Saturday, January 31, 2009
"Each day of our lives we make deposits in the memory banks of our children."
We had a dusting of snow last night, barely enough to cover the lawns or the driveways, but it's still pretty. It's also really cold outside. I went to fill the feeders earlier and my hands froze. In my closet are a few pairs of gloves and lots of pairs of mittens. Next time I'll remember. I saw a pair of goldfinches yesterday. I was glad to see them as they'd been gone a while. The thistle feeders are filled, waiting for their return.
When my sisters and I get together, half our sentences begin with, " Do you remember?" We retell family stories, the ones that always make us laugh. One of us starts remembering, and we all laugh even before the story ends. Sometime we laugh so hard none of us can speak. Many of the stories are about my Dad. The man was funny. He always made us laugh though not always on purpose. Those times are the best stories, the Dad stories we love so much. We have a few stories about my mother though not as many. We all laugh about when the seagull managed to drop its load on her head. Her gagging was the best part. We were young then and gagging was funny. We tell stories about each other. I remember lowering my sisters from the second floor window. They remember how much fun it was to fly like Peter Pan. We all remember how angry our parents were.
My sister has become the keeper of the memories, the storyteller. She has passed on the family stories to her children. I hope that in fifty years one of her great great grandchildren will ask to hear the story of when way back Grandfather George sawed himself out of the tree.
When my sisters and I get together, half our sentences begin with, " Do you remember?" We retell family stories, the ones that always make us laugh. One of us starts remembering, and we all laugh even before the story ends. Sometime we laugh so hard none of us can speak. Many of the stories are about my Dad. The man was funny. He always made us laugh though not always on purpose. Those times are the best stories, the Dad stories we love so much. We have a few stories about my mother though not as many. We all laugh about when the seagull managed to drop its load on her head. Her gagging was the best part. We were young then and gagging was funny. We tell stories about each other. I remember lowering my sisters from the second floor window. They remember how much fun it was to fly like Peter Pan. We all remember how angry our parents were.
My sister has become the keeper of the memories, the storyteller. She has passed on the family stories to her children. I hope that in fifty years one of her great great grandchildren will ask to hear the story of when way back Grandfather George sawed himself out of the tree.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Both Sides Now: Dave Van Ronk
“The events of childhood do not pass, but repeat themselves like seasons of the year”
The weather is the same as it was yesterday, and it will be the same tomorrow. The sun and blue sky are winter's irony. It seems winter always gets the last laugh.
We never had more than one fork by our dishes when we were kids. We didn't have knives until we were old enough to wield them without danger of injury to ourselves and others. My father cut our meat until then. The first time I was confronted with multiple silverware I was at a total loss. We seldom went out to eat. Every now and then we'd go to Kitty's, in the next town over. It served enormous plates of Italian food at cheap prices. The place was always filled with families. We'd bring our own popcorn, candy and drinks to the drive-in. Some years we didn't go away for my father's vacation. We never really noticed or cared. My parents would plan day trips, and we went to the beach. At the end of the month, we ate a lot of hamburger disguised as meat loaf or American chop suey. They are still two of my favorite dishes. My family didn't have any money, but we kids never really wanted for much. Each of us had a bike, nickles for the ice cream man on summer afternoons and quarters for the Saturday matinee. We were never disappointed at Christmas. I often look back at my childhood. Maybe I have forgotten the bad times, shoved them so far back in the drawer they are lost forever, but I don't really think so. I had a great childhood.
We never had more than one fork by our dishes when we were kids. We didn't have knives until we were old enough to wield them without danger of injury to ourselves and others. My father cut our meat until then. The first time I was confronted with multiple silverware I was at a total loss. We seldom went out to eat. Every now and then we'd go to Kitty's, in the next town over. It served enormous plates of Italian food at cheap prices. The place was always filled with families. We'd bring our own popcorn, candy and drinks to the drive-in. Some years we didn't go away for my father's vacation. We never really noticed or cared. My parents would plan day trips, and we went to the beach. At the end of the month, we ate a lot of hamburger disguised as meat loaf or American chop suey. They are still two of my favorite dishes. My family didn't have any money, but we kids never really wanted for much. Each of us had a bike, nickles for the ice cream man on summer afternoons and quarters for the Saturday matinee. We were never disappointed at Christmas. I often look back at my childhood. Maybe I have forgotten the bad times, shoved them so far back in the drawer they are lost forever, but I don't really think so. I had a great childhood.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Scarborough Fair: Martin Carthy
"Game shows are designed to make us feel better about the random, useless facts that are all we have left of our education."
A bird singing was the first sound I heard this morning. It made me think of spring. When I watched the feeders from my kitchen window, I saw a pair of cardinals. The bright red male was magnificent and I feasted on his color. He too reminded me of spring. Winter is beginning to loosen its grip on me.
The snow turned into rain, heavy drenching rain, but it was warm enough last night to keep ice at bay. Today is a bit colder.
My entire elementary school education is obsolete and much of what I learned in high school is of little value. Many of the countries I studied in geography no longer exist or have changed their names. Try to find Upper Volta. How about the Belgian Congo? Where did Spanish Sahara go? Where did geography itself go? I learned to tell time, analog time. It took me a while to master the slide rule, but I did. I haven't seen one in years. If anyone is even needed to diagram a sentence, I'll step forward. You need that typewriter ribbon changed, I'm your go to it person. Palmer Method and drawing circles took up part of my morning in the second and third grades, but they went by the board a long while back. No one writes any more. My head is filled with nouns, pronouns, adjectives and adverbs and what they do and with whom they do it. That last part was on purpose. I never used a calculator. I used my fingers. My reader was a big clunky book filled with stories and poems. The questions were at the end. The same series followed us from grade to grade. I remember stories about farmers plowing their fields with horses. History was easier. It didn't go near as far. My elementary book ended at World War II. We didn't learn about Korea until high school. I also had Latin, four years of it. It was dead even back then. I am amazed at all the stuff my head holds. It's like a giant junk drawer.
The snow turned into rain, heavy drenching rain, but it was warm enough last night to keep ice at bay. Today is a bit colder.
My entire elementary school education is obsolete and much of what I learned in high school is of little value. Many of the countries I studied in geography no longer exist or have changed their names. Try to find Upper Volta. How about the Belgian Congo? Where did Spanish Sahara go? Where did geography itself go? I learned to tell time, analog time. It took me a while to master the slide rule, but I did. I haven't seen one in years. If anyone is even needed to diagram a sentence, I'll step forward. You need that typewriter ribbon changed, I'm your go to it person. Palmer Method and drawing circles took up part of my morning in the second and third grades, but they went by the board a long while back. No one writes any more. My head is filled with nouns, pronouns, adjectives and adverbs and what they do and with whom they do it. That last part was on purpose. I never used a calculator. I used my fingers. My reader was a big clunky book filled with stories and poems. The questions were at the end. The same series followed us from grade to grade. I remember stories about farmers plowing their fields with horses. History was easier. It didn't go near as far. My elementary book ended at World War II. We didn't learn about Korea until high school. I also had Latin, four years of it. It was dead even back then. I am amazed at all the stuff my head holds. It's like a giant junk drawer.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
"Come, ye cold winds, at January's call, On whistling wings, and with white flakes bestrew The earth."
It's snowing. The tops of the tree branches are covered, layered in white. The street has a few tire marks from hearty souls willing to brave the weather. When the wind blows, the snow falls sideways. My house has the hush only a snowstorm brings.
The bird feeders are full. Chickadees fly in, grab a sunflower seed then fly back out again. They land on a tree branch, peck and eat the seed then come back for more. A nuthatch dropped by earlier. I go to the kitchen window so I can watch the birds. I lean on the counter and watch for a long while. The chickadees are my favorites. They never disappoint and come in large numbers.
I can hear Gracie breathing deeply as she sleeps. The computer hums. They are the only sounds I hear. I find myself distracted by the snow. I look out the window and am mesmerized by the flakes falling in a whirling pattern from left to right then back again. I feel ten years old. I remember looking out my bedroom window at the backyard. The hill was covered in snow. The clothes lines were frozen and swung stiffly in the wind. Lights shined from neighbors' windows. I never saw a soul.
Days like today make me want to speak in whispers.
The bird feeders are full. Chickadees fly in, grab a sunflower seed then fly back out again. They land on a tree branch, peck and eat the seed then come back for more. A nuthatch dropped by earlier. I go to the kitchen window so I can watch the birds. I lean on the counter and watch for a long while. The chickadees are my favorites. They never disappoint and come in large numbers.
I can hear Gracie breathing deeply as she sleeps. The computer hums. They are the only sounds I hear. I find myself distracted by the snow. I look out the window and am mesmerized by the flakes falling in a whirling pattern from left to right then back again. I feel ten years old. I remember looking out my bedroom window at the backyard. The hill was covered in snow. The clothes lines were frozen and swung stiffly in the wind. Lights shined from neighbors' windows. I never saw a soul.
Days like today make me want to speak in whispers.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Like a Coat from the Cold: Guy Clark
Come In From the Cold: Joni Mitchell
“The hardest part of skating is the ice”
My friends Clare and Tony and I celebrated the start of Chinese New Year last night. Clare brought as a gift the red envelope given on special occasions and holidays. The color red symbolizes fire, which according to legend can drive away bad luck. She drew Chinese characters on the front and an ox as this is the year of the ox. Lucky money was in the envelope. We then enjoyed our Chinese feast. I had given Clare chopsticks a few days earlier, and she practiced so much she could actually pick up even a single noodle. After dinner, we went outside and lit sparklers. It was a grand start to the year of the ox.
Snow's coming. It will start tonight, and by morning we'll have 2-4 inches, but then it will turn to rain. I've never like rain in winter. The storms are never gentle. Raindrops beat against the windows as if they're trying to find a way inside. Getting wet means being chilled to the bone. Rain on the ground becomes ice. Getting from the house to the car means slow, tiny steps and a few prayers.
I haven't ice skated in years. A pair hangs off a hook in the cellar. I don't even remember the last time I used them. When I was a kid, ice skating was a fun time in winter. We'd walk to the park, lace up our skates and do endless circles around the rink. The center of the rink was reserved for the real skaters, the ones who could skate backwards or even do elegant spins. The rest of us kept near the wall, just in case. We'd sometimes link hands and do a whip. I never wanted to be last in line. We'd skate until we got so cold we couldn't feel our feet. It always seemed strange to walk in shoes after having skated all afternoon. I was never a great skater, but I remember how gliding across the ice always made me feel graceful. I was Sonja Henie for just a while.
Snow's coming. It will start tonight, and by morning we'll have 2-4 inches, but then it will turn to rain. I've never like rain in winter. The storms are never gentle. Raindrops beat against the windows as if they're trying to find a way inside. Getting wet means being chilled to the bone. Rain on the ground becomes ice. Getting from the house to the car means slow, tiny steps and a few prayers.
I haven't ice skated in years. A pair hangs off a hook in the cellar. I don't even remember the last time I used them. When I was a kid, ice skating was a fun time in winter. We'd walk to the park, lace up our skates and do endless circles around the rink. The center of the rink was reserved for the real skaters, the ones who could skate backwards or even do elegant spins. The rest of us kept near the wall, just in case. We'd sometimes link hands and do a whip. I never wanted to be last in line. We'd skate until we got so cold we couldn't feel our feet. It always seemed strange to walk in shoes after having skated all afternoon. I was never a great skater, but I remember how gliding across the ice always made me feel graceful. I was Sonja Henie for just a while.
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Carnival Is Over: The Seekers
This song was written by Tom Springfield for The Seekers. At its peak, the song was selling 93,000 copies per day and is No 30 on the list of the biggest selling singles of all time in the United Kingdom.
The Seekers close their concerts with the song, and it has become traditional at sporting events in Australian for this to be the closing song.
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The Seekers close their concerts with the song, and it has become traditional at sporting events in Australian for this to be the closing song.
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Look What You've Done: The Pozo-Seco Singers
This group formed in 1964 and was signed to Columbia Records. Their first album, Time, debuted in 1966. The album showcased Don Williams' lead vocals. The title track became a modest pop hit and made the group semi-stars on the college circuit.
This song is from their second album, I Can Make It With You. This album, which ended up being their last, had two top-40 pop hits: the title tune and this one.
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This song is from their second album, I Can Make It With You. This album, which ended up being their last, had two top-40 pop hits: the title tune and this one.
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"Winter dawn is the color of metal, The trees stiffen into place like burnt nerves."
The January thaw is over. That one day and night just flew by so quickly I nearly missed it. I had to put my sweatshirt back in the drawer until kinder weather. Gracie is now yard bound. The new fence is temporally attached to the old one until the ground thaws, and it can be made permanent. She now comes and goes as she pleases, and I no longer run from window to window keeping an eye on her or have to take her out on a leash at night. I just hope she doesn't learn to fly. We are never watching Dumbo.
The winter is wearing on me. Bare branches silhouette against the sky. Dead brown leaves dangle from the tips of scrub oaks. An icy wind is blowing. Winter is seldom kind.
Today I am empty of memories. I sit here at the desk and look out the window and day dream a little. I think of lazy summer days on the deck and nights under the stars. I think of barbecues and picnics, of potato salad and ribs. I wish for fireflies blinking in the yard and birds singing to welcome the morning. I want a hazy summer day.
The winter is wearing on me. Bare branches silhouette against the sky. Dead brown leaves dangle from the tips of scrub oaks. An icy wind is blowing. Winter is seldom kind.
Today I am empty of memories. I sit here at the desk and look out the window and day dream a little. I think of lazy summer days on the deck and nights under the stars. I think of barbecues and picnics, of potato salad and ribs. I wish for fireflies blinking in the yard and birds singing to welcome the morning. I want a hazy summer day.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Butter is "...the most delicate of foods among barbarous nations, and one which distinguishes the wealthy from the multitude at large."
Old man winter slipped back in last night under cover of darkness. The grass was frosted this morning, and I crunched as I walked to get the papers. The sky is icy blue. The sun gives light but not a bit of warmth. It is a stay close to hearth and home sort of day.
My father was a Giants fan before there were Patriots. Every winter Sunday he watched his football. None of the rest of us did. We found other ways to amuse ourselves. Most Sundays we didn't go far; there was really no where to go. The stores weren't open, and the matinee was only on Saturday. Few kids were out and about on a Sunday. By the time we went to mass, came home and changed, it was after noon. Dinner was always around one. My father usually got home too late on a work day to eat with us so Saturday night supper and Sunday dinner were the two guaranteed times we'd all eat together.
My father, like most fathers, always cut the meat at dinner. I remember him standing at the head of the table as he sliced. We'd hold out our plates, and he'd plunked down a piece of the chicken or the roast beef. There were always mashed potatoes for Sunday dinner. My mother served them in a large bowl, and she always put a chunk of butter in a well in the middle of the potato pile. I remember watching the streams of butter roll down the sides as it melted. We always used butter, never margarine. My mother had to eat oleo or yellow colored lard during the war as butter was rationed. Her memories of those horrible tastes meant butter on our table. We always hoped for the first scoop from the bowl: it had the most butter.
My father was a Giants fan before there were Patriots. Every winter Sunday he watched his football. None of the rest of us did. We found other ways to amuse ourselves. Most Sundays we didn't go far; there was really no where to go. The stores weren't open, and the matinee was only on Saturday. Few kids were out and about on a Sunday. By the time we went to mass, came home and changed, it was after noon. Dinner was always around one. My father usually got home too late on a work day to eat with us so Saturday night supper and Sunday dinner were the two guaranteed times we'd all eat together.
My father, like most fathers, always cut the meat at dinner. I remember him standing at the head of the table as he sliced. We'd hold out our plates, and he'd plunked down a piece of the chicken or the roast beef. There were always mashed potatoes for Sunday dinner. My mother served them in a large bowl, and she always put a chunk of butter in a well in the middle of the potato pile. I remember watching the streams of butter roll down the sides as it melted. We always used butter, never margarine. My mother had to eat oleo or yellow colored lard during the war as butter was rationed. Her memories of those horrible tastes meant butter on our table. We always hoped for the first scoop from the bowl: it had the most butter.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
"Not only must we be good, but we must also be good for something."
I'm perfectly fine, and I'm sorry if I worried you. No falls, not a broken bone, not even a bruise. This morning the alarm woke me at 5:40, quite a shock as it's been a long while. Did you know it's dark out then? I was amazed. A quick cup of coffee, a look at the paper, and I picked up my friend Clare at 6:30. We were off to Boston.
The returned volunteers from Boston often have community service opportunities, and I try to do as many as I can. This morning it was working at the Red Cross food pantry. We unpacked mussels, only in New England I suspect, then bagged them, packed dry items, passed out bags, checked in people and stayed busy until after twelve. I used muscles I forgot I had. It was an amazing morning. The other returned volunteers were great fun, and they made fun of Clare and me, the old folks. One has only been back a year, and I swear the oldest couldn't have been more than twenty-five or six. After finishing our stint, we all went to a diner for lunch where we got to know each other better. I came away with a couple of new friends. On the way out the door, I met a former student, and we hugged and caught up with one another. That was fun too as he was always one to make me laugh.
Clare and I got home around 2:30, and I was in bed by three, napping off the early morning and the muscle aches. I just woke up. I had an e-mail hoping I was okay so I figured I should post.
It has been a good day.
The returned volunteers from Boston often have community service opportunities, and I try to do as many as I can. This morning it was working at the Red Cross food pantry. We unpacked mussels, only in New England I suspect, then bagged them, packed dry items, passed out bags, checked in people and stayed busy until after twelve. I used muscles I forgot I had. It was an amazing morning. The other returned volunteers were great fun, and they made fun of Clare and me, the old folks. One has only been back a year, and I swear the oldest couldn't have been more than twenty-five or six. After finishing our stint, we all went to a diner for lunch where we got to know each other better. I came away with a couple of new friends. On the way out the door, I met a former student, and we hugged and caught up with one another. That was fun too as he was always one to make me laugh.
Clare and I got home around 2:30, and I was in bed by three, napping off the early morning and the muscle aches. I just woke up. I had an e-mail hoping I was okay so I figured I should post.
It has been a good day.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Somebody Stole My Gal: Jim Kweskin
Walk This Mountain Down: Donna Ulisse
I'm branching out again today. This is from the newest album from Donna Ulisse, and this is the title track. Donna started out as a background singer for Jerry Reed. Her first album was released in 1991, and it was country which meant I never heard it though it had three singles and a video.
Donna wrote all the songs on this new album. It's bluegrass and a little gospel. If you had told me I'd be playing bluegrass on Coffee, I'd have laughed. It took a while to convert me, but I'm now singing its praises. I think you'd like this album. I did.
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Donna wrote all the songs on this new album. It's bluegrass and a little gospel. If you had told me I'd be playing bluegrass on Coffee, I'd have laughed. It took a while to convert me, but I'm now singing its praises. I think you'd like this album. I did.
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"I knew I was clumsy."
The day is sunny and warm. It is sweatshirt weather. What little snow is left will disappear, at least for the meantime. Sadly, today is just a tease. Winter will back on Sunday.
I'm itching to travel, but, instead, I bought a fence, a keep Gracie in the yard barrier. Fences may make good neighbors, but they are poor substitutes for a trip.
One of my earliest memories is when I was about four, when I broke my wrist. Little did I know it would be a portent of my adult life. I jumped off a fence backwards, on purpose. I had practiced all day long, climbing, turning then jumping. Having mastered the fence, I asked my mother to watch. I jumped then used my hand to break my fall. It was my first unsuccessful jump. I got a buckle fracture. Since then I have fallen upstairs, downstairs and off ladders. I've broken a cheekbone, a shoulder and a few teeth. I lost a piece of my lip. I knocked myself unconscious three different times. One was in a fall downstairs, the one where my lip went missing. Another was off a ladder, the time my shoulder was broken, and the last time was a flying fall off the back deck stairs which are off the second floor. I woke up, found my glasses, stood up and realized I hadn't broken anything. I was amazed.
I inherited all of this from my father. My sisters think it funny. I think they should be grateful to me for shouldering, so to speak, the family burden.
I'm itching to travel, but, instead, I bought a fence, a keep Gracie in the yard barrier. Fences may make good neighbors, but they are poor substitutes for a trip.
One of my earliest memories is when I was about four, when I broke my wrist. Little did I know it would be a portent of my adult life. I jumped off a fence backwards, on purpose. I had practiced all day long, climbing, turning then jumping. Having mastered the fence, I asked my mother to watch. I jumped then used my hand to break my fall. It was my first unsuccessful jump. I got a buckle fracture. Since then I have fallen upstairs, downstairs and off ladders. I've broken a cheekbone, a shoulder and a few teeth. I lost a piece of my lip. I knocked myself unconscious three different times. One was in a fall downstairs, the one where my lip went missing. Another was off a ladder, the time my shoulder was broken, and the last time was a flying fall off the back deck stairs which are off the second floor. I woke up, found my glasses, stood up and realized I hadn't broken anything. I was amazed.
I inherited all of this from my father. My sisters think it funny. I think they should be grateful to me for shouldering, so to speak, the family burden.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Dali Ngiyakuthanda Bati ha-ha-ha: George Sibanda
Today I'm offering something a bit different. This is from an album called The Legendary George Sibanda, recordings made between 1948 and 1952.
"Sibanda's jaunty, tuneful songs quickly became popular radio hits in Rhodesia (Zimbabwe and Zambia), Nyasaland (Malawi), Kenya and especially South Africa, where the singer's playful, Sindebele lyrics were understood by Zulu-speakers, a huge audience. The songs themselves were so good that they were soon widely imitated, finding their way into the repertoires of local mbira players in Rhodesia, and eventually, musicians as far afield as Ramblin' Jack Elliott (1964) , Arlo Guthrie (1976) and Taj Mahal. Of course, by then Sibanda was gone. He spent much of his considerable earnings on alcohol, and drank himself to death before the 1950s were out."
"We know stunningly little about the man. For an artist adored by radio audiences in four or five countries for a decade, this seems incredible, but it speaks volumes about the disposability of musicians in southern African nations at the brink of radical change. Looking at Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) alone, folksy music like Sibanda's was soon occluded by the burgeoning Bulawayo jazz band scene, which riveted audiences with its worldly, urban polish. In the 1960s, rock 'n roll hit, diminishing the jazz scene considerably, and then came the rise of local Shona pop, which came to dominate everything in the 1970s and 80s. By the time the smoke of the liberation war had settled, George Sibanda was remembered as a name from the far distant past."
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"Sibanda's jaunty, tuneful songs quickly became popular radio hits in Rhodesia (Zimbabwe and Zambia), Nyasaland (Malawi), Kenya and especially South Africa, where the singer's playful, Sindebele lyrics were understood by Zulu-speakers, a huge audience. The songs themselves were so good that they were soon widely imitated, finding their way into the repertoires of local mbira players in Rhodesia, and eventually, musicians as far afield as Ramblin' Jack Elliott (1964) , Arlo Guthrie (1976) and Taj Mahal. Of course, by then Sibanda was gone. He spent much of his considerable earnings on alcohol, and drank himself to death before the 1950s were out."
"We know stunningly little about the man. For an artist adored by radio audiences in four or five countries for a decade, this seems incredible, but it speaks volumes about the disposability of musicians in southern African nations at the brink of radical change. Looking at Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) alone, folksy music like Sibanda's was soon occluded by the burgeoning Bulawayo jazz band scene, which riveted audiences with its worldly, urban polish. In the 1960s, rock 'n roll hit, diminishing the jazz scene considerably, and then came the rise of local Shona pop, which came to dominate everything in the 1970s and 80s. By the time the smoke of the liberation war had settled, George Sibanda was remembered as a name from the far distant past."
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Under African Skies: Paul Simon
"I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost."
A heat wave is coming. I'm hauling out the beach blanket, the sunscreen and the picnic basket. It will be in the 40's tomorrow. Where is that bathing suit?
I've started buying daffodils. Their bright yellow is the promise of sunshine and warmth. They help me remember spring is coming, sooner than you think. I've notice the days are getting longer. Soon, the dark, cold nights will give way to fireflies and candles hanging from leafy branches.
When I was a kid, summer was the best season. There was no school, and the daylight seemed to last forever. We'd leave in the morning, sometimes bring our lunches and usually not reappear until around dinner, before the street lights. Winter had Christmas and vacation. It had snow days and sledding and forts along the sides of the street. Spring meant shedding all those heavy winter clothes, riding my bike to school and playing outside again. Fall was my least favorite season. It meant back to school. If it hadn't been for Halloween, fall would have been a complete bust.
My favorite season is now fall. The days are still warm and the world is filled with deep color. Summer is a close second with most days spent outside on the deck. I start in the morning with the papers and my coffee, move to a book and lunch then sit and enjoy the cool evenings with a little wine and maybe some friends over for dinner. Spring always gives me a sense of hope. I see the garden waking and flowers sweeten the air. I love the smell of freshly mowed grass. Winter has become my least favorite season, even with Christmas. I bundle in the house. I bundle in the car. I bundle outside. The world is far too stark.
Sometimes I wish I were that kid again hauling my sled to the top of the hill. I still remember the joy of speed, of lying on my stomach as I coursed down the hill. The streets were unplowed, and the snow seemed to be everywhere. I remember spending the whole day outside. When I'd go back in, small balls of icy snow stuck to my hat and mittens. Snow filled my boots, and my shoes were always stuck. My ski pants were soaked and my legs were bright red. I'd like just one afternoon when cold doesn't matter. I'd like to jump on my sled and go raring down the hill. I'd like to go further than anyone else.
I've started buying daffodils. Their bright yellow is the promise of sunshine and warmth. They help me remember spring is coming, sooner than you think. I've notice the days are getting longer. Soon, the dark, cold nights will give way to fireflies and candles hanging from leafy branches.
When I was a kid, summer was the best season. There was no school, and the daylight seemed to last forever. We'd leave in the morning, sometimes bring our lunches and usually not reappear until around dinner, before the street lights. Winter had Christmas and vacation. It had snow days and sledding and forts along the sides of the street. Spring meant shedding all those heavy winter clothes, riding my bike to school and playing outside again. Fall was my least favorite season. It meant back to school. If it hadn't been for Halloween, fall would have been a complete bust.
My favorite season is now fall. The days are still warm and the world is filled with deep color. Summer is a close second with most days spent outside on the deck. I start in the morning with the papers and my coffee, move to a book and lunch then sit and enjoy the cool evenings with a little wine and maybe some friends over for dinner. Spring always gives me a sense of hope. I see the garden waking and flowers sweeten the air. I love the smell of freshly mowed grass. Winter has become my least favorite season, even with Christmas. I bundle in the house. I bundle in the car. I bundle outside. The world is far too stark.
Sometimes I wish I were that kid again hauling my sled to the top of the hill. I still remember the joy of speed, of lying on my stomach as I coursed down the hill. The streets were unplowed, and the snow seemed to be everywhere. I remember spending the whole day outside. When I'd go back in, small balls of icy snow stuck to my hat and mittens. Snow filled my boots, and my shoes were always stuck. My ski pants were soaked and my legs were bright red. I'd like just one afternoon when cold doesn't matter. I'd like to jump on my sled and go raring down the hill. I'd like to go further than anyone else.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
The Plains of Nebrasky-O: Phil Ochs and Eric Andersen
When I saw Eric in concert, he mentioned his friend Phil and sang one of Phil's songs. This is the only duet of them I know. It comes from Best of Broadside 1962-1988, a five disc set. I have downloaded some of the songs, and I've put the boxed set on my wish list. You can find it all over, but I always figure the source is the best place. That would be Smithsonian-Folkways.
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We Come Up Shining: Chip Taylor and Carrie Rodriguez
Chip Taylor is the songwriter of Wild Thing and Angel of the Morning. He and Carrie first started singing together in 2001. She is a fiddle player who hadn't sung before Chip Taylor encouraged her to give it a try.
She is young and he is not, an odd combination. Both have made solo albums as well as the many they've made together. This song is from 2003's The Trouble with Humans.
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She is young and he is not, an odd combination. Both have made solo albums as well as the many they've made together. This song is from 2003's The Trouble with Humans.
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"The tragedy of life is not so much what men suffer, but rather what they miss."
This morning I woke up from my hibernation. The sun was shining, and I was filled with the energy a long sleep brings. I sprang up, made my bed first thing then came downstairs. The day is perfectly beautiful. The snow on my roof is melting. I can hear the drops falling rhythmically to the ground. More birds than I've seen lately are at the feeders, and I heard one sing this morning. Last night's dusting of snow glints in the sunlight. Everything looks fresh and new.
I was glued to the television all day yesterday. I sat with a grin on my face. I missed nothing. I even watched the President and his wife dance their way from one ball to another. Too late I realized I should have had a party. It was a day to celebrate.
Today Gracie and I are going out for a while. I have no destination, no plans, but the day isn't one I want to waste. Maybe we'll meander. It's been a while since we've explored. Something might be just around the corner, and I'd hate to miss it.
I have found my spot on the circle. I feel like a kid again in awe of the world. I stand at the window and watch the birds for the longest time. Today they were jockeying for food rights. The juncos were ahead. When Gracie goes out, I stay on the deck to keep an eye on her. I hear the crunch of her paws as she crosses the yard and the clink of her halter strap when she runs for the sheer joy of running. Every morning it takes me a while to bring in the papers. I stand and look up and down the street. I look at my house. I feel the cold on my face. I am filled with life.
I was glued to the television all day yesterday. I sat with a grin on my face. I missed nothing. I even watched the President and his wife dance their way from one ball to another. Too late I realized I should have had a party. It was a day to celebrate.
Today Gracie and I are going out for a while. I have no destination, no plans, but the day isn't one I want to waste. Maybe we'll meander. It's been a while since we've explored. Something might be just around the corner, and I'd hate to miss it.
I have found my spot on the circle. I feel like a kid again in awe of the world. I stand at the window and watch the birds for the longest time. Today they were jockeying for food rights. The juncos were ahead. When Gracie goes out, I stay on the deck to keep an eye on her. I hear the crunch of her paws as she crosses the yard and the clink of her halter strap when she runs for the sheer joy of running. Every morning it takes me a while to bring in the papers. I stand and look up and down the street. I look at my house. I feel the cold on my face. I am filled with life.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Goodnight Irene: Lead Belly
Though you'll find the exact date debated, the most common date given is January 20 for Lead Belly's birthday so today I'm celebrating.
I'm not going to post his whole story, but I'll send you to look. Try here;
http://leadbelly.lanl.gov/leadbelly.html
This song is from Lead Belly's Last Sessions, a Smithsonian Folkways four disc collection containing 96 songs.
You'll find it here:
http://www.folkways.si.edu/albumdetails.aspx?itemid=2332
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I'm not going to post his whole story, but I'll send you to look. Try here;
http://leadbelly.lanl.gov/leadbelly.html
This song is from Lead Belly's Last Sessions, a Smithsonian Folkways four disc collection containing 96 songs.
You'll find it here:
http://www.folkways.si.edu/albumdetails.aspx?itemid=2332
MP3 File
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"A leader is a dealer in hope."
I woke up this morning buoyant, excited. The TV went on right away so I wouldn't miss a moment of this amazing day, this hopeful day. I will be a couch potato and glad for it.
John F. Kennedy's inauguration was the first I ever watched. I remember seeing his breath in the cold, cold air, and I wondered why he wasn't wearing a hat. I remember President Eisenhower wore a top hat. I thought he looked a bit uncomfortable, even a little silly. I remember Robert Frost at the podium trying to read Dedication, the poem he'd written for the inauguration. He struggled in the glare of the sunlight. Unable to read his new poem, he spoke from memory and recited The Gift Outright. I listened to every word of President Kennedy's Inaugural Address. I was smitten.
I am thirteen again. I am smitten.
Today is a day filled with hope. The sun is shining in Washington. The sky is blue.
John F. Kennedy's inauguration was the first I ever watched. I remember seeing his breath in the cold, cold air, and I wondered why he wasn't wearing a hat. I remember President Eisenhower wore a top hat. I thought he looked a bit uncomfortable, even a little silly. I remember Robert Frost at the podium trying to read Dedication, the poem he'd written for the inauguration. He struggled in the glare of the sunlight. Unable to read his new poem, he spoke from memory and recited The Gift Outright. I listened to every word of President Kennedy's Inaugural Address. I was smitten.
I am thirteen again. I am smitten.
Today is a day filled with hope. The sun is shining in Washington. The sky is blue.
Monday, January 19, 2009
"A good snapshot stops a moment from running away."
The snow stayed north. We got the rain. It's still a gray, wet day.
At the feeder this morning was a glorious red cardinal who was the brightest spot in the yard. I watched until he flew away. My stalwarts, the chickadees, flew back and forth. A downy woodpecker joined them for a bit but found little to his liking. My perch is the kitchen window.
Life has been quiet of late, a winter lull. I scour the papers for any mention of baseball. It, like the robin, signals spring. I long for a summer's day. I'd like to complain about the heat.
My aunt, who is in her eighties, has been cleaning. She sent me old family pictures and a note which told me to trash what I didn't want. One of the pictures has my father wearing a gown and sitting on his grandmother's lap. He looked at most a year old. It is the only picture I have ever seen of my father as a baby. Another shows him in his First Communion suit on May 27, 1934. He is wearing shorts with long white hose, a white jacket and a huge bow instead of a tie. Another picture has been cut in half. The side I have is my great-grandmother. I wonder who was cut out and I wonder why. The only picture in color is my grandmother and her sisters Gert and Emma. I remember my grandmother always walked with a stoop. In this picture she is standing tall, far taller than her sisters. I remember Gert and Emma, and I remember my grandmother's other sister, Mae. The only brother I remember is Henry. I don't think I ever met Otto. I suppose by the time I am in my eighties most stuff will be relegated to trash. As for me, I found these a treasure.
At the feeder this morning was a glorious red cardinal who was the brightest spot in the yard. I watched until he flew away. My stalwarts, the chickadees, flew back and forth. A downy woodpecker joined them for a bit but found little to his liking. My perch is the kitchen window.
Life has been quiet of late, a winter lull. I scour the papers for any mention of baseball. It, like the robin, signals spring. I long for a summer's day. I'd like to complain about the heat.
My aunt, who is in her eighties, has been cleaning. She sent me old family pictures and a note which told me to trash what I didn't want. One of the pictures has my father wearing a gown and sitting on his grandmother's lap. He looked at most a year old. It is the only picture I have ever seen of my father as a baby. Another shows him in his First Communion suit on May 27, 1934. He is wearing shorts with long white hose, a white jacket and a huge bow instead of a tie. Another picture has been cut in half. The side I have is my great-grandmother. I wonder who was cut out and I wonder why. The only picture in color is my grandmother and her sisters Gert and Emma. I remember my grandmother always walked with a stoop. In this picture she is standing tall, far taller than her sisters. I remember Gert and Emma, and I remember my grandmother's other sister, Mae. The only brother I remember is Henry. I don't think I ever met Otto. I suppose by the time I am in my eighties most stuff will be relegated to trash. As for me, I found these a treasure.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
“Sunday is the core of our civilization, dedicated to thought and reverence.”
Late, I know, but it's Sunday which means breakfast with my friend and my weekly conversation with Moe, my sister, both of which put me behind my time. It's raining here, and it's warmer than it's been in days. The world north of us is getting snow. Ours will soon be gone. Already I can see the ground beneath and brown leaves poking through what little remains. Today is not a pretty winter's day.
Last night I was invited to my friends' house for dinner. They are Coffee readers. Dinner was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole, all the best comfort foods. We played games, and we laughed. It was such fun being together, cozy and warm, on a cold winter's night.
The rest of my day is unplanned. The best Sundays are like that.
Last night I was invited to my friends' house for dinner. They are Coffee readers. Dinner was meatloaf, mashed potatoes and green bean casserole, all the best comfort foods. We played games, and we laughed. It was such fun being together, cozy and warm, on a cold winter's night.
The rest of my day is unplanned. The best Sundays are like that.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
"The axis of the earth sticks out visibly through the centre of each and every town or city."
When I went this morning to get yesterday's mail, I stood for a while and listened. The only sound I heard was the scraping of a shovel against ice, against the sort of ice at the end of the driveway in a pile left by the plow.
Gracie watches out the front door. I sometimes stand with her and wonder what holds her attention. No cars drive by, no people wander, not an animal can be seen. My guess is Gracie waits in anticipation.
Being a kid and being housebound on a Saturday was about the worst fate for all of us. We drove my mother crazy. We drove each other crazy. We went from one thing to another. A game would hold us for a while then we'd get bored and move on. Sometimes we'd color or read or watch television. Most times by late afternoon we were at each other teasing, name calling, poking, anything to get a response. Usually my sister Moe broke first.
My father picked up and dropped off his white shirts at the Chinese laundry and got his hair trimmed every Saturday. The square back then was the real center of town. Most of the stores were small, squeezed beside each other. Some were longer than they were wide. A men's clothing store was owned by the same family which ran the funeral home, the Catholic funeral home, which happened to be beside the other one, the Protestant funeral home. It wasn't religious bias but tradition which dictated who got buried by whom. Right beside the clothing store was the luncheonette. I remember the long counter and the stools, low to the floor. The square had three places to eat back then but one was a bakery with only a few side tables. My mother worked there when she was in high school. It closed just recently. I always loved roaming the square, telling my mother I was going uptown for that's what we called it.
Gracie watches out the front door. I sometimes stand with her and wonder what holds her attention. No cars drive by, no people wander, not an animal can be seen. My guess is Gracie waits in anticipation.
Being a kid and being housebound on a Saturday was about the worst fate for all of us. We drove my mother crazy. We drove each other crazy. We went from one thing to another. A game would hold us for a while then we'd get bored and move on. Sometimes we'd color or read or watch television. Most times by late afternoon we were at each other teasing, name calling, poking, anything to get a response. Usually my sister Moe broke first.
My father picked up and dropped off his white shirts at the Chinese laundry and got his hair trimmed every Saturday. The square back then was the real center of town. Most of the stores were small, squeezed beside each other. Some were longer than they were wide. A men's clothing store was owned by the same family which ran the funeral home, the Catholic funeral home, which happened to be beside the other one, the Protestant funeral home. It wasn't religious bias but tradition which dictated who got buried by whom. Right beside the clothing store was the luncheonette. I remember the long counter and the stools, low to the floor. The square had three places to eat back then but one was a bakery with only a few side tables. My mother worked there when she was in high school. It closed just recently. I always loved roaming the square, telling my mother I was going uptown for that's what we called it.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Marie Hamilton (Child No. 173): Rory and Alex McEwen
Alex McEwen, who died on December 4, was the 6th Laird of Bardrochat in Carrick and enjoyed a successful career as a folk singer in the 1950s and early 1960s.
As young men, McEwen and his older brother Rory traveled around the United States, paying their way as guitar-playing folk singers. They were rewarded with two appearances (in which they sang traditional Scottish songs) on the Ed Sullivan Show, an accolade accorded to only a few artists, among them Elvis Presley and The Beatles.
On their return to Britain the brothers attained national celebrity as folk singers; Billy Connolly and Van Morrison are just two of those who have acknowledged the McEwens as formative influences.
This is from Great Scottish Ballads released in 1956 by Folkways and still available at Smithsonian Folkways.
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As young men, McEwen and his older brother Rory traveled around the United States, paying their way as guitar-playing folk singers. They were rewarded with two appearances (in which they sang traditional Scottish songs) on the Ed Sullivan Show, an accolade accorded to only a few artists, among them Elvis Presley and The Beatles.
On their return to Britain the brothers attained national celebrity as folk singers; Billy Connolly and Van Morrison are just two of those who have acknowledged the McEwens as formative influences.
This is from Great Scottish Ballads released in 1956 by Folkways and still available at Smithsonian Folkways.
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"Winter, a lingering season, is a time to gather golden moments, embark upon a sentimental journey, and enjoy every idle hour. "
The world outside is lovely from here in the warm house. The sun is shining, the snow glints in the light, and the pale blue sky is a perfect frame. If it weren't for the cold, the day would be magnificent.
My plans for the day are simple. Do exactly what I did yesterday: stay cozy and warm, read my book and drink coffee. I will admire the beauty from inside, through window panes. I don't need to be stylish: my warm slippers, my frayed sweatshirt and my flannel pants are the best ensemble for a lazy day.
Last night it was chicken pot pie, one of my comfort foods, but meat loaf, mashed potatoes and peas are on my mind. For some reason, they seem a perfect winter feast. My mother made the best meatloaf. Sometimes she'd layer bacon across the top while other times she'd frost her meatloaf with the mashed potatoes then brown it in the oven. That was my favorite.
Winter is the best excuse to loll around the house.
My plans for the day are simple. Do exactly what I did yesterday: stay cozy and warm, read my book and drink coffee. I will admire the beauty from inside, through window panes. I don't need to be stylish: my warm slippers, my frayed sweatshirt and my flannel pants are the best ensemble for a lazy day.
Last night it was chicken pot pie, one of my comfort foods, but meat loaf, mashed potatoes and peas are on my mind. For some reason, they seem a perfect winter feast. My mother made the best meatloaf. Sometimes she'd layer bacon across the top while other times she'd frost her meatloaf with the mashed potatoes then brown it in the oven. That was my favorite.
Winter is the best excuse to loll around the house.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Chelsea Morning: Joni Mitchell
It's been a long while since I played this, one of my favorite Joni's. It was her Clouds which came with me to Africa and survived hand rewinding, the dusts of the harmattan and the over 100 degrees days of the warm months. I can still see my living room in Bolga and picture myself sitting on one of the chairs with the red cushions while Joni played in the background.
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New England Winter: Shep Cooke
I'm not sure how I'd label this in the record bins. It leans toward rock but has a folk tinge. I was drawn by the title.
Shep Cooke was once a member of the mid 60's band The Dearly Beloved. He joined The Stone Poneys and Linda Ronstadt in 1967. He also recorded on Tom Wait's album Closing Time.
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Shep Cooke was once a member of the mid 60's band The Dearly Beloved. He joined The Stone Poneys and Linda Ronstadt in 1967. He also recorded on Tom Wait's album Closing Time.
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"Silence is more musical than any song."
It's snowing. Fluffy, sweepable snow started around seven this morning. When I went to get the papers, the driveway was slippery as the snow had started to stick. The number of inches we can expect varies by TV station. I'm picking the station which predicted 2 to 4.
My view of the world today is from inside, from looking out the different windows. On my first window sweep a bit earlier, I watched a squirrel eat snow off the deck rail. He left an odd pattern. I figured he was thirsty from eating all the seed I had put out yesterday. The birds too have been in and out of the feeders. I saw chickadees, juncos and nuthatches when I watched from the kitchen window.
Hunker down is the plan. I have a new book, plenty of food, warm slippers and cozy clothes. The animals and I will stay close, sheltered. The two cats are sleeping in front of a heater on an afghan. The dog goes between couch and chair. I take what she doesn't. I'm okay with that. Later, I may nap. Cold, snowy days seem to invite warm covers and a long nap.
The house is so quiet I can hear the clock ticking. Every now and then the refrigerator grumbles, and the heat blasts. There is little wind, and the snow falls gently. I love my house best in the silence.
Tomorrow is supposed to be the coldest day. I made no plans. I'll be glad I'm home.
My view of the world today is from inside, from looking out the different windows. On my first window sweep a bit earlier, I watched a squirrel eat snow off the deck rail. He left an odd pattern. I figured he was thirsty from eating all the seed I had put out yesterday. The birds too have been in and out of the feeders. I saw chickadees, juncos and nuthatches when I watched from the kitchen window.
Hunker down is the plan. I have a new book, plenty of food, warm slippers and cozy clothes. The animals and I will stay close, sheltered. The two cats are sleeping in front of a heater on an afghan. The dog goes between couch and chair. I take what she doesn't. I'm okay with that. Later, I may nap. Cold, snowy days seem to invite warm covers and a long nap.
The house is so quiet I can hear the clock ticking. Every now and then the refrigerator grumbles, and the heat blasts. There is little wind, and the snow falls gently. I love my house best in the silence.
Tomorrow is supposed to be the coldest day. I made no plans. I'll be glad I'm home.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Pans of Biscuits: Kate Campbell
May You Never: Brooks Williams
I happened on this song and singer while I was searching the net. I hadn't ever heard him before and knew nothing about him. Some of you are probably wondering how I missed him. To you I say: share! Give me suggestions about the ones I'm missing. For those of us to whom he is new, this is what I found about this ablum and song.
"On Nectar, Brooks Williams continues to push the boundaries of his contemporary folk, incorporating elements of rock and electric blues into much of the album. He also refrains from any virtuoso performances, delivering very little of his usual flashy fretwork. While this might disappoint some, the simplified approach magnifies his improvements as a songwriter. The melancholy "May You Never" is an optimistic slice of acoustic blues that is given a country tinge by a lovely, understated slide guitar solo."
Bradley Torreano, All Music Guide
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"On Nectar, Brooks Williams continues to push the boundaries of his contemporary folk, incorporating elements of rock and electric blues into much of the album. He also refrains from any virtuoso performances, delivering very little of his usual flashy fretwork. While this might disappoint some, the simplified approach magnifies his improvements as a songwriter. The melancholy "May You Never" is an optimistic slice of acoustic blues that is given a country tinge by a lovely, understated slide guitar solo."
Bradley Torreano, All Music Guide
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"Dispel the cold, bounteously replenishing the hearth with logs."
Gracie went over the wall twice last night. Once Gracie goes over, the forces are marshaled and the hunt begins with some on foot, others in cars. The first leap resulted in an entirely different neighbor hearing me calling for her, going out to help and catching her. Well, catching her isn't quite correct as Gracie actually went over to say hello. The second time was in pouring rain. I have to think she was chasing a critter as Gracie hates rain. She and I were both soak by the time my friend Clare caught her. I wish the ground would get soft for just a couple of days so I could have the rest of the stockade fence put up to keep her in and to keep my nerves from fraying.
It is cold. All that rain has already frozen. My footprints are encased in ice. Follow the trail. See where I hunted last night. The day is supposed to get warmer, into the low 30's, but it will be in the teen's tonight. I have to go and do some errands so I'll wait until later, until the warming. It will be the first time out in a long while. It's time to heed my mother and wear a hat.
The day doesn't even look inviting though the sun is shining. The sky is an icy blue. Forlorn brown leaves twist in the breeze. The world has little color. My palm tree and flamingo still shine each night, and my friends have kept their deck tree lit with colored Christmas lights. We are the bright spots in a bleak January.
It is cold. All that rain has already frozen. My footprints are encased in ice. Follow the trail. See where I hunted last night. The day is supposed to get warmer, into the low 30's, but it will be in the teen's tonight. I have to go and do some errands so I'll wait until later, until the warming. It will be the first time out in a long while. It's time to heed my mother and wear a hat.
The day doesn't even look inviting though the sun is shining. The sky is an icy blue. Forlorn brown leaves twist in the breeze. The world has little color. My palm tree and flamingo still shine each night, and my friends have kept their deck tree lit with colored Christmas lights. We are the bright spots in a bleak January.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Stepstone: The Joel Rafael Band
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll: Tom Parrott
William Zantzinger, the subject of Bob Dylan’s 1963 protest song “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll,” has died at age 69 according to a local paper in Maryland. In 1963, a 24-year-old Zantzinger was at a Baltimore hotel when he struck Hattie Carroll — a 51-year-old black barmaid — in the head and shoulders with a toy cane. Details of the attack vary, but most claim he was enraged she wasn’t serving him quickly enough. A distraught Carroll, who suffered from high blood pressure and an enlarged heart, returned to the kitchen where she complained to a co-worker about Zantzinger — and quickly collapsed and died. An autopsy stated she died of a brain hemorrhage and there was no mark on her head from the cane. Zantzinger was eventually charged with involuntary manslaughter due to the “tremendous emotional upsurge” caused by his attack. He paid a $25,000 fine and served a six-month prison sentence.
Tom Parrott has been performing folk, blues, country, rock-n-roll and pop since the 1950s. He had two albums on the famous Folkways label, now available through Smithsonian Folkways, link to the right!
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Tom Parrott has been performing folk, blues, country, rock-n-roll and pop since the 1950s. He had two albums on the famous Folkways label, now available through Smithsonian Folkways, link to the right!
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"Sooner or later we all quote our mothers."
I am most decidedly a character in a science fiction novel. The dog and I survive in a frozen world. There are no other people. The footprints in my front yard belong only to me. No cars drive by the house. The phone rings, and it's an automated voice. The TV has only reruns. I speak out loud so I can hear a human voice. Okay, okay, it's time! I have got to leave this house and see the outside world.
Frigid temperatures are due here by Friday, single digits even without the wind chill. It will be colder than it has been in years. I remember times when even the ocean froze. The ice was strange, not the glass of a frozen lake but ripples of ice billowing from the shore, their tops crested in a strange mimicry of waves and the tide. I wonder if it will be that cold.
My mother dutifully gave us all her motherly wisdom. She always used to tell us it was too cold to snow. It was one of those things mothers pass on to their kids, having heard it, I suppose, from their own mothers. Faces freezing had nothing to do with the weather. It was just another warning from my mother. The same went for crossed eyes. My mother never got as philosophical as Forrest Gump's. She was too busy warning us about dirty underwear, starving children and the solution for boredom. Besides, our box of chocolates always came with a diagram.
Frigid temperatures are due here by Friday, single digits even without the wind chill. It will be colder than it has been in years. I remember times when even the ocean froze. The ice was strange, not the glass of a frozen lake but ripples of ice billowing from the shore, their tops crested in a strange mimicry of waves and the tide. I wonder if it will be that cold.
My mother dutifully gave us all her motherly wisdom. She always used to tell us it was too cold to snow. It was one of those things mothers pass on to their kids, having heard it, I suppose, from their own mothers. Faces freezing had nothing to do with the weather. It was just another warning from my mother. The same went for crossed eyes. My mother never got as philosophical as Forrest Gump's. She was too busy warning us about dirty underwear, starving children and the solution for boredom. Besides, our box of chocolates always came with a diagram.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Mr. Tambourine Man: Bob Dylan
"I love snow, snow, and all the forms of radiant frost. "
Snow showers fall from a gray white sky. The ruts and footprints are covered. A thin layer of snow sits on the branches. Even my neighbor hasn't been outside. His driveway is covered, an unusual sight. He seems to have a thing about his driveway and snow.
I had plans to go out today. Gracie and I would do the dump run then hit the grocery aisles; instead, I'll just stay inside and continue to feel better. Who am I to tempt fate on a cold day?
The cocoa my mother made always had bubbles around the edges. I think she used to combine the cocoa with milk then add hot water. Every morning we'd come down to breakfast and a pot of tea, a plate of toast and cups of cocoa sat waiting. Sometimes she'd fortify us with lumpy oatmeal covered in sugar and milk. I used to scrape and eat the sugary top first. It was the best part. My dad loved oatmeal. As for me, I could take it or leave it.
On really cold days my mother sometimes put soup in my lunchbox thermos. Most times it was tomato or chicken noodle. She'd always pack saltines with the soup, and I used to crumble them into the thermos cup so they'd sop up the liquid. She'd sometimes add a half sandwich, but she always included dessert. Most times it was cookies, but every now and then she'd surprise me with a Hostess cupcake. I always saved the frosting until last.
I liked sitting in my classroom on a snowy day and watching out the windows.
I had plans to go out today. Gracie and I would do the dump run then hit the grocery aisles; instead, I'll just stay inside and continue to feel better. Who am I to tempt fate on a cold day?
The cocoa my mother made always had bubbles around the edges. I think she used to combine the cocoa with milk then add hot water. Every morning we'd come down to breakfast and a pot of tea, a plate of toast and cups of cocoa sat waiting. Sometimes she'd fortify us with lumpy oatmeal covered in sugar and milk. I used to scrape and eat the sugary top first. It was the best part. My dad loved oatmeal. As for me, I could take it or leave it.
On really cold days my mother sometimes put soup in my lunchbox thermos. Most times it was tomato or chicken noodle. She'd always pack saltines with the soup, and I used to crumble them into the thermos cup so they'd sop up the liquid. She'd sometimes add a half sandwich, but she always included dessert. Most times it was cookies, but every now and then she'd surprise me with a Hostess cupcake. I always saved the frosting until last.
I liked sitting in my classroom on a snowy day and watching out the windows.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
"What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life - to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories."
Last night the snow was soft and gentle. It was the sort kids never like but adults find beautiful. This morning it rained and the snow became slush. Footprints are permanent. They'll freeze later, and the walk will look as if Yeti dropped by to visit. The rain is now turning back to snow, and the wind is blowing. The neighborhood looks deserted.
Today is the sort of day for a fire. The air should smell of wood burning. I'm thinking me in a rocking chair with an afghan and a book sitting in front of a roaring fire, the kind my father used to call a Hollywood fire because his never seemed to catch.
I love days like today. I can stand at the window and watch the world but stay warm and cozy in my house. It is comfort. It is tomato soup and grilled cheese.
If I went back fifty years in time, I'd know what I'd see on a day just like today. I'd be lying on my stomach on the rug in the living room and reading. My father would be in his chair. My two sisters would probably be playing dolls. They'd be dressing them and talking to each other in funny doll voices. My brother would be setting up his green army men. My mother would be in the kitchen making Sunday dinner. The windows would be covered in frost and the radiators would be hissing. It would be a quiet day in the Ryan house. Days like today seem to lend themselves to whispers and softness, even with a house full of kids. My mother would call us to dinner, and the quiet would disappear for just a while, replaced by conversation and the clinking of silverware.
Today is the sort of day for a fire. The air should smell of wood burning. I'm thinking me in a rocking chair with an afghan and a book sitting in front of a roaring fire, the kind my father used to call a Hollywood fire because his never seemed to catch.
I love days like today. I can stand at the window and watch the world but stay warm and cozy in my house. It is comfort. It is tomato soup and grilled cheese.
If I went back fifty years in time, I'd know what I'd see on a day just like today. I'd be lying on my stomach on the rug in the living room and reading. My father would be in his chair. My two sisters would probably be playing dolls. They'd be dressing them and talking to each other in funny doll voices. My brother would be setting up his green army men. My mother would be in the kitchen making Sunday dinner. The windows would be covered in frost and the radiators would be hissing. It would be a quiet day in the Ryan house. Days like today seem to lend themselves to whispers and softness, even with a house full of kids. My mother would call us to dinner, and the quiet would disappear for just a while, replaced by conversation and the clinking of silverware.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
“Getting an inch of snow is like winning 10 cents in the lottery.”
I'm late. I'm late. I woke up feeling a bit better so I emptied the litter boxes, loaded the bag into the car and hauled in bird seed which had been in the car all week. After that I languished on the couch keeping an eye on the time but being nestled under that afghan put me right to sleep. When I woke from my nap, the morning had disappeared and so had the sun. The day is now gray. We are expecting snow later tonight. The number of inches seems to be in dispute, but the estimates hover around three or four. That's sweeping snow, not shoveling snow.
I remember when snow was always fun. It was never an inconvenience. Being a kid meant I didn't have to shovel. That was my dad's job. My job was to go sledding, make snow caves and have snowball fights. Those were the most fun. We'd choose sides then we'll build our walls. Most times we'd use a bit of water to make the walls really strong. They were our only protection. The walls were generally rounded so more of us could hide behind them. I figure we learned the technique from some King Arthur book where the castle walls were always round. Our walls were only as high as our patience. We'd then make snowballs and strategically pile them in spots behind the walls. We'd yell when we were ready, and the battle would commence. Snowballs flew fast and furiously. As the ammunition disappeared, the bravest among us would grab a few and head toward the enemies' wall, climb it and then pelt them from their own fortification. Victory would then be declared. The great snowball fight was over. The victors were jubilant. The vanquished vowed to fight again another day.
I remember when snow was always fun. It was never an inconvenience. Being a kid meant I didn't have to shovel. That was my dad's job. My job was to go sledding, make snow caves and have snowball fights. Those were the most fun. We'd choose sides then we'll build our walls. Most times we'd use a bit of water to make the walls really strong. They were our only protection. The walls were generally rounded so more of us could hide behind them. I figure we learned the technique from some King Arthur book where the castle walls were always round. Our walls were only as high as our patience. We'd then make snowballs and strategically pile them in spots behind the walls. We'd yell when we were ready, and the battle would commence. Snowballs flew fast and furiously. As the ammunition disappeared, the bravest among us would grab a few and head toward the enemies' wall, climb it and then pelt them from their own fortification. Victory would then be declared. The great snowball fight was over. The victors were jubilant. The vanquished vowed to fight again another day.
Friday, January 09, 2009
“Be not sick too late, nor well too soon”
Today is a short entry. I won't even make less than subtle hints for sympathy. I am actually watching daytime TV just for the comforting sound of a human voice. I am immersed in Stargate Atlantis. They are all repeats, but I don't even care.
I have nothing in my head, no images, ideas or memories swirling around waiting to be grabbed. It is a rare occasion for me. All I can conjure is thoughts of hot soup, warm afghans and long naps. I am boring myself. How sad!
When I was a little kid, my mother used to make me tea and toast when I was sick. It was her universal remedy for just about any illness. She would butter the toast, cut it into strips then put the tea and toast on a tray and bring it to my room. I'd sit up in bed with the pillows behind me and feel, just for a bit, like a princess. Sometimes I'd stay in my parents' room on their bed so I could watch television. I could watch anything I wanted. I always felt special. My mother made being sick an event. I figure that's why we all want our mothers when we're sick.
I have nothing in my head, no images, ideas or memories swirling around waiting to be grabbed. It is a rare occasion for me. All I can conjure is thoughts of hot soup, warm afghans and long naps. I am boring myself. How sad!
When I was a little kid, my mother used to make me tea and toast when I was sick. It was her universal remedy for just about any illness. She would butter the toast, cut it into strips then put the tea and toast on a tray and bring it to my room. I'd sit up in bed with the pillows behind me and feel, just for a bit, like a princess. Sometimes I'd stay in my parents' room on their bed so I could watch television. I could watch anything I wanted. I always felt special. My mother made being sick an event. I figure that's why we all want our mothers when we're sick.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
"It's no longer a question of staying healthy. It's a question of finding a sickness you like."
This is my log, written for future generations so they can understand what happened here.
I can hear the carts rumbling outside my windows and the shouts to bring out your dead. I wave to let them know I am still among the living. I even force a smile. The carts move on to the next house. I am safe for another day.
My friends drop off packages of food on the steps, ring the bell then run beyond the gate hoping to outdistance the germs. We speak by phone. I have had no human contact for days. Gracie is bored with my conversation. Fern has disappeared. She is in hiding.
No common cold grips this deeply. I swear it is a plot device in some science fiction novel in which I am but a minor character. I would love to be the protagonist, but the heroine never gets sick. I must be the sidekick.
This is day five. The symptoms are the same as they were on day one. All that has changed is my mood. Humor was the first to go. I am grumpier though I would never have believed that possible. I guess grumpier has become grumpiest.
I am not a good sick person, no cheery little me here rising above the aches and pains. Cursing makes me feel just a little bit better.
I can hear the carts rumbling outside my windows and the shouts to bring out your dead. I wave to let them know I am still among the living. I even force a smile. The carts move on to the next house. I am safe for another day.
My friends drop off packages of food on the steps, ring the bell then run beyond the gate hoping to outdistance the germs. We speak by phone. I have had no human contact for days. Gracie is bored with my conversation. Fern has disappeared. She is in hiding.
No common cold grips this deeply. I swear it is a plot device in some science fiction novel in which I am but a minor character. I would love to be the protagonist, but the heroine never gets sick. I must be the sidekick.
This is day five. The symptoms are the same as they were on day one. All that has changed is my mood. Humor was the first to go. I am grumpier though I would never have believed that possible. I guess grumpier has become grumpiest.
I am not a good sick person, no cheery little me here rising above the aches and pains. Cursing makes me feel just a little bit better.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
No Regrets: Tom Rush
In The Evening (It's So Hard To Tell Who's Gonna Love You The Best: Karen Dalton
Karen Dalton made only two recordings. This was her 1969 debut.
Read more here:
http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/story?oid=oid%3A589038
MP3 File
yousendit
Read more here:
http://www.austinchronicle.com/gyrobase/Issue/story?oid=oid%3A589038
MP3 File
yousendit
"We should read to give our souls a chance to luxuriate."
It is a gray, joyless day. Rain alternates with sleet. A thin layer of ice covers the walk and the driveway. Even if I weren't sick, I'd stay home and keep warm and cozy. The house makes me feel safe somehow, as if it has protective arms around me. The animals stay close. Fern gives me comforting licks, and Gracie lays her head on my arm. I think I am a character in Stephen King's The Stand.
I had favorite books when I was a kid. The classics were big back then, and I read about Heidi and Grandfather and all the Little Women. Jo was my favorite. I envied Jim in Treasure Island. because he got to sail the seas and meet pirates. I wanted to be shipwrecked with The Swiss Family Robinson. My heart still breaks for Black Beauty.
When I was young, my mother read all the Golden Books to me. I remember Henny Penny the most, and I wanted my mother to read it again and again. I loved all the animals' names, and the way they rhymed. Turkey-Lurky was my favorite name. When I read the book much later, as an adult, I was amazed that foxy-woxy killed the animals. I had no memory of that at all. I just remembered how silly Henny Penny was to think the sky was falling. I totally blocked out the demise of poor Turkey-Lurky and Goosey-poosey. Maybe, though, my mother didn't read those parts. I just don't remember.
The Secret Garden, Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates, Little Men and so many more have been long time friends. I'd find a quiet spot, pull out my book and get totally immersed in my story. I wouldn't hear my mother call me, and she always believed I was ignoring her. She was wrong. I wasn't in the house any more. I was on an adventure with Mole, Ratty and Mr. Toad.
I had favorite books when I was a kid. The classics were big back then, and I read about Heidi and Grandfather and all the Little Women. Jo was my favorite. I envied Jim in Treasure Island. because he got to sail the seas and meet pirates. I wanted to be shipwrecked with The Swiss Family Robinson. My heart still breaks for Black Beauty.
When I was young, my mother read all the Golden Books to me. I remember Henny Penny the most, and I wanted my mother to read it again and again. I loved all the animals' names, and the way they rhymed. Turkey-Lurky was my favorite name. When I read the book much later, as an adult, I was amazed that foxy-woxy killed the animals. I had no memory of that at all. I just remembered how silly Henny Penny was to think the sky was falling. I totally blocked out the demise of poor Turkey-Lurky and Goosey-poosey. Maybe, though, my mother didn't read those parts. I just don't remember.
The Secret Garden, Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates, Little Men and so many more have been long time friends. I'd find a quiet spot, pull out my book and get totally immersed in my story. I wouldn't hear my mother call me, and she always believed I was ignoring her. She was wrong. I wasn't in the house any more. I was on an adventure with Mole, Ratty and Mr. Toad.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
"It is in learning music that many youthful hearts learn to love."
Today is the Epiphany, Little Christmas. It is the day the Magi arrived bearing gifts. It is also the Twelfth Day of Christmas, and I expect that at some time today twelve drummers drumming, eleven pipers piping, ten lords a leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a milking, seven swans a swimming, six geese a laying, five golden rings, four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree will come through my front door. I've moved some furniture to make space.
Tonight will be the last night for my outside lights. Tonight the Christmas season will end.
When we had music in school, the nun blew one of those round pitch pipes, raised her hand and swirled it to a downbeat. We'd then start singing. I remember very few of the songs we learned, but the one I remember the best is My Grandfather's Clock. It was an eerie song. Here was this grandfather, and we were singing about his clock never working again because the old man died. It was like an early Twilight Zone moment. I always liked singing stopp'd short. It was the best part. I also remember The Happy Wanderer because we all shouted at the ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha part. It was a revolt of sorts hidden in music. The nun would put her hand out and motion us to quiet down, but we never did. I remember we learned Up on the Rooftop at Christmas, and we always sang it filled with the spirit of the season.
We had music once a week through eight years of elementary school, and strangely those are the only songs I remember.
Tonight will be the last night for my outside lights. Tonight the Christmas season will end.
When we had music in school, the nun blew one of those round pitch pipes, raised her hand and swirled it to a downbeat. We'd then start singing. I remember very few of the songs we learned, but the one I remember the best is My Grandfather's Clock. It was an eerie song. Here was this grandfather, and we were singing about his clock never working again because the old man died. It was like an early Twilight Zone moment. I always liked singing stopp'd short. It was the best part. I also remember The Happy Wanderer because we all shouted at the ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha part. It was a revolt of sorts hidden in music. The nun would put her hand out and motion us to quiet down, but we never did. I remember we learned Up on the Rooftop at Christmas, and we always sang it filled with the spirit of the season.
We had music once a week through eight years of elementary school, and strangely those are the only songs I remember.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Hey, That's No Way To Say Goodbye: Judy Collins
“It is dainty to be sick, if you have leisure and convenience for it”
No conversation today about the lingering headache, the coughing, and the sniffles. Nope, I just won't go there! I also won't tell you about the call to my friend of nearly thirty five years who said hello back to me then asked who I was.
Today is a warmer day, in the 40's. I can see drops falling from the melting snow on the roof. The driveway was covered in black ice earlier, but I managed to get the paper and make it back to the house without a single broken bone. I wanted to sing We are the Champions.
I don't remember too many times being sick when I was a kid, but I do remember the big ones, the childhood diseases we all got back then. Once one kid in our neighborhood got something we all did. I remember the measles and lying in a dark bedroom where I was in exile from the rest of the family. The school nurse, Miss Kenney, dropped by to see how I was. The chicken pox are easy to remember because of my mother's constant harping about not scratching unless I want my face scarred for life. We all had the mumps at the same time, on purpose.
I don't remember getting colds, but I do remember runny noses and sledding and sleeves.
Today is a warmer day, in the 40's. I can see drops falling from the melting snow on the roof. The driveway was covered in black ice earlier, but I managed to get the paper and make it back to the house without a single broken bone. I wanted to sing We are the Champions.
I don't remember too many times being sick when I was a kid, but I do remember the big ones, the childhood diseases we all got back then. Once one kid in our neighborhood got something we all did. I remember the measles and lying in a dark bedroom where I was in exile from the rest of the family. The school nurse, Miss Kenney, dropped by to see how I was. The chicken pox are easy to remember because of my mother's constant harping about not scratching unless I want my face scarred for life. We all had the mumps at the same time, on purpose.
I don't remember getting colds, but I do remember runny noses and sledding and sleeves.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
"Perhaps the world's second worst crime is boredom. The first is being a bore."
My usual cheery self is on hiatus. Today I am cranky. I have a cough, sniffles and a headache. I have one necessary errand, but after that I will cocoon myself for the duration. How lovely it would be to have someone here to comfort me when I whine, to make soup to warm me and to tuck me in for my naps. I wonder if there is a rent a mother out there just waiting for my call.
I have no ideas today. My mind is a blank. If I were a color, I'd be a neutral. If I were a car, I'd be a sedan. If I were clothing, I'd be a plain white t-shirt. If I were a dessert, I'd be vanilla ice cream without hot fudge to break up the monotony. I'm a repeat on TV that nobody watched the first time. Sadly, I can't even claim any exotic disease. I have a common cold.
I seemed to have fallen into a sinkhole. Sometimes life just isn't all that interesting. Today is one of those days. I'm out of ideas. I'm done.
I have no ideas today. My mind is a blank. If I were a color, I'd be a neutral. If I were a car, I'd be a sedan. If I were clothing, I'd be a plain white t-shirt. If I were a dessert, I'd be vanilla ice cream without hot fudge to break up the monotony. I'm a repeat on TV that nobody watched the first time. Sadly, I can't even claim any exotic disease. I have a common cold.
I seemed to have fallen into a sinkhole. Sometimes life just isn't all that interesting. Today is one of those days. I'm out of ideas. I'm done.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
"On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence."
Christmas is away until next year. I must have made eight trips up and down the cellar stairs carrying boxes and bags. The most difficult part of the dismantling was lifting the tree out of the stand then hauling it outside. The trunk was resting on my shoulder, then on the back of the couch then finally I wrested it out the front door to the lawn. There it lies until I can get someone to haul it to the dump. It is bare and forlorn, but I do take some comfort knowing my tree will have a second life at the beach on the dunes keeping them safe from the wind.
My snowmen still cavort on tabletops, and my outside lights will brighten the nights until Little Christmas. After that winter will hold sway.
The nights are quiet this time of year. The roads are empty. No one walks by my house. Lights shine from windows and cast their beams upon the snow. The stars are so numerous they blanket the sky. The night air is filled with the aroma of wood fires. Off in the distance a dog barks. I love these winter nights.
My snowmen still cavort on tabletops, and my outside lights will brighten the nights until Little Christmas. After that winter will hold sway.
The nights are quiet this time of year. The roads are empty. No one walks by my house. Lights shine from windows and cast their beams upon the snow. The stars are so numerous they blanket the sky. The night air is filled with the aroma of wood fires. Off in the distance a dog barks. I love these winter nights.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Sometimes in Winter: Blood, Sweat and Tears
"Winter is the time for comfort - it is the time for home."
Christmas will disappear today. The decorations will come down, and the tree will be stripped of lights and ornaments. Winter will be darker. I always feel sad to see Christmas leave. The tree adds so much color to the gray of winter, and it infuses my house with the sweet smell of outside. It is time, though, as my tree has stopped drinking and is now shedding its needles. It was a beautiful tree.
I've never really thought January has much to commend it. The month is usually cold and snowy, and no festivities break up winter's dominance. Back to school after Christmas was always a let down. I hated when routine reared its ugly head. We'd ice skate and sled and see a movie or two on Saturdays, but nothing much broke up the monotony. I am in that same frame of mind now, the settling in mode.
One of my projects might keep me a bit occupied. I have saved all the pieces of china, glass or pottery from everything I broke since the granite counter top and the tile floor were installed. Favorite cups, a serving dish and a thirty year old dinner plate are among my victims. I'm happy they get to have another life.
Today, as you might figure, is a day lacking inspiration and imagination.
I've never really thought January has much to commend it. The month is usually cold and snowy, and no festivities break up winter's dominance. Back to school after Christmas was always a let down. I hated when routine reared its ugly head. We'd ice skate and sled and see a movie or two on Saturdays, but nothing much broke up the monotony. I am in that same frame of mind now, the settling in mode.
One of my projects might keep me a bit occupied. I have saved all the pieces of china, glass or pottery from everything I broke since the granite counter top and the tile floor were installed. Favorite cups, a serving dish and a thirty year old dinner plate are among my victims. I'm happy they get to have another life.
Today, as you might figure, is a day lacking inspiration and imagination.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
“In the New Year, may your right hand always be stretched out in friendship, never in want.”
The old year went out with a snowstorm, a 50 mile an hour wind and frigid temperatures. I think 2008, knowing its time was done, was leaving a last, unpleasant memory. Today is really cold but sunny, maybe a sign of that proverbial ray of hope we all need.
Last night was spent with friends. We started here with appetizers, drinks and conversation. We had a flow chart so, at the appointed time, we bundled into heavy coats, hats and mittens and moved to the next house. There we had pizzas and calzones, played a game and watched the old Frank Sinatra show in black and white. We stayed a bit longer than expected, and by the time we started out to walk to the last house, it was as cold as I can remember. The snow had stopped, but the wind was ferocious. I swear my face froze during the short walk, but we finally made our way through the drifts to the last house, ran inside to the warmth, put our slippers back on and tuned in Dick Clark. We wore hats and held our noisemakers as we watched the ball drop in Times Square. We ushered in the New Year with noise, yells, kisses and hugs. Then we had dessert.
I didn't leave for home until 1:30. As I was walking up the street, the wind, this time, was at my back. I saw eddies of flakes, swirling snow. My neighbors' houses were dark. Only my outside light lit the night. I walked through drifts to my front door and was glad for the blast of heat when I walked inside. Gracie was happy to see me. I was glad to be home.
Happy 2009 and may this year be better than the last!
Last night was spent with friends. We started here with appetizers, drinks and conversation. We had a flow chart so, at the appointed time, we bundled into heavy coats, hats and mittens and moved to the next house. There we had pizzas and calzones, played a game and watched the old Frank Sinatra show in black and white. We stayed a bit longer than expected, and by the time we started out to walk to the last house, it was as cold as I can remember. The snow had stopped, but the wind was ferocious. I swear my face froze during the short walk, but we finally made our way through the drifts to the last house, ran inside to the warmth, put our slippers back on and tuned in Dick Clark. We wore hats and held our noisemakers as we watched the ball drop in Times Square. We ushered in the New Year with noise, yells, kisses and hugs. Then we had dessert.
I didn't leave for home until 1:30. As I was walking up the street, the wind, this time, was at my back. I saw eddies of flakes, swirling snow. My neighbors' houses were dark. Only my outside light lit the night. I walked through drifts to my front door and was glad for the blast of heat when I walked inside. Gracie was happy to see me. I was glad to be home.
Happy 2009 and may this year be better than the last!
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