Woo Ginsberg and his top 40 was too much to resist so a transistor radio topped my next Christmas list. My first transistor was big and square and ugly, and I loved it until pocket radios hit the stores, and I fell out of love for my old transistor. It had become an embarrassment. I had to have a pocket radio, and it topped my next Christmas list. From then on, things only got worse.
I look around my house now and I see my PC, a laptop, an iPod, a CD player, a DVD player, a digital camera and an HD television. My bike has a million speeds, and I don't know when to use most of them. I have more remotes than I can keep straight. My phone does everything but tap dance. I am caught in an electronic whirlpool.
We were content with small things because there was nothing big. None of us competed for the newest or the best of anything. We had a TV, and that was enough for the longest time. When my mother got her hi-fi, one of the first in the neighborhood, it marked the end of enough.
My friends and I collected 45's, and we all wanted our own record players. That, historians will note, was the beginning of the first big electronic revolution. We wanted transistor radios next. The idea of a portable Woo Woo Ginsberg and his top 40 was too much to resist so a transistor radio topped my next Christmas list. My first transistor was big and square and ugly, and I loved it until pocket radios hit the stores, and I fell out of love for my old transistor. It had become an embarrassment. I had to have a pocket radio, and it topped my next Christmas list. From then on, things only got worse.
I look around my house now and I see my PC, a laptop, an iPod, a CD player, a DVD player, a digital camera and an HD television. My bike has a million speeds, and I don't know when to use most of them. I have more remotes than I can keep straight. My phone does everything but tap dance. I am caught in an electronic whirlpool.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Once in a Very Blue Moon: Mary Black
I first heard this by Nanci Griffith and her sound stuck in my head. I listened to Mary Black just because it is Mary Black and decided I liked it a lot.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Lalena: Donovan
Donovan always puts me into a mellow, sixties sort of mood, and this does it as well as any of his songs. It comes off his Greatest Hits album which has been with me since its vinyl days.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Live in each season as it passes: breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit."
My favorite popsicle has always been root beer followed closely by orange and wild cherry, and I still believe eating a popsicle on a hot summer afternoon is a small taste of the joys of heaven. My approach to popsicles has always been to start at the top and work my way down to the sticks, hoping it won't melt before I get there. The trickiest part of eating a popsicle is when it gets so thin and one sided it sometimes falls off the stick, but I've perfected tricky stick maneuvering to save that last piece. When I'm finished, my tongue always feels a little strange, a little numb from the cold and is sometimes orange and sometimes red.
Popsicle sticks had an after life. They were fun to use to make stuff. Because my early days were before you could buy bags of sticks, we had to wash and dry ours. They always had a tinge of color from whatever popsicle we'd eaten, and I remember the reds and the oranges were the hardest to clean. When I was a brownie, I made the best mother's day present ever. I proudly presented my mother with a beautiful plaque, and on it, in alphabet pasta, was a poem I'd written myself. It was called To Mother.
Around the holidays we made popsicle stick ornaments. They never had legs or arms, just faces. We'd paint the faces and glue on some material to give our masterpieces a bit of character. I think I made enough snowmen and Santas to decorate hundreds of trees. I remember my friend made ladies wearing hats and scarfs. I was amazed by her talent.
Popsicle sticks had an after life. They were fun to use to make stuff. Because my early days were before you could buy bags of sticks, we had to wash and dry ours. They always had a tinge of color from whatever popsicle we'd eaten, and I remember the reds and the oranges were the hardest to clean. When I was a brownie, I made the best mother's day present ever. I proudly presented my mother with a beautiful plaque, and on it, in alphabet pasta, was a poem I'd written myself. It was called To Mother.
Around the holidays we made popsicle stick ornaments. They never had legs or arms, just faces. We'd paint the faces and glue on some material to give our masterpieces a bit of character. I think I made enough snowmen and Santas to decorate hundreds of trees. I remember my friend made ladies wearing hats and scarfs. I was amazed by her talent.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Hard Times Are Here Again: Tom Paxton
This is from The Silverwolf Homeless Project and was released in 1995. Sadly, it is even more poignant now than it was then.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Mud-pies gratify one of our first and best instincts. So long as we are dirty, we are pure."
I never used to mind dirt. After a slice of watermelon, the lines of juice down my hand made trails through the dust of a day's play. My mother would send us in to wash our hands, but we'd just run them under the faucet. Wash didn't have as much strength as clean, and we were smart enough to exploit the difference. Stains from melted ice cream joined grass stains. Hand prints were on the backs of our pants. A line of dirt circled the tops of our socks. We played hard. We got sweaty and we got dirty.
I don't remember how old I was before I voluntarily used soap and washed my hands without prompting. I think it was when bath day wasn't just Saturday any more. As a teen, I'd never wear a piece of clothing with a visible stain. I have nothing to wear was my moan, and my mother heard it often. I'd be in our one bathroom for ages, and my sisters would whine to get in.
In Ghana, my evening shower was the most refreshing part of the day, and it felt so good to get rid of all that dust. The shower room was in the backyard. It was concrete, square and dark. There was only cold water, but hot water, from the sun warming the pipes, came the first few minutes, and I'd quickly wash my hair. During the hottest time of the year, I'd just stay wet from the shower and let the air dry and cool me. It was the easiest way to fall asleep.
It has been a very long time since my last grass stain, and I keep a napkin handy when I eat watermelon. I never think it tastes as sweet as I remember. I suspect a bit of juice running down my hands might just remedy that.
I don't remember how old I was before I voluntarily used soap and washed my hands without prompting. I think it was when bath day wasn't just Saturday any more. As a teen, I'd never wear a piece of clothing with a visible stain. I have nothing to wear was my moan, and my mother heard it often. I'd be in our one bathroom for ages, and my sisters would whine to get in.
In Ghana, my evening shower was the most refreshing part of the day, and it felt so good to get rid of all that dust. The shower room was in the backyard. It was concrete, square and dark. There was only cold water, but hot water, from the sun warming the pipes, came the first few minutes, and I'd quickly wash my hair. During the hottest time of the year, I'd just stay wet from the shower and let the air dry and cool me. It was the easiest way to fall asleep.
It has been a very long time since my last grass stain, and I keep a napkin handy when I eat watermelon. I never think it tastes as sweet as I remember. I suspect a bit of juice running down my hands might just remedy that.
Monday, July 07, 2008
Take My True Love By the Hand: The Limeliters
This is a song with a couple of titles. Times Are Getting Hard, Boys is the other. It was recorded in the 50's with a few variations by Pete Seeger and Lonnie Johnson. This version appears on their 1960 album The Limeliters.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Wouldn't Be So Bad: Alison Krauss and Union Station
This is from 2004's Lonely Runs Both Ways on Rounder.
The song is a Gillian Welch, David Rawlings composition.
MP3 File
The song is a Gillian Welch, David Rawlings composition.
MP3 File
"Your parents, they give you your life, but then they try to give you their life."
My father worked long days when I was young. He was a salesman. I remember him coming home most nights after we'd already had dinner. I can see him coming in the front door wearing a dark suit and a tie, always in a Windsor knot. In the winter he wore an overcoat, and he wore his fedora the whole year. He sold cigars and wholesale tobacco products including cigarette machines. I went to his company once, and the only thing I remember is lots of windows and a room with desks and boxes. The sign across the front of the building was long with a red background and black letters.
I remember my mother was in charge of the paycheck. She'd get it every week, cash it then bring out the budget envelopes. The envelopes were brown and were held together in a red case with a snap. On the front of each, written in pencil, was the weekly amount my mother always put into the envelope. Some envelopes got money every week, like the rent. Other envelopes held money just for the week, like the grocery envelope. My mother had an envelope for vacations, and she put in as much as she could very week. Some weeks she put in none at all. I remember my mother also had a Christmas club at the bank.
I never realized that the long hours and the budget envelopes were my parents trying to raise four kids on not much money. Life seemed perfectly fine to me, and I had about everything I needed. I wanted more but what kid doesn't.
My father was running a company when he retired. My mother hadn't needed budget envelopes in years. They were always quite generous to the four of us, and very now and then we'd get a surprise check in the mail, just because. My parents went on cruises, on a trip to Egypt and several times to Europe. They got to see the world and to enjoy life. The parents of my youth would never have believed in that sort of future. They were too busy stuffing envelopes and stretching meals.
I remember my mother was in charge of the paycheck. She'd get it every week, cash it then bring out the budget envelopes. The envelopes were brown and were held together in a red case with a snap. On the front of each, written in pencil, was the weekly amount my mother always put into the envelope. Some envelopes got money every week, like the rent. Other envelopes held money just for the week, like the grocery envelope. My mother had an envelope for vacations, and she put in as much as she could very week. Some weeks she put in none at all. I remember my mother also had a Christmas club at the bank.
I never realized that the long hours and the budget envelopes were my parents trying to raise four kids on not much money. Life seemed perfectly fine to me, and I had about everything I needed. I wanted more but what kid doesn't.
My father was running a company when he retired. My mother hadn't needed budget envelopes in years. They were always quite generous to the four of us, and very now and then we'd get a surprise check in the mail, just because. My parents went on cruises, on a trip to Egypt and several times to Europe. They got to see the world and to enjoy life. The parents of my youth would never have believed in that sort of future. They were too busy stuffing envelopes and stretching meals.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
“Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.”
It's a gloomy day. It feels close, almost as if the clouds have crowded me. Sounds seem dampened, and I can only hear a few birds and an occasional bark. It's as if there are no other people.
Today has been a struggle to find something to write about which would hold my interest beyond a paragraph. I flirted with mortality but that seemed a bit deeper than I wanted to go. I wandered back to Ghana, but my memory drawer conjured only boils and cracked feet. I thought about being a kid on a rainy day and about playing endless games of steal the old man's pack, war and go fish, but after I wrote it, I was done and found myself stuck again.
Sunday came to mind.
Sundays were the quietest days of my childhood. Every one of them started with church, never big on my list of fun ways to spend the morning. Sunday also meant a big family dinner so we had to stay around the neighborhood, within yelling distance. No stores were open, and there was no matinée at the movie theater. I would hole up with a book, the best way I knew to get time to move faster, or I'd watch TV, the Sunday Movie Matinée. I remember Lassie made it home to Roddy McDowell and Heidi found her grandfather. In the summer, we sometimes went to the beach, but that was mostly a Saturday excursion. In the winter, we visited grandparents.
When I got older, I realized Sunday is the most important day of the week. When I worked, I never did chores on Sunday, except to go to the dump, and that is a ritual, not a chore. I relaxed, read newspapers, took an afternoon nap and recharged for the work week ahead. I needed Sunday more than any other day.
Today has been a struggle to find something to write about which would hold my interest beyond a paragraph. I flirted with mortality but that seemed a bit deeper than I wanted to go. I wandered back to Ghana, but my memory drawer conjured only boils and cracked feet. I thought about being a kid on a rainy day and about playing endless games of steal the old man's pack, war and go fish, but after I wrote it, I was done and found myself stuck again.
Sunday came to mind.
Sundays were the quietest days of my childhood. Every one of them started with church, never big on my list of fun ways to spend the morning. Sunday also meant a big family dinner so we had to stay around the neighborhood, within yelling distance. No stores were open, and there was no matinée at the movie theater. I would hole up with a book, the best way I knew to get time to move faster, or I'd watch TV, the Sunday Movie Matinée. I remember Lassie made it home to Roddy McDowell and Heidi found her grandfather. In the summer, we sometimes went to the beach, but that was mostly a Saturday excursion. In the winter, we visited grandparents.
When I got older, I realized Sunday is the most important day of the week. When I worked, I never did chores on Sunday, except to go to the dump, and that is a ritual, not a chore. I relaxed, read newspapers, took an afternoon nap and recharged for the work week ahead. I needed Sunday more than any other day.
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Sunshine on My Shoulders: John Denver
We always say summer starts the 4th of July weekend when the world drives down to the Cape to fill the cottages and clog the roads. We only go out in the early mornings and never on rainy days. We, unlike the bears, start our hibernating now.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"We all participate in weaving the social fabric; we should therefore all participate in patching the fabric when it develops holes."
It's raining, no dramatic thunder or lightening, just a gentle rain. I can hear it on the leaves. The day will clear soon enough, but I'm happy now to sit and enjoy the cool darkness.
Yesterday my friends and I celebrated. We talked and laughed, played board games and enjoyed a traditional July 4th dinner of corn on the cob, potato salad, hot dogs and burgers. It was a fun evening topped off by watching the Boston Pops on TV.
During the late 60's, my friends and I marched in the hope of helping to end a war. We weren't militant in the sense of burning draft cards, but we believed we were making a difference. Every Friday morning, we picketed at the wholesale vegetable center in support of Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers. We went to hear George Wallace speak in 1968 during his presidential run and carried signs denouncing him as a bigot. We covered our car fenders with flower decals, anti-war stickers and peace symbols. Flag wavers were the most vocal against us. Our country right or wrong was their mantra. We agreed, but we also believed that wrong needed to be made right.
I went into the Peace Corps, not out of a sense of patriotism, but in the hope of making a difference in a small way. It was not political. I don't ever remember discussing politics when I was there. We discussed our most recent maladies and who had what diseases. We talked about friends who had terminated early. We compared notes on our classroom experiences, and we talk endlessly about food. It didn't matter if we were small town or big city, democrat or republican, hawk or dove. What mattered was we were sharing an experience, and that kept us close.
Fast forward to now. An American flag always hangs off my house. Yesterday I added banners to the front and back fences. I wore my flag shirt. No, I haven't become the taunting flag waver from back then. I am politically the same as I was. I live in one of the most liberal states in the country and am quite proud of that, but I still hold fast to the belief that it is my country right or wrong so I hang flags and I hang banners to celebrate America. I also hang on to the belief that it is all our responsibilities to make wrongs right.
Yesterday my friends and I celebrated. We talked and laughed, played board games and enjoyed a traditional July 4th dinner of corn on the cob, potato salad, hot dogs and burgers. It was a fun evening topped off by watching the Boston Pops on TV.
During the late 60's, my friends and I marched in the hope of helping to end a war. We weren't militant in the sense of burning draft cards, but we believed we were making a difference. Every Friday morning, we picketed at the wholesale vegetable center in support of Cesar Chavez and the United Farm Workers. We went to hear George Wallace speak in 1968 during his presidential run and carried signs denouncing him as a bigot. We covered our car fenders with flower decals, anti-war stickers and peace symbols. Flag wavers were the most vocal against us. Our country right or wrong was their mantra. We agreed, but we also believed that wrong needed to be made right.
I went into the Peace Corps, not out of a sense of patriotism, but in the hope of making a difference in a small way. It was not political. I don't ever remember discussing politics when I was there. We discussed our most recent maladies and who had what diseases. We talked about friends who had terminated early. We compared notes on our classroom experiences, and we talk endlessly about food. It didn't matter if we were small town or big city, democrat or republican, hawk or dove. What mattered was we were sharing an experience, and that kept us close.
Fast forward to now. An American flag always hangs off my house. Yesterday I added banners to the front and back fences. I wore my flag shirt. No, I haven't become the taunting flag waver from back then. I am politically the same as I was. I live in one of the most liberal states in the country and am quite proud of that, but I still hold fast to the belief that it is my country right or wrong so I hang flags and I hang banners to celebrate America. I also hang on to the belief that it is all our responsibilities to make wrongs right.
Friday, July 04, 2008
"Freedom is nothing but a chance to be better."
As a kid, I knew all about the American Revolution, and my family and I visited places most kids just read about in their history books. I climbed the Bunker Hill monument and looked across to where the battle had taken place and knew that it was there we first tasted the possibility of freedom from Great Britain. We followed the red bricks of the Freedom Trail to the Old North Church and sat in a tall, wooden pew where Hancock and his family sat.
When I visited the Paul Revere House, I imagined him getting dressed by candlelight, going to the barn and saddling his horse for the ride of a lifetime.
We drove the same route the British marched on their way to Lexington and Concord, and I couldn't believe they had to march so far. I remember the house where Adams and Hancock had stayed and the tavern where the Minutemen met. We stood at North Bridge where the first shot was fired.
We walked through the Old State House in Boston and just outside I stood at the site of the Boston Massacre. From there I looked up to the balcony where, on July 18, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was first proclaimed to the citizens of Boston. "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
Today we commemorate that 4th of July in 1776 when we first claimed our independence from Great Britain. We celebrate with parades and fireworks, picnics and barbecues. John Adams would be pleased. "I believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival... it ought to be celebrated by pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other..."
When I visited the Paul Revere House, I imagined him getting dressed by candlelight, going to the barn and saddling his horse for the ride of a lifetime.
We drove the same route the British marched on their way to Lexington and Concord, and I couldn't believe they had to march so far. I remember the house where Adams and Hancock had stayed and the tavern where the Minutemen met. We stood at North Bridge where the first shot was fired.
We walked through the Old State House in Boston and just outside I stood at the site of the Boston Massacre. From there I looked up to the balcony where, on July 18, 1776, the Declaration of Independence was first proclaimed to the citizens of Boston. "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."
Today we commemorate that 4th of July in 1776 when we first claimed our independence from Great Britain. We celebrate with parades and fireworks, picnics and barbecues. John Adams would be pleased. "I believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival... it ought to be celebrated by pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other..."
Thursday, July 03, 2008
The Trooper Cut Down in His Prime: Ewan MacColl
You're thinking this is familiar but can't quite place it. Think Streets of Laredo. Think St. James Infirmary. Both started out as an Irish ballad called The Bard of Armagh or The Unfortunate Rake. This is another version.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Home: Ellis Paul
"We wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment."
Yesterday was quiet: no thunder storms, no mayhem and not a single Gracie story. Life just meandered, and I spent a good part of the day on the deck reading . It would have been nice being fanned or having a waiter standing by for drink orders, but I survived quite nicely despite the hardships.
My passport expires this month. I have all the completed paperwork and just need new pictures to apply for a new one. With no trips yet planned, the waiting time will not be a problem. I'm not sure, but I think this might be my fourth passport.
When I was a kid, I dreamed of traveling the world. I had all these images of minarets, Buddhist temples, pyramids, llamas, snow capped mountains and African watering holes wandering through my head. I read novels where grab your passport and let's go was a plot line. I imagined being a reporter and having my editor rush in and tell me I was leaving on the next plane to some exotic country he could barely pronounce. I'd grab my passport, the packed train case I always kept under the desk, my Lois Lane hat and my leather handbag with the strap. I'd tell the cab driver to rush. I have a plane to catch.
My first passport was for Ghana. I sent in all the paperwork and pictures, and Peace Corps took care of the rest. I remember when I held that passport in my hands for the first time. I opened it and saw an entry, a residence permit for Ghana. I was almost giddy. At the end of my two years, all the original pages were filled and there were extra pages pasted in which folded out like a fan. On those were visas to neighboring countries and the re-entry permits I needed to get back home very time I left Ghana. I still have that passport. I almost don't recognize the young woman in the black and white picture. She is just so young.
My passport expires this month. I have all the completed paperwork and just need new pictures to apply for a new one. With no trips yet planned, the waiting time will not be a problem. I'm not sure, but I think this might be my fourth passport.
When I was a kid, I dreamed of traveling the world. I had all these images of minarets, Buddhist temples, pyramids, llamas, snow capped mountains and African watering holes wandering through my head. I read novels where grab your passport and let's go was a plot line. I imagined being a reporter and having my editor rush in and tell me I was leaving on the next plane to some exotic country he could barely pronounce. I'd grab my passport, the packed train case I always kept under the desk, my Lois Lane hat and my leather handbag with the strap. I'd tell the cab driver to rush. I have a plane to catch.
My first passport was for Ghana. I sent in all the paperwork and pictures, and Peace Corps took care of the rest. I remember when I held that passport in my hands for the first time. I opened it and saw an entry, a residence permit for Ghana. I was almost giddy. At the end of my two years, all the original pages were filled and there were extra pages pasted in which folded out like a fan. On those were visas to neighboring countries and the re-entry permits I needed to get back home very time I left Ghana. I still have that passport. I almost don't recognize the young woman in the black and white picture. She is just so young.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Ain't Gonna Worry No More: Peter Case
This is from 2007's Let Us Now Praise Sleepy John, a title inspired by blues singer Sleepy John Estes.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Bill Morgan and His Gal: The New Lost City Ramblers
This is from another great Smithsonian Folkways from the archives compilation called Down Home Saturday Night.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"What we see depends mainly on what we look for."
Today's Gracie story tops all other Gracie stories. Yesterday I was upstairs actually cleaning my room when Gracie, who was doing her bit by lying on the bed, all of a sudden jumped up, bolted downstairs and went outside. About two minutes later I heard horrible cries which I knew had come from Gracie. She sounded in pain as if she'd been attacked, and I ran downstairs and outside faster than I thought possible. Gracie had heard a woman walking her dogs passed the house and had tried to get to them by leaping the fence. She didn't make it. When I saw her, she wasn't moving, and I thought she'd been impaled. Instead, she was wedged between two pickets with most of her body on the outside of the fence and only her haunches and back legs on this side. I tried to pull her up and over but couldn't budge her. I tried again and still couldn't. I started to panic, and it was this panic mode which gave me enough strength to unwedge her and lift her body up and over the fence. She was perfectly fine. I, however, had wrenched my back. That was the only part of the fence to which I had not added an extension. It is there now. Gracie will just have to learn to pole vault if she wants to get out again, and I'm going to keep an eye on her just to make sure she doesn't.
During school vacations in Ghana, I usually went to Accra, to the big city, to the bright lights. While there, I always stayed at the Peace Corps hostel in a section of the city called Adabraka. For fifty pesewas a night I got a bed, breakfast and a chance to catch up with Peace Corps friends. I loved roaming the city. I'd shop at Makola market, dicker with the Hausa traders on High Street, see a movie and eat out at real restaurants instead of chop bars, the Ghanaian equivalent of hole in the wall food joints. My favorite memory is walking through the city at night. Women sold food, their wares lit by wood charcoal fires. Men sat in groups and talked, and I could see the dim lights of their kerosene lanterns and hear the murmurs of their voices as I passed. Stores were closed and most were shuttered. It was as quiet as Accra could ever be.
I am sitting on my deck. The sun pokes in and out from behind a cloud. Gracie is asleep on the lounge. A breeze cools the air. The birds are noisy and one just missed my head as it flew by me. I can hear squirrels chattering as they chase each other from branch to branch. The coffee is just made, from a fresh pot. I wonder if heaven is like this.
During school vacations in Ghana, I usually went to Accra, to the big city, to the bright lights. While there, I always stayed at the Peace Corps hostel in a section of the city called Adabraka. For fifty pesewas a night I got a bed, breakfast and a chance to catch up with Peace Corps friends. I loved roaming the city. I'd shop at Makola market, dicker with the Hausa traders on High Street, see a movie and eat out at real restaurants instead of chop bars, the Ghanaian equivalent of hole in the wall food joints. My favorite memory is walking through the city at night. Women sold food, their wares lit by wood charcoal fires. Men sat in groups and talked, and I could see the dim lights of their kerosene lanterns and hear the murmurs of their voices as I passed. Stores were closed and most were shuttered. It was as quiet as Accra could ever be.
I am sitting on my deck. The sun pokes in and out from behind a cloud. Gracie is asleep on the lounge. A breeze cools the air. The birds are noisy and one just missed my head as it flew by me. I can hear squirrels chattering as they chase each other from branch to branch. The coffee is just made, from a fresh pot. I wonder if heaven is like this.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
"Politics ruins the character.”
My house when I was growing up was never political. I can't ever remember my parents discussing politics. In my family, the Democratic Party was about the only legacy we had to pass down from one generation to another. My parents were democrats as were their parents before them. My mother and father were conscientious and never missed casting their votes. If I asked my father, he'd tell me to whom his vote went. If I asked my mother, she never would. My father voted for Stevenson, twice. He voted for John Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson.
It was John Kennedy's campaign which drew me into the political circle. He was my senator, and I proudly wore Kennedy buttons. I was still young so issues were a bit cloudy, but I remember watching the debates and the islands of Quemoy and Matsu have rattled around in my head since then because, I suspect, of the visual aids, a map and a pointer. I remember lying in my parents' bed watching the results on the night of the election, but I fell asleep and didn't learn of John Kennedy's victory until the bext morning.
Back then, twenty one was the magic age, and I could hardly wait to vote. It happened when I was a senior in college, when Vietnam was front and center. I was involved and active. I was also a democrat. In my first election I voted for Humphrey. In my second, I voted for McGovern. It was during the McGovern campaign my father and I parted ways and politics reared its ugly head in my family. My father was a Nixon man through and through. I was horrified. This lifelong democrat had gone to the enemy. Unbeknown to either of us, my brother and I explained it the same way. We decided his financial success had pushed him over the edge, and he saw republicans as protectors for his money. My father and I argued endlessly during this election. He was thrilled Nixon won so handily. I taunted him by saying he lived in the only McGovern state.
From that election on, my father and I argued. He always told me his vote canceled out mine, and I told him his vote didn't count either. We never agreed on issues or candidates or current policy. We argued over everything, even local politics. The most heated argument we had was just after Reagan bombed Libya. It was in a restaurant, and it got ugly. My father accused me of being un-American which was about the kindest thing he said during the whole argument. He got so angry he finally left the table. He returned several minutes later and started eating and chatting as if nothing had happened. We never mentioned politics again.
It was John Kennedy's campaign which drew me into the political circle. He was my senator, and I proudly wore Kennedy buttons. I was still young so issues were a bit cloudy, but I remember watching the debates and the islands of Quemoy and Matsu have rattled around in my head since then because, I suspect, of the visual aids, a map and a pointer. I remember lying in my parents' bed watching the results on the night of the election, but I fell asleep and didn't learn of John Kennedy's victory until the bext morning.
Back then, twenty one was the magic age, and I could hardly wait to vote. It happened when I was a senior in college, when Vietnam was front and center. I was involved and active. I was also a democrat. In my first election I voted for Humphrey. In my second, I voted for McGovern. It was during the McGovern campaign my father and I parted ways and politics reared its ugly head in my family. My father was a Nixon man through and through. I was horrified. This lifelong democrat had gone to the enemy. Unbeknown to either of us, my brother and I explained it the same way. We decided his financial success had pushed him over the edge, and he saw republicans as protectors for his money. My father and I argued endlessly during this election. He was thrilled Nixon won so handily. I taunted him by saying he lived in the only McGovern state.
From that election on, my father and I argued. He always told me his vote canceled out mine, and I told him his vote didn't count either. We never agreed on issues or candidates or current policy. We argued over everything, even local politics. The most heated argument we had was just after Reagan bombed Libya. It was in a restaurant, and it got ugly. My father accused me of being un-American which was about the kindest thing he said during the whole argument. He got so angry he finally left the table. He returned several minutes later and started eating and chatting as if nothing had happened. We never mentioned politics again.
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