The three women of Sometymes Why are also singers with other bands: Aoife O'Donovan (Crooked Still), Kristin Andreassen (Uncle Earl) and Ruth Ungar Merenda (The Mammals). This is from Your Heart is a Glorious Machine, their second album, released earlier this year.
MP3 File
yousendit
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Every Night: Hayward Williams
"If I were a cat, what would make me purr? A pair of really comfortable blue jeans, and massages."
Thursday is a day with little personality. Mondays are dreaded. Wednesdays gives us hope we'll make it through the week, and Fridays usher in the weekend. Saturdays and Sundays refresh both the body and the spirit. They are the reasons we survive the rest of the week. Tuesdays and Thursdays somehow get lost in the shuffle. They just connect the other days of the week to each other. I don't remember a single person telling me how glad she was that Thursday was finally here. No one ever said TGIT.
My mother characterized our clothes. We had play clothes, school clothes, Sunday clothes and pajamas which needed their own category because they didn't fit into any other. School clothes were just uniforms which didn't change from day to day for eight years. Play clothes were generally dungarees in the winter, shorts in the summer, jerseys for the boys, blouses for the girls, long or short sleeve, and sneakers. Girls' dungarees back then had zippers on the side, sometimes in the pocket. They were never as cool as boys' dungarees. My brother wore high top black Keds. I wore white sneakers. His jerseys were usually striped, the sort Beaver Cleaver always wore. My blouses were a single color like blue or white or yellow. Sunday clothes were dresses and good shoes. They went on for church and came off as soon as we got home.
In the winter we wore two piece knit pajamas. They were perfectly warm and comfortable. We also wore slipper socks and could count on new pairs every Christmas. In the summer I wore what were called baby doll pajamas. They helped keep me cool on the hot nights. My brother wore shorty pajamas for the same reason. We never wore slippers. We went barefoot a good part of the summer both day and night.
Every day, during my adult working life, I came home from work and immediately changed into my play clothes. Now, I don't worry. I only wear play clothes.
My mother characterized our clothes. We had play clothes, school clothes, Sunday clothes and pajamas which needed their own category because they didn't fit into any other. School clothes were just uniforms which didn't change from day to day for eight years. Play clothes were generally dungarees in the winter, shorts in the summer, jerseys for the boys, blouses for the girls, long or short sleeve, and sneakers. Girls' dungarees back then had zippers on the side, sometimes in the pocket. They were never as cool as boys' dungarees. My brother wore high top black Keds. I wore white sneakers. His jerseys were usually striped, the sort Beaver Cleaver always wore. My blouses were a single color like blue or white or yellow. Sunday clothes were dresses and good shoes. They went on for church and came off as soon as we got home.
In the winter we wore two piece knit pajamas. They were perfectly warm and comfortable. We also wore slipper socks and could count on new pairs every Christmas. In the summer I wore what were called baby doll pajamas. They helped keep me cool on the hot nights. My brother wore shorty pajamas for the same reason. We never wore slippers. We went barefoot a good part of the summer both day and night.
Every day, during my adult working life, I came home from work and immediately changed into my play clothes. Now, I don't worry. I only wear play clothes.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
M.T.A.: The Kingston Trio
A lot has changed since 1959 when this song was released. It isn't called the M.T.A. any more, and now the fare is $5.00 round trip. Scolley Square Station was torn down a while back to make room for the monstrosity known as Government Center. I figure Charlie was riding what has become the Green Line.
You now use a ticket instead of money on the MBTA, or the T, as most of us call it. You use a Charliecard.
MP3 File
yousendit
You now use a ticket instead of money on the MBTA, or the T, as most of us call it. You use a Charliecard.
MP3 File
yousendit
“Of course I have played outdoor games. I once played dominoes in an open air cafe in Paris.”
It will be a flannel pants and sweatshirt night when the temperature drops to the high 30's. Yesterday was summer. Tonight will be winter. Springtime in New England is a strange season.
The wind was fierce yesterday. My new patio umbrella went flying. It flew out of its stand, across the deck, down the back stairs and into yard where it broke. My friends down the street also had their umbrella take off, but it landed on their glass patio table which shattered. Usually I'm the one with the worse luck.
The game Sorry was always one of our favorites growing up. You got to knock off your opponents' pieces and make fun of their losses at the same time. We'd say sorry, but it was always dripping with insincerity. That was part of the game. I have introduced Sorry to my friends who never played it as kids. They all love it and have bought their own games. We have Sorry nights, and we keep track of the games each of us have won. Our Sorry games differ a bit from when I was a kid. Expletives are frequent and the taunts merciless. I hold my game piece in my hand, hmmm a bit as I survey the board then dramatically knock my opponent's piece into oblivion. I smile and say sorry, and the air turns blue. It delights me. During the summer, we sit outside and play game after game. We sip a few drinks, and the games get louder and livelier and the language saltier. I love our game nights.
The wind was fierce yesterday. My new patio umbrella went flying. It flew out of its stand, across the deck, down the back stairs and into yard where it broke. My friends down the street also had their umbrella take off, but it landed on their glass patio table which shattered. Usually I'm the one with the worse luck.
The game Sorry was always one of our favorites growing up. You got to knock off your opponents' pieces and make fun of their losses at the same time. We'd say sorry, but it was always dripping with insincerity. That was part of the game. I have introduced Sorry to my friends who never played it as kids. They all love it and have bought their own games. We have Sorry nights, and we keep track of the games each of us have won. Our Sorry games differ a bit from when I was a kid. Expletives are frequent and the taunts merciless. I hold my game piece in my hand, hmmm a bit as I survey the board then dramatically knock my opponent's piece into oblivion. I smile and say sorry, and the air turns blue. It delights me. During the summer, we sit outside and play game after game. We sip a few drinks, and the games get louder and livelier and the language saltier. I love our game nights.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Catfish Blues: Taj Mahal and Toumani Diabate
"There is certainly something in angling that tends to produce a serenity of the mind."
It is a deck day with temperatures predicted to be in the 70's. Already the sky is the deepest blue and is without a single cloud. I was outside earlier and just stood and listened. I could hear seagulls off in the distance. They are the only birds I know who don't sing. They shout. The crunch of leaves alerted me to two squirrels who were moving from ground to tree and back again. I figured the squirrel doing the leading was the female, and the poor squirrel following her must be smitten. My guess is they're the ones who built the nest high up in the pine tree. I didn't see the robin, but she's been working. Her nest is bigger, easier to spot. I scared away the squirrel who thinks my sunflower seeds are there for him. The chickadees flew in right away and took his place. I love mornings in my yard.
I am not a fisherman, but I enjoy fishing. I remember the first time my brother and I, as adults, went fishing together. It was his canoe, and he had me sit up front. Come to find out, it was because the front person had the job of dropping and retrieving the concrete block he used as an anchor. Every time he wanted to move, I hoisted it back into the canoe. We were at a pond, a large kettle pond. We sat and fished all afternoon. I think I caught some fish, but I'm not sure of that memory. All I know is I got soaked fooling around with the anchor. He thought it was pretty funny.
Every Sunday, a long time ago, I used to go quahogging at some of the small bays off the river and then go clamming on the mud flats. We'd go in the morning then later that afternoon we'd steam the clams, stuff the quahogs and have them for dinner. Nothing tastes sweeter than fresh steamers dripping with butter especially if you dug them yourself.
It was from my father that I learned to quahog. He used to go on the weekends after we moved to the cape. He'd also fish in the winter once the smelt were running. My mother made the best stuffed quahogs, and she'd make as many as she could, leave some out some for dinner then freeze the rest for later. The smelt we always had for dinner that night. My father gutted and beheaded the small fish before my mother took over preparing and cooking them. The stove was against the back wall, and she kept the fixings beside her on the counter. The fish were floured then coated then floured again. My mother used a cast iron black pan to cook them. Fresh smelt were the tastiest of fish, but you had to eat lots of them.
I am not a fisherman, but I enjoy fishing. I remember the first time my brother and I, as adults, went fishing together. It was his canoe, and he had me sit up front. Come to find out, it was because the front person had the job of dropping and retrieving the concrete block he used as an anchor. Every time he wanted to move, I hoisted it back into the canoe. We were at a pond, a large kettle pond. We sat and fished all afternoon. I think I caught some fish, but I'm not sure of that memory. All I know is I got soaked fooling around with the anchor. He thought it was pretty funny.
Every Sunday, a long time ago, I used to go quahogging at some of the small bays off the river and then go clamming on the mud flats. We'd go in the morning then later that afternoon we'd steam the clams, stuff the quahogs and have them for dinner. Nothing tastes sweeter than fresh steamers dripping with butter especially if you dug them yourself.
It was from my father that I learned to quahog. He used to go on the weekends after we moved to the cape. He'd also fish in the winter once the smelt were running. My mother made the best stuffed quahogs, and she'd make as many as she could, leave some out some for dinner then freeze the rest for later. The smelt we always had for dinner that night. My father gutted and beheaded the small fish before my mother took over preparing and cooking them. The stove was against the back wall, and she kept the fixings beside her on the counter. The fish were floured then coated then floured again. My mother used a cast iron black pan to cook them. Fresh smelt were the tastiest of fish, but you had to eat lots of them.
Monday, April 27, 2009
As Long as the Sun: Bill Morrissey
"Every year back spring comes, with nasty little birds, yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants."
The other day a robin began attacking the two windows in my den, alternating between them. I tried to scare it away but didn't. On line I went and found out he, sex identified, was attacking the other male robin in his nesting area. When the robin in the window postured, so too did the one attacking the window. Today I saw a robin with straw in her beak and kept an eye on her as she flew from tree to fence to tree again. I think she kept doubling back to make sure she wasn't being followed. I stayed still and watched until she flew to a tree close to the deck and then I saw the nest she is building.
Last night I heard frogs. They have joined the chorus, a sure sign warmer weather is here to stay. Gracie stays out most of the day. She is back to lying on her lounge chair in the sun. The sweatshirt stayed in the closet this morning.
We were never inside the house during the summer. My neighborhood was so filled with kids we always had playmates. Outside games were the most fun. Nobody cared how much noise you made. In the late afternoons or after dinner, you could hear shouts of kids calling ollie ollie oxen free. No one ever to be it, hiding was much more fun.
I can't remember the last time I saw a hopscotch drawn on any street. In my neighborhood, you could see them on sidewalks and in the middle of the quiet streets. The lines were always drawn in white chalk, and they were seldom straight. We used rocks as our markers. The fewer the bumps on the rocks, the better they landed and stayed put. I always had trouble with number ten and usually overthrew or underthrew a few times until I figured out the distance. Hopping from number to number and staying balanced to pick up my rock got easier and easier as we played all summer long.
We didn't have fans or air conditioners, but I don't remember the nights being too hot for sleeping. After a day of playing outside, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit my pillows.
Last night I heard frogs. They have joined the chorus, a sure sign warmer weather is here to stay. Gracie stays out most of the day. She is back to lying on her lounge chair in the sun. The sweatshirt stayed in the closet this morning.
We were never inside the house during the summer. My neighborhood was so filled with kids we always had playmates. Outside games were the most fun. Nobody cared how much noise you made. In the late afternoons or after dinner, you could hear shouts of kids calling ollie ollie oxen free. No one ever to be it, hiding was much more fun.
I can't remember the last time I saw a hopscotch drawn on any street. In my neighborhood, you could see them on sidewalks and in the middle of the quiet streets. The lines were always drawn in white chalk, and they were seldom straight. We used rocks as our markers. The fewer the bumps on the rocks, the better they landed and stayed put. I always had trouble with number ten and usually overthrew or underthrew a few times until I figured out the distance. Hopping from number to number and staying balanced to pick up my rock got easier and easier as we played all summer long.
We didn't have fans or air conditioners, but I don't remember the nights being too hot for sleeping. After a day of playing outside, I fell asleep as soon as my head hit my pillows.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
"There are times when fear is good. It must keep its watchful place at the heart's controls."
Summer has dropped by for a quick visit. The day is gloriously warm. I even took my coffee and papers to the deck. This will be a quick posting as I hear the sun beckoning me.
When I was young, I believed the howling of the wind was really hordes of ghosts. Once it got dark, strange noises from outside scared me. Barking dogs were proof that something walked the night. My sister was afraid of the monster under the bed, but I wasn't. I knew the monsters were all outside scratching the screens hoping to get inside the house. One of them was, of course, the Hook.
We loved scaring each other. Sometimes, one of us would hide behind a bush, jump out and scream at the other. I still remember the rapid beating of my heart and the difficulty breathing when I got scared. I swore I hadn't been afraid, that I knew my brother was hiding, but I was really shaking in my boots. I was also vowing revenge. I remember hiding in his closet and jumping out to scare him. He got mad. I was thrilled.
I don't remember when I stopped believing in ghosts. All of a sudden I wasn't afraid. I knew it was the wind howling. I knew there was no Hook. In many ways, I regret this burst of rationality. Being afraid of things that go bump in the night was fun in its own scary way. The chill the howling wind brought made me hide under the covers, and I loved it. The thought of the Hook and the other denizens of the night scared the heck out of me. I'd hear a noise and sneak a peek from behind the window curtain. I never saw anything, but I knew someone or something was there waiting in the darkness, and I was secretly hoping to catch a peek from inside the safety of my house. Now, I no longer look. I wonder what I'm missing.
When I was young, I believed the howling of the wind was really hordes of ghosts. Once it got dark, strange noises from outside scared me. Barking dogs were proof that something walked the night. My sister was afraid of the monster under the bed, but I wasn't. I knew the monsters were all outside scratching the screens hoping to get inside the house. One of them was, of course, the Hook.
We loved scaring each other. Sometimes, one of us would hide behind a bush, jump out and scream at the other. I still remember the rapid beating of my heart and the difficulty breathing when I got scared. I swore I hadn't been afraid, that I knew my brother was hiding, but I was really shaking in my boots. I was also vowing revenge. I remember hiding in his closet and jumping out to scare him. He got mad. I was thrilled.
I don't remember when I stopped believing in ghosts. All of a sudden I wasn't afraid. I knew it was the wind howling. I knew there was no Hook. In many ways, I regret this burst of rationality. Being afraid of things that go bump in the night was fun in its own scary way. The chill the howling wind brought made me hide under the covers, and I loved it. The thought of the Hook and the other denizens of the night scared the heck out of me. I'd hear a noise and sneak a peek from behind the window curtain. I never saw anything, but I knew someone or something was there waiting in the darkness, and I was secretly hoping to catch a peek from inside the safety of my house. Now, I no longer look. I wonder what I'm missing.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
"No day is so bad it can't be fixed with a nap."
It's late again, I know. This morning I was up at 5:30 and on my way to Boston by 6:30 to work at the Red Cross Pantry. The Boston area returned volunteers go every couple of months, and this was my second trip. We filled bags and hauled groceries. I'm tired.
Boston was bright, sunny and really warm. I saw nary a jacket or sweatshirt. It was a delightful day. I drove home with the air conditioner on, but, as I got closer to the Cape, the temperature got cooler and cooler and off went the air and on went my sweatshirt. The sun here pokes in and out of the clouds and the air has little warmth, a typical spring day on the Cape. Tomorrow Boston may reach 80. We might break 70.
Years ago, if you had told me the highpoint of my Saturday afternoons would be a nap, I would have snorted and scoffed. Saturdays were for partying, getting rid of the workweek routine and enjoying a night of frivolity and high spirits, and I did my best at all of them. Many a Saturday is lost in oblivion. Not any more. My Saturdays are tame. I enjoy a nap, especially if I was up late or, like this morning, woke at the crack of dawn.
I am well passed my nap time, and I'm yawning!
Boston was bright, sunny and really warm. I saw nary a jacket or sweatshirt. It was a delightful day. I drove home with the air conditioner on, but, as I got closer to the Cape, the temperature got cooler and cooler and off went the air and on went my sweatshirt. The sun here pokes in and out of the clouds and the air has little warmth, a typical spring day on the Cape. Tomorrow Boston may reach 80. We might break 70.
Years ago, if you had told me the highpoint of my Saturday afternoons would be a nap, I would have snorted and scoffed. Saturdays were for partying, getting rid of the workweek routine and enjoying a night of frivolity and high spirits, and I did my best at all of them. Many a Saturday is lost in oblivion. Not any more. My Saturdays are tame. I enjoy a nap, especially if I was up late or, like this morning, woke at the crack of dawn.
I am well passed my nap time, and I'm yawning!
Friday, April 24, 2009
Around the Corner (Beneath the Berry Tree): The Weavers
“How dreary - to be - somebody! How public - like a frog - to tell your name - the livelong June - to an admiring bog!”
Spring is arriving with a parade filled with floats and bands and majorettes. It will be in the 60's today and work its way to 70 by Sunday. I'm already making plans to spend all day Sunday on the deck starting with coffee and the papers. Last night was warm enough to open my window in the bedroom. I noticed the night is still quiet, but the morning is filled with the songs of birds.
When I was little, I loved this time of year. We got to play outside later and later as the days got longer. Sometimes my mother even had to call us in before the streetlights came on. We thought we were getting gipped. The mornings were still chilly, but we could shed our winter coats. A sweater under a jacket was enough. Running home from school was easy. We were pounds lighter.
Trees hung over the sidewalks on the straightaway part of our walk to school. The morning sun used to poke through the branches, and I remember the light green color of the new leaves. Every day they got bigger and bigger, and by the end of the school year the sidewalks were shadowed by overhanging branches covered in dark leaves.
It was around this time of year we used to go to the swamp to catch pollywogs. The front of the swamp was really more of a small pond, and we used to lie on the grass near the edge to scoop the pollywogs into our jars. One scoop always caught several. We'd keep them a while then put them back into the water. I remember how quickly the black specks seemed to swim. We used to love to watch the pollywogs change into frogs. Their tails would disappear, replaced by legs. The new frogs' bodies always looked skinny at first, leggy. They were still fast swimmers. Soon enough, though, the pollywogs became just plain old frogs, and, after catching a few, we lost interest. Grasshoppers were our next targets.
When I was little, I loved this time of year. We got to play outside later and later as the days got longer. Sometimes my mother even had to call us in before the streetlights came on. We thought we were getting gipped. The mornings were still chilly, but we could shed our winter coats. A sweater under a jacket was enough. Running home from school was easy. We were pounds lighter.
Trees hung over the sidewalks on the straightaway part of our walk to school. The morning sun used to poke through the branches, and I remember the light green color of the new leaves. Every day they got bigger and bigger, and by the end of the school year the sidewalks were shadowed by overhanging branches covered in dark leaves.
It was around this time of year we used to go to the swamp to catch pollywogs. The front of the swamp was really more of a small pond, and we used to lie on the grass near the edge to scoop the pollywogs into our jars. One scoop always caught several. We'd keep them a while then put them back into the water. I remember how quickly the black specks seemed to swim. We used to love to watch the pollywogs change into frogs. Their tails would disappear, replaced by legs. The new frogs' bodies always looked skinny at first, leggy. They were still fast swimmers. Soon enough, though, the pollywogs became just plain old frogs, and, after catching a few, we lost interest. Grasshoppers were our next targets.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
All the Pretty Little Horses: The Journeymen
"I feel a very unusual sensation - if it is not indigestion, I think it must be gratitude."
If I start to hear the sounds of hammers and saws, I won't be surprised. I'll just assume one of my neighbors has started work on an ark. It has been raining for days. It rained most of yesterday, stopped for a bit then rained again last night. When I woke up this morning, it was raining. The paper said sunny and seasonably cool today so I'll keep checking for blue sky and a bit of sunlight.
Waxing nostalgic, I went through Coffee archives. The very first posting was February 28th, 2004. It was about my garden and the weather, common themes which still repeat. The next posting wasn't until June 25th when I saw the bookmark and realized I had forgotten about Coffee. I decided to post again. That post was my reflection about retiring, about how I might spend my time. On August 17th, my birthday and my official retirement date, I began writing Coffee with more regularity. It had no music and the pictures, if there were any, were in color. In October I started writing every day. In late October I posted my first folk music. Keep the Coffee Coming had started to develop its personality. Pictures, though, were infrequent and were still in color. Many were record jackets. Some were pictures of the beach. A couple were of Maggie, my dog. The first black and white picture was posted on March 1, 2005. A few more appeared that month but so too did color pictures. Most days back then had no pictures at all. In May 2005, every day had black and white pictures. Coffee had become what it is.
It is hard to believe Coffee is so old because every morning is the same as it was back then. I sit and look at the blank page hoping to be inspired. Some mornings I hunt through my memory drawers hoping to find a new piece of my childhood, a story I haven't told. Other days I write about whatever is floating around in my head. Some days I bring different memories to the surface, memories of my early adulthood, of the Peace Corps, of people I've known and places I've been. I still love writing every day, even the days when my muse is listless and uninspiring.
The greatest joy from Coffee has been the people I've met who have become my friends. Some haven't visited in a while, and I miss them. Some come every day, and I look forward to their visits. I laugh at the comments. I love the back and forth. Coffee has become a comfortable place.
Thank you!
Waxing nostalgic, I went through Coffee archives. The very first posting was February 28th, 2004. It was about my garden and the weather, common themes which still repeat. The next posting wasn't until June 25th when I saw the bookmark and realized I had forgotten about Coffee. I decided to post again. That post was my reflection about retiring, about how I might spend my time. On August 17th, my birthday and my official retirement date, I began writing Coffee with more regularity. It had no music and the pictures, if there were any, were in color. In October I started writing every day. In late October I posted my first folk music. Keep the Coffee Coming had started to develop its personality. Pictures, though, were infrequent and were still in color. Many were record jackets. Some were pictures of the beach. A couple were of Maggie, my dog. The first black and white picture was posted on March 1, 2005. A few more appeared that month but so too did color pictures. Most days back then had no pictures at all. In May 2005, every day had black and white pictures. Coffee had become what it is.
It is hard to believe Coffee is so old because every morning is the same as it was back then. I sit and look at the blank page hoping to be inspired. Some mornings I hunt through my memory drawers hoping to find a new piece of my childhood, a story I haven't told. Other days I write about whatever is floating around in my head. Some days I bring different memories to the surface, memories of my early adulthood, of the Peace Corps, of people I've known and places I've been. I still love writing every day, even the days when my muse is listless and uninspiring.
The greatest joy from Coffee has been the people I've met who have become my friends. Some haven't visited in a while, and I miss them. Some come every day, and I look forward to their visits. I laugh at the comments. I love the back and forth. Coffee has become a comfortable place.
Thank you!
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
"There is hope if people will begin to awaken that spiritual part of themselves, that heartfelt knowledge that we are caretakers of this planet."
The day is warm but cloudy though the sun pokes through every now and then. The early morning was foggy, the sort of fog that hangs around just above the ground. Last night I heard the wind howling and I swear the house shook. My palm tree didn't survive the onslaught and fell to the deck. I righted it this morning and put the flamingo in front where it belongs.
Today is Earth Day. I missed the first one, back in 1970, as I was in Ghana. I did read about it when the Week in Review from the New York Times arrived. Back then the Peace Corps sent it to us so we'd know what was going on at home. Earth Day really didn't mean much. It was, after all, a world away.
In Ghana I saw the changes in climate long before they became an issue here. The rainy season in the upper north was later and later in arriving. We ate rice and more rice and even more rice after that because there were no new crops. The farmers couldn't plant them until the dust of the dry season had been blessed with enough rain to make it fertile again. Southern Ghana always had rain so fruit and plaintain would eventually make its way north to us. The market was pretty barren until then. There were two growing seasons though some farmers remembered when there used to be three.
I have never forgotten those dry days when dust blew everywhere and covered everything. I, like the Ghanaians, longed for the rainy season to start, and, when it did, I was as joyful as they. Vivid memories of those first rains have stayed with me. The sky darkened, and the day seemed more like night. The rains were tremendous and came with thunder and bolts of lightning. I remember watching a bolt of lightning hit the ground in front of my house, the house with the metal roof. The rains flooded the dusty ground and rivulets were formed. It was the most majestic display of nature's power I have ever seen.
Ghana suffers even more from drought. The Sahara inches closer every year. Earth Day needs to be every day.
Today is Earth Day. I missed the first one, back in 1970, as I was in Ghana. I did read about it when the Week in Review from the New York Times arrived. Back then the Peace Corps sent it to us so we'd know what was going on at home. Earth Day really didn't mean much. It was, after all, a world away.
In Ghana I saw the changes in climate long before they became an issue here. The rainy season in the upper north was later and later in arriving. We ate rice and more rice and even more rice after that because there were no new crops. The farmers couldn't plant them until the dust of the dry season had been blessed with enough rain to make it fertile again. Southern Ghana always had rain so fruit and plaintain would eventually make its way north to us. The market was pretty barren until then. There were two growing seasons though some farmers remembered when there used to be three.
I have never forgotten those dry days when dust blew everywhere and covered everything. I, like the Ghanaians, longed for the rainy season to start, and, when it did, I was as joyful as they. Vivid memories of those first rains have stayed with me. The sky darkened, and the day seemed more like night. The rains were tremendous and came with thunder and bolts of lightning. I remember watching a bolt of lightning hit the ground in front of my house, the house with the metal roof. The rains flooded the dusty ground and rivulets were formed. It was the most majestic display of nature's power I have ever seen.
Ghana suffers even more from drought. The Sahara inches closer every year. Earth Day needs to be every day.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Takin the Time to Take It Easy: Bob Devlin
It was Ed at the Old Blue Bus, which I dearly miss, who introduced me to Bob Devlin who was the original One-Man Band of Washington, D.C.
From Ed, "Most Friday evenings in the '70s he could be found at the corner of 18th & M Streets, perched on his metal stool, guitar in his lap, harmonica rack around his neck, and cymbal under his right foot. He had a small, beat-up old amplifier to be heard above the noise of traffic and a car battery to provide power."
MP3 File
yousendit
From Ed, "Most Friday evenings in the '70s he could be found at the corner of 18th & M Streets, perched on his metal stool, guitar in his lap, harmonica rack around his neck, and cymbal under his right foot. He had a small, beat-up old amplifier to be heard above the noise of traffic and a car battery to provide power."
MP3 File
yousendit
Us Little Kids: The Roches
"It is never too late to have a happy childhood."
Today is dark and rainy. It seems the next couple of days will follow suit, a drear week to come. By the weekend, though, even the Cape may hit 60 degrees. Good thing my deck is ready.
Being a little kid was easy. I don't remember worrying about anything unless we were close to Christmas, and I was skirting the edge between naughty and nice. Getting my clothes dirty was no big deal. It was proof positive of a day of fun in the field, swamp and woods below my house. Food didn't have to be healthy. My mother never read a label when she went grocery shopping. Bread could be white and squishy. After all, Buffalo Bob assured us that Wonder Bread built strong bodies eight ways. Oreos was our snack of choice. We were experts at separating the two sides to get at the creamy middle. We loved Hostess Sno-Balls. I used to peel off the marshmallow cover and eat the cupcake first, saving the best part for last. Every puddle was a target. Soaking wet shoes bubbled when we walked. They were fun to watch. Staying outside in the snow until our lips turned blue worried my mother. We didn't care. We were kids.
Some things did bother us. Bedtime was one of them. We'd moan and groan and take forever to walk up the stairs. Vegetables were the enemy. My mother had to devise clever ways to hide them like combining mashed carrots and potatoes. Wearing a dress was about my least favorite choice for clothing, but I was forced to wear a uniform to school and to dress up for church and special occasions. Baths were a ritual on Saturday whether we thought we needed them or not. My brother and I hated having to go to church on Sunday. We used to try to sit in the last pew. It fit just the two of us, had no kneeler and was close to the door for a quick escape. In the summer, we'd arrive so late, we'd end up sitting on the outside stairs where we could chat and enjoy the morning.
My life now resembles when I was a kid more than any other time; however, there are a few changes. I voluntarily shower every day. I buy wheat or rye bread and no longer make bread pellets to throw at anybody. I'm really not big on getting dirty and actually carry a Tide pen. I like vegetables. I don't like being cold and can't remember the last time my lips were blue. That's about it I think.
Did I mention I still love Oreos and am still an expert at getting at the creamy middle?
Being a little kid was easy. I don't remember worrying about anything unless we were close to Christmas, and I was skirting the edge between naughty and nice. Getting my clothes dirty was no big deal. It was proof positive of a day of fun in the field, swamp and woods below my house. Food didn't have to be healthy. My mother never read a label when she went grocery shopping. Bread could be white and squishy. After all, Buffalo Bob assured us that Wonder Bread built strong bodies eight ways. Oreos was our snack of choice. We were experts at separating the two sides to get at the creamy middle. We loved Hostess Sno-Balls. I used to peel off the marshmallow cover and eat the cupcake first, saving the best part for last. Every puddle was a target. Soaking wet shoes bubbled when we walked. They were fun to watch. Staying outside in the snow until our lips turned blue worried my mother. We didn't care. We were kids.
Some things did bother us. Bedtime was one of them. We'd moan and groan and take forever to walk up the stairs. Vegetables were the enemy. My mother had to devise clever ways to hide them like combining mashed carrots and potatoes. Wearing a dress was about my least favorite choice for clothing, but I was forced to wear a uniform to school and to dress up for church and special occasions. Baths were a ritual on Saturday whether we thought we needed them or not. My brother and I hated having to go to church on Sunday. We used to try to sit in the last pew. It fit just the two of us, had no kneeler and was close to the door for a quick escape. In the summer, we'd arrive so late, we'd end up sitting on the outside stairs where we could chat and enjoy the morning.
My life now resembles when I was a kid more than any other time; however, there are a few changes. I voluntarily shower every day. I buy wheat or rye bread and no longer make bread pellets to throw at anybody. I'm really not big on getting dirty and actually carry a Tide pen. I like vegetables. I don't like being cold and can't remember the last time my lips were blue. That's about it I think.
Did I mention I still love Oreos and am still an expert at getting at the creamy middle?
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Boys of Bar Na Sraide: Arcady
Arcady was formed by bodhran, bones, and percussion player Johnny "Ringo" McDonagh in 1989. It has gone through many changes since then but is still considered one of the finest of Irish traditional groups. The present lineup of Arcady features flute, whistle, guitar player and vocalist Nicolas Quemenar, keyboardist Patsy Broderick, fiddler Brendan Larrisey, lead vocalist Niamh Parsons, accordionist Conor Keane and McDonagh.
MP3 File
yousendit
MP3 File
yousendit
"This is like deja vu all over again."
It's late I know but my day actually began early when the alarm woke me at 5:15. I thought it was a horrific nightmare. The worst of it was the radio was set to some talk radio station. It is Patriot's Day here which means one thing: the Boston Marathon. I volunteer for it every year so I had to be in Boston by 9. That meant leaving the Cape at 6:30 to give myself enough time to get to the T station, park my car and ride the subway into the city. My job was to ready the tent, set out the food and feed the volunteers who work all the different volunteer stations in Copley Square. The first hungry people arrived around ten, and we gave out our last sandwich at noon. Did I mention how cold it was? The wind whipped across the plaza and the chilled us to the bone. My hands didn't get warm until I was sitting on the train on the way back to my car. For our efforts we get the thanks of the other volunteers, a great windbreaker with the marathon logo, a nearly fluorescent yellow one this year, and a commemorative pin. I also get the fun of meeting new people. I only wish I'd get a chance some year to complain about the heat.
On the way home I listened to the Sox game. I am usually watching on TV so hearing the game on the radio is unusual. All of a sudden, it turned into a deja vu moment, and I was zoomed back to October 1967. My friends and I were on our way to the Cape and were listening to the Sox play Minnesota in their last game of the season. The pennant hinged on the Sox winning that game and Detroit losing one of theirs. I swear every person in every car on the road was glued to that game. When a Red Sox player got a hit, all the cars on the highway seemed to honk at the same time. When the Sox scored, the honking went on forever. I remember I could see people clapping and cheering in their cars. It was amazing.
On the way home I listened to the Sox game. I am usually watching on TV so hearing the game on the radio is unusual. All of a sudden, it turned into a deja vu moment, and I was zoomed back to October 1967. My friends and I were on our way to the Cape and were listening to the Sox play Minnesota in their last game of the season. The pennant hinged on the Sox winning that game and Detroit losing one of theirs. I swear every person in every car on the road was glued to that game. When a Red Sox player got a hit, all the cars on the highway seemed to honk at the same time. When the Sox scored, the honking went on forever. I remember I could see people clapping and cheering in their cars. It was amazing.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Will You Love Me Tomorrow: The Shirelles
"I have a simple philosophy: Fill what's empty. Empty what's full. Scratch where it itches."
Every Sunday I go out for breakfast, and later, I call my sister in Colorado. Those are my Sunday givens. Today my sister and I talked for over an hour. We never seem to run out of conversation. We jump from one thing to another then back again. Sometimes we get tangled. She'll jump back and forget to bring me, and I need a translation. My sister always makes me laugh.
Yesterday I invited summer to come and visit by getting the deck ready. I cleaned it, uncovered the furniture and stored the covers in the cellar. I even bought a new umbrella for the table. The day was warm so Gracie and I stayed out a while. We both lazed on the deck. I sat with my eyes closed and let the warmth of the sun wash over me. Gracie fell asleep on the deck beside my chair. We had a glimpse of the warm days to come.
When I worked, Saturday was grocery shop and clean the house day. Sunday was go to the dump, change my bed and do a wash day. The weekend was for getting done what I had no time to do the rest of the week. There was no day of rest. Now, I do less than I did when I worked. I have hired someone to clean my house every two weeks though I do light cleaning in between. I refuse to spend much time cleaning. I've decided to make up for all those weekends when I went from store to store and chore to chore. If I want to do nothing all day, I do. If I decide to stay in my grubbies all day, I stay in my grubbies. If I want a nap, I'll take one. If I want to sit on the deck and read all day, I'll pick a good book and make myself comfortable. If I don't want to cook, I'll order a pizza or buy an already cooked meal. I'll buy seafood Newburg or a turkey dinner or pork chops with all the fixings at a specialty shop near my house. I don't skimp. I treat myself well. I deserve it.
Yesterday I invited summer to come and visit by getting the deck ready. I cleaned it, uncovered the furniture and stored the covers in the cellar. I even bought a new umbrella for the table. The day was warm so Gracie and I stayed out a while. We both lazed on the deck. I sat with my eyes closed and let the warmth of the sun wash over me. Gracie fell asleep on the deck beside my chair. We had a glimpse of the warm days to come.
When I worked, Saturday was grocery shop and clean the house day. Sunday was go to the dump, change my bed and do a wash day. The weekend was for getting done what I had no time to do the rest of the week. There was no day of rest. Now, I do less than I did when I worked. I have hired someone to clean my house every two weeks though I do light cleaning in between. I refuse to spend much time cleaning. I've decided to make up for all those weekends when I went from store to store and chore to chore. If I want to do nothing all day, I do. If I decide to stay in my grubbies all day, I stay in my grubbies. If I want a nap, I'll take one. If I want to sit on the deck and read all day, I'll pick a good book and make myself comfortable. If I don't want to cook, I'll order a pizza or buy an already cooked meal. I'll buy seafood Newburg or a turkey dinner or pork chops with all the fixings at a specialty shop near my house. I don't skimp. I treat myself well. I deserve it.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
"It's always the badly dressed people who are the most interesting."
My forsythia has buds, and I can see the yellow. The wild rose bushes have the stirrings of tiny leaves. The lilies of the valley have sent sharp shoots above the ground. My day lilies are high enough to be seen. Spring has a handhold, finally!
Some things I just never buy. My socks are hidden by my shoes so most pairs have holes at the toes or by the heels. My sister Moe and my friend Clare, both horrified by the state of my hosiery, keep buying me new pairs. To make room, I reluctantly throw away the worse of the old. Some of these socks, destined for the dump, have been with me so long I feel a bit guilty, like I am tossing away family heirlooms.
Underwear is something else I seldom replace. I obey my mother's admonition in case I'm in an accident, but I could care less if the elastics are a bit loose or the underwear has really seen its better days. Unless I'm hit by a car or a bus, my clothes keep them hidden. Besides, there are no underwear police. But the other day, for some unexplained reason, I lost control and went amok. I went on an underwear shopping spree. When I got home, I even cleared out my underwear draw and send packing all the pairs which would have made my mother blanch. I think she would have been proud.
My last public admission is a description of my around the house grubbies. Most had started out as fit for the public eye. Over time, they became frayed, stained and oddly shaped from countless washes and endless cycles in the dryer. They have holes and some are so worn as to provide little protection. I don't care. They are the most comfortable clothes I own. When I come home from anywhere, the first thing I do is change. I find my cozy flannels and my warm sweatshirt. The fact that the legs of one are frayed and the wrists of the other make no never mind. They are my favorite clothes. They make me feel warm. They make me feel cozy. They will always have a place in my bottom drawer.
Some things I just never buy. My socks are hidden by my shoes so most pairs have holes at the toes or by the heels. My sister Moe and my friend Clare, both horrified by the state of my hosiery, keep buying me new pairs. To make room, I reluctantly throw away the worse of the old. Some of these socks, destined for the dump, have been with me so long I feel a bit guilty, like I am tossing away family heirlooms.
Underwear is something else I seldom replace. I obey my mother's admonition in case I'm in an accident, but I could care less if the elastics are a bit loose or the underwear has really seen its better days. Unless I'm hit by a car or a bus, my clothes keep them hidden. Besides, there are no underwear police. But the other day, for some unexplained reason, I lost control and went amok. I went on an underwear shopping spree. When I got home, I even cleared out my underwear draw and send packing all the pairs which would have made my mother blanch. I think she would have been proud.
My last public admission is a description of my around the house grubbies. Most had started out as fit for the public eye. Over time, they became frayed, stained and oddly shaped from countless washes and endless cycles in the dryer. They have holes and some are so worn as to provide little protection. I don't care. They are the most comfortable clothes I own. When I come home from anywhere, the first thing I do is change. I find my cozy flannels and my warm sweatshirt. The fact that the legs of one are frayed and the wrists of the other make no never mind. They are my favorite clothes. They make me feel warm. They make me feel cozy. They will always have a place in my bottom drawer.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Ready for the Storm: The Cottars
The Cottars are a Canadian musical group originating from Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. This song is from their second album On Fire released in 2004.
My sister Moe is in the midst of a snowstorm which will drop two feet of the white stuff. Two inches are falling every hour. She inspired the mini-theme day.
MP3 File
yousendit
My sister Moe is in the midst of a snowstorm which will drop two feet of the white stuff. Two inches are falling every hour. She inspired the mini-theme day.
MP3 File
yousendit
"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky."
Well, today is supposed to be warm, nearly 60 degrees so I think I'm going to hop in the car with Miss Gracie and do a bit of touring. It's been a long while since we've meandered. I'm thinking only left turns this time.
We used to have a giant oak tree across from our house. It was the biggest tree in the whole neighborhood. The trunk was so huge you couldn't wrap your arms around it. It was never good for climbing because the branches were too high off the ground. It stood next to the road, and it shaded the house beside it and half the road. During the hurricane of 1954, we heard the crack of the trunk and then we heard a crash. The top branches of the tree had been broken by the winds, and the crash we heard was the branches hitting the ground. All of us ran to the front window and saw the tangle of branches across the road. They looked like spidery fingers. When it was the eye of the hurricane, my dad took us outside. I remember how strange the sky looked and how eerily silent everything was. We ran right to that tree and climbed all through the branches across the road while my dad surveyed the damage. It had missed his car by only a bit. Up to the middle of the trunk was still standing but almost all the huge branches beyond that had broken.
I thought being outside during a hurricane was pretty exciting, and I can still remember the three of us, my dad, my brother and me, were the only people who had ventured out. We stayed until the wind began again then we hurried inside the house. After the hurricane, the branches were cut up and taken away and the rest of the tree was cut down. Only a stump was left. It was my reminder of the storm and the tree and the eye of the hurricane.
We used to have a giant oak tree across from our house. It was the biggest tree in the whole neighborhood. The trunk was so huge you couldn't wrap your arms around it. It was never good for climbing because the branches were too high off the ground. It stood next to the road, and it shaded the house beside it and half the road. During the hurricane of 1954, we heard the crack of the trunk and then we heard a crash. The top branches of the tree had been broken by the winds, and the crash we heard was the branches hitting the ground. All of us ran to the front window and saw the tangle of branches across the road. They looked like spidery fingers. When it was the eye of the hurricane, my dad took us outside. I remember how strange the sky looked and how eerily silent everything was. We ran right to that tree and climbed all through the branches across the road while my dad surveyed the damage. It had missed his car by only a bit. Up to the middle of the trunk was still standing but almost all the huge branches beyond that had broken.
I thought being outside during a hurricane was pretty exciting, and I can still remember the three of us, my dad, my brother and me, were the only people who had ventured out. We stayed until the wind began again then we hurried inside the house. After the hurricane, the branches were cut up and taken away and the rest of the tree was cut down. Only a stump was left. It was my reminder of the storm and the tree and the eye of the hurricane.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Are You Tired of Me Darling: Nanci Griffith and Iris DeMent
“Somebody's boring me. I think it's me.”
It's one of my uninspired days today, and like with any uninspired conversation, I'll start with the weather. It's sunny but chilly, the same as it was yesterday and the same as it was the day before yesterday and the day before that. The weather is a boring pattern. Gracie is just fine. No excitement, the new fence keeps her in the yard. She does chase the squirrels, but the poor dog never catches one. She is stuck being the hunter with ever elusive prey. The birds fly in, grab seed and fly out. They do this all day long, and I watch. My neighbors are back from Florida. They were gone a month. I only noticed because their shades are up, but that will change. They keep their shades down most of the day anyway even when they're home. Neighbors at the end of the street left for Florida the other day and some other neighbors are leaving tomorrow. I'm going nowhere.
I have to grocery shop. The larder is quite empty. I get to walk the aisles, up and down and up and down over and over until I fill my basket. Then I get to come home and make two or three trips into the house then, oh joy, I get to put the groceries away. I also need dog food so I get to go to Agway, one of the most boring stores in the entire world.
This morning I drank two cups of coffee, read both of my papers, did the crosswords and then the cryptogram, the same as I do every morning. When I finish here, I'll brush my teeth, get dressed, feed the cats and make my bed. After that I'll scream!
I have to grocery shop. The larder is quite empty. I get to walk the aisles, up and down and up and down over and over until I fill my basket. Then I get to come home and make two or three trips into the house then, oh joy, I get to put the groceries away. I also need dog food so I get to go to Agway, one of the most boring stores in the entire world.
This morning I drank two cups of coffee, read both of my papers, did the crosswords and then the cryptogram, the same as I do every morning. When I finish here, I'll brush my teeth, get dressed, feed the cats and make my bed. After that I'll scream!
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
I'm An Old Cowhand: Dan Hicks and His Hot Licks
What An Old Lover Knows: Tom Rush
"It is not by the gray of the hair that one knows the age of the heart."
Sometimes I wonder who that woman is. She has some interesting wrinkles mostly around her mouth and eyes. Her hair has touches of dark brown but is liberally spiced with gray. She used to walk several miles a day but now finds up and down and up the stairs again taxing. I know she carried bundles of groceries from the car to the house as if they weighed almost nothing. Cat litter came in fifty pound bags which she lugged upstairs to the litter boxes. Now twenty pounds are laborious. Climbing a chair to get at a cabinet or the shelves of a closet was never a death defying feat. Now it is fraught with danger. Walking to the kitchen didn't used to make her forget why she wanted to go there in the first place. Sleeping all night was the norm. Bathroom trips were a rarity. She could party till the wee hours and still get up for work. Now she naps. I've known this woman forever, and I didn't notice the changes until they all seemed to happen at once. She woke up one day and realized time had passed so quickly she lost track.
She remembers the shock of being called ma'am for the first time. She takes the offered seat on the train. She is not one to ignore a kind gesture. The sales lady at the card store reminded her it was senior citizens' day, and she took the discount. A few years ago that would have seemed offensive.
Lots of things haven't changed, and she thinks they are the best parts of her. She loves spending time with her friends though the evenings are never as long as they used to be. Keeping touch with family is important, and she talks to her sisters often. She has an amazing sense of humor and loves nothing better than a good laugh. Her mind is still quick enough for the sharp retorts. All those useless facts she absorbed never disappeared. They just take longer to retrieve. She still notices how beautiful her world is, and she still takes the time to stop and look and remember. That is her most precious part.
She remembers the shock of being called ma'am for the first time. She takes the offered seat on the train. She is not one to ignore a kind gesture. The sales lady at the card store reminded her it was senior citizens' day, and she took the discount. A few years ago that would have seemed offensive.
Lots of things haven't changed, and she thinks they are the best parts of her. She loves spending time with her friends though the evenings are never as long as they used to be. Keeping touch with family is important, and she talks to her sisters often. She has an amazing sense of humor and loves nothing better than a good laugh. Her mind is still quick enough for the sharp retorts. All those useless facts she absorbed never disappeared. They just take longer to retrieve. She still notices how beautiful her world is, and she still takes the time to stop and look and remember. That is her most precious part.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Waterlines: Tim Gearan
This is from 2007's Moving Day. Tim is new to me. I stumbled on him somewhere. I had to go looking for information.
http://cdbaby.com/cd/timgearan3
MP3 File
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http://cdbaby.com/cd/timgearan3
MP3 File
yousendit
Sowin' on the Mountain: Tim Grimm
"I know a lot about cars, man. I can look at any car's headlights and tell you exactly which way it's coming."
Yesterday I was sitting at a red light when the driver in front of me waved. When I didn't wave back, she poked her head out the window, and I recognized a former student. I waved back. All of a sudden I had this flashback to Chinese fire drills. We'd get to a red light, stop the car and one of us would yell Chinese fire drill. All of us would jump out, run around the car then get back to our seats before the light changed to green. The game had no purpose whatsoever, but we thought it hysterically funny.
My mind then kept wandering to the other silly car games we used to play. When two of us said the same thing at once, one of us would yell, "Jinx, you owe me a coke." Sometimes the game changed, and the person jinxed couldn't talk again until her name was said three times. Piddiddle is a game with all sorts of variations. The one thing they have in common is a piddiddle is a car with one headlight out. One person would yell piddiddle, and we'd all bang the roof of the car. I know there are x-rated versions of the game, but we never played them.
I remember a game called Punch Buggy. When you saw a Volkswagen bug, I'm talking the old Beetles, not the new ones, you yelled punch buggy and said the color of the car. You then got to punch the person nearest you in the arm. We were never allowed to play that game when we were kids. It usually ended up in a fight with somebody crying.
When we traveled as a family, we played the license plate game, trying to find all the different states. We also played twenty questions. My parents did everything they could to keep us occupied on long road trips crammed as we were into a small car with no air-conditioning, windows which opened only half way and really hot upholstery. They were only mildly successful.
My mind then kept wandering to the other silly car games we used to play. When two of us said the same thing at once, one of us would yell, "Jinx, you owe me a coke." Sometimes the game changed, and the person jinxed couldn't talk again until her name was said three times. Piddiddle is a game with all sorts of variations. The one thing they have in common is a piddiddle is a car with one headlight out. One person would yell piddiddle, and we'd all bang the roof of the car. I know there are x-rated versions of the game, but we never played them.
I remember a game called Punch Buggy. When you saw a Volkswagen bug, I'm talking the old Beetles, not the new ones, you yelled punch buggy and said the color of the car. You then got to punch the person nearest you in the arm. We were never allowed to play that game when we were kids. It usually ended up in a fight with somebody crying.
When we traveled as a family, we played the license plate game, trying to find all the different states. We also played twenty questions. My parents did everything they could to keep us occupied on long road trips crammed as we were into a small car with no air-conditioning, windows which opened only half way and really hot upholstery. They were only mildly successful.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Outside of a Small Circle of Friends: Phil Ochs
Many a Mile: Patrick Sky
"The Earth Laughs in Flowers."
It was a wonderful Easter complete with an Easter egg hunt. Two of us had clues to decipher which sent us all over the house filling our little basket. The first clue was the hardest, and we also had to resort to hot and cold on one other. It was such fun and my first hunt in too many years to mention. It reminded me of being little and the neighborhood hunt we had every year in the field below our houses. Dinner was delicious. The vegetables were spring colors of green and orange and a bit of red for contrast. It was a perfect Easter.
Today is bright with sun and the clearest blue sky though it's a bit chilly still. Warm spring comes later here by the ocean. We just have to be patient. I noticed buds on my wild rose bushes and some very tiny ones on the forsythia. The early spring bulbs have all bloomed. The latest were the grape hyacinths. Soon enough the rest of the garden will be bright with color.
When I was little, I used to give my mother dandelion bouquets. I thought they were yellow flowers. She always acted thrilled and make a big show of oohing and aahing and smelling them then she'd put them in a jelly glass in the center of the table. I was always so proud to bring my mother flowers.
Today is bright with sun and the clearest blue sky though it's a bit chilly still. Warm spring comes later here by the ocean. We just have to be patient. I noticed buds on my wild rose bushes and some very tiny ones on the forsythia. The early spring bulbs have all bloomed. The latest were the grape hyacinths. Soon enough the rest of the garden will be bright with color.
When I was little, I used to give my mother dandelion bouquets. I thought they were yellow flowers. She always acted thrilled and make a big show of oohing and aahing and smelling them then she'd put them in a jelly glass in the center of the table. I was always so proud to bring my mother flowers.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
"Easter spells out beauty, the rare beauty of new life. "
Happy Easter!
I hope by now all the eggs have been found and the ears eaten off the bunnies. Soon enough it will be time to put on our Easter finery. I remember shiny patent leather shoes with little buckles. My mother always had to buckle them as the straps were narrow and the holes too small to find. My dress was always a spring color, pink or light blue or lime green. It usually had a bow in the back which my mother tied. Underneath was a fluffy slip which made my dress billow. I wore white, wrist length gloves with pearl buttons. My hat was always round. Sometimes it had a ribbon and other times it had flowers. My socks were usually white with lace at the top. Often I'd have a fancy jacket to wear over my dress. It was lightweight and usually blue. The buttons were usually white. We always hoped for a warm, sunny Easter, the better to show off our new outfits. My parents would take us outside, and we'd pose by the front window or by the sides trees for our Easter pictures. They'd pose the four of us together first then pose us in a variety of combinations of ones and twos.
In the afternoon, after dinner, we'd usually go to my grandparents' house. Everyone did, all my aunts and uncles and cousins. My grandmother had Easter treats for us, jelly beans and chocolate rabbits. We'd stay for a few hours then my parents would round us up for the drive home. We always fell asleep.
By bedtime our Easter baskets were the worse for wear. Half eaten rabbits sat on green grass next to jelly beans, marshmallow bunnies and malted milk eggs. We ate the rabbits in bits and pieces so they'd last longer. We'd keep checking each other's rabbits because we wanted the pride of the biggest remaining piece. I remember the feet sitting forlornly in the bottom of the basket. The last to go were the jelly beans. They were the big thick ones so you could only eat a few at a time. Once they were eaten, my Easter basket was empty and all of its magic was gone.
I hope by now all the eggs have been found and the ears eaten off the bunnies. Soon enough it will be time to put on our Easter finery. I remember shiny patent leather shoes with little buckles. My mother always had to buckle them as the straps were narrow and the holes too small to find. My dress was always a spring color, pink or light blue or lime green. It usually had a bow in the back which my mother tied. Underneath was a fluffy slip which made my dress billow. I wore white, wrist length gloves with pearl buttons. My hat was always round. Sometimes it had a ribbon and other times it had flowers. My socks were usually white with lace at the top. Often I'd have a fancy jacket to wear over my dress. It was lightweight and usually blue. The buttons were usually white. We always hoped for a warm, sunny Easter, the better to show off our new outfits. My parents would take us outside, and we'd pose by the front window or by the sides trees for our Easter pictures. They'd pose the four of us together first then pose us in a variety of combinations of ones and twos.
In the afternoon, after dinner, we'd usually go to my grandparents' house. Everyone did, all my aunts and uncles and cousins. My grandmother had Easter treats for us, jelly beans and chocolate rabbits. We'd stay for a few hours then my parents would round us up for the drive home. We always fell asleep.
By bedtime our Easter baskets were the worse for wear. Half eaten rabbits sat on green grass next to jelly beans, marshmallow bunnies and malted milk eggs. We ate the rabbits in bits and pieces so they'd last longer. We'd keep checking each other's rabbits because we wanted the pride of the biggest remaining piece. I remember the feet sitting forlornly in the bottom of the basket. The last to go were the jelly beans. They were the big thick ones so you could only eat a few at a time. Once they were eaten, my Easter basket was empty and all of its magic was gone.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
"Hippity Hoppity Easter's on its Way!"
Yesterday we, the three of us, Tony, Clare and I, colored Easter eggs. We had bowls with all the different colors: red, blue, purple, green, yellow and orange. We had eyes and cottontails, glitter, different kinds of letters, a wax crayon and colored markers. We oohed and ahed each others' eggs. I decorated Egbert with cotton ball hair, googly eyes, a bow tie and a big grin. Tony decorated Egbertina, his wife, with flowing grassy locks and ruby red lips. They were quite the couple. My golden glitter egg was my Faberge egg. Clare colored her egg with a deep blue sky and made stars with the wax crayon then put glitter on every one. We had a rabbit, complete with a cotton tail. We had eggs with swirly lines and names. The bright pink were the prettiest.
Decorating eggs was a fun part of the Easter tradition. We always did it the Saturday before Easter. I think it was my mother's attempt to keep us from getting too excited about the Easter Bunny's arrival. She would hard boil the eggs, and we'd watch, always asking how much longer. Once they were done she'd run cold water over them so they'd cool quickly. Meanwhile she'd get the dye ready with the vinegar and hot water in all the different bowls. She'd put crayons on the table so we could wax designs, Elmer's glue, bits of material, scissors, decals and colored construction paper. There was only one loop so we used spoons to move the eggs back and forth in the bowls. We'd make ladies with dresses and rabbits and eggs in different designs. My mother watched. We'd show her our finished eggs, and she'd tell us they were beautiful. I always believed her.
Decorating eggs was a fun part of the Easter tradition. We always did it the Saturday before Easter. I think it was my mother's attempt to keep us from getting too excited about the Easter Bunny's arrival. She would hard boil the eggs, and we'd watch, always asking how much longer. Once they were done she'd run cold water over them so they'd cool quickly. Meanwhile she'd get the dye ready with the vinegar and hot water in all the different bowls. She'd put crayons on the table so we could wax designs, Elmer's glue, bits of material, scissors, decals and colored construction paper. There was only one loop so we used spoons to move the eggs back and forth in the bowls. We'd make ladies with dresses and rabbits and eggs in different designs. My mother watched. We'd show her our finished eggs, and she'd tell us they were beautiful. I always believed her.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Lover Girl: Caroline Herring
Fair and Tender Ladies: Eric Von Schmidt
" Easter so longed for is gone in a day."
The mornings are alive now. I sat on the deck for a while and listened and watched. I heard bird songs, the chattering of squirrels, the tapping of a downy woodpecker and the flapping of wings as chickadees flew in and out of the feeders. It is chilly, not cold anymore. The sun feels warm. Fern, the cat, lies stretched on the rug by the front door. Her fur is hot to the touch. Gracie stays out longer and longer. I know she can't jump the new fence, but I check periodically anyway. My neighborhood is abuzz. I can hear saws. Many of the tall old pines are dead and have to come down. My neighbors are having some removed today, and I had two taken from my yard last week. They were the tallest of the trees.
We never had to go to school on Good Friday, but we had to go to church, take our turns in the afternoon vigil. We just sat there and read our prayer books. I remember all the statues were covered in purple cloth, and the altar was bare. People came and went all afternoon. Some did the stations of the cross. I used to watch them move from station to station and wondered what they prayed. I didn't know if there was a special prayer, there seemed to be so many, or you just winged it. No one stayed long at any one station so I figured most were probably winging it. It was boring sitting there. I don't think any of us prayed though we did our best to look pious, kneeling and bowing our heads. After a while, we'd start fidgeting. Our turn to leave couldn't come fast enough, and I remember how bright the sun always seemed after the darkened church. I always thought it wasn't fair we had to go church on a Friday, and I couldn't figure out why it was a Good Friday.
We never had to go to school on Good Friday, but we had to go to church, take our turns in the afternoon vigil. We just sat there and read our prayer books. I remember all the statues were covered in purple cloth, and the altar was bare. People came and went all afternoon. Some did the stations of the cross. I used to watch them move from station to station and wondered what they prayed. I didn't know if there was a special prayer, there seemed to be so many, or you just winged it. No one stayed long at any one station so I figured most were probably winging it. It was boring sitting there. I don't think any of us prayed though we did our best to look pious, kneeling and bowing our heads. After a while, we'd start fidgeting. Our turn to leave couldn't come fast enough, and I remember how bright the sun always seemed after the darkened church. I always thought it wasn't fair we had to go church on a Friday, and I couldn't figure out why it was a Good Friday.
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Hills and Hollers: Adrienne Young & Little Sadie
"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars."
My father was a lawn man. He didn't care about the flower garden though he'd plant some out front more to enhance his lawn than anything else. The house where we lived when I was a kid had a small side lawn with two trees right in the middle and a front lawn which was mostly a hill. My father had a method. He would push his mower in a rhythmic pattern up and down that hill overlapping his cuts to make sure the grass was even. He went up and down the side lawn in parallel lines except around the trees. When he was done mowing, he'd bring out his clippers. They were the old kind with two scissor like blades. He always kept them sharp. My father would start in the front and trim the grass along the small garden then move to the grass around the trees. He was on his knees the whole time. I remember he used to wear his grubby pants covered in dots of paint from assorted house jobs. He always wore a belt. On top he wore a white tee shirt, the kind with sleeves. He'd usually wear an old one with a few holes and floppy sleeves stretched from age. I have this vision in my head of my dad circling the tree cutting as he moved and never leaving his crouch.
Later, when he had his own house, the front lawn was his pride and joy. Every spring he'd get his mower sharpened, and he'd fertilize his lawn. Each week, usually on Saturday, he'd mow that lawn. He'd go back and forth from the driveway to the bushes still overlapping his rows. I loved hearing the click clack of the blades from that old mower. When he was finished mowing, he'd pull out those scissor clippers and go around his lawn, still on his knees. He talked to everyone who walked by him and waved at every car.
When I visited my parents, my father always asked if I'd noticed how great his lawn looked. I always made sure I did.
Later, when he had his own house, the front lawn was his pride and joy. Every spring he'd get his mower sharpened, and he'd fertilize his lawn. Each week, usually on Saturday, he'd mow that lawn. He'd go back and forth from the driveway to the bushes still overlapping his rows. I loved hearing the click clack of the blades from that old mower. When he was finished mowing, he'd pull out those scissor clippers and go around his lawn, still on his knees. He talked to everyone who walked by him and waved at every car.
When I visited my parents, my father always asked if I'd noticed how great his lawn looked. I always made sure I did.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Michael from Mountains: Joni Mitchell
"April's rare capricious loveliness."
This morning I stood on the deck. It was a little chilly but sunny. I watched Gracie romp through the yard. I saw lines of sun on the driveway patterned by the fence. I noticed the empty bird feeders and made plans to fill them later. I saw my fiesta flags tattered and trailing on the ground, victims of the winter. No problem, I have new ones to decorate the yard for the summer. After a bit, Gracie joined me on the deck and we came inside together. She got her morning treat, and I got mine, a hot cup of coffee. I went and got the papers in the driveway. Again, I stood for a while. I looked around the front yard. I noticed the grass is really green. The day lilies have broken ground. The daffodils still bloom. The chive is up in the herb garden. The whole world is waking up, and I get to watch.
The sun disappeared for a while. The sky was filled with those white gray clouds that do nothing but hang there. I moaned and groaned. I don't mind chilly spring days when there is sun. Cloudy gets to me. It seems somehow a step backward, into winter. The sun came back but then disappeared again. I think it a peek a boo day.
The sun disappeared for a while. The sky was filled with those white gray clouds that do nothing but hang there. I moaned and groaned. I don't mind chilly spring days when there is sun. Cloudy gets to me. It seems somehow a step backward, into winter. The sun came back but then disappeared again. I think it a peek a boo day.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Scotch and Soda: The Kingston Trio
"April hath put a spirit of youth in everything."
Finally the rain has stopped. It was torrential and arrived with great fanfare bringing thunder and lightning along with it. It rained heavily all day well into the night. The world is saturated.
The sun is trying to break through the clouds. I am its biggest cheerleader. I would love to sit on the deck with my eyes closed and feel the sun on my face. I want warmth enough to lull me into a stupor.
Up the road from my house when I was a kid was a giant chestnut tree. The trunk was enormous, and the tree towered over everything. Every spring the most amazing white blossoms decorated the tree and its branches. I loved it when the wind blew through that tree. The blossoms scattered, and it was like a giant snow storm. I'd stand under the branches and hold out my hands. They would fill with small white petals. Later, the green pods of chestnuts would appear, and we waited patiently. The brown chestnuts served a dual purpose. We could eat them and we could throw them. Chestnuts fights were not for the weak hearted. We'd load up on ammunition, find a safe spot behind a wall, a tree or a building and let them fly. They'd bang against the tree trunk or the wall and yelps meant a hit. We'd play until both sides were out of ammunition then we'd sit around and rehash the battle. We always argued about who won.
Being a little kid in spring meant long afternoons outside playing. It meant riding our bikes again and roller skating. It meant no more heavy jackets, hats or mittens. It meant red rover and hopscotch and hide and go seek. It meant the outside world was ours again. I loved spring then, and I love it now. On a warm spring day, I feel ten again.
The sun is trying to break through the clouds. I am its biggest cheerleader. I would love to sit on the deck with my eyes closed and feel the sun on my face. I want warmth enough to lull me into a stupor.
Up the road from my house when I was a kid was a giant chestnut tree. The trunk was enormous, and the tree towered over everything. Every spring the most amazing white blossoms decorated the tree and its branches. I loved it when the wind blew through that tree. The blossoms scattered, and it was like a giant snow storm. I'd stand under the branches and hold out my hands. They would fill with small white petals. Later, the green pods of chestnuts would appear, and we waited patiently. The brown chestnuts served a dual purpose. We could eat them and we could throw them. Chestnuts fights were not for the weak hearted. We'd load up on ammunition, find a safe spot behind a wall, a tree or a building and let them fly. They'd bang against the tree trunk or the wall and yelps meant a hit. We'd play until both sides were out of ammunition then we'd sit around and rehash the battle. We always argued about who won.
Being a little kid in spring meant long afternoons outside playing. It meant riding our bikes again and roller skating. It meant no more heavy jackets, hats or mittens. It meant red rover and hopscotch and hide and go seek. It meant the outside world was ours again. I loved spring then, and I love it now. On a warm spring day, I feel ten again.
Monday, April 06, 2009
It's a Beautiful Day For a Ballgame: Harry Simeone Songsters
"That's the true harbinger of spring, not crocuses or swallows returning to Capistrano, but the sound of a bat on a ball."
When I was growing up, my town had an official little league field. It had wooden dugouts just like in the major leagues. Every year, on Memorial Day, all the teams marched in uniform in the local parade. The uniforms were thick, heavy wool and always looked too big. Extra material billowed below the knees and above the socks. Small arms jutted out of huge sleeves. But it wasn't the size of the uniforms that mattered. It was the uniform. There was just something about a baseball uniform. It gave the boys a swagger, a walk which said look at me. I play baseball.
Every early evening all summer two teams, one from each league, played on that field. The stands were always filled with adoring fans, pre-teen girls, parents and grandparents. Those were the days when sports were fun, when parents sat back and watched their kids and yelled encouragement for any play, good or bad. "Good try. Nice running. We'll get him next time."
I remember that field and those games so well. I can close my eyes and see everything: the grass in the infield, the green paint on the dugouts, the two sets of stands, one on each side, and the side fence which led to the railroad tracks. I remember the crack of the wooden bats and how the dust rose into the air like mini tornadoes when players slid into bases. Outfielders stood at the ready, crouched, pounding their fists into their gloves. Pitchers had wind ups just like in the majors. The catchers were lost behind the giant chest protectors and all that equipment.
I love the memories of that little field. It is where I first learned to love baseball.
Every early evening all summer two teams, one from each league, played on that field. The stands were always filled with adoring fans, pre-teen girls, parents and grandparents. Those were the days when sports were fun, when parents sat back and watched their kids and yelled encouragement for any play, good or bad. "Good try. Nice running. We'll get him next time."
I remember that field and those games so well. I can close my eyes and see everything: the grass in the infield, the green paint on the dugouts, the two sets of stands, one on each side, and the side fence which led to the railroad tracks. I remember the crack of the wooden bats and how the dust rose into the air like mini tornadoes when players slid into bases. Outfielders stood at the ready, crouched, pounding their fists into their gloves. Pitchers had wind ups just like in the majors. The catchers were lost behind the giant chest protectors and all that equipment.
I love the memories of that little field. It is where I first learned to love baseball.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
"I like the word "indolence." It makes my laziness seem classy."
It is another mostly gray day though the sky does have a few swatches of blue. The sun is hiding back there somewhere, but I haven't yet seen a glimpse. It's been gone a while.
I went out for my Sunday breakfast. The roads were quiet. The bike paths were empty. I saw no one doing yard work. Not a single dog was being walked. Cloudy days seem to muffle our energy. They are no incentive to be outside. They are damp and chilly. They are best viewed from an inside window.
I'll lie low the rest of the day. I've expended my energy supply so today I am declaring a day of rest. I will loll about the house and do absolutely nothing. Crooked pictures will stay that way; dust can settle; dishes can pile. I will do nothing except turn the pages of my newspapers and press my remote to change channels. Later I will nap. I need to recharge my batteries.
Baseball starts tomorrow. I love baseball.
I went out for my Sunday breakfast. The roads were quiet. The bike paths were empty. I saw no one doing yard work. Not a single dog was being walked. Cloudy days seem to muffle our energy. They are no incentive to be outside. They are damp and chilly. They are best viewed from an inside window.
I'll lie low the rest of the day. I've expended my energy supply so today I am declaring a day of rest. I will loll about the house and do absolutely nothing. Crooked pictures will stay that way; dust can settle; dishes can pile. I will do nothing except turn the pages of my newspapers and press my remote to change channels. Later I will nap. I need to recharge my batteries.
Baseball starts tomorrow. I love baseball.
Saturday, April 04, 2009
"Where flowers bloom so does hope."
Huzzah! Today my daffodils bloomed. The bright yellow flowers are sitting in my garden and have brought sun to a gray, dull day. I stood outside with my papers and looked for the longest time. They seem such a gift.
The yard has been cleared of all winter debris. My grass is getting green. I know it's still April on Cape Cod and still damp and cold, but I feel the season changing. The garden shops have pansies out front, and I want a few for the basket on my front step. I'll bring it in at night for the danger of frost is not yet over. We've another month for that.
I think it is the daffodils. They have jumped started my internal spring.
This year I will grow pumpkins. I will also replant my herb garden. I'll try tomatoes again and hope the possum has moved to another yard. For the first time, I'm adding a side garden along the driveway. It has been cleaned and readied. I'm thinking a mixture of annuals and perennials to keep it blooming all summer. I really know nothing about flowers. I chose them by color. People ask and I say it's a red flower or a purple flower. My friend Annie has the most beautiful garden. It blooms all summer, and she knows every plant and flower. I ask her for advice, and she is thrilled that I do. She finds my lack of gardening knowledge appalling.
No sun in the sky today, but I found it in the garden.
The yard has been cleared of all winter debris. My grass is getting green. I know it's still April on Cape Cod and still damp and cold, but I feel the season changing. The garden shops have pansies out front, and I want a few for the basket on my front step. I'll bring it in at night for the danger of frost is not yet over. We've another month for that.
I think it is the daffodils. They have jumped started my internal spring.
This year I will grow pumpkins. I will also replant my herb garden. I'll try tomatoes again and hope the possum has moved to another yard. For the first time, I'm adding a side garden along the driveway. It has been cleaned and readied. I'm thinking a mixture of annuals and perennials to keep it blooming all summer. I really know nothing about flowers. I chose them by color. People ask and I say it's a red flower or a purple flower. My friend Annie has the most beautiful garden. It blooms all summer, and she knows every plant and flower. I ask her for advice, and she is thrilled that I do. She finds my lack of gardening knowledge appalling.
No sun in the sky today, but I found it in the garden.
Friday, April 03, 2009
"If there is magic on the planet, it is contained in the water."
My going out yesterday wasn't the unqualified success I'd hoped. My asthma kicked in again, and people scattered holding crosses in front of them and muttering as they ran, but even that wasn't the worst. Nope, the worst was I wanted to spend money, find something new and exciting, and I didn't. I wandered with my empty shopping basket up and down the aisles from housewares to accessories to lamps and furniture. I found nothing. It was beyond sad. I walked to my friend's car with my head down, my feet shuffling in the dust and my hands empty. I came home and slept away the misery.
It is raining again. I like the sound, and I like the comfort of the darkness around me. The cats and the dog are curled in deep sleep, each cuddled on a blanket or afghan. The house is quiet. I sit with eyes closed and listen to the rain. I imagine each drop into many drops. I wish it were summer so I could sit outside under the umbrella and let the rain surround me while I stay dry. I think I love rain best of all.
If I could be anywhere right now, I'd choose a sidewalk cafe in a busy market in an off beat city. I'd sit at my table, drink my coffee and watch the world. I'd listen to the different voices, their lilts and sounds. I'd watch the swirl of colors walk by me. I'd eat strange finger foods and have creamy pastries. I'd wear a wrap around around my head. It would be orange and red.
It is raining again. I like the sound, and I like the comfort of the darkness around me. The cats and the dog are curled in deep sleep, each cuddled on a blanket or afghan. The house is quiet. I sit with eyes closed and listen to the rain. I imagine each drop into many drops. I wish it were summer so I could sit outside under the umbrella and let the rain surround me while I stay dry. I think I love rain best of all.
If I could be anywhere right now, I'd choose a sidewalk cafe in a busy market in an off beat city. I'd sit at my table, drink my coffee and watch the world. I'd listen to the different voices, their lilts and sounds. I'd watch the swirl of colors walk by me. I'd eat strange finger foods and have creamy pastries. I'd wear a wrap around around my head. It would be orange and red.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
"Sisters share the scent and smells - the feel of a common childhood."
My brother and I, only a year apart, often fought like cats and dogs. He was prone to teasing and name calling as brothers often are. They find the chink and push and push. Bringing me to tears was always his prime objective. Sometimes, though, he'd make a tactical error, and I'd get angry. That was not the me he wanted. We sometimes came to blows but never did any damage. Most of our better fights, our melees, were when our parents were elsewhere. We'd scream and throw things then barricade ourselves from another. By then we'd calm down, and whatever had started the fight was forgotten. That was when the real diplomacy began. Always we knew that within our ranks were moles, my two younger sisters. They were united against us and had learned early the art of negotiation. We won't tell if... was what my brother and I had to face. We had to find a way to keep the fight from my parents by bribing our sisters. They knew it too. The best ploy was having something on them but they were much younger and their misdeeds were minor. Threats were iffy because they could squeal about those too. Most times we had to promise to do something for them or give them something of ours. Either way, they were small prices to pay to keep our parents in the dark. I have to say, though, that my youngest sister was the worst at keeping any secrets.
If you had told the younger me that I would actually like my sisters, I would have laughed. Tolerated was about the best I'd have expected. They are five and seven years younger than I and that made a big difference growing up. Now there is little difference. We are bound not just by family but also by friendship. I can't remember the last time time I needed to bribe either one of them.
If you had told the younger me that I would actually like my sisters, I would have laughed. Tolerated was about the best I'd have expected. They are five and seven years younger than I and that made a big difference growing up. Now there is little difference. We are bound not just by family but also by friendship. I can't remember the last time time I needed to bribe either one of them.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
“I hope my tongue in prune juice smothers, If I belittle dogs and mothers”
My mother loved April Fool's Day. She'd call and nonchalantly insert some believable little story into her conversation and then keep talking. Meanwhile, I'd be sitting here forced to mull over what she had said and decide whether or not to believe her. Her story was always just plausible enough. Usually I'd end up believing her, a mother and all, and despite my misgivings and the day, I'd stop our conversation and ask for an explanation. "Gottcha," was the only one she ever gave. She'd laugh and tell me she'd already gotten at least one other of my sisters, usually Moe, the gullible.
This day is really no big deal in the scheme of days, but my mother made it a day to remember. She made it an event. I waited for that phone to ring, and I was never disappointed. I tried not to bite the hook but she had the best bait. Sometimes I got caught; sometimes I didn't. She'd do this double cross thing with a less obvious hook squeezed in among the obvious. I bit on those. That woman had a devious streak.
I wonder if she knew how many memories she made for all of us. The ones at Christmas were the easiest to see and remember. I always think of Christmas traditions as memories brought out and relived from year to year. But I have strong memories of other days, of small events which taken together are a lifetime of memories. I can see the small kitchen on Thanksgiving and remember watching her struggle to pull out this gigantic blue pan from the oven so she could baste the turkey. The steam would rise and fill the kitchen, and she'd wipe off her forehead. Before she'd wrestled back the turkey, she always stole an end piece of stuffing to eat, crusty from the baking, and her favorite part. Her pepper and egg sandwiches were the best picnic fare. She made great school lunches. Halloween costumes magically appeared from almost nothing, a little cloth and some make-up. She sent me flowers once, just because. She always brought a surprise when she came to visit. My mother was amazing and has left me memories to cherish all of my days.
This day is really no big deal in the scheme of days, but my mother made it a day to remember. She made it an event. I waited for that phone to ring, and I was never disappointed. I tried not to bite the hook but she had the best bait. Sometimes I got caught; sometimes I didn't. She'd do this double cross thing with a less obvious hook squeezed in among the obvious. I bit on those. That woman had a devious streak.
I wonder if she knew how many memories she made for all of us. The ones at Christmas were the easiest to see and remember. I always think of Christmas traditions as memories brought out and relived from year to year. But I have strong memories of other days, of small events which taken together are a lifetime of memories. I can see the small kitchen on Thanksgiving and remember watching her struggle to pull out this gigantic blue pan from the oven so she could baste the turkey. The steam would rise and fill the kitchen, and she'd wipe off her forehead. Before she'd wrestled back the turkey, she always stole an end piece of stuffing to eat, crusty from the baking, and her favorite part. Her pepper and egg sandwiches were the best picnic fare. She made great school lunches. Halloween costumes magically appeared from almost nothing, a little cloth and some make-up. She sent me flowers once, just because. She always brought a surprise when she came to visit. My mother was amazing and has left me memories to cherish all of my days.
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