Sunday, August 31, 2008
“I was always fascinated by toys, and I just never outgrew it,”
Just a quick post as it seems the day is getting away too quickly. I want to be outside where the sun can warm my face. I want to make a memory of this perfectly lovely day. Come December, I'll struggle to remember.
I don't remember when music became important to me though I do remember my first records. Some were yellow and red, had their own jackets and were 78's. Many were Golden Records. Most of the ones I have left are Christmas records which should have warned me I had been cursed and was doomed for eternity to collect Christmas music. Bing Crosby sings How Lovely Is Christmas on a yellow record. The Sandpiper Chorus, also in yellow, sings It Came Upon the Midnight Clear. The Caroleer's appear on a red Peter Pan Record and sing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. I have one on a label called Playtime. The record is black, the music is Christ Was Once a Little Baby and is sung by Earl Rogers, tenor. Of the non Christmas, Mitchell Miller and His Orchestra offer up a yellow Alexander's Ragtime Band while Egbert the Easter Egg is sung by Betty Clooney and The Sandpipers. I haven't played these for years, but I now have turn table, and I'm going to give a listen. I am curious as to how my love of music was born and these records were one of the ways.
Another old toy I still have is a View-Master, and I know it whet my appetite for travel. I'd slide in one of the cards then click the button to move from picture to picture, stopping for a bit to read the description. I visited Eskimos, a festival in India and a tribe in Zululand. I saw Eisenhower inaugurated and the Queen crowned. I still have a View Master and quite a few cards. I pull them out every now and then and give them a look. The colors are vibrant. The people and places are a trip back in time, and looking at them now, I can imagine the younger me dreaming of seeing these places, of traveling the world. I guess that toy deserves a lot of thanks.
Did I mention I had a few Christmas reels?
I don't remember when music became important to me though I do remember my first records. Some were yellow and red, had their own jackets and were 78's. Many were Golden Records. Most of the ones I have left are Christmas records which should have warned me I had been cursed and was doomed for eternity to collect Christmas music. Bing Crosby sings How Lovely Is Christmas on a yellow record. The Sandpiper Chorus, also in yellow, sings It Came Upon the Midnight Clear. The Caroleer's appear on a red Peter Pan Record and sing God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. I have one on a label called Playtime. The record is black, the music is Christ Was Once a Little Baby and is sung by Earl Rogers, tenor. Of the non Christmas, Mitchell Miller and His Orchestra offer up a yellow Alexander's Ragtime Band while Egbert the Easter Egg is sung by Betty Clooney and The Sandpipers. I haven't played these for years, but I now have turn table, and I'm going to give a listen. I am curious as to how my love of music was born and these records were one of the ways.
Another old toy I still have is a View-Master, and I know it whet my appetite for travel. I'd slide in one of the cards then click the button to move from picture to picture, stopping for a bit to read the description. I visited Eskimos, a festival in India and a tribe in Zululand. I saw Eisenhower inaugurated and the Queen crowned. I still have a View Master and quite a few cards. I pull them out every now and then and give them a look. The colors are vibrant. The people and places are a trip back in time, and looking at them now, I can imagine the younger me dreaming of seeing these places, of traveling the world. I guess that toy deserves a lot of thanks.
Did I mention I had a few Christmas reels?
Saturday, August 30, 2008
"The same old thing—even if it’s champagne—is still the same old thing."
The morning has been perfect. I took an outside shower first, then grabbed a cup of freshly ground, freshly brewed coffee and brought it outside to the deck. I sat for a while, drank my coffee and surveyed my world. Gracie was carrying a soccer ball all over the yard, and the birds were in and out of the feeders. Rain sprinkled on and off, but I stayed dry under the trees and the umbrella. With my second cup of coffee, I brought out the papers and my breakfast. Usually I have only coffee, but this morning felt special. I grabbed a hunk of naan, a jar of honey and a jar of amlou, an almond paste from Morocco. I read, drank my coffee and dipped my bread. It was a spectacular breakfast.
This weekend is summer's last hurrah. School has already started in some places and will start everywhere else on Wednesday. My mother would have been counting down the days. I figure most mothers still do. All my supplies would already have been bought as stores were closed on Sundays and holidays when I was a kid. My school bag would have been packed and repacked several times. I loved school.
Once school started, life had a routine. We went to bed early on school nights because too little sleep meant we were grumpy and miserable the next morning, a tough start to the day. My mother would yell and we would grouse as she was trying to get us up, fed and out on time. Breakfast was already on the table when we came downstairs. My mother's yellow and white ceramic teapot was always in the middle of the table. Sometimes we'd have soft boiled eggs and toasts strips, sometimes oatmeal or cereal. I had cocoa. My brother had tea. After breakfast, we'd hurry upstairs to get ready for school. My friend Michelle would arrive, I'd kiss my mother goodbye and we'd leave to walk to school. My brother never walked with us. He walked with his buddies. We had an unspoken agreement never to acknowledge each other in public.
Once at school, we played in the school yard until the bell, then we lined up in twos, class by class, before being led inside by the nuns. Every school day had the same routine: classes, lunch, recess and more classes. A hand bell was rung from the top of the stairs by an eighth grader. It told us when to change classes, when to eat and when to go home.
Once I got home, I had to get out of my school clothes before I did anything else. Afterwards, I'd play outside for a while, but I always came inside around four to watch Superman. My homework was next then it was supper time. After supper was a bit of television then it was time to wash up and get into my pajamas. I'd watch a little more TV before my mother announced bedtime. I'd beg for a few more minutes more, but she seldom relented. I'd drag myself up to my room and bed.
The next morning it would start all over again.
This weekend is summer's last hurrah. School has already started in some places and will start everywhere else on Wednesday. My mother would have been counting down the days. I figure most mothers still do. All my supplies would already have been bought as stores were closed on Sundays and holidays when I was a kid. My school bag would have been packed and repacked several times. I loved school.
Once school started, life had a routine. We went to bed early on school nights because too little sleep meant we were grumpy and miserable the next morning, a tough start to the day. My mother would yell and we would grouse as she was trying to get us up, fed and out on time. Breakfast was already on the table when we came downstairs. My mother's yellow and white ceramic teapot was always in the middle of the table. Sometimes we'd have soft boiled eggs and toasts strips, sometimes oatmeal or cereal. I had cocoa. My brother had tea. After breakfast, we'd hurry upstairs to get ready for school. My friend Michelle would arrive, I'd kiss my mother goodbye and we'd leave to walk to school. My brother never walked with us. He walked with his buddies. We had an unspoken agreement never to acknowledge each other in public.
Once at school, we played in the school yard until the bell, then we lined up in twos, class by class, before being led inside by the nuns. Every school day had the same routine: classes, lunch, recess and more classes. A hand bell was rung from the top of the stairs by an eighth grader. It told us when to change classes, when to eat and when to go home.
Once I got home, I had to get out of my school clothes before I did anything else. Afterwards, I'd play outside for a while, but I always came inside around four to watch Superman. My homework was next then it was supper time. After supper was a bit of television then it was time to wash up and get into my pajamas. I'd watch a little more TV before my mother announced bedtime. I'd beg for a few more minutes more, but she seldom relented. I'd drag myself up to my room and bed.
The next morning it would start all over again.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Don't Think Twice, It's All Right: Ramblin' Jack Elliott
This song is from Sowing the Seeds-The 10th Anniversary, an album which celebrates this Appleseed Records milestone. It is a two CD collection featuring singers like Pete Seeger, Judy Collins, Jackson Browne and Bruce Cockburn among many others. This is about my favorite track.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Wheels: Dan Tyminski
This is the title song from Dan's new album released in June on Rounder Records. I first heard Dan playing with Alison Krauss and Union Station. After O Brother, Where Art Thou? I became a fan.
Wheels is his second solo album.
MP3 File
Wheels is his second solo album.
MP3 File
"We should read to give our souls a chance to luxuriate."
It's a cloudy day with a damp chill. A bit of grocery shopping is on my list but not much else. Maybe I'll do a bit of roving.
I don't remember learning to read. I just remember reading. I remember Dick and Jane, highlights of my early school years. In my mind's eye I can still see them, their sister Sally, their dog Spot and their cat Puff. They never did anything once. "Come, Dick. Come and See. Come come. Come and See. Come and see Spot." I figure the excitement of reading must have overcome the boredom of repetition. I used to follow the words with my fingers so I wouldn't lose my place. Any word which gave me trouble meant my finger stayed in one spot a long time. The nun used to tell me to sound out the word. Nuns believed in phonics.
I have always loved owning my own books. Every Christmas and my birthday I got new ones. Golden Books were my very first. My mother told me I'd sit on her lap, she'd point to all the animals on the back circle, and I'd name them. She also told me I was really smart to do that when I was so young. I never doubted her story. The Bobbsey Twins were the first books of substance I owned. I followed the adventures of Bert and Nan, Freddie and Flossie. That they had a cook and handyman was just part of the story. I never connected them with money. On their trip to New York, they climbed up into the torch at the Statue of Liberty. When I first went to New York, I was pretty disappointed I couldn't climb that torch. I remembered how much the twins loved the view. In another book, they had a goat and a goat cart, and I really wanted one of my own. They went on adventures, and I went with them.
The Bobbsey Twins never got any older. Both sets of twins stayed caught in time. I, though, got older, and when I did, I had to leave Bert and Nan and Freddie and Flossie behind.
I don't remember learning to read. I just remember reading. I remember Dick and Jane, highlights of my early school years. In my mind's eye I can still see them, their sister Sally, their dog Spot and their cat Puff. They never did anything once. "Come, Dick. Come and See. Come come. Come and See. Come and see Spot." I figure the excitement of reading must have overcome the boredom of repetition. I used to follow the words with my fingers so I wouldn't lose my place. Any word which gave me trouble meant my finger stayed in one spot a long time. The nun used to tell me to sound out the word. Nuns believed in phonics.
I have always loved owning my own books. Every Christmas and my birthday I got new ones. Golden Books were my very first. My mother told me I'd sit on her lap, she'd point to all the animals on the back circle, and I'd name them. She also told me I was really smart to do that when I was so young. I never doubted her story. The Bobbsey Twins were the first books of substance I owned. I followed the adventures of Bert and Nan, Freddie and Flossie. That they had a cook and handyman was just part of the story. I never connected them with money. On their trip to New York, they climbed up into the torch at the Statue of Liberty. When I first went to New York, I was pretty disappointed I couldn't climb that torch. I remembered how much the twins loved the view. In another book, they had a goat and a goat cart, and I really wanted one of my own. They went on adventures, and I went with them.
The Bobbsey Twins never got any older. Both sets of twins stayed caught in time. I, though, got older, and when I did, I had to leave Bert and Nan and Freddie and Flossie behind.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Three Drunken Maidens: Maddy Prior
I first heard this sung by Fairport Convention. This version is from Maddy's album Summer Solstice. Tim Hart is playing guitar.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Farmer's Song: Murray McLauchlan
Murray McLauchlan is a Canadian songwriter who has been recording since 1971. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say he is a Canadian icon. This is one of his Juno winning songs.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"How long a minute is, depends on which side of the bathroom door you're on."
Today is warmer than it has been though last night was just as chilly, in the 50's. Summer is losing its grip too soon.
My favorite vegetable has always been peas. When I was young, my mother bought the Le Seur baby peas in the can, and I loved to mix them in with my mashed potatoes. It was fun to do and was a treat for the eyes and a delight to the palate. When I got older, I could more easily scoop the peas with a fork and didn't need to mix them. Instead, I'd make a well in my potatoes for the gravy. Success meant the gravy stayed put. When I was leaving for the Peace Corps, my mother made my favorite meal for our last family dinner together: roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes and peas. I made a well in my potatoes.
My father loved vanilla ice cream. He'd add Hershey's Syrup and sometimes whipped cream from the can. Most every night, he'd have a bowl while watching television. He always used commercial times for his ice cream runs and usually made it back in time, but sometimes my dad would get the kitchen curse. He contended you always had to go to the bathroom when you got to the kitchen, the room farthest away from the downstairs bath. He'd scurry through the living room and say kitchen curse. We all knew what he meant. I now suffer from the same curse as do both of my sisters. Last night I just left the faucet running and ran. I said kitchen curse aloud. It's customary.
My favorite vegetable has always been peas. When I was young, my mother bought the Le Seur baby peas in the can, and I loved to mix them in with my mashed potatoes. It was fun to do and was a treat for the eyes and a delight to the palate. When I got older, I could more easily scoop the peas with a fork and didn't need to mix them. Instead, I'd make a well in my potatoes for the gravy. Success meant the gravy stayed put. When I was leaving for the Peace Corps, my mother made my favorite meal for our last family dinner together: roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes and peas. I made a well in my potatoes.
My father loved vanilla ice cream. He'd add Hershey's Syrup and sometimes whipped cream from the can. Most every night, he'd have a bowl while watching television. He always used commercial times for his ice cream runs and usually made it back in time, but sometimes my dad would get the kitchen curse. He contended you always had to go to the bathroom when you got to the kitchen, the room farthest away from the downstairs bath. He'd scurry through the living room and say kitchen curse. We all knew what he meant. I now suffer from the same curse as do both of my sisters. Last night I just left the faucet running and ran. I said kitchen curse aloud. It's customary.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Dream Jeopardy Category Tag
Ralph challenged me and I can't ignore a challenge!
My dream categories are:
1. Ghanaian Food
2. The Music of PP&M
3. Science Fiction Movies of the 1950's
4. English Grammar
5. Television Theme Songs of the 1960's
6. Famous Movie Robots
I'm going to have to give who gets tagged a little thought. I'll get back to you on that!
My dream categories are:
1. Ghanaian Food
2. The Music of PP&M
3. Science Fiction Movies of the 1950's
4. English Grammar
5. Television Theme Songs of the 1960's
6. Famous Movie Robots
I'm going to have to give who gets tagged a little thought. I'll get back to you on that!
Got Me a Woman: Levon Helm
This is from Dirt Farmer which won this year's Grammy for Best Traditional Folk Album. The album is on Vanguard Records.
MP3 File
MP3 File
When My Morning Comes Around: Iris DeMent
This is from her 1996 album The Way I Should. The album has some darkness in its themes and lyrics and ventures a little more into rock than her previous albums.
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MP3 File
"hatred bounces"
Fall is bursting in too quickly to give summer time for a formal good-bye. The nights and early mornings are downright chilly. I sat outside with my papers and coffee this morning but came inside to finish. My feet were cold.
My town where I grew up was blue collar, almost totally white, Irish, Italian and Catholic. I knew a mentally challenged man who went to every funeral, his sister who walked all over town saying hello and a blind girl who used to be tied to the stair rail so she wouldn't walk into the street. Her name was Patty, and she clapped at all the cars. They were the only differences I knew. Everyone else in town was pretty much the same. Families had lots of kids. I didn't know anyone who actually had money. We lived in a duplex in a project. Nobody cared where we lived. It just didn't matter. We all wore uniforms to school so we were dressed the same. We divided people into friends, neighbors and people we didn't know. I didn't like some kids, but it had to do with the kids themselves. Some cheated or lied or were mean. When we did eeny, meany, miny, moe, it wasn't a tiger we caught; instead, we used a really offensive word which had no meaning for any of us. It was just part of the rhyme. The same word was used to describe those licorice, sugar babies. We thought it was the name of the candy, nothing else. We were innocents.
Name calling meant words like booger or creep or my sister's personal favorite, pig. Being accused of having cooties was the worst. You smell was pretty close to the top of horrible things to say. Arguments had little to do with differences, the girl-boy thing being the only exception.
I met my first hater when I was sixteen. She was staying at a cottage near ours and was originally from South Africa. Her language toward them and her descriptions of the Black South Africans were horrible in their viciousness. I had never heard anything like what came out of her mouth and, knowing nothing of apartheid, asked her why she hated. She reeled off a list. I never forgot that lady. She taught me how ugly it is to hate.
My town where I grew up was blue collar, almost totally white, Irish, Italian and Catholic. I knew a mentally challenged man who went to every funeral, his sister who walked all over town saying hello and a blind girl who used to be tied to the stair rail so she wouldn't walk into the street. Her name was Patty, and she clapped at all the cars. They were the only differences I knew. Everyone else in town was pretty much the same. Families had lots of kids. I didn't know anyone who actually had money. We lived in a duplex in a project. Nobody cared where we lived. It just didn't matter. We all wore uniforms to school so we were dressed the same. We divided people into friends, neighbors and people we didn't know. I didn't like some kids, but it had to do with the kids themselves. Some cheated or lied or were mean. When we did eeny, meany, miny, moe, it wasn't a tiger we caught; instead, we used a really offensive word which had no meaning for any of us. It was just part of the rhyme. The same word was used to describe those licorice, sugar babies. We thought it was the name of the candy, nothing else. We were innocents.
Name calling meant words like booger or creep or my sister's personal favorite, pig. Being accused of having cooties was the worst. You smell was pretty close to the top of horrible things to say. Arguments had little to do with differences, the girl-boy thing being the only exception.
I met my first hater when I was sixteen. She was staying at a cottage near ours and was originally from South Africa. Her language toward them and her descriptions of the Black South Africans were horrible in their viciousness. I had never heard anything like what came out of her mouth and, knowing nothing of apartheid, asked her why she hated. She reeled off a list. I never forgot that lady. She taught me how ugly it is to hate.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
The Nickel Song: Melanie
This is from her 1972 album The Four Sides of Melanie. I think this song just a bit addictive.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"You need something that smells. Sardines did the trick."
When I was a kid, one of my favorite snacks was sardines on crackers. My dad loved them, and he introduced them to me. I'd grab a can out of the cabinet, take the key off the bottom, fit the slot to the key then roll off the top of the can. The sardines were packed in a row, and I'd use my fingers to pick one out and lay it neatly atop the cracker, usually a saltine. I thought it a great snack. It thoroughly disgusts me now.
Peanut butter and marshmallow was another favorite snack. Sometimes I'd make a sandwich while other times I'd pull out the saltines and put peanut butter on one cracker and marshmallow on the other for a cracker sandwich. The marshmallow always oozed over the sides and licking the cracker was a bonus. My mother always bought smooth peanut butter, and she always bought Marshmallow Fluff.
My mother used to buy grape jelly, though we were never fans of soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I ate my grape jelly mostly on toast. My mother always bought the jelly which came in glasses, and we had tons of grape jelly glasses. I still have one left. In those days we had glasses from all sorts of places. Glasses came in soap boxes, and we had sets of them in all sizes. My dad would bring home some from the gas station. They came with a fill up. I remember when the grocery store would sell a piece a week of matching glassware and dishes. My mother always kept up with the set.
I still have a Roadrunner glass from somewhere and a Celtics' glass which dates from their championship in 1986. It came from a Mobil station. It was free with a fill up. It's the last of its kind.
Peanut butter and marshmallow was another favorite snack. Sometimes I'd make a sandwich while other times I'd pull out the saltines and put peanut butter on one cracker and marshmallow on the other for a cracker sandwich. The marshmallow always oozed over the sides and licking the cracker was a bonus. My mother always bought smooth peanut butter, and she always bought Marshmallow Fluff.
My mother used to buy grape jelly, though we were never fans of soggy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I ate my grape jelly mostly on toast. My mother always bought the jelly which came in glasses, and we had tons of grape jelly glasses. I still have one left. In those days we had glasses from all sorts of places. Glasses came in soap boxes, and we had sets of them in all sizes. My dad would bring home some from the gas station. They came with a fill up. I remember when the grocery store would sell a piece a week of matching glassware and dishes. My mother always kept up with the set.
I still have a Roadrunner glass from somewhere and a Celtics' glass which dates from their championship in 1986. It came from a Mobil station. It was free with a fill up. It's the last of its kind.
Monday, August 25, 2008
"The Future is something which everyone reaches at the rate of sixty minutes an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is."
The morning has been leisurely. Gracie played in the yard with her friend Cody while I sat on the deck with my coffee and newspapers. Birds dropped in for their handouts, and I watched a squirrel try to sneak by me to the feeders. He didn't make it. The renters next door are gone, and my world is quiet, filled only with the sounds of the rustling leaves, the birds and a dog or two barking in the distance.
When I was little, time stretched interminably in front of me. A week was a long time. A year was forever. Being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up perplexed me. I was still figuring out what I wanted to do the next day. Long range planning is never a skill of the young.
In high school, I realized there was a future, and I had to plan mine. College made perfect sense which meant that I, in an instant, had planned four years of my life, the furthest in time I had ever gone. In college, I had to choose a major, another look to the future. It was getting a little scary. Each look to the future was a plan, a life choice. I chose to be a teacher.
The Peace Corps was serendipitous. I went to listen to a recruiter on campus, took the language test and signed up for more information. The next fall I got an application in the mail. I went with it. I realized I was getting really good at making my life's choices.
I taught English for a while then I became an administrator. I couldn't resist when early retirement was dangled in front of me so I grabbed it. When people started asking me what I had planned for retirement, I had no idea. I was like a kid again with no long range planning skills.
I have now been retired for four years, and I know I'm going to see a movie this noon time, but I have no idea what I'll do tomorrow. It is a long way away.
When I was little, time stretched interminably in front of me. A week was a long time. A year was forever. Being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up perplexed me. I was still figuring out what I wanted to do the next day. Long range planning is never a skill of the young.
In high school, I realized there was a future, and I had to plan mine. College made perfect sense which meant that I, in an instant, had planned four years of my life, the furthest in time I had ever gone. In college, I had to choose a major, another look to the future. It was getting a little scary. Each look to the future was a plan, a life choice. I chose to be a teacher.
The Peace Corps was serendipitous. I went to listen to a recruiter on campus, took the language test and signed up for more information. The next fall I got an application in the mail. I went with it. I realized I was getting really good at making my life's choices.
I taught English for a while then I became an administrator. I couldn't resist when early retirement was dangled in front of me so I grabbed it. When people started asking me what I had planned for retirement, I had no idea. I was like a kid again with no long range planning skills.
I have now been retired for four years, and I know I'm going to see a movie this noon time, but I have no idea what I'll do tomorrow. It is a long way away.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
"The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough."
The weather has been perfect with warm, dry days and cool nights. The air, with a feel of fall about it, makes the early evening sweatshirt weather. It invites me to sit on my deck in front of the chiminea while a fire warms me and the wonderful smell of pinion wood fills the air. A fresh cup of coffee in my hand inches me even closer to paradise.
In my head are stored moments. They are glorious moments worthy of being remembered for all time. Some are profound. Most are not. What they share is wonder. Once I saw a field covered in yellow daffodils. They went on forever, and the sight took my breath away. When I'd ride my bicycle down my street, a huge hill, the wind would blow in my face and make my eyes water. I knew I was flying. I knew the wheels had left the ground and I was aloft. A walk on the beach in a wind so strong I could barely move made me laugh out loud. My first night baseball game at Fenway Park had magically twinkling lights and grass so green it couldn't have been real. The first lick of an ice cream cone on a hot day is a gift from the gods. When I arrived in Ghana and walked off the plane, I knew I was somewhere exotic, somewhere beyond any of my experiences, and I was thrilled. Every Christmas time I do the same thing each night. I sit in my living room just looking at my tree. I am always struck by its beauty. The memories of a gentle rain on my face, a snowflake, the bright red of a male cardinal, licks from my cat Fern, the double wag of Gracie's stunted tail, fireflies, hot fudge sundaes and flower gardens are all stored away, are all glorious moments.
I go to the driveway each morning to get my papers, and I always pause to look at my house. It's one of my favorite moments, and I get to have it every day.
In my head are stored moments. They are glorious moments worthy of being remembered for all time. Some are profound. Most are not. What they share is wonder. Once I saw a field covered in yellow daffodils. They went on forever, and the sight took my breath away. When I'd ride my bicycle down my street, a huge hill, the wind would blow in my face and make my eyes water. I knew I was flying. I knew the wheels had left the ground and I was aloft. A walk on the beach in a wind so strong I could barely move made me laugh out loud. My first night baseball game at Fenway Park had magically twinkling lights and grass so green it couldn't have been real. The first lick of an ice cream cone on a hot day is a gift from the gods. When I arrived in Ghana and walked off the plane, I knew I was somewhere exotic, somewhere beyond any of my experiences, and I was thrilled. Every Christmas time I do the same thing each night. I sit in my living room just looking at my tree. I am always struck by its beauty. The memories of a gentle rain on my face, a snowflake, the bright red of a male cardinal, licks from my cat Fern, the double wag of Gracie's stunted tail, fireflies, hot fudge sundaes and flower gardens are all stored away, are all glorious moments.
I go to the driveway each morning to get my papers, and I always pause to look at my house. It's one of my favorite moments, and I get to have it every day.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
"Weekends don't count unless you spend them doing something completely pointless. "
It's Saturday, my favorite day of the week. It all started when I was a kid and got to lie on the living room rug, eat my cereal and watch television. Every Saturday morning I'd reconnect with Annie Oakley, The Cisco Kid, Fury and Sky King. I even remember watching Gene Autry fight the Muranians in The Phantom Empire. I hated waiting from Saturday to Saturday for the next episode. After my mother got us up and out of the house, the whole day was ours to do whatever we wanted. Some Saturdays we walked uptown and went to the matinée. We got to see the news of the world, a cartoon and a movie, all for a quarter. Other Saturdays we just roamed around town hoping we'd find something neat. Once we found a bunch of comic books in some trash, and we read them all afternoon. In my house we ate supper, never dinner, and it was always the same every Saturday: hot dogs, beans and brown bread.
When I got older, around high school age, Saturday meant sleeping in. It meant no bus to catch and no church to attend. The whole day was still mine to do whatever I wanted. Most times, though, it was Saturday night which held the attraction. My friends and I would roller skate or bowl or see a movie. We'd hang around Harvard Square. We'd get together and listen to records, to the newest 45's. The only thing which didn't change was supper at my house. It was still hot dogs, beans and brown bread.
In college, Saturday still meant sleeping in, especially after a Friday night party. We had great college parties, at least the ones I remember. For most of us, Saturday daytime was for recuperating. Saturday nights were for fun. We'd go to a basketball game or a hockey game and then we'd party. Saying life was a party wasn't just a bumper sticker back then. I have no memories of Saturday suppers, but I suspect they must have leaned toward chips and Cheetos.
I have always held Saturdays sacred, especially Saturday nights. When I worked, the daytime was for chores or errands, but the nighttime was for fun. Now that I'm retired, I joke and tell people that every day is Saturday, but I really mean it.
When I got older, around high school age, Saturday meant sleeping in. It meant no bus to catch and no church to attend. The whole day was still mine to do whatever I wanted. Most times, though, it was Saturday night which held the attraction. My friends and I would roller skate or bowl or see a movie. We'd hang around Harvard Square. We'd get together and listen to records, to the newest 45's. The only thing which didn't change was supper at my house. It was still hot dogs, beans and brown bread.
In college, Saturday still meant sleeping in, especially after a Friday night party. We had great college parties, at least the ones I remember. For most of us, Saturday daytime was for recuperating. Saturday nights were for fun. We'd go to a basketball game or a hockey game and then we'd party. Saying life was a party wasn't just a bumper sticker back then. I have no memories of Saturday suppers, but I suspect they must have leaned toward chips and Cheetos.
I have always held Saturdays sacred, especially Saturday nights. When I worked, the daytime was for chores or errands, but the nighttime was for fun. Now that I'm retired, I joke and tell people that every day is Saturday, but I really mean it.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Border Line: David Francey
This is from 1999's Torn Screen Door. Border Line is another of the great stories David Francey tells to music. I always think I'm privy to the lives of other people when David sings of their lives.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Without enough sleep, we all become tall two-year-olds."
It is a late start for me. I was up really early this morning because of a back ache which had me tossing and turning all night long. My lack of sleep also made me more than a bit grouchy, and the last thing I wanted was me grousing at anything and everything. After a couple of cups of coffee and some ibuprofen, I went back to bed. The sleep and the pills performed miracles, and I am back to my cheery self.
I have slept in moving cars while sitting upright, in planes with my head resting on the window, on floors in airports, in buses and trains as my head lolled on my chest, in hostels with people coming and going and in parks. I slept and noticed nothing. Once, in Helsinki, I slept among the trees, bushes and briers of a woodland area inside the city. It was probably illegal, but I was young, on a budget and well hidden. In London once, it was a long time between leaving my B&B and getting a bus to Scotland so I napped in a well known park, under a tree right out in the open. I had a backpack which probably explained everything to any passerby. In Ghana, the hostel had four sets of bunk beds, usually filled. Once I fell asleep, I never heard a soul, even in the bunk next to the bathroom. I was always the last one still asleep in the morning. Goats and chickens never kept me from a nap on even the fullest bus.
Being older means my standards have changed. I always stay in a hotel and no longer travel at night. I believe the night is meant for sleeping in a comfy bed with a fluffy pillow, unless, of course, a first class sleeper is still available. I cherish those memories of sleeping in parks and woods, on buses and trains. They are fodder for my travel stories, for my tales of way back when.
I have slept in moving cars while sitting upright, in planes with my head resting on the window, on floors in airports, in buses and trains as my head lolled on my chest, in hostels with people coming and going and in parks. I slept and noticed nothing. Once, in Helsinki, I slept among the trees, bushes and briers of a woodland area inside the city. It was probably illegal, but I was young, on a budget and well hidden. In London once, it was a long time between leaving my B&B and getting a bus to Scotland so I napped in a well known park, under a tree right out in the open. I had a backpack which probably explained everything to any passerby. In Ghana, the hostel had four sets of bunk beds, usually filled. Once I fell asleep, I never heard a soul, even in the bunk next to the bathroom. I was always the last one still asleep in the morning. Goats and chickens never kept me from a nap on even the fullest bus.
Being older means my standards have changed. I always stay in a hotel and no longer travel at night. I believe the night is meant for sleeping in a comfy bed with a fluffy pillow, unless, of course, a first class sleeper is still available. I cherish those memories of sleeping in parks and woods, on buses and trains. They are fodder for my travel stories, for my tales of way back when.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
"Education is the movement from darkness to light."
The Cape is beginning to clear out as tourists head for home. Their cars whiz by piled with kids and suitcases and attached roof boxes. Bicycles hang off the back, their wheels spinning in the wind. I am happy to see them go.
Most every one I knew went to St. Patrick's grammar school. The kids across the street and my cousin Susan were the only ones who went to public school. That's what we called it. The school actually had a name, the East School, but nobody used it. It was always public school. St. Patrick's was familiarly called St. Pat's. The school was build in 1910 so it had character. It had lots of wood, niches where statues stood, giant old clocks and big long windows in every room. It had radiators which hissed all winter. We always ate lunch at our desks and conversation was allowed. We went out to recess every day unless it rained. The early grades were on the first floor. The seventh and eighth grades were on the top floor. Later I realized it was a metaphor. The bathrooms were in the basement, another metaphor, and so was the trash. The front of the building was brick and it stood a bit back from the road and was part of an enclave. Across the street was the convent, next door was the rectory and beyond that was the church.
I remember attending most every grade. The third grade was when my dog got to stay in the room after he'd followed me to school. At first, I had to take him home right away, but later the nun let him stay. She decided I'd take him home during lunch so I didn't miss any school. I'd eat on the way home. Until lunch, the nun let Duke sleep on a mat on the floor below the clock.
Miss Quilter, my sixth grade teacher, was just about the best teacher I ever had. She was a regular person not a nun because there weren't enough nuns to go around. I remember Miss Quilter had black hair and wore the thickest glasses I'd ever seen. I also remember she made learning come alive for me. I wanted more and more. I wanted to know everything. I owe Miss Quilter a debt of gratitude.
I attended St. Pat's from the first grade through the eighth grade as did most everyone else, but after the eighth grade, my classmates and I parted ways. Many of my friends went to the local high school while others of us went to parochial high schools in different towns. We lost our frames of reference, our commonality, but we never lost each other. I still have friends who remember Duke sleeping under that clock.
Most every one I knew went to St. Patrick's grammar school. The kids across the street and my cousin Susan were the only ones who went to public school. That's what we called it. The school actually had a name, the East School, but nobody used it. It was always public school. St. Patrick's was familiarly called St. Pat's. The school was build in 1910 so it had character. It had lots of wood, niches where statues stood, giant old clocks and big long windows in every room. It had radiators which hissed all winter. We always ate lunch at our desks and conversation was allowed. We went out to recess every day unless it rained. The early grades were on the first floor. The seventh and eighth grades were on the top floor. Later I realized it was a metaphor. The bathrooms were in the basement, another metaphor, and so was the trash. The front of the building was brick and it stood a bit back from the road and was part of an enclave. Across the street was the convent, next door was the rectory and beyond that was the church.
I remember attending most every grade. The third grade was when my dog got to stay in the room after he'd followed me to school. At first, I had to take him home right away, but later the nun let him stay. She decided I'd take him home during lunch so I didn't miss any school. I'd eat on the way home. Until lunch, the nun let Duke sleep on a mat on the floor below the clock.
Miss Quilter, my sixth grade teacher, was just about the best teacher I ever had. She was a regular person not a nun because there weren't enough nuns to go around. I remember Miss Quilter had black hair and wore the thickest glasses I'd ever seen. I also remember she made learning come alive for me. I wanted more and more. I wanted to know everything. I owe Miss Quilter a debt of gratitude.
I attended St. Pat's from the first grade through the eighth grade as did most everyone else, but after the eighth grade, my classmates and I parted ways. Many of my friends went to the local high school while others of us went to parochial high schools in different towns. We lost our frames of reference, our commonality, but we never lost each other. I still have friends who remember Duke sleeping under that clock.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Darcy Farrow: Fourtold
Muddy Water: The Seldom Scene
I can't think of anything better than a bit of bluegrass to get you souls stirring. This is from 1973's Act 3.
The Seldom Scene started out of a basement. They agreed to keep their day jobs and play only once a week in clubs and on weekends. Members left and were replaced and only one of the original members, Ben Eldridge, still performs.
MP3 File
The Seldom Scene started out of a basement. They agreed to keep their day jobs and play only once a week in clubs and on weekends. Members left and were replaced and only one of the original members, Ben Eldridge, still performs.
MP3 File
"It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see. "
The morning is cool, stay inside to read my papers cool, almost fall cool. Last night was wonderful for sleeping and tonight will be downright chilly. Summer is losing its grip.
When I was little, there was so much more to imagine. I saw the man in the moon just about every night. Most times he looked surprised. My friends and I believed he was really made of green cheese. We took space trips in rockets of our own design. They were huge, sort of RVs of the sky. We could walk upright, eat at a common table and sleep in bunks. The portholes gave us close up views of the comets whizzing by us. We never suffered from zero gravity. We knew people lived on other planets, especially Mars.
Wild animals roamed the woods near us. We could hear them at night. My brother and I thought they might be coyotes or even bears. When we ventured deep into the woods, we carried spears disguised as branches and stayed alert. We walked tentatively and listened for the sound of breaking branches or the rustling of leaves, just in case some animal was tracking us.
Monsters lived and houses were haunted. We never saw the ghosts but then again ghosts aren't meant to be seen. I knew for certain a witch lived in the old farmhouse a few long blocks from where we lived, and visions of Hansel and Gretel were more than enough incentive for us to run as fast as we could to pass that house.
Few of my books were movies so my imagination did the filming. If I closed my eyes, I could see Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy sitting in front of the fire. I knew exactly what their house looked like and the way Marmee wore her hair. Long John Silver was always rakish though I didn't know that word until I was older. Silver was really green and yellow. The island had white sand, and I can still see the palm trees.
I don't hear bears any more. As for the moon, I know exactly what it looks like, and I've seen the footprints left behind, but I swear the man in the moon must have been hiding because I saw him the other night. He was smiling. As for haunted houses, the jury is still out on those.
When I was little, there was so much more to imagine. I saw the man in the moon just about every night. Most times he looked surprised. My friends and I believed he was really made of green cheese. We took space trips in rockets of our own design. They were huge, sort of RVs of the sky. We could walk upright, eat at a common table and sleep in bunks. The portholes gave us close up views of the comets whizzing by us. We never suffered from zero gravity. We knew people lived on other planets, especially Mars.
Wild animals roamed the woods near us. We could hear them at night. My brother and I thought they might be coyotes or even bears. When we ventured deep into the woods, we carried spears disguised as branches and stayed alert. We walked tentatively and listened for the sound of breaking branches or the rustling of leaves, just in case some animal was tracking us.
Monsters lived and houses were haunted. We never saw the ghosts but then again ghosts aren't meant to be seen. I knew for certain a witch lived in the old farmhouse a few long blocks from where we lived, and visions of Hansel and Gretel were more than enough incentive for us to run as fast as we could to pass that house.
Few of my books were movies so my imagination did the filming. If I closed my eyes, I could see Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy sitting in front of the fire. I knew exactly what their house looked like and the way Marmee wore her hair. Long John Silver was always rakish though I didn't know that word until I was older. Silver was really green and yellow. The island had white sand, and I can still see the palm trees.
I don't hear bears any more. As for the moon, I know exactly what it looks like, and I've seen the footprints left behind, but I swear the man in the moon must have been hiding because I saw him the other night. He was smiling. As for haunted houses, the jury is still out on those.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin."
From my perch on the deck, I breathed in the freshness of the morning air. It was carried by a breeze wild enough to blow my newspaper pages, and I had to use my coffee cup to keep them from flying into the yard. Today will be warm, but tonight will be cool, as low as the fifties. Summer is waning.
Yesterday I was outside reading, watching the birds and just sitting when a hummingbird hovered in front of me for what seemed the longest time. I was held spellbound.
When I was a kid, I noticed rain and snow and heat and cold, but seldom noticed their nuances. The smells and colors of the flowers were lost on me. The rain pounded my window, but I didn't hear its music. Snow storms were carefully watched and brought hopes of no school and thoughts of sledding, but I never noticed the gentleness of the flakes or how beautiful they looked under the street light. My childhood world was concrete.
One morning, during a family vacation, I got up early. I was probably around twelve or thirteen. The place where we were staying was filled with cottages side by side with little space between them. The cottages were filled with people, but I was the only one awake. I tiptoed outside and sat on the front steps in my pajamas. I watched the gulls flying overhead. I heard their raucous calls and wondered how anyone could stay asleep. The waves made a gentle sound as they lapped the shore. The air was filled with the smell of the ocean. I noticed everything.
Yesterday I was outside reading, watching the birds and just sitting when a hummingbird hovered in front of me for what seemed the longest time. I was held spellbound.
When I was a kid, I noticed rain and snow and heat and cold, but seldom noticed their nuances. The smells and colors of the flowers were lost on me. The rain pounded my window, but I didn't hear its music. Snow storms were carefully watched and brought hopes of no school and thoughts of sledding, but I never noticed the gentleness of the flakes or how beautiful they looked under the street light. My childhood world was concrete.
One morning, during a family vacation, I got up early. I was probably around twelve or thirteen. The place where we were staying was filled with cottages side by side with little space between them. The cottages were filled with people, but I was the only one awake. I tiptoed outside and sat on the front steps in my pajamas. I watched the gulls flying overhead. I heard their raucous calls and wondered how anyone could stay asleep. The waves made a gentle sound as they lapped the shore. The air was filled with the smell of the ocean. I noticed everything.
Monday, August 18, 2008
"There is nothing better than birthday cake. It's like a slice of concentrated love with buttercream frosting."
My birthday was spectacular. The celebration started when we boarded the boat for our dinner cruise and climbed up top to where the bar was located. We managed a few frozen drinks to help keep the heat at bay. Soon enough, the motor was warmed and we slowly moved away from the pier. As the boat made its way down the channel, we waved back to the kids on the jetty. The wind was just enough to form small white caps and walking the deck needed sure feet. We sat at the bar stools for safety's sake. The weather was perfect. It was so clear we could see all the way to Race Point in Ptown. From our perches, we identified familiar landmarks as our route followed the shoreline of Dennis. Just as we had started wondering about dinner, the bell rang and we moved down to the dining area. The lobster was magnificent. I doubt if anything beats sitting on a boat on the most beautiful of summer days, chatting, laughing and eating lobster with friends. We were so busy enjoying dinner and each other we didn't notice we were at the marina and the end of our cruise.
The rest of the evening was just as fun. We sat on my friends' deck and played two games of Sorry, and I, the birthday girl, handily and craftily won both games. A couple of times we laughed so hard we cried. We moved inside where I was serenaded with Happy Birthday and successfully blew out the candles on my cake. My friends reminded me to make a wish. Actually the day was more than enough, and I didn't need another wish.
The rest of the evening was just as fun. We sat on my friends' deck and played two games of Sorry, and I, the birthday girl, handily and craftily won both games. A couple of times we laughed so hard we cried. We moved inside where I was serenaded with Happy Birthday and successfully blew out the candles on my cake. My friends reminded me to make a wish. Actually the day was more than enough, and I didn't need another wish.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Managua, Nicaragua: Freddy Martin with Stuart Wade, vocal
It is 1947 and yours truly is making her appearance. I know it had nothing to do with me, but 1947 was one of the last years that saw the influence of the big band in pop music. Far more likely the fact that 1947 is one of the greatest hit producing years in the history of American popular song had more to do with me and the celebration of my birth than anything else.
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I Wish It Would Rain: The Temptations
In the summer of 1968 I turned twenty one. I got to drink legally, started my final year of college in the fall and got to vote against Richard Nixon in November. Number twenty one that year was a song called The Horse sung by Cliff Nobles & Co. I couldn't find it any where so here we are with number twenty two that year.
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Signs: Five Man Electrical Band
In the summer of 1971 I came home from my two years in the Peace Corps and in August I turned twenty four. This song just happens to have been twenty four on the hit parade that year.
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"Birthdays are good for you. Statistics show that the people who have the most live the longest. "
I know when I was really young, I thought twenty was old. When I turned twenty, I thought fifty was old. When I turned fifty, I had to set my sights all the way to ninety before I saw old. I no longer project.
Sometimes on a bus or the subway, I'd see an old woman and I'd wonder. Does she still imagine herself young? Does she remember when she walked without a stoop? How many of her dreams came true? Did she love and be loved in return? I have since come to realize the old woman knew she walked slower. She knew her eyes weren't as good and her memory as quick. She saw her hair was gray and her face wrinkled with time. I also realized none of it mattered. She was still the same person with dreams and hopes. She still loved life and lived it to the fullest. Age is relative.
Today is my birthday. My mother used to tell me all about the day I was born. It was in the early hours of the morning, and she was the only woman in labor. My dad drove back and forth to my grandmother's house, a few minutes from the hospital, with constant updates. My mother's sister, soon to be my aunt, wasn't happy. She wanted her beauty sleep. Her wedding was later that day. My dad was the only expectant father in the waiting room when the doctor appeared. "Mr. Ryan?" the doctor asked. My dad answered,"Who the hell do you think I am? I'm the only one in the room."
Sometimes on a bus or the subway, I'd see an old woman and I'd wonder. Does she still imagine herself young? Does she remember when she walked without a stoop? How many of her dreams came true? Did she love and be loved in return? I have since come to realize the old woman knew she walked slower. She knew her eyes weren't as good and her memory as quick. She saw her hair was gray and her face wrinkled with time. I also realized none of it mattered. She was still the same person with dreams and hopes. She still loved life and lived it to the fullest. Age is relative.
Today is my birthday. My mother used to tell me all about the day I was born. It was in the early hours of the morning, and she was the only woman in labor. My dad drove back and forth to my grandmother's house, a few minutes from the hospital, with constant updates. My mother's sister, soon to be my aunt, wasn't happy. She wanted her beauty sleep. Her wedding was later that day. My dad was the only expectant father in the waiting room when the doctor appeared. "Mr. Ryan?" the doctor asked. My dad answered,"Who the hell do you think I am? I'm the only one in the room."
Saturday, August 16, 2008
“A small town is a place where there's no place to go where you shouldn't.”
Thunder and lightning graced us with repeat performances last night and announced their arrivals with tremendous flashes and house shaking booms. I stood at the door and watched, entranced by the lightning. When the torrential rain started, I turned on the outside light. Huge drops fell and rivulets flowed down the sides of the road. I stood there a long while. When Gracie decided she didn't need to go out, her business could wait, we went upstairs to sleep in the coolness of the air conditioned bedroom.
Tonight I'm having eight guests for dinner. The menu is set, but I have to go shopping in a bit for most of the food, except for the meat which was bought yesterday at the butcher shop. We're having a mixed grill with chicken, pork and three kinds of sausages. A watermelon, cucumber feta salad and roasted vegetables fill out the menu. I'm making a Moroccan appetizer and also have a couple of different cheeses. My favorite is the cheese with bits of mango. One of the guests is bringing dessert and another is bringing an appetizer. After dinner we're all going to see Always....Patsy Cline.
My trip to the butcher's yesterday reminded me of when I was a little kid, when we went to several shops to get what we needed. The bakery had the bread and the best smells in town. It had an old wood and glass display case along one whole side of the room which was always filled with pies and cakes and turnovers. It was also covered in small hand prints. The lady behind the counter made the box first, sliding the sides into the slots, then filled it with all the cookies. If you bought something else, she made another box. When you were finished, she'd pile the boxes one on top of the other, and, in what seemed a mere second, go around and around with white string from a giant upright ball to tie those boxes together. She'd always leave the knot exactly in the middle.
The fish market had the best fish but the worst smells. I remember the workers all wore white coats which always looked stained. Lobsters swam in a tank in the front window, and I usually waited there until my father finished. The fish was always wrapped in white paper.
The First National was also uptown and was an old store with wooden shelves and creaky wooden floors. It had a real butcher shop and all the meat was cut to order. It didn't sell many fresh vegetables as they just weren't around when I was a kid. They were purely seasonal. That store had the most amazing smell, sort of a combination of spices and freshly ground coffee. While I was still young, the store was moved out of the square to its own building. It lost its character and became simply a super market. It was where everyone started shopping.
Tonight I'm having eight guests for dinner. The menu is set, but I have to go shopping in a bit for most of the food, except for the meat which was bought yesterday at the butcher shop. We're having a mixed grill with chicken, pork and three kinds of sausages. A watermelon, cucumber feta salad and roasted vegetables fill out the menu. I'm making a Moroccan appetizer and also have a couple of different cheeses. My favorite is the cheese with bits of mango. One of the guests is bringing dessert and another is bringing an appetizer. After dinner we're all going to see Always....Patsy Cline.
My trip to the butcher's yesterday reminded me of when I was a little kid, when we went to several shops to get what we needed. The bakery had the bread and the best smells in town. It had an old wood and glass display case along one whole side of the room which was always filled with pies and cakes and turnovers. It was also covered in small hand prints. The lady behind the counter made the box first, sliding the sides into the slots, then filled it with all the cookies. If you bought something else, she made another box. When you were finished, she'd pile the boxes one on top of the other, and, in what seemed a mere second, go around and around with white string from a giant upright ball to tie those boxes together. She'd always leave the knot exactly in the middle.
The fish market had the best fish but the worst smells. I remember the workers all wore white coats which always looked stained. Lobsters swam in a tank in the front window, and I usually waited there until my father finished. The fish was always wrapped in white paper.
The First National was also uptown and was an old store with wooden shelves and creaky wooden floors. It had a real butcher shop and all the meat was cut to order. It didn't sell many fresh vegetables as they just weren't around when I was a kid. They were purely seasonal. That store had the most amazing smell, sort of a combination of spices and freshly ground coffee. While I was still young, the store was moved out of the square to its own building. It lost its character and became simply a super market. It was where everyone started shopping.
Friday, August 15, 2008
"If you think you are too small to be effective, you have never been in bed with a mosquito."
It's cloudy again and thunder showers are a possibility. The air is so thick I can almost see it. The breeze is cool. My street is quiet, muted in the dampness.
Our house had wooden screens. Every year my dad would take a ladder, remove the storm windows and put in the screens. Our neighbors did the same. It was the first sure sign of summer. It was also the end of any privacy. I could hear all of my neighbors. Sometimes I'd even sit outside their windows and watch TV. If anyone shouted, we were all part of the argument though we pretended not to listen. I remember summer nights when I would hear the murmurs of voices filtering through all the screens.
My dad hated mosquitoes. He yelled when we slammed the door because the open door gave mosquitoes time to slip unnoticed into the house. I remember nights when he'd go mosquito hunting. With a rolled magazine or a newspaper in his hand, he'd jump on the couch and swat at the ceiling or the walls. He'd jump to the chair and swat at a different wall. He'd stand on my bed and jiggle the mattress and me as he walked from side to side or up and down swatting the whole way. Sometimes he'd even wake me up when he went on a late night foray. My dad announced each kill. Sometimes he'd tell us he was too late. We knew what he'd meant.
Our house had wooden screens. Every year my dad would take a ladder, remove the storm windows and put in the screens. Our neighbors did the same. It was the first sure sign of summer. It was also the end of any privacy. I could hear all of my neighbors. Sometimes I'd even sit outside their windows and watch TV. If anyone shouted, we were all part of the argument though we pretended not to listen. I remember summer nights when I would hear the murmurs of voices filtering through all the screens.
My dad hated mosquitoes. He yelled when we slammed the door because the open door gave mosquitoes time to slip unnoticed into the house. I remember nights when he'd go mosquito hunting. With a rolled magazine or a newspaper in his hand, he'd jump on the couch and swat at the ceiling or the walls. He'd jump to the chair and swat at a different wall. He'd stand on my bed and jiggle the mattress and me as he walked from side to side or up and down swatting the whole way. Sometimes he'd even wake me up when he went on a late night foray. My dad announced each kill. Sometimes he'd tell us he was too late. We knew what he'd meant.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
Mountain Top: Toshi Reagon
I don't really know a whole lot about Toshi. After listening to this song, from Respond, Vol.2, I might just start looking.
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Way Out West: Mary McCaslin
This is from Philo So Far-The 20th Anniversary Folk Sampler, but it also appears on Mary McCaslin's Greatest Hits and is the title of a 1987 album.
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"Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart. "
Yesterday was perfect, cool and dry, but today we're back to a damp, cloudy day. I'm beginning to think this is our rainy season.
Writing every day means I clean out all the cobwebs in my memory drawers, and I dig way deep to find those memories which have sat a long time undisturbed. Sometimes a smell propels me back in time. Sometimes a fleeting glance reminds me of friends from long ago. I have memories of summers and growing up in a small town. I remember holidays and family traditions. I remember my mother and father. When I close my eyes, I can see the past clearly. I can see the walk to school and the railroad tracks and the places where houses once stood. I remember my first grade classroom and the cloak room. I remember the smell of wool on a wet, snowy day. I remember being afraid on my very first day of school.
The older I get, the more I cherish my memories. They remind me of who I have been through time, and they keep me connected to everyone I have loved. Some memories make me laugh. Others fill me with a sense of loss and a sadness. Sometimes it seems as if they all happened forever ago to someone else.
Writing every day means I clean out all the cobwebs in my memory drawers, and I dig way deep to find those memories which have sat a long time undisturbed. Sometimes a smell propels me back in time. Sometimes a fleeting glance reminds me of friends from long ago. I have memories of summers and growing up in a small town. I remember holidays and family traditions. I remember my mother and father. When I close my eyes, I can see the past clearly. I can see the walk to school and the railroad tracks and the places where houses once stood. I remember my first grade classroom and the cloak room. I remember the smell of wool on a wet, snowy day. I remember being afraid on my very first day of school.
The older I get, the more I cherish my memories. They remind me of who I have been through time, and they keep me connected to everyone I have loved. Some memories make me laugh. Others fill me with a sense of loss and a sadness. Sometimes it seems as if they all happened forever ago to someone else.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Give Yourself to Love: Kathy Mattea
Both songs today are from the 1998 album Treasures Left Behind-Remembering Kate Wolf. This song opens the album.
"Altogether, Kate Wolf wrote close to 200 songs, and recorded 60. Without doubt, the most beloved of that group is "Give Yourself to Love," a gentle tune about conquering fear of intimacy and opening up the heart."
- Edward Guthmann
San Francisco Chronicle, 1987
MP3 File
"Altogether, Kate Wolf wrote close to 200 songs, and recorded 60. Without doubt, the most beloved of that group is "Give Yourself to Love," a gentle tune about conquering fear of intimacy and opening up the heart."
- Edward Guthmann
San Francisco Chronicle, 1987
MP3 File
" I'm not going to buy my kids an encyclopedia. Let them walk to school like I did. "
Around this time of the summer my mother would make us try on our last year's school uniforms hoping they'd still fit. They seldom did. That meant she had to shuffle her budget money around to buy us new ones. My uniform was a white blouse, a blue skirt and a blue tie, a bolo looking tie. My brother wore a white shirt, blue pants and a blue clip on tie. Every year my mother bought us new socks, underwear and shoes. Uniforms made shopping easy, but on the first day of school we didn't have to wear uniforms so my mother also bought us one new outfit each. I usually got a new dress which then became my church clothes while my brother got new pants and a striped jersey. He never cared much what he wore so my mother did the picking for him. I got to choose my dress.
My favorite back to school shopping was when we'd walk uptown to Woolworth's so I could pick out my new school bag and lunch box. I usually chose a red or plaid school bag with both a handle and a strap and buckles. School bags always had buckles. Picking the right bag was never to be taken lightly. I'd carry it down the aisle or put it over my shoulder to get a feel for the bag. It had to rest just right. Once I'd found the right bag, it was lunch box time. They were always metal and had a thermos inside with a plastic cover big enough for soup. The thermos was held still by a wire and always had the same picture as the lunch box. Television characters were big back then and lunch boxes were covered with them. I once had a Roy Rogers and a Dale Evans, and my brother carried Davy Crockett to school. You had to be careful because the thermos had glass inside. I know because I broke a few.
The last big purchase was always the pencil box. Choosing what was inside was critical. Do you go with regular as well as colored pencils? To be on the safe side, I usually went with both. I knew my pencil box would have an eraser and a ruler, but I never got why it had a protractor. I just thought it was a funny looking ruler, and it would be years before I found out exactly what a protractor did. Because pencil boxes always slid open in those days, I'd slide mine a couple of times just to test it. Besides, I liked looking at all the neat, new stuff inside.
Once I got home, I'd take my school bag, lunch box and pencil case to my room. I'd put the pencil case in the school bag which I'd buckle and unbuckle a few times then I'd practice carrying it around for a while. It was always the best part of going back to school.
My favorite back to school shopping was when we'd walk uptown to Woolworth's so I could pick out my new school bag and lunch box. I usually chose a red or plaid school bag with both a handle and a strap and buckles. School bags always had buckles. Picking the right bag was never to be taken lightly. I'd carry it down the aisle or put it over my shoulder to get a feel for the bag. It had to rest just right. Once I'd found the right bag, it was lunch box time. They were always metal and had a thermos inside with a plastic cover big enough for soup. The thermos was held still by a wire and always had the same picture as the lunch box. Television characters were big back then and lunch boxes were covered with them. I once had a Roy Rogers and a Dale Evans, and my brother carried Davy Crockett to school. You had to be careful because the thermos had glass inside. I know because I broke a few.
The last big purchase was always the pencil box. Choosing what was inside was critical. Do you go with regular as well as colored pencils? To be on the safe side, I usually went with both. I knew my pencil box would have an eraser and a ruler, but I never got why it had a protractor. I just thought it was a funny looking ruler, and it would be years before I found out exactly what a protractor did. Because pencil boxes always slid open in those days, I'd slide mine a couple of times just to test it. Besides, I liked looking at all the neat, new stuff inside.
Once I got home, I'd take my school bag, lunch box and pencil case to my room. I'd put the pencil case in the school bag which I'd buckle and unbuckle a few times then I'd practice carrying it around for a while. It was always the best part of going back to school.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Hey, That's No Way to Say Goodbye: Leonard Cohen
This song is from an album I wore out when I was a senior in college. I played The Songs of Leonard Cohen over and over and still pull it out periodically to give it a listen.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"The last birthday that's any good is 23."
It is raining again, and I know why. It's because of me, because of my irrigation system. Ever since the system's installation, it has rained every day. Before that we had desert conditions. I'm thinking mother nature is having a laugh at my expense.
Around this time of year I started running to the mail box hoping to find birthday cards. My grandmother usually sent one as did an aunt or two. Some had the princely sum of a dollar tucked inside. I could always tell because their envelopes felt thicker, and I'd open those first. The ones with no money got far less attention. All of my cards were displayed on the table in front of the picture window. Cards in those days had puppies and kitties and girls in sun dresses and bonnets. All the cards seemed to open at the bottom. The nearer it got to my birthday, the more excited I'd get. I'd start the countdown a week early and remind my mother every day. This morning I would have told her five days until my birthday.
Birthday parties were simple affairs when I was a kid. First we'd play a few games. I remember playing pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs at just about every birthday party I ever attended. Prizes always came from the 5&10. We'd wear those conical hats and blow noise makers at each other. The tablecloth was always paper with Happy Birthday in pink all around the edge. It stuck to the table when it got wet. We knew the party was just about over when it was cake time, when it was sing happy birthday time. We'd gather round the table, sing as loudly as we could, generally off key, and watch as the candles were blown out. We'd applaud. Cake and ice cream were passed around the table. That signaled the official end to every party.
Around this time of year I started running to the mail box hoping to find birthday cards. My grandmother usually sent one as did an aunt or two. Some had the princely sum of a dollar tucked inside. I could always tell because their envelopes felt thicker, and I'd open those first. The ones with no money got far less attention. All of my cards were displayed on the table in front of the picture window. Cards in those days had puppies and kitties and girls in sun dresses and bonnets. All the cards seemed to open at the bottom. The nearer it got to my birthday, the more excited I'd get. I'd start the countdown a week early and remind my mother every day. This morning I would have told her five days until my birthday.
Birthday parties were simple affairs when I was a kid. First we'd play a few games. I remember playing pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs at just about every birthday party I ever attended. Prizes always came from the 5&10. We'd wear those conical hats and blow noise makers at each other. The tablecloth was always paper with Happy Birthday in pink all around the edge. It stuck to the table when it got wet. We knew the party was just about over when it was cake time, when it was sing happy birthday time. We'd gather round the table, sing as loudly as we could, generally off key, and watch as the candles were blown out. We'd applaud. Cake and ice cream were passed around the table. That signaled the official end to every party.
Monday, August 11, 2008
I Think of You: Rosalie Sorrels
This is from My Last Go-Round, which was nominated for a Grammy in 2005. It is a recording of what was supposed to be her farewell concert, recorded at Sanders Theater at Harvard University. This song, written by Utah Phillips, is a tribute to Dave Van Ronk. Your hearing Mitch Greenhill on guitar.
I can't begin to celebrate the music of Rosalie. She just turned seventy-five and is still recording. I suggest you drop over to her site and start reading.
http://www.rosaliesorrels.com/external/Home.aspx
Rosalie has since recorded another album, released last week, called Strangers in Another Country. It celebrates the music of Utah Phillips, a life long friend of Rosalie's. I've already ordered my copy.
Greenville: Lucinda Williams
This song is from Car Wheels on a Gravel Road released in 1998. It won a Grammy for Best Contemporary Folk Album and was her first album to go gold. That would be Emmylou Harris joining her.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“I may be the only mother in America who knows exactly what their child is up to all the time.”
The day is damp and cloudy. It sprinkled earlier but barely enough to leave much of an impression. I doubt the sky will clear for the meteor showers tonight, and I'm disappointed. I love sitting outside and marveling as the trails of light cross the sky, one after the other. One year I was looking up so long my neck was stiff for a couple of days. This is the second or third year in a row I've missed the light show.
When I was a kid, the summer meant we were in and out of the house several times a day, and we'd always use the back screen door. On our way out, my mother usually yelled for us not to slam the door. We never did. She claimed we always did. We usually just ran outside and let the door shut behind us. My mother called that slamming. We didn't. She'd run to the door and yell at us. We knew she would. She always did.
The hamper was in the hall to the side of the linen closet. We were expected to put our dirty clothes inside that hamper. To my mother inside meant under the lid. To us inside meant nearby, hanging over the top or fallen behind. We always figured close was good enough. My mother, believing in the benefits of repetition, would tell us time and time again to put the clothes inside the hamper. Once in a while she'd even ask how many times we had to be told. Experience taught us she really didn't want an answer.
Kids and the refrigerator were another prime target for my mother. We'd open the door, stand there and give the shelves a once over. My mother would yell at us to shut the door because we were letting all the cold air out. We always thought that kind of funny because in the winter we got yelled at for letting the cold air in. There was no pleasing that woman.
When I was a kid, the summer meant we were in and out of the house several times a day, and we'd always use the back screen door. On our way out, my mother usually yelled for us not to slam the door. We never did. She claimed we always did. We usually just ran outside and let the door shut behind us. My mother called that slamming. We didn't. She'd run to the door and yell at us. We knew she would. She always did.
The hamper was in the hall to the side of the linen closet. We were expected to put our dirty clothes inside that hamper. To my mother inside meant under the lid. To us inside meant nearby, hanging over the top or fallen behind. We always figured close was good enough. My mother, believing in the benefits of repetition, would tell us time and time again to put the clothes inside the hamper. Once in a while she'd even ask how many times we had to be told. Experience taught us she really didn't want an answer.
Kids and the refrigerator were another prime target for my mother. We'd open the door, stand there and give the shelves a once over. My mother would yell at us to shut the door because we were letting all the cold air out. We always thought that kind of funny because in the winter we got yelled at for letting the cold air in. There was no pleasing that woman.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
"Life is too short to sleep on low thread-count sheets. "
I love Sunday morning with all its rituals: three papers to read, crosswords to do and breakfast with a friend. We meet at the same place every week. She usually gets an omelet, and I get my eggs over easy. The toast changes week to week. This morning, though, we broke with tradition, and we both had eggs Benedict, or as my mother familiarly called it, eggs Benny. It was delicious.
Some things just never get thrown away. I keep socks forever, regardless of the holes. My underwear will cause embarrassment if I ever get in that accident my mother always mentioned. Some of my kitchen pots are thirty years old. My mother had some older than that. My sheets are bordering on ancient. Many are so old I have to use garters to keep them under the mattress. It's all because I have trouble throwing out anything with even a tiny spark of life. On Friday I actually bought a new set of sheets. I decide to replace and choosing the set to go was traumatic. I finally went with the set where the pillowslips are no longer hemmed, and all four corners of the bottom sheet need garters to keep it under the mattress. There were no holes and only a worn spot or two so this was a giant step. Next, I might just tackle that underwear drawer.
Today I'm going to take a nap. I always think Sunday is the best of all nap days, an idea I inherited from my father. He loved a Sunday nap on the couch. The TV could be blaring and we could all be making noise, but he'd fall asleep anyway. Most of the time he snored, loudly.
Some things just never get thrown away. I keep socks forever, regardless of the holes. My underwear will cause embarrassment if I ever get in that accident my mother always mentioned. Some of my kitchen pots are thirty years old. My mother had some older than that. My sheets are bordering on ancient. Many are so old I have to use garters to keep them under the mattress. It's all because I have trouble throwing out anything with even a tiny spark of life. On Friday I actually bought a new set of sheets. I decide to replace and choosing the set to go was traumatic. I finally went with the set where the pillowslips are no longer hemmed, and all four corners of the bottom sheet need garters to keep it under the mattress. There were no holes and only a worn spot or two so this was a giant step. Next, I might just tackle that underwear drawer.
Today I'm going to take a nap. I always think Sunday is the best of all nap days, an idea I inherited from my father. He loved a Sunday nap on the couch. The TV could be blaring and we could all be making noise, but he'd fall asleep anyway. Most of the time he snored, loudly.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
“I believe that every person is born with talent.”
The sun is a bit iffy this morning, still trying to decide what to do with its day. Last night we had thunder showers, but the sky cleared, and when I was out around ten, I could see the moon framed by white clouds. A star filled sky served as a backdrop. I stood and watched for a while.
To me, a key is something you put in the door so people cringe when I sing. Playing the triangle in my elementary school rhythm band does not qualify as playing an instrument no matter how far I stretch it. I already admitted I can't dance. I couldn't even keep a hula hoop going. When I draw, I put triangle dresses and single line flip hair-dos on my female stick figures. That's the only way they get recognized. I used to do a mean paint by numbers which is about as artistic as I ever got. My talents are not ones easily recognized.
I have a great sense of direction even when I'm lost. I eventually end up somewhere. I've always thought myself smart. My mother used to say smart mouth so maybe I'm half right. My memory is the stuff of legend. It holds on to annoying little facts I can produce at will. My sisters phone looking for an answer, and when I know it, they call me vulgar names. I have an uncanny ability to notice crooked pictures. My dental hygienist thinks I do a wonderful flossing job. My Christmas presents look too good to open, but I have none to show. They all get opened anyway.
I carry on conversations with strangers anywhere: in airports, on trains or in grocery lines. That talent once amazed my father. He wanted to know if I wore a sign which said talk to me. I'm pretty funny. When I was a kid, my best lines got me sent to my room. My parents didn't appreciate stand-up. I have fun. I don't take myself too seriously. That, in itself, is a heck of a talent.
To me, a key is something you put in the door so people cringe when I sing. Playing the triangle in my elementary school rhythm band does not qualify as playing an instrument no matter how far I stretch it. I already admitted I can't dance. I couldn't even keep a hula hoop going. When I draw, I put triangle dresses and single line flip hair-dos on my female stick figures. That's the only way they get recognized. I used to do a mean paint by numbers which is about as artistic as I ever got. My talents are not ones easily recognized.
I have a great sense of direction even when I'm lost. I eventually end up somewhere. I've always thought myself smart. My mother used to say smart mouth so maybe I'm half right. My memory is the stuff of legend. It holds on to annoying little facts I can produce at will. My sisters phone looking for an answer, and when I know it, they call me vulgar names. I have an uncanny ability to notice crooked pictures. My dental hygienist thinks I do a wonderful flossing job. My Christmas presents look too good to open, but I have none to show. They all get opened anyway.
I carry on conversations with strangers anywhere: in airports, on trains or in grocery lines. That talent once amazed my father. He wanted to know if I wore a sign which said talk to me. I'm pretty funny. When I was a kid, my best lines got me sent to my room. My parents didn't appreciate stand-up. I have fun. I don't take myself too seriously. That, in itself, is a heck of a talent.
Friday, August 08, 2008
"There is a strange reluctance on the part of most people to admit that they enjoy life. "
It's one of those blogger block days. My mind is empty. My memory drawers are shut tight. The biggest news is the new irrigation system worked as my lawn and my garden were damp this morning. The day is dry and cool which is cause for heel clicking. I'm not sure I can handle all this excitement.
When I was twelve, I couldn't wait to be thirteen because I figured teenagers had it made. They could dance, hang out, go to parties and rebel against parental authority. When I turned thirteen, nothing really changed. I still couldn't dance, still can't for that matter. If I hung out, it had to be early as I had to be home for dinner. The parties were few and most were birthday or girls' pajamas parties. Rebellion meant being sent to my room. I still had great hopes so I next set my sights on turning sixteen.
I had all these visions in my head of being sweet sixteen and having a giant party where I would lose the never having been kissed stigma. None of that happened: neither the party nor the kiss. The day was a bust.
When I turned eighteen, I felt as if I'd left childhood behind me especially a month later when I left for college. It was more than I'd dreamed, bigger than the visions. I even caught up. I went to mixers and danced, badly, but I still danced. I hung out and could come and go when I wanted. The parties, oh the parties, were amazing. There were several most weekends. The best part was my parents were far away.
From that point on, life has stayed pretty much uphill. A few milestone birthdays have made me want to hide in my room, but I've gotten through the worst. I laugh because my life now most resembles my life when I was twelve, and I couldn't be happier.
When I was twelve, I couldn't wait to be thirteen because I figured teenagers had it made. They could dance, hang out, go to parties and rebel against parental authority. When I turned thirteen, nothing really changed. I still couldn't dance, still can't for that matter. If I hung out, it had to be early as I had to be home for dinner. The parties were few and most were birthday or girls' pajamas parties. Rebellion meant being sent to my room. I still had great hopes so I next set my sights on turning sixteen.
I had all these visions in my head of being sweet sixteen and having a giant party where I would lose the never having been kissed stigma. None of that happened: neither the party nor the kiss. The day was a bust.
When I turned eighteen, I felt as if I'd left childhood behind me especially a month later when I left for college. It was more than I'd dreamed, bigger than the visions. I even caught up. I went to mixers and danced, badly, but I still danced. I hung out and could come and go when I wanted. The parties, oh the parties, were amazing. There were several most weekends. The best part was my parents were far away.
From that point on, life has stayed pretty much uphill. A few milestone birthdays have made me want to hide in my room, but I've gotten through the worst. I laugh because my life now most resembles my life when I was twelve, and I couldn't be happier.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Casey, Illinois: Erica Wheeler
This is from Three Wishes her third album which was released in 1999. When I hear Erica and listen to the songs she's written, I lament my lack of musical ability, and know I'd picked to be Erica.
NOTE: It was Bill Morrissey who wrote this!
MP3 File
NOTE: It was Bill Morrissey who wrote this!
MP3 File
Lord Randall: Martin Carthy
There is not enough space here to do Martin Carthy justice. I'd have to ramble until your eyes glazed. I found several sites which will give you far more than I could write. Here is one:
http://www.musicianguide.com/biographies/1608003029/Martin-Carthy.html
MP3 File
http://www.musicianguide.com/biographies/1608003029/Martin-Carthy.html
MP3 File
"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars."
Around the house has been a bit busy of late. The plumber was here putting in a backwash for the irrigation, and I had him install an outside shower. Today the irrigation system is being laid. They're outside right now digging small trenches on my lawn. I wander over to the door and watch a bit, and Gracie runs from the backyard to the front door keeping an eye on all the activity. The shower stall will be the last job of this season's home improvements.
Yesterday it rained most of the day, and the evening was chilly. The sky is still overcast, and the air has a damp feel. I think the sun is staying on hiatus.
The Cape is awash with landscapers. The roads are filled with pickup trucks hauling mowers, hedge cutters and those annoying leaf blowers. When I was a kid, everybody's father was the landscaper. Saturday mowing was a ritual. The click clack of mower blades filled the morning air.
My father mowed his grass in the same pattern every week. He went up then down and always overlapped his rows. He'd mow, then use hand clippers to trim the edges and finish by raking the yard. I always think of my dad as a lawn man. He wasn't big on flowers. He loved mowing his lawn and never changed to a power mower.
When I was in the Peace Corps, my parents moved. My brother was in the army at the same time, and the joke was my parents weren't going to leave us a forwarding address. The new house had a huge backyard but no grass as the yard was shaded. It had moss and lots of mosquitoes. It was the front yard which had the lawn. My dad loved that lawn. He mowed every week, back and forth, and that grass never had a chance to grow long. In the summer, when I visited, he always asked if I'd noticed how great the lawn looked. I'd always tell him it was the best lawn he'd ever had.
Yesterday it rained most of the day, and the evening was chilly. The sky is still overcast, and the air has a damp feel. I think the sun is staying on hiatus.
The Cape is awash with landscapers. The roads are filled with pickup trucks hauling mowers, hedge cutters and those annoying leaf blowers. When I was a kid, everybody's father was the landscaper. Saturday mowing was a ritual. The click clack of mower blades filled the morning air.
My father mowed his grass in the same pattern every week. He went up then down and always overlapped his rows. He'd mow, then use hand clippers to trim the edges and finish by raking the yard. I always think of my dad as a lawn man. He wasn't big on flowers. He loved mowing his lawn and never changed to a power mower.
When I was in the Peace Corps, my parents moved. My brother was in the army at the same time, and the joke was my parents weren't going to leave us a forwarding address. The new house had a huge backyard but no grass as the yard was shaded. It had moss and lots of mosquitoes. It was the front yard which had the lawn. My dad loved that lawn. He mowed every week, back and forth, and that grass never had a chance to grow long. In the summer, when I visited, he always asked if I'd noticed how great the lawn looked. I'd always tell him it was the best lawn he'd ever had.
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Beautiful: Gordon Lightfoot
I don't remember what drew me to Lightfoot. I just know he has long been a favorite of mine.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one's own relations”
It's a cloudy day and the room is dark, the monitor being the only light. I always feel cozy and safe sitting here on days like today, almost as if my house has surrounded me with broad arms. Rain is predicted for later.
Last night I went to the Caribbean, well, almost as I went to my friends' house for an island meal. The deck was lit by strands of white bulbs surrounded by colorful flowers. A parrot hung from the tree and flamingos lined the walk. We drank mojitos and ate mango salsa and coconut shrimp. We listened to steel drums and calypso beats. We laughed a lot. We took a group picture with all of us in our colorful shirts. Later, when dinner was served, we dined at a long table on the lower deck. It was like sitting under palm trees on some exotic island. Candles floated in blue green water. Palm fronds held lit tea candles. Flowered dishes sat at each setting. White coral decorated the tabletop. Our dinner was sumptuous. We ate plantain, coconut rice, sweet potatoes with rum and jerk chicken. We sat for the longest time and talked. It was the best evening.
Last night I went to the Caribbean, well, almost as I went to my friends' house for an island meal. The deck was lit by strands of white bulbs surrounded by colorful flowers. A parrot hung from the tree and flamingos lined the walk. We drank mojitos and ate mango salsa and coconut shrimp. We listened to steel drums and calypso beats. We laughed a lot. We took a group picture with all of us in our colorful shirts. Later, when dinner was served, we dined at a long table on the lower deck. It was like sitting under palm trees on some exotic island. Candles floated in blue green water. Palm fronds held lit tea candles. Flowered dishes sat at each setting. White coral decorated the tabletop. Our dinner was sumptuous. We ate plantain, coconut rice, sweet potatoes with rum and jerk chicken. We sat for the longest time and talked. It was the best evening.
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
"Monkeys are superior to men in this: When a monkey looks into a mirror, he sees a monkey. "
The day is a delight, breezy and cool. The sun appears and disappears behind white wispy clouds in its own little game of peek a boo. I've done a few chores which have me behind my usual time. I don't care, though, as time is what I make it. I feel lucky that way.
I remember when we went to Benson's Wild Animal Farm in New Hampshire. I must have been around four so my brother was three. A couple of memories of that trip are stuck in my head. The first, and my favorite, was when my brother got too close to the monkey cage. One of the monkeys grabbed his arm and tried to pull him inside with her. I was all for it. My brother was a pain in the neck. My father, however, jumped the fence and saved him. It took me a long while to forgive my dad. I can still see the black round cage and my brother pressed against the bars. I always figured the monkey recognized him as a kindred soul.
The second memory concerns baboons. They too were in an open cage. People circled the cage and roared in laughter when the baboons sprayed them with water. We watched a while, back from the cage, as my mother didn't want us to get wet. Good thing too. Those baboons had figured out the best way to entertain themselves at the expense of the crowd. They would urinate, fill their mouths and then spray the crowds. The crowds laughed in glee at the funny baboons. I think the baboons had the last laugh. I'm figuring they sat together at the end of the day and chuckled over their own antics.
We saw animal acts, and I remember the lions the best. I remember their roars and the size of their teeth. I thought they would eat the man. Being a little kid, I was probably even hoping.
We only went to Benson's that one time, but I was left with wonderful memories. One year, long after Benson's had closed, my mother found the best stocking stuffer for me. It was an old felt pennant from Benson's. It was one of my favorite stocking stuffers ever.
I remember when we went to Benson's Wild Animal Farm in New Hampshire. I must have been around four so my brother was three. A couple of memories of that trip are stuck in my head. The first, and my favorite, was when my brother got too close to the monkey cage. One of the monkeys grabbed his arm and tried to pull him inside with her. I was all for it. My brother was a pain in the neck. My father, however, jumped the fence and saved him. It took me a long while to forgive my dad. I can still see the black round cage and my brother pressed against the bars. I always figured the monkey recognized him as a kindred soul.
The second memory concerns baboons. They too were in an open cage. People circled the cage and roared in laughter when the baboons sprayed them with water. We watched a while, back from the cage, as my mother didn't want us to get wet. Good thing too. Those baboons had figured out the best way to entertain themselves at the expense of the crowd. They would urinate, fill their mouths and then spray the crowds. The crowds laughed in glee at the funny baboons. I think the baboons had the last laugh. I'm figuring they sat together at the end of the day and chuckled over their own antics.
We saw animal acts, and I remember the lions the best. I remember their roars and the size of their teeth. I thought they would eat the man. Being a little kid, I was probably even hoping.
We only went to Benson's that one time, but I was left with wonderful memories. One year, long after Benson's had closed, my mother found the best stocking stuffer for me. It was an old felt pennant from Benson's. It was one of my favorite stocking stuffers ever.
Monday, August 04, 2008
“A bad neighbor is a misfortune, as much as a good one is a great blessing”
If I could create the perfect summer morning, I would have created this one. The air is clear and dry. A breeze stirs the leaves. My tree mirrors are sending dancing dots of light across the deck and yard. The sunlight is sharp, and the sky is blue, the bluest of blues, the sort of blue which makes you smile for the beauty of it. My morning on the deck was a gift wrapped up by the day.
When I was little, the coming of August meant I could start the countdown to my birthday. When I got older, it meant summer's last hurrah. It was the last free time before school arrived to burst summer's bubble. August around here is the hottest month so it gives summer the opportunity for a lasting impression which I file it away until the first snowstorm. That is when I always wish for August heat.
The house next door is a summer rental. Every week new renters arrive. They drive cars which conjure images of wagon trains moving west, filled with cherished belongings. Some renters are quiet. I hear their muted voices on the deck. Some are noisy, and I have to shut the window to block out their noise. Towels hang off the deck. Kids play in the street. Dogs bark. The house has pine needles instead of a lawn. Around here that's called a Cape Cod lawn. The owner comes every spring to check the house and every fall to close it. It stands dark and empty all winter. Sometimes I wish I had a neighbor. Other times I am thankful I do not. I think it comes down to the season.
When I was little, the coming of August meant I could start the countdown to my birthday. When I got older, it meant summer's last hurrah. It was the last free time before school arrived to burst summer's bubble. August around here is the hottest month so it gives summer the opportunity for a lasting impression which I file it away until the first snowstorm. That is when I always wish for August heat.
The house next door is a summer rental. Every week new renters arrive. They drive cars which conjure images of wagon trains moving west, filled with cherished belongings. Some renters are quiet. I hear their muted voices on the deck. Some are noisy, and I have to shut the window to block out their noise. Towels hang off the deck. Kids play in the street. Dogs bark. The house has pine needles instead of a lawn. Around here that's called a Cape Cod lawn. The owner comes every spring to check the house and every fall to close it. It stands dark and empty all winter. Sometimes I wish I had a neighbor. Other times I am thankful I do not. I think it comes down to the season.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
"The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper; I cannot quite make it out. "
The day is humid, cut with a knife humid. Even sitting still is uncomfortable. When I finish, I'll head to the deck where I can see the leaves stirring ever so gently in the tiniest breeze. I'm already tired, and the day is young.
I seldom go to the beach in the summer. Here I am surrounded on two sides by water, and I stay home. The beach is best in autumn when the crowds have taken their blankets, umbrellas and picnic baskets and gone home. I like to go on rainy days when the beach is nearly, empty except for me and the other hardy souls who are drawn to the force of the water. The wind, the rain and the waves beating the shore are exhilarating. They fill me with the pulse of life.
When I was really young, my father and mother, some neighbors and an aunt or uncle or two would meet for a day at Revere Beach. I remember hearing music from across the street, from the juke boxes in the bars. The boardwalk was always filled with people playing skill games or stopping to buy popcorn, taffy and all sorts of beach foods. Towering over everything was the wooden roller coaster, the famous Cyclone. I remember I could see the top of it from the car window, and it was a sign of how close we were to the beach. Benches were spaced all along the walk beside the beach and were usually filled with people. We played in the sand and in the water while the adults would take turns watching us or running over to the bar for drinks. Sometimes they'd bring back popsicles or even popcorn. I can still see it all in my mind's eye, and I remember the railing was green beside the concrete steps to the sand.
When I was in high school, my friends and I did an evening at Revere Beach. My favorite memories were the roller coaster and Kelly's Roast Beef. That visit was my very last, and I had the best time.
I seldom go to the beach in the summer. Here I am surrounded on two sides by water, and I stay home. The beach is best in autumn when the crowds have taken their blankets, umbrellas and picnic baskets and gone home. I like to go on rainy days when the beach is nearly, empty except for me and the other hardy souls who are drawn to the force of the water. The wind, the rain and the waves beating the shore are exhilarating. They fill me with the pulse of life.
When I was really young, my father and mother, some neighbors and an aunt or uncle or two would meet for a day at Revere Beach. I remember hearing music from across the street, from the juke boxes in the bars. The boardwalk was always filled with people playing skill games or stopping to buy popcorn, taffy and all sorts of beach foods. Towering over everything was the wooden roller coaster, the famous Cyclone. I remember I could see the top of it from the car window, and it was a sign of how close we were to the beach. Benches were spaced all along the walk beside the beach and were usually filled with people. We played in the sand and in the water while the adults would take turns watching us or running over to the bar for drinks. Sometimes they'd bring back popsicles or even popcorn. I can still see it all in my mind's eye, and I remember the railing was green beside the concrete steps to the sand.
When I was in high school, my friends and I did an evening at Revere Beach. My favorite memories were the roller coaster and Kelly's Roast Beef. That visit was my very last, and I had the best time.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
“I once had a sweet little doll, dears, / The prettiest doll in the world.”
I saw a hummingbird at my feeder this morning. I heard its wings first then I caught a glimpse before it flew away. It seemed magical.
Today I have absolutely nothing planned and as little to do as I choose.
When I was little, I had dolls. My favorite was a Ginny doll. I remember a Christmas when I got a Ginny bed, wardrobe and tons of clothes. The furniture was pink, as befitting a girl's doll. My mother, I found out later, had made many of the clothes. I remember beautiful dresses and hats and pajamas and a robe.I remember how they took my breath away when I saw them on the bed and hanging in the wardrobe. I dressed, undressed and redressed that Ginny countless times.
Another doll I really liked was tall, almost as tall as I was. She had cloth legs which dangled. At the bottom of her feet were two elastics which fit over my shoes. That doll and I danced through the house together. I remember she wore a dress and had yellow hair in two pigtails. On Christmas Eve, after my parents had gotten home from midnight mass, my grandparents always came to see us open our presents. I always thought it a gyp as we had to go back to bed afterwards. My brother and I used to sneak back downstairs but usually got caught. The year of the dancing doll was the only exception. I had brought her to bed with me, and I tucked her in just before I sneaked back downstairs. My father only yelled for my brother to go back to bed because he saw the doll and thought I was asleep. I stayed downstairs and played for hours.
I grew older and lost interest in dolls. I wanted books and games and a set of trains. I got the books, and I got the games, but I never got the set of trains.
Today I have absolutely nothing planned and as little to do as I choose.
When I was little, I had dolls. My favorite was a Ginny doll. I remember a Christmas when I got a Ginny bed, wardrobe and tons of clothes. The furniture was pink, as befitting a girl's doll. My mother, I found out later, had made many of the clothes. I remember beautiful dresses and hats and pajamas and a robe.I remember how they took my breath away when I saw them on the bed and hanging in the wardrobe. I dressed, undressed and redressed that Ginny countless times.
Another doll I really liked was tall, almost as tall as I was. She had cloth legs which dangled. At the bottom of her feet were two elastics which fit over my shoes. That doll and I danced through the house together. I remember she wore a dress and had yellow hair in two pigtails. On Christmas Eve, after my parents had gotten home from midnight mass, my grandparents always came to see us open our presents. I always thought it a gyp as we had to go back to bed afterwards. My brother and I used to sneak back downstairs but usually got caught. The year of the dancing doll was the only exception. I had brought her to bed with me, and I tucked her in just before I sneaked back downstairs. My father only yelled for my brother to go back to bed because he saw the doll and thought I was asleep. I stayed downstairs and played for hours.
I grew older and lost interest in dolls. I wanted books and games and a set of trains. I got the books, and I got the games, but I never got the set of trains.
Friday, August 01, 2008
"To dwell means to belong to a given place."
The morning is overcast and a bit chilly from the dampness. Not much is moving in the still air, and the day is quiet. Clouds hanging this close to the ground seem to mute sound. I do have a few errands today, and I suspect they will be slow going as clouds always send tourists scurrying to the main roads to look for a bit of diversion. I may be used to it, but that won't stop me from grousing.
The bones of my old town still exist. The square has the same buildings it had in the 1890's. When I was a kid, the square bustled. It had the only stores in town. It had two drug stores, both with soda fountains, a movie theater, a cobbler, a bakery, a Five and Ten, a few dentists, Grant's, a clothing store, Kennedy's which always had cheese on barrels in the front, two barber shops, a Chinese laundry, a jewelry store, the post office and three banks. A fish market opened later. The diner was at one end of town, across from the library. It was right beside the factory which made shoes. My town used to have several factories. One made shoes, as I mentioned, another made boxes and two made some sort of chemicals. They were right by the tracks where the trains could pick up their wares. The First National was down from the square. It was a small, boxy store, and the only place, for a long while, to buy groceries. My dad went uptown every Saturday to do his errands. He picked up and dropped off his white shirts at the laundry, visited friends and got a trim. He knew everybody.
The bones of my old town still exist. The square has the same buildings it had in the 1890's. When I was a kid, the square bustled. It had the only stores in town. It had two drug stores, both with soda fountains, a movie theater, a cobbler, a bakery, a Five and Ten, a few dentists, Grant's, a clothing store, Kennedy's which always had cheese on barrels in the front, two barber shops, a Chinese laundry, a jewelry store, the post office and three banks. A fish market opened later. The diner was at one end of town, across from the library. It was right beside the factory which made shoes. My town used to have several factories. One made shoes, as I mentioned, another made boxes and two made some sort of chemicals. They were right by the tracks where the trains could pick up their wares. The First National was down from the square. It was a small, boxy store, and the only place, for a long while, to buy groceries. My dad went uptown every Saturday to do his errands. He picked up and dropped off his white shirts at the laundry, visited friends and got a trim. He knew everybody.
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