Turn down the lights and gather around your radio!
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Friday, October 31, 2008
The Blob: The Five Blobs
This is the traditional Coffee Halloween song. It was actually written by Burt Bacharach. Yes, that Burt Bacharach.
"It's in there! It's in there! I wish I were kidding. It's in there!" This was the strangest of all 1950's creature movies. It was a blob, a red blob. We have Steven McQueen and Andy Taylor's girl Helen Crump racing around the countryside warning the adults. But who listens to teenagers anyway? The Blog had cheesy sets, few special effects, is campy at best and had this song as its theme. The song is credited to the Five Blobs, but there was only one Blob, studio singer Bernie Knee who did all the vocal tracks. His voice was overdubbed five times.
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"It's in there! It's in there! I wish I were kidding. It's in there!" This was the strangest of all 1950's creature movies. It was a blob, a red blob. We have Steven McQueen and Andy Taylor's girl Helen Crump racing around the countryside warning the adults. But who listens to teenagers anyway? The Blog had cheesy sets, few special effects, is campy at best and had this song as its theme. The song is credited to the Five Blobs, but there was only one Blob, studio singer Bernie Knee who did all the vocal tracks. His voice was overdubbed five times.
MP3 File
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Shadows of a thousand years rise again unseen/ Voices whisper in the trees, "Tonight is Halloween!"
"When can I leave? It's already dark. Why do I have to wait? Everybody else is already out, and all the candy will be gone." My whining fell on deaf ears. My mother didn't care. I couldn't go out until after dinner.
Halloween had a bit of magic about it. Spirits walked abroad. Trees were black silhouettes with hands instead of branches. Their shadows were cast across the sidewalk and moved with the wind. Leaves blanketed streets and lawns. The coldness of the dark night hinted of the otherworld. Ordinary sounds were magnified. Footsteps gave us pause. We wondered if it was really just the wind. It was a night to travel in packs, for the reassurance of each other. The porch light was our invitation. The first in line knocked, and we all yelled trick or treat together, as if we'd practiced. Neighbors pretended not to know us. We knew the best houses from last year, and the monsters we met directed us to new ones. The bags got heavier and heavier. We ditched the apples. We ditched the popcorn balls. We ate a few of our favorites. As the night wore on, we traveled further and further afield. Houses started to go dark. It was getting late. It was time to go home.
Halloween had a bit of magic about it. Spirits walked abroad. Trees were black silhouettes with hands instead of branches. Their shadows were cast across the sidewalk and moved with the wind. Leaves blanketed streets and lawns. The coldness of the dark night hinted of the otherworld. Ordinary sounds were magnified. Footsteps gave us pause. We wondered if it was really just the wind. It was a night to travel in packs, for the reassurance of each other. The porch light was our invitation. The first in line knocked, and we all yelled trick or treat together, as if we'd practiced. Neighbors pretended not to know us. We knew the best houses from last year, and the monsters we met directed us to new ones. The bags got heavier and heavier. We ditched the apples. We ditched the popcorn balls. We ate a few of our favorites. As the night wore on, we traveled further and further afield. Houses started to go dark. It was getting late. It was time to go home.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
"To him who is in fear everything rustles."
Tonight is my graveyard tour, postponed from Tuesday. It is supposed to be quite chilly, winter chilly. If I could set the scene, I'd ditch the cold, add a bit of ground fog, lots of shadows and bare branches twisting and cracking in a howling wind. A ghost or two wouldn't hurt either.
I remember a summer night when all the windows were open, and I was awakened by the sounds of someone walking through my backyard. I lifted the screen, poked my head out and checked the yard. The night was bright but not enough to see anything. I listened for a bit but heard only the singing of insects. Thinking I might have been dreaming, I shut the screen and got back into bed. When I did, the rustling sounds started again. Through my head ran thoughts of the hook man or the incarnation of one of my horror movie characters looking for an open window, a way into a house, a way into my house. It was scary and unnerving, but I got up, lifted the screen and poked my head out the window hoping to see the intruder. When I did, the sounds stopped. I yelled. The intruder stayed still and silent. I wasn't going out to check so I ran downstairs for my flashlight. When I got back upstairs, I poked my head out the window and shined the light around the backyard. I found the intruder. It was below my window. It was the biggest skunk I'd ever seen. I felt silly.
I remember a summer night when all the windows were open, and I was awakened by the sounds of someone walking through my backyard. I lifted the screen, poked my head out and checked the yard. The night was bright but not enough to see anything. I listened for a bit but heard only the singing of insects. Thinking I might have been dreaming, I shut the screen and got back into bed. When I did, the rustling sounds started again. Through my head ran thoughts of the hook man or the incarnation of one of my horror movie characters looking for an open window, a way into a house, a way into my house. It was scary and unnerving, but I got up, lifted the screen and poked my head out the window hoping to see the intruder. When I did, the sounds stopped. I yelled. The intruder stayed still and silent. I wasn't going out to check so I ran downstairs for my flashlight. When I got back upstairs, I poked my head out the window and shined the light around the backyard. I found the intruder. It was below my window. It was the biggest skunk I'd ever seen. I felt silly.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Ev'ry Time (When We Are Gone): The Ludlows
The last couple of days have been the early groups, the ones which lured us into folk music way back when. The Ludlows are such a group, an Irish group, which started out as The Ludlow Trio, named after a Woody Guthrie song. The Ludlows, as they came to be called, were one of the top three Irish folk groups along with The Dubliners and The Wolfe Tones. In 1966 they had a huge hit with Dominic Behan's The Sea Around Us.
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"If you want an interesting party sometime, combine cocktails and a fresh box of crayons for everyone. "
Last night my modem stopped working. When I wanted to look something up and couldn't, I realized how dependent I am on this computer to fill in the blanks my memory is beginning to have. I am entering the Google stage of life.
Crayons and construction paper were all we needed when I was a kid. We made cards for every occasion and decorations for every holiday. My pumpkins all looked the same. They were on orange paper and had those silly little grins and triangular noses and eyes. When I got older, I added teeth hoping to make my pumpkins more menacing. They weren't. For Thanksgiving I drew turkeys, but they didn't look like turkeys. I'm not even sure they looked like birds. I then switched to cornucopias. They were easier to draw and colored circles were perfect fruits. I liked lots of apples and pumpkins. My Christmas trees were never the masterpieces I'd planned. They were cut from green construction paper and looked to be the sort of trees left in the lot the day after Christmas. They had different colored crayon dots for lights, and I connected the dots with a black line. There was always a yellow star at the top. The inside message was in red crayon. It was never straight. My printing started big then got smaller. The words had a tendency to slope downward and run off the side edge of the paper. Easter rabbits were easier to draw, at least the side views were. I hated using white crayons because they just didn't cover well. I always wished the Easter Bunny was brown. Valentine's Day was the easiest. Hearts were simple. To be a bit creative, I added Cupid's arrow. Sometimes I pasted a doily behind the heart. Those were my masterpieces.
Crayons and construction paper were all we needed when I was a kid. We made cards for every occasion and decorations for every holiday. My pumpkins all looked the same. They were on orange paper and had those silly little grins and triangular noses and eyes. When I got older, I added teeth hoping to make my pumpkins more menacing. They weren't. For Thanksgiving I drew turkeys, but they didn't look like turkeys. I'm not even sure they looked like birds. I then switched to cornucopias. They were easier to draw and colored circles were perfect fruits. I liked lots of apples and pumpkins. My Christmas trees were never the masterpieces I'd planned. They were cut from green construction paper and looked to be the sort of trees left in the lot the day after Christmas. They had different colored crayon dots for lights, and I connected the dots with a black line. There was always a yellow star at the top. The inside message was in red crayon. It was never straight. My printing started big then got smaller. The words had a tendency to slope downward and run off the side edge of the paper. Easter rabbits were easier to draw, at least the side views were. I hated using white crayons because they just didn't cover well. I always wished the Easter Bunny was brown. Valentine's Day was the easiest. Hearts were simple. To be a bit creative, I added Cupid's arrow. Sometimes I pasted a doily behind the heart. Those were my masterpieces.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
"When witches go riding, and black cats are seen/the moon laughs and whispers, ‘tis near Halloween."
It's raining this morning. My, I hate the rain, dog stayed inside as long as she could before the call of nature forced her out. I doubt she saw the irony. The Wolfman Meets Frankenstein is on TV right now. I'm loving it. The movie has all the best elements. It's in black and white. The old gypsy woman knows all. The laboratory is in working order. The villagers were dancing and singing in the streets at a festival when the monster arrived. The women scream and fainted. The men want to destroy him.
I remember dunking for apples at Halloween parties. Your hands were tied behind your back and nearly drowning was part of the game. Some of the apples had coins in them, and they were our targets. Success never came easy and was never dry. Biting donuts hanging from strings was another game. The donuts were usually powdered, and I always ended up with a powdered face and costume. The parties were usually late enough that we could get in a bit of trick or treating first. A prize was given for best costume, and I remember cupcakes with orange frosting and a cat or a pumpkin stick for decoration. There was always popcorn.
When I was older, the drill team marched each year in the Halloween parade. It was the worst experience. We were targets and eggs flew at us. I remember one hitting my leg and sliding into my boot. I crunched as I walked.
If I were eight, my countdown would have begun. It's only three days until Halloween.
I remember dunking for apples at Halloween parties. Your hands were tied behind your back and nearly drowning was part of the game. Some of the apples had coins in them, and they were our targets. Success never came easy and was never dry. Biting donuts hanging from strings was another game. The donuts were usually powdered, and I always ended up with a powdered face and costume. The parties were usually late enough that we could get in a bit of trick or treating first. A prize was given for best costume, and I remember cupcakes with orange frosting and a cat or a pumpkin stick for decoration. There was always popcorn.
When I was older, the drill team marched each year in the Halloween parade. It was the worst experience. We were targets and eggs flew at us. I remember one hitting my leg and sliding into my boot. I crunched as I walked.
If I were eight, my countdown would have begun. It's only three days until Halloween.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Shoes of a Man: Maria Dunn
Cure for the Blues: Matt Price
“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”
The day is beautiful, warm and filled with sun. Miss Gracie and I will be out and about. We'll make a memory of today. We'll need it soon enough.
It is one of those staring at the blank page days. Nothing noteworthy has happened. I didn't go anywhere, and I didn't meet anyone. For some reason this reminds me of my diary days. I think it has to do with filling up a blank page, at looking at my life for all the notable pieces. Every girl I knew once got a diary for Christmas. The diaries were always pink, made of fake leather and had a gold lock and a key. Every day I'd write and every day always started with Dear Diary. It was my spot for all my secrets. I'd write about my latest crush, and how he didn't even know I was alive. Crushes never did. I'd talk about school and my friends. I'd use initials and acronyms so anyone breaking in wouldn't have any idea what I was writing about. A few years later, neither did I.
That diary disappeared for a long while, and when it reappeared, I was much older. I opened the familiar cover and began to read. The younger me was filled with excitement at going to the movies and meeting friends. I wrote down entire conversations and dissected the meanings of looks across the classroom. I talked about fights with my friends and how devastated I was. New shoes and a new dress were big, and each got a full description. My annoying little sisters got a few pages as did my parents. They were heartless and seemed to lack any understanding of the trials and tribulations of a pre-teen.
I don't remember writing in my diary. Most of the entries were simple descriptions of my day, some of them only a paragraph. But in the rereading, I realized how amazing those days really were. I was twelve years old. Each day was filled with new experiences and new feelings. I was growing up.
It is one of those staring at the blank page days. Nothing noteworthy has happened. I didn't go anywhere, and I didn't meet anyone. For some reason this reminds me of my diary days. I think it has to do with filling up a blank page, at looking at my life for all the notable pieces. Every girl I knew once got a diary for Christmas. The diaries were always pink, made of fake leather and had a gold lock and a key. Every day I'd write and every day always started with Dear Diary. It was my spot for all my secrets. I'd write about my latest crush, and how he didn't even know I was alive. Crushes never did. I'd talk about school and my friends. I'd use initials and acronyms so anyone breaking in wouldn't have any idea what I was writing about. A few years later, neither did I.
That diary disappeared for a long while, and when it reappeared, I was much older. I opened the familiar cover and began to read. The younger me was filled with excitement at going to the movies and meeting friends. I wrote down entire conversations and dissected the meanings of looks across the classroom. I talked about fights with my friends and how devastated I was. New shoes and a new dress were big, and each got a full description. My annoying little sisters got a few pages as did my parents. They were heartless and seemed to lack any understanding of the trials and tribulations of a pre-teen.
I don't remember writing in my diary. Most of the entries were simple descriptions of my day, some of them only a paragraph. But in the rereading, I realized how amazing those days really were. I was twelve years old. Each day was filled with new experiences and new feelings. I was growing up.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
"Be wary then; best safety lies in fear."
Fog covered the river this morning, and the bridge was swathed in mist. It was eerie and beautiful. The air today is warmer than I expected. It feels like an Indian summer day. The ground is still wet from last night's rain. The storm started while I was in bed. I could hear the howling of the wind, and the branches outside my window scraped against the glass. Leaves and pine needles are strewn about and stuck to lawns and streets.
We grew up believing in scary stories. An old, empty house was always haunted. Only the brave or the crazy would run up to the door and knock. My dad and his man with a hook story had me jumping every time a branch scratched a screen or a window because I knew the man with the hook was trying to break into the house to get me. Under the bed was my best hiding place. My sister, though, would have risked death by hook as she thought monsters lived under the bed. Her best bet would have been the closet. No monsters seemed to live there.
Scaring other kids was great fun. We'd find the perfect hiding spot, be as quiet as we could, then jump out and yell. The louder our victims screamed, the happier we were. It didn't have to be Halloween. Scaring was an all year round event. My little sisters were great targets. They were also screamers. That was an unbeatable combination.
Our parents always swore the stories they told us were real. We, with great bravado, said we didn't believe them, that they had made up the stories just to scare us. The truth was we were maybe just a little bit scared. A bit of scratching on the window was enough of a reminder.
We grew up believing in scary stories. An old, empty house was always haunted. Only the brave or the crazy would run up to the door and knock. My dad and his man with a hook story had me jumping every time a branch scratched a screen or a window because I knew the man with the hook was trying to break into the house to get me. Under the bed was my best hiding place. My sister, though, would have risked death by hook as she thought monsters lived under the bed. Her best bet would have been the closet. No monsters seemed to live there.
Scaring other kids was great fun. We'd find the perfect hiding spot, be as quiet as we could, then jump out and yell. The louder our victims screamed, the happier we were. It didn't have to be Halloween. Scaring was an all year round event. My little sisters were great targets. They were also screamers. That was an unbeatable combination.
Our parents always swore the stories they told us were real. We, with great bravado, said we didn't believe them, that they had made up the stories just to scare us. The truth was we were maybe just a little bit scared. A bit of scratching on the window was enough of a reminder.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
"Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make. "
It's scary movie time. It's time to turn down the lights and be afraid. I'm not talking slasher movies with lots of blood. I'm talking old black and white movies with shadows and strange sounds in the night. I'm talking Dracula, Frankenstein and the Wolf Man. It didn't matter that I never saw Dracula actually bite a neck. That strange voice and those mesmerizing eyes were scary all by themselves. Renfield with his hysterical laughter gave me the chills. Blood was never necessary for fear. What I couldn't see and what I could imagine were scary enough.
I learned a lot from those movies. Garlic and a stake are handy to keep around just in case a vampire chooses to drop by, and I need to remember, if he does, not to invite him inside. A vampire needs an invitation, as do most of us of good manners. I'm really hoping no Wolf Man is in the vicinity as I doubt I'll ever get my hands on a silver bullet and even dimes are now useless as projectiles. I know no mutated gigantic creatures will walk these streets. In the southwest, though, I'd be more vigilant. Those a-bomb tests have already produced Them and that giant tarantula. The tarantula was a brilliant choice. Spiders, even little ones, are scary to lots of people. After those two, Lord knows what else may be lurking under those sands!
I thought learning to duck and cover was scary, but the aftermath of a-bombs in the desert was even worse. We ended up with all those mutant people. I still remember the poor Incredible Shrinking Man, but he was too busy fighting off his cat to warn us of the evils of nuclear testing. The Colossal Man was in a diaper and probably too embarrassed to explain.
We had Communists infiltrating the innards of the State Department, but they weren't enough. Nope, we also had all those aliens who wanted world domination. My favorite is still Invaders from Mars, the ones who put things in peoples' necks to make them obey then blew the people up when they did. It's sort of a boy who cried wolf except he was crying menacing aliens. The Thing is another favorite of mine as is Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The Day the Earth Stood Still is the one with best message, and we didn't listen. We shot him. Just in case he reappears, I'm all set: Klaatu barada Nikto.
I learned a lot from those movies. Garlic and a stake are handy to keep around just in case a vampire chooses to drop by, and I need to remember, if he does, not to invite him inside. A vampire needs an invitation, as do most of us of good manners. I'm really hoping no Wolf Man is in the vicinity as I doubt I'll ever get my hands on a silver bullet and even dimes are now useless as projectiles. I know no mutated gigantic creatures will walk these streets. In the southwest, though, I'd be more vigilant. Those a-bomb tests have already produced Them and that giant tarantula. The tarantula was a brilliant choice. Spiders, even little ones, are scary to lots of people. After those two, Lord knows what else may be lurking under those sands!
I thought learning to duck and cover was scary, but the aftermath of a-bombs in the desert was even worse. We ended up with all those mutant people. I still remember the poor Incredible Shrinking Man, but he was too busy fighting off his cat to warn us of the evils of nuclear testing. The Colossal Man was in a diaper and probably too embarrassed to explain.
We had Communists infiltrating the innards of the State Department, but they weren't enough. Nope, we also had all those aliens who wanted world domination. My favorite is still Invaders from Mars, the ones who put things in peoples' necks to make them obey then blew the people up when they did. It's sort of a boy who cried wolf except he was crying menacing aliens. The Thing is another favorite of mine as is Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The Day the Earth Stood Still is the one with best message, and we didn't listen. We shot him. Just in case he reappears, I'm all set: Klaatu barada Nikto.
Friday, October 24, 2008
She's Like a Swallow: Bonnie Dobson
“A hippie is someone who looks like Tarzan, walks like Jane, and smells like Cheetah”
Frost was on the pumpkin this morning. It was also on the windshield and the grass. The flowers in my front garden didn't survive the night, and even though the morning is sunny and bright, Gracie didn't feel warm after she was lying in her patch of light in the backyard.
I remember when dickeys were popular, and, recently, when I saw the word in a catalog, I was reminded how words appear for a bit then disappear. Once they are no longer used, they fade away with little fanfare. My mother had an icebox. She wore galoshes. My friends and I compared someone to Eddie Haskell the other night. We are probably the last generation who understands what that means. My mother liked to nosh, and I do too because of her. Nobody puts on the dog anymore or dresses to the nines. I have never described a guy as a dreamboat. My mother sometimes warned me to straighten up and fly right. I used to tell my friends say it don't spray it. Nobody has rocks in their heads anymore. Are you writing a book was one of our favorite ways to cut a nosy parker down. We never swore at one another when we were mad. We called people jerks or show-offs or rats. The worst of all was to accuse someone of having cooties. Second to that was saying somebody smelled.
I have no idea what kids are talking about today. I'm still a bit stuck in the sixties. I'm laid back, and my conversations are peppered with words like cool and neat. A few did have to be abandoned. Not trusting anyone over thirty was one of them. That would have eliminated just about everyone I know.
I remember when dickeys were popular, and, recently, when I saw the word in a catalog, I was reminded how words appear for a bit then disappear. Once they are no longer used, they fade away with little fanfare. My mother had an icebox. She wore galoshes. My friends and I compared someone to Eddie Haskell the other night. We are probably the last generation who understands what that means. My mother liked to nosh, and I do too because of her. Nobody puts on the dog anymore or dresses to the nines. I have never described a guy as a dreamboat. My mother sometimes warned me to straighten up and fly right. I used to tell my friends say it don't spray it. Nobody has rocks in their heads anymore. Are you writing a book was one of our favorite ways to cut a nosy parker down. We never swore at one another when we were mad. We called people jerks or show-offs or rats. The worst of all was to accuse someone of having cooties. Second to that was saying somebody smelled.
I have no idea what kids are talking about today. I'm still a bit stuck in the sixties. I'm laid back, and my conversations are peppered with words like cool and neat. A few did have to be abandoned. Not trusting anyone over thirty was one of them. That would have eliminated just about everyone I know.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
The Nine Little Goblins: Fourtold
The Witch of the Westmorland: Stan Rogers
"Nothing on Earth so beautiful as the final haul on Halloween night."
The sun decided to show itself just for a bit. I thought it more of a taunt. In between, the sky is gray and the day cold.
This is about the time I used to start thinking about who I'd be for Halloween. When I was young, we were always a who, real or imagined. It was never a decision taken lightly and one which took great planning. Because our costumes were hand made, garnered from whatever was already in the house, a little imagination was a necessity. A white sheet with cut out eye holes made me a ghost. The BOO's in a high pitched voice made me scary or at least I thought they did. Blacks dots on my face for a beard, ratty looking clothes and a stick with a pack tied on the end disguised me as the perfect hobo. One year I was a witch who carried a broom and was dressed all in black. Capes made us all superheroes. If my mother had extra money, she'd buy us masks but most times we'd just use her make up.
When I was growing up, kids were everywhere. Families seldom had just one or two. Classrooms were crowded, the movie theater was always filled for the Saturday matinée and you never wanted for a playmate. My neighborhood always had kids playing outside. The little ones stayed in the backyard. The older kids played ball in the street, tramped through the woods or rode bikes. On Halloween, the streets were filled with costumed kids who traveled in packs. The little ones had plenty of houses in our neighborhood while the rest of us ranged farther afield. Part of any Halloween preparation was the route. We always started in our neighborhood. Avoiding the apple houses was part of the planning. The nickel bar houses were the favorites. Sometimes we'd get a penny, and that was big. Once I found a nickel stuck in an apple. It was the biggest surprise of all. I hated the little bags with a few pieces of candy. Most had gross candy corn. We'd wander all over, fill our bags then head for home. We never had school the next day. It was All Saints' Day, a holy day of obligation, and St. Pat's kids always had it off. When I was really little, I thought we had it off so we could rest up from Halloween and eat our candy. That made perfect sense to me.
This is about the time I used to start thinking about who I'd be for Halloween. When I was young, we were always a who, real or imagined. It was never a decision taken lightly and one which took great planning. Because our costumes were hand made, garnered from whatever was already in the house, a little imagination was a necessity. A white sheet with cut out eye holes made me a ghost. The BOO's in a high pitched voice made me scary or at least I thought they did. Blacks dots on my face for a beard, ratty looking clothes and a stick with a pack tied on the end disguised me as the perfect hobo. One year I was a witch who carried a broom and was dressed all in black. Capes made us all superheroes. If my mother had extra money, she'd buy us masks but most times we'd just use her make up.
When I was growing up, kids were everywhere. Families seldom had just one or two. Classrooms were crowded, the movie theater was always filled for the Saturday matinée and you never wanted for a playmate. My neighborhood always had kids playing outside. The little ones stayed in the backyard. The older kids played ball in the street, tramped through the woods or rode bikes. On Halloween, the streets were filled with costumed kids who traveled in packs. The little ones had plenty of houses in our neighborhood while the rest of us ranged farther afield. Part of any Halloween preparation was the route. We always started in our neighborhood. Avoiding the apple houses was part of the planning. The nickel bar houses were the favorites. Sometimes we'd get a penny, and that was big. Once I found a nickel stuck in an apple. It was the biggest surprise of all. I hated the little bags with a few pieces of candy. Most had gross candy corn. We'd wander all over, fill our bags then head for home. We never had school the next day. It was All Saints' Day, a holy day of obligation, and St. Pat's kids always had it off. When I was really little, I thought we had it off so we could rest up from Halloween and eat our candy. That made perfect sense to me.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Rag Mama: Tom Rush
Duncan and Brady: Dave Van Ronk
“Fun is good.”
The day is dark, damp and windy. I heard the rain earlier this morning, and I just nestled deeper under the covers. When I went to get the paper, I saw yellow leaves strewn on the street and pine needles covering the lawn. Fall is making a hasty exit.
When I was a kid, we'd skate over the sidewalk, up the hill and into the parking lot. No one ever parked there, and it was perfect for roller skating. My friends and I would skate the perimeter of the lot, pretending it was a real skating rink. Sometimes we'd hold hands. Once in a while we'd do a whip and send someone sprawling across the grass. Sometimes the skates unclamped from our shoes and would hang by the straps. Keys were kept on strings around our necks. A lost key was a tragedy of epic proportion. With the skate hanging, I'd stop, unbuckle it, use the key to open the front clamps, put my foot back in and then turn the key as far as I could to tighten the skate. Shoes were best. Sneakers never held well. We'd skate all afternoon. Walking always felt funny after I'd take my roller skates off. My feet seemed almost alien, like someone else's feet had been connected to my body.
We used to roll down the grassy hill behind our house. It always made us dizzy, and that was the fun of it. I remember the softness of the grass and how we'd pick up speed as we rolled. At the bottom, we'd try to stand and walk. We never could. We'd stagger and reel until we ended up in heaps on the ground laughing until we cried.
When I was a kid, we'd skate over the sidewalk, up the hill and into the parking lot. No one ever parked there, and it was perfect for roller skating. My friends and I would skate the perimeter of the lot, pretending it was a real skating rink. Sometimes we'd hold hands. Once in a while we'd do a whip and send someone sprawling across the grass. Sometimes the skates unclamped from our shoes and would hang by the straps. Keys were kept on strings around our necks. A lost key was a tragedy of epic proportion. With the skate hanging, I'd stop, unbuckle it, use the key to open the front clamps, put my foot back in and then turn the key as far as I could to tighten the skate. Shoes were best. Sneakers never held well. We'd skate all afternoon. Walking always felt funny after I'd take my roller skates off. My feet seemed almost alien, like someone else's feet had been connected to my body.
We used to roll down the grassy hill behind our house. It always made us dizzy, and that was the fun of it. I remember the softness of the grass and how we'd pick up speed as we rolled. At the bottom, we'd try to stand and walk. We never could. We'd stagger and reel until we ended up in heaps on the ground laughing until we cried.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
As Time Goes By: Ruth Ungar
I have to thank boyhowdy on Cover Lay Down for introducing me to this song. Drop on over and visit.
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Can I Sleep in Your Barn Tonight, Mister?: Clarence Ashley and Tex Isley
"Sleep lingers all our lifetime about our eyes, as night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir-tree."
When I was little, the last thing I'd admit to was being tired. Just because my head was resting on my chest and my eyes were closed didn't mean I was ready for bed. Bedtime was a curse. No kid went willingly. The fear was we'd miss something huge, maybe even a one time event in the history of the world, an event like monsters roaming the neighborhood looking for fresh blood or aliens landing in the field at the end of the street. We all knew once our eyes closed and we fell asleep, the fun started; the people danced in the streets. As soon as bedtime was announced, a pattern emerged. First was moaning and groaning about it being too early and how I wasn't tired anyway. My parents countered with the all too familiar reminder it was a school night. That one always hurt. Next came the negotiations, a series of bargaining. I'd start really high like staying up to watch another program. My parents always started really low, like now. It took a while to come to an agreement and usually five to ten minutes was the best I could do. I'd drag myself up the stairs as slowly as humanly possible, brush my teeth and go to bed, grumbling the whole while. It generally only took minutes before I fell asleep.
In college, I was tired all the time, and I complained all the time about being tired. I'd spend nights studying, get up early for classes and never catch up on my sleep. I spent my four college years as a walking zombie. Weekends gave me a bit of a reprieve. My friends and I would party all night, but I'd sleep in the next morning. I finally figured out it was all those classes which exhausted me, and I responded accordingly.
In Africa, I was never tired. Though I was up early every day, with the roosters, and I mean that literally, I was in bed early every night. Even on mammy lorries I could sleep, hunched over with my head in my arms. I think that after two years in Ghana I finally caught up on all that sleep I missed in college.
When I worked, I was up at five. It is God awful to spend your life in the dark. I got up in the dark and I got home in the dark. I was afraid I'd start mutating like those blind fish they find in the deepest part of the ocean. I never got enough sleep. Most nights I was in bed by ten though sometimes a program I liked enticed me to stay up until eleven. Weekends I caught up a bit, but I was always behind and was generally exhausted by Friday.
I have found out, since my retirement, that my body seems to want eight hours sleep. No matter what time I go to bed, I wake up eight hours later. Last night or rather this morning I went to bed at 1:30. I woke up at 9:33. My body is winding down. I can feel it.
In college, I was tired all the time, and I complained all the time about being tired. I'd spend nights studying, get up early for classes and never catch up on my sleep. I spent my four college years as a walking zombie. Weekends gave me a bit of a reprieve. My friends and I would party all night, but I'd sleep in the next morning. I finally figured out it was all those classes which exhausted me, and I responded accordingly.
In Africa, I was never tired. Though I was up early every day, with the roosters, and I mean that literally, I was in bed early every night. Even on mammy lorries I could sleep, hunched over with my head in my arms. I think that after two years in Ghana I finally caught up on all that sleep I missed in college.
When I worked, I was up at five. It is God awful to spend your life in the dark. I got up in the dark and I got home in the dark. I was afraid I'd start mutating like those blind fish they find in the deepest part of the ocean. I never got enough sleep. Most nights I was in bed by ten though sometimes a program I liked enticed me to stay up until eleven. Weekends I caught up a bit, but I was always behind and was generally exhausted by Friday.
I have found out, since my retirement, that my body seems to want eight hours sleep. No matter what time I go to bed, I wake up eight hours later. Last night or rather this morning I went to bed at 1:30. I woke up at 9:33. My body is winding down. I can feel it.
Monday, October 20, 2008
He Came to Meet Me: Hem
I received a wonderful e-mail this weekend, a make your day sort of e-mail, and, in it, Hem was mentioned. It made me realize it's been too long between Hem songs.
This is from an earlier posting, "Hem is from Brooklyn, New York, and they have been together since 1999. The lead vocalist, Sally Ellyson, answered an ad in the Village Voice, sent a demo tape and was invited to join. The rest of Hem include Dan Messe (piano, glockenspiel, harmonium), Steve Curtis (guitar, mandolin) and Gary Maurer (guitar, mandolin)."
This song is from Funnel Cloud.
MP3 File
yousendit
This is from an earlier posting, "Hem is from Brooklyn, New York, and they have been together since 1999. The lead vocalist, Sally Ellyson, answered an ad in the Village Voice, sent a demo tape and was invited to join. The rest of Hem include Dan Messe (piano, glockenspiel, harmonium), Steve Curtis (guitar, mandolin) and Gary Maurer (guitar, mandolin)."
This song is from Funnel Cloud.
MP3 File
yousendit
"You learn something every day if you pay attention."
Our parish had two schools, the old and the new, a rectory, a convent and a church. The schools bordered a huge parking lot which was, on school days, our playground. At one end of the new school, close to the rectory, was a metal container for donations to the St. Vincent de Paul Society. The chute where you put in the clothes said St. Vincent de Paul push so that's what we always called him. Basketball hoops were along the side nearest the road, boys only, of course, in those days. The bike rack was in front of the fence closest to the old school. It was wooden and painted green. I used to ride my bike on warm fall and spring days. The old school was brick. It looked like a giant square. The new school was long, and each room had one wall of windows. It opened when I was in the fifth grade. My room was on the first floor, in the corner, near St. Vincent de Paul Push.
In those days, school was books and pencils and blackboards. We never had any assemblies or speakers. We never did any science labs. We had art a couple of time a week, and mostly drew, cut and pasted though I do remember a paper mache puppet I made in the seventh grade. It was a red devil. Music too was only once or twice a week, and all I remember is EGBDF, every good boy does fine, FACE and Gregorian chant squares. Most times we just sang. I learned to do math problems using Roman numerals, a skill I highly prize today. We wrote all the time, and I thank the nuns for that.
School was never exciting. The only time we left school in classes was to go to church or practice outside for the May procession. Every year we got out early, a half day, for the parish Christmas Fair. We had all the holy days off from school though we had to go mass.
I loved school despite its routine and its lack of imagination. My geography book made me a dreamer. Writing all the time gave me a love for language, for the sounds of words and their combinations. The stories in the readers were only a couple of pages and were never enough. They led me to books, to longer stories with beginnings and endings. I've always thought the nuns and school, limited as they were in those days, did a great job in educating me. They gave me a love for learning, a ceaseless journey to know more.
In those days, school was books and pencils and blackboards. We never had any assemblies or speakers. We never did any science labs. We had art a couple of time a week, and mostly drew, cut and pasted though I do remember a paper mache puppet I made in the seventh grade. It was a red devil. Music too was only once or twice a week, and all I remember is EGBDF, every good boy does fine, FACE and Gregorian chant squares. Most times we just sang. I learned to do math problems using Roman numerals, a skill I highly prize today. We wrote all the time, and I thank the nuns for that.
School was never exciting. The only time we left school in classes was to go to church or practice outside for the May procession. Every year we got out early, a half day, for the parish Christmas Fair. We had all the holy days off from school though we had to go mass.
I loved school despite its routine and its lack of imagination. My geography book made me a dreamer. Writing all the time gave me a love for language, for the sounds of words and their combinations. The stories in the readers were only a couple of pages and were never enough. They led me to books, to longer stories with beginnings and endings. I've always thought the nuns and school, limited as they were in those days, did a great job in educating me. They gave me a love for learning, a ceaseless journey to know more.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
"Our brothers and sisters are there with us from the dawn of our personal stories to the inevitable dusk."
When I was young, my brother and I used to love to tease my little sister. We'd each sit beside her on the couch and point at her cheek without actually touching her. We'd hold our fingers mere inches from her face. She'd scream, but we'd tell my mother the truth. We weren't even touching her. My sister generally liked to call us pigs. It was her vilest name calling.
Four kids do not always play nice. My brother and I sometimes went at it. My two sisters, close in age to one another, seldom did. Usually they just squealed on my brother and me. Sometimes we'd bribe them or we'd counter blackmail. If you tell on us, we'll tell on you was a favorite family negotiating tool.
When we were little, my brother and I sometimes whacked each other. When we did, I had the perfect technique. I'd hit him as hard as I could then run to my room and lock the door. From behind the door, I'd taunt him with na na na-nana. He'd kick the door in frustration. I loved it. Once he kicked a hole in the door. I loved that even more. I had ammunition. I had proof.
When we got into our teens, my brother and I were friends. I'd hold his counsel and never tell what I knew. He skipped school, and I kept quiet. We were a united front against our parents. We weren't wild, but we did sneak out on occasion. Both our rooms were on the first floor while my parents slept on the second. A window often made a great door.
Even as adults my brother and I had fun together. He'd drop by for a beer or two on his way home from work, and we'd play cribbage or backgammon. We laughed a lot. We enjoyed each other's company, but over the years since then my brother and I have drifted apart. He has chosen to distance himself, to live a solitary life. I haven't seen him in a long while. I miss his laugh.
Four kids do not always play nice. My brother and I sometimes went at it. My two sisters, close in age to one another, seldom did. Usually they just squealed on my brother and me. Sometimes we'd bribe them or we'd counter blackmail. If you tell on us, we'll tell on you was a favorite family negotiating tool.
When we were little, my brother and I sometimes whacked each other. When we did, I had the perfect technique. I'd hit him as hard as I could then run to my room and lock the door. From behind the door, I'd taunt him with na na na-nana. He'd kick the door in frustration. I loved it. Once he kicked a hole in the door. I loved that even more. I had ammunition. I had proof.
When we got into our teens, my brother and I were friends. I'd hold his counsel and never tell what I knew. He skipped school, and I kept quiet. We were a united front against our parents. We weren't wild, but we did sneak out on occasion. Both our rooms were on the first floor while my parents slept on the second. A window often made a great door.
Even as adults my brother and I had fun together. He'd drop by for a beer or two on his way home from work, and we'd play cribbage or backgammon. We laughed a lot. We enjoyed each other's company, but over the years since then my brother and I have drifted apart. He has chosen to distance himself, to live a solitary life. I haven't seen him in a long while. I miss his laugh.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
In Memory!
“Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”
It's cold, and it's damp. I'm thinking of staying close to hearth and home today. I'm seeing warm slippers, a sweatshirt, never ending cups of coffee and a good book, maybe even a fire. I remember fall days like this when I was a kid, when weather didn't matter, especially on a Saturday. I'd have been out that door in a instant, or at least after cereal and cartoons. I sometimes wonder how old I was before weather made a difference. I know I got rained on and snowed on when I was kid. I played outside during the hottest part of the day and made snow forts on the coldest of days. If my mother didn't make me come inside in her infinite adult wisdom, I'd have stayed outside the whole day and been near frozen, blue lip frozen.
I'm thinking hair and fashion were one cause of burgeoning weather distress. All those huge rollers or the ones with brushes inside which left pinholes in my head would have been useless pain for beauty if my hair got wet. All the teasing would have been for naught. The bedraggled, soaking wet look was never attractive.
Then there's the clothes. Leggings got ditched early. They were replaced by more fashionable socks, but not warm socks. Gloves replaced mittens so my fingers were always cold. I didn't wear hats even though I knew, from countless repetition, that most of the heat exited from the top of my head. Looking good was far more important than being warm. I never had a raincoat. I grew out of yellow slicker age and was too young for the old lady raincoat my grandmother wore. I do remember in high school, green rubber-like rain coats with hoods became the rage, and I had one. I wore it even when it didn't rain.
I still don't have a rain coat and still don't wear a hat in winter. I have ditched the gloves and gone back to mittens. I'm thinking leggings might be next.
I'm thinking hair and fashion were one cause of burgeoning weather distress. All those huge rollers or the ones with brushes inside which left pinholes in my head would have been useless pain for beauty if my hair got wet. All the teasing would have been for naught. The bedraggled, soaking wet look was never attractive.
Then there's the clothes. Leggings got ditched early. They were replaced by more fashionable socks, but not warm socks. Gloves replaced mittens so my fingers were always cold. I didn't wear hats even though I knew, from countless repetition, that most of the heat exited from the top of my head. Looking good was far more important than being warm. I never had a raincoat. I grew out of yellow slicker age and was too young for the old lady raincoat my grandmother wore. I do remember in high school, green rubber-like rain coats with hoods became the rage, and I had one. I wore it even when it didn't rain.
I still don't have a rain coat and still don't wear a hat in winter. I have ditched the gloves and gone back to mittens. I'm thinking leggings might be next.
Friday, October 17, 2008
I Envy the Wind: Lucinda Williams
The Broom of The Cowdenknowes: The Black Family
My dear friend Felix send this to me, and I think it beautiful.
"Mary Black and her three brothers, Shay, Michael & Martin first performed together in the folk clubs of Dublin during the mid-70s. In 1979 they were joined by the youngest member of the family, Frances. Although the members of The Black Family have since pursued separate careers, they periodically reunite for concerts and albums. Their critically acclaimed first album, simply titled The Black Family was originally released in Ireland in 1986." This is the opening song.
MP3 File
yousendit
"Mary Black and her three brothers, Shay, Michael & Martin first performed together in the folk clubs of Dublin during the mid-70s. In 1979 they were joined by the youngest member of the family, Frances. Although the members of The Black Family have since pursued separate careers, they periodically reunite for concerts and albums. Their critically acclaimed first album, simply titled The Black Family was originally released in Ireland in 1986." This is the opening song.
MP3 File
yousendit
"October is nature's funeral month...Every green thing loves to die in bright colors."
Every day I feel more and more like the White Rabbit as I run later and later. Today it was a trip to the hardware store for screws and wire which put me behind my time. Skip, my friend and handyman, is here to add to the fence to keep Miss Gracie inside the yard, and I needed to buy supplies.
The nights are chilly and the darkness comes early. I can feel a crispness in the morning air. The sun light is sharp but lacks warmth. The house is cold when I wake up, and I put on a sweatshirt before I come downstairs. The coffee cup warms my hands. Only a few fall flowers are alive in my garden. They are the last colors. My landscaper came to tell me he'll be readying the yard for winter. He has dead branches he wants to cut and the remains of flowers to clear from the front garden. He'll split the day lilies and plant them elsewhere in the yard. One small pine will come down. I know he's right, but I am still saddened.
Yesterday my irrigation system and outside shower were closed down for the season. Soon enough I'll be taking in the candles hanging from the trees and covering the outside furniture. My deck will be winter drab. The branches in the yard will be bare and the undergrowth brown. Life will center on the inside of the house. Winter is creeping closer. Soon it will be flannel weather.
The nights are chilly and the darkness comes early. I can feel a crispness in the morning air. The sun light is sharp but lacks warmth. The house is cold when I wake up, and I put on a sweatshirt before I come downstairs. The coffee cup warms my hands. Only a few fall flowers are alive in my garden. They are the last colors. My landscaper came to tell me he'll be readying the yard for winter. He has dead branches he wants to cut and the remains of flowers to clear from the front garden. He'll split the day lilies and plant them elsewhere in the yard. One small pine will come down. I know he's right, but I am still saddened.
Yesterday my irrigation system and outside shower were closed down for the season. Soon enough I'll be taking in the candles hanging from the trees and covering the outside furniture. My deck will be winter drab. The branches in the yard will be bare and the undergrowth brown. Life will center on the inside of the house. Winter is creeping closer. Soon it will be flannel weather.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
I Saw a Stranger with Your Hair: John Gorka
This is from 1987's I know, on Red House Records.
I hope you are finding the yousendit link helpful. Let me know!
MP3 File
I hope you are finding the yousendit link helpful. Let me know!
MP3 File
Trouble in Mind: Dock Boggs
A new book called Worlds of Sound: The Story of Smithsonian Folkways has just been released. It is filled with both images and stories from the 60 years since Moses Asch founded the Folkways label, the little label that could. An amazing CD, from which I took this song, comes free if you order directly from Smithsonian. You know me. I love this label and toot its horn every chance I get. If you want the CD, here's where to find this amazing book: Smithsonian Folkways.
MP3 File
MP3 File
“Fond pride of dress is sure a very curse”
This morning I had to have a blood test which also meant fasting, which also meant no coffee. I was so horrified I didn't even bother to read the papers. I just got up, got dressed and left for Hyannis: the sooner done, the sooner the cup of coffee. I got home about a half hour ago and have just finished my second cup. My eyes are now open, and I've started breathing normally. The rash is beginning to fade.
When I was a kid, I thought old people had a sort of uniform. Old ladies wore flowery house dresses, thick stockings and clunky tie shoes with small square heels. In the rain, they actually wore raincoats topped off with see through bonnets. There was no such thing as casual, unless you counted an apron. Old men wore suits, white starched shirts, ties, black or brown shoes, top coats in the winter and always a fedora. No matter where they went, they were in uniform.
At the lab today, an elderly lady, who gave her birth date as 1923, was wearing a bright blue track suit and sneakers. She looked quite jaunty. It reminded me that I never once saw either of my grandmothers wearing pants. It also reminded me that I couldn't wear pants when I was in college, at least not to classes during my first two years. The dress code changed when I was a junior, and I never wore a dress to classes again.
In Ghana, I wore dresses all the time because Ghanaian women did. They were colorful, cool and comfortable but traveling was tough. It was never easy or dainty climbing on and off tro tros (small trucks) in a dress; however, dresses made it easier to use public bathrooms, the kinds with holes in the ground. But that's another story.
When I worked at the high school, I also wore dresses. I thought it more professional. I also wore pantyhose. My grandmother used to tell me to offer my pain to the saints in heaven. That's what I used to think about when I wore panty hose.
Since I retired, I haven't worn a pair of pantyhose. I seldom wear a dress. I have a dress for weddings, one for funerals and one for everything else. I think that might be two too many.
When I was a kid, I thought old people had a sort of uniform. Old ladies wore flowery house dresses, thick stockings and clunky tie shoes with small square heels. In the rain, they actually wore raincoats topped off with see through bonnets. There was no such thing as casual, unless you counted an apron. Old men wore suits, white starched shirts, ties, black or brown shoes, top coats in the winter and always a fedora. No matter where they went, they were in uniform.
At the lab today, an elderly lady, who gave her birth date as 1923, was wearing a bright blue track suit and sneakers. She looked quite jaunty. It reminded me that I never once saw either of my grandmothers wearing pants. It also reminded me that I couldn't wear pants when I was in college, at least not to classes during my first two years. The dress code changed when I was a junior, and I never wore a dress to classes again.
In Ghana, I wore dresses all the time because Ghanaian women did. They were colorful, cool and comfortable but traveling was tough. It was never easy or dainty climbing on and off tro tros (small trucks) in a dress; however, dresses made it easier to use public bathrooms, the kinds with holes in the ground. But that's another story.
When I worked at the high school, I also wore dresses. I thought it more professional. I also wore pantyhose. My grandmother used to tell me to offer my pain to the saints in heaven. That's what I used to think about when I wore panty hose.
Since I retired, I haven't worn a pair of pantyhose. I seldom wear a dress. I have a dress for weddings, one for funerals and one for everything else. I think that might be two too many.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
“The secret of your future is hidden in your daily routine.”
Even when we're little life has a routine. My mother woke me up the same time every day. I was always grouchy. Breakfast seldom varied. I walked the same route to and from school with the same friends. My classes were in the same order every day. We always had lunch then recess. It never occurred to me I was living a routine. I was too busy enjoying my life.
Even in Ghana, my days were pretty much the same. I was always up with the roosters, and I mean it literally. I'd get dressed, have breakfast, sit outside drinking my coffee and say hello to the school children passing by then I'd go teach my classes. Market day was every third day, and I'd go shopping. I always stopped at the same market ladies' stalls. At night I'd have dinner, plan my lessons, take my shower, read a bit or write a letter then go to bed. But I was living in Africa, and I never saw any routine. I was too busy enjoying every minute of every day.
When I worked, I'd get up around five and grouse at how uncivilized that was. I'd have two cups of coffee, read the paper, get dressed and leave by 6:20. I went to the same place for thirty three years, but I was working with kids, and they had a way of making the day interesting. I got home around the same time every day, read the mail, had dinner, watched a little TV and went to bed early. Weekends were filled with everything I didn't have time for all week. By Sunday night, I was exhausted and went to bed early. Monday it started all over again, but I never saw my job as routine. I was too busy enjoying it.
My days still have a routine. I wake up to greetings from Gracie and Fern who have been sleeping on my bed but act as if they haven't seen me for days. I then pull myself out of bed, go downstairs and let the dog out. I make coffee then walk to the driveway for the papers. Most times I stand there a bit looking at the garden or the house or just getting a feel for the day. With papers in hand, I go back inside and get my first cup of coffee, which will be refilled a couple of more times, and then I read the papers. This morning I took a shower after I finished one paper. It looks dark out and I wanted my shower done in case it rained. After the papers I check my e-mail and start Coffee. I will, after posting, make my bed and get dressed. That is my routine. The rest of the day is open to anything or nothing. I even enjoy the nothing.
Even in Ghana, my days were pretty much the same. I was always up with the roosters, and I mean it literally. I'd get dressed, have breakfast, sit outside drinking my coffee and say hello to the school children passing by then I'd go teach my classes. Market day was every third day, and I'd go shopping. I always stopped at the same market ladies' stalls. At night I'd have dinner, plan my lessons, take my shower, read a bit or write a letter then go to bed. But I was living in Africa, and I never saw any routine. I was too busy enjoying every minute of every day.
When I worked, I'd get up around five and grouse at how uncivilized that was. I'd have two cups of coffee, read the paper, get dressed and leave by 6:20. I went to the same place for thirty three years, but I was working with kids, and they had a way of making the day interesting. I got home around the same time every day, read the mail, had dinner, watched a little TV and went to bed early. Weekends were filled with everything I didn't have time for all week. By Sunday night, I was exhausted and went to bed early. Monday it started all over again, but I never saw my job as routine. I was too busy enjoying it.
My days still have a routine. I wake up to greetings from Gracie and Fern who have been sleeping on my bed but act as if they haven't seen me for days. I then pull myself out of bed, go downstairs and let the dog out. I make coffee then walk to the driveway for the papers. Most times I stand there a bit looking at the garden or the house or just getting a feel for the day. With papers in hand, I go back inside and get my first cup of coffee, which will be refilled a couple of more times, and then I read the papers. This morning I took a shower after I finished one paper. It looks dark out and I wanted my shower done in case it rained. After the papers I check my e-mail and start Coffee. I will, after posting, make my bed and get dressed. That is my routine. The rest of the day is open to anything or nothing. I even enjoy the nothing.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
A Red Bowl: Krista Detor
Krista Detor has been likened to just about everybody. I've read reviews tossing around names like Leonard Cohen, Joni, Aimee Mann and even Elton John.
I know her songs are filled with wonderful imagery and she weaves stories. That's enough I suspect.
This is from Mudshow.
MP3 File
I know her songs are filled with wonderful imagery and she weaves stories. That's enough I suspect.
This is from Mudshow.
MP3 File
"Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter."
My Sox got trounced last night. It was a tragedy of epic proportion. Each home run was like a stake through the heart. We became disconsolate and started muttering under our breath, shaking our heads and exhaling loudly. There was no joy in Mudville. The evening, though, had a few high spots. My friends and I had a great dinner and a few games of Sorry to stave off the heartbreak. Tonight we'll try again.
Mornings are chilly this time of year, but when I stand outside, I know the chill will soften, and the day will be warmer. I can feel it. I can almost smell it. The air is different. I just have to be patient and wait for the sun. It takes a bit longer to work its magic. Every late morning, Gracie lies in her favorite sunny spot in the yard. When she comes inside, her fur is warm to the touch.
My bird feeders are busy. The goldfinches are back, but the bright breast of the male is fading. The cardinal couple drop by and dine at my new feeder. I sit ever so quietly and watch.
Outside the back door is my palm tree and my flamingo. Every night, when lit, they can be seen from the road, and my neighbors tell me they always look for them. Both have become landmarks. The palm tree, however, is showing its age. One frond is no longer lit on the top. Another needs to be jiggled to make it stay on. The trunk has an unlit section at the bottom. The flamingo hides it. I went looking the other day and found a replacement. I haven't ordered it, but I will. I hate to disappoint the neighbors.
We had chicken soup the other night. It was the perfect dish to usher in the start of comfort food season. No more outside on the grill every night. It's time for food meant to warm the innards.
Mornings are chilly this time of year, but when I stand outside, I know the chill will soften, and the day will be warmer. I can feel it. I can almost smell it. The air is different. I just have to be patient and wait for the sun. It takes a bit longer to work its magic. Every late morning, Gracie lies in her favorite sunny spot in the yard. When she comes inside, her fur is warm to the touch.
My bird feeders are busy. The goldfinches are back, but the bright breast of the male is fading. The cardinal couple drop by and dine at my new feeder. I sit ever so quietly and watch.
Outside the back door is my palm tree and my flamingo. Every night, when lit, they can be seen from the road, and my neighbors tell me they always look for them. Both have become landmarks. The palm tree, however, is showing its age. One frond is no longer lit on the top. Another needs to be jiggled to make it stay on. The trunk has an unlit section at the bottom. The flamingo hides it. I went looking the other day and found a replacement. I haven't ordered it, but I will. I hate to disappoint the neighbors.
We had chicken soup the other night. It was the perfect dish to usher in the start of comfort food season. No more outside on the grill every night. It's time for food meant to warm the innards.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Christopher Columbus: Maxine Sullivan
It is Columbus Day, well it has been since 1971 when the second Monday became Columbus Day.
Enjoy your day. Get out and roam your world. You won't fall off: that much we know.
MP3 File
Enjoy your day. Get out and roam your world. You won't fall off: that much we know.
MP3 File
“The chickens have come home to roast.”
The whole week has been Indian summer at its best. It was even warm enough for my outside shower this morning. This is just the best time of the year.
I raised chickens when I was in Africa. It all came about because I was given a laying hen as a gift. She came with eggs. I remember the hen was white with brown specks, sort of pretty as chickens go. She had a coop which the school carpenter had made, but that hen never used the coop. She ended up sitting on the large half of a broken pottery jug where she hatched eight chicks. Every day she left the yard and every day she came home with fewer chicks. I figured they got snatched and she never noticed. Only one chick survived. When she started laying eggs again, she laid them everywhere. Students would come bringing one of the eggs they'd found on the school compound, and I'd add it to the pile. Soon the hen was back to sitting on the eggs on the pottery shard which wasn't anywhere near the coop. It was in the backyard in the small toilet room on the floor. I didn't put it there. Thomas, who worked for me, did. He thought the toilet a safer spot, obviously for the hen, not me, because every time I used the toilet, the hen tried to peck my feet. It was one crotchety hen. She did no better with this next batch of chicks. Every day she came home with fewer. After much discussion, we found her true vocation. That hen ended up as dinner. By the time I left a year or so later, I had several hens and a noisy rooster. I ate fresh eggs every morning and once in a while had a great chicken dinner.
I raised chickens when I was in Africa. It all came about because I was given a laying hen as a gift. She came with eggs. I remember the hen was white with brown specks, sort of pretty as chickens go. She had a coop which the school carpenter had made, but that hen never used the coop. She ended up sitting on the large half of a broken pottery jug where she hatched eight chicks. Every day she left the yard and every day she came home with fewer chicks. I figured they got snatched and she never noticed. Only one chick survived. When she started laying eggs again, she laid them everywhere. Students would come bringing one of the eggs they'd found on the school compound, and I'd add it to the pile. Soon the hen was back to sitting on the eggs on the pottery shard which wasn't anywhere near the coop. It was in the backyard in the small toilet room on the floor. I didn't put it there. Thomas, who worked for me, did. He thought the toilet a safer spot, obviously for the hen, not me, because every time I used the toilet, the hen tried to peck my feet. It was one crotchety hen. She did no better with this next batch of chicks. Every day she came home with fewer. After much discussion, we found her true vocation. That hen ended up as dinner. By the time I left a year or so later, I had several hens and a noisy rooster. I ate fresh eggs every morning and once in a while had a great chicken dinner.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
"I love a parade, the tramping of feet, I love every beat I hear of a drum."
This morning I met my friend for brunch then we went outside and sat for a while to wait for the parade. It is Seaside Festival weekend in Yarmouth, and Sunday is parade day. My friend and I sat in a parking lot for a bit getting sun then, when the time was closer, moved our chairs to the sidewalk and chatted until parade time. It is a beautiful day, and we sat in the sun which was bare arm warm. People slowly joined us. When the cars stopped rolling down 28, we knew the parade was near. Then we all heard sirens, looked down the street and saw the police car, the official first vehicle. The parade, for these parts, was a long one, and it was every parade I remembered. It had fire trucks, floats, pipe bands, boy scouts, brownies, old cars and clowns. Yup, it had a clown band. It had the middle school band and the high school band. It even had gymnasts and jugglers. It had an astronaut, Grand Marshall and NASA Astronaut Daniel Burbank. It had jeeps. The parade finished the same way every parade does, with a long line of fire trucks.
I have always believed there is nothing so inherently American as a small town parade. Local groups march with pride. The middle school band does its best to stay in step while playing music. The floats are homemade, and that is their charm. The crowds cheer and clap for the vets walking by them. Waves from floats get return waves. No one thinks it's silly to wave. The brownies chat as they walk. The crowd applauds everyone's efforts. People ooh and aah the old cars, and the lady beside me remembered she and her husband owned the exact same car. It was a great parade, and I loved it.
I have always believed there is nothing so inherently American as a small town parade. Local groups march with pride. The middle school band does its best to stay in step while playing music. The floats are homemade, and that is their charm. The crowds cheer and clap for the vets walking by them. Waves from floats get return waves. No one thinks it's silly to wave. The brownies chat as they walk. The crowd applauds everyone's efforts. People ooh and aah the old cars, and the lady beside me remembered she and her husband owned the exact same car. It was a great parade, and I loved it.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
“Acquiring a dog may be the only opportunity a human ever has to choose a relative.”
Last night all hell broke loose on my deck. I heard chairs falling, Gracie barking and stuff hitting the deck. I ran out and saw the biggest raccoon I have ever seen perched on my deck rail. I'm talking big enough to be saddled and ridden by a small child. It looked at me nonchalantly and was totally unconcerned that a raving dog was barking at it. I duped Gracie who ran down into the yard thinking the raccoon had gone there. With Gracie gone, the critter escaped down the stairs and across the yard, but the dog heard it and gave chase. The raccoon climbed up a tree and took off out of the yard. Gracie jumped the fence. I grabbed a sweatshirt, her leash and my flashlight and went to find her. I couldn't even hear her harness clicking so she was out of range. My friends down the street heard from me that Gracie had gone over the wall so they put their get Gracie system into effect. Clare drives the car slowly and calls while Tony follows with a leash and a flashlight. Finally Clare caught her and Tony leashed her. I was both angry and relieved. Of course, all this happened at the bottom of the eighth in a 2-0 Sox-Tampa playoff game. Gracie has never had great timing.
My dog, Duke, roamed all over town as did every other dog when I was a kid. Back then the world was safer for dogs. Cars never really went all that fast. With neighborhoods filled with kids playing on the sidewalks and the streets, drivers were cautious. Duke usually followed me or my brother, but he'd follow another kid if we weren't available. Once he somehow found my grandmother and followed her. She did not care for animals, least of all Duke. She kept trying to send him home. Had she known Boxers at all, she'd have known that stubborn defines the breed, and Duke had perfected stubborn. He followed her into Woolworth's and lifted his leg on the comic books. Without lying, she said it was not her dog then left the store, and the dog that was not hers followed her outside. That is one of my favorite Duke stories.
My dog, Duke, roamed all over town as did every other dog when I was a kid. Back then the world was safer for dogs. Cars never really went all that fast. With neighborhoods filled with kids playing on the sidewalks and the streets, drivers were cautious. Duke usually followed me or my brother, but he'd follow another kid if we weren't available. Once he somehow found my grandmother and followed her. She did not care for animals, least of all Duke. She kept trying to send him home. Had she known Boxers at all, she'd have known that stubborn defines the breed, and Duke had perfected stubborn. He followed her into Woolworth's and lifted his leg on the comic books. Without lying, she said it was not her dog then left the store, and the dog that was not hers followed her outside. That is one of my favorite Duke stories.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Havana Farewell: Bob Neuwirth
This song is from the absolutely beautiful album Havana Midnight, his last studio album. Cuban Jose Maria Vitier arranged the music and you can hear his rhythmic touch as Neuwirth sings.
I always thought Bob Neuwirth underappreciated as a singer.
MP3 File
I always thought Bob Neuwirth underappreciated as a singer.
MP3 File
“She ate so many clams that her stomach rose and fell with the tide.”
Last night it was eleven when I went outside for my shower. All around me the houses were dark. A lit candle gave the shower a bit of brightness and the dog's sensor lights highlighted the backyard and silhouetted the trees. The steam from the shower rose all around the enclosure and out into the yard.
A manatee has found its way to Cape waters. It appears injured which could be the reason for its disorientation. I went down to the harbor yesterday, but the manatee wasn't close enough to be seen. Plans are in the works to save it from cold Cape waters. The article in the paper today mentioned they were looking to find a plane to transport the manatee south for rehabilitation and then release. I hope someone steps forward.
I have always been enchanted by the ocean. When I was a little kid, I never went home from a day at the beach without a bag of sandy shells. Late in the afternoon, my brother and I would walk the hard sand closest to the water to try to find the most colorful shells. Later I learned most of the shells we'd found were from quahogs with their tinges of purple. Sometimes by the water, we'd see a hermit crab scurrying along and leaving the oddest trail in the wet sand. We'd watch until it disappeared in the water. Not once did we ever catch the small, quick silver minnows near the rocks and the dock, but not from lack of trying. My dad once showed us clam holes in the sand and how to dig them without damaging the shells. He also taught me how best to eat steam clams. Open the shell, take off the black turtleneck (for that's what I called it), bathe the steamer through the clam broth to clean off the sand then into the butter then into the mouth. My mother always thought it disgusting. She only ate her clams fried and without bellies.
I still love to walk along the water, and I still collect shells. For years I clammed and quahogged, but now I just drop by the fish market for whatever I'm in the mood to eat. I haven't had steamers in a long while. It might be time. I know I'll think of my dad enjoying them along with me and of my mother complaining and wondering how we could ever eat those disgusting things.
A manatee has found its way to Cape waters. It appears injured which could be the reason for its disorientation. I went down to the harbor yesterday, but the manatee wasn't close enough to be seen. Plans are in the works to save it from cold Cape waters. The article in the paper today mentioned they were looking to find a plane to transport the manatee south for rehabilitation and then release. I hope someone steps forward.
I have always been enchanted by the ocean. When I was a little kid, I never went home from a day at the beach without a bag of sandy shells. Late in the afternoon, my brother and I would walk the hard sand closest to the water to try to find the most colorful shells. Later I learned most of the shells we'd found were from quahogs with their tinges of purple. Sometimes by the water, we'd see a hermit crab scurrying along and leaving the oddest trail in the wet sand. We'd watch until it disappeared in the water. Not once did we ever catch the small, quick silver minnows near the rocks and the dock, but not from lack of trying. My dad once showed us clam holes in the sand and how to dig them without damaging the shells. He also taught me how best to eat steam clams. Open the shell, take off the black turtleneck (for that's what I called it), bathe the steamer through the clam broth to clean off the sand then into the butter then into the mouth. My mother always thought it disgusting. She only ate her clams fried and without bellies.
I still love to walk along the water, and I still collect shells. For years I clammed and quahogged, but now I just drop by the fish market for whatever I'm in the mood to eat. I haven't had steamers in a long while. It might be time. I know I'll think of my dad enjoying them along with me and of my mother complaining and wondering how we could ever eat those disgusting things.
Thursday, October 09, 2008
The Photograph: The Chapmans
Yup, it's bluegrass again. I'm hooked, can't help liking the sound. The Chapmans are family brothers John, Jeremy, and Jason and their banjoist father Bill. This is from Simple Man, their 2005 album.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Look! Up in the sky!" "It's a bird!" "It's a plane!" "It's Superman!"
I remember crisp October afternoons when the sun shined with the clearest of light. It was long sleeve weather, and darkness came early. We'd play outside until my mother called. Once inside, we'd settle in front of the television to watch our favorite programs.
Today was Circus Day on the Mickey Mouse Club. Mickey was the ringmaster, and the Merry Mouseketeers were circus folk. Even now, I don't ever think of them as just plain Mouseketeers. They were and still are the Merry Mouseketeers. Each late afternoon I sat in front of the television and sang along, "Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me?" I really did believe it was a club of which I was a member. I knew all the songs of the week and usually sang along. I always dreaded the end, " Now it's time to say goodbye to all our company."
Superman was also an every afternoon event. The opening, "Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive," still jumps around in my memory. I didn't care that his Clark Kent disguise wasn't all that great. I was a kid, and kids are willing participants and the best suspenders of disbelief. Scoffing comes much later. Lois Lane too was one of my heroes. In her characteristic suit and matching hat, she was willing to take risks for the big story. Granted, Superman had to save her, but that was the perfect fifties plot line: girl gets saved by hero.
Today was Circus Day on the Mickey Mouse Club. Mickey was the ringmaster, and the Merry Mouseketeers were circus folk. Even now, I don't ever think of them as just plain Mouseketeers. They were and still are the Merry Mouseketeers. Each late afternoon I sat in front of the television and sang along, "Who's the leader of the club that's made for you and me?" I really did believe it was a club of which I was a member. I knew all the songs of the week and usually sang along. I always dreaded the end, " Now it's time to say goodbye to all our company."
Superman was also an every afternoon event. The opening, "Faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive," still jumps around in my memory. I didn't care that his Clark Kent disguise wasn't all that great. I was a kid, and kids are willing participants and the best suspenders of disbelief. Scoffing comes much later. Lois Lane too was one of my heroes. In her characteristic suit and matching hat, she was willing to take risks for the big story. Granted, Superman had to save her, but that was the perfect fifties plot line: girl gets saved by hero.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Big Train (From Memphis): John Fogerty
This song is from 1995's Centerfield. I read somewhere that the song was a tribute to Elvis, but don't hold me to that.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"... there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take, No matter where it’s going."
Yesterday my lawn man was supposed to come to turn off the lawn irrigation system and my outside shower. He didn't make it, and I'm glad. Today is not too cold for a last outside shower. Notice I couched it in a very pointed way: not too cold. Warm doesn't enter into it.
Some days I get the urge to pack up a few things, grab the dog and take off for parts unknown. It doesn't come from discontent with my lot, a warrant for my arrest or any unpaid bills. As far as I can remember, it has always been there. When I was a kid, I'd hop on my bicycle and pedal all over town. Once my brother and I pedaled to East Boston through three towns and along a major highway. It scared my mother to death. To us, it was just an adventure, a way to spend the day. I take rides to nowhere just for the fun of the ride. My rules are simple. Take all rights or all lefts. I haven't been anywhere in a while. I can feel the urge getting stronger.
I love trains. I want to be Lucy and go across country in one. In a train, you get to move around and still go forward. You get to eat without stopping. A bathroom break is only in time, not distance. I want to sleep in a berth. When I wake up and open the curtain, I want to see a new part of the world.
Some days I get the urge to pack up a few things, grab the dog and take off for parts unknown. It doesn't come from discontent with my lot, a warrant for my arrest or any unpaid bills. As far as I can remember, it has always been there. When I was a kid, I'd hop on my bicycle and pedal all over town. Once my brother and I pedaled to East Boston through three towns and along a major highway. It scared my mother to death. To us, it was just an adventure, a way to spend the day. I take rides to nowhere just for the fun of the ride. My rules are simple. Take all rights or all lefts. I haven't been anywhere in a while. I can feel the urge getting stronger.
I love trains. I want to be Lucy and go across country in one. In a train, you get to move around and still go forward. You get to eat without stopping. A bathroom break is only in time, not distance. I want to sleep in a berth. When I wake up and open the curtain, I want to see a new part of the world.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Forever Young: Jimmy LaFave
This is from his Trail album.
I always think only of Joan Baez or Peter, Paul and Mary singing this, but I've played one or both before. As I hate to repeat, I figured I might just offer another version.
MP3 File
I always think only of Joan Baez or Peter, Paul and Mary singing this, but I've played one or both before. As I hate to repeat, I figured I might just offer another version.
MP3 File
White Rose: Slaid Cleves
Richard sent this along, and it is perfect to match my musings of today.
The song is a Fred Eaglesmith and it appears on an album called The Songs of Fred Eaglesmith: A Tribute.
MP3 File
The song is a Fred Eaglesmith and it appears on an album called The Songs of Fred Eaglesmith: A Tribute.
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"Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world."
When we were little, everything we built was called a fort, and building forts was a summer tradition. Most times the forts were made from branches. We'd tie together long, uneven branches in a rude framework then cover them with an old blanket. The sides and front were always open. We'd beg to sleep there and most times my mother let us. We usually built our forts in the woods behind our house, and I loved those woods.
In front of the woods was a huge field. That's where we caught the grasshoppers. On three sides of that field were the woods. The side to the left had less underbrush, and the trees were taller and older. That's where we buried our turtle. He was wrapped in Kleenex, placed in a small metal case and given quite the send-off. Years later, the town build elderly housing there, and when I saw the construction, I remembered my turtle. My grandmother ended up living in that section of the complex. I was always amazed at the coincidence.
The woods to the right were thicker, and you came out at Green Street. We once found a small shack in those woods. It was built from wood and actually had a roof and all four sides. We explored the inside and found magazines, the sort of magazines teenage boys hid under their mattresses. We got a little scared and ran.
At the furthest end of the field was a dead tree. It was mostly trunk though it still had one huge branch which had fallen across the path. In our minds that tree was always the border. Beyond it was the best part of the woods. Once pass the tree, over or under the large branch, there was a grassy field and from there you had choices. To the right was a grassy path and beside the path were blueberry bushes. The path went up a hill, and at the top of the hill was a small water tower. It was on Green Street. To the left, beyond the tree, were more woods. They were thick and uninviting. We seldom choose that direction. Straight ahead was a path which led back into woods and to the swamp. That was our favorite spot of all.
The swamp was in a clearing. I always thought it was huge. The front was more like a pond and was perfect for ice skating. In the spring it was the best spot for catching tadpoles. In the summer, we'd wander into the back part of the swamp which meandered around small islands or what I always thought of as islands. We'd jump from one to the other and usually get wet and muddy in the jumping. The water was always pretty clear and in the winter you could still see all the branches and leaves frozen under the ice. I used to kneel on the ice and look at the still life pictures. The branches seemed suspended.
We spend countless hours, season after season at that swamp. At some time, long after I'd moved, the swamp made way for more of that elderly housing. Too bad! They just should have added benches and a bridge or two between the islands.
In front of the woods was a huge field. That's where we caught the grasshoppers. On three sides of that field were the woods. The side to the left had less underbrush, and the trees were taller and older. That's where we buried our turtle. He was wrapped in Kleenex, placed in a small metal case and given quite the send-off. Years later, the town build elderly housing there, and when I saw the construction, I remembered my turtle. My grandmother ended up living in that section of the complex. I was always amazed at the coincidence.
The woods to the right were thicker, and you came out at Green Street. We once found a small shack in those woods. It was built from wood and actually had a roof and all four sides. We explored the inside and found magazines, the sort of magazines teenage boys hid under their mattresses. We got a little scared and ran.
At the furthest end of the field was a dead tree. It was mostly trunk though it still had one huge branch which had fallen across the path. In our minds that tree was always the border. Beyond it was the best part of the woods. Once pass the tree, over or under the large branch, there was a grassy field and from there you had choices. To the right was a grassy path and beside the path were blueberry bushes. The path went up a hill, and at the top of the hill was a small water tower. It was on Green Street. To the left, beyond the tree, were more woods. They were thick and uninviting. We seldom choose that direction. Straight ahead was a path which led back into woods and to the swamp. That was our favorite spot of all.
The swamp was in a clearing. I always thought it was huge. The front was more like a pond and was perfect for ice skating. In the spring it was the best spot for catching tadpoles. In the summer, we'd wander into the back part of the swamp which meandered around small islands or what I always thought of as islands. We'd jump from one to the other and usually get wet and muddy in the jumping. The water was always pretty clear and in the winter you could still see all the branches and leaves frozen under the ice. I used to kneel on the ice and look at the still life pictures. The branches seemed suspended.
We spend countless hours, season after season at that swamp. At some time, long after I'd moved, the swamp made way for more of that elderly housing. Too bad! They just should have added benches and a bridge or two between the islands.
Monday, October 06, 2008
Golden Apples: Joan Toliver
One of the neatest offshoots of doing Coffee is the artists I meet through you. Joan Toliver is one of these. This and another song of hers was sent to me, and I was thrilled to hear this wonderful voice so new to me. Finding information on her has been difficult. She started recording in the 50's, and I found a reference to her on Hootenanny. I came up pretty empty, sorry!
MP3 File
MP3 File
"There is only one satisfying way to boot a computer. "
Where have I been you might ask. Well, I have been sitting here for over two hours trying to fix the glitches which invaded my computer during the dead of night. I am now bloodied but triumphant. My Outlook Express wouldn't let me open any links. I was told NO in fairly abrupt terms. I Googled, as we all do, and found several solutions. None worked. I then decided to look for signs of tampering. I found no tiny footprints, but I think they might have been erased because I did see what appeared to be tiny fingerprints, but they could be the result of my crazed mind hallucinating. I tried system restore as a last resort and even that didn't work. It wouldn't restore. I use Firefox, but, as directed, I switched to IE for the purpose of trying to solve the problem. It didn't work either. The problem even got bigger. Outlook froze every time I opened it. I then went from what I lovingly call one geek board to another. I found a different solution so I gave it a try. I made the changes and rebooted, and, glory be, it worked. I was able to use Outlook and the links. I then gambled and made Firefox my default browser again. Both are still working. I, however, am exhausted. My head is bleeding from banging it so many times against my computer monitor. My hands are permanently curled into fists. I have bald spots from pulling out my hair. I have spittle from sputtering, and it is not a pretty sight, but all is well in computer land. Actually, all is well except for system restore, but I'll not tackle that one until after a few drinks.
Where are my encyclopedia, my dictionary and my Information Please Almanac? I think I have a slide rule somewhere. My mail box has plenty of room for letters and magazines. I have an old typewriter from college in the cellar. I hope I can find a ribbon. I'll have to give a bit of time to relearning the old ways like actually cutting and pasting. After my experience this morning, I want to be prepared.
Where are my encyclopedia, my dictionary and my Information Please Almanac? I think I have a slide rule somewhere. My mail box has plenty of room for letters and magazines. I have an old typewriter from college in the cellar. I hope I can find a ribbon. I'll have to give a bit of time to relearning the old ways like actually cutting and pasting. After my experience this morning, I want to be prepared.
Sunday, October 05, 2008
Rama Lama Ding Dong: The Edsels
"George "Wydell" Jones, who wrote the doo-wop hit "Rama Lama Ding Dong" and performed it as a member of the Edsels, has died after battling cancer.
"Rama Lama" peaked at No. 21 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in 1961. The Youngstown, Ohio-based Edsels also included Jimmy Reynolds, Harry Green, Marshall Sewell and Larry Green.
During their heyday, the Edsels performed at the Apollo Theater in New York and appeared on "American Bandstand."
MP3 File
"Rama Lama" peaked at No. 21 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in 1961. The Youngstown, Ohio-based Edsels also included Jimmy Reynolds, Harry Green, Marshall Sewell and Larry Green.
During their heyday, the Edsels performed at the Apollo Theater in New York and appeared on "American Bandstand."
MP3 File
"The mind is the most capricious of insects - flitting, fluttering."
I woke up cold this morning. The wide open window and the cold night made me wish I'd put a blanket on the bed. Even the dog and Miss Fern huddled beside me for warmth. Seems like winter is getting too close.
It's another dreary day, but I don't mind. I have all these Sunday papers to read, and I'm already thinking about a nap. I'm actually the only one still awake.
Today is a day filled with random thoughts. I'm tired, and the effort of keeping some continuity from one paragraph to another seems daunting so I've decided on stream of consciousness as my theme. If it worked for James Joyce in Ulysses, why not for me?
Serendipity is one of the sweet experiences of life. Having measles used to be a rite of childhood. Every kid in my neighborhood had measles at the same time. We used to get influenza, but now we just get the flu. It's universal to say blow when you're trying to wipe a little kid's nose. Why do some people honk when they blow their noses? My father always carried a folded, white handkerchief. He kept it in his back pocket. I remember the cardboard handkerchief tops guys used to put in their jacket pockets. They matched their ties. I still associate pill box hats with Jacqueline Kennedy and will never forget that pink one. The cafeteria ladies at my high school were always old. They wore plastic caps. I remember rain bonnets and how you always had a folded one in your pocketbook. Banks used to give them away. I used pocketbook because that seems an old term to me. I just say call mine a bag but I could also say purse or handbag. I never gave much thought before as to why an ugly woman is sometimes called an old bag. What then is an ugly old man?
When I was in Africa, the only two foods I missed were cole slaw and root beer. Plantain, mangoes and pawpaw (papaya) were brand new to me. I still eat them. Okra I can take or leave. It's the slime. Once on a dare I ate chocolate covered ants. All I could taste was the chocolate but it disgusted me all the same. I like chicken legs and turkey legs, but I won't eat frog legs. I do eat snails. Chocolate is the perfect food. It fills the body and soothes the soul. You can drink it, eat it for lunch then dig into it for dessert.
My friend often times me I have a strange mind. I take it as a compliment.
It's another dreary day, but I don't mind. I have all these Sunday papers to read, and I'm already thinking about a nap. I'm actually the only one still awake.
Today is a day filled with random thoughts. I'm tired, and the effort of keeping some continuity from one paragraph to another seems daunting so I've decided on stream of consciousness as my theme. If it worked for James Joyce in Ulysses, why not for me?
Serendipity is one of the sweet experiences of life. Having measles used to be a rite of childhood. Every kid in my neighborhood had measles at the same time. We used to get influenza, but now we just get the flu. It's universal to say blow when you're trying to wipe a little kid's nose. Why do some people honk when they blow their noses? My father always carried a folded, white handkerchief. He kept it in his back pocket. I remember the cardboard handkerchief tops guys used to put in their jacket pockets. They matched their ties. I still associate pill box hats with Jacqueline Kennedy and will never forget that pink one. The cafeteria ladies at my high school were always old. They wore plastic caps. I remember rain bonnets and how you always had a folded one in your pocketbook. Banks used to give them away. I used pocketbook because that seems an old term to me. I just say call mine a bag but I could also say purse or handbag. I never gave much thought before as to why an ugly woman is sometimes called an old bag. What then is an ugly old man?
When I was in Africa, the only two foods I missed were cole slaw and root beer. Plantain, mangoes and pawpaw (papaya) were brand new to me. I still eat them. Okra I can take or leave. It's the slime. Once on a dare I ate chocolate covered ants. All I could taste was the chocolate but it disgusted me all the same. I like chicken legs and turkey legs, but I won't eat frog legs. I do eat snails. Chocolate is the perfect food. It fills the body and soothes the soul. You can drink it, eat it for lunch then dig into it for dessert.
My friend often times me I have a strange mind. I take it as a compliment.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
"The world is full of people looking for spectacular happiness while they snub contentment. "
The baseball game ended around 1:30 this morning. It was a really good game, suspenseful until the final out. I wasn't sleepy so I watched the post game analysis on NESN. By the time I finally dragged myself upstairs, it was close to 2:30.
Yesterday I dragged a fifty pound bag of birdseed from the car into house. It took a while as I kept stopping to rest my back. I remember a time I'd throw a similar bag over my shoulder and carry it into the house. I used to complain to my mother if I thought she was overdoing, like shoveling or mowing. Too old I'd tell her in a nice way. She never agreed. I get her now.
I don't have a whole lot on my mind today. I can't seem to wrap my head around anything for too long. I have friends coming to dinner, and I'm excited. They have been my friends for close to forty years. Two of them were the first dinner guests ever in my brand new home. I had no furniture yet so we sat on the floor. I love to entertain. I love planning the evening and cooking the meal. It gives me a reason to try new recipes.
I can't even complain about the weather. It's perfect, sunny and warm. I have no gripes about the season. I love fall and all its colors. I love the pumpkins on everyone's steps. Three of my neighbors have displays on benches and bales of hay. I can't moan about the usual Saturday noise. No one is mowing a lawn so it's quiet. I guess I'm just going to have be content.
Yesterday I dragged a fifty pound bag of birdseed from the car into house. It took a while as I kept stopping to rest my back. I remember a time I'd throw a similar bag over my shoulder and carry it into the house. I used to complain to my mother if I thought she was overdoing, like shoveling or mowing. Too old I'd tell her in a nice way. She never agreed. I get her now.
I don't have a whole lot on my mind today. I can't seem to wrap my head around anything for too long. I have friends coming to dinner, and I'm excited. They have been my friends for close to forty years. Two of them were the first dinner guests ever in my brand new home. I had no furniture yet so we sat on the floor. I love to entertain. I love planning the evening and cooking the meal. It gives me a reason to try new recipes.
I can't even complain about the weather. It's perfect, sunny and warm. I have no gripes about the season. I love fall and all its colors. I love the pumpkins on everyone's steps. Three of my neighbors have displays on benches and bales of hay. I can't moan about the usual Saturday noise. No one is mowing a lawn so it's quiet. I guess I'm just going to have be content.
Friday, October 03, 2008
Yarrington Town: Mickie Merkens
This song came by way of a Coffee friend. I had only heard Nanci Griffith sing this and knew nothing of Mickie Merkens who wrote this song.
I have Googled Mickie's name and found little beyond what I just told you. I found her listed as backup vocal on a Bill Staines album and no more. My friend had only this song by her, and I feel darn lucky to have it.
MP3 File
I have Googled Mickie's name and found little beyond what I just told you. I found her listed as backup vocal on a Bill Staines album and no more. My friend had only this song by her, and I feel darn lucky to have it.
MP3 File
Tom Dooley: The Kingston Trio
Nick Reynolds, a founding member of The Kingston Trio, died on Wednesday.
The group's recording of this song went to number 1 in 1958 and earned The Trio a Grammy for best country and western performance at the very first Grammy ceremony. There was, that first year, no category for folk music.
"The first thing that turned me on to folk singing was Odetta...From Odetta I went to Harry Belafonte, the Kingston Trio, little by little uncovering more as I went along."
Bob Dylan
Nick Reynolds typically handled the middle part of the trio's three part harmony. He remained with the Kingston Trio until it disbanded in 1967. In 1988 he joined a reconstituted version of the Kingston Trio and performed with them until retiring in 1999.
MP3 File
The group's recording of this song went to number 1 in 1958 and earned The Trio a Grammy for best country and western performance at the very first Grammy ceremony. There was, that first year, no category for folk music.
"The first thing that turned me on to folk singing was Odetta...From Odetta I went to Harry Belafonte, the Kingston Trio, little by little uncovering more as I went along."
Bob Dylan
Nick Reynolds typically handled the middle part of the trio's three part harmony. He remained with the Kingston Trio until it disbanded in 1967. In 1988 he joined a reconstituted version of the Kingston Trio and performed with them until retiring in 1999.
MP3 File
“A lot of people are afraid of heights. Not me. I'm afraid of widths.”
The night was chilly but this morning is lovely. The sky is deep blue with a few clouds for contrast. The sun is sharp. The bird feeders are seeing non-stop action. The usual birds drop by, and I noticed the goldfinches are back and the cardinal pair is still here. The feeders are getting low on seed so I'll refill them later. Right now my house is quiet. The cats are lying on the mat in the sun, and Gracie is asleep on the couch.
Growing up, I don't remember being afraid of much. Thunder was exhilarating, and I knew monsters didn't live under my bed. They weren't in my closet either. What was in the dark was the same as what was in the light. I just couldn't see it. My parents scared us once by scratching on the screen. I was filled with bravado and yelled I'd call the police. I was actually yelling from a really great hiding place. My uncle, a few years older than I, took my brother and me in town to the MDC pool. We went by subway. At the station we were standing around separately when a man approached me and offered me gum if I followed him. I remember he wore a hat and had rotten teeth. I ran over to my uncle who didn't believe me. I was more mad than scared.
When I was older, I walked alone at night. My friends and I would start out together, but they'd drift off one by one as we'd get to their houses. Most times I ended up walking the last few blocks alone. The field, below my street, was the last part of the walk. I remember nighttime shadows as I walked across. I don't remember being afraid.
My very first weekend in Accra, two friends and I were walking across a bridge to The Lido, a night spot. We had been in Ghana only a few weeks and it was obvious we were new. My purse was a lovely faux straw with two leather straps, just the style for a night on the town in Accra. A Ghanaian grabbed one of the straps and started to pull. It was my very first purse snatching adventure, and I was game. I grabbed the other strap and pulled as hard. His finally gave way, and he ran, strap in hand. Rather than being afraid, I was amused. I was a Peace Corps trainee and had little money. The man would have ended up with a couple of cedis and a lovely straw purse. I got a story to tell, had my first adventure and still had the straw purse.
I have fears. We all do. Being afraid is not the same.
Growing up, I don't remember being afraid of much. Thunder was exhilarating, and I knew monsters didn't live under my bed. They weren't in my closet either. What was in the dark was the same as what was in the light. I just couldn't see it. My parents scared us once by scratching on the screen. I was filled with bravado and yelled I'd call the police. I was actually yelling from a really great hiding place. My uncle, a few years older than I, took my brother and me in town to the MDC pool. We went by subway. At the station we were standing around separately when a man approached me and offered me gum if I followed him. I remember he wore a hat and had rotten teeth. I ran over to my uncle who didn't believe me. I was more mad than scared.
When I was older, I walked alone at night. My friends and I would start out together, but they'd drift off one by one as we'd get to their houses. Most times I ended up walking the last few blocks alone. The field, below my street, was the last part of the walk. I remember nighttime shadows as I walked across. I don't remember being afraid.
My very first weekend in Accra, two friends and I were walking across a bridge to The Lido, a night spot. We had been in Ghana only a few weeks and it was obvious we were new. My purse was a lovely faux straw with two leather straps, just the style for a night on the town in Accra. A Ghanaian grabbed one of the straps and started to pull. It was my very first purse snatching adventure, and I was game. I grabbed the other strap and pulled as hard. His finally gave way, and he ran, strap in hand. Rather than being afraid, I was amused. I was a Peace Corps trainee and had little money. The man would have ended up with a couple of cedis and a lovely straw purse. I got a story to tell, had my first adventure and still had the straw purse.
I have fears. We all do. Being afraid is not the same.
Thursday, October 02, 2008
Lonesome Cowboy Bill's Song: Steve Forbert
This is from Young, Guitar Days, released in 2001. It is a collection of outtakes and B-sides recorded during his days with the Nemporer label from 1978 to 1981. I don't get why they weren't released as I think some are his best.
MP3 File
MP3 File
Tea and Sympathy: Janis Ian
The hit song from 1975's Between the Lines was At Seventeen, but this has always been my favorite. I can feel the loneliness. It's palpable.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"Loathesome I am, and evil. You can mock me for that. But leave my pain alone!"
It's a bit brisk, but I still took a morning shower, just finished. My late start today has to do with the Red Sox playing on the west coast. The game didn't start until 10, and I didn't get upstairs to bed until after 1:30, but I did fall to sleep with a smile on my face! I get a reprieve as the next game isn't until Friday. Tonight I get to watch the vice presidential debate. My friends and I will watch together. We're thinking snacks from Trader Joe's and cosmos.
My morning newspaper had nothing about the baseball series except a picture from the first inning. The game was on too late. If entire cities disappeared from the Earth during the night, leaving gaping holes, it wouldn't be in my newspaper.
I have never been one for soap operas. When I was in high school, my friends would discuss the latest goings on as if they were gossiping about neighbors. They'd yell over one another trying to decide which twin it might have been who fathered the baby of so and so and whether or not everybody in town knew they were really related to everybody else and whether that twin was really a triplet. But it finally happened to me, I got bitten by the soap opera bug though later I started to question if it really had been a bug or something more sinister. I became a Dark Shadows fan. I never missed my soap, and I loved Barnaby Collins, the vampire. Watching Dark Shadows, I went back and forth in time and into a parallel time, met vampires, ghosts and zombies. It was my kind of soap. It was not my friend's kind of soap. They never watched it. They still argued over whose baby it was, and I still had no idea what they were talking about.
My morning newspaper had nothing about the baseball series except a picture from the first inning. The game was on too late. If entire cities disappeared from the Earth during the night, leaving gaping holes, it wouldn't be in my newspaper.
I have never been one for soap operas. When I was in high school, my friends would discuss the latest goings on as if they were gossiping about neighbors. They'd yell over one another trying to decide which twin it might have been who fathered the baby of so and so and whether or not everybody in town knew they were really related to everybody else and whether that twin was really a triplet. But it finally happened to me, I got bitten by the soap opera bug though later I started to question if it really had been a bug or something more sinister. I became a Dark Shadows fan. I never missed my soap, and I loved Barnaby Collins, the vampire. Watching Dark Shadows, I went back and forth in time and into a parallel time, met vampires, ghosts and zombies. It was my kind of soap. It was not my friend's kind of soap. They never watched it. They still argued over whose baby it was, and I still had no idea what they were talking about.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Carey: Cyndi Lauper
I decided to let this be cover day.
I think this is the most remarkable Joni cover. The song is from An All Star Tribute to Joni Mitchell. If you drop by youtube, you can see her sing it. Check the comments for the link.
MP3 File
I think this is the most remarkable Joni cover. The song is from An All Star Tribute to Joni Mitchell. If you drop by youtube, you can see her sing it. Check the comments for the link.
MP3 File
Wichita Lineman: James Taylor
This is from James Taylor's newest album, Covers. Since Sweet Baby James, I have liked James Taylor and probably have most of his albums. He takes a song, and you swear it was always his. That's what he does here.
MP3 File
MP3 File
"The past is not a package one can lay away."
I sometimes wonder what happened to friends of old. Hanging in my bathroom is my eighth grade graduation picture. Strange place you're thinking, but it fits perfectly on the wall over the sink. I figure it gives people something to look at when they're washing their hands. It also fits the theme of the bathroom which is school, also strange I suspect you're thinking, but I'm not explaining. I'll leave it a bit of a mystery. Well anyway, when I look at that picture, I know the place where it was taken doesn't exist in the same way in time. It was on the lawn of the convent, which has since been sold and torn down. In my day the convent was filled with nuns. I was never inside, but I imagined they all lived in tiny rooms each with a crucifix on the wall and only a bed and bureau for furniture. I used to wonder if they had to wear those habits in the convent, even to and from the shower. The priest in the picture was old even then, and he has been gone a long time. Some of my classmates also have passed away. I know of two though there are probably more. One, Paula, was a friend of mine.
My friend Tom loved to sing. He has a really good voice though we used to make fun of him. He sang old songs and once he sang I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen to me on St. Patrick's Day on the bus. I was embarrassed. He was a gentle kid, and I always wonder what happened to him. His parents had us over often, and they served homemade pizza, great homemade pizza. We'd sit at the kitchen table just waiting for that pizza to come out of the oven. He lived across the street from the house where my mother lived during high school. I always thought that a neat coincidence.
One of my friends was great fun but dumb as a post. She found anything academic daunting. I heard she had become a stewardess, as that is what they were called back then, and I thought it the perfect job for her. Not to say that stewardesses are dumb, but independent thought is not really a prerequisite.
A few of the guys were real jerks and one was a bully. I'd like to think they got their comeuppance. One girl seldom spoke or even smiled. I figured it was because she had buck teeth. I always wondered why her parents didn't realize. She lived about four blocks from me, but we were never friends. I go by her house even now and then on one of my nostalgia rides and I think about her.
I last saw my friend Michelle at my mother's wake. I don't know how long it had been since we'd last seen each other. She and her sister live together in the family house. Michelle and I walked to school together for seven years. She was always laughing. On the eighth grade trip, she and my mother shared a ride and Michelle laughed so hard she wet her pants. My mother used to describe how she stood up as it rolled toward her. At the wake, Michelle remembered that story. She hadn't really changed. She still laughed a lot and talked a blue streak.
All of us are now in our early sixties. Most of us were together for all eight years of grammar school. No matter the time or distance we still share our past.
My friend Tom loved to sing. He has a really good voice though we used to make fun of him. He sang old songs and once he sang I'll Take You Home Again Kathleen to me on St. Patrick's Day on the bus. I was embarrassed. He was a gentle kid, and I always wonder what happened to him. His parents had us over often, and they served homemade pizza, great homemade pizza. We'd sit at the kitchen table just waiting for that pizza to come out of the oven. He lived across the street from the house where my mother lived during high school. I always thought that a neat coincidence.
One of my friends was great fun but dumb as a post. She found anything academic daunting. I heard she had become a stewardess, as that is what they were called back then, and I thought it the perfect job for her. Not to say that stewardesses are dumb, but independent thought is not really a prerequisite.
A few of the guys were real jerks and one was a bully. I'd like to think they got their comeuppance. One girl seldom spoke or even smiled. I figured it was because she had buck teeth. I always wondered why her parents didn't realize. She lived about four blocks from me, but we were never friends. I go by her house even now and then on one of my nostalgia rides and I think about her.
I last saw my friend Michelle at my mother's wake. I don't know how long it had been since we'd last seen each other. She and her sister live together in the family house. Michelle and I walked to school together for seven years. She was always laughing. On the eighth grade trip, she and my mother shared a ride and Michelle laughed so hard she wet her pants. My mother used to describe how she stood up as it rolled toward her. At the wake, Michelle remembered that story. She hadn't really changed. She still laughed a lot and talked a blue streak.
All of us are now in our early sixties. Most of us were together for all eight years of grammar school. No matter the time or distance we still share our past.
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