I apologize for the pops and scratches but this is from the original 1959 vinyl which someone ripped for me. I have found later versions of the song but none surpass this one. It is from The Best of the Weavers on Decca.
I thought of today as The day: you know, The Weavers, The Journeymen.
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Tuesday, March 31, 2009
River, She Come Down: The Journeymen
This is from New Directions in Folk Music their final album. It was released in 1963. I always think of these guys as the group that could have but didn't. They should have been huge. They were Dick Weissman (banjo/vocals), Scott McKenzie (guitar/vocals), and John Phillips (guitar/vocals).
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MP3 File
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“There are always germs, and you're never going to get rid of all of them.”
That sound you hear, off-key, loud and exuberant, is my rendition of Oh, What a Beautiful Morning. The corner has been turned and turned again. I slept, and I can breathe easier. The orchestral wheezing has become a solo.
Today I will rejoin the world and do those errands I didn't do yesterday. The sun is even shining for the first time in a couple of days. I think it's shining for me. I'll know for certain when I walk outside and the rays follow me like a spotlight. I'll let you know.
I'm thinking a bear on her first day out of hibernation and I on my first day out of the house have a lot in common. I imagine her glinting in the sun, sniffing the fresh air and shaking and ruffling her coat to clear off the nettles and leaves accumulated over the winter. I will do much the same though showering will have to substitute for shaking and ruffling my coat.
As kids, we were hardly sick. We got colds. Everybody did. Mostly it was just the sniffles. I don't remember when I outgrew using my sleeve and moved up to a handkerchief or tissue. It must have been the civilizing effect of school. I know my mother would fold a pile of Kleenex and shove them in my coat pocket and remind me to put them in my desk. Sometimes I'd actually remember. Colds or the sniffles were never reasons to stay home from school. The classroom in winter was a cacophony of snorts, sneezes and coughs.
We shared from bottles and straws. Washing our hands was forced upon us. We worked at our school desks all morning, ate lunch at the same desks, worked after lunch on those desks yet again, went home, got changed and played until dinner. Then and only then was washing forced upon us. Running our hands under the faucet always seemed enough. Soap would have been overkill. We never had germs. We only had cooties.
Today I will rejoin the world and do those errands I didn't do yesterday. The sun is even shining for the first time in a couple of days. I think it's shining for me. I'll know for certain when I walk outside and the rays follow me like a spotlight. I'll let you know.
I'm thinking a bear on her first day out of hibernation and I on my first day out of the house have a lot in common. I imagine her glinting in the sun, sniffing the fresh air and shaking and ruffling her coat to clear off the nettles and leaves accumulated over the winter. I will do much the same though showering will have to substitute for shaking and ruffling my coat.
As kids, we were hardly sick. We got colds. Everybody did. Mostly it was just the sniffles. I don't remember when I outgrew using my sleeve and moved up to a handkerchief or tissue. It must have been the civilizing effect of school. I know my mother would fold a pile of Kleenex and shove them in my coat pocket and remind me to put them in my desk. Sometimes I'd actually remember. Colds or the sniffles were never reasons to stay home from school. The classroom in winter was a cacophony of snorts, sneezes and coughs.
We shared from bottles and straws. Washing our hands was forced upon us. We worked at our school desks all morning, ate lunch at the same desks, worked after lunch on those desks yet again, went home, got changed and played until dinner. Then and only then was washing forced upon us. Running our hands under the faucet always seemed enough. Soap would have been overkill. We never had germs. We only had cooties.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Bridge Over Troubled Water: Roberta Flack
The day is a dark one. I am still beating back being ill. I listened to a few notes or a few lines of song after song until I found the two songs right for me and my mood and the day. This is from 1971's Quiet Fire. It is overly long, but I needed to close my eyes and just stop for a bit. This was perfect.
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Nine Hundred Miles: Odetta
"And yet of all the home remedies, A good wife and mother is still the best. "
I am finally beginning to feel better as the cough is just about gone, but I had insomnia again and was up until five this morning. I had a few recorded programs to watch so no Van Damme, and I was content. It's been a long time since I've pulled an all nighter. I did get a few hours sleep finally and woke up wondering what theme Michele Obama would chose for the White House tree. All the best ones seem to have been taken.
It's the second rainy day in a row. I heard it raining around 4:30, but it came and went quickly. A gray, damp day was left behind. I have to rejoin the human race later to shop a bit as I need basics like cream for my coffee, bread, the staff of life, and diet coke.
I really think rent a mother would work. I'd have rented one for the past few days. She wouldn't have to wear an apron or a house dress, but I think she'd have to wear slippers. My mother always did. Every rent a mother would have rules they have to follow. They'd have to be over solicitous enough to be annoying every now and then and carry in trays of food they'd expect us to taste even if we weren't hungry. They'd sit, watch and encourage with try a little, just a bit more. You need to keep your strength up. I envision lots of soup with Saltines. Ginger Ale, my sister reminded me, was another drink my mother gave us when we were sick. Every rent a mother would know all the consoling words and would tuck us in for our naps. I don't think we every get too old for a tuck and a good night kiss.
It's the second rainy day in a row. I heard it raining around 4:30, but it came and went quickly. A gray, damp day was left behind. I have to rejoin the human race later to shop a bit as I need basics like cream for my coffee, bread, the staff of life, and diet coke.
I really think rent a mother would work. I'd have rented one for the past few days. She wouldn't have to wear an apron or a house dress, but I think she'd have to wear slippers. My mother always did. Every rent a mother would have rules they have to follow. They'd have to be over solicitous enough to be annoying every now and then and carry in trays of food they'd expect us to taste even if we weren't hungry. They'd sit, watch and encourage with try a little, just a bit more. You need to keep your strength up. I envision lots of soup with Saltines. Ginger Ale, my sister reminded me, was another drink my mother gave us when we were sick. Every rent a mother would know all the consoling words and would tuck us in for our naps. I don't think we every get too old for a tuck and a good night kiss.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Barbados: Trinidad Steel Drum Band
“An illness comes by the pound and goes away by the ounce.”
I was up until well after two so I got to sleep in until nearly 10:30. I, the checker of side effects extraordinaire, did not check prednisone and didn't realize it caused insomnia, as if that would have made a difference. I'm grasping at straws here.
I forgot how really awful late night TV is. They sell every kitchen tool, piece of home gym equipment and get rich while working at home scheme. I ended up watching a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie, proof of how ill I must be.
It's been raining all morning. I heard the rain against the window as soon as I woke. It is one of my favorite sounds, and I stayed in bed a while just to listen. Gracie stayed asleep close beside me. She knows something is going on and stays with me, watches me when I move around and comes in periodically from outside just to get a pat, her excuse to make sure I'm still here.
When I was young and football season was over, we'd plunk down on the floor in front of the TV set and watch the Sunday Matinee. That was when I became a movie fan. I remember "How Green Was My Valley" most of all. It was the horrid lives of the miners and their lack of a future outside the mine which stayed with me. I had never seen a movie like that before. The only ones I had ever seen were filled with light. This was only darkness. It is still one of my favorite movies.
Today I will lie on the couch wrapped in an afghan and hope the meds begin to work. I'm tired of this, of holding my head when I cough or grabbing for the inhaler. If it's true only the good suffer, I must be near perfection!
I forgot how really awful late night TV is. They sell every kitchen tool, piece of home gym equipment and get rich while working at home scheme. I ended up watching a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie, proof of how ill I must be.
It's been raining all morning. I heard the rain against the window as soon as I woke. It is one of my favorite sounds, and I stayed in bed a while just to listen. Gracie stayed asleep close beside me. She knows something is going on and stays with me, watches me when I move around and comes in periodically from outside just to get a pat, her excuse to make sure I'm still here.
When I was young and football season was over, we'd plunk down on the floor in front of the TV set and watch the Sunday Matinee. That was when I became a movie fan. I remember "How Green Was My Valley" most of all. It was the horrid lives of the miners and their lack of a future outside the mine which stayed with me. I had never seen a movie like that before. The only ones I had ever seen were filled with light. This was only darkness. It is still one of my favorite movies.
Today I will lie on the couch wrapped in an afghan and hope the meds begin to work. I'm tired of this, of holding my head when I cough or grabbing for the inhaler. If it's true only the good suffer, I must be near perfection!
Saturday, March 28, 2009
"Sickness comes in haste, and goes at leisure."
Today I'm taking a sick day, a real one, not the sort we used to take when we needed a day to ourselves. After another night of coughing and turning, I finally took myself to the clinic this morning. I was coughing so much I had one whole area to myself. Well, I walked away with four prescriptions including prednisone, a new inhaler, an anti-biotic and codeine cough medicine for nighttime. I was told if this continued to go to the hospital. My friend Tony is now getting my prescriptions.
I am exhausted. My head is ready to explode and my chest aches. I'm done for today!
I am exhausted. My head is ready to explode and my chest aches. I'm done for today!
Friday, March 27, 2009
“Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the elder, a part of experience.”
I am most decidedly on the mend. I never went back to bed today. The coughing is nearly gone, and I'm actually going out later because the cats are just about out of food, one of the few reasons to get me out. Gracie has been solicitous and periodically checks on me. She runs in from outside, comes in here, gets a pat and goes right back outside. I'll have to teach her to dial 911 just in case.
My mind has been empty of late. Some days I see or hear something which zooms me back to childhood, which brings a memory almost as clear as the day it was made. Other times I go through the family album and the memories of the days the pictures were taken flood my mind. I remember the family vacations, especially the ones in Maine and New Hampshire. In one picture, I'm leaning on a tree and wearing my visor. I must have been about twelve. I remember I never took that visor off the whole summer. That was the vacation where we could hear some of the old serials on the radio. We'd sit on the kitchen floor and listen. The one I remember most was Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and his dog King. The place where we stayed was isolated at the end of a rutted road. It was right on the water, but the water was freezing.
We really didn't go away much. It was just too expensive. None of us minded. Our summers were filled with our own adventures, our own activities, and as we got older, the less we wanted to be away anyway. The trip to Niagara Falls was when I was fifteen or sixteen. I didn't want to go but wasn't given any choice. I did the adolescent stomp and slammed my door to express my displeasure which always went over really well with my dad. Though I'd never have admitted it, that was the best trip of all.
When I was an adult, my parents and I started to travel together. Every year we'd go somewhere different, usually to Europe. If you had told me when I was sixteen that I would voluntarily travel with my parents, I would have laughed and said you were crazy or I'd have to be to go. We made wonderful memories.
My mind has been empty of late. Some days I see or hear something which zooms me back to childhood, which brings a memory almost as clear as the day it was made. Other times I go through the family album and the memories of the days the pictures were taken flood my mind. I remember the family vacations, especially the ones in Maine and New Hampshire. In one picture, I'm leaning on a tree and wearing my visor. I must have been about twelve. I remember I never took that visor off the whole summer. That was the vacation where we could hear some of the old serials on the radio. We'd sit on the kitchen floor and listen. The one I remember most was Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and his dog King. The place where we stayed was isolated at the end of a rutted road. It was right on the water, but the water was freezing.
We really didn't go away much. It was just too expensive. None of us minded. Our summers were filled with our own adventures, our own activities, and as we got older, the less we wanted to be away anyway. The trip to Niagara Falls was when I was fifteen or sixteen. I didn't want to go but wasn't given any choice. I did the adolescent stomp and slammed my door to express my displeasure which always went over really well with my dad. Though I'd never have admitted it, that was the best trip of all.
When I was an adult, my parents and I started to travel together. Every year we'd go somewhere different, usually to Europe. If you had told me when I was sixteen that I would voluntarily travel with my parents, I would have laughed and said you were crazy or I'd have to be to go. We made wonderful memories.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
“Get well cards have become so humorous that if you don't get sick you're missing half the fun.”
I apologize for the latest of the hour. An asthma attack did me in for the entire day yesterday into today. I stayed in bed so long I think I'm developing bed sores. This is the worst attack I've had in years. I wheeze. If I could figure a way to wheeze on key, I could busk the subways.
Being a little kid and being sick is an amazing experience of being totally indulged. A fever was the best illness to have. My mother would check on me and kiss my forehead several times during the day to see if I was getting any better. She was at my beck and call. She even made special dishes to entice me to eat. It was the only time I ever drank tea. It was, for my mother, a panacea for anything which ailed you. She always served it with dry toast cut in strips. Being sick meant a day home from school, and I got to watch whatever I wanted on TV. My father used to bring home ice cream whenever one of us was sick. You got to pick the flavor. I always went with chocolate.
Throwing up was the worst. When I was little, it always made me cry. My mother would leave a bucket by the bed and hope that we'd use it. She had a weak stomach and used to gag whenever we got sick, but she was a trooper. Most mothers are.
I live by myself, but my friends down the street take good care of me when I'm sick. They check up on me and get whatever I need. Clare brings me surprises to brighten my day. Sometimes she brings flowers and other times Mallomars. Nothing says I care like chocolate. Tony goes to the grocery store. They got me through a tough winter starting with the sprained ankle. We do need a talk though. They're forgetting to check my forehead for a fever!
Being a little kid and being sick is an amazing experience of being totally indulged. A fever was the best illness to have. My mother would check on me and kiss my forehead several times during the day to see if I was getting any better. She was at my beck and call. She even made special dishes to entice me to eat. It was the only time I ever drank tea. It was, for my mother, a panacea for anything which ailed you. She always served it with dry toast cut in strips. Being sick meant a day home from school, and I got to watch whatever I wanted on TV. My father used to bring home ice cream whenever one of us was sick. You got to pick the flavor. I always went with chocolate.
Throwing up was the worst. When I was little, it always made me cry. My mother would leave a bucket by the bed and hope that we'd use it. She had a weak stomach and used to gag whenever we got sick, but she was a trooper. Most mothers are.
I live by myself, but my friends down the street take good care of me when I'm sick. They check up on me and get whatever I need. Clare brings me surprises to brighten my day. Sometimes she brings flowers and other times Mallomars. Nothing says I care like chocolate. Tony goes to the grocery store. They got me through a tough winter starting with the sprained ankle. We do need a talk though. They're forgetting to check my forehead for a fever!
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Lover's Lullaby: Janis Ian
Midnight Lullaby: Tom Waits
"Oh, wouldn't the world seem dull and flat with nothing whatever to grumble at? "
Last night Coffee was invaded by an anonymous crazy. It had all started last week with a couple of comments filled with invectives. Mr. Anonymous, the crazy man, was angry that old upload links were dead, (Why a man? I just sensed it in the wording). I wrote an answer,"Anonymous, I deleted your rude comments and can certainly understand why you would chose not to identify yourself. If you had bothered to read the site before you opened your mouth through your fingers, you would have read the music stays up only a week. I would have been glad to send the music to you but not now. I don't take rudeness well!!!!" Well, I suspect Mr. Anonymous wasn't too keen with my answer. Twenty five or thirty extended comments, all in Chinese, were added to old posts last night. I deleted them all. Maybe I should have tried Babelfish first, but I didn't. All of the comments looked the same, had the same message at the top and were from an anonymous sender. I love the comments from all of you and look forward to hearing from my Coffee friends every day, but his lunacy caused a change in the way comments are handled. For now on, I have to okay them first. I am sorry for the inconvenience to you, my dear Coffee friends, but I'm trying to keep this crazy at bay.
I had this lovely little musing in mind about my first watch, a Cinderella watch, but it just doesn't seem to fit. I'm having trouble conjuring singing birds and playful mice making a dress for Cinderelly. It's easier in my current mood to imagine the wicked stepmother, an ugly witch, offering the unwitting Cinderella a poison apple.
Strange stories in the newspaper even caught my attention. One was about an estranged wife. She sneaked into her husband's house and bedroom, handcuffed herself to him and bit him. He called the police. I figured he just dragged her to the phone with him. She was arrested. Another story was about the police breaking up a teen drinking party. The father, who was present, jumped out a window to get away. The police followed his footprints and arrested him. A suspect is being held in the four-time theft of shrimp from a grocery store. The shrimp was frozen. I can't imagine where he hid the 5 pound bags of frozen shrimp and what was he doing with all that shrimp? Jambalaya? Scampi?
It's just one of those days.
I had this lovely little musing in mind about my first watch, a Cinderella watch, but it just doesn't seem to fit. I'm having trouble conjuring singing birds and playful mice making a dress for Cinderelly. It's easier in my current mood to imagine the wicked stepmother, an ugly witch, offering the unwitting Cinderella a poison apple.
Strange stories in the newspaper even caught my attention. One was about an estranged wife. She sneaked into her husband's house and bedroom, handcuffed herself to him and bit him. He called the police. I figured he just dragged her to the phone with him. She was arrested. Another story was about the police breaking up a teen drinking party. The father, who was present, jumped out a window to get away. The police followed his footprints and arrested him. A suspect is being held in the four-time theft of shrimp from a grocery store. The shrimp was frozen. I can't imagine where he hid the 5 pound bags of frozen shrimp and what was he doing with all that shrimp? Jambalaya? Scampi?
It's just one of those days.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
I Don't Know Where I Stand: Joni Mitchell
Sunny Skies: James Taylor
"If you saw a heat wave, would you wave back?"
It was midnight before I got home from Boston last night and two o'clock before I unwound enough to go to sleep. On the ride home, once I crossed the bridge, there was a snow shower. As I sped, the light snow swirled on the road in front of me, driven by the wind from the car. When I got home and let Gracie out, she left paw prints on the deck. Today is still cold, still raw.
I crave color. The world has been gray and brown far too long. If I could, I'd dress like a movie Gypsy in reds, oranges, pinks and purples. I'd wear bells and beads. I would be happily conspicuous.
All winter I wear a sweatshirt inside the house. I wear socks and slippers and flannel pants to keep warm. I am tired of bundling. I want a day when I don't need to keep warm, a day when I can sit on my deck and feel the sun hot on my face. I want to complain about the heat.
Winter food is comfort food hot from the oven. It's meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It's a chicken dinner with stuffing. It's a bowl of soup and fresh bread. I, however, have had my fill of comfort food. I want potato salad. I want dinner on the deck where I can smell the food cooking on the grill. I want to see leafy trees bright with candlelight and hear the the sounds of night as I sit outside and eat my cheeseburger.
I need summer.
I crave color. The world has been gray and brown far too long. If I could, I'd dress like a movie Gypsy in reds, oranges, pinks and purples. I'd wear bells and beads. I would be happily conspicuous.
All winter I wear a sweatshirt inside the house. I wear socks and slippers and flannel pants to keep warm. I am tired of bundling. I want a day when I don't need to keep warm, a day when I can sit on my deck and feel the sun hot on my face. I want to complain about the heat.
Winter food is comfort food hot from the oven. It's meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It's a chicken dinner with stuffing. It's a bowl of soup and fresh bread. I, however, have had my fill of comfort food. I want potato salad. I want dinner on the deck where I can smell the food cooking on the grill. I want to see leafy trees bright with candlelight and hear the the sounds of night as I sit outside and eat my cheeseburger.
I need summer.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Don't Think Twice It's Alright: John Martyn
Blooming Heather: Kate Rusby
"It may be that all games are silly. But then, so are humans."
Tonight will be in the twenties, and we could have snow showers off the ocean. Maybe if I called them spring snow showers, it might ease the pain. But wait, there is hope! The weekend is supposed to be warm, in the mid-fifties.
I am going to the Celtics' game tonight. When I was a kid, I used to see them a couple of times a season. Tickets back then were cheap, especially in the nose bleed section of the old Boston Garden. The rest of the time I'd listen to Johnny Most broadcast on the radio. I loved that raspy voice. He often yelled, was filled with emotion and never gave doubts as to his allegiance. For away games against the Lakers, I'd hide my radio under the blankets so I could listen. Usually I fell asleep before the game was over. The new Garden is comfortable. The old one used to get as hot as the high 90's during playoff games. During one Bruins' playoff game, it even got foggy. It was always loud, raucous. I remember a playoff game against the Sixers. No one sat, including my brother and me. We were on our feet cheering for the whole game. The famous parquet floor from the old Garden was brought to the new Garden, but it had seen its better days and was soon replaced. I was lucky enough to be at the Celtics for their last game on that old floor.
My father was a football and hockey fan. He found baseball boring and never liked basketball. As far back as I can remember, my father spend Sunday afternoons watching football games. He was loud. A bad play brought out choice words. He jumped to his feet often. My mother and I would be in the kitchen playing a game like Kismet and knew by the sounds from the living room exactly what was happening. When the Patriots won the Superbowl the first time, we all thought of my dad and how thrilled he would have been. He would have been cheering for all he was worth.
I am going to the Celtics' game tonight. When I was a kid, I used to see them a couple of times a season. Tickets back then were cheap, especially in the nose bleed section of the old Boston Garden. The rest of the time I'd listen to Johnny Most broadcast on the radio. I loved that raspy voice. He often yelled, was filled with emotion and never gave doubts as to his allegiance. For away games against the Lakers, I'd hide my radio under the blankets so I could listen. Usually I fell asleep before the game was over. The new Garden is comfortable. The old one used to get as hot as the high 90's during playoff games. During one Bruins' playoff game, it even got foggy. It was always loud, raucous. I remember a playoff game against the Sixers. No one sat, including my brother and me. We were on our feet cheering for the whole game. The famous parquet floor from the old Garden was brought to the new Garden, but it had seen its better days and was soon replaced. I was lucky enough to be at the Celtics for their last game on that old floor.
My father was a football and hockey fan. He found baseball boring and never liked basketball. As far back as I can remember, my father spend Sunday afternoons watching football games. He was loud. A bad play brought out choice words. He jumped to his feet often. My mother and I would be in the kitchen playing a game like Kismet and knew by the sounds from the living room exactly what was happening. When the Patriots won the Superbowl the first time, we all thought of my dad and how thrilled he would have been. He would have been cheering for all he was worth.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
“Early morning hath gold in its mouth.”
There is something extraordinary about mornings. Today there was a frost. The air was chilly but not cold. The birds were singing to greet the morning. The papers were strewn about the driveway. They had white, blue and orange covers. The air had a fresh smell. I stood and looked around for a bit, entranced by the new day.
I went out, the same as I do every Sunday, for breakfast with my friend. We go to Joe's Diner. An oldies radio station is always playing in the background. I know every song. Today I had eggs over easy with a sausage patty and wheat toast. My friend and I lingered over that last cup of coffee.
I always take the long way home through streets lined on each side with old captains' houses. Today I noticed Christmas wreaths, shamrock flags and a bunny or two on front doors. Gas was ten cents more expensive than last Sunday at the old wooden gas station just passed the elementary school, the one which closed last year. I drove by shuttered store fronts. One used to be a restaurant and another was the Quaker Donut Shop. My dad used to go there every Sunday. Sometimes the donuts were still hot.
Golfers were playing on the course. They were bundled for the weather and wearing gloves and hats. When I crossed the bridge over the river, I saw a gull or two and a swan. More cars were on the road on my way home. The world was waking up for Sunday morning.
I went out, the same as I do every Sunday, for breakfast with my friend. We go to Joe's Diner. An oldies radio station is always playing in the background. I know every song. Today I had eggs over easy with a sausage patty and wheat toast. My friend and I lingered over that last cup of coffee.
I always take the long way home through streets lined on each side with old captains' houses. Today I noticed Christmas wreaths, shamrock flags and a bunny or two on front doors. Gas was ten cents more expensive than last Sunday at the old wooden gas station just passed the elementary school, the one which closed last year. I drove by shuttered store fronts. One used to be a restaurant and another was the Quaker Donut Shop. My dad used to go there every Sunday. Sometimes the donuts were still hot.
Golfers were playing on the course. They were bundled for the weather and wearing gloves and hats. When I crossed the bridge over the river, I saw a gull or two and a swan. More cars were on the road on my way home. The world was waking up for Sunday morning.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
"Zaphod: Why'd you pick up hitchhikers? Trillian: I didn't. The ship did. "
Yesterday I napped after my early rising to greet the sun. I slept wonderfully. Later, I couldn't help but smile and remember my misspent youth and how we'd party the night away and still be up to greet the sun. The last time my college friends and I were all together we did exactly that. It was just before I left for Ghana. We partied all night, went to the same beach as yesterday just before dawn, ran through the surf and sang Good Morning Starshine.
In college, we used to hitchhike. We'd thumb down Route 114 to get to Route 1 so we could make it into Boston. Route 114 was rural and woodsy in parts. It did have a great ice cream shop where they made their own, a drive-in and a lake with a slide. Once, on the way back to school, we saw several police cars in a field and a station wagon riddled with holes. We later read in the paper it was a gang kill, and those were bullet holes. Route 114 was a perfect spot. No one would notice. Once, a guy picked us up on Route 1 on our way to school. He told us he had a daughter our ages and would be appalled to know she hitchhiked. It was unsafe. He wanted to know what we'd have done if he attacked us. We told him we had knives. We did but they were just cafeteria knives swiped during a meal. He lectured us the whole time then then went out of his way to drive us right to school. We still hitchhiked.
In Ghana I also hitchhiked, most times by myself. If I just missed a lorry, the wait was usually hours until every seat in the next lorry filled. No driver ever left with an empty seat. It was quicker for me to take to the road. I didn't use my thumb. It was a downward sort of wave asking the cars to stop. Seldom did I wait long for a ride. Once I got dropped at a charcoal village in the middle of nowhere on the Tamale Road. It was as far as my ride was going. The air was filled with the smell of smoldering wood. Trunks of trees were on the ground, and I could see the flames and smoke. I was a novelty and every little kid wanted to be near me. They touched my arms in the way little kids often did to make sure my white arms were real. The young boys decided they would do the stopping while I sat. They stood in the road, stop cars and pointed at me. I got a ride all the way home with a man who spoke only French. He was on his way to what was then Upper Volta and had to pass right by the road to my school.
During college, it never crossed my mind it was unsafe to hitch. I never went alone, and we never had a problem. I guess we were really just lucky. While I was in Ghana, I was the victim of an attempted purse snatching, had my house broken into and lost my money to a pickpocket, but it was always stuff. I felt perfectly safe.
That was a different time and a different world.
In college, we used to hitchhike. We'd thumb down Route 114 to get to Route 1 so we could make it into Boston. Route 114 was rural and woodsy in parts. It did have a great ice cream shop where they made their own, a drive-in and a lake with a slide. Once, on the way back to school, we saw several police cars in a field and a station wagon riddled with holes. We later read in the paper it was a gang kill, and those were bullet holes. Route 114 was a perfect spot. No one would notice. Once, a guy picked us up on Route 1 on our way to school. He told us he had a daughter our ages and would be appalled to know she hitchhiked. It was unsafe. He wanted to know what we'd have done if he attacked us. We told him we had knives. We did but they were just cafeteria knives swiped during a meal. He lectured us the whole time then then went out of his way to drive us right to school. We still hitchhiked.
In Ghana I also hitchhiked, most times by myself. If I just missed a lorry, the wait was usually hours until every seat in the next lorry filled. No driver ever left with an empty seat. It was quicker for me to take to the road. I didn't use my thumb. It was a downward sort of wave asking the cars to stop. Seldom did I wait long for a ride. Once I got dropped at a charcoal village in the middle of nowhere on the Tamale Road. It was as far as my ride was going. The air was filled with the smell of smoldering wood. Trunks of trees were on the ground, and I could see the flames and smoke. I was a novelty and every little kid wanted to be near me. They touched my arms in the way little kids often did to make sure my white arms were real. The young boys decided they would do the stopping while I sat. They stood in the road, stop cars and pointed at me. I got a ride all the way home with a man who spoke only French. He was on his way to what was then Upper Volta and had to pass right by the road to my school.
During college, it never crossed my mind it was unsafe to hitch. I never went alone, and we never had a problem. I guess we were really just lucky. While I was in Ghana, I was the victim of an attempted purse snatching, had my house broken into and lost my money to a pickpocket, but it was always stuff. I felt perfectly safe.
That was a different time and a different world.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Seven Daffodils: Alice Stuart
"Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil."
When the alarm went off this morning, it had been so long since I'd last used it, I'd forgotten where the snooze button was. I had to turn on the light to find it. Once I had, I hit the button, snuggled back into my warm bed and fell right to sleep. When I heard the alarm the second time, I got out of bed for good. It was 5:30.
My friends and I went to the beach to greet the day. We stood and watched the clouds brighten as the sun rose. We saw the glint of sunlight reflecting on the water. Noisy gulls circled overhead in groups of twos and threes. We held hands and danced together on the sand. We sang Rockin' Robin, and we listened as Cat Stevens sang Morning Has Broken. We welcomed the sun on the first day of spring. We took pictures and each of us found a shell, our souvenir of the day. We decided we live in one of the prettiest places. We ended our festivities by going out for breakfast.
It is cold, and it is windy, but I don't care. It's spring. Each day brings more hopefulness. Soon enough the world will reawaken and be filled with color. How exciting!
My friends and I went to the beach to greet the day. We stood and watched the clouds brighten as the sun rose. We saw the glint of sunlight reflecting on the water. Noisy gulls circled overhead in groups of twos and threes. We held hands and danced together on the sand. We sang Rockin' Robin, and we listened as Cat Stevens sang Morning Has Broken. We welcomed the sun on the first day of spring. We took pictures and each of us found a shell, our souvenir of the day. We decided we live in one of the prettiest places. We ended our festivities by going out for breakfast.
It is cold, and it is windy, but I don't care. It's spring. Each day brings more hopefulness. Soon enough the world will reawaken and be filled with color. How exciting!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
One More Cup of Coffee: Bob Dylan
"No one can understand the truth until he drinks of coffee's frothy goodness."
I live in New England where early spring is damp and cold, and I understand chilled to the bone. Today is one of those days. Today is a gray day with a hint of coming rain. Today is a day to dress warmly to stave off the cold.
I woke up early this morning. Gracie was ringing her doorbells off the knob. I stayed in bed hoping she'd lose interest but no such luck so I dragged myself out of bed, after having slept fewer hours than I need, and came downstairs to let her outside. I made coffee, and it was perfect. All of a sudden the day brightened, and my kitchen was filled with sunshine and rainbows. Coffee does that sometimes.
I don't remember when I first started drinking coffee. In elementary school it was cocoa every morning for me and tea for everyone else. My mother used to put the pot of tea in the middle of the table. The strings from the tea bags hung out from under the top. I remember my brother and sisters used milk and lots of sugar. My cocoa was always in a cup sitting on the table at my place. It needed nothing.
I don't remember sitting down and eating breakfast when I was in high school. I had to be out and about so early most mornings were a rush. My mother must have insisted on something so toast to go would have been the likely choice. I could walk and eat at the same time.
I started drinking coffee in college and the two are forever joined in my memory. Each morning in the canteen, my friends and I drank multiple cups of coffee. We lingered for hours. We talked, laughed, made fun of each other and did the crossword puzzle in the daily newspaper. It was always a contest who could finish the puzzle first. Our table was right by the wall a bit back from the door. The first to arrive grabbed it. We'd meet there on and off all day long. We'd drink coffee on and off all day long.
When I became a Peace Corps volunteer and received my settling in allowance, one of the first things I bought was a huge coffee cup. It was the size of a stein. Every morning I'd have my first cup with breakfast and my later cups between teaching classes. I'd get back to the house from the classroom block, take my coffee and sit on the front steps. I'd watch elementary school children walk by, notice me and detour over so we could say good morning to each other. I'd watch the school gardener till his crops. I'd sit until it was time to teach again.
Every morning I sit and drink my coffee while reading the papers. I have a cup per paper and another while I'm writing Coffee. It seems only right. When it gets warmer, I'll take my coffee and papers and move to the deck. I'll watch Gracie run around the yard and the birds fly back and forth to the feeders. I love my morning rituals.
I woke up early this morning. Gracie was ringing her doorbells off the knob. I stayed in bed hoping she'd lose interest but no such luck so I dragged myself out of bed, after having slept fewer hours than I need, and came downstairs to let her outside. I made coffee, and it was perfect. All of a sudden the day brightened, and my kitchen was filled with sunshine and rainbows. Coffee does that sometimes.
I don't remember when I first started drinking coffee. In elementary school it was cocoa every morning for me and tea for everyone else. My mother used to put the pot of tea in the middle of the table. The strings from the tea bags hung out from under the top. I remember my brother and sisters used milk and lots of sugar. My cocoa was always in a cup sitting on the table at my place. It needed nothing.
I don't remember sitting down and eating breakfast when I was in high school. I had to be out and about so early most mornings were a rush. My mother must have insisted on something so toast to go would have been the likely choice. I could walk and eat at the same time.
I started drinking coffee in college and the two are forever joined in my memory. Each morning in the canteen, my friends and I drank multiple cups of coffee. We lingered for hours. We talked, laughed, made fun of each other and did the crossword puzzle in the daily newspaper. It was always a contest who could finish the puzzle first. Our table was right by the wall a bit back from the door. The first to arrive grabbed it. We'd meet there on and off all day long. We'd drink coffee on and off all day long.
When I became a Peace Corps volunteer and received my settling in allowance, one of the first things I bought was a huge coffee cup. It was the size of a stein. Every morning I'd have my first cup with breakfast and my later cups between teaching classes. I'd get back to the house from the classroom block, take my coffee and sit on the front steps. I'd watch elementary school children walk by, notice me and detour over so we could say good morning to each other. I'd watch the school gardener till his crops. I'd sit until it was time to teach again.
Every morning I sit and drink my coffee while reading the papers. I have a cup per paper and another while I'm writing Coffee. It seems only right. When it gets warmer, I'll take my coffee and papers and move to the deck. I'll watch Gracie run around the yard and the birds fly back and forth to the feeders. I love my morning rituals.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Spin It Round: Jenny Whiteley
"All I really need is love, but a little chocolate now and then doesn't hurt!"
A leisurely morning has meant a late start to Coffee. I think it was yesterday's festivities. My friends and I enjoyed our St. Patrick's day celebration. We sat and laughed and talked and ate, the best combination for a wonderful evening. The new corned beef recipe was the best I've eaten. The time in the oven gave it a most amazing flavor. I've decided it is now my only recipe for corned beef.
We have been celebrating festivities all winter. I keep a calendar of events from the obscure (tomorrow is the Pillsbury Dough Boy's birthday) to the grand. The next big festivity will be Easter dinner. My friends have decided to host.
When I was little, I got all gussied up for Easter. My hat was flowery and I wore little white gloves. My dress billowed around the bottom puffed out by a petticoat. My socks were anklets with ruffles at the top, and I wore Mary Jane's. My coat was a spring coat, a light coat. I remember a dark blue one with white buttons. We always hoped for a warm Easter Sunday.
We'd run to see what the Easter Bunny had left, eat as much as my mother would let us then we'd get ready for church. The church was filled with color for the first time since lent had begun. Lilies were all around the altar. Everyone was dressed to the nines. All the little girls had the same ensemble I did, colors and fabrics being the only differences. The boys all dressed like miniature men. They wore suit jackets, dress pants and clip on ties. In those days, bow ties too were popular and so were fedoras in little boys' sizes. The choir always sang at Easter mass.
Every Easter we went to my grandparents' house. They always gave each of us an Easter present, a small basket with a chocolate rabbit and jelly beans. I have only one vivid memory of all those Easters. My great grandfather always sat in a rocker by the furnace in the living room. He scared me. He never said anything. He just mumbled and sometimes he'd spit. He was what they always called senile in those days. One Easter, when I walked by him, he stole my Easter basket. The last thing I remember is running down the long hall to the kitchen at the other end of the house screaming the whole while. My mother told me she went and got my basket back. That part I don't remember. I just remember the screaming.
We have been celebrating festivities all winter. I keep a calendar of events from the obscure (tomorrow is the Pillsbury Dough Boy's birthday) to the grand. The next big festivity will be Easter dinner. My friends have decided to host.
When I was little, I got all gussied up for Easter. My hat was flowery and I wore little white gloves. My dress billowed around the bottom puffed out by a petticoat. My socks were anklets with ruffles at the top, and I wore Mary Jane's. My coat was a spring coat, a light coat. I remember a dark blue one with white buttons. We always hoped for a warm Easter Sunday.
We'd run to see what the Easter Bunny had left, eat as much as my mother would let us then we'd get ready for church. The church was filled with color for the first time since lent had begun. Lilies were all around the altar. Everyone was dressed to the nines. All the little girls had the same ensemble I did, colors and fabrics being the only differences. The boys all dressed like miniature men. They wore suit jackets, dress pants and clip on ties. In those days, bow ties too were popular and so were fedoras in little boys' sizes. The choir always sang at Easter mass.
Every Easter we went to my grandparents' house. They always gave each of us an Easter present, a small basket with a chocolate rabbit and jelly beans. I have only one vivid memory of all those Easters. My great grandfather always sat in a rocker by the furnace in the living room. He scared me. He never said anything. He just mumbled and sometimes he'd spit. He was what they always called senile in those days. One Easter, when I walked by him, he stole my Easter basket. The last thing I remember is running down the long hall to the kitchen at the other end of the house screaming the whole while. My mother told me she went and got my basket back. That part I don't remember. I just remember the screaming.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ra: Bing Crosby
“Wherever you go and whatever you do, May the luck of the Irish be there with you”
In the heyday of my parents, aunts and uncles, this was a sacred day, and there was always a party. Sometimes my parents hosted and other times my uncle did. Either way there was plenty of food, alcohol and music. Corn beef and cabbage with Irish bread topped the list. The stove was filled with pans, and you had your choice of meat. The corned beef was red or gray and there was smoked shoulder. Some pots included turnip. All had cabbage, carrots and potatoes. The air was filled with cigarette smoke. The kitchen was the hub of activity. Around the kitchen table sat a few aunts and my mother's friend Bekki, and they stayed there the whole evening, moving only to get food or to go to the bathroom. The counter was the bar, and bottles were lined up next to the wooden ice cube bucket, the one with the eagle on the front. The dining room table had been pushed back against the wall, and it was filled with food. Everyone wore green. It was a loud gathering with conversation and laughter. Singing was a big part of the evening. My dad was a good singer and so is my uncle, who always fancied himself a bit of a Bing Crosby. Everyone sang When Irish Eyes Are Smiling, and I remember my dad always ended with a flourish with his arms out. They sang Danny Boy and Galway Bay and H A Double R I G A N spells Harrigan. Every time my uncle saw me, he'd start with I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen. I remember my dad standing there with his arm around my uncle Jack as the two of them sang together. All my relatives came. They were always the best of parties.
May the blessing of light be on you-
light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you
and warm your heart
till it glows like a great peat fire.
light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you
and warm your heart
till it glows like a great peat fire.
Happy St. Patrick's Day!
Monday, March 16, 2009
"I think you remember everything ... you just can't bring it to mind all the time."
My friend Maryalyce lived for a while on Beacon Street in our town. Her house was on the left at the end of the road. I remember the East School was on the same side of the street. Maryalyce had a friend whose name, I think, was John. His house was on the right. He was our age. I remember John struggled in school, but he had gifted hands. He could make beautiful furniture.
Norma Frawley lived on Pomeworth Street. I remember her parents were old and so was her house. It was a worn yellow color. I remember the front screen door had the letter F in the middle. At the end of my street was a house with a brick front. The boy who lived there became a member of the first boys' choir in my church. When I heard him sing, I couldn't believe how beautiful a voice he had. I don't even remember his name though I think his last name was Fitzgerald.
Once, when I was in the fifth grade, I took up a collection to buy my teacher, a nun, a box of chocolates from all of us for Christmas. I didn't get enough money, but my father made up the difference. He bought the chocolates then drove me to the convent so I could deliver them. That nun never once mentioned those chocolates.
The girl scouts had a show on the stage at the town hall. I was the emcee. I wore black so I'd look more formal. My only memory is standing in the wings reading my cards to make sure I had everything memorized.
Once I had to take my younger sister to the matinee. The movie was Song of the South. She started to cry, and we were asked to leave. I took her home but ran back in time to see the end of the movie.
My mind is full of these random memories. I used to think them insignificant. It took me a long time to realize they're not. Pieced together they are the sum total of me.
Norma Frawley lived on Pomeworth Street. I remember her parents were old and so was her house. It was a worn yellow color. I remember the front screen door had the letter F in the middle. At the end of my street was a house with a brick front. The boy who lived there became a member of the first boys' choir in my church. When I heard him sing, I couldn't believe how beautiful a voice he had. I don't even remember his name though I think his last name was Fitzgerald.
Once, when I was in the fifth grade, I took up a collection to buy my teacher, a nun, a box of chocolates from all of us for Christmas. I didn't get enough money, but my father made up the difference. He bought the chocolates then drove me to the convent so I could deliver them. That nun never once mentioned those chocolates.
The girl scouts had a show on the stage at the town hall. I was the emcee. I wore black so I'd look more formal. My only memory is standing in the wings reading my cards to make sure I had everything memorized.
Once I had to take my younger sister to the matinee. The movie was Song of the South. She started to cry, and we were asked to leave. I took her home but ran back in time to see the end of the movie.
My mind is full of these random memories. I used to think them insignificant. It took me a long time to realize they're not. Pieced together they are the sum total of me.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
The Garden Song: David Mallett
"I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven."
Last fall my day lilies were transplanted from the front garden to the edge of a small wooded area beside my house. I forgot about them over the winter. This morning, there they were, green tops spouting from the ground. Spring is full of surprises.
The first buds are a month or more away. The other morning we had a frost. The air was crisp, and I could see my breath. The grass was covered in a hoary frosting, and my feet made a crunching sound as I walked across the lawn to get the papers. A few hours later, the frost was gone. The cold is losing its grip.
Around here Memorial Day is the start of planting season and the date of the last possible frost, but the garden shops are already open. Their outside shelves are filled with top soil and mulch and everything to get gardens ready. It's time to go through the seed catalogs and plan my side garden, a new one for this year.
Today is glorious. The day is bright and the sun warm. I sat on my deck with my eyes closed and let the warmth wash over away, let it take away some of winter. Gracie was lying asleep stretched on the grass in the sun. Birds flew by my head to the feeders. Even the shy finches ignored me. The air was sweetened by their song.
The first buds are a month or more away. The other morning we had a frost. The air was crisp, and I could see my breath. The grass was covered in a hoary frosting, and my feet made a crunching sound as I walked across the lawn to get the papers. A few hours later, the frost was gone. The cold is losing its grip.
Around here Memorial Day is the start of planting season and the date of the last possible frost, but the garden shops are already open. Their outside shelves are filled with top soil and mulch and everything to get gardens ready. It's time to go through the seed catalogs and plan my side garden, a new one for this year.
Today is glorious. The day is bright and the sun warm. I sat on my deck with my eyes closed and let the warmth wash over away, let it take away some of winter. Gracie was lying asleep stretched on the grass in the sun. Birds flew by my head to the feeders. Even the shy finches ignored me. The air was sweetened by their song.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Suicide Is Painless: Johnny Mandel
“You can map your life through your favorite movies, and no two people's maps will be the same.”
Rice Krispies was my favorite cereal. My brother liked Cheerios. His never got soggy in milk. Mine usually did if I took too long to eat it. The milk at the bottom, the stuff you drank right from the bowl, always tasted the best. I thought Corn Flakes were for grown-ups. I remember how much my mother hated it when we opened the cereal from the bottom so we could get the prize. We thought ourselves clever. My favorite prize was the baking soda sub. We had a whole fleet of them. We'd fill the sink so we could watch the subs float and submerge.
I never realized until I was much older that the theme song from Mighty Mouse was operatic. I can still sing it but then again I can probably still remember the lyrics to most of the shows I watched. I can only imagine a future me, senile, not even knowing my own name, sitting by myself humming and singing about a bold renegade who carved a Z with his blade.
I have a wish list. One of the items is a backyard theater for my deck. I just need the projector and the screen. I have hot dog and pop corn machines, signs announcing Kat's Theater, jars for penny candy and plenty of movies, including serials. My theater will always have a double feature. A cartoon then an episode of a serial will start the show, just like at the Saturday matinee. I'll ask my patrons to suspend disbelief when the main attraction for the night is a black and white science fiction movie from the fifties. They're my favorites. The old horror movies too will be featured but nothing gory. I'll show Casablanca and maybe a spy movie or two. It depends on my mood. The only request I'll make of my patrons is they bring their own chairs and stay down in front.
I never realized until I was much older that the theme song from Mighty Mouse was operatic. I can still sing it but then again I can probably still remember the lyrics to most of the shows I watched. I can only imagine a future me, senile, not even knowing my own name, sitting by myself humming and singing about a bold renegade who carved a Z with his blade.
I have a wish list. One of the items is a backyard theater for my deck. I just need the projector and the screen. I have hot dog and pop corn machines, signs announcing Kat's Theater, jars for penny candy and plenty of movies, including serials. My theater will always have a double feature. A cartoon then an episode of a serial will start the show, just like at the Saturday matinee. I'll ask my patrons to suspend disbelief when the main attraction for the night is a black and white science fiction movie from the fifties. They're my favorites. The old horror movies too will be featured but nothing gory. I'll show Casablanca and maybe a spy movie or two. It depends on my mood. The only request I'll make of my patrons is they bring their own chairs and stay down in front.
Friday, March 13, 2009
The Hearse Song: Colyn Davies
"Superstition is foolish, childish, primitive and irrational - but how much does it cost you to knock on wood? "
My car is dead. It is not only merely dead but really most sincerely dead. Something came during the night and sucked it dry. It is a lifeless hulk in my front yard, but help is coming. AAA is on its way. I think it ironic that a dead car jumped started my morning earlier than usual.
I do not suffer from paraskevidekatriaphobics, a morbid, irrational fear of Friday the 13th. I am not even superstitious. When I was young, I flaunted my bravery and walked under ladders. Salt can fall anywhere, and I only bemoan the clean-up. I have a black cat. I am closer to believing an alien ate my car's energy than in believing it had to do with bad luck. I do admit, though, I never did step on a crack. I didn't want to be responsible for breaking my mother's back any more than she claimed I already did.
I do not suffer from paraskevidekatriaphobics, a morbid, irrational fear of Friday the 13th. I am not even superstitious. When I was young, I flaunted my bravery and walked under ladders. Salt can fall anywhere, and I only bemoan the clean-up. I have a black cat. I am closer to believing an alien ate my car's energy than in believing it had to do with bad luck. I do admit, though, I never did step on a crack. I didn't want to be responsible for breaking my mother's back any more than she claimed I already did.
I loved to be scared when I was kid, movie kind of scared, the kind of scared you know isn't real but makes you jump anyway. Sounds were magnified. The scratching on the screen was from the hook. The dark cellar was where the escaped maniac hid from the police and their barking dogs. Turning on the light wouldn't help. He was crouched and waiting.
I had a few real fears. My mother pounded into my head that I should never take candy from a stranger. Footsteps in the dark behind me always made me walk faster. Nothing ever got me, but it was good to be prepared.
Tonight seems perfect for a dark room and a scary movie. I'll have Gracie to protect me, just in case.
I had a few real fears. My mother pounded into my head that I should never take candy from a stranger. Footsteps in the dark behind me always made me walk faster. Nothing ever got me, but it was good to be prepared.
Tonight seems perfect for a dark room and a scary movie. I'll have Gracie to protect me, just in case.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
“Who doesn't know how to enjoy luck when it comes, should not complain when it passes him by”
It is easy to be a cynic, especially now. Not hoping means you're never disappointed. I, however, am still the opposite. I work hard at maintaining an optimism, a belief that the world will get better, despite these dire times. I just have to believe that. If something isn't in my control, worrying about it won't change it so I don't. If I can find something to laugh about, I do. When I was a kid, I figured I lived under a lucky star. When I got older, I realized luck is really just happenstance.
When I was about ten, I once stopped to catch my breath before I had to scale a fence. On the ground in front of where I sat, I found a fifty cent piece. It was a huge sum of money, a sum equal to my week's allowance. I couldn't believe I had chosen the exact spot where fifty cents sat waiting to be found. I thought it more than pure chance. It thought it destiny.
My brother and I were walking along the tracks, avoiding the double OO ties, one Saturday afternoon when we found a cardboard box. No self-respecting kid would ever walk by a box without checking inside. We couldn't believe our luck. Inside was a pile of comic books tied together. They smelled musty, like they'd been in a cellar, but we didn't care. We sat in a comfy spot in the sun and read all afternoon. We read Superman and Archie and Little Lulu. I think I remember a Captain America and maybe a Little Dot. It was a great afternoon.
I missed my ride and had no money to call. Home was far away. I started walking and walking and walking still further. I covered miles. At a corner by a store, I sat on a bench for only just a bit as I wanted to get home before dark. There was a phone next to the bench. I checked the coin slot. In it were three dimes: one for a call and two for a snack to revive my weary body and spirit. I made the call, bought my snack and sat outside waiting for my ride.
Life is filled with serendipity.
When I was about ten, I once stopped to catch my breath before I had to scale a fence. On the ground in front of where I sat, I found a fifty cent piece. It was a huge sum of money, a sum equal to my week's allowance. I couldn't believe I had chosen the exact spot where fifty cents sat waiting to be found. I thought it more than pure chance. It thought it destiny.
My brother and I were walking along the tracks, avoiding the double OO ties, one Saturday afternoon when we found a cardboard box. No self-respecting kid would ever walk by a box without checking inside. We couldn't believe our luck. Inside was a pile of comic books tied together. They smelled musty, like they'd been in a cellar, but we didn't care. We sat in a comfy spot in the sun and read all afternoon. We read Superman and Archie and Little Lulu. I think I remember a Captain America and maybe a Little Dot. It was a great afternoon.
I missed my ride and had no money to call. Home was far away. I started walking and walking and walking still further. I covered miles. At a corner by a store, I sat on a bench for only just a bit as I wanted to get home before dark. There was a phone next to the bench. I checked the coin slot. In it were three dimes: one for a call and two for a snack to revive my weary body and spirit. I made the call, bought my snack and sat outside waiting for my ride.
Life is filled with serendipity.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Red Red Rose: David Mallett
"Someone's boring me. I think it's me."
Today is just one of those days when my mind is empty and my memory drawers are shut. If this were a party, I'd grab a drink, sit in the corner, watch, listen and hope no one expected to chat with me. I'd have nothing to say. A conversation about the weather can last only so long. Once I said cloudy and rainy, I'd be done. What have I been up to? Yesterday I made my bed, did a load of laundry and washed the kitchen floor. I was exhausted. Been anywhere lately? Yes, I can say with muted excitement! I went to the Stop and Shop last Saturday and the library board meeting yesterday. How are you keeping busy? I'm not. Any trips planned? Tomorrow I may be going to Hyannis. I'm giddy with excitement. Seen anyone lately? No. Read any good books? Yes, a couple.
Sometimes life is just plain boring.
I have no plans for today either. I know I'll shower, maybe I'll even sing loudly while I'm there. I have yet to make my bed, always something to forward to. I can water the plants. How fun! If nothing else, there are always the cabinets, the dreaded, filled to bursting cabinets. I'm not sure, though, my heart can stand the excitement.
Ah, the misery of life!
Sometimes life is just plain boring.
I have no plans for today either. I know I'll shower, maybe I'll even sing loudly while I'm there. I have yet to make my bed, always something to forward to. I can water the plants. How fun! If nothing else, there are always the cabinets, the dreaded, filled to bursting cabinets. I'm not sure, though, my heart can stand the excitement.
Ah, the misery of life!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Staggerlee (Stackolee): John Cephas and Phil Wiggins
If you’re feeling a bit blue today, there’s good reason for it. Virginia bluesman “Bowling Green” John Cephas passed away this morning (March 4th). He was 78.
“John Cephas was a very generous man. He gave much of himself to his fans and students. He took so much care to make sure that he was always there for those who loved him. He’d share everything with his friends and family. I always wanted to go fishing with him.” (Steve Hecht)
A descendent of slaves, Cephas was born in Washington, D.C. in 1930, and acquired his “Bowling Green” moniker from his childhood days in Bowling Green, Virginia. Cephas discovered gospel as a child, but soon learned the blues from a guitar-playing aunt while his grandfather taught him about eastern Virginia folklore. Cephas’ cousin, David Taleofero, is credited with teaching him the Piedmont blues style of alternating thumb-and-picking method of guitar.
Cephas joined the Capitol Harmonizers and toured on the gospel circuit while still a young man. After serving in the Army during the Korean War, Cephas tried several career choices ranging from gospel singer to fisherman. It wasn’t until the 1960s that Cephas started to attract a following through his music.
Cephas met harmonica player Phil Wiggins in 1977. As Cephas & Wiggins they toured all over the world.
Along with his musical accomplishments, Cephas also served on the Executive Committee of the National Council for the Traditional Arts, and is the founder of the Washington, D.C., Blues Society. The bluesman also received the National Heritage Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts in 1989.
“More than anything else, I would like to see a revival of country blues by more young people … more people going to concerts, learning to play the music,” Cephas once said. “That’s why I stay in the field of traditional music. I don’t want it to die.”
From the album: Classic Africa American Ballads from Smithsonian Folkways.
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“John Cephas was a very generous man. He gave much of himself to his fans and students. He took so much care to make sure that he was always there for those who loved him. He’d share everything with his friends and family. I always wanted to go fishing with him.” (Steve Hecht)
A descendent of slaves, Cephas was born in Washington, D.C. in 1930, and acquired his “Bowling Green” moniker from his childhood days in Bowling Green, Virginia. Cephas discovered gospel as a child, but soon learned the blues from a guitar-playing aunt while his grandfather taught him about eastern Virginia folklore. Cephas’ cousin, David Taleofero, is credited with teaching him the Piedmont blues style of alternating thumb-and-picking method of guitar.
Cephas joined the Capitol Harmonizers and toured on the gospel circuit while still a young man. After serving in the Army during the Korean War, Cephas tried several career choices ranging from gospel singer to fisherman. It wasn’t until the 1960s that Cephas started to attract a following through his music.
Cephas met harmonica player Phil Wiggins in 1977. As Cephas & Wiggins they toured all over the world.
Along with his musical accomplishments, Cephas also served on the Executive Committee of the National Council for the Traditional Arts, and is the founder of the Washington, D.C., Blues Society. The bluesman also received the National Heritage Fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts in 1989.
“More than anything else, I would like to see a revival of country blues by more young people … more people going to concerts, learning to play the music,” Cephas once said. “That’s why I stay in the field of traditional music. I don’t want it to die.”
From the album: Classic Africa American Ballads from Smithsonian Folkways.
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Someday I'll Be Forgive For This: Justin Townes Earle
"I stuck my head out the window this morning and spring kissed me bang in the face. "
The grass was frosty, and I could see my breath when I went to get the papers, but the air felt different despite the morning chill. I stopped and stood for a while. I knew somehow this morning's frost was transitory and lacked the longevity and strength of one on a winter's day. Spring is close.
Yesterday I watched a Grapefruit League game between the Red Sox and Tampa Bay. Half the players on the Sox had names I didn't recognize, but I didn't really care. It was baseball. The sun was shining. The outfield grass was green. People were returning to their seats carrying hot dogs and popcorn and glasses of beer. I heard the crack of the ball against the bat. I heard the crowds cheer first one home run, then another, all by players I didn't even know. Pitchers came and went after only a few innings, but none of that mattered. It was baseball. Spring is close.
The tops of daffodils are peering out of the ground. Hart Farm is open. I bought two kinds of pumpkin seeds the other day. My landscaper stopped me yesterday to talk about cleaning the yard. Gracie stays outside longer and longer. The birds sing every morning. The male goldfinches are getting their bright chests. Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal always arrive together at the feeders. All the signs are here.
Yesterday I watched a Grapefruit League game between the Red Sox and Tampa Bay. Half the players on the Sox had names I didn't recognize, but I didn't really care. It was baseball. The sun was shining. The outfield grass was green. People were returning to their seats carrying hot dogs and popcorn and glasses of beer. I heard the crack of the ball against the bat. I heard the crowds cheer first one home run, then another, all by players I didn't even know. Pitchers came and went after only a few innings, but none of that mattered. It was baseball. Spring is close.
The tops of daffodils are peering out of the ground. Hart Farm is open. I bought two kinds of pumpkin seeds the other day. My landscaper stopped me yesterday to talk about cleaning the yard. Gracie stays outside longer and longer. The birds sing every morning. The male goldfinches are getting their bright chests. Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal always arrive together at the feeders. All the signs are here.
Monday, March 09, 2009
I Am a Child: Buffalo Springfield
“The events of childhood do not pass, but repeat themselves like seasons of the year”
It's a dark, cold rainy day. Boston is getting snow, and we'll get a bit of a mix later. I guess winter doesn't quite want to lose its grip.
Once I had two magnets. One was a white Scotty and the other was a black one. I used to watch them repel each other. I was young and found it entertaining. When I was about twelve, I had a visor I loved to wear. I wore it everywhere until it finally wore away. I loved getting stickers on my papers when I was little. The nuns used to give holy cards as prizes. Knee socks were great in winter. My favorites were argyles. Pick any pair, and they matched just about everything. Coloring books were fun any time but best on rainy days. Sitting at the kitchen table was the perfect place to color. Every year we got new coloring books and crayons in our Christmas stockings and Easter baskets.
In high school, we had to carry our books in school bags. The bags were rubberized green ones which pulled shut at the top. I always had grooves on my hand from carrying all that weight by the strap. The Christmas I was fifteen I got a pair of stirruped black pants and a fluffy pink sweater, both of which were the height of fashion. That was the best outfit I ever received. When I was ten, I got a gold medallion for Christmas. I even wore it to bed.
We used to tell Helen Keller jokes. We didn't catch a tiger by the toe in eeny-meany-miney moe but caught something else we never knew was a horrifically racial word. It had no meaning to us other than being just a word. It was the same with those jelly babies. They used to be something else. Our taunts were always rhymes repeated over and over. Georgie Porgie, puddin' and pie kissed the girls and made them cry also made my brother George chase us. We laughed every time.
The first time I ever worked was the summer after high school. I started to figure I was growing up whether I liked it or not.
Once I had two magnets. One was a white Scotty and the other was a black one. I used to watch them repel each other. I was young and found it entertaining. When I was about twelve, I had a visor I loved to wear. I wore it everywhere until it finally wore away. I loved getting stickers on my papers when I was little. The nuns used to give holy cards as prizes. Knee socks were great in winter. My favorites were argyles. Pick any pair, and they matched just about everything. Coloring books were fun any time but best on rainy days. Sitting at the kitchen table was the perfect place to color. Every year we got new coloring books and crayons in our Christmas stockings and Easter baskets.
In high school, we had to carry our books in school bags. The bags were rubberized green ones which pulled shut at the top. I always had grooves on my hand from carrying all that weight by the strap. The Christmas I was fifteen I got a pair of stirruped black pants and a fluffy pink sweater, both of which were the height of fashion. That was the best outfit I ever received. When I was ten, I got a gold medallion for Christmas. I even wore it to bed.
We used to tell Helen Keller jokes. We didn't catch a tiger by the toe in eeny-meany-miney moe but caught something else we never knew was a horrifically racial word. It had no meaning to us other than being just a word. It was the same with those jelly babies. They used to be something else. Our taunts were always rhymes repeated over and over. Georgie Porgie, puddin' and pie kissed the girls and made them cry also made my brother George chase us. We laughed every time.
The first time I ever worked was the summer after high school. I started to figure I was growing up whether I liked it or not.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
"It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade."
Kids are never inconvenienced by weather. The only disappointment from weather was the snow day which didn't happen despite all the wishes and crossed fingers.
With rain, there were puddles to splash and maybe even some thunder and lightning to add to the excitement. Getting wet was no big deal. Squishy shoes were fun. Bubbles came out of the seams when I walked. The shoes curled when I put them under the radiator to dry, and they looked as if some genie had left them behind. I'd leave my wet clothes down the cellar on the line and walk upstairs for dry clothes. I left footprints everywhere I walked.
Snowy days were great fun. I used to open my mouth and stick out my tongue to catch the snowflakes. Everyone was a target for snowballs. Sledding down the hill at breakneck speeds was the highlight of the day. Walking back up never was. We all made snowmen in our front yards. A few wore scarves around their necks and mismatched mittens on their branch arms but most just had rock features. When the snow melted, round parts of the snowmen stayed the longest.
The coming of spring always made made me want to run and jump for joy. It was liberation. It was freedom from heavy coats, hats and mittens. It was ride my bike time. It was when the air smelled the sweetest. The days got longer, and I got to stay outside later and later. It took us longer to walk to and from school. The weather made us want to dawdle.
Summer, what kid doesn't love the glory of summer: no school, days which seemed to last forever, pools, barbecues and sleeping outside. There was so much going on, I never really noticed hot the days were, and at night, I was usually so tired I fell asleep in the sweltering bedroom.
Now I notice weather. I complain about the cold, and I complain about the heat. I have to say, though, that spring still makes me want to run and jump for joy.
With rain, there were puddles to splash and maybe even some thunder and lightning to add to the excitement. Getting wet was no big deal. Squishy shoes were fun. Bubbles came out of the seams when I walked. The shoes curled when I put them under the radiator to dry, and they looked as if some genie had left them behind. I'd leave my wet clothes down the cellar on the line and walk upstairs for dry clothes. I left footprints everywhere I walked.
Snowy days were great fun. I used to open my mouth and stick out my tongue to catch the snowflakes. Everyone was a target for snowballs. Sledding down the hill at breakneck speeds was the highlight of the day. Walking back up never was. We all made snowmen in our front yards. A few wore scarves around their necks and mismatched mittens on their branch arms but most just had rock features. When the snow melted, round parts of the snowmen stayed the longest.
The coming of spring always made made me want to run and jump for joy. It was liberation. It was freedom from heavy coats, hats and mittens. It was ride my bike time. It was when the air smelled the sweetest. The days got longer, and I got to stay outside later and later. It took us longer to walk to and from school. The weather made us want to dawdle.
Summer, what kid doesn't love the glory of summer: no school, days which seemed to last forever, pools, barbecues and sleeping outside. There was so much going on, I never really noticed hot the days were, and at night, I was usually so tired I fell asleep in the sweltering bedroom.
Now I notice weather. I complain about the cold, and I complain about the heat. I have to say, though, that spring still makes me want to run and jump for joy.
Saturday, March 07, 2009
"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."
It's a zip-a-dee-doo-aah day. It's warm and sunny and a peek into spring. Miss Gracie and I just have to get out to grab some of that sunshine.
It's mud time. Most of the snow is gone, and the ground is wet and soggy. Paw prints cover the tile floor in the kitchen and record Gracie's comings and goings. She is a busy dog.
Lots of things got left behind as I grew older. Liking mud was one of them. I remember shoes caught in mud made a sucking sound with every step. It was as if the mud didn't want to let them go. I always made exaggerated steps and lifted my feet up high to show off my mud encased shoes. Milk spewing out of someone's nose used to draw peals of laughter from all of us. Why do birds fly south? What's black and white and read all over? We told each other jokes like these again and again, and they were always funny. Knock knock jokes were the worst, but they made me laugh. A kick me note on the back wasn't especially kind, but it was fun. Sitting in the tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G was innocent taunting. We made jokes when someone fell, "How was the trip?" We giggled and whispered, but we were seldom deliberately mean. We were innocents for whom the world was just a giant place to play.
We got older and had to leave some of the best parts behind us. Mud and nose milk were gross. School took too much time. Romances took too much energy. We had to plan for the future, not just the afternoon. We had good times, but funny wasn't as important any more.
We got older still. We had families and careers. Life took on a routine. Monday to Friday was the always the same. The weekends meant errands and maybe a dinner out or having friends drop over for an evening-in. We enjoyed life, but it didn't make us giggle right out loud.
Being retired has brought me full circle. I laugh with my friends all the time, belly laughs which make us cry. We play games and taunt each other. We do spur of the moment stuff. We don't have routines. Life is an empty date book waiting to be filled.
It's mud time. Most of the snow is gone, and the ground is wet and soggy. Paw prints cover the tile floor in the kitchen and record Gracie's comings and goings. She is a busy dog.
Lots of things got left behind as I grew older. Liking mud was one of them. I remember shoes caught in mud made a sucking sound with every step. It was as if the mud didn't want to let them go. I always made exaggerated steps and lifted my feet up high to show off my mud encased shoes. Milk spewing out of someone's nose used to draw peals of laughter from all of us. Why do birds fly south? What's black and white and read all over? We told each other jokes like these again and again, and they were always funny. Knock knock jokes were the worst, but they made me laugh. A kick me note on the back wasn't especially kind, but it was fun. Sitting in the tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G was innocent taunting. We made jokes when someone fell, "How was the trip?" We giggled and whispered, but we were seldom deliberately mean. We were innocents for whom the world was just a giant place to play.
We got older and had to leave some of the best parts behind us. Mud and nose milk were gross. School took too much time. Romances took too much energy. We had to plan for the future, not just the afternoon. We had good times, but funny wasn't as important any more.
We got older still. We had families and careers. Life took on a routine. Monday to Friday was the always the same. The weekends meant errands and maybe a dinner out or having friends drop over for an evening-in. We enjoyed life, but it didn't make us giggle right out loud.
Being retired has brought me full circle. I laugh with my friends all the time, belly laughs which make us cry. We play games and taunt each other. We do spur of the moment stuff. We don't have routines. Life is an empty date book waiting to be filled.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Singin in the Rain: John Martyn
Damfo Wo Eni Ewu: E.T. Mensah
This is an extra song, a gift of sorts. Ghana is fifty two today. It became an independent nation on March 6, 1957. Happy Birthday!
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“I was in the grocery store. I saw a sign that said "pet supplies." So I did. Then I went outside and saw a sign that said "compact cars."”
Dripping noises were the first sounds I heard this morning. Snow is melting off the roof. It is actually warm, already in the 40's. We're getting closer to ice coffee, deck chairs and sunscreen.
I have to grocery shop today. The larder is empty. The animals have enough, but I'm out of everything. I have a list highlighted by such favorites as clothes detergent, TP, paper towels, kitchen cleaner and sponges. It makes a person giddy.
When we were little, my parents shopped at the First National. It was the only grocery store in town. The aisles were narrow and the choices few. They shopped on weekends because my father had to drive, my mother couldn't. I remember them bringing in the bags of groceries and us standing around in the small kitchen waiting for the good stuff, the cookies and the snacks. From those bags, we could count on a stick of bologna for sandwiches, yellow American cheese, hamburger, a chicken, sometimes a roast, hot dogs, some fruit and lots of cans. My mother seldom bought fresh vegetables other than onions, carrots and potatoes. In those days, there weren't many, especially in the winter. My mother bought canned vegetables. The worst was creamed corn. It still gives me nightmares. She also bought boxes of pudding which we made with dry milk and water, Oreos, Wonder bread, popcorn, the kind where you had to keep the pan moving so it wouldn't burn, saltines and graham crackers. She always made sure we had peanut butter, jelly and Marshmallow Fluff on hand. They went great with saltines. She never had to buy milk. It was delivered. I figure she also bought staples like flour and sugar, but I don't remember her buying them. I do remember her buying the encyclopedia, a book a week, and the indestructible Melmac dishes, a few pieces every week. The books were red and the dishes white.
I really dread grocery shopping. Far too many choices boggle my mind. I have a favorite section, the cheese, so much wonderful cheese and none of it yellow. I once in a while buy bologna at the deli, all cut and ready, but that does take a bit of the adventure out of eating it.
I have to grocery shop today. The larder is empty. The animals have enough, but I'm out of everything. I have a list highlighted by such favorites as clothes detergent, TP, paper towels, kitchen cleaner and sponges. It makes a person giddy.
When we were little, my parents shopped at the First National. It was the only grocery store in town. The aisles were narrow and the choices few. They shopped on weekends because my father had to drive, my mother couldn't. I remember them bringing in the bags of groceries and us standing around in the small kitchen waiting for the good stuff, the cookies and the snacks. From those bags, we could count on a stick of bologna for sandwiches, yellow American cheese, hamburger, a chicken, sometimes a roast, hot dogs, some fruit and lots of cans. My mother seldom bought fresh vegetables other than onions, carrots and potatoes. In those days, there weren't many, especially in the winter. My mother bought canned vegetables. The worst was creamed corn. It still gives me nightmares. She also bought boxes of pudding which we made with dry milk and water, Oreos, Wonder bread, popcorn, the kind where you had to keep the pan moving so it wouldn't burn, saltines and graham crackers. She always made sure we had peanut butter, jelly and Marshmallow Fluff on hand. They went great with saltines. She never had to buy milk. It was delivered. I figure she also bought staples like flour and sugar, but I don't remember her buying them. I do remember her buying the encyclopedia, a book a week, and the indestructible Melmac dishes, a few pieces every week. The books were red and the dishes white.
I really dread grocery shopping. Far too many choices boggle my mind. I have a favorite section, the cheese, so much wonderful cheese and none of it yellow. I once in a while buy bologna at the deli, all cut and ready, but that does take a bit of the adventure out of eating it.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Maple Syrup Time: Moxy Fruvous
Ice Fishing: Bill Morrissey
“Housework is work directly opposed to the possibility of human self-actualization.”
Industrious is what I have already been today. First thing I did was make my bed. It was practically still warm. I came downstairs, put the coffee on and went to get the papers. They were lying on the ground in the snow among the trees next to the driveway. I thought about leaving them there but couldn't envision my morning without the papers. I walked outside, left the safety of the plowed driveway, grabbed branches to keep myself from sliding, crunched through the snow and retrieved my papers. I made it back safely, came inside, grabbed my first cup of coffee and started reading. After reading paper one, I went to the kitchen to get another cup, looked out the window, noticed the bird feeders were empty and decided to fill them. Out I trudged onto the snowy deck and filled all five feeders. Naturally today was the day I hadn't put socks on so my feet got wet. By the time I was done, my hands were freezing. When I came back inside, I stood for a while at the window to watch if the birds had noticed the lunch wagons were open. My stalwarts appeared first, the chickadees and the goldfinches. A male cardinal was next followed in no particular order by nuthatches, robins and a purple finch. They made filling the feeders worth my time and body heat. Then, with coffee cup in hand, I sat down to read paper two.
At the crossword puzzle, cryptogram page, I stopped to check on Gracie. She was sprawled on the mat in the sun by the front door. While I was there, I noticed the bookcase was dusty. I grabbed my can of polish cloths and polished and cleaned everything in the bookcase, no small task. I then decided to check on the chairs, particularly the rungs, yup, dusty. I went around and did three chairs and a bench. Next I dusted the small cabinet and the African nativity scene I made. The tops of all the pictures can now withstand a white glove inspection. After that, it was back to the crossword puzzle page where I deciphered the cryptogram and solved the jumble. I then sat here, at my computer, and here I stay. I'm afraid to go into any other room. I know, though, what all that coffee is going to mean. I do love a shiny bathroom.
At the crossword puzzle, cryptogram page, I stopped to check on Gracie. She was sprawled on the mat in the sun by the front door. While I was there, I noticed the bookcase was dusty. I grabbed my can of polish cloths and polished and cleaned everything in the bookcase, no small task. I then decided to check on the chairs, particularly the rungs, yup, dusty. I went around and did three chairs and a bench. Next I dusted the small cabinet and the African nativity scene I made. The tops of all the pictures can now withstand a white glove inspection. After that, it was back to the crossword puzzle page where I deciphered the cryptogram and solved the jumble. I then sat here, at my computer, and here I stay. I'm afraid to go into any other room. I know, though, what all that coffee is going to mean. I do love a shiny bathroom.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Twelve Gates to the City: Judy Collins
"I loved their home. Everything smelled older, worn but safe; the food aroma had baked itself into the furniture. "
My family is huge. My mother was one of eight children, all but one of whom had children. I have about twenty seven first cousins just on my mother's side of the family. I say about because I can't remember if my Uncle Jimmy has four or five. I don't see him or his kids much. My sister Moe is the only cousin among us who doesn't live close enough to drive to visit in a few hours. My mother was the third oldest, and her youngest sister, my Aunt Kathy, is five months younger than I. Kathy lives in what I always think of as my grandparents' house.
That house and my grandparents drew us all. My mother and her siblings with families in tow visited most Sundays. Kids were everywhere, and nobody seemed to mind. My grandparents lived in the city, in East Boston. To us, the city was an amazing place. All the houses were right beside each other with only little walkways or alleyways between them. Every corner had a small store. I tasted my first Italian ice from a storefront window on the same street where my grandparents lived. Princeton Street wasn't a street in the same way I knew streets. It went on forever. Cars were parked all along both sides. Kids played stick ball in the middle of the street and barely moved to let a car go by them. Few trees lined the street. It was mostly road and sidewalk as far as you could see.
The first bakery pizza I ever tasted came from an Italian bakery in East Boston. The sheet of pizza was kept in a bakery case, right beside the pastries. The pizza was cold, and the slices were square. That slice was delicious, different than any pizza I had ever eaten. It is the sauce I remember the most, thick and tasting of oregano and what I learned later was basil.
My grandparents had a tiny yard with a postage stamp size lawn. The back of their yard was the brick back of a church on the next street. Along the side of my grandparents' house was a narrow alleyway which led from the street to that yard. It was so narrow you could almost touch the neighbor's house. That alleyway was always the city to me, as different from where I lived as anywhere.
Though in my memories it is still called my grandparents' house, it's Aunt Kathy's house now. It no longer draws us. No one goes to visit.
That house and my grandparents drew us all. My mother and her siblings with families in tow visited most Sundays. Kids were everywhere, and nobody seemed to mind. My grandparents lived in the city, in East Boston. To us, the city was an amazing place. All the houses were right beside each other with only little walkways or alleyways between them. Every corner had a small store. I tasted my first Italian ice from a storefront window on the same street where my grandparents lived. Princeton Street wasn't a street in the same way I knew streets. It went on forever. Cars were parked all along both sides. Kids played stick ball in the middle of the street and barely moved to let a car go by them. Few trees lined the street. It was mostly road and sidewalk as far as you could see.
The first bakery pizza I ever tasted came from an Italian bakery in East Boston. The sheet of pizza was kept in a bakery case, right beside the pastries. The pizza was cold, and the slices were square. That slice was delicious, different than any pizza I had ever eaten. It is the sauce I remember the most, thick and tasting of oregano and what I learned later was basil.
My grandparents had a tiny yard with a postage stamp size lawn. The back of their yard was the brick back of a church on the next street. Along the side of my grandparents' house was a narrow alleyway which led from the street to that yard. It was so narrow you could almost touch the neighbor's house. That alleyway was always the city to me, as different from where I lived as anywhere.
Though in my memories it is still called my grandparents' house, it's Aunt Kathy's house now. It no longer draws us. No one goes to visit.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
"The car trip can draw the family together, as it was in the days before television when parents and children actually talked to each other."
I never left the house yesterday so I didn't check the sides of the road for discarded shovels or abandoned plows, but from inside the house I could hear the screaming and wailing. "Enough! Enough!"
The car trip was an annual family event, almost as American as apple pie. Cars filled with kids, pets and belongings took to the highways in summer and headed to the mountains, the lakes or the ocean. We were no exception. We'd cram the six of us into a sedan and off we'd go. I remember the car seats were upholstered and made us sweaty. My brother and I, being older, hoseyed the back side windows as our own. When it was hot, the opened windows did little to cool us. We'd stick our heads out like Duke our dog sometimes did hoping for cooler air. The heat made us grouchy. We'd push each other and complain, "He's touching me. He's on my side." I sometimes got car sick. All of a sudden my mouth would water, and I knew.
I remember trips to the beach in summer and to Maine for longer vacations. For those week long vacations, the trunk was always filled and the car was about four feet higher topped as it was with our belongings tied by a rope. Covered wagons on their way to California carried far less. My mother packed for all of us, planned the menus and shopped for groceries. My father loaded the car. We just stood around and watched. On the vacation trips, the dog came. He joined the three of us in the back seat. I never really minded sitting next to the dog as much as I minded sitting next to my little sister. To pass the time we played twenty questions, license plate bingo and anything else my parents could think of to keep us occupied. We'd stop at a picnic area for lunch and have sandwiches, bug juice and cookies for dessert. We'd also make a pit stop or two. My father was a firm believer in driving straight through and hated stops, but he didn't have a whole of choice. He had four kids crammed together for hours.
Winter car trips were never very long. We usually went to visit my grandparents in East Boston. The back seats seldom got warm. The heater just wasn't strong enough. My brother, sister and I would be so bundled in winter coats, hats and mittens we'd have even less room than usual. That made us bicker more than usual.
I doubt today's families with their giant SUVs, car movies and jacks for iPods appreciate us, the pioneers, who trekked across the country and complained and elbowed each other the whole way.
The car trip was an annual family event, almost as American as apple pie. Cars filled with kids, pets and belongings took to the highways in summer and headed to the mountains, the lakes or the ocean. We were no exception. We'd cram the six of us into a sedan and off we'd go. I remember the car seats were upholstered and made us sweaty. My brother and I, being older, hoseyed the back side windows as our own. When it was hot, the opened windows did little to cool us. We'd stick our heads out like Duke our dog sometimes did hoping for cooler air. The heat made us grouchy. We'd push each other and complain, "He's touching me. He's on my side." I sometimes got car sick. All of a sudden my mouth would water, and I knew.
I remember trips to the beach in summer and to Maine for longer vacations. For those week long vacations, the trunk was always filled and the car was about four feet higher topped as it was with our belongings tied by a rope. Covered wagons on their way to California carried far less. My mother packed for all of us, planned the menus and shopped for groceries. My father loaded the car. We just stood around and watched. On the vacation trips, the dog came. He joined the three of us in the back seat. I never really minded sitting next to the dog as much as I minded sitting next to my little sister. To pass the time we played twenty questions, license plate bingo and anything else my parents could think of to keep us occupied. We'd stop at a picnic area for lunch and have sandwiches, bug juice and cookies for dessert. We'd also make a pit stop or two. My father was a firm believer in driving straight through and hated stops, but he didn't have a whole of choice. He had four kids crammed together for hours.
Winter car trips were never very long. We usually went to visit my grandparents in East Boston. The back seats seldom got warm. The heater just wasn't strong enough. My brother, sister and I would be so bundled in winter coats, hats and mittens we'd have even less room than usual. That made us bicker more than usual.
I doubt today's families with their giant SUVs, car movies and jacks for iPods appreciate us, the pioneers, who trekked across the country and complained and elbowed each other the whole way.
Monday, March 02, 2009
Agen Anko: Kante Manfila
Kante Manfila is a a Guinean who was one of the original members of Les Ambassadeurs, a band from Mali known for mingling African guitar with Cuban-flavored horn charts and strong Rhumba rhythms. His song can be described as mande, the traditional and modern music of the Maninka and Mandinka of Western Africa.
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yousendit
"Green thoughts emerge from some deep source of stillness which the very fact of winter has released."
It is later than usual. I took my time this morning with the papers, brewed more coffee and just watched the world outside my window for the longest time. We had forty five mile an hour winds earlier. I watched pine trees bend back and forth and bird feeders swing. The birds didn't seem to mind the ride. It snowed last night but not much. The snow is crusty and cracks when you walk on it. Gracie paw prints are all over the backyard. She runs for the joy of running and follows the same route on every lap around the yard. I think of it as Gracie's shalom.
My dance card is empty. I have no errands or chores. Today is a day for hearth and home. Today is a day for flannel pants, slippers and a sweatshirt. Gracie and I will have to wrestle for the couch. I'd do paper, stone and scissors, but poor Grace is always stuck with paper. We'll share it with for the nap I know is coming.
One car has passed on my street. I can see its print. One neighbor is snow blowing the driveway of another. She is ill, and he is a good neighbor. Schools were cancelled today, more for the ice than the snow.
On days like today my house seems to wrap around me and bring a sense of serenity, of comfort and of safety.
My dance card is empty. I have no errands or chores. Today is a day for hearth and home. Today is a day for flannel pants, slippers and a sweatshirt. Gracie and I will have to wrestle for the couch. I'd do paper, stone and scissors, but poor Grace is always stuck with paper. We'll share it with for the nap I know is coming.
One car has passed on my street. I can see its print. One neighbor is snow blowing the driveway of another. She is ill, and he is a good neighbor. Schools were cancelled today, more for the ice than the snow.
On days like today my house seems to wrap around me and bring a sense of serenity, of comfort and of safety.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
"We are the people our parents warned us about."
It's snowing. The ground is covered. I heard birds singing earlier and wondered if, like in some forlorn opera, they were singing about pain and loss. Today's snow will be light, a mere inch or two, but another storm tomorrow will leave up to a foot in some places. It is the first of March and I think I heard a roar.
When you're little, you believe just about everything your parents tell you. I always thought the gum I swallowed was joining forces into a gigantic ball in my stomach which would lie there for seven years. I wondered if each piece of gum had a number, if dancing pieces of gum with skinny legs and big shoes, like the candy conga line I remembered from drive in movie intermissions, held placards which said stuff like six years more or only one more to go until I dissolve.
I didn't realize for years that a cold came from a virus. My mother knew exactly why I had a runny nose and a cough. She had warned me, and I had ignored her. I should have worn my hat and buttoned my coat. Even now, I still feel a bit guilty when I don't wear a hat. I can still hear my mother.
My mother wouldn't let us watch TV in a dark room, but she couldn't tell us why it was okay to watch a movie in the theater in the dark. It just is was her answer for the unknowns. Parents were allowed to say that.
Because I said so was the most infuriating response I ever got from my parents. It was my dad's favorite, and it was never enough. I wanted more. I wanted some logic beyond parental whim as to why I couldn't do something. Expressing my displeasure was never well received.
When you're little, you believe just about everything your parents tell you. I always thought the gum I swallowed was joining forces into a gigantic ball in my stomach which would lie there for seven years. I wondered if each piece of gum had a number, if dancing pieces of gum with skinny legs and big shoes, like the candy conga line I remembered from drive in movie intermissions, held placards which said stuff like six years more or only one more to go until I dissolve.
I didn't realize for years that a cold came from a virus. My mother knew exactly why I had a runny nose and a cough. She had warned me, and I had ignored her. I should have worn my hat and buttoned my coat. Even now, I still feel a bit guilty when I don't wear a hat. I can still hear my mother.
My mother wouldn't let us watch TV in a dark room, but she couldn't tell us why it was okay to watch a movie in the theater in the dark. It just is was her answer for the unknowns. Parents were allowed to say that.
Because I said so was the most infuriating response I ever got from my parents. It was my dad's favorite, and it was never enough. I wanted more. I wanted some logic beyond parental whim as to why I couldn't do something. Expressing my displeasure was never well received.
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