It appears to be new album day today at Coffee. This is from Sea of Tears.
MP3 File
yousendit
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
"Now is the time of the illuminated woods ... when every leaf glows like a tiny lamp."
Okay, it's my own fault. I know it. About 1:30 Gracie rang her doggie bells to go out so I climbed out of bed, trudged downstairs, let her out and waited. She came back inside after about ten minutes. I then went upstairs to bed, but it took me a while before I could fall back asleep. Two hours later she rang the bells again. I ignored her. She kept ringing, and I kept ignoring her. This morning, when I came downstairs, I was assailed by the unmistakeably odor of scat (the politest term I could muster). I wandered the house and didn't find anything, changed the litter boxes and still found nothing. Every time I went through the living room I knew it was somewhere there. I finally found it. I will never ignore Gracie's bells again. This, what I call the incident of the dog scat, was the start of my morning. Does it add to my dismal fate of yesterday? Absolutely not! I am, in fact, a bit giddy. We had an afternoon of sun. The whole world stumbled outside squinting and covering their eyes with their hands. Shouts of joy rang throughout the neighborhood. I cleaned my deck then sat outside all afternoon. I have been rejuvenated.
When I remember long ago summers, I remember the voices of neighbors from their screened windows. Summer arguments were never private. I remember lunch time when all the mothers opened their back screen doors and yelled. Kids went running in all directions and the one after another slamming of a screen door was the next sound. My back door was green, and it was wooden. It was in the kitchen next to the fridge. Every year my father replaced its storm door with a screen door. I still associate the start of summer and warm nights with screens.
Last week I saw my first fireflies. I saw several of them on bushes and just above the long grass. I had to stand and watch. Fireflies are magical. They are the fairies from our childhood stories. They are wonder.
When I remember long ago summers, I remember the voices of neighbors from their screened windows. Summer arguments were never private. I remember lunch time when all the mothers opened their back screen doors and yelled. Kids went running in all directions and the one after another slamming of a screen door was the next sound. My back door was green, and it was wooden. It was in the kitchen next to the fridge. Every year my father replaced its storm door with a screen door. I still associate the start of summer and warm nights with screens.
Last week I saw my first fireflies. I saw several of them on bushes and just above the long grass. I had to stand and watch. Fireflies are magical. They are the fairies from our childhood stories. They are wonder.
Monday, June 29, 2009
"A Rolling Stone Gathers No Moss"
Screaming doesn't help. I've tried. Cursing helps a little. I've tried that too. A bit of meditation is way too deep. I wouldn't even try that. It's the rain, the incessant rain, which has me unbalanced. I awoke to it again today and, from all reports, will awake to it tomorrow as well. Foolishly, and with fingers crossed, I checked the rest of the week. Every day was listed as possible showers. That was when I screamed.
I'm at a loss for words today. The rain has dampened my rosy optimism. The glass is half empty. I can think only in cliches. My fingers, all two of them, hit the keyboard, and I start writing stuff like when it rains, it pours or it always rains on your parade. I can't stop myself. I'm no longer right as rain. I used to be as happy as a clam, as a duck in water. I smelled the roses. I believed life was a bowl of cherries. Where did that go?
I don't ask for much in this world. I admit I do have a list, but it's not all that extravagant: a trip or two for my sanity, a sleeping porch for my health and some comfort and ease in my golden years. (Okay, that last one really isn't on my list, but I couldn't help myself.) Right now, though, I'll forego that list for one thing: I want my place in the sun. I need to recharge my batteries. I want to make hay while the sun shines. I want to stop talking in cliches.
I'm at a loss for words today. The rain has dampened my rosy optimism. The glass is half empty. I can think only in cliches. My fingers, all two of them, hit the keyboard, and I start writing stuff like when it rains, it pours or it always rains on your parade. I can't stop myself. I'm no longer right as rain. I used to be as happy as a clam, as a duck in water. I smelled the roses. I believed life was a bowl of cherries. Where did that go?
I don't ask for much in this world. I admit I do have a list, but it's not all that extravagant: a trip or two for my sanity, a sleeping porch for my health and some comfort and ease in my golden years. (Okay, that last one really isn't on my list, but I couldn't help myself.) Right now, though, I'll forego that list for one thing: I want my place in the sun. I need to recharge my batteries. I want to make hay while the sun shines. I want to stop talking in cliches.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
"I am an optimist. It does not seem too much use being anything else."
Friday night the sky darkened, thunder cracked and lightning brightened the darkness, all at the start of intermission. But, amazingly, that storm and that fury gave birth to yesterday, the best day so far with its bright sun and blue sky. We even made it to the mid 70's, and the world was out enjoying the day. I, being an eternal optimist, put the screen in the back storm door. Last night a clap of thunder broke over my house, and I jumped at its suddenness. The lightning followed and then the rain which furiously came in through the back door screen. I should have known. But I didn't really mind so much. I loved yesterday's weather with its warm day and cool night. My only complaint, though, is the sun forgot to come back today.
The gray sky has muted sounds. The humidity grabs and holds us. Today is quiet. Two of my occasional neighbors are here, but I don't even hear them. A dog barks and Gracie runs to answer. The birds were noisy this morning but are gone now. Not even the trees are moving. I read this aloud, as I always do, and it is the loudest sound, almost harsh to my ears. I haven't played any music yet. I think it will be intrusive.
Dark, quiet days reach inside me. I refresh my soul and my spirit. I find and touch memories and rediscover lost pieces. I am comforted and warmed.
The gray sky has muted sounds. The humidity grabs and holds us. Today is quiet. Two of my occasional neighbors are here, but I don't even hear them. A dog barks and Gracie runs to answer. The birds were noisy this morning but are gone now. Not even the trees are moving. I read this aloud, as I always do, and it is the loudest sound, almost harsh to my ears. I haven't played any music yet. I think it will be intrusive.
Dark, quiet days reach inside me. I refresh my soul and my spirit. I find and touch memories and rediscover lost pieces. I am comforted and warmed.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
"Applause begets applause in the theatre, as laughter begets laughter and tears beget tears."
Last night was the first play of the season. Because I needed my tickets, I was a bit early. This gave me some time to watch the crowds arrive. Long ago, when I first bought my season ticket, we all wore our Sunday best to the theater. I wore summer dresses bright with color. The men wore jackets and ties. The summer visitors, in their casual clothes, looked uncomfortable, out of place. Last night, I noticed how much has changed. Only two men wore jackets, and I saw only one woman wearing a skirt. Some people wore t-shirts and shorts. I noticed few of the theatergoers were young. Many were old, even for me. The women reminded me of cats, old cats, frail and skinny with age. The men were bent. I watch a few of these couples walk up the broad front steps holding on to each other for balance.
I used to know everyone around me, all season ticket holders. The doctor and his wife were behind me. He had a goatee and sometimes wore a boater. He always wore a linen jacket. After the doctor died, his wife came with a woman friend. A few years later they changed to matinee tickets, not wanting to drive at night. I never saw them again.
The two seats beside me belonged to Jim and Milton, both gay men. I always joked with Jim and reminded him not to sing along with the musicals. He wore jackets in green or light blue. Milton gave a party at the end of the season on the grounds of his house. It was a grand affair. He stopped coming when his health failed. Jim then came with his partner. They both stopped coming about four years ago. Down the row behind us was a lovely couple. He was a handsome man, and she was always dressed to the nines. Every week, we chatted and laughed as we waited for the curtain to rise. He had a stroke, and they stopped coming.
I sit my friends with whom I've sat for well over twenty years, but when we stop coming, I doubt anyone will notice.
I used to know everyone around me, all season ticket holders. The doctor and his wife were behind me. He had a goatee and sometimes wore a boater. He always wore a linen jacket. After the doctor died, his wife came with a woman friend. A few years later they changed to matinee tickets, not wanting to drive at night. I never saw them again.
The two seats beside me belonged to Jim and Milton, both gay men. I always joked with Jim and reminded him not to sing along with the musicals. He wore jackets in green or light blue. Milton gave a party at the end of the season on the grounds of his house. It was a grand affair. He stopped coming when his health failed. Jim then came with his partner. They both stopped coming about four years ago. Down the row behind us was a lovely couple. He was a handsome man, and she was always dressed to the nines. Every week, we chatted and laughed as we waited for the curtain to rise. He had a stroke, and they stopped coming.
I sit my friends with whom I've sat for well over twenty years, but when we stop coming, I doubt anyone will notice.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Step It Up and Go: Warner Willams
Long Old Road: Tracy Nelson
"The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light."
The sun, the smell of freshly mowed grass, the songs of birds and a cup of coffee on the deck have made my morning perfect. I had to drag myself in here to write Coffee. I figure a few quick paragraphs are all I can offer today. The weather report this morning said rain this afternoon, tonight and tomorrow so I need all the deck time I can scrounge before the front reappears.
My world is bright. The sun has brought the flowers, cowered by the incessant rain, back to life. The grass is springtime green. The leaves pop in the sun.
My world is finally dry. The dog doesn't leave muddy paws prints on the kitchen floor, and I can sit on the deck without getting wet. This morning I sat and watched cat birds scoop up and eat grape jelly. The oriole was also there and was waiting patiently in line for his scoop. Even a chickadee gave the jelly a try. I scrubbed the grill, filled the feeders and swept a few more leaves while I was out there. It just seemed a great morning for a bit of industry.
I have an errand for a friend this morning and a trip to the dump scheduled then the rest of the day is mine. On days like today I am greedy about my time. I want to sit outside under the umbrella with a book in my hand and a cold drink on the table. The only sounds I want to hear are Gracie, the trees and the birds. I'd add the hissing of a snake, but I already know I'm in paradise.
My world is bright. The sun has brought the flowers, cowered by the incessant rain, back to life. The grass is springtime green. The leaves pop in the sun.
My world is finally dry. The dog doesn't leave muddy paws prints on the kitchen floor, and I can sit on the deck without getting wet. This morning I sat and watched cat birds scoop up and eat grape jelly. The oriole was also there and was waiting patiently in line for his scoop. Even a chickadee gave the jelly a try. I scrubbed the grill, filled the feeders and swept a few more leaves while I was out there. It just seemed a great morning for a bit of industry.
I have an errand for a friend this morning and a trip to the dump scheduled then the rest of the day is mine. On days like today I am greedy about my time. I want to sit outside under the umbrella with a book in my hand and a cold drink on the table. The only sounds I want to hear are Gracie, the trees and the birds. I'd add the hissing of a snake, but I already know I'm in paradise.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Here in the Kitchen: Dan Reeder
This is from his 2004's self titled album Dan Reeder, his first. It's on Oh Boy Records.
MP3 File
yousendit
MP3 File
yousendit
Cook With Honey: Judy Collins
"Cookies are made of butter and love."
The day is a bright one so our friend old Mr. Sun is lurking behind those familiar clouds. I suspect he'll appear sometime this afternoon after a fanfare.
All that rain did have a silver lining as I planted some more herbs yesterday. Mint is in the back with enough room to take over the whole yard, and I also planted some pineapple sage and cinnamon basil, both new to me.
We didn't had a vegetable garden, no room, and I never wondered where herbs originated. They came dried, in bottles and that's all I knew. When I was younger, my mother never cooked fancy. It would have been wasted on us. Whipped potatoes covering the meatloaf was about as creative as she got. I don't even remember that many jars of herbs ever stored in our kitchen. My mother, when we were much older and out of the house, experimented with all sorts of dishes and served them for dinners and holidays when we visited. She was a great cook. I, however, never cooked or baked until Africa where I had to make Christmas cookies for the first time. Usually I was a decorator, not a creator, and I was nervous about this first batch. They were delicious, and I was hooked on the kitchen.
Some of the best times were when my mother and I worked together in either her kitchen or mine. Here she was my sous chef; there I was hers, except for onions. They killed me and bothered her far less. I'd sit at her kitchen table chopping while she was at the counter with the bowls and mixer. We turned out some great dishes.
My favorite memory of all was when school started Christmas vacation early one year, and I went to my parents' house. My mother and I stayed in the kitchen day in and day out baking breads and cookies. The radio station played Christmas carols the whole time we were working. My dad wandered in for a cookie or two then went back to his TV. He did that a few times each night. We made all kinds of new cookies, and one, Auntie Mary's, is still a favorite of mine. We always ended the night at the kitchen table having a cookie or two.
Every time I bake cookies I am reminded of my mother.
All that rain did have a silver lining as I planted some more herbs yesterday. Mint is in the back with enough room to take over the whole yard, and I also planted some pineapple sage and cinnamon basil, both new to me.
We didn't had a vegetable garden, no room, and I never wondered where herbs originated. They came dried, in bottles and that's all I knew. When I was younger, my mother never cooked fancy. It would have been wasted on us. Whipped potatoes covering the meatloaf was about as creative as she got. I don't even remember that many jars of herbs ever stored in our kitchen. My mother, when we were much older and out of the house, experimented with all sorts of dishes and served them for dinners and holidays when we visited. She was a great cook. I, however, never cooked or baked until Africa where I had to make Christmas cookies for the first time. Usually I was a decorator, not a creator, and I was nervous about this first batch. They were delicious, and I was hooked on the kitchen.
Some of the best times were when my mother and I worked together in either her kitchen or mine. Here she was my sous chef; there I was hers, except for onions. They killed me and bothered her far less. I'd sit at her kitchen table chopping while she was at the counter with the bowls and mixer. We turned out some great dishes.
My favorite memory of all was when school started Christmas vacation early one year, and I went to my parents' house. My mother and I stayed in the kitchen day in and day out baking breads and cookies. The radio station played Christmas carols the whole time we were working. My dad wandered in for a cookie or two then went back to his TV. He did that a few times each night. We made all kinds of new cookies, and one, Auntie Mary's, is still a favorite of mine. We always ended the night at the kitchen table having a cookie or two.
Every time I bake cookies I am reminded of my mother.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Torn Screen Door: David Francey
"Change of weather is the discourse of fools."
In New England, we have snowy, cold winters. We have damp springs. We love summer and fall for their decency. So far, we have been cheated out of summer. Weather: Ditto!
Today I'm doing errands because tomorrow we'll have a bit of sun, and I want to soak up every minute of it. The rain will return on Saturday. The weatherman last night mentioned we have only had about 27% sunshine for the month. I knew that already. The editorial in the Boston Globe today talked about the rain and mentioned Bradbury's All Summer in a Day. Here in New England, we are feeling like those Venusians.
Summer was the highlight of my year when I was a kid. The days were long, and we always got to stay outside later, even after the streetlights. Bedtime was pretty much when we were tired. We jumped through the sprinklers on hot days and, when we were older, went to the pool. No Saturday matinee, but we had the drive-in on weekends. I'd ride my bike to the Dairy Queen for a blizzard if I could scrounge up the money. We slept outside on the hottest summer nights, those with that choking New England humidity and no breeze. We ate ice cream almost every day. Dinner was quick. My mother didn't want to use the oven. Life in the summer just seemed easy.
Summer is now my second favorite season. If it weren't so muggy, summer would be my favorite. It has the best sounds. Birds and insects sing all day and frogs at night. I get to sit outside until really late and am surrounded by candlelight in the trees and on the railing and, come August, fireflies in the backyard. The tastiest fruits and vegetables are available at all the local farm stands and markets. Sugar corn, just about the sweetest corn in the world, makes it appearance in mid-August. My birthday is in the summer.
Today I'm doing errands because tomorrow we'll have a bit of sun, and I want to soak up every minute of it. The rain will return on Saturday. The weatherman last night mentioned we have only had about 27% sunshine for the month. I knew that already. The editorial in the Boston Globe today talked about the rain and mentioned Bradbury's All Summer in a Day. Here in New England, we are feeling like those Venusians.
Summer was the highlight of my year when I was a kid. The days were long, and we always got to stay outside later, even after the streetlights. Bedtime was pretty much when we were tired. We jumped through the sprinklers on hot days and, when we were older, went to the pool. No Saturday matinee, but we had the drive-in on weekends. I'd ride my bike to the Dairy Queen for a blizzard if I could scrounge up the money. We slept outside on the hottest summer nights, those with that choking New England humidity and no breeze. We ate ice cream almost every day. Dinner was quick. My mother didn't want to use the oven. Life in the summer just seemed easy.
Summer is now my second favorite season. If it weren't so muggy, summer would be my favorite. It has the best sounds. Birds and insects sing all day and frogs at night. I get to sit outside until really late and am surrounded by candlelight in the trees and on the railing and, come August, fireflies in the backyard. The tastiest fruits and vegetables are available at all the local farm stands and markets. Sugar corn, just about the sweetest corn in the world, makes it appearance in mid-August. My birthday is in the summer.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
"I know well that the June rains just fall."
My mornings get later and later. The constant rain has sapped my energy. I need sun to energize my internal batteries. When I woke up and heard the rain, I just turned over and went back to sleep for another hour. The cat and dog joined me. After I finally dragged myself out of bed, I leisurely read my newspapers, mopped up the paw prints off the kitchen floor, drank too many cups of coffee then read yesterday's mail. Days like today lack any sort of urgency.
It is dark and chilly. Yesterday I wore a sweatshirt inside the house because I had left windows open and the house was cold. The blanket went back on the bed last night. The weather report says one more day of rain before the sun reappears. I'm hoping I can hold on that long. I am a lover of rain but enough is enough.
I can't imagine having a house full of kids rainy day after rainy day. That my mother remained sane was a miracle. Our house was too small for us to have much private space. We'd go play down the cellar, sometimes even ride our bikes in the small circle of one side of the cellar to the other. It was a narrow, tricky ride pass the stairs. The bottom of the banister sometimes served as my horse. I used to put blankets on it for a saddle and pretend to shoot the bad guys. My sisters played with their dolls and carriages on the other side of the cellar from my corral. We'd play a while then get bored and go back upstairs to drive my mother crazy. Board games held our attention for only so long. We wanted out in the worse way and used to beg my mother to let us play in the rain. On warm, summery days she'd sometimes relent. We'd scream for joy and run out the back door. Too late my mother would scream for us not to slam the back door.
It is dark and chilly. Yesterday I wore a sweatshirt inside the house because I had left windows open and the house was cold. The blanket went back on the bed last night. The weather report says one more day of rain before the sun reappears. I'm hoping I can hold on that long. I am a lover of rain but enough is enough.
I can't imagine having a house full of kids rainy day after rainy day. That my mother remained sane was a miracle. Our house was too small for us to have much private space. We'd go play down the cellar, sometimes even ride our bikes in the small circle of one side of the cellar to the other. It was a narrow, tricky ride pass the stairs. The bottom of the banister sometimes served as my horse. I used to put blankets on it for a saddle and pretend to shoot the bad guys. My sisters played with their dolls and carriages on the other side of the cellar from my corral. We'd play a while then get bored and go back upstairs to drive my mother crazy. Board games held our attention for only so long. We wanted out in the worse way and used to beg my mother to let us play in the rain. On warm, summery days she'd sometimes relent. We'd scream for joy and run out the back door. Too late my mother would scream for us not to slam the back door.
Monday, June 22, 2009
It Started to Rain: Amos Lee
This is from his latest album, Last Days at the Lodge which was released in 2008 on Blue Note Records.
MP3 File
yousendit
MP3 File
yousendit
"Never raise your hand to your kids. It leaves your groin unprotected."
Alex, Weather for $500. What is rain? It has been days since I last saw the sun. The world is afloat and will be until Thursday. Vines are starting to cover the windows. This could be a Saturday night thriller made just for TV on the scifi channel, When the Rains Came.
All our parents are, in some ways, interchangeable. They get manuals which list what they're supposed to say to their kids, and they all say them over and over and over again as if none of us had heard them the first hundred times. I was asked, more often than I can remember, if I wanted something to cry about. I never once answered yes. Usually I was crying already and didn't need added incentive. "I can see, said the blind man as he picked up his hammer and saw," was one of my mother's sayings. Come to find out, my friends' mothers said the same thing. I never really understood the why of that one. My mother threatened constantly to tell my father what I had done or said, and we all knew we were in for it if my father ever heard. He'd yell at us or, even worse, spank us. We grew up when spanking was freely dispensed. I can still see my father steering the car with one hand while his other hand was trying to connect with one of us in the back seat. His hand flew back and forth in the air looking for a target. While trying to avoid his hand, we'd press against the seat so hard we were almost lying in the rear window. He'd then ask, "Do you want me to stop?" Oh, yeah, for him to stop the car and whack all of us was exactly what we wanted.
If I had been braver, I might have said that aloud, but my father would definitely have stopped the car.
All our parents are, in some ways, interchangeable. They get manuals which list what they're supposed to say to their kids, and they all say them over and over and over again as if none of us had heard them the first hundred times. I was asked, more often than I can remember, if I wanted something to cry about. I never once answered yes. Usually I was crying already and didn't need added incentive. "I can see, said the blind man as he picked up his hammer and saw," was one of my mother's sayings. Come to find out, my friends' mothers said the same thing. I never really understood the why of that one. My mother threatened constantly to tell my father what I had done or said, and we all knew we were in for it if my father ever heard. He'd yell at us or, even worse, spank us. We grew up when spanking was freely dispensed. I can still see my father steering the car with one hand while his other hand was trying to connect with one of us in the back seat. His hand flew back and forth in the air looking for a target. While trying to avoid his hand, we'd press against the seat so hard we were almost lying in the rear window. He'd then ask, "Do you want me to stop?" Oh, yeah, for him to stop the car and whack all of us was exactly what we wanted.
If I had been braver, I might have said that aloud, but my father would definitely have stopped the car.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
"Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes."
My father's name was George. He knew everyone in town, and they knew him. When I was introduced by one of my dad's friends, I was always George's oldest to give me some context. My dad went uptown every Saturday to do his usual errands. He went to the Chinaman's, as my Dad called him, to pick up his clean shirts and leave off his dirty ones. He went to his friend the barber for a trim and stopped in to see Pollo, the pharmacist. I sometimes was invited to come along, and I was always delighted.
This is my annual tribute to my Dad:
My dad loved to laugh and never minded if something he said made us laugh. He'd laugh along with us and keep asking what did I say, what did I say. He'd laugh so hard he'd have to pull out his white handkerchief to dry his eyes. We called these dad moments, and all of us have stories. One of my favorites was when my parents and I were traveling in Portugal. On the rear bumpers of the last of long lines of piggy back tandem trailers would be signs warning Vehiculo Longo. Once, after stopping, I pulled into traffic behind another one of those trailers. My dad said, "That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks." I had to stop the car I was so laughing so hard.
My father and I never agreed on politics. He was a conservative. I wasn't. Every election he'd tell me his vote canceled out mine. I'd tell him his vote didn't count either. Once we got into a shouting match, and he accused me of being a pinko communist school teacher poisoning the minds of young Americans. I laughed so hard he left the table. That was the last discussion, a term I use loosely here, we had on politics. We just never brought up the subject again.
My dad loved to play cards. He taught us when we were really young, but my favorite times were much later. I remember all of us in the kitchen. The windows were always open, smoke filled the air and drinks were on the table. My dad had his high ball. We would play endless games of high-low jack. If my dad lost a few times in a row, he'd throw a pack of matches on the table and tell us he'd thrown down the gauntlet. Mostly I remember the endless games of cribbage he and I played. We played everywhere. When we traveled together, my mother would take pictures of my dad and me hunched over the cribbage board. We have cribbage in Germany, cribbage in Ireland and cribbage in Portugal.
My dad was never handy. When he fixed the toilet, the plumber wanted to know who had destroyed the innards. He once sawed himself out of a tree. He cut his fingers fixing the fan and gave himself electric shocks when working on wiring. My mother went to visit my sister, and my dad strung a line in the kitchen for his socks and underwear. He didn't know how to operate the washing machine. When he retired, work gave him tools as they heard he was handy around the house. My mother thought it quite funny as she meant he was handy in emptying ashtrays and washing dishes.
My dad was really funny, and he had a great singing voice. He loved to fish, especially in the winter for smelt. He always made Sunday breakfast and would bring back donuts when he went out to buy the paper. His favorite was a plain donut. He always cooked meat perfectly on the grill. My dad loved a good time, and he told jokes better than anyone else. If we ever needed anything, my dad was there. We knew we could depend on him. We knew he loved us.
My dad left us far too soon. We still had lots of cribbage to play and lots of laughs to enjoy together. I miss him.
This is my annual tribute to my Dad:
My dad loved to laugh and never minded if something he said made us laugh. He'd laugh along with us and keep asking what did I say, what did I say. He'd laugh so hard he'd have to pull out his white handkerchief to dry his eyes. We called these dad moments, and all of us have stories. One of my favorites was when my parents and I were traveling in Portugal. On the rear bumpers of the last of long lines of piggy back tandem trailers would be signs warning Vehiculo Longo. Once, after stopping, I pulled into traffic behind another one of those trailers. My dad said, "That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks." I had to stop the car I was so laughing so hard.
My father and I never agreed on politics. He was a conservative. I wasn't. Every election he'd tell me his vote canceled out mine. I'd tell him his vote didn't count either. Once we got into a shouting match, and he accused me of being a pinko communist school teacher poisoning the minds of young Americans. I laughed so hard he left the table. That was the last discussion, a term I use loosely here, we had on politics. We just never brought up the subject again.
My dad loved to play cards. He taught us when we were really young, but my favorite times were much later. I remember all of us in the kitchen. The windows were always open, smoke filled the air and drinks were on the table. My dad had his high ball. We would play endless games of high-low jack. If my dad lost a few times in a row, he'd throw a pack of matches on the table and tell us he'd thrown down the gauntlet. Mostly I remember the endless games of cribbage he and I played. We played everywhere. When we traveled together, my mother would take pictures of my dad and me hunched over the cribbage board. We have cribbage in Germany, cribbage in Ireland and cribbage in Portugal.
My dad was never handy. When he fixed the toilet, the plumber wanted to know who had destroyed the innards. He once sawed himself out of a tree. He cut his fingers fixing the fan and gave himself electric shocks when working on wiring. My mother went to visit my sister, and my dad strung a line in the kitchen for his socks and underwear. He didn't know how to operate the washing machine. When he retired, work gave him tools as they heard he was handy around the house. My mother thought it quite funny as she meant he was handy in emptying ashtrays and washing dishes.
My dad was really funny, and he had a great singing voice. He loved to fish, especially in the winter for smelt. He always made Sunday breakfast and would bring back donuts when he went out to buy the paper. His favorite was a plain donut. He always cooked meat perfectly on the grill. My dad loved a good time, and he told jokes better than anyone else. If we ever needed anything, my dad was there. We knew we could depend on him. We knew he loved us.
My dad left us far too soon. We still had lots of cribbage to play and lots of laughs to enjoy together. I miss him.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Those Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer: Nat King Cole
The ideal of happiness has always taken material form in the house, whether cottage or castle; it stands for permanence and separation from the world.
Today's weather is the same though warmer. The rains will be here later in the day. They'll also be here tomorrow and the next day. The sun was last seen paying for baggage at the check in for a flight heading south. Its whereabouts are currently unknown.
I am a collector, and my house is filled with all my collections. In this room are snow globes, some old toys, metal horns, train lanterns, hats and mementos of my life in Ghana. All of my collections gather dust. Periodically I dust everything in here, and it's usually during a baseball game which seldom demands my full attention. I don't dust until I can write my name on surfaces. I'm not a fanatic.
In my living room are nativity sets from all over. Some are from my travels while others were bought later. I have four from Africa, all bought here, a couple I brought back from South America, one from Obidos, Portugal and another I needlepointed. There are a few more, pedigrees unknown. My dining room has pewter molds, African figures I brought back, pottery cooking pots, bowls and dishes and Simon Pearce glasses I bought in Ireland when his work wasn't costly. Both these rooms are easy to dust though the old bookcase in the living room takes a bit of time.
The dining room is my favorite room of all. The color is perfect and all the pieces seem to fit. Only three chairs match. The rest of the chairs are odd ones I picked up here and there. I had a carpenter build the table the second year I lived here. My friends and I gather round it, eat wonderful food and sit at that table for hours. The dining room has all the best memories.
I love my kitchen. A floor to ceiling book case holds cookbooks, Davy Crockett bowls, Walt Disney figures, old milk bottles, cocktail shakers and antique metal serving pieces. The cabinets are chock full of dishes, old glasses and boxes of food. Everything I need for cooking is close at hand. From the window, I can see the bird feeders and can watch the birds fly in and out. I can also see the damn squirrels, and I run out screaming to get them away from the feeders.
I am neat. My house is always in order, dusty sometimes, but in order. I generally pick up clean. I just cleaned the bathroom. I also have a lovely couple who clean the house every couple of weeks, but they don't do my collections or my bookcases. They are always left to me.
I still have a few dreams for this house, but I'm okay without them. My house is really perfect just the way it is. It makes me feel warm and comfortable and safe.
I am a collector, and my house is filled with all my collections. In this room are snow globes, some old toys, metal horns, train lanterns, hats and mementos of my life in Ghana. All of my collections gather dust. Periodically I dust everything in here, and it's usually during a baseball game which seldom demands my full attention. I don't dust until I can write my name on surfaces. I'm not a fanatic.
In my living room are nativity sets from all over. Some are from my travels while others were bought later. I have four from Africa, all bought here, a couple I brought back from South America, one from Obidos, Portugal and another I needlepointed. There are a few more, pedigrees unknown. My dining room has pewter molds, African figures I brought back, pottery cooking pots, bowls and dishes and Simon Pearce glasses I bought in Ireland when his work wasn't costly. Both these rooms are easy to dust though the old bookcase in the living room takes a bit of time.
The dining room is my favorite room of all. The color is perfect and all the pieces seem to fit. Only three chairs match. The rest of the chairs are odd ones I picked up here and there. I had a carpenter build the table the second year I lived here. My friends and I gather round it, eat wonderful food and sit at that table for hours. The dining room has all the best memories.
I love my kitchen. A floor to ceiling book case holds cookbooks, Davy Crockett bowls, Walt Disney figures, old milk bottles, cocktail shakers and antique metal serving pieces. The cabinets are chock full of dishes, old glasses and boxes of food. Everything I need for cooking is close at hand. From the window, I can see the bird feeders and can watch the birds fly in and out. I can also see the damn squirrels, and I run out screaming to get them away from the feeders.
I am neat. My house is always in order, dusty sometimes, but in order. I generally pick up clean. I just cleaned the bathroom. I also have a lovely couple who clean the house every couple of weeks, but they don't do my collections or my bookcases. They are always left to me.
I still have a few dreams for this house, but I'm okay without them. My house is really perfect just the way it is. It makes me feel warm and comfortable and safe.
Friday, June 19, 2009
The Lonesome Road: Snooks Eaglin
I first heard this singer on a compilation album from Smithsonian-Folkways. It prompted me to buy an entire album of his music. This song comes from New Orleans Street Singer first released in 1959 on Folkways. Again, Smithsonian has come to the rescue and made the album available on CD. Check it out here: Smithsonian-Folkways
MP3 File
yousendit
MP3 File
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“Without adventure civilization is in full decay”
Today's weather: ditto yesterday's!
Nothing is on my dance card today so I may hunker down. I like a lazy day with no expectations. The bed stays unmade in case I want a nap later. The coffee is freshly brewed, and I have a new book to read. All I need are bon bons.
Some of us are born with an adventure gene. We have an overwhelming need for the off-beat, the unexpected. My gene has prompted me to travel to amazing places, to wander the souk and get lost, to ride my motorcycle into the bush and to stand with one foot in each hemisphere. My gene, though, is not particular to any one continent and still demands attention just as much here at home. Because all the highways look alike, I'll usually get off to find a local place to eat. My sisters and I did it in New Mexico. We were the only non-Latinos having breakfast and the only ones speaking English. Those huevos rancheros were the best I've ever eaten. During another trip we got off the main road and headed in what we hoped was the right direction though it didn't really matter much if we were lost. I always figure lost is part of the adventure. As we traveled on a rutted side road, we found some stuck in time towns which looked like sets from old westerns, complete with dogs sleeping in the middle of the dirt roads and a few cantinas open for business in the early afternoon. Those towns fed right into my gene.
In my head, I am constantly planning and updating a trip, a sort of Travels with Charley with Gracie as my Charley. I check maps and old roads and places for sightseeing. I have a few givens etched in stone: I'll ride on the highway only if there is no other way. I'll never eat at a single fast food restaurant. I hope to find my America just as Steinbeck found his.
Nothing is on my dance card today so I may hunker down. I like a lazy day with no expectations. The bed stays unmade in case I want a nap later. The coffee is freshly brewed, and I have a new book to read. All I need are bon bons.
Some of us are born with an adventure gene. We have an overwhelming need for the off-beat, the unexpected. My gene has prompted me to travel to amazing places, to wander the souk and get lost, to ride my motorcycle into the bush and to stand with one foot in each hemisphere. My gene, though, is not particular to any one continent and still demands attention just as much here at home. Because all the highways look alike, I'll usually get off to find a local place to eat. My sisters and I did it in New Mexico. We were the only non-Latinos having breakfast and the only ones speaking English. Those huevos rancheros were the best I've ever eaten. During another trip we got off the main road and headed in what we hoped was the right direction though it didn't really matter much if we were lost. I always figure lost is part of the adventure. As we traveled on a rutted side road, we found some stuck in time towns which looked like sets from old westerns, complete with dogs sleeping in the middle of the dirt roads and a few cantinas open for business in the early afternoon. Those towns fed right into my gene.
In my head, I am constantly planning and updating a trip, a sort of Travels with Charley with Gracie as my Charley. I check maps and old roads and places for sightseeing. I have a few givens etched in stone: I'll ride on the highway only if there is no other way. I'll never eat at a single fast food restaurant. I hope to find my America just as Steinbeck found his.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
"One father is more than a hundred Schoolemasters."
When I wake up, I look out my bedroom window first thing hoping to be blinded by the light of God and truth and right. I have, of late, been disappointed, and today is no different. It is cloudy and damp and will be again tomorrow with rain possible both days. I once lived in a country with a rainy season, but I never minded rain every day, even twice a day. I expected it. I also knew that in between the rains, the day would be sunny and bright. That doesn't happen here. Dreary is the whole day.
My family was never one for camping. My mother would have hated it. I expect my father would have enjoyed it. I remember on one of our vacations my dad built the best lean to at the edge of the woods behind the house where we were staying. It took him the better part of a day. The lean to was huge, and the roof was covered in leafy branches thick enough to keep out the rain. That was the same vacation he used to take us, in turns, on his back into the deep water of the lake. We'd dive together, and I remember watching the fish swim around us. When I wanted a breath, I'd tap his back, we'd surface for a bit then go back under. I was amazed at my dad and all he could do.
My mother never liked the water very much. For her it was a backdrop for the sand and sun. She'd walk along the edge of the water while my sisters looked for shells, and her feet were all that ever got wet. She never learned to swim as a kid. She and my dad both grew up in the city, but he went to camp and learned to swim. She never did. I remember my mother once took swimming lessons at the Y, but she hated being in the water and stopped going long before she'd learned to swim.
My dad taught my brother and me how to swim. He gave us a few basic lessons then threw us in the water. I swam. I figured he'd have jumped in and saved me, but I didn't want to chance it. My dad also taught us how to body surf in the waves. It was the neatest thing to rush to shore on the crest of a wave.
I miss him and think of him often, especially as we get closer to Father's Day.
My family was never one for camping. My mother would have hated it. I expect my father would have enjoyed it. I remember on one of our vacations my dad built the best lean to at the edge of the woods behind the house where we were staying. It took him the better part of a day. The lean to was huge, and the roof was covered in leafy branches thick enough to keep out the rain. That was the same vacation he used to take us, in turns, on his back into the deep water of the lake. We'd dive together, and I remember watching the fish swim around us. When I wanted a breath, I'd tap his back, we'd surface for a bit then go back under. I was amazed at my dad and all he could do.
My mother never liked the water very much. For her it was a backdrop for the sand and sun. She'd walk along the edge of the water while my sisters looked for shells, and her feet were all that ever got wet. She never learned to swim as a kid. She and my dad both grew up in the city, but he went to camp and learned to swim. She never did. I remember my mother once took swimming lessons at the Y, but she hated being in the water and stopped going long before she'd learned to swim.
My dad taught my brother and me how to swim. He gave us a few basic lessons then threw us in the water. I swam. I figured he'd have jumped in and saved me, but I didn't want to chance it. My dad also taught us how to body surf in the waves. It was the neatest thing to rush to shore on the crest of a wave.
I miss him and think of him often, especially as we get closer to Father's Day.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Thoughts of Time: Peggy Seeger
I don't know the original source for this song. I found it on an album called: Folkway Years, 1955-1992: Songs of Love and Protest. The songs are all sung by Peggy.
MP3 File
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MP3 File
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"In memory everything seems to happen to music."
It was downright cold last night, a shut the windows, burrow under the blankets cold. This morning is warmer, sunny, but the house hasn't caught up with the change yet. I'm wearing fleece and my hands are wrapped around a hot coffee cup.
When I go back to roam the haunts of my childhood, everything looks the same except for the trees. They tell a story. They mark the passage of time. The trees in my old side yard were never very tall. Now they are taller than the house. The people living there now will remember how tall the trees were.
My mind's eye gives me glimpses into my past. I close my eyes, concentrate and remember. I can see things as they were, walk familiar streets, remember houses now existing only in my memories and, best of all, see the faces of my childhood friends. A scene jumps into my memory, glimpses of ordinary moments frozen forever. I remember sleeping in my friend's backyard. It was summer. We put a tarp on the grass and our bedrolls and pillows on top of that. We never had sleeping bags. We learned to make a bedroll in girl scouts. I remember the stars. There were millions when I was a kid. I always wished on a falling star.
I remember the third grade. We were in a cellar, victims of overcrowding. The clock was on the wall behind me. There were tables and chairs, no desks. I was at a back table. The cellar was always cool.
I remember standing in a hallway in line waiting to go inside the auditorium at my college graduation. I remember walking up the stairs to the stage, hearing my named called and hearing my father from the audience. The walk across the stage is emblazoned in my memory.
I remember a night in Africa during training. I can see us sitting outside on the grass. My friend Ralph, with his broken foot in a cast, played his guitar, and we sang. I think we probably resembled the scene in Volunteers, on the plane, when they were swaying to Michael Row the Boat Ashore. It was one of our songs.
I am amazed at what I remember. It makes me wonder what I've forgotten.
When I go back to roam the haunts of my childhood, everything looks the same except for the trees. They tell a story. They mark the passage of time. The trees in my old side yard were never very tall. Now they are taller than the house. The people living there now will remember how tall the trees were.
My mind's eye gives me glimpses into my past. I close my eyes, concentrate and remember. I can see things as they were, walk familiar streets, remember houses now existing only in my memories and, best of all, see the faces of my childhood friends. A scene jumps into my memory, glimpses of ordinary moments frozen forever. I remember sleeping in my friend's backyard. It was summer. We put a tarp on the grass and our bedrolls and pillows on top of that. We never had sleeping bags. We learned to make a bedroll in girl scouts. I remember the stars. There were millions when I was a kid. I always wished on a falling star.
I remember the third grade. We were in a cellar, victims of overcrowding. The clock was on the wall behind me. There were tables and chairs, no desks. I was at a back table. The cellar was always cool.
I remember standing in a hallway in line waiting to go inside the auditorium at my college graduation. I remember walking up the stairs to the stage, hearing my named called and hearing my father from the audience. The walk across the stage is emblazoned in my memory.
I remember a night in Africa during training. I can see us sitting outside on the grass. My friend Ralph, with his broken foot in a cast, played his guitar, and we sang. I think we probably resembled the scene in Volunteers, on the plane, when they were swaying to Michael Row the Boat Ashore. It was one of our songs.
I am amazed at what I remember. It makes me wonder what I've forgotten.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Guacamole: Kevin Johansen
“Thy food is such As hath been belched on by infected lungs”
It's one of those days when my muse is away. I figure she's somewhere with sun, basking on a beach with warm sand. I'm stuck with another cool day, a cloudy sky and a mind devoid of creativity. Words just aren't popping. I've had to dust to pass the time away. I had hoped I'd be struck with literary lightening as I polished, but that didn't happen. All I got was a shiny table. I'm now eyeing the kitchen floor.
No self-respecting kids ate vegetables when I was young. It was part of the code. New foods were judged by sight. If they looked gross, they weren't eaten. Anything with sugar was acceptable at any time of the day or night or before and after dinner. My palate was most decidedly immature and stayed that way until I went into the Peace Corps. In Ghana, it was don't ask, just eat. It was pick out the bugs and eat it anyway. It was an adventure in dining. I ate Indian food for the first time. I ate Lebanese food. I ate unidentified meat. I drank water with debris floating inside. I stopped judging food by appearance, and my food groups expanded to include insects which made it through the sifting process. I developed a mature palate, a strange palate.
Every time I travel I try new foods. I still don't ask. My stomach accepts far more than my mind does. If I don't know, I'll judge the food by taste not category. Guinea pigs are not pets in Peru and Ecuador. They are a national dish. They actually taste pretty good. A grasscutter is a rodent, and I have eaten lots of grasscutter. Goat is still not my favorite, but I like it better than eel or octopus. In some countries I just pointed at what I want to wanted to eat. The English translation wasn't available. I had to eye my food first and hope for the best. I have seldom been disappointed by my choices. Sometimes I wish I knew what it was I was eating. Other times I was better off not knowing. I love cooking foreign foods and introducing people to different tastes. I don't always tell them what they're eating. I know better. I learned the hard way.
No self-respecting kids ate vegetables when I was young. It was part of the code. New foods were judged by sight. If they looked gross, they weren't eaten. Anything with sugar was acceptable at any time of the day or night or before and after dinner. My palate was most decidedly immature and stayed that way until I went into the Peace Corps. In Ghana, it was don't ask, just eat. It was pick out the bugs and eat it anyway. It was an adventure in dining. I ate Indian food for the first time. I ate Lebanese food. I ate unidentified meat. I drank water with debris floating inside. I stopped judging food by appearance, and my food groups expanded to include insects which made it through the sifting process. I developed a mature palate, a strange palate.
Every time I travel I try new foods. I still don't ask. My stomach accepts far more than my mind does. If I don't know, I'll judge the food by taste not category. Guinea pigs are not pets in Peru and Ecuador. They are a national dish. They actually taste pretty good. A grasscutter is a rodent, and I have eaten lots of grasscutter. Goat is still not my favorite, but I like it better than eel or octopus. In some countries I just pointed at what I want to wanted to eat. The English translation wasn't available. I had to eye my food first and hope for the best. I have seldom been disappointed by my choices. Sometimes I wish I knew what it was I was eating. Other times I was better off not knowing. I love cooking foreign foods and introducing people to different tastes. I don't always tell them what they're eating. I know better. I learned the hard way.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Truly Do: Bud and Travis
This is from their very first album, Bud and Travis which was released in 1959.
I found a great site for information about Bud and Travis:
http://www.budandtravis.com/budlives.html
MP3 File
yousendit
I found a great site for information about Bud and Travis:
http://www.budandtravis.com/budlives.html
MP3 File
yousendit
The Gallery: Joni Mitchell
Joni Mitchell has played here more than any other artist. I'm just fine with that.
This is from 1969's Clouds. I'll mention again, for about the tenth time, that this album came with me to Ghana. When I hear its music, I am taken back to my living room to red cushioned chairs, high ceilings, overwhelming heat and Joni playing in the background. I can close my eyes and see and hear it all.
MP3 File
yousendit
This is from 1969's Clouds. I'll mention again, for about the tenth time, that this album came with me to Ghana. When I hear its music, I am taken back to my living room to red cushioned chairs, high ceilings, overwhelming heat and Joni playing in the background. I can close my eyes and see and hear it all.
MP3 File
yousendit
"My formula for living is quite simple. I get up in the morning and I go to bed at night. In between, I occupy myself as best I can."
Gracie was insistent about going out; she was ringing her doggie bells off the doorknob so I came downstairs. I let her out then joined her and stood outside for a long while this morning before I even had a cup of coffee. Mr. and Mrs. Cardinal were swooping around the yard and were quite vocal. My neighbor was getting ready to leave for work, and I could hear him talking to his workmen in Portuguese. The yard is finally dry. The deck stayed clean. It was cloudy earlier, but the sun has since made an appearance. I think it will be a good day.
My friends and I get together often at each other's houses. We have dinner or munchies, sit and talk, play games or watch the Red Sox. Inevitably, I mention how good life is. I said it again the other night as we were seated around their fire pit making s'mores. It was a school night, but we could still stay up as late as wanted. The night had a chill but the fire kept us warm. The air smelled of pinon. The marshmallows toasted perfectly. I couldn't imagine life getting any better.
My wash is already in the dryer. I straightened up the den. The dishes are put away, and my bed is made. I haven't gotten dressed yet, but I usually don't until I finish Coffee. I think today I'll take advantage of the sun and sit on the deck. I'll bring my book, and Gracie and I can fight for the lounge. I have a few must do errands, but I think I'll wait until late in the afternoon. I may even have a nap. Did I mention how good life is?
My friends and I get together often at each other's houses. We have dinner or munchies, sit and talk, play games or watch the Red Sox. Inevitably, I mention how good life is. I said it again the other night as we were seated around their fire pit making s'mores. It was a school night, but we could still stay up as late as wanted. The night had a chill but the fire kept us warm. The air smelled of pinon. The marshmallows toasted perfectly. I couldn't imagine life getting any better.
My wash is already in the dryer. I straightened up the den. The dishes are put away, and my bed is made. I haven't gotten dressed yet, but I usually don't until I finish Coffee. I think today I'll take advantage of the sun and sit on the deck. I'll bring my book, and Gracie and I can fight for the lounge. I have a few must do errands, but I think I'll wait until late in the afternoon. I may even have a nap. Did I mention how good life is?
Sunday, June 14, 2009
"Ocean: A body of water occupying two-thirds of a world made for man - who has no gills."
The animals are tired of being cooped up, except, of course, for the chickens who are used to it. Mucking out the stalls has lost its allure. The whole family is getting on my nerves. I should have left a few of them behind to sink or swim.
We had a beautiful day yesterday, sunny and warm. I did outside stuff: cleaning the deck, washing the chairs and arranging the candles on the trees. Gracie slept in the shade on the lounge chair. I even got to have an outside shower. Today is another day altogether.
We used to go to the beach on summer weekends. My mother would make a huge lunch, fill the plaid jug with juice, pack towels, t-shirts, a blanket and a few pails and shovels. My father would then pack it all into the trunk and the backseat then we'd hit the road. It was usually early. My father liked a close parking spot. We'd empty the car and all of us would lug something to the beach. We'd plod in the deep sand until my mother found the perfect spot. Once found, the blanket came out. It was spread on the sand and held down by the stuff we'd lugged. My brother and I would immediately run to the water. My sisters, being younger, stayed close and played in the sand. My mother never learned how to swim so the blanket was her territory. My father loved to swim and body surf on the waves. I remember how cold the water was, and how we never swam much until low tide when the sun heated the water left in the sand bar troughs. Lunch was a mixture of bread, bologna or tuna salad and sand. Nobody knew, back then, mayonnaise needed to be cold, but everyone knew you had to stay out of the water after eating. Some mothers knew it was a half hour while others went the hour. My mother was an hour mother. We stayed at the beach all day. My sisters sometimes napped on the blanket and my mother covered them with towels so they wouldn't get sun burned. She made me put on a shirt. By the time we left for home, I was exhausted. I had a pail full of shells, hair matted from the water and a layer of salt on my skin. I never made it all the way home without falling asleep.
We had a beautiful day yesterday, sunny and warm. I did outside stuff: cleaning the deck, washing the chairs and arranging the candles on the trees. Gracie slept in the shade on the lounge chair. I even got to have an outside shower. Today is another day altogether.
We used to go to the beach on summer weekends. My mother would make a huge lunch, fill the plaid jug with juice, pack towels, t-shirts, a blanket and a few pails and shovels. My father would then pack it all into the trunk and the backseat then we'd hit the road. It was usually early. My father liked a close parking spot. We'd empty the car and all of us would lug something to the beach. We'd plod in the deep sand until my mother found the perfect spot. Once found, the blanket came out. It was spread on the sand and held down by the stuff we'd lugged. My brother and I would immediately run to the water. My sisters, being younger, stayed close and played in the sand. My mother never learned how to swim so the blanket was her territory. My father loved to swim and body surf on the waves. I remember how cold the water was, and how we never swam much until low tide when the sun heated the water left in the sand bar troughs. Lunch was a mixture of bread, bologna or tuna salad and sand. Nobody knew, back then, mayonnaise needed to be cold, but everyone knew you had to stay out of the water after eating. Some mothers knew it was a half hour while others went the hour. My mother was an hour mother. We stayed at the beach all day. My sisters sometimes napped on the blanket and my mother covered them with towels so they wouldn't get sun burned. She made me put on a shirt. By the time we left for home, I was exhausted. I had a pail full of shells, hair matted from the water and a layer of salt on my skin. I never made it all the way home without falling asleep.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Robot Man: Jamie Horton
"Ooh. Ah. That's how it starts. Then comes the running and the screaming."
We have sun. It may last only until this evening's predicted storm, but I don't care. I'm going to revel in the light. My neighborhood is abuzz with activity. People are working on their yards, dogs are barking and lawn mowers are busy cutting all that grass the rain grew. I have a deck to clean, a deck strewn with leaves and debris. I want my few minutes in the sun on the deck.
The pumpkin seeds I planted have started to grow. They are in the same spot where an errant pumpkin broke and vines grew. The vines grew too late in the season for pumpkins so this year I planted them myself, early. My tomato plants have yellow blossoms. My herbs are tall and healthy. I feel like a proud farmer.
The left side of my face is covered in poison ivy. I may have gotten it from the dog or my own forays into the backyard. There were some plants there a couple of years ago, but they were zapped and destroyed. Perhaps this is revenge. Perhaps also I am the star of my own B movie. My face will swell, bumps will take over, and I will be unrecognizable. If people see me, they will scream and cover their eyes. I will get angry and wreak havoc. A brilliant female scientist will be joined by a brave, muscular hero wearing a cheap suit, and they, together, will destroy me, but not until after our hero saves our scientist who fell just as I was attacking her.
I really need to get out more and see other people!
The pumpkin seeds I planted have started to grow. They are in the same spot where an errant pumpkin broke and vines grew. The vines grew too late in the season for pumpkins so this year I planted them myself, early. My tomato plants have yellow blossoms. My herbs are tall and healthy. I feel like a proud farmer.
The left side of my face is covered in poison ivy. I may have gotten it from the dog or my own forays into the backyard. There were some plants there a couple of years ago, but they were zapped and destroyed. Perhaps this is revenge. Perhaps also I am the star of my own B movie. My face will swell, bumps will take over, and I will be unrecognizable. If people see me, they will scream and cover their eyes. I will get angry and wreak havoc. A brilliant female scientist will be joined by a brave, muscular hero wearing a cheap suit, and they, together, will destroy me, but not until after our hero saves our scientist who fell just as I was attacking her.
I really need to get out more and see other people!
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Village Green Preservation Society: Kate Rusby
This is a Kinks' song, and I have always loved it and them. When I first started watching the BBC program called Clatterford here and Jam and Jerusalem in England, I heard Kate sing it for the first time. The song served as the program's theme. I couldn't find the song but Kate finally released it as part of her 2007 album Awkward Annie.
MP3 File
yousendit
MP3 File
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Morning Glory: Tim Buckley
"Summer has set in with its usual severity."
I have begun to have sympathy for Noah and his family. I can see them at breakfast hungrily eying the one egg on a plate while discussing the weather for the eighty-secondth morning in a row. Mr. Noah laughs and says, "I think it might rain today." His wife, being a faithful woman, chuckles though she has heard the same comment every morning since boarding. The Noah boys just look at each other and noiselessly shake their heads. Their wives say nothing and continue to eat. The other passengers make all the appropriate animal noises in the background.
This morning I heard the rain, turned over and went back to sleep. It was a grand morning for sleeping. I have begun to refer to this spring as the rainy season. Calling it that makes me more patient, more readily acceptable of the rain. We do have good weather news. Today and tonight will be the end of the rain. Tomorrow will be warmer and by Sunday we'll reach 70 degrees. I'm thinking a deck day. I wonder where I put the sunscreen.
When I was young, I remember this time of year always seemed hot. Sitting in school the last few days was misery. We had to take end of the year exams, clean out our desks and store the books for the next year's class. The last day was always a half day. I got my report card and was promoted. I learned finality.
This morning I heard the rain, turned over and went back to sleep. It was a grand morning for sleeping. I have begun to refer to this spring as the rainy season. Calling it that makes me more patient, more readily acceptable of the rain. We do have good weather news. Today and tonight will be the end of the rain. Tomorrow will be warmer and by Sunday we'll reach 70 degrees. I'm thinking a deck day. I wonder where I put the sunscreen.
When I was young, I remember this time of year always seemed hot. Sitting in school the last few days was misery. We had to take end of the year exams, clean out our desks and store the books for the next year's class. The last day was always a half day. I got my report card and was promoted. I learned finality.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Warm and Tender Love: Caitlin Cary and Thad Cockrell
I Know Where I'm Going: The Highwaymen
“Rain! whose soft architectural hands have power to cut stones, and chisel to shapes of grandeur the very mountains.”
The rain is steady and taps against the windows and on the deck. Earlier, we had sound effects. It thundered a few times. Neither of the animals even stirred. They slept. I was the only one who appreciated the deep rumbles. This patter of rain diverts my attention, and I am drawn to the sound despite day after day of wet weather. I pause to watch out the window. Today the sky looks a bit lighter, but I am always ever hopeful.
My bedroom was my favorite place on a rainy day. I'd put on my pajamas, nestle under the warm covers and read. The only light shined from the lamp hanging off my headboard. The rest of the room was dark. I loved this time alone, away from the bustle of my family. I'd lose myself in the pages. I'd listen to the rain. I'd sometimes fall asleep.
The sound of rain on a tin roof is amazing. It is intense, surrounding. I have never been so close to the rain before without getting wet.
The darkness the rain brings seems to make my den feel cozier. I'm inside, safe, warm and dry. I have no inclination to stir. I have no lists and no errands. I have the gift of another day.
My bedroom was my favorite place on a rainy day. I'd put on my pajamas, nestle under the warm covers and read. The only light shined from the lamp hanging off my headboard. The rest of the room was dark. I loved this time alone, away from the bustle of my family. I'd lose myself in the pages. I'd listen to the rain. I'd sometimes fall asleep.
The sound of rain on a tin roof is amazing. It is intense, surrounding. I have never been so close to the rain before without getting wet.
The darkness the rain brings seems to make my den feel cozier. I'm inside, safe, warm and dry. I have no inclination to stir. I have no lists and no errands. I have the gift of another day.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Just Like Tom Thumb's Blues: Bob Dylan
"We're all downstream."
My grass is really green. I never have to water the flowers in my garden. Sunscreen is unnecessary. The roads are clear, the stores empty and the dump deserted. Naps are perfect to while away part of the afternoon. The house is cool, even cold, great for nighttime sleeping. I know. I know. It does seem superfluous, but I need to say it. We have another day of clouds, dampness and afternoon rain. I'm working hard here to take a positive approach.
I loved my yellow slicker. It made crunchy noises when I walked. The rain drops dripped down the length of it in long lines and left trails. It didn't have buttons but metal locks, clasps to hold it closed. The hood covered my whole head, but I wasn't the hood type so I left it hanging off the back. My hair always got really wet, but I never minded. I actually kind of liked it. It seemed like a badge of honor, that I loved the rain and reveled in getting wet. I never wore rain boots. I don't think I ever owned any. My shoes got wet and the rain usually leaked through to my socks. When I'd get home and take off my shoes, my feet, still in my socks, would leave footprints on the kitchen floor. My mother would send us to change out of our wet clothes. I usually put on pajamas even though it was afternoon. They were always cozy after a walk in the rain.
All this rain isn't so bad after all.
I loved my yellow slicker. It made crunchy noises when I walked. The rain drops dripped down the length of it in long lines and left trails. It didn't have buttons but metal locks, clasps to hold it closed. The hood covered my whole head, but I wasn't the hood type so I left it hanging off the back. My hair always got really wet, but I never minded. I actually kind of liked it. It seemed like a badge of honor, that I loved the rain and reveled in getting wet. I never wore rain boots. I don't think I ever owned any. My shoes got wet and the rain usually leaked through to my socks. When I'd get home and take off my shoes, my feet, still in my socks, would leave footprints on the kitchen floor. My mother would send us to change out of our wet clothes. I usually put on pajamas even though it was afternoon. They were always cozy after a walk in the rain.
All this rain isn't so bad after all.
Tuesday, June 09, 2009
If I Could Forget to Breathe: John Gorka
“I've a grand memory for forgetting.”
I recognize today. I remember it from yesterday and a few days before that. It's cloudy, and it's cold. All the windows are shut, and I won't venture without my sweatshirt. Summer must be getting anxious waiting in the wings.
I am a creature of habit or rather I was a creature of habit. I used to put things in expected places. If I needed them, I knew where to look. Not any more. I have lost papers, photo books and who knows what else. I sure as heck don't. I've forgotten. I hunt hither and yon, nook and cranny but seldom find what I want and I hate the hunt. I always get stuck culling. Newspaper articles, pages printed from the internet, old cards and recipes yellow with age get tossed into the middle of the floor until the pile is so high I have to get a trash bag. I then pick up the pile, fill the bag and haul it to the trunk where it sits until it reaches its eventual destination: the dump. Most of the stuff I toss has sat for ages, and I start sneezing from all the dust. When I do, Gracie abruptly gets up and quickly leaves the room. Fern, the cat, thinking something is wrong, starts howling at Gracie, crouches low and waits. I intervene and pat the cat to back her off and say encouraging words to entice Gracie to return. After all of that, I still don't find what I want.
Things will only get worse as I get older, and stickies will become my lifeline. I can see them now hanging off everything including me. My sticky will have my name and address in case I'm found wandering the parking lot looking for my car. I have a car?
I am a creature of habit or rather I was a creature of habit. I used to put things in expected places. If I needed them, I knew where to look. Not any more. I have lost papers, photo books and who knows what else. I sure as heck don't. I've forgotten. I hunt hither and yon, nook and cranny but seldom find what I want and I hate the hunt. I always get stuck culling. Newspaper articles, pages printed from the internet, old cards and recipes yellow with age get tossed into the middle of the floor until the pile is so high I have to get a trash bag. I then pick up the pile, fill the bag and haul it to the trunk where it sits until it reaches its eventual destination: the dump. Most of the stuff I toss has sat for ages, and I start sneezing from all the dust. When I do, Gracie abruptly gets up and quickly leaves the room. Fern, the cat, thinking something is wrong, starts howling at Gracie, crouches low and waits. I intervene and pat the cat to back her off and say encouraging words to entice Gracie to return. After all of that, I still don't find what I want.
Things will only get worse as I get older, and stickies will become my lifeline. I can see them now hanging off everything including me. My sticky will have my name and address in case I'm found wandering the parking lot looking for my car. I have a car?
Monday, June 08, 2009
"Heartiest Congratulations on Graduating"
Yesterday was glorious. I took advantage and had friends over for dinner. We sat outside on the deck for hours munching, talking, listening to tunes and laughing. It was the best night. Today is not glorious. It is a cloudy day which is best wasted on laundry and chores. I've already washed the kitchen floor. I think I need a nap.
It's graduation time for all the high schools around here, and I remember mine. It was on June 5th, a Saturday. The girls wore white robes; the boys wore green. They were rented. It was the first of our school's graduations ever held outside. We were seated by height on small bleachers in the front of the building facing the small parking lot: girls were on one side and boys on the other. I was about in the middle and could see my parents from my seat. Behind us, hanging off the building, was a wooden sign painted green with white letters which said Class of 1965. They gave out scholarships that day, and I got a couple. My dad kept mouthing how much to me, but I ignored him. The main speaker, who was from the Wood's Hole Oceanographic Institute, was so boring we chatted, quietly. The highlight of that day was when the sign fell and knocked two boys off the bleachers. No one noticed but us. We all whispered the news to one another that Windsor was lying on the ground unconscious. Luckily, though, he woke up on time for his diploma. When the ceremony ended, as we exited, each girl was given a red rose. My parents gave me a party. They also gave me a typewriter to take to college. I still have it downstairs. It's probably museum worthy by now.
It's graduation time for all the high schools around here, and I remember mine. It was on June 5th, a Saturday. The girls wore white robes; the boys wore green. They were rented. It was the first of our school's graduations ever held outside. We were seated by height on small bleachers in the front of the building facing the small parking lot: girls were on one side and boys on the other. I was about in the middle and could see my parents from my seat. Behind us, hanging off the building, was a wooden sign painted green with white letters which said Class of 1965. They gave out scholarships that day, and I got a couple. My dad kept mouthing how much to me, but I ignored him. The main speaker, who was from the Wood's Hole Oceanographic Institute, was so boring we chatted, quietly. The highlight of that day was when the sign fell and knocked two boys off the bleachers. No one noticed but us. We all whispered the news to one another that Windsor was lying on the ground unconscious. Luckily, though, he woke up on time for his diploma. When the ceremony ended, as we exited, each girl was given a red rose. My parents gave me a party. They also gave me a typewriter to take to college. I still have it downstairs. It's probably museum worthy by now.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
"It often happens that a man is more humanely related to a cat or dog than to any human being. "
Some people are running in the streets screaming while others just sit in their front yards staring, unable to move. Fear is rampant. What is that shining ball in the sky? Will it destroy the Earth? A wise man stops. He yells to the crowd and tells them not to be afraid. It is only the sun.
When I went outside to get my papers, I had to stand and look around for a while. The day is beautiful with a blue sky and a warm sun. The prognosticators said it was coming, but I am, when it comes to the weather, a scoffer, but today I will mop the paw prints off my kitchen floor and clean the deck. Company is coming, and I expect we'll be outside.
As long as I can remember we've had pets. Our first was a chick someone gave us at Easter. I was around three or four. We had it for a while in our apartment in the city, but one day I woke up, and the chick was gone. My parents said it went to a farm to be with other chickens. I was sorry I missed saying goodbye. I never asked, but I do wonder what really happened to that chicken. Our second pet was Duke, our Boxer. He was amazing, and I always have Boxers because of Duke. I loved that he ignored my father. The rest of us were afraid to. My father would yell, Duke would look back just to let him he'd heard then Duke would keep going, following kids to school. My dad would get in the car and chase him. We thought it pretty funny. My father always got mad. Duke and I were together for nearly fifteen years. We got a cat when I was in high school. Duke was old enough to adjust. The cat, Gideon, was the first in what became a long line of cats.
We are still a pet family. I have two cats and a dog. Both cats are rescues. My sister has three cats and a dog. Her dog, Lucky, is also rescue. My other sister has two cats. One was inherited when her father-in-law died. My brother can't have animals where he lives, but his kids have a dog and a cat. We love our pets and spoil them rotten. My dad always said he wanted to come back as a pet in his own house.
When I went outside to get my papers, I had to stand and look around for a while. The day is beautiful with a blue sky and a warm sun. The prognosticators said it was coming, but I am, when it comes to the weather, a scoffer, but today I will mop the paw prints off my kitchen floor and clean the deck. Company is coming, and I expect we'll be outside.
As long as I can remember we've had pets. Our first was a chick someone gave us at Easter. I was around three or four. We had it for a while in our apartment in the city, but one day I woke up, and the chick was gone. My parents said it went to a farm to be with other chickens. I was sorry I missed saying goodbye. I never asked, but I do wonder what really happened to that chicken. Our second pet was Duke, our Boxer. He was amazing, and I always have Boxers because of Duke. I loved that he ignored my father. The rest of us were afraid to. My father would yell, Duke would look back just to let him he'd heard then Duke would keep going, following kids to school. My dad would get in the car and chase him. We thought it pretty funny. My father always got mad. Duke and I were together for nearly fifteen years. We got a cat when I was in high school. Duke was old enough to adjust. The cat, Gideon, was the first in what became a long line of cats.
We are still a pet family. I have two cats and a dog. Both cats are rescues. My sister has three cats and a dog. Her dog, Lucky, is also rescue. My other sister has two cats. One was inherited when her father-in-law died. My brother can't have animals where he lives, but his kids have a dog and a cat. We love our pets and spoil them rotten. My dad always said he wanted to come back as a pet in his own house.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
D-Day Prayer: Franklin Roosevelt
Today is the 65th anniversary of the D-Day invasion. Every day we lose more and more veterans of World War II. It is up to us to remember them and all they did. Here is a web site filled with D-Day accounts and pictures:
Men of D-Day
MP3 File
yousendit
Men of D-Day
MP3 File
yousendit
I'll Be Seeing You: Rosemary Clooney
"The pursuit of perfection, then, is the pursuit of sweetness and light."
I have had perfect moments in my life. Some have been extraordinary while others have been simple, times when all the stars aligned. I don't remember when I first realized that perfection is a sense, a feeling, not an ideal. Let me tell you about some of these.
Christmas plays a huge part on my list of perfect moments. It has little to do with gifts but far more to do with family, time or place. When I was little, an afternoon spent decorating cookies with my mother and my brother and sisters in a small kitchen with steamy windows was perfection. We had sprinkles of every color and bowls of frosting, white, red and green. Our sense of style wasn't great, none of us were artists and the cookies tended to be heavily frosted, but they were beautiful. I always went to bed thrilled about my day and filled with far too many sugar cookies. I have never forgotten those wintry afternoons at the small table against the wall.
The second perfect Christmas I'm pulling from my memories was my first one ever away from home. It was in Ghana, in the heat. I didn't have a Christmas tree, Bing Crosby or wrapped gifts. I had friends traveling through who stayed and celebrated with me. We ate together, had a few beers and sang Christmas carols. We sat outside under the most beautiful sky brilliantly bright with the lights of millions of stars. We were so filled with wonder none of us spoke for the longest time. It was the most amazing Christmas Eve. The next morning, the small stocking I had hung as decoration had a twenty pesewa coin in it. That was big money in Ghana. I really think Santa had dropped by while we were all sleeping.
My friends and I have a special dinner here together every year. It celebrates the first dinner I ever gave in this house when we sat on the floor and ate off paper plates. I didn't have any furniture or real plates back then. Buying the house took all of my money. That night our laughter echoed in the empty room, and I remember thinking how lucky I was and how joyful was an evening spent together with friends.
We used to take mystery rides. Only the driver knew the destination. One summer day I took my friends to Nantasket to ride the wooden roller coaster. It was going to be torn down at the end of the summer. We rode it so many times I had black and blues on my legs from being squished against the sides of the cars. That day we ate hot dogs, cotton candy and fried dough. We rode a few of the other rides but started and ended our day on the roller coaster. I remember the anticipation and a little fear as we rode up that first hill, and I remember screaming with delight as the cars whizzed down the hill and around the track. We talked about those rides all the way home. I felt like a little kid. I was thrilled.
Life has handed us moments like these more often than we realize. We just have to learn to recognize them and grab on for all we're worth.
Christmas plays a huge part on my list of perfect moments. It has little to do with gifts but far more to do with family, time or place. When I was little, an afternoon spent decorating cookies with my mother and my brother and sisters in a small kitchen with steamy windows was perfection. We had sprinkles of every color and bowls of frosting, white, red and green. Our sense of style wasn't great, none of us were artists and the cookies tended to be heavily frosted, but they were beautiful. I always went to bed thrilled about my day and filled with far too many sugar cookies. I have never forgotten those wintry afternoons at the small table against the wall.
The second perfect Christmas I'm pulling from my memories was my first one ever away from home. It was in Ghana, in the heat. I didn't have a Christmas tree, Bing Crosby or wrapped gifts. I had friends traveling through who stayed and celebrated with me. We ate together, had a few beers and sang Christmas carols. We sat outside under the most beautiful sky brilliantly bright with the lights of millions of stars. We were so filled with wonder none of us spoke for the longest time. It was the most amazing Christmas Eve. The next morning, the small stocking I had hung as decoration had a twenty pesewa coin in it. That was big money in Ghana. I really think Santa had dropped by while we were all sleeping.
My friends and I have a special dinner here together every year. It celebrates the first dinner I ever gave in this house when we sat on the floor and ate off paper plates. I didn't have any furniture or real plates back then. Buying the house took all of my money. That night our laughter echoed in the empty room, and I remember thinking how lucky I was and how joyful was an evening spent together with friends.
We used to take mystery rides. Only the driver knew the destination. One summer day I took my friends to Nantasket to ride the wooden roller coaster. It was going to be torn down at the end of the summer. We rode it so many times I had black and blues on my legs from being squished against the sides of the cars. That day we ate hot dogs, cotton candy and fried dough. We rode a few of the other rides but started and ended our day on the roller coaster. I remember the anticipation and a little fear as we rode up that first hill, and I remember screaming with delight as the cars whizzed down the hill and around the track. We talked about those rides all the way home. I felt like a little kid. I was thrilled.
Life has handed us moments like these more often than we realize. We just have to learn to recognize them and grab on for all we're worth.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Stewball: Memphis Slim and "Wee Willie" Dixon
I'll just mention again my favorite label is Smithsonian Folkways because they honor the sound and keep it alive. Drop by their site sometime and be amazed at their catalog.
This song comes from an original Folkways issue from 1960 called Songs of Memphis Slim and "Wee Willie" Dixon. It is still available here.
MP3 File
yousendit
This song comes from an original Folkways issue from 1960 called Songs of Memphis Slim and "Wee Willie" Dixon. It is still available here.
MP3 File
yousendit
500 Miles: The Journeymen
The good rain, like the bad preacher, does not know when to leave off.
Just check out yesterday's weather and insert the word today then do the same for tomorrow. I think I'm growing moss on my feet again; it's back to that Hobbit look. My irrigation system has become redundant.
Today is one of those blank days when my mind is empty, almost as if I were staring into space looking at nothing and living in a daydream.
My sister sent me a pile of pictures yesterday. A few are from when I was still young enough to want dolls at Christmas. My brother and I are sitting on the floor of the living room looking over our toys. Our grandparents are there. In those days, they'd wake us up after the toys had been placed under the tree sometime after midnight mass. Our grandparents wanted to see us when we realized Santa had come. We'd play a bit then be sent back to bed. I always thought of that as some form of Christmas abuse. A few pictures are of me and my date heading to my high school senior prom. It was raining, and my sister and mother were holding a blanket over my head as I left the house. It was totally unattractive, but it was because I certainly didn't want to lose that stiff as a board with a flip all around complimented by a tiara hair-do. A couple of pictures date to Peace Corps days. One is of my two friends standing in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I swear Stallone stole this image for his first Rocky picture. We were in Philadelphia for staging, which is the pre-in country check in time. Another was taken from the plane. It is of clouds and could have been anywhere. The last was taken at Legon, at the University of Ghana. The rest of the pictures are from a variety of times spanning several years of my life. There are more childhood pictures, blurry pictures of college friends, a few from the surprise party after I received my master's degree and some of Christmases when I was older, long past Santa. I keep wondering who that very young looking woman is.
The saga of Noel Paul Stookey has one more chapter. He wrote back yesterday after receiving an e-mail from his webmaster who thought Mr. Stookey might be interested in following the conversation on Coffee. He wrote that he had dropped back to visit, read a few of the recent entries and applauded my setting a 'mood or tone' for a cuppa. He gave permission for me to EXCERPT (his caps) any of his music to help create an ambience. He explained fair use, the referencing of music rather than posting an illegal copy of someone's creative property. He said that judging from sites like Amazon and iTunes fair use meant an excerpt of around thirty to 45 seconds. I thanked him for writing back and giving his permission though I said I doubted I'd take advantage of it. Coffee is a bit different than iTunes and Amazon.
Today is one of those blank days when my mind is empty, almost as if I were staring into space looking at nothing and living in a daydream.
My sister sent me a pile of pictures yesterday. A few are from when I was still young enough to want dolls at Christmas. My brother and I are sitting on the floor of the living room looking over our toys. Our grandparents are there. In those days, they'd wake us up after the toys had been placed under the tree sometime after midnight mass. Our grandparents wanted to see us when we realized Santa had come. We'd play a bit then be sent back to bed. I always thought of that as some form of Christmas abuse. A few pictures are of me and my date heading to my high school senior prom. It was raining, and my sister and mother were holding a blanket over my head as I left the house. It was totally unattractive, but it was because I certainly didn't want to lose that stiff as a board with a flip all around complimented by a tiara hair-do. A couple of pictures date to Peace Corps days. One is of my two friends standing in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I swear Stallone stole this image for his first Rocky picture. We were in Philadelphia for staging, which is the pre-in country check in time. Another was taken from the plane. It is of clouds and could have been anywhere. The last was taken at Legon, at the University of Ghana. The rest of the pictures are from a variety of times spanning several years of my life. There are more childhood pictures, blurry pictures of college friends, a few from the surprise party after I received my master's degree and some of Christmases when I was older, long past Santa. I keep wondering who that very young looking woman is.
The saga of Noel Paul Stookey has one more chapter. He wrote back yesterday after receiving an e-mail from his webmaster who thought Mr. Stookey might be interested in following the conversation on Coffee. He wrote that he had dropped back to visit, read a few of the recent entries and applauded my setting a 'mood or tone' for a cuppa. He gave permission for me to EXCERPT (his caps) any of his music to help create an ambience. He explained fair use, the referencing of music rather than posting an illegal copy of someone's creative property. He said that judging from sites like Amazon and iTunes fair use meant an excerpt of around thirty to 45 seconds. I thanked him for writing back and giving his permission though I said I doubted I'd take advantage of it. Coffee is a bit different than iTunes and Amazon.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
This Land Is Your Land: Woody Guthrie
Johnny Has Gone for a Soldier: Pete Seeger
"My idea is that there is music in the air, music all around us; the world is full of it, and you simply take as much as you require."
It rained all night. The steady beat of the drops lulled me to sleep, and I slept longer than usual. When I awoke, the day was still dark and cloudy, but the rain had finally stopped. A cloudy, damp day like today invites a sort of laziness, a loll on the couch reading a book day.
My summer routine is beginning to feel familiar. Every night I'm watching the Red Sox or listening to them on the radio if I'm in the car. My friends and I are enjoying the deck when the weather allows. I clip recipes from the paper and plan theme dinners for warm summer nights. This year I'd like to go more international, maybe a different country each dinner. I've even got the music. The only piece still missing is morning coffee and papers outside on the deck where I can sit under the trees and watch as the birds fly in and out.
Yesterday I got a very polite e-mail from Noel Paul Stookey asking if I had paid royalties on the songs I'd posted. I had not so I deleted the links to all the songs. As this was not the first PP&M posting, I figured it was his song which drew a bit of attention. It made me wonder about blogs and music and money. I do not want to deprive any artists of monetary compensation, but I wonder if blogs like mine don't serve a higher purpose. Much of the music I post is from earlier times, those days when folk music was all over the airwaves and folk songs made the charts, even at number one, but that was a long time ago. If I asked my niece about Peter, Paul and Mary, she would have no idea who they are. She would know nothing of their place in the history of folk music. It would mean little to her they are the reason I love folk or that their singing of traditional songs led me to earlier folk singers. My niece would not appreciate their activism, even the March on Washington. The absolute beauty of their harmony would be lost to her. She, my niece, is probably one of the reasons I play the songs I do. I'd like to think blogs like mine keep faith with those artists. We introduce them to a new audience and bring them back to an older audience, to those of us who were there at the beginning. I wish Noel Paul Stookey had given this some thought.
My summer routine is beginning to feel familiar. Every night I'm watching the Red Sox or listening to them on the radio if I'm in the car. My friends and I are enjoying the deck when the weather allows. I clip recipes from the paper and plan theme dinners for warm summer nights. This year I'd like to go more international, maybe a different country each dinner. I've even got the music. The only piece still missing is morning coffee and papers outside on the deck where I can sit under the trees and watch as the birds fly in and out.
Yesterday I got a very polite e-mail from Noel Paul Stookey asking if I had paid royalties on the songs I'd posted. I had not so I deleted the links to all the songs. As this was not the first PP&M posting, I figured it was his song which drew a bit of attention. It made me wonder about blogs and music and money. I do not want to deprive any artists of monetary compensation, but I wonder if blogs like mine don't serve a higher purpose. Much of the music I post is from earlier times, those days when folk music was all over the airwaves and folk songs made the charts, even at number one, but that was a long time ago. If I asked my niece about Peter, Paul and Mary, she would have no idea who they are. She would know nothing of their place in the history of folk music. It would mean little to her they are the reason I love folk or that their singing of traditional songs led me to earlier folk singers. My niece would not appreciate their activism, even the March on Washington. The absolute beauty of their harmony would be lost to her. She, my niece, is probably one of the reasons I play the songs I do. I'd like to think blogs like mine keep faith with those artists. We introduce them to a new audience and bring them back to an older audience, to those of us who were there at the beginning. I wish Noel Paul Stookey had given this some thought.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
Blowin' in the Wind: Peter, Paul and Mary
This was their second number one hit. It appeared first on the album In the Wind. Later it was also on Ten Years Together: The Best of Peter, Paul and Mary, the last album released before their break-up in 1970 to pursue solo careers.
They reunited in 1978.
The links have been removed due to licensing permission.
They reunited in 1978.
The links have been removed due to licensing permission.
Follow Me: Mary Travers
Wings of Time: Peter Yarrow
John Henry Bosworth: Noel Paul Stookey
“Nostalgia is a file that removes the rough edges from the good old days.”
It's chilly. When I ran outside screaming at the top of my lungs and stomping my feet to scare the convention of squirrels on the various feeders, I came back in quickly. I was cold. I'll wear a sweatshirt for my next total loss of control when I scream like a maniac at the squirrels.
In our neighborhood, there were two corner stores. The white store was closer to my house than the red store. I don't remember if either of the stores had actual names, colors were enough. Two sisters ran the white store. Their house was behind it. The white store had the biggest wooden case with glass across the front. It was filled with penny candy. When my mother sent me for milk or bread, I always got a penny or two for my troubles. I'd spend a long while making my decisions. Sometimes I went with my favorites while other times long lasting was the lure. The two sisters were patient. Usually I rode my bike to the store, and I still remember the route. Down the grass hill my father told us never to ride over, across our street to the side street with the brick house, continue pass the huge houses and the one where the French lady lived then take a left. The store faced that street, and I had to cross Spring Street to get to it. If I close my eyes, I can see it all perfectly.
The red store was much further down on that same Spring Street. It was beside the railroad tracks and the box factory. It had many more groceries than the white store, and cars were always parked out front. In the winter, the motors were left running. The owner and his wife were behind the counter. He usually sat in a chair and worked the register. Neither one of them was very patient. I remember the Hostess cupcakes and Sno-Balls were on a tall wire rack just as you walked into the store. I think they were only a dime. On Sunday mornings, the store was always busy with the church crowd picking up papers or pastry. The Sunday papers were in piles in front of the store. There was no room inside. The store was chock filled, and the two aisles were tiny. Sometimes my mother sent us there when she knew the white store wouldn't have what she wanted. It always seemed like a long way to go, even on my bike.
I liked Mary Janes, Bit-O-Honey, Mint Juleps and Squirrels for long lasting candy, but my favorites of all the long lastings were fire balls. It was a badge of honor to be able to keep a fire ball in your mouth for the whole hot cycle. I remember a friend who used to put it in water until the red disappeared. As for me, I won badges every time.
In our neighborhood, there were two corner stores. The white store was closer to my house than the red store. I don't remember if either of the stores had actual names, colors were enough. Two sisters ran the white store. Their house was behind it. The white store had the biggest wooden case with glass across the front. It was filled with penny candy. When my mother sent me for milk or bread, I always got a penny or two for my troubles. I'd spend a long while making my decisions. Sometimes I went with my favorites while other times long lasting was the lure. The two sisters were patient. Usually I rode my bike to the store, and I still remember the route. Down the grass hill my father told us never to ride over, across our street to the side street with the brick house, continue pass the huge houses and the one where the French lady lived then take a left. The store faced that street, and I had to cross Spring Street to get to it. If I close my eyes, I can see it all perfectly.
The red store was much further down on that same Spring Street. It was beside the railroad tracks and the box factory. It had many more groceries than the white store, and cars were always parked out front. In the winter, the motors were left running. The owner and his wife were behind the counter. He usually sat in a chair and worked the register. Neither one of them was very patient. I remember the Hostess cupcakes and Sno-Balls were on a tall wire rack just as you walked into the store. I think they were only a dime. On Sunday mornings, the store was always busy with the church crowd picking up papers or pastry. The Sunday papers were in piles in front of the store. There was no room inside. The store was chock filled, and the two aisles were tiny. Sometimes my mother sent us there when she knew the white store wouldn't have what she wanted. It always seemed like a long way to go, even on my bike.
I liked Mary Janes, Bit-O-Honey, Mint Juleps and Squirrels for long lasting candy, but my favorites of all the long lastings were fire balls. It was a badge of honor to be able to keep a fire ball in your mouth for the whole hot cycle. I remember a friend who used to put it in water until the red disappeared. As for me, I won badges every time.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
"If a June night could talk, it would probably boast it invented romance."
I found a tick on me this morning. I felt it walking near my neck. Now every part of my body feels crawly as if it's being over-run by those tiny blood suckers. The dog is checked every day. I wonder if she'll mind checking me.
My open bedroom window is like an amphitheater. Through it, I hear the morning songs of birds, numerous and loud enough to wake me earlier than usual, around six or six thirty. I go out to the deck and watch my world while the coffee brews. I love watching the birds, but I curse the squirrels at the feeders and then I curse the weather which keeps me from having coffee outside on these chilly mornings. If I were out there, the squirrels wouldn't be as brazen. If this were The Twilight Zone, I could wish them into the corn fields. I'd like Jed or Granny to drop by and visit. They could have as many of those fat squirrels as they wanted.
The summer can't come fast enough but with it comes a price: the dreaded tourists. The roads will be clogged, the aisles of the grocer stores filled and the beaches awash with pale bodies aching for the sun. The Cape will stop being mine until October. No more rides for the sake of a ride and no more adventuring on a cloudy or rainy day. But I do get some compensation. I get to sit on the deck all day and read or even nap. My theaters will open, and I'll see a play or two every week. My friends and I will eat will dinner outside under the trees ablaze with candles. We'll listen to the night birds call to one another. We'll laugh, and our laughter will carry on the winds. I always think the nights magical in the summer.
My open bedroom window is like an amphitheater. Through it, I hear the morning songs of birds, numerous and loud enough to wake me earlier than usual, around six or six thirty. I go out to the deck and watch my world while the coffee brews. I love watching the birds, but I curse the squirrels at the feeders and then I curse the weather which keeps me from having coffee outside on these chilly mornings. If I were out there, the squirrels wouldn't be as brazen. If this were The Twilight Zone, I could wish them into the corn fields. I'd like Jed or Granny to drop by and visit. They could have as many of those fat squirrels as they wanted.
The summer can't come fast enough but with it comes a price: the dreaded tourists. The roads will be clogged, the aisles of the grocer stores filled and the beaches awash with pale bodies aching for the sun. The Cape will stop being mine until October. No more rides for the sake of a ride and no more adventuring on a cloudy or rainy day. But I do get some compensation. I get to sit on the deck all day and read or even nap. My theaters will open, and I'll see a play or two every week. My friends and I will eat will dinner outside under the trees ablaze with candles. We'll listen to the night birds call to one another. We'll laugh, and our laughter will carry on the winds. I always think the nights magical in the summer.
Monday, June 01, 2009
Mouse on the Hill: Warner Williams
This is from another great Smithsonian album called Blues Highway. Warner Williams has been singing for sixty five years and is known for his Piedmont blues guitar playing. He is joined on this album by Jay Summerour's harmonica and backing vocals. Jay has partnered with Warner for twenty years.
MP3 File
yousendit
MP3 File
yousendit
"Lots of people talk to animals.... Not very many listen, though.... That's the problem."
Yesterday was warm and sunny, and I had a fun day. At the farm, I watched border collies do their stuff, chickens wander around, goats chew their cuds, sheep get sheered and spinners spin. The events don't change much from year to year, but I love them anyway. The farm borders the marsh, and you can see the ocean way off in the distance. A boardwalk over the marsh was new this year and we walked to the end. We stood a long time. It was almost too pretty to leave.
Last night Gracie ran from the den into the living room, slid with the rug then stopped short. I figured she was chasing one of the cats, Maddie, the one she always chases. Nope, she was chasing a mouse, a baby gray mouse. I tried to capture the beastie to put it outside, but it was too fast for me. This morning I found Maddie playing with the mouse. It wasn't playing back.
Around here we have a few critters. My brother claims no Cape home is without a mouse or two or several. He is right on my account. I had so many one time I caught a couple a day in my have-a-heart trap. On my way to work the next morning, I'd transport them miles away. They probably hiked back later. That possum visited Gracie and me several times last summer. It really just wanted my tomatoes and took them all. The biggest raccoon I ever saw was once on the deck. It was on the rail and Gracie was right there. I pulled Gracie inside the house figuring that raccoon was getting to the end of its patience. Gracie wasn't happy. She fancies herself a mighty hunter. Coyotes periodically roam my neighborhood. The other day I watched a rabbit wander my front yard so I know the coyote hasn't been around in a while. Rabbits, skunks and cats tend to disappear when the coyotes return. Gracie tried to make friends with a skunk. She pushed it, nudged it and wanted to play. The skunk let her have it. We still have deer in the woods, and once in a while I catch a glimpse. I stop my car so I can watch until it disappears. I am always amazed when I see animals in the wild, even a skunk and that ugly possum.
Last night Gracie ran from the den into the living room, slid with the rug then stopped short. I figured she was chasing one of the cats, Maddie, the one she always chases. Nope, she was chasing a mouse, a baby gray mouse. I tried to capture the beastie to put it outside, but it was too fast for me. This morning I found Maddie playing with the mouse. It wasn't playing back.
Around here we have a few critters. My brother claims no Cape home is without a mouse or two or several. He is right on my account. I had so many one time I caught a couple a day in my have-a-heart trap. On my way to work the next morning, I'd transport them miles away. They probably hiked back later. That possum visited Gracie and me several times last summer. It really just wanted my tomatoes and took them all. The biggest raccoon I ever saw was once on the deck. It was on the rail and Gracie was right there. I pulled Gracie inside the house figuring that raccoon was getting to the end of its patience. Gracie wasn't happy. She fancies herself a mighty hunter. Coyotes periodically roam my neighborhood. The other day I watched a rabbit wander my front yard so I know the coyote hasn't been around in a while. Rabbits, skunks and cats tend to disappear when the coyotes return. Gracie tried to make friends with a skunk. She pushed it, nudged it and wanted to play. The skunk let her have it. We still have deer in the woods, and once in a while I catch a glimpse. I stop my car so I can watch until it disappears. I am always amazed when I see animals in the wild, even a skunk and that ugly possum.
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