Sunday, November 30, 2008
“Failure is not falling down but refusing to get up.”
It's late, I know, but I have been in bed all morning recovering. My sister claims yesterday ranks third on the all time how did I injure myself this time list. It started out simply enough: I walked out the front door. I stepped half on the outside mat and half on the step. The height difference between the two caused me to twist my ankle and go flying into the flower bed. I hugged a bush. I got really dirty and I moaned. My neighbor, working outside, came to my rescue and helped me into the house.
Falling, breaking a bone or injuring myself in some unique way has never interfered with my everyday life. It is my heritage, passed down from father to daughter. Because I had stuff to do and my ankle didn't feel all that bad, off to the kitchen I went. I finished a dish I was making for a fund raiser. I doused the fire. What fire? Well, the one I started by inadvertently moving the handles of a shopping bag too close to the burner on the stove. Again, not unique. Once, my father and I set a map on fire from a candle we were using for light. The flames shot out from the middle of the map. We laughed and so did every one in the restaurant. Have I mentioned my father and knives? He was forever slicing a finger, sometimes by accident and a few times to remove fishing hooks. I am my father's daughter. I capped off the afternoon by stabbing myself in the palm with a knife I was washing.
By the time I had finished, I couldn't walk on my ankle. Even sitting still was painful so my friends decided I needed an x-ray. Off we went to the hospital in Hyannis. Three hours later I left with a badly sprained ankle wrapped in an ace bandage and covered in an air cast. They gave me crutches. That is a huge mistake.
Falling, breaking a bone or injuring myself in some unique way has never interfered with my everyday life. It is my heritage, passed down from father to daughter. Because I had stuff to do and my ankle didn't feel all that bad, off to the kitchen I went. I finished a dish I was making for a fund raiser. I doused the fire. What fire? Well, the one I started by inadvertently moving the handles of a shopping bag too close to the burner on the stove. Again, not unique. Once, my father and I set a map on fire from a candle we were using for light. The flames shot out from the middle of the map. We laughed and so did every one in the restaurant. Have I mentioned my father and knives? He was forever slicing a finger, sometimes by accident and a few times to remove fishing hooks. I am my father's daughter. I capped off the afternoon by stabbing myself in the palm with a knife I was washing.
By the time I had finished, I couldn't walk on my ankle. Even sitting still was painful so my friends decided I needed an x-ray. Off we went to the hospital in Hyannis. Three hours later I left with a badly sprained ankle wrapped in an ace bandage and covered in an air cast. They gave me crutches. That is a huge mistake.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
"And finally Winter, with its bitin', whinin' wind, and all the land will be mantled with snow. "
Today is lovely. The frost of the early morning has melted in the brightness of the sun. The day is sweatshirt warm. It's a day to be outside.
I remember winter as forever cold. I could see my breath. My cheeks got bright rosy red, and my feet were never warm. I remember how excited I was when it snowed. I'd stand at the window with my elbows on the sill and watch. At night, the street light in front of my house was the best spot for watching. The snow would drop gently. The flakes glimmered in the light. It seemed as if the world had been muted, stripped of color and sound. I always wanted to whisper.
The day after a snowstorm was almost magical. The snow glinted in the sun. Not a footprint marred the surface. Cars looked like snow hills. The plow always left a layer of snow on the street as if the driver knew we wanted to go sledding. The hill behind our house was for little kids. The rest of us went sledding down our street, a gloriously long hill. The plodding back up the hill was a small price to pay for the joy of the ride down. We stayed outside until the cold permeated to our bones. My mother sometimes made cocoa, and I remember her cocoa always had bubbles on the inside rim. She made it with milk. My favorite was when she'd add a dollop of marshmallow. It would melt and spread across the top of the cocoa. It was a taste of heaven.
I remember winter as forever cold. I could see my breath. My cheeks got bright rosy red, and my feet were never warm. I remember how excited I was when it snowed. I'd stand at the window with my elbows on the sill and watch. At night, the street light in front of my house was the best spot for watching. The snow would drop gently. The flakes glimmered in the light. It seemed as if the world had been muted, stripped of color and sound. I always wanted to whisper.
The day after a snowstorm was almost magical. The snow glinted in the sun. Not a footprint marred the surface. Cars looked like snow hills. The plow always left a layer of snow on the street as if the driver knew we wanted to go sledding. The hill behind our house was for little kids. The rest of us went sledding down our street, a gloriously long hill. The plodding back up the hill was a small price to pay for the joy of the ride down. We stayed outside until the cold permeated to our bones. My mother sometimes made cocoa, and I remember her cocoa always had bubbles on the inside rim. She made it with milk. My favorite was when she'd add a dollop of marshmallow. It would melt and spread across the top of the cocoa. It was a taste of heaven.
Friday, November 28, 2008
I Am a Wanderer: Joan Baez
Save the Day: Kate Campbell
"To cherish peace and goodwill, to be plenteous in mercy, is to have the real spirit of Christmas."
It was a magnificent day yesterday. I watched the whole parade and welcomed Santa then I chased Gracie up and down the street. After recovering from the hunt, I left and spent the whole afternoon and evening with friends. We had sumptuous appetizers, watched Miracle on 34th Street then sat down to a feast of epic proportions. Today I have the joy of leftovers.
I'll now turn my attention to Christmas. The gourds, the pumpkins and the Pilgrims will be put away until next year. Each day from now on I'll bring up a few decorations until the house is filled with the beauty of Christmas. I'll string lights outside and stand a bit away to admire my efforts. Soon I'll be surrounded by the smells, sights and sounds of Christmas.
I know it's easy to dismiss Christmas with all its commercialism. Ads fill the papers every morning and carols have been playing since Halloween, but Christmas is so much more. It is family and tradition. My tree will be decorated with memories. Though my sisters won't be here for Christmas, my friends will be, and they have become family too.
I can hardly wait to get started.
I'll now turn my attention to Christmas. The gourds, the pumpkins and the Pilgrims will be put away until next year. Each day from now on I'll bring up a few decorations until the house is filled with the beauty of Christmas. I'll string lights outside and stand a bit away to admire my efforts. Soon I'll be surrounded by the smells, sights and sounds of Christmas.
I know it's easy to dismiss Christmas with all its commercialism. Ads fill the papers every morning and carols have been playing since Halloween, but Christmas is so much more. It is family and tradition. My tree will be decorated with memories. Though my sisters won't be here for Christmas, my friends will be, and they have become family too.
I can hardly wait to get started.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
A thankful heart is not only the greatest virtue, but the parent of all the other virtues."
I am amazed by the bounty in my life. I have learned to live as fully as possible, to see the glory in every day. I am surrounded by love. My thanks are endless.
Thanksgiving
For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food,
For love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. Thank you for being part of my life and for sharing yours with me.
Thanksgiving
For each new morning with its light,
For rest and shelter of the night,
For health and food,
For love and friends,
For everything Thy goodness sends.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. Thank you for being part of my life and for sharing yours with me.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Cut the Cornbread, Mama: The Osborne Brothers
"Got no check books, got no banks. Still I'd like to express my thanks - I got the sun in the mornin' and the moon at night."
Today is a lovely day. Gracie and I will be going to the dump later, one of her favorite places, and then maybe we'll meander a bit. Last year I was preparing for my guests and tomorrow's dinner so the day was a busy one. This year I get to loll.
I do need to buy a few parade staples. My mother always put out a bowl of mixed nuts in the shell, tangerines and M&M's. She'd put the nuts in a wooden bowl, and we'd use the silver nutcrackers and picks which came with the bowl. It took so much strength to open some nuts we'd send projectiles of shell pieces flying in all directions, and, by the time we were done, glass ashtrays overflowed with cast off shells. M&M's were about the only hand candy back then. Tangerines were easy to peel, and you could spit the seeds at each other if the parade got boring. My mother spent the whole morning in the kitchen. My dad went with his father to the traditional Thanksgiving Day football game.
We always had a half day today. We seldom did regular lessons and usually made cards and decorations. Dismissal was around 10:30. My friends and I would race home and play all afternoon. My mother baked pies. The house had the most wonderful smells this time of year.
I do need to buy a few parade staples. My mother always put out a bowl of mixed nuts in the shell, tangerines and M&M's. She'd put the nuts in a wooden bowl, and we'd use the silver nutcrackers and picks which came with the bowl. It took so much strength to open some nuts we'd send projectiles of shell pieces flying in all directions, and, by the time we were done, glass ashtrays overflowed with cast off shells. M&M's were about the only hand candy back then. Tangerines were easy to peel, and you could spit the seeds at each other if the parade got boring. My mother spent the whole morning in the kitchen. My dad went with his father to the traditional Thanksgiving Day football game.
We always had a half day today. We seldom did regular lessons and usually made cards and decorations. Dismissal was around 10:30. My friends and I would race home and play all afternoon. My mother baked pies. The house had the most wonderful smells this time of year.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Pilgrim: Steve Earle and the McCoury Band
"We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures."
It's a windy, rainy day. I can hear drops hitting the windows and the wind blowing through the pine branches in the back yard. It's dark in my room, and I love the feeling of closeness the darkness seems to bring. I have errands, but I don't mind the rain.
Being a kid made holidays easy. They just seemed to happen. The shopping got done, the turkey stuffed and the vegetables peeled. I just showed up for the meal. It always seemed as if my mother was up before dawn getting the turkey ready. We'd come downstairs, and the kitchen sink would be filled with bowls and dirty pans, and the turkey, stuffed and trussed, would be in the oven.
I loved to watch my mother baste the turkey. She'd open the oven then use all her strength to pull out the shelf with the turkey pan. I can see her bending over the pan, collecting the juices and bathing the browning bird. I still have and use one of those old basters, and I think of my mother every time I do. I also sneak tastes of the stuffing just the way she did. She used to say the crunchy outside was the best, and I agree.
This year I will enjoy the day with friends. Last year I was the hostess, and I loved the meal, a combination of all our traditions. Every dish was a story, a memory. There was the cole slaw, the green bean casserole, the squash and the mince meat pie, all compliments of our parents and grandparents. It was all of us and our families bound by love holding hands across time and space. I think that's the best part of Thanksgiving.
Being a kid made holidays easy. They just seemed to happen. The shopping got done, the turkey stuffed and the vegetables peeled. I just showed up for the meal. It always seemed as if my mother was up before dawn getting the turkey ready. We'd come downstairs, and the kitchen sink would be filled with bowls and dirty pans, and the turkey, stuffed and trussed, would be in the oven.
I loved to watch my mother baste the turkey. She'd open the oven then use all her strength to pull out the shelf with the turkey pan. I can see her bending over the pan, collecting the juices and bathing the browning bird. I still have and use one of those old basters, and I think of my mother every time I do. I also sneak tastes of the stuffing just the way she did. She used to say the crunchy outside was the best, and I agree.
This year I will enjoy the day with friends. Last year I was the hostess, and I loved the meal, a combination of all our traditions. Every dish was a story, a memory. There was the cole slaw, the green bean casserole, the squash and the mince meat pie, all compliments of our parents and grandparents. It was all of us and our families bound by love holding hands across time and space. I think that's the best part of Thanksgiving.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Illegal Smile: John Prine
Oh Abraham: John Gorka
“A hero is someone who has given his or her life to something bigger than oneself.”
The morning air has a hint of the warmer day to come. Gracie has been outside since she woke me up, and when I last checked, she was sitting in front of her tree, the best spot for surveying the yard. The sky is a light gray, and, against its backdrop, the pine branches look even starker. I have no plans for today.
My very favorite teacher in elementary school was Miss Quilter, my sixth grade teacher. I remember dark hair and thick glasses. I have no idea how old she was; any adult seemed old to my young eyes. I found her amazing. She awakened in me a thirst for learning and a competitive streak I didn't know I had. She made me want to be the best. My seat was in the second row, close to the back. Miss Quilter used to wander up and down the rows and from front to back. Sometimes she even taught from the back of the room. Having had a nun the year before who never left her desk, I found Miss Quilter extraordinary.
We studied American history that year. I remember it coming alive. I remember the shot heard 'round the world. I keep, in my memory drawer, a picture from that history book, a colored picture of colonialists shooting from behind rocks and trees. I know it was Lexington.
Miss Quilter made us write once a week. A few times we had a topic; most times we didn't. She just wanted us to write, to become comfortable with our own words. I remember the white paper with the blue lines, and I remember being pretty messy, writing and rewriting. It was then I first started reading my words out loud to hear how they sound. I still do that.
Miss Quilter was my first real life hero.
My very favorite teacher in elementary school was Miss Quilter, my sixth grade teacher. I remember dark hair and thick glasses. I have no idea how old she was; any adult seemed old to my young eyes. I found her amazing. She awakened in me a thirst for learning and a competitive streak I didn't know I had. She made me want to be the best. My seat was in the second row, close to the back. Miss Quilter used to wander up and down the rows and from front to back. Sometimes she even taught from the back of the room. Having had a nun the year before who never left her desk, I found Miss Quilter extraordinary.
We studied American history that year. I remember it coming alive. I remember the shot heard 'round the world. I keep, in my memory drawer, a picture from that history book, a colored picture of colonialists shooting from behind rocks and trees. I know it was Lexington.
Miss Quilter made us write once a week. A few times we had a topic; most times we didn't. She just wanted us to write, to become comfortable with our own words. I remember the white paper with the blue lines, and I remember being pretty messy, writing and rewriting. It was then I first started reading my words out loud to hear how they sound. I still do that.
Miss Quilter was my first real life hero.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
"The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still."
It is cold. Poor Gracie runs out, does her business then runs right back into the house. Her days of lying outside in the sun are done. The couch is Gracie's winter spot for naps. Come to think of it, it's mine too.
The first thing I do when I wake up is look out my window and check out the morning. From my bed, I can see the tops of the pine trees and the sky. Today I saw blue and knew it was a pretty day.
Sunday was never my favorite day. First was church. I hated having to wear a dress on a weekend day, and no matter what my brother and I did, we couldn't make church fun. I think it was the fear of eternal damnation which kept us respectful. Once we got home, we couldn't go far. We had to be around for Sunday dinner. Most nights we ate supper without my dad. He always seemed to work late and usually got home well after we'd eaten. Sunday was an exception. We had dinner together, the whole family, and it was fancier than any other meal. Usually it was a roast, cow or chicken, mashed potatoes and a vegetable or two. We usually ate around one. My dad would then watch football which meant no TV for us. We'd read the paper or quietly play board games. My father generally yelled and screamed at the TV during his games. We thought it pretty funny. Back then there were no Patriots, and he was a Giants fan.
My mother always checked to see if we had done our homework; of course, we hadn't. What kid would waste a Friday or Saturday doing homework? That meant we spend late Sunday afternoons doing homework. O joy!
Because we had stayed up later on Friday and Saturday nights, my mother used that as an excuse to get us in bed earlier on Sunday. After all, we had school the next day, and we needed to be rested.
Sunday was a rotten way to start the week.
The first thing I do when I wake up is look out my window and check out the morning. From my bed, I can see the tops of the pine trees and the sky. Today I saw blue and knew it was a pretty day.
Sunday was never my favorite day. First was church. I hated having to wear a dress on a weekend day, and no matter what my brother and I did, we couldn't make church fun. I think it was the fear of eternal damnation which kept us respectful. Once we got home, we couldn't go far. We had to be around for Sunday dinner. Most nights we ate supper without my dad. He always seemed to work late and usually got home well after we'd eaten. Sunday was an exception. We had dinner together, the whole family, and it was fancier than any other meal. Usually it was a roast, cow or chicken, mashed potatoes and a vegetable or two. We usually ate around one. My dad would then watch football which meant no TV for us. We'd read the paper or quietly play board games. My father generally yelled and screamed at the TV during his games. We thought it pretty funny. Back then there were no Patriots, and he was a Giants fan.
My mother always checked to see if we had done our homework; of course, we hadn't. What kid would waste a Friday or Saturday doing homework? That meant we spend late Sunday afternoons doing homework. O joy!
Because we had stayed up later on Friday and Saturday nights, my mother used that as an excuse to get us in bed earlier on Sunday. After all, we had school the next day, and we needed to be rested.
Sunday was a rotten way to start the week.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
"The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware."
I have had perfect moments when I was as close to eden as being mortal allows. These moments are never accompanied by parades or fireworks. They just happen. Sometimes I'm in the middle of the most common of days when I am overwhelmed with joy.
I remember a glorious spring day when I was sitting on my deck. The sun was glinting through the trees. The sky was so blue it defied description. I could smell earth and grass and fresh flowers. The breeze was ever so slight. It was a perfect moment and I savored it.
Once I was exhausted and couldn't walk another step. I stopped at an outside cafe for coffee and watched people wander by me. Some carried bags; others held hands; a few pushed carriages. I heard their laughter. It made me smile, and I got lost in the moment.
In an unheated room in a B&B in Ireland on a cold April night, I dashed from the tub and got under layers and layers of quilts. I got warm and cozy. I read my book and ate my Cadbury chocolate. I was perfectly content and wanted no more from life than all I had at that one moment.
In Ghana, while I was waiting for the Yeji ferry, I bought a bottle of water, not the sort we buy now but rather a green beer bottle. The water in it had floaties as we called them. I walked away from the kiosks, leaned against an overturned boat and drank my water. I watched small boys swimming in the Volta Lake. I watched women, their clothes a swirl of colors, carrying their babies on their backs. I could smell fish. All of a sudden, I realized life was giving me a gift. Life was giving me the memory of this moment, and I grabbed it and still hold on to it for all I'm worth.
Yesterday I was making a fresh pot of coffee. The house was warm. I was in my coziest clothes. I stood at the kitchen window and watched the birds. The room filled with the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee. I filled my favorite mug, took my first sip and knew it was one these moments, the simplest maybe, but a moment no less filled with life.
I remember a glorious spring day when I was sitting on my deck. The sun was glinting through the trees. The sky was so blue it defied description. I could smell earth and grass and fresh flowers. The breeze was ever so slight. It was a perfect moment and I savored it.
Once I was exhausted and couldn't walk another step. I stopped at an outside cafe for coffee and watched people wander by me. Some carried bags; others held hands; a few pushed carriages. I heard their laughter. It made me smile, and I got lost in the moment.
In an unheated room in a B&B in Ireland on a cold April night, I dashed from the tub and got under layers and layers of quilts. I got warm and cozy. I read my book and ate my Cadbury chocolate. I was perfectly content and wanted no more from life than all I had at that one moment.
In Ghana, while I was waiting for the Yeji ferry, I bought a bottle of water, not the sort we buy now but rather a green beer bottle. The water in it had floaties as we called them. I walked away from the kiosks, leaned against an overturned boat and drank my water. I watched small boys swimming in the Volta Lake. I watched women, their clothes a swirl of colors, carrying their babies on their backs. I could smell fish. All of a sudden, I realized life was giving me a gift. Life was giving me the memory of this moment, and I grabbed it and still hold on to it for all I'm worth.
Yesterday I was making a fresh pot of coffee. The house was warm. I was in my coziest clothes. I stood at the kitchen window and watched the birds. The room filled with the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee. I filled my favorite mug, took my first sip and knew it was one these moments, the simplest maybe, but a moment no less filled with life.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Outbound Plane: Suzy Bogguss
“Voyage, travel, and change of place impart vigor”
Where has she been all morning? How many times does she think I'll check? Sorry, but Gracie and I had company which put me way behind my time, but I do admit I am getting lazy. Winter weather does that to me. I find the house a perfect refuge from the cold. I dawdle in the mornings. I make a pot or two of coffee, take time with the papers and watch the birds for a while. I don't get dressed right away, and I have the worst bed hair. I really don't care. I love my mornings.
When I travel, I have few preconceptions, tend to take things as I find them and adapt when necessary. This has allowed me to acquire many new talents. I have become quite adept at using hole in the ground facilities. My aim is excellent. Cleanliness has become relative and dependent upon where I am. In my walk around travel bag are soap papers, wet naps, bacterial wipes and toilet paper. They compensate for what I find or step in. I stopped noticing smells a long time ago, except for food, which gets through my filter. A convenient deafness protects me from panhandlers and beggars. I just keep walking. I have learned to bargain with the best of them though I still probably pay more than I should. I love the cacophony of marketplaces and the shouts of vendors. Time becomes unimportant between the arriving and the leaving. Sitting in a cafe for an hour drinking coffee and watching the world pass by me is time well spent. I love walking with no destination in mind. I try all sorts of different foods and judge none by their looks. I have found I am at my best as a traveler.
When I travel, I have few preconceptions, tend to take things as I find them and adapt when necessary. This has allowed me to acquire many new talents. I have become quite adept at using hole in the ground facilities. My aim is excellent. Cleanliness has become relative and dependent upon where I am. In my walk around travel bag are soap papers, wet naps, bacterial wipes and toilet paper. They compensate for what I find or step in. I stopped noticing smells a long time ago, except for food, which gets through my filter. A convenient deafness protects me from panhandlers and beggars. I just keep walking. I have learned to bargain with the best of them though I still probably pay more than I should. I love the cacophony of marketplaces and the shouts of vendors. Time becomes unimportant between the arriving and the leaving. Sitting in a cafe for an hour drinking coffee and watching the world pass by me is time well spent. I love walking with no destination in mind. I try all sorts of different foods and judge none by their looks. I have found I am at my best as a traveler.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Cold Wind Blowing: Clifford T. Ward
Clifford T. Ward was a gifted songwriter whose numbers were recorded by artists including Art Garfunkel and Ringo Starr. This song is from Home Thoughts from Abroad.
"In 1984 he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and despite the frustration of his growing disability he continued to write and record at his home studio. He released his last album Julia and Other stories in 1994. "I'm like a bat" he told journalist Spencer Leigh, "I function best at night, but I had to make some of it on all fours." Clifford T Ward died of pneumonia on 18th December 2001."
MP3 File
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"In 1984 he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis and despite the frustration of his growing disability he continued to write and record at his home studio. He released his last album Julia and Other stories in 1994. "I'm like a bat" he told journalist Spencer Leigh, "I function best at night, but I had to make some of it on all fours." Clifford T Ward died of pneumonia on 18th December 2001."
MP3 File
yousendit
Winter Song: Emily Smith
"Every mile is two in winter."
Cold, did I mention it's cold? The dusting from yesterday now makes a crunchy sound when you walk on it. Bleak comes to mind. Nights for the rest of the week are going to be mighty chilly, in the 20's. I'll not venture. I'm into cozy and warm.
We all walked to school every day regardless of the weather. Winter was the bundling time of year. My mother dressed us in ski pants, worn under our skirts, heavy jackets, hats and mittens. The worst part of this winter walk was along the field below our street. The wind whipped across like I imagined it did on the tundra. It took our breath away. The rest of the walk was easier as houses acted as buffers from the wind. Once at school, getting rid of all those clothes took time. The cloakroom was always filled with kids wrestling with boots or shoes and ski pants. Fitting everything on a hook was a huge challenge. Mittens went into sleeves for safe keeping. Boots were lined up below our hooks. The cloak room was a neat place. It was right outside the classroom along the back wall. Everything was wood except for the hooks. The wood floor was worn and lighter in color than the wooden shelves. Years of wet boots took their toll.
In my mind's eye, I can still see my first grade classroom and its cloakroom. It was on the first floor, up the front stairs and on the right. We went into the cloak room as soon as we arrived, shed our clothes then took either of the two doors leading into the classroom. Our faces were always red from the cold. We'd sit and chat until the bell was rung. It was a hand bell rung by an eighth grader over the stairs from the top floor. It controlled our day.
My mother would have been horrified seeing us at recess. We threw on our coats, unbuttoned, went hatless and ran outside. No kid was going to lose precious recess time for bundling.
The nun would sent us one row at a time to the cloak room at the end of the day. We'd bring the stuff inside the room and get dressed for the walk home. I never did a really great job. A few times I left my mittens in the sleeves, and I missed buttons on my coat which gave me a lopsided look. Still, I don't remember ever being cold except when I got to the tundra below my street.
We all walked to school every day regardless of the weather. Winter was the bundling time of year. My mother dressed us in ski pants, worn under our skirts, heavy jackets, hats and mittens. The worst part of this winter walk was along the field below our street. The wind whipped across like I imagined it did on the tundra. It took our breath away. The rest of the walk was easier as houses acted as buffers from the wind. Once at school, getting rid of all those clothes took time. The cloakroom was always filled with kids wrestling with boots or shoes and ski pants. Fitting everything on a hook was a huge challenge. Mittens went into sleeves for safe keeping. Boots were lined up below our hooks. The cloak room was a neat place. It was right outside the classroom along the back wall. Everything was wood except for the hooks. The wood floor was worn and lighter in color than the wooden shelves. Years of wet boots took their toll.
In my mind's eye, I can still see my first grade classroom and its cloakroom. It was on the first floor, up the front stairs and on the right. We went into the cloak room as soon as we arrived, shed our clothes then took either of the two doors leading into the classroom. Our faces were always red from the cold. We'd sit and chat until the bell was rung. It was a hand bell rung by an eighth grader over the stairs from the top floor. It controlled our day.
My mother would have been horrified seeing us at recess. We threw on our coats, unbuttoned, went hatless and ran outside. No kid was going to lose precious recess time for bundling.
The nun would sent us one row at a time to the cloak room at the end of the day. We'd bring the stuff inside the room and get dressed for the walk home. I never did a really great job. A few times I left my mittens in the sleeves, and I missed buttons on my coat which gave me a lopsided look. Still, I don't remember ever being cold except when I got to the tundra below my street.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane: The Roches
Stars: The Weepies
"November always seemed to me the Norway of the year."
I'm a slug, no question about it. I woke up this morning after ten because of a late night and a cozy warm bed. Fern, the cat, and Gracie, the dog, were also slugs. After I finally dragged myself out of bed, I went to the window to give the morning my usual look. I see my world has lost its color. It's brown and gray and bleak. I saw a windy day. I watched a small eddy of whirling snow. Winter has dropped by for a visit and left a dusting. I think it's a warning.
It's time to pull out the Sears catalog and pore over the toy pages. I find lying on the floor the best spot for viewing, and two of us can look at the same time. A circle and an initial identify our choices, but these choices will change and change again. Choosing what we want from Santa is a ritual as much a part of Christmas as any ritual. After days of poring over the pages and choosing and unchoosing, we'll write our letters. We like to get them out early. They should be in Santa's hands no later than than the first week in December. After that, we just have to be good.
My mother used to decorate the house for every holiday, and Thanksgiving was always the most difficult. She'd buy turkey napkins, little pilgrim candles whose heads got lit and a paper tablecloth with turkeys around the edges. Cardboard turkeys and pilgrims were taped to the windows long before the big day. She had a giant turkey platter, and I remember she always used the same pan to cook the turkey the whole of her life. My mother used to get up in the darkness of early morning to put the turkey in the oven. I remember she used to sneak and eat the crisp end of the stuffing whenever she basted the bird. My dad always ate the neck. The kitchen windows were steamed the whole day. We watched the parade.
It's time to pull out the Sears catalog and pore over the toy pages. I find lying on the floor the best spot for viewing, and two of us can look at the same time. A circle and an initial identify our choices, but these choices will change and change again. Choosing what we want from Santa is a ritual as much a part of Christmas as any ritual. After days of poring over the pages and choosing and unchoosing, we'll write our letters. We like to get them out early. They should be in Santa's hands no later than than the first week in December. After that, we just have to be good.
My mother used to decorate the house for every holiday, and Thanksgiving was always the most difficult. She'd buy turkey napkins, little pilgrim candles whose heads got lit and a paper tablecloth with turkeys around the edges. Cardboard turkeys and pilgrims were taped to the windows long before the big day. She had a giant turkey platter, and I remember she always used the same pan to cook the turkey the whole of her life. My mother used to get up in the darkness of early morning to put the turkey in the oven. I remember she used to sneak and eat the crisp end of the stuffing whenever she basted the bird. My dad always ate the neck. The kitchen windows were steamed the whole day. We watched the parade.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Blessed: Brett Dennen
Across the Great Divide: Kate Wolf
"A thankful heart is not only the greatest virtue, but the parent of all the other virtues."
This morning was my monthly library board meeting. It was the longest meeting in several months. The additional time was spent discussing the library's portfolio, measuring for new covers to protect the floor under the computers and cleaning a vacuum which wouldn't suck. We are an all purpose board.
If I were back in elementary school, I'd be finding turkey stickers at the tops of really good papers, and I'd be coloring a card for my parents. The card always had a turkey on the front and a simple greeting inside. It usually just said Happy Thanksgiving written at an angle with some letters on a second line because I'd run of space. Sometimes we'd get creative and cut and paste turkeys out of construction paper. The tail was always several colored pieces glued together in a fan shape. With my artistic talent, it was often the only hint that I'd made a turkey though guessing a peacock wouldn't have been off the mark. My mother always oohed and ahed over every card and made a huge production out of displaying it on the fridge where everyone could see. I was always really proud.
We used to have to write a paper about being thankful. The first couple of thank yous were easy. All of us put God down first because it was expected then we thanked our parents, also expected. After that it got dicey. I used to put down my brother and sisters, but I really didn't mean it. I did mean to give thanks for the dog. I also gave thanks for a bountiful feast though when I was really young I had no idea what that was. I just knew the Pilgrims gave thanks for it so I might as well too.
Out of the classroom, we were actually a thankless bunch. A kid's Thanksgiving was about parades and food and great desserts. It wasn't until we got older that we realized how much we had and how many thanks we owed. We owed thanks every day. I have to admit, though, it took the longest before I was truly thankful for little sisters.
If I were back in elementary school, I'd be finding turkey stickers at the tops of really good papers, and I'd be coloring a card for my parents. The card always had a turkey on the front and a simple greeting inside. It usually just said Happy Thanksgiving written at an angle with some letters on a second line because I'd run of space. Sometimes we'd get creative and cut and paste turkeys out of construction paper. The tail was always several colored pieces glued together in a fan shape. With my artistic talent, it was often the only hint that I'd made a turkey though guessing a peacock wouldn't have been off the mark. My mother always oohed and ahed over every card and made a huge production out of displaying it on the fridge where everyone could see. I was always really proud.
We used to have to write a paper about being thankful. The first couple of thank yous were easy. All of us put God down first because it was expected then we thanked our parents, also expected. After that it got dicey. I used to put down my brother and sisters, but I really didn't mean it. I did mean to give thanks for the dog. I also gave thanks for a bountiful feast though when I was really young I had no idea what that was. I just knew the Pilgrims gave thanks for it so I might as well too.
Out of the classroom, we were actually a thankless bunch. A kid's Thanksgiving was about parades and food and great desserts. It wasn't until we got older that we realized how much we had and how many thanks we owed. We owed thanks every day. I have to admit, though, it took the longest before I was truly thankful for little sisters.
Monday, November 17, 2008
The House of the Rising Sun: Ronnie Gilbert
Tiny Winey: Byron Lee and the Dragonaires
“Do not get excited over the noise you have made”
The morning is crisp and chilly. The bright sun is for light, not warmth. Gracie stays outside less and less. She is content to curl up on the chair and sleep away the morning. She is there now, and I can hear her breathing.
The summer is filled with sounds. The songs of birds greet the day. Insects chirp in the heat of a late afternoon. The voices of my neighbors resound from their opened windows. Dogs bark at each other across yards. I can hear the wind through the trees and the drops of rain on a stormy afternoon. During summer, the outside world stays close.
All my windows are shut now. Sounds come from within, and the house is never quiet. The furnace blasts hot air. I hear ice cubes dropping into the tray. When the cats chase each other, I hear the pounding of their paws. I hear hissing when they meet. I play quiet music in winter. It seems to fit. A roaring fire, a glass of wine and soft music makes for a perfect winter evening.
Noises are different than sounds, and I'm finding I'm not so tolerant of noise any more. It's kind of funny because when I was a kid, nothing was noisy, and I couldn't understand why my mother kept asking us to keep it down. We didn't have inside or outside voices; we just had noise. We talked through Saturday matinées, despite Al's flashlight and his threats. We whispered at mass and giggled as quietly as we could when people glared. We yelled and shouted to each other across the school yard. Recess was a riot of noise. We attached playing cards to the spokes of our bikes so we could make noise when we pedaled. Puddles were meant for splashing and the louder the better. Sometimes we sang at the tops of our lungs all the way home from school. We especially liked Christmas carols. Noise and kids are naturals, forever joined together. I forget that sometimes and get annoyed when my neighbor's kids are in their yard screaming and playing. I'll have to remind myself they deserve their time to noisy. I had mine.
The summer is filled with sounds. The songs of birds greet the day. Insects chirp in the heat of a late afternoon. The voices of my neighbors resound from their opened windows. Dogs bark at each other across yards. I can hear the wind through the trees and the drops of rain on a stormy afternoon. During summer, the outside world stays close.
All my windows are shut now. Sounds come from within, and the house is never quiet. The furnace blasts hot air. I hear ice cubes dropping into the tray. When the cats chase each other, I hear the pounding of their paws. I hear hissing when they meet. I play quiet music in winter. It seems to fit. A roaring fire, a glass of wine and soft music makes for a perfect winter evening.
Noises are different than sounds, and I'm finding I'm not so tolerant of noise any more. It's kind of funny because when I was a kid, nothing was noisy, and I couldn't understand why my mother kept asking us to keep it down. We didn't have inside or outside voices; we just had noise. We talked through Saturday matinées, despite Al's flashlight and his threats. We whispered at mass and giggled as quietly as we could when people glared. We yelled and shouted to each other across the school yard. Recess was a riot of noise. We attached playing cards to the spokes of our bikes so we could make noise when we pedaled. Puddles were meant for splashing and the louder the better. Sometimes we sang at the tops of our lungs all the way home from school. We especially liked Christmas carols. Noise and kids are naturals, forever joined together. I forget that sometimes and get annoyed when my neighbor's kids are in their yard screaming and playing. I'll have to remind myself they deserve their time to noisy. I had mine.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on."
The wind last night roared like a freight train whooshing through a tunnel. I went out a couple of times with the dog. She wandered the backyard while I stood on the deck and let the wind wash over me. Later it rained, and I fell asleep to the sound.
Not much to say today. It's my friend's birthday, and I'm making dinner. I still have to shop, but I have plenty of time as the dinner isn't all that complicated. I think birthdays are special. We all share Christmas and Easter and the other holidays, but most times, we don't have to share our birthdays. They belong just to us so I like to make a big deal for birthdays, even do a special dinner and have surprises.
My den is filled with wrapping paper and boxes. While I'm watching TV, I wrap Christmas presents. I start this early because I have so many gifts to wrap. I do the stockings for my sisters and wrap each little gift. I like to wrap, and I take time with each package. I even have toppers like ornaments. All of the already wrapped stuff is upstairs on the guest room bed. The room looks festive.
Well, this is one of those nothing posts filled with a few small pieces of my life.
Not much to say today. It's my friend's birthday, and I'm making dinner. I still have to shop, but I have plenty of time as the dinner isn't all that complicated. I think birthdays are special. We all share Christmas and Easter and the other holidays, but most times, we don't have to share our birthdays. They belong just to us so I like to make a big deal for birthdays, even do a special dinner and have surprises.
My den is filled with wrapping paper and boxes. While I'm watching TV, I wrap Christmas presents. I start this early because I have so many gifts to wrap. I do the stockings for my sisters and wrap each little gift. I like to wrap, and I take time with each package. I even have toppers like ornaments. All of the already wrapped stuff is upstairs on the guest room bed. The room looks festive.
Well, this is one of those nothing posts filled with a few small pieces of my life.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
"I hate television. I hate it as much as peanuts. But I can't stop eating peanuts."
I watch television, and I don't just watch CNN or PBS. I watch the science fiction channel all the time, wouldn't miss Stargate Atlantis or Doctor Who. I watch Primeval on BBC. It has strange creatures from other times, anomalies and a past-future thing going. Fringe has also caught my attention. I watch Life on Mars. I followed it over from the BBC. I like Pushing Daisies. It's weird which is probably why I like it. I watch Ugly Betty, but it's getting boring. I wonder why she is trying to break the Guinness' record of length of adult time in braces. I doubt her teeth could get any straighter. She also smiles 93% of the time. That worries me. I like crime shows. I like the Food Channel and HGTV. I don't like singing or dancing shows, and I could care less who survives. The Amazing Race is my only reality show. I don't watch daytime television. The set goes on about five, and I catch the local news. During the summer, I watch every Red Sox game. Most times I catch part of the Pats but not generally the whole game. I don't know much about football. I know the basics, but that's it. I watch the Celtics, but I still miss Johnny Most.
Most people I know watch television. Some people I know who watch television won't admit it or they'll admit to PBS. They don't want to seem pedestrian or captivated by a giant wasteland. I don't care. I like to watch TV.
Most people I know watch television. Some people I know who watch television won't admit it or they'll admit to PBS. They don't want to seem pedestrian or captivated by a giant wasteland. I don't care. I like to watch TV.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Jubilee: Mary Chapin Carpenter
“I am going to the bathroom.”
We lived in a duplex in a project in a small town when I was little. It was a great place to grow up. Only vets and their families could live there, and the project was filled with young parents and millions of kids. We had five rooms for the six of us: three bedrooms, a living room and a small kitchen. The bathroom was really tiny. It had a tub but no shower. The toilet was right beside the sink and was so close you could sit on the toilet and play with the water and the faucets. Hung on the wall across from the toilet was what I always called the bathroom poem. I think it was the only thing hanging in the bathroom. A little boy wearing a blue robe which felt furry to the touch was in the picture. He carried everything he needed for his bath. I used to sit on the toilet and read that rhyme over and over. I read it so many times I memorized it.
Please remember, don't forget
Never leave the bathroom wet
Nor leave the soap still in the water
That's a thing you NEVER oughta
Nor leave the towels about the floor
Nor keep the bath an hour or more
When other folks are wanting one
Please don't forget - it isn't done!
I don't remember anything else hanging on the walls of any other room but I never forgot this. Once in a B&B in Ireland, I saw the original hanging on a bathroom wall. I tried to buy it, but the owner didn't want to sell. I didn't blame him. Years later I found a reproduction of it on tin and bought it for my mother's Christmas stocking. She was thrilled and immediately hung it in her bathroom right near the toilet. The picture looked the same, but it didn't have the furry robe. I always thought that was the best part.
When my mother passed away, my sister sent the picture to me. It now hangs in my bathroom. I read it every time I brush my teeth.
Please remember, don't forget
Never leave the bathroom wet
Nor leave the soap still in the water
That's a thing you NEVER oughta
Nor leave the towels about the floor
Nor keep the bath an hour or more
When other folks are wanting one
Please don't forget - it isn't done!
I don't remember anything else hanging on the walls of any other room but I never forgot this. Once in a B&B in Ireland, I saw the original hanging on a bathroom wall. I tried to buy it, but the owner didn't want to sell. I didn't blame him. Years later I found a reproduction of it on tin and bought it for my mother's Christmas stocking. She was thrilled and immediately hung it in her bathroom right near the toilet. The picture looked the same, but it didn't have the furry robe. I always thought that was the best part.
When my mother passed away, my sister sent the picture to me. It now hangs in my bathroom. I read it every time I brush my teeth.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
If I Could Stay: Paul Siebel
"There are things about growing up in a small town that you can't necessarily quantify."
My town had its share of characters. Choo Choo was one of them. I never knew his real name. We always just called him Choo Choo. He was a retard and that's how we explained him. We weren't being cruel. It was just our way of understanding him and his behavior. My dad always shook Chooch's hand when they met and we started shaking his hand too. Conversations were difficult: mostly we just listened to him talk. Hello and a wave we always understood. His sister too was retarded. I remember she wore a car coat and ear muffs when it was cold and always seemed to be carrying bags. Choo Choo wore work pants with the label in the back. He liked sweaters. Chooch attended every funeral at St. Patrick's church. He always sat in the back.
The rag man scared me a little. He'd wander the streets in his wagon yelling for rags and papers. His clothes were always dirty. He reminded me of the bogeyman in all my nightmares. On one of my roams through town, I found his house. The porch and yard were filled with piles and piles of newspapers. The porch leaned away from the house under the weight of all those papers. I didn't see his horse or his wagon, but that's because I didn't stay around too long.
The old house had old people. I didn't realize at the time how poetic that was. They weren't nice old people. They shouted and yelled if you even got near their property, but it was hard to resist. They had chickens and goats, magnets for kids. We'd sneak in the back way, but within a short while, the old man would see us and start screaming at us out his back door. We'd run as fast as we could off his property.
My librarian wore clunky shoes, dresses with belts and a bun. She looked really top heavy to me. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. She never made a sound when she walked. She knew every book and always found the best ones for me to read. Throughout my entire childhood into my adulthood, she looked exactly the same. I used to wonder if she was a robot.
The rag man scared me a little. He'd wander the streets in his wagon yelling for rags and papers. His clothes were always dirty. He reminded me of the bogeyman in all my nightmares. On one of my roams through town, I found his house. The porch and yard were filled with piles and piles of newspapers. The porch leaned away from the house under the weight of all those papers. I didn't see his horse or his wagon, but that's because I didn't stay around too long.
The old house had old people. I didn't realize at the time how poetic that was. They weren't nice old people. They shouted and yelled if you even got near their property, but it was hard to resist. They had chickens and goats, magnets for kids. We'd sneak in the back way, but within a short while, the old man would see us and start screaming at us out his back door. We'd run as fast as we could off his property.
My librarian wore clunky shoes, dresses with belts and a bun. She looked really top heavy to me. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. She never made a sound when she walked. She knew every book and always found the best ones for me to read. Throughout my entire childhood into my adulthood, she looked exactly the same. I used to wonder if she was a robot.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Fields of Gold: Mary Black
Travelers' Code (Follow the Light): Darryl Purpose
"History is the essence of innumerable biographies."
It's a late start this morning as I had errands for the library, the one where I'm a board member. We went to Hyannis, the big city around here, but didn't find what we needed. We might just have to improvise.
When I graduated from high school, I got a typewriter as my graduation gift. I still have it. It's in the cellar. Without it, I wouldn't have been able to survive college. Many late nights I sat up typing papers, generally due the next day. They took forever to finish because I didn't know how to type. In my high school, we had three tracks: trade, business and college prep. Only the business students could take typing so I never learned. I still peck away with two fingers, two of the fastest fingers anyone has ever seen. I know the keyboard well enough that I give it only a cursory look as my fingers fly across from one letter to another. I'd teach myself typing, but I'm content with my two fingers. Besides, I'm too lazy to learn.
Before I graduated from college, my parents had agree to give me a trip to Europe as a graduation present. I was going with three of my friends. The trip was one of those see thirty countries in an hour tour. The Peace Corps changed my plans. My friends went to Europe, and I went to Africa. My parents bought me red luggage, an Instamatic camera, lots of slide film, bed sheets, towels, sandals and some new clothes. These weren't the most glamorous of graduation gifts, but they were perfect. Let me tell you their fates.
The luggage got beaten up from being tossed around on the tops of lorries. It got mildewy from the humidity, but it came home with me, filled with clothes I'd had made in Ghana. My camera got stolen once, right out of my house. I was sleeping outside when the thief came in the night, took the key from under my pillow and went inside. The poor thief didn't find a whole lot to steal. It was the end of the month, and I was broke. He took the camera but left it outside the gates. I brought that home with me too. The two sets of sheets were much the worse for wear. Hand washing does that. I left them in Ghana. The clothes I brought with me got replaced by dresses made from African cloth. The new dresses came home; the old dresses stayed. Towels too stayed. I gave them away. Hardly anything I brought with me came home.
I still have that luggage stored in the eaves. It has cuts and slashes and a dent or two, but it survived all Ghana had to give. It is a piece of my history.
When I graduated from high school, I got a typewriter as my graduation gift. I still have it. It's in the cellar. Without it, I wouldn't have been able to survive college. Many late nights I sat up typing papers, generally due the next day. They took forever to finish because I didn't know how to type. In my high school, we had three tracks: trade, business and college prep. Only the business students could take typing so I never learned. I still peck away with two fingers, two of the fastest fingers anyone has ever seen. I know the keyboard well enough that I give it only a cursory look as my fingers fly across from one letter to another. I'd teach myself typing, but I'm content with my two fingers. Besides, I'm too lazy to learn.
Before I graduated from college, my parents had agree to give me a trip to Europe as a graduation present. I was going with three of my friends. The trip was one of those see thirty countries in an hour tour. The Peace Corps changed my plans. My friends went to Europe, and I went to Africa. My parents bought me red luggage, an Instamatic camera, lots of slide film, bed sheets, towels, sandals and some new clothes. These weren't the most glamorous of graduation gifts, but they were perfect. Let me tell you their fates.
The luggage got beaten up from being tossed around on the tops of lorries. It got mildewy from the humidity, but it came home with me, filled with clothes I'd had made in Ghana. My camera got stolen once, right out of my house. I was sleeping outside when the thief came in the night, took the key from under my pillow and went inside. The poor thief didn't find a whole lot to steal. It was the end of the month, and I was broke. He took the camera but left it outside the gates. I brought that home with me too. The two sets of sheets were much the worse for wear. Hand washing does that. I left them in Ghana. The clothes I brought with me got replaced by dresses made from African cloth. The new dresses came home; the old dresses stayed. Towels too stayed. I gave them away. Hardly anything I brought with me came home.
I still have that luggage stored in the eaves. It has cuts and slashes and a dent or two, but it survived all Ghana had to give. It is a piece of my history.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
"When our perils are past, shall our gratitude sleep?"
Today we honor all the men and women who have served in the military. We honor the living and the dead whether they served in war or peace or at home or away.
It was in 1918, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month, that the world celebrated. After four years of war, the Allied powers had signed a cease-fire agreement with Germany bringing World War I, the war to end all wars, to a close. The following year November 11th was set aside to remember the sacrifices of the men and women who served during that war.
Armistice Day officially received its name in the United States in 1926 through a Congressional resolution and became a national holiday 12 years later. Congress voted Armistice Day a federal holiday in 1938, 20 years after the war ended. One year later the second world war began in Europe, and the armistice was forgotten.
It was 1953 when townspeople in Emporia, Kansas first called the holiday Veterans Day in gratitude to the veterans of all wars who lived in their town. Soon after, in 1954, Congress passed a bill introduced by a Kansas congressman renaming the federal holiday to Veterans Day. President Dwight D. Eisenhower designated the day to, "...solemnly remember the sacrifices of all those who fought so valiantly, on the seas, in the air, and on foreign shores, to preserve our heritage of freedom."
Today we give thanks.
It was in 1918, on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month, that the world celebrated. After four years of war, the Allied powers had signed a cease-fire agreement with Germany bringing World War I, the war to end all wars, to a close. The following year November 11th was set aside to remember the sacrifices of the men and women who served during that war.
Armistice Day officially received its name in the United States in 1926 through a Congressional resolution and became a national holiday 12 years later. Congress voted Armistice Day a federal holiday in 1938, 20 years after the war ended. One year later the second world war began in Europe, and the armistice was forgotten.
It was 1953 when townspeople in Emporia, Kansas first called the holiday Veterans Day in gratitude to the veterans of all wars who lived in their town. Soon after, in 1954, Congress passed a bill introduced by a Kansas congressman renaming the federal holiday to Veterans Day. President Dwight D. Eisenhower designated the day to, "...solemnly remember the sacrifices of all those who fought so valiantly, on the seas, in the air, and on foreign shores, to preserve our heritage of freedom."
Today we give thanks.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Miriam Makeba Has Died
Miriam Makeba, the "Mama Africa" whose sultry voice gave South Africans hope when the country was gripped by apartheid, died early Monday of a heart attack after collapsing on stage in Italy. She was 76.
The first African to win a Grammy award, Makeba started singing in Sophiatown, a cosmopolitan neighborhood of Johannesburg that was a cultural hotspot in the 1950s before its black residents were forcibly removed by the apartheid government.
She then teamed up with South African jazz trumpeter Hugh Masekela — later her first husband — and her rise to international prominence started in 1959 when she starred in the anti-apartheid documentary "Come Back, Africa."
When she tried to fly home for her mother's funeral the following year, she discovered her passport had been revoked.
It was Nelson Mandela who invited her home. "It was like a revival," she said about going home. "My music having been banned for so long, that people still felt the same way about me was too much for me. I just went home and I cried."
We too cry at this loss.Come in From the Cold: Joni Mitchell
"When I was in school, I cheated on my metaphysics exam: I looked into the soul of the boy sitting next to me."
I've never liked any Monday much so it is a perfect chore day. So far it has been a mishmash of a morning. I swept a bit of the deck, filled the bird feeders, put more slats of wood on the fence and cleaned the kitchen floor. I have lots more chores to do before Gracie and I go to the dump.
I have been contemplating taking a day or two off from Coffee every week. After nearly five years, my music folder has shrunk considerably, and some memory drawers are empty. I thought about the weekends, but I love posting different music and having fun with themes. I'm thinking I'll just put the days of the week in a hat and pull out a couple. I'll let you know.
I never really liked jump roping though it was the favorite girl thing to do during recess; instead, my friends and I ran around, chased each other and played tagged. It was our way of getting rid of all that energy kept at bay by scowling teachers in the classroom. We were never allowed to talk except to the teacher. Trying to communicate without getting caught took talent. I wasn't a note passer so I tried my best with hand signals. Sometimes I'd hide behind the person in front of me and whisper to the person beside me. I usually got caught. I never realized my missing head was a dead giveaway. I really doubt anything we wanted to say was all that important. It was the challenge which drew us. I remember in the eighth grade, I'd write a note, hide it in my hand, ask to go to the basket and drop the note on my friend's desk on the way. Later, I saw similar techniques in spy movies. I knew where they learned it.
My favorite school story is from the eighth grade when the nun I had was so old she had no idea what was going on. I sat by the window and flush beside me were bookcases. My first transistor radio was a brown leather one with holes in the front. I sneaked it to school, put it in the bookcase and put the ear piece in so I could listen to music. One afternoon I was listening when Sister Hildegarde called on me. The kid behind me pushed me so I'd know. I stood up because we always had to stand. The era piece was still in my ear, but the wire had been hidden in my shirt. Sister Hildegarde thought I was hard of hearing and raised her voice so I could hear her. For the rest of the year she pretty much shouted when she talked to me.
I have been contemplating taking a day or two off from Coffee every week. After nearly five years, my music folder has shrunk considerably, and some memory drawers are empty. I thought about the weekends, but I love posting different music and having fun with themes. I'm thinking I'll just put the days of the week in a hat and pull out a couple. I'll let you know.
I never really liked jump roping though it was the favorite girl thing to do during recess; instead, my friends and I ran around, chased each other and played tagged. It was our way of getting rid of all that energy kept at bay by scowling teachers in the classroom. We were never allowed to talk except to the teacher. Trying to communicate without getting caught took talent. I wasn't a note passer so I tried my best with hand signals. Sometimes I'd hide behind the person in front of me and whisper to the person beside me. I usually got caught. I never realized my missing head was a dead giveaway. I really doubt anything we wanted to say was all that important. It was the challenge which drew us. I remember in the eighth grade, I'd write a note, hide it in my hand, ask to go to the basket and drop the note on my friend's desk on the way. Later, I saw similar techniques in spy movies. I knew where they learned it.
My favorite school story is from the eighth grade when the nun I had was so old she had no idea what was going on. I sat by the window and flush beside me were bookcases. My first transistor radio was a brown leather one with holes in the front. I sneaked it to school, put it in the bookcase and put the ear piece in so I could listen to music. One afternoon I was listening when Sister Hildegarde called on me. The kid behind me pushed me so I'd know. I stood up because we always had to stand. The era piece was still in my ear, but the wire had been hidden in my shirt. Sister Hildegarde thought I was hard of hearing and raised her voice so I could hear her. For the rest of the year she pretty much shouted when she talked to me.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
"Autumn is marching on: even the scarecrows are wearing dead leaves."
It is a perfectly beautiful day. It is a warm, shirt sleeve, sandal kind of day. The sun is shining and shadows bounce off the trunks and branches of trees. The streets and lawns have been showered with the leaves blown off trees by the rain and the wind of the last few days. My deck looks deserted now as if it has been years rather than weeks since I last enjoyed a day outside. Later I'll fill the bird feeders and take in more of today.
I think fall the prettiest of all the seasons. The world is a blaze of color. The yellow leaves are so bright they almost hurt my eyes. Fall inches us into winter with a few cold nights and a frost or two. Cold fall mornings never mean it. I've loved fall since I was little. I remember the fun of kicking through the piles of leaves on the street beside the curb, and I remember laughing as we threw armfuls of leaves back and forth at each another. We never had much time for playing on fall afternoons. It got dark too early. I remember getting home as twilight stirred and seeing the lights from the windows reflected on the ground outside. I always knew the house would be warm, and my mother would be working on dinner. Sometimes the kitchen windows were covered with steam. I'd plunk down on the couch, turn on the TV and watch Superman save Metropolis one more time.
I think fall the prettiest of all the seasons. The world is a blaze of color. The yellow leaves are so bright they almost hurt my eyes. Fall inches us into winter with a few cold nights and a frost or two. Cold fall mornings never mean it. I've loved fall since I was little. I remember the fun of kicking through the piles of leaves on the street beside the curb, and I remember laughing as we threw armfuls of leaves back and forth at each another. We never had much time for playing on fall afternoons. It got dark too early. I remember getting home as twilight stirred and seeing the lights from the windows reflected on the ground outside. I always knew the house would be warm, and my mother would be working on dinner. Sometimes the kitchen windows were covered with steam. I'd plunk down on the couch, turn on the TV and watch Superman save Metropolis one more time.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
“There are some days when I think I'm going to die from an overdose of satisfaction.”
From the time I was little until I retired, Saturday was my favorite day of the week. When I was little, Saturday meant no school and no church. It was like a special day just for kids. The TV was filled with kid shows, westerns and cartoons. The movie theater had its only matinée of the week and no adult was crazy enough to go. We used to walk uptown by ourselves, buy our tickets, pick out long lasting candy and enjoy the movie. Sugar Daddies were about the longest lasting candy I remember. My jaw always hurt after chewing a Sugar Daddy through coming attractions, the serial, the cartoon and the movie. I always thought the best part of Sugar Daddies was when, after pulling and yanking with my teeth, strands of caramel appeared.
My father did all his errands on Saturdays, and sometimes he'd take me. I loved being uptown with my dad. He knew everybody. To them, I was George's girl. If I ever saw any of them on my own, that's what they called me. The square in my town was small. My father went to the same places every week: to the Chinaman, as my dad called him, for his shirts, to the barber for a trim and to Pulo's drugstore to say hello to Mr. Pulo, his friend. I got a coke while I waited, a vanilla coke. Mr. Pulo always wore a white coat and I remember he had a mustache. After we'd finish there, my father and I would go home. I always felt special after a Saturday morning with my dad.
When I was older and working, Saturday was sleep-in day. It was also my errand day, just as it had been my father's. I usually went to the grocery store and places like the dry cleaner's. I sometimes fun shopped. I didn't touch any schoolwork, didn't correct a single paper. I stayed up late on Saturday nights, just as I'd done when I was a kid. Sometimes I'd even go to the movies, and every now and then a matinée.
Since I've retired, Saturday stopped being special, but I still give Saturdays a revered place. When people ask me what retirement is like, I tell them it's like having a week of all Saturdays.
My father did all his errands on Saturdays, and sometimes he'd take me. I loved being uptown with my dad. He knew everybody. To them, I was George's girl. If I ever saw any of them on my own, that's what they called me. The square in my town was small. My father went to the same places every week: to the Chinaman, as my dad called him, for his shirts, to the barber for a trim and to Pulo's drugstore to say hello to Mr. Pulo, his friend. I got a coke while I waited, a vanilla coke. Mr. Pulo always wore a white coat and I remember he had a mustache. After we'd finish there, my father and I would go home. I always felt special after a Saturday morning with my dad.
When I was older and working, Saturday was sleep-in day. It was also my errand day, just as it had been my father's. I usually went to the grocery store and places like the dry cleaner's. I sometimes fun shopped. I didn't touch any schoolwork, didn't correct a single paper. I stayed up late on Saturday nights, just as I'd done when I was a kid. Sometimes I'd even go to the movies, and every now and then a matinée.
Since I've retired, Saturday stopped being special, but I still give Saturdays a revered place. When people ask me what retirement is like, I tell them it's like having a week of all Saturdays.
Friday, November 07, 2008
Fare Thee Well: Liam Clancy
Star Matter: Ani DiFranco
“Imagination is the highest kite one can fly”
It's a warm, damp foggy day. The air is still. Last night's rain brought down more pine needles and leaves and left them plastered on streets and driveways. I've been out on the deck enjoying the warmth of the morning.
The stick was just added to the Toy Hall of Fame. It joins such notables as Mr. Potato Head, Slinky and the cardboard box. I'd like to meet the person who nominated the stick. We have a lot in common. We know the stick has no real identity of its own. It is what we imagine it to be. Sticks became staffs when we were Robin Hood and Little John balanced on a log over a river and whacking at each other for the right to cross. I still remember my knuckles getting hit a few too many times. War drums were trunks of trees and sticks beat out the cadence. We used sticks to pull in water lilies from the swamp. Other sticks became arrows for our makeshift bows, also made from sticks. The arrows never went very far for real but soared in our imaginations. A stick was a magic wand and could turn anyone into a toad. It was a rifle complete with sound. We'd hold the sticks to our eyes to aim then yell bang, bang, you're dead. The first shot never missed. Sticks were a musical instrument in our rhythm band, but I didn't play them. I played the triangle. We used to fish with a stick, some twine and a pin for a hook. We never caught anything, but I always believed it was because there were no fish. The whittled end of a stick is perfect to hold a marshmallow or a hot dog over a fire. With enough sticks, you can build a world.
The stick was just added to the Toy Hall of Fame. It joins such notables as Mr. Potato Head, Slinky and the cardboard box. I'd like to meet the person who nominated the stick. We have a lot in common. We know the stick has no real identity of its own. It is what we imagine it to be. Sticks became staffs when we were Robin Hood and Little John balanced on a log over a river and whacking at each other for the right to cross. I still remember my knuckles getting hit a few too many times. War drums were trunks of trees and sticks beat out the cadence. We used sticks to pull in water lilies from the swamp. Other sticks became arrows for our makeshift bows, also made from sticks. The arrows never went very far for real but soared in our imaginations. A stick was a magic wand and could turn anyone into a toad. It was a rifle complete with sound. We'd hold the sticks to our eyes to aim then yell bang, bang, you're dead. The first shot never missed. Sticks were a musical instrument in our rhythm band, but I didn't play them. I played the triangle. We used to fish with a stick, some twine and a pin for a hook. We never caught anything, but I always believed it was because there were no fish. The whittled end of a stick is perfect to hold a marshmallow or a hot dog over a fire. With enough sticks, you can build a world.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."
This morning I had an early appointment, and I just got home. Right now I'm savoring my first cup of coffee for the day as I couldn't have one this morning. I'm now better fit for human company and can intelligently communicate without using a single grunt. All is well with my world.
Most of my days start pretty much the same. I let the dog out, make coffee and go to the driveway to get the papers. I come back in, snag my first cup then read both papers. I read everything. I take my time and have another cup or two before I'm done. I used to be a cocoa drinker. It wasn't until college that I became a coffee drinker. Everyone drank coffee in college. It was the only way to stay awake sometimes, especially during an all-nighter. The canteen was a favorite spot. My friends and I met there every morning and during the day. We'd drink cup after cup of coffee. I don't think we were discriminating coffee drinkers. Good or bad coffee tasted much the same to us.
When I officially became a Peace Corps volunteer, I was given a settling in allowance to buy whatever I needed to make my site my home. The first thing I bought was a giant coffee mug. It was a Chinese restaurant tiki drink size mug needing only an umbrella and some pineapple. Nestlé instant coffee from the Netherlands was all that was available. I drank two cups of coffee every day from that giant mug. One was with breakfast and the other was after my first class. I used to sit outside with my second cup of coffee and watch the little kids pass through the compound on their way to school. I loved my mornings.
I drink coffee at all times of the day now but far fewer cups since I stopped working. I grind my own beans and will sometimes treat myself to Kona or Blue Mountain. I love good coffee and have become a bit of a coffee snob, but I cherish the memories of canteen coffee in college and instant coffee in a giant mug on a porch in Ghana. I swear it tasted like nectar from the gods.
Most of my days start pretty much the same. I let the dog out, make coffee and go to the driveway to get the papers. I come back in, snag my first cup then read both papers. I read everything. I take my time and have another cup or two before I'm done. I used to be a cocoa drinker. It wasn't until college that I became a coffee drinker. Everyone drank coffee in college. It was the only way to stay awake sometimes, especially during an all-nighter. The canteen was a favorite spot. My friends and I met there every morning and during the day. We'd drink cup after cup of coffee. I don't think we were discriminating coffee drinkers. Good or bad coffee tasted much the same to us.
When I officially became a Peace Corps volunteer, I was given a settling in allowance to buy whatever I needed to make my site my home. The first thing I bought was a giant coffee mug. It was a Chinese restaurant tiki drink size mug needing only an umbrella and some pineapple. Nestlé instant coffee from the Netherlands was all that was available. I drank two cups of coffee every day from that giant mug. One was with breakfast and the other was after my first class. I used to sit outside with my second cup of coffee and watch the little kids pass through the compound on their way to school. I loved my mornings.
I drink coffee at all times of the day now but far fewer cups since I stopped working. I grind my own beans and will sometimes treat myself to Kona or Blue Mountain. I love good coffee and have become a bit of a coffee snob, but I cherish the memories of canteen coffee in college and instant coffee in a giant mug on a porch in Ghana. I swear it tasted like nectar from the gods.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
"Art is the colors and textures of your imagination."
Staying up to watch the results last night reminded me of the Kennedy election. My parents had a small TV in their room, and I got comfy on their bed to watch. Huntley and Brinkley were on in black and white. There were no touch screens, no monitors and no early returns. Huntley and Brinkley sat across from each other. Their dial telephones were in full view. I remember the broadcast from the armory in Hyannis where Kennedy workers waited, and I remember when I first moved to the Cape and saw that armory. It seemed a sacred place to me. Before I fell asleep, there were no final results. When I woke up the next morning, I ran to get the newspaper. I was thrilled.
I just noticed I forgot to change the wall calendar to November, and I know the date book in my backpack is weeks behind. It seems that time has lost its importance to me. Nothing I want to do has to be sandwiched between obligations or snatched from something else. I have the occasional appointment, and I write notes to myself everywhere so I'll remember. I've started buying stickies in different colors just for the variety. I like the rainbow look hanging off my monitor.
I have noticed a new problem developing. I keep forgetting to check the stickies. I tried color coding by date as a sort of reminder. That helped for a while then I forgot which color was for which date. I then started my asterisk system. The more the little stars the closer the date. So far this has worked. I haven't forgotten an appointment. I'm even getting creative. I use different color pens and coordinate with the colors of the stickies. My monitor is beginning to look like a wall in a museum. I'm thinking tours and a small gift shop.
I just noticed I forgot to change the wall calendar to November, and I know the date book in my backpack is weeks behind. It seems that time has lost its importance to me. Nothing I want to do has to be sandwiched between obligations or snatched from something else. I have the occasional appointment, and I write notes to myself everywhere so I'll remember. I've started buying stickies in different colors just for the variety. I like the rainbow look hanging off my monitor.
I have noticed a new problem developing. I keep forgetting to check the stickies. I tried color coding by date as a sort of reminder. That helped for a while then I forgot which color was for which date. I then started my asterisk system. The more the little stars the closer the date. So far this has worked. I haven't forgotten an appointment. I'm even getting creative. I use different color pens and coordinate with the colors of the stickies. My monitor is beginning to look like a wall in a museum. I'm thinking tours and a small gift shop.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
"I like the smell of a dunged field, and the tumult of a popular election. "
I remember how thrilled I was to vote for the first time. I had just turned twenty-one, was a senior in college, and it was 1968. My choice that year was Hubert Humphrey. I was disappointed when he lost to Richard Nixon. Four years later I would be disappointed again. When I was in the Peace Corps, I asked for an absentee ballot for the off-year elections. It arrived in January. The town hall didn't see the need for air mail. Other than that once, I can't remember ever missing the chance to vote. I still love shutting the curtain behind me, reading the ballot and marking my choices. Here we still use black pens to mark our choices, drawing a line between the arrows. I vote at the local middle school. All the women manning the polls are elderly and have been there every election day for years. They recognize you when you check in by street address at the small table.
My mother never told us how she voted. It was her way of not taking sides between my father and me. He and I were total opposites politically. Once he accused me of being a pinko communist schoolteacher poisoning the minds of young Americans. That was sometime during the Reagan years. Our conversations about any elections usually deteriorated and got loud. The blood vessel in my father's neck always popped. For his health and my peace of mind, politics became a taboo topic though after each election he always made it a point to tell me his vote canceled out mine. I usually reminded him it didn't cancel out the votes of my sisters and brother, all of whom generally vote the same as I do. Seldom have I strayed and never once when casting my vote for president. I won't stray today either.
I still believe that my vote counts.
My mother never told us how she voted. It was her way of not taking sides between my father and me. He and I were total opposites politically. Once he accused me of being a pinko communist schoolteacher poisoning the minds of young Americans. That was sometime during the Reagan years. Our conversations about any elections usually deteriorated and got loud. The blood vessel in my father's neck always popped. For his health and my peace of mind, politics became a taboo topic though after each election he always made it a point to tell me his vote canceled out mine. I usually reminded him it didn't cancel out the votes of my sisters and brother, all of whom generally vote the same as I do. Seldom have I strayed and never once when casting my vote for president. I won't stray today either.
I still believe that my vote counts.
Monday, November 03, 2008
Kisses Sweeter Than Wine: Jackson Browne and Bonnie Raitt
“Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.”
When I went to get the papers in the driveway, the frost was on the pumpkin, on the grass and on the windshield. The air was filled with the sweet aroma of a wood fire. I stood for a while by the fence and took in the morning. The cold felt temporary. The gray sky looked more permanent. The fattest squirrel I ever saw was at the feeder. He heard me and ran. When he jumped on any branches, they dipped closer to the ground. I watched him leave the yard.
When I was in elementary school, I used to wonder what nuns did on their off times. I always figured they probably spent most of their days in prayer. They weren't like real people so I never imagined them sitting in front of the TV watching Paladin the way we did. Nuns always seemed holy to me, unearthly. All nuns wore habits when I was young. My nuns had headpieces with sides which used to block their peripheral vision. If you were fast, you often didn't get caught. The sides disappeared when I was in the sixth grade. We were all disappointed and much better behaved. Rosary beads, worn around their waists, made noise when the nuns were on the move. They were a sort of early warning system telling us nuns were coming so behave. Some nuns used to keep their white handkerchiefs rolled inside sleeve cuffs. I always thought snot that close was pretty gross. What their hair looked like underneath was often a topic of conversation. We guessed it was short hair, all the easier to tuck. Nuns had acute hearing, like a sort of sonar. They could zero in on the source of any sound, however slight. Even when their backs were turned, you weren't safe to say or do anything. Nobody really misbehaved too much. We knew once the nun was done, the wrath of our parents was next.
I remember when I was in the third grade my brother and I were walking to school near each other, each with our own sets of friends. Right by the tracks he found a toad and couldn't resist putting it in his schoolbag. Later, the toad escaped. It jumped up the aisle in his classroom. My brother got into big trouble. None of us thought it was funny. We were still young and were still afraid of nuns. Fearlessness didn't come until later.
When I was in elementary school, I used to wonder what nuns did on their off times. I always figured they probably spent most of their days in prayer. They weren't like real people so I never imagined them sitting in front of the TV watching Paladin the way we did. Nuns always seemed holy to me, unearthly. All nuns wore habits when I was young. My nuns had headpieces with sides which used to block their peripheral vision. If you were fast, you often didn't get caught. The sides disappeared when I was in the sixth grade. We were all disappointed and much better behaved. Rosary beads, worn around their waists, made noise when the nuns were on the move. They were a sort of early warning system telling us nuns were coming so behave. Some nuns used to keep their white handkerchiefs rolled inside sleeve cuffs. I always thought snot that close was pretty gross. What their hair looked like underneath was often a topic of conversation. We guessed it was short hair, all the easier to tuck. Nuns had acute hearing, like a sort of sonar. They could zero in on the source of any sound, however slight. Even when their backs were turned, you weren't safe to say or do anything. Nobody really misbehaved too much. We knew once the nun was done, the wrath of our parents was next.
I remember when I was in the third grade my brother and I were walking to school near each other, each with our own sets of friends. Right by the tracks he found a toad and couldn't resist putting it in his schoolbag. Later, the toad escaped. It jumped up the aisle in his classroom. My brother got into big trouble. None of us thought it was funny. We were still young and were still afraid of nuns. Fearlessness didn't come until later.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
"Autumn is marching on: even the scarecrows are wearing dead leaves."
The leaves have started to fall. Pine needles too haven't the strength to stay. Lawns are filled with yellows and reds and straight brown needles. My deck looks abandoned. The backyard has a thick brown bed of dead leaves. At night, Gracie trips the spotlights and sends long, thin shadows of bare branches across the yard. I can see my neighbors' houses for the first time since spring.
I divide the year into sandals and wool clogs though sneakers do show up periodically as a stopgap. Yesterday I put away my sandals and accepted the change in seasons. I have started wearing a sweatshirt in the house and need a quilt at night. During the day, I hear periodic blasts of hot air from my furnace. Without it, the house never warms.
I'm sad that I have to say goodbye to mornings on the deck, to entertaining friends on warm evenings, to outside candlelit dinners, to showers under the stars and to the sun hot on my face. It was a wonderful summer.
I divide the year into sandals and wool clogs though sneakers do show up periodically as a stopgap. Yesterday I put away my sandals and accepted the change in seasons. I have started wearing a sweatshirt in the house and need a quilt at night. During the day, I hear periodic blasts of hot air from my furnace. Without it, the house never warms.
I'm sad that I have to say goodbye to mornings on the deck, to entertaining friends on warm evenings, to outside candlelit dinners, to showers under the stars and to the sun hot on my face. It was a wonderful summer.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
"Look, there's no metaphysics on earth like chocolates."
Last night was fun. Dinner was superb: pasta with pumpkin sauce, bat rolls and salad. It was a banner year as we had more trick or treaters than usual. They crowded the door, held out their bags and shouted trick or treat. Half of them had no idea why. The little kids wore the best costumes. My neighbor's son, a two year old, was a dragon who just didn't want to leave. The Play-Doh was a hit.
I remember the end of Halloween. We'd drag ourselves home, get comfortable then check out our hauls. My mother would give us each a bowl for our candy. We'd go through and make piles. The first pile was for trading back and forth, this candy for that candy. The second pile was for any wholesome food. Apples got saved because my mother insisted but most other stuff got tossed. The third pile was for favorites, and they went into the bowl. We'd eat as much as my mother allowed. By the time we finished, it was pretty late, and bedtime was usually welcomed. We were always exhausted.
The next morning we'd run to our bowls hoping to sneak some candy before our parents heard us and woke up. We were usually horrified to find the pile inside each bowl was different, smaller. One look was more than enough to tell us some candy had disappeared, and we knew exactly which ones. When we had gone to bed the night before, we could have told you even to the number of pieces of candy corn what had been in those bowls. It was a talent every kid had. Our parents suggested we were mistaken, but we knew better. We also knew they were the culprits.
I remember the end of Halloween. We'd drag ourselves home, get comfortable then check out our hauls. My mother would give us each a bowl for our candy. We'd go through and make piles. The first pile was for trading back and forth, this candy for that candy. The second pile was for any wholesome food. Apples got saved because my mother insisted but most other stuff got tossed. The third pile was for favorites, and they went into the bowl. We'd eat as much as my mother allowed. By the time we finished, it was pretty late, and bedtime was usually welcomed. We were always exhausted.
The next morning we'd run to our bowls hoping to sneak some candy before our parents heard us and woke up. We were usually horrified to find the pile inside each bowl was different, smaller. One look was more than enough to tell us some candy had disappeared, and we knew exactly which ones. When we had gone to bed the night before, we could have told you even to the number of pieces of candy corn what had been in those bowls. It was a talent every kid had. Our parents suggested we were mistaken, but we knew better. We also knew they were the culprits.
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