It's good we have the official holiday of Thanksgiving at least once a year because aside from the gluttony aspect, the media turns to the subject of family and gratitude - however fleeting! I heard a little essay on gratitude this morning that said scientists discovered that gratitude is actually a component in health. Duh!
Who has never stopped to contemplate that if I don't feel like a powder keg ready to detonate that my body functions better?! Really, we needed scientists?
And as for family - if this is the ONE time that people turn homeward that is indeed sad, but apparently that is the case for many people. Why should we need a calendar to tend to the most primal needs of the heart?
I know for many people it is a chore to be with family, so I guess that's why each morning upon awakening as I look at a collage of my family hanging on the wall beside my bed, my day begins with a smile of thanks.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Paris
Its hard to think about the people in Paris who dressed for a concert, or for dinner, and didn't know they were dressing for the hereafter.
The world we live in so woven with horror makes it all the more important to savor each step because the ground on which we walk seems fragile.
Someone posted a quote from Mr. Rogers on Facebook this morning, "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.
I'm holding that thought close.
The world we live in so woven with horror makes it all the more important to savor each step because the ground on which we walk seems fragile.
Someone posted a quote from Mr. Rogers on Facebook this morning, "When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.
I'm holding that thought close.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Dinner together
I would have had no idea in the 1950's that I would look back from a 2015 perspective and cherish those noisy childhood supper-times! But in the last couple weeks I have had conversations with library patrons about their reflections on eating together.
Now I realize, suppertime was an anchor. It was a time to share your day - to laugh, tease, scoff, praise, confess, exult, despair, relate. In those times when our parents had never taken a psychology or parenting course, they innocently provided a safe space for us to learn intimacy, acceptance, self-esteem - a place in the universe that was uniquely our own. I remember if I missed supper for any reason, it was a loss - not just a dietary loss, but I felt I missed out on something important.
And it wasn't quiet, orderly or mannered. It was a conversational free-for-all and one had to be vigorous to get a word in edge-wise - particularly being the fourth of five! But without articulation, it was a branding of belonging.
No price-tag high enough to place on that.
Now I realize, suppertime was an anchor. It was a time to share your day - to laugh, tease, scoff, praise, confess, exult, despair, relate. In those times when our parents had never taken a psychology or parenting course, they innocently provided a safe space for us to learn intimacy, acceptance, self-esteem - a place in the universe that was uniquely our own. I remember if I missed supper for any reason, it was a loss - not just a dietary loss, but I felt I missed out on something important.
And it wasn't quiet, orderly or mannered. It was a conversational free-for-all and one had to be vigorous to get a word in edge-wise - particularly being the fourth of five! But without articulation, it was a branding of belonging.
No price-tag high enough to place on that.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
gravy
I just finished reading Academy Street by Mary Costello. It's a novel about a quiet life. Almost nothing happens in it, yet everything does: a haunting portrait drawn with exquisite detail of the ordinary.
And because of her minute reckoning, from time to time my mind flew away with a detail from my own life. Sometime the description was about food aromas. The one that replaced the book's in my own mind was the aroma when we walked through the back door of the kitchen coming home from church on Sunday noon. Immediately we were greeted with the browning smell of roasting meat and our hungry stomachs would sigh with anticipation. Before services, Mother would brown some excellent cut of meat - all from the local butcher - and set it to a low roast. So all the while the hymns were sung, prayers offered, instruction set forth, sermonizing unraveled, and after church socializing took place that meat was roasting to a melt-in-your-mouth doneness. And with a magician's quickness, mashed potatoes graced with butter and pepper, and if the gods were truly smiling - tender lima beans from the garden (that bear no earthly resemblance to the large mealy hateful things you buy from the frozen food section of your modern grocery store), and gravy- lovely smooth, shining - were all "dished up" and the table burst into action.
That browning smell triggered the whole scenario of family ritual - click, click, click the childhood picture slid into place.
I remember with joy - and hunger pangs.
And because of her minute reckoning, from time to time my mind flew away with a detail from my own life. Sometime the description was about food aromas. The one that replaced the book's in my own mind was the aroma when we walked through the back door of the kitchen coming home from church on Sunday noon. Immediately we were greeted with the browning smell of roasting meat and our hungry stomachs would sigh with anticipation. Before services, Mother would brown some excellent cut of meat - all from the local butcher - and set it to a low roast. So all the while the hymns were sung, prayers offered, instruction set forth, sermonizing unraveled, and after church socializing took place that meat was roasting to a melt-in-your-mouth doneness. And with a magician's quickness, mashed potatoes graced with butter and pepper, and if the gods were truly smiling - tender lima beans from the garden (that bear no earthly resemblance to the large mealy hateful things you buy from the frozen food section of your modern grocery store), and gravy- lovely smooth, shining - were all "dished up" and the table burst into action.
That browning smell triggered the whole scenario of family ritual - click, click, click the childhood picture slid into place.
I remember with joy - and hunger pangs.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
I think that I shall never see
Walking home from the farmers' market this morning, the scents of basil, tomatoes, peaches, corn, wafting up from my Downton Abbey bag, my happy cup brimmed over. Because, not only do I live within five walking minutes of the market every Saturday morning May through October, my walk takes me through sun-dappled trees of every description - towering, low, evergreen, leafy - and the immediate coolness is such a delight. A pleasure that grows dimmer and dimmer in this era of air-conditioning.
In childhood, the trees were our absolute refuge. We would sit under the trees to husk corn, peel peaches, hull peas, shell lima beans. Trees had chairs under them -sometimes just house chairs but in lawns there were often big wooden chairs that we later called Adirondack chairs, but surely they were Lancaster County chairs before that! And if those chairs didn't contain working women and children, they held visiting relatives, friends - talking, commiserating, gossiping, laughing, sometimes singing. Even the hottest summer day seemed more bearable with a breeze. The trees were our staying point all summer long,
And for me they still are. Often escaping from the air-conditioned indoors I go out on our patio and look high up to the blue sky beyond the tall greenery and feel instantly at peace. And judging from the cascading symphonies, all the birds and cicadas agree.
In childhood, the trees were our absolute refuge. We would sit under the trees to husk corn, peel peaches, hull peas, shell lima beans. Trees had chairs under them -sometimes just house chairs but in lawns there were often big wooden chairs that we later called Adirondack chairs, but surely they were Lancaster County chairs before that! And if those chairs didn't contain working women and children, they held visiting relatives, friends - talking, commiserating, gossiping, laughing, sometimes singing. Even the hottest summer day seemed more bearable with a breeze. The trees were our staying point all summer long,
And for me they still are. Often escaping from the air-conditioned indoors I go out on our patio and look high up to the blue sky beyond the tall greenery and feel instantly at peace. And judging from the cascading symphonies, all the birds and cicadas agree.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Give us this day
How many times do we read a tragic headline and think how glad we are that we and all our friends are safe from such sorrow? I read the headline of the deck that collapsed in North Carolina as a family photo was being taken and felt a chill. I discovered about a day later, that incident involved a work colleague and her family and was truly horrified. One minute you are healthy, smiling, and in the high of a family reunion and the next minute everyone is in a splintered heap. My so-recently vigorous, strong colleague is in a wheelchair facing months of recovery from a fractured body.
We all know we should say that prayer of gratitude each morning when our feet hit the floor solidly, but it's so easy to forget and go about our day, complaining about the slightest ills. The healthy, happy world that smiles back at us each day is the rarest of sparkling gems.
I need to take out my polishing cloth and shine up each ordinary glorious day and then store them all in a grateful heart.
We all know we should say that prayer of gratitude each morning when our feet hit the floor solidly, but it's so easy to forget and go about our day, complaining about the slightest ills. The healthy, happy world that smiles back at us each day is the rarest of sparkling gems.
I need to take out my polishing cloth and shine up each ordinary glorious day and then store them all in a grateful heart.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Remember
My library is a bit like the Cheers bar. Everyone knows your name and everyone wants to pull up a chair and chat. Only the libation is different - bottled water most of the time and coffee from Katy's on Saturdays. But what I have noticed lately is the commonality with Cheers in terms of confessions. And seniors are my best customers!
Though I do have laments of children, spouses, in-laws, etc., from the general population, I'm getting wholesale mourning of memory loss. Seniors check twice, thrice, to see if I've given back their cards after a transaction - and the search leads to - "I go into a room and can't remember why I made the trip." Or "I saw this book review in Sunday's Post and wondered if you had it but I can't remember title or author - but it looked good!" Or "I misplaced my car keys, phone, ____________ (fill in the blank of the moment)."
It's all so recognizable! And perhaps that's why they come to me instead of my whippersnapper of a boss. On one of the first days at the library he said, "So how long have you been in the system?" And I said, " Since 1982"... and looking sideways at him commented, "and you're weren't born yet, right?" And he grinned and said, "Not quite." (!)
So there you have it, folks. We've been around! And that hanging out allows us to forget billions of details - from 60 years ago, last month, yesterday, 5 minutes ago. It's all good! By grace we are here- " awake, alive and alert" like my long-ago pastor used to request we stay during his sermons. We have so much big-picture living to be thankful for, we simply can't sweat the small stuff!
Though I do have laments of children, spouses, in-laws, etc., from the general population, I'm getting wholesale mourning of memory loss. Seniors check twice, thrice, to see if I've given back their cards after a transaction - and the search leads to - "I go into a room and can't remember why I made the trip." Or "I saw this book review in Sunday's Post and wondered if you had it but I can't remember title or author - but it looked good!" Or "I misplaced my car keys, phone, ____________ (fill in the blank of the moment)."
It's all so recognizable! And perhaps that's why they come to me instead of my whippersnapper of a boss. On one of the first days at the library he said, "So how long have you been in the system?" And I said, " Since 1982"... and looking sideways at him commented, "and you're weren't born yet, right?" And he grinned and said, "Not quite." (!)
So there you have it, folks. We've been around! And that hanging out allows us to forget billions of details - from 60 years ago, last month, yesterday, 5 minutes ago. It's all good! By grace we are here- " awake, alive and alert" like my long-ago pastor used to request we stay during his sermons. We have so much big-picture living to be thankful for, we simply can't sweat the small stuff!
Boom!
Fireworks.
I think my earliest recollection of fireworks occurred at the Policemens' Rodeo somewhere around Hershey, PA. I'm guessing I was about 8 years old. The show was fascinating enough to my small-town eyes, but when the fireworks began, seemingly within the outdoor arena where all the rodeo antics took place, my mind was literally blown - at least my ears were! The explosion of color was stunning, but the booms!... chest rattlers! And I know I was so young everything was magnified, but I have yet, in my seventh decade, to have that experience of sound and sight duplicated. I've seen fireworks in Lancaster, Reston, Herndon, Pittsburgh, DC, Austria, Montreal ,Saranac Lake, Ohio, Kansas.... but never, never as extraordinarily shockingly exquisite as good old Hershey, PA when I was still in pigtails!
Some things really don't improve with age.
I think my earliest recollection of fireworks occurred at the Policemens' Rodeo somewhere around Hershey, PA. I'm guessing I was about 8 years old. The show was fascinating enough to my small-town eyes, but when the fireworks began, seemingly within the outdoor arena where all the rodeo antics took place, my mind was literally blown - at least my ears were! The explosion of color was stunning, but the booms!... chest rattlers! And I know I was so young everything was magnified, but I have yet, in my seventh decade, to have that experience of sound and sight duplicated. I've seen fireworks in Lancaster, Reston, Herndon, Pittsburgh, DC, Austria, Montreal ,Saranac Lake, Ohio, Kansas.... but never, never as extraordinarily shockingly exquisite as good old Hershey, PA when I was still in pigtails!
Some things really don't improve with age.
Sunday, May 24, 2015
I'm reading Dandelion Wine for my book club next month and while the whole thing is a coming of age/ childhood journey, the part I read yesterday included a part about front porches in their small town.
Our front porch of childhood was in a small town, but not one like in the old movies that was connected by sidewalks, ours was next to a busy road. That didn't stop its magnetic powers - both for us and our neighbors and relatives driving by in cars. They'd see us out and stop to chat - as a matter of fact, if we noticed family going by without at least a brief stop it was considered strange. And the neighbors would wander over on warm summer nights just to share the evening.
Why did we sit on our front porch? Well probably for lots of reasons, but the first being coolness. No a/c other than the breezes fanned by our Norway maples in the front yard. And secondly, entertainment. No TV to nail our souls to the indoors. Our family made games of everything and we would count cars - makes of cars. Everyone would take a model. Today I would be hard pressed to recognize anything but a VW bug!! But in those days it was American-built all the way and not that many choices. But we watched and watched the flow of cars, the dances of fireflies in the gathering dusk, the sun setting across the fields. All of this brought the activities of the day down, down, down to a peaceful level - to prepare for the night. When it was finally dark, many a night was capped off with a dish of ice cream and pretzels on the side - always the sweet/salt combo.
Nothing of significance happened on that porch ..... yet, everything did.
Our front porch of childhood was in a small town, but not one like in the old movies that was connected by sidewalks, ours was next to a busy road. That didn't stop its magnetic powers - both for us and our neighbors and relatives driving by in cars. They'd see us out and stop to chat - as a matter of fact, if we noticed family going by without at least a brief stop it was considered strange. And the neighbors would wander over on warm summer nights just to share the evening.
Why did we sit on our front porch? Well probably for lots of reasons, but the first being coolness. No a/c other than the breezes fanned by our Norway maples in the front yard. And secondly, entertainment. No TV to nail our souls to the indoors. Our family made games of everything and we would count cars - makes of cars. Everyone would take a model. Today I would be hard pressed to recognize anything but a VW bug!! But in those days it was American-built all the way and not that many choices. But we watched and watched the flow of cars, the dances of fireflies in the gathering dusk, the sun setting across the fields. All of this brought the activities of the day down, down, down to a peaceful level - to prepare for the night. When it was finally dark, many a night was capped off with a dish of ice cream and pretzels on the side - always the sweet/salt combo.
Nothing of significance happened on that porch ..... yet, everything did.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
By a nose
About a decade ago, my classmates from the two-roomed schoolhouse that I attended Grades 1-8 had a reunion. Among other amazing aspects of that occasion was a compilation of questionnaires that one of my energetic classmates had compiled. It was fascinating to see what memories "stuck" from those years so long ago. But one memory persisted above all others - bringing potatoes along to bake on the door ledge of the round coal/wood stove that supplied our heating in the winter. The potatoes were marked with chalk with the student's initials, as all potatoes are not equal under the law, and placed strategically to catch the heat. All morning long we would smell the mouth-watering aroma of baking potatoes. It was enough to distract one from one's readin', writin' and 'rithmetic!
I mused about aromas again this week with the quick blitz of lilac season. There is simply nothing like the smell of lilacs to transport me back to childhood and if you meet another lilac lover, you sense that immediate bond of softened tone, almost misty eyes and rapturous "ahs". And its usually girls who are doing the reminiscing about the lilac scent. But the other day, a friend said it was her father's favorite flower. I was startled! I realized I had been shelving the lilacs with feminism!
Scents are so evocative. Some doctors even encourage families of comatose patients to bring in all kinds of aromatic objects to lure them back into the present. I remember one story claimed that cinnamon is what revived her husband.
Whatever the scientific basis, I celebrate the nose and all its attendant nostalgic baggage!
I mused about aromas again this week with the quick blitz of lilac season. There is simply nothing like the smell of lilacs to transport me back to childhood and if you meet another lilac lover, you sense that immediate bond of softened tone, almost misty eyes and rapturous "ahs". And its usually girls who are doing the reminiscing about the lilac scent. But the other day, a friend said it was her father's favorite flower. I was startled! I realized I had been shelving the lilacs with feminism!
Scents are so evocative. Some doctors even encourage families of comatose patients to bring in all kinds of aromatic objects to lure them back into the present. I remember one story claimed that cinnamon is what revived her husband.
Whatever the scientific basis, I celebrate the nose and all its attendant nostalgic baggage!
Sunday, May 3, 2015
the song
Last evening's Prairie Home Companion originated from Goshen College and although I missed a lot of the show I did hear the choir singing some achingly lovely old hymns in four-part harmony.
Now that I miss! There is a lot of about my earlier church experience that I have diverged from, but the beauty of those old hymns like "Abide with Me" is stunning, years later.
"Abide with me
Fast falls the eventide
The darkness deepens,
Lord, with me abide."
The simple, soft merge of alto, soprano, tenor and bass in this almost lullaby overwhelmed me last evening with it's quiet glory.
But growing up, we took both the words and the singing for granted. Now, mind you, the average congregation didn't sound like that choir last night, but still, the music was there. And so was the poetry of the words. And so was the steadfast faith.
And still after all these years, it abides.
Now that I miss! There is a lot of about my earlier church experience that I have diverged from, but the beauty of those old hymns like "Abide with Me" is stunning, years later.
"Abide with me
Fast falls the eventide
The darkness deepens,
Lord, with me abide."
The simple, soft merge of alto, soprano, tenor and bass in this almost lullaby overwhelmed me last evening with it's quiet glory.
But growing up, we took both the words and the singing for granted. Now, mind you, the average congregation didn't sound like that choir last night, but still, the music was there. And so was the poetry of the words. And so was the steadfast faith.
And still after all these years, it abides.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
spring treat
Rhubarb Pie
browned crust
that melts
in your mouth,
oozing thickened fruit
that seesaws
between sweet and tart,
harbinger
of summer's bounty
to come
pale pink
delicate
delight.
grocery cashier,
"what is this?"
And
"what do you
do with it?"
Bake,
savor,
swoon
with
pleasure.
browned crust
that melts
in your mouth,
oozing thickened fruit
that seesaws
between sweet and tart,
harbinger
of summer's bounty
to come
pale pink
delicate
delight.
grocery cashier,
"what is this?"
And
"what do you
do with it?"
Bake,
savor,
swoon
with
pleasure.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Elephant
A quote that caught my eye in the whole Baltimore mess was -"If property damage is more upsetting to you than institutional racism your moral compass needs a realignment."
Sobering.
Some Baltimore police have publicly admitted there has been harassment on a major level. Millions of dollars spent to settle suits against them. Facts.
We want things to remain neat and tidy while injustice flows like wine in paths other than our own.
Sure, we want equality for all, but when peaceful protests - and think how many there have been in the last six months alone - get very little press or results, what should be the next step for the oppressed.
Never violence. Never looting and pillaging. Never burning.
But exactly what does it take to prompt change?
That is the huge unsettling elephant in the room.
Sobering.
Some Baltimore police have publicly admitted there has been harassment on a major level. Millions of dollars spent to settle suits against them. Facts.
We want things to remain neat and tidy while injustice flows like wine in paths other than our own.
Sure, we want equality for all, but when peaceful protests - and think how many there have been in the last six months alone - get very little press or results, what should be the next step for the oppressed.
Never violence. Never looting and pillaging. Never burning.
But exactly what does it take to prompt change?
That is the huge unsettling elephant in the room.
Friday, April 24, 2015
the dying light
An elderly patron called me the other day with an initial question of looking up a play by Jean Cocteau that she had seen on tv the night before. She had the title wrong but I kept pushing on through Amazon and finally came up with the correct title. Then she began. She was irate that Sophia Loren wasn't speaking classic Italian - "but some Neapolitan dialect" and she only got bits and pieces of it! I was about to quietly ask if the subtitles didn't help when she barreled on - "and I wouldn't dream of using the subtitles. I know Italian!" And her anger grew from there. She once knew some of the dialects from her time in Italy, but what was wrong with Sophia Loren??? Did I know she wasn't formally educated. Shocking, isn't it.
And on and on. I learned of her youth visiting Italy and how she loved it. When I finally told her the play wasn't in our collection, but I saw a used copy on Amazon for $7.49 she said, "Now how would I do that?" I asked as gently as possible if she knew someone who had a computer who could do it and she agreed she would lean on one of her friends.
"This computer business I know nothing about and it makes me sick. I'm old."
And there you have it. Lash out at Sophia Loren's shoddy education. Be angry with technology." Rage, rage against the dying light."
I comforted, consoled, agreed about electronic frustrations and at the end she said, "Well this is the nicest chat I've had in some time."
I could have wept.
And on and on. I learned of her youth visiting Italy and how she loved it. When I finally told her the play wasn't in our collection, but I saw a used copy on Amazon for $7.49 she said, "Now how would I do that?" I asked as gently as possible if she knew someone who had a computer who could do it and she agreed she would lean on one of her friends.
"This computer business I know nothing about and it makes me sick. I'm old."
And there you have it. Lash out at Sophia Loren's shoddy education. Be angry with technology." Rage, rage against the dying light."
I comforted, consoled, agreed about electronic frustrations and at the end she said, "Well this is the nicest chat I've had in some time."
I could have wept.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
civility and doubt
Early this morning the show "On Being" featured a discussion on gay marriage and while they covered a lot of ground pro and con, one idea struck me as unique. There was a mention of "civility and doubt" being friends - defining civility as treating the other person like you would like to be treated and doubt as realizing that your position may not be absolutely correct!
Just think how our world would change if we each embraced those simple thoughts - being civil and simultaneously questioning whether or not you have the ultimate truth in your corner.
I grew up in black and white. Really comforting! But as life flows on, I have more questions than answers, and, I hope, more compassion.
Still, I want to walk that mile in both the high-topped shoes and the flip-flops, dancing or praying. Both modes of travel have their value.
Just think how our world would change if we each embraced those simple thoughts - being civil and simultaneously questioning whether or not you have the ultimate truth in your corner.
I grew up in black and white. Really comforting! But as life flows on, I have more questions than answers, and, I hope, more compassion.
Still, I want to walk that mile in both the high-topped shoes and the flip-flops, dancing or praying. Both modes of travel have their value.
Friday, April 17, 2015
beginnings
Despite the great joy of springtime, I always have a sense of melancholy when I realize how fleeting it is!
Right now the outdoor palette is breathtaking! This glorious feathering of pink, white, green fills in more solidly each day and I know very soon - way too soon - it will essentially be solid green. Oh I know there are flowering trees all summer at various points and I know our gardens, both lavish and postcard-size, bring kaleidoscopes of color and texture for months, but still its not the same as the virginal spring hues arcing overhead against the bluest skies. I want it to stay!
Of course I realize that all delight is by contrast and after a long hot summer, I will again rejoice in the splash of autumn and the hush of a snowstorm.
But right now, I just want to roll around in these delicate tones and drink them deep into my soul, rejoicing in beginnings.
And for this moment I say, with Edna St. Vincent Millay, "my heart is all but out of me."
Right now the outdoor palette is breathtaking! This glorious feathering of pink, white, green fills in more solidly each day and I know very soon - way too soon - it will essentially be solid green. Oh I know there are flowering trees all summer at various points and I know our gardens, both lavish and postcard-size, bring kaleidoscopes of color and texture for months, but still its not the same as the virginal spring hues arcing overhead against the bluest skies. I want it to stay!
Of course I realize that all delight is by contrast and after a long hot summer, I will again rejoice in the splash of autumn and the hush of a snowstorm.
But right now, I just want to roll around in these delicate tones and drink them deep into my soul, rejoicing in beginnings.
And for this moment I say, with Edna St. Vincent Millay, "my heart is all but out of me."
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Henry James
wrap up of Washington Square
**********************************************************************************************************************************************************
When Henry James invites us into the house on Washington Square, Austin Sloper isn't a happy man. His only living child, Catherine, is disappointing, dull and stolid - by his assessment during a European trip "she's about as intelligent as a bundle of shawls."
Dr. Sloper married an lively, elegant woman who had "the most charming eyes in the island of Manhattan", claiming in retrospect that his program in life was to learn something and be useful and "the accident of his wife having an income appeared to him in no degree to modify the validity". Unfortunately the son his wife bore, died at the age of three and the wife also succumbed after the birth of Catherine a bit later. And Dr. Sloper was left with viewing life through the thwarted lens of grief and loss - and judgment.
Catherine, now twenty-two, endowed with a generous trust from her deceased mother, knew little of life when she met dashing Morris Townsend, a distant relative of a cousin's bridegroom. Morris zeroed in on our heroine, decked out in a red dress trimmed in feathers, like shark to chum, and for naïve Catherine, the rest was history.
Understandably the good doctor wanted to know more about this gentleman who appeared to be monopolizing his seemingly unattractive daughter, wondering if the money alone accounted for the magnetism. Through some sleuthing of his own, he learned that Morris was an idler, a squander of an earlier inheritance, now living apparently "upon" his sister. This information confirmed all his suspicions about Morris 'mercenary intentions.
To Catherine, Morris was astonishingly handsome - "he had features like young men in pictures...he looked like a statue". After years of being sidelined she was dazzled to have gained his attention and, "the present had suddenly grown rich and solemn."
But not so for Dr. Sloper.
The rest of the story seesaws over the strong wills of father and daughter, each trying various stratagems to bring the other around to his point of view.
Acting as comic relief to the struggle is Dr. Sloper's sister, Lavinia. When Catherine was 10, her father invited Lavinia to come live with them as a feminine mentor for his daughter in the absence of her mother. Said James, "she accepted with the alacrity of a woman who had spent the ten years of her married life in the town of Poughkeepsie." Lavinia is a matchmaker and does everything in her power to smooth the way to the altar for Morris and Catherine, while trying to stay in her brother's good graces and keep a luxurious roof over her head, a high-wire walk indeed.
When despite all her efforts, Catherine realizes that her father is not to be dissuaded; she steels her heart against him and heads down a lonely independent path. Even bundles of shawls take shape when pressed hard enough!
Henry James anoints his prose with layers and layers of nuance. One reading gives you the meager plot, the second the humor, irony, delight, social satire, and genius of his writing. The characters though placed in an era of stringent social strictures, exhibit the same emotions, longings and dreams of the present day readers. There is treachery, disappointment, betrayal, but there is also, the triumph of the individual who acts decisively in crisis. While no Austen happy ending, something propels us back again and again to the ending where Catherine in the parlor, picks up her morsel of fancywork and sits down with it again -"for life, as it were."
Ah, we too settle.
Freedom
Ironing.
No, I can't say its a completely archaic word, but getting close! Ironing for Mother meant a day's work. At least.
Because after the shirts and blouses and dresses had blown completely dry on the pegged line, we brought them inside and sprinkled them with a plastic squeeze bottle that had many tiny holes in the lid. Then, lightly moistened, we rolled them up and put them in a bag!
Why? Well I guess because they were mostly cotton and dried wrinkled! Obviously we would some time later take them out and iron them smooth. And starch them of course. So - wash, dry, sprinkle, starch, iron. It all sounds like a cruel joke! But it was Tuesday in the life of our mother - and us as we grew into ironing capability.
I started with men's handkerchiefs Lovely easy little squares. No harm, no foul. Then pillowcases. Larger areas, but still simple When the moment came to learn how to iron a shirt or blouse - oh, dear, the pressure of it all There were rules of the road! Collar first, sleeves second, front panels next and then the back. THAT was how it was done.
When I think back to those days - before fabric blends, steam irons, even spray starch, the work of looking presentably unwrinkled was really horrendous!! Now, you understand, not everyone did this, but their appearances were deemed "careless."
I raise a very joyous glass to labor free clothes!
No, I can't say its a completely archaic word, but getting close! Ironing for Mother meant a day's work. At least.
Because after the shirts and blouses and dresses had blown completely dry on the pegged line, we brought them inside and sprinkled them with a plastic squeeze bottle that had many tiny holes in the lid. Then, lightly moistened, we rolled them up and put them in a bag!
Why? Well I guess because they were mostly cotton and dried wrinkled! Obviously we would some time later take them out and iron them smooth. And starch them of course. So - wash, dry, sprinkle, starch, iron. It all sounds like a cruel joke! But it was Tuesday in the life of our mother - and us as we grew into ironing capability.
I started with men's handkerchiefs Lovely easy little squares. No harm, no foul. Then pillowcases. Larger areas, but still simple When the moment came to learn how to iron a shirt or blouse - oh, dear, the pressure of it all There were rules of the road! Collar first, sleeves second, front panels next and then the back. THAT was how it was done.
When I think back to those days - before fabric blends, steam irons, even spray starch, the work of looking presentably unwrinkled was really horrendous!! Now, you understand, not everyone did this, but their appearances were deemed "careless."
I raise a very joyous glass to labor free clothes!
Friday, April 10, 2015
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin
"Between the dark and the daylight
When the night is beginning to lower
Comes a pause from the day's occupations
That is known as the Children's Hour."
I can hear my mother's voice echoing Longfellow's lovely words over and over. They became my words. They became my rhythm. They became my pictures. I saw those little girls laughing, tumbling, shouting, hugging their father at the end of the day.
And as the poem continues he closes with
"I have you fast in my fortress
And will not let you depart
But put you down in the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart
And there I will keep you forever
Yes, forever and a day
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin
And moulder in dust away."
Did we use phrases like "night beginning to lower" "moulder in dust away" in our Hinkletown household? Surely not on a day to day basis! But those words were mine from the time I was the smallest child. I recognized them everywhere we met and hugged them close because of a poem about a father and his children.
And just as surely I have kept my mother and her words in the round tower of my heart, forever and a day.
When the night is beginning to lower
Comes a pause from the day's occupations
That is known as the Children's Hour."
I can hear my mother's voice echoing Longfellow's lovely words over and over. They became my words. They became my rhythm. They became my pictures. I saw those little girls laughing, tumbling, shouting, hugging their father at the end of the day.
And as the poem continues he closes with
"I have you fast in my fortress
And will not let you depart
But put you down in the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart
And there I will keep you forever
Yes, forever and a day
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin
And moulder in dust away."
Did we use phrases like "night beginning to lower" "moulder in dust away" in our Hinkletown household? Surely not on a day to day basis! But those words were mine from the time I was the smallest child. I recognized them everywhere we met and hugged them close because of a poem about a father and his children.
And just as surely I have kept my mother and her words in the round tower of my heart, forever and a day.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Hope
I am listening to the Diane Rehm show this morning about the Holocaust death camp for women called Ravensbruck, where extraordinary gruesome experiments where carried out routinely and the newborn babies were left to starve to death. And I pause and try to get to the end of the concept. I know evil exists. I know there are people who for whatever reason have had horrendous lives and have melted down into unspeakable actions. But HOW could so many people be convinced to carry out these deeds? It takes my breath away. Literally.
But when Diane asked the author how she possibly could have written the book as we who are listening are almost too sickened to continue, she said that in her research she found survivors who had equal courage and beauty to balance the horror.
and I guess that's what keeps me hearing the birds in springtime.
But when Diane asked the author how she possibly could have written the book as we who are listening are almost too sickened to continue, she said that in her research she found survivors who had equal courage and beauty to balance the horror.
and I guess that's what keeps me hearing the birds in springtime.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
She owns the truck
In that same two-room schoolhouse playground where I spoke so recently of the famous day of Crack the Whip, we played endless games. And we sang songs and ditties - sometimes to the swing of a thick rope as we jumped through it. But just this morning our version of My Country Tis of Thee came to mind:
"My country 'tis of thee
I'm going to Germany
To see the king.
The king is Donald Duck
He drives a garbage truck
His wife is Daisy Duck
She owns the truck." (!!)
Could it be, could it be, that the seeds of feminism were being sown on that humble muddy ground in the late 1940's?
Oh, I do hope so!
"My country 'tis of thee
I'm going to Germany
To see the king.
The king is Donald Duck
He drives a garbage truck
His wife is Daisy Duck
She owns the truck." (!!)
Could it be, could it be, that the seeds of feminism were being sown on that humble muddy ground in the late 1940's?
Oh, I do hope so!
Sunday, April 5, 2015
beginnings
"An early Easter bunny
Came hopping through the snow
No birds were singing in the trees
How could he know?
The days were cold and cloudy
And all the trees were brown
Yes Spring was not so far away
From Bunny- Town!"
The above is a song/poem that I painstakingly copied from the blackboard in Grade 1! I remember every word. Where in my brain was the Bunny Town song stored for 65 years?! The brown notebook is probably at the bottom of some trunk, but the song is alive and well in my heart. Its not the only one I remember. There was a song about a pirate ship, the boy next door with a rabbit to sell, pussy willows, valentines, etc. etc. I know all the words. I think an extra memory boost happens when the words not only go through your ears and mind, but also your fingers!
In any case, my first grade song applies to today as well! It is a cloudy day with mostly brown trees - no snow, thank God - and there are welcome peeks of color slipping into our winter palette. How reassuring that the cycle of life continues despite all the disruptive things in our world.
Rock on, Cotton-Tail!
Came hopping through the snow
No birds were singing in the trees
How could he know?
The days were cold and cloudy
And all the trees were brown
Yes Spring was not so far away
From Bunny- Town!"
The above is a song/poem that I painstakingly copied from the blackboard in Grade 1! I remember every word. Where in my brain was the Bunny Town song stored for 65 years?! The brown notebook is probably at the bottom of some trunk, but the song is alive and well in my heart. Its not the only one I remember. There was a song about a pirate ship, the boy next door with a rabbit to sell, pussy willows, valentines, etc. etc. I know all the words. I think an extra memory boost happens when the words not only go through your ears and mind, but also your fingers!
In any case, my first grade song applies to today as well! It is a cloudy day with mostly brown trees - no snow, thank God - and there are welcome peeks of color slipping into our winter palette. How reassuring that the cycle of life continues despite all the disruptive things in our world.
Rock on, Cotton-Tail!
Friday, April 3, 2015
painting Easter eggs
Good Friday. A day of solemnity and fasting for my husband's family.
For the Hinkletown crowd it was a different matter. I guess there may have been services at one time, but I don't remember them. For us, the afternoon meant, covering the versatile kitchen table (we did so many, many things on that table in addition to eating!) with newspapers. Mother had been busy hard-cooking dozens of eggs. We had been busy fastidiously twisting just the right amount of cotton around toothpicks. Then came the cupcake tin and little bottles of dye were poured into the cup forms. Creativity unleashed!
It all started slowly, amid the smell of eggs and vinegar. Delicate shades, intricate patterns, attempts at flowers, crosses, words.... but as time went on and all the dyes got muddy, we went for broke, painting over the delicateness - any white spot was fair game in the end frenzied burst of mixed colors.
The resplendent eggs rested in a bowl lined with green plastic grass in the frig. I supposed we ate them in the days that followed, but I think in general our interest in them at that point was nil.
But it was another notch of tradition on that glorious childhood belt.
For the Hinkletown crowd it was a different matter. I guess there may have been services at one time, but I don't remember them. For us, the afternoon meant, covering the versatile kitchen table (we did so many, many things on that table in addition to eating!) with newspapers. Mother had been busy hard-cooking dozens of eggs. We had been busy fastidiously twisting just the right amount of cotton around toothpicks. Then came the cupcake tin and little bottles of dye were poured into the cup forms. Creativity unleashed!
It all started slowly, amid the smell of eggs and vinegar. Delicate shades, intricate patterns, attempts at flowers, crosses, words.... but as time went on and all the dyes got muddy, we went for broke, painting over the delicateness - any white spot was fair game in the end frenzied burst of mixed colors.
The resplendent eggs rested in a bowl lined with green plastic grass in the frig. I supposed we ate them in the days that followed, but I think in general our interest in them at that point was nil.
But it was another notch of tradition on that glorious childhood belt.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Crack the Whip
On these morning walks, when the ground is halfway frozen but squishing to mud, my thoughts roam back to the spring mornings when Nancy and I walked to school through edges of lawns and fields, arguing about when the actual first day of Spring was official. It seemed her Mam Fry always had a different date than my mother - who probably got her info from Arthur Godfrey! All I remember was the sun's warmth was a tease and recess beckoned throughout the day's lessons.
I remember one day, the big farm boys decided the muddy schoolyard was the ideal place to play Crack the Whip and as bullying was alive and well in those days as well, they put one of my classmates on the tail of the whip. He was already in social arrears and had gotten the nickname Allen-Ballen- Lunch Kettle because when he got a new lunch kettle he proudly showed it to the teacher when one of the Big Boys was around. Thus the name.
When indeed that human whip was cracked he went flying into the mud. Hands, face, clothes were caked with gooey brown and he needed to walk the long way back to home and get cleaned up. I don't think anyone paid for their crimes. Indeed, when he returned much later in clean clothes, he still hadn't gotten the picture and proudly announced to the teacher that his mother had given him a marshmallow to comfort him! Talk about red meat to the pack!
Spring, mud and bullies.... the cycles of life. Who knows, the bullies may have had miserable lives and Allen Ballen Lunch Kettle gone on to glorious heights. All I know for sure, is that the April earth is giving rise to green shoots, new beginnings and second chances.
I remember one day, the big farm boys decided the muddy schoolyard was the ideal place to play Crack the Whip and as bullying was alive and well in those days as well, they put one of my classmates on the tail of the whip. He was already in social arrears and had gotten the nickname Allen-Ballen- Lunch Kettle because when he got a new lunch kettle he proudly showed it to the teacher when one of the Big Boys was around. Thus the name.
When indeed that human whip was cracked he went flying into the mud. Hands, face, clothes were caked with gooey brown and he needed to walk the long way back to home and get cleaned up. I don't think anyone paid for their crimes. Indeed, when he returned much later in clean clothes, he still hadn't gotten the picture and proudly announced to the teacher that his mother had given him a marshmallow to comfort him! Talk about red meat to the pack!
Spring, mud and bullies.... the cycles of life. Who knows, the bullies may have had miserable lives and Allen Ballen Lunch Kettle gone on to glorious heights. All I know for sure, is that the April earth is giving rise to green shoots, new beginnings and second chances.
Sen-Sen through the ages
I found an old pack of Sen-Sen in my drawer - popped three little squares into my mouth and was immediately transported back to Weaverland Church! They were one of the acceptable boredom chasers in the face of long sermons! Basically licorice and various other ingredients, they are always a love-hate thing with me. I always think they will be a welcome diversion and they seldom are!
But I just did a quick look-up on-line and discover they came on the market in the late 19th Century and first appeared in a small matchbox-like container with a hole at the one end where you shook out the individual goodies! I had almost forgotten about the early packaging. That was half the fun - to shake them out. And a bit more of a time- killer!
But then the best part of the Wikipedia article: Sen-Sen have been mentioned by the likes of Somerset Maugham, John Steinbeck, Robert Penn Warren, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, Zora Neale Hurston, Toni Morrison, Philip Roth, - even Thomas Harris in Silence of the Lamb!! How exciting is that! A childhood treasure savored in Weaverland Church showing up next to Hannibal Lector! Small world indeed.
But I just did a quick look-up on-line and discover they came on the market in the late 19th Century and first appeared in a small matchbox-like container with a hole at the one end where you shook out the individual goodies! I had almost forgotten about the early packaging. That was half the fun - to shake them out. And a bit more of a time- killer!
But then the best part of the Wikipedia article: Sen-Sen have been mentioned by the likes of Somerset Maugham, John Steinbeck, Robert Penn Warren, Ray Bradbury, Stephen King, Zora Neale Hurston, Toni Morrison, Philip Roth, - even Thomas Harris in Silence of the Lamb!! How exciting is that! A childhood treasure savored in Weaverland Church showing up next to Hannibal Lector! Small world indeed.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
summons to memphis
yesterday's book club - wrap-up of Summons to Memphis by Peter Taylor -
When
George Carver was born, the bells rang out and guns saluted welcoming the heir
to a wealthy Nashville landowner in the early 1900’s. That sense of entitlement
ran wild in his veins until his last breath.
A
charmer from the first, his life flowed through gilded paths. He married a belle
of Nashville’s social echelons, sired four promising children,
achieved business partnership with the charismatic
Lewis Shackleford – what more could one ask for?
Alas,
Mr. Shackleford was a bit too quietly ambitious and the company collapsed in
financial ruin. Rather than face the Nashville music, Mr. George Carver decided
to wipe clean the whole slate of his life to that point and move the family to
Memphis, a city regarded as culturally inferior in every way to Nashville.
Unfortunately, the move distorted the fabric of the family and like the child’s
game of upset-the-fruit basket, each one ended up in a different,
disquieting position.
Always a man whose thumb was firmly on the control
button, George seemed to ratchet up his need for dominance in this new situation
by snuffing out the wills of each family member, particularly in the realm of
relationships as he jealously winnowed suitors from the scene. The original
family circle, with the exception of young George who escaped to his death in
the war, remained magnetized in an unhealthy love-hate dynamic. The sisters
molted into a bizarrely adolescence state, set up housekeeping on their own and
flaunted their status by inappropriate dress and behavior while never missing a
chance for of patriarchal revenge. Philip also went to war and on to New York
City upon his return. All remained unmarried and when, later in life, George has
a chance at re-marriage, the familial chickens come home to roost with a
cackling vengeance.
The
narrator of the story, Philip, through a journal-like account, attempts to
assure us of his ascendance over family problems and particularly his father’s
manipulation, by showing us how he has escaped it all moving to New York City
and establishing his own antique book business and live-in companion. But like a
tightly-stretched rubber band, he keeps zinging back to Memphis at every
“summons” of his sisters. And upon return, the good intentions of forgiveness
melt away at the first glimpse of his father waving on the tarmac – perhaps
greeting, perhaps guiding the plane and his soul into submission.
It is
a Southern tale of land, wealth, bondage, manners, dress and social standing. It
moves from the acclamation of church bells to total humiliation. It embraces
hope, revenge, forgiveness and disingenuous acceptance. Yet through it all the
reader recognizes abruptly that from the best of intentions, humans strive and
fail and strive again – loving all the while with heady blends of adoration and
revulsion. And through the view from Memphis, Mr. Taylor summons us all to look
into that internal mirror of past, present and imperfect tense.
close but no cigar
If politicians were as tenacious as courting titmice, all our problems would be solved before the week's up! Their duets seem to persist from my waking moments until well into the day.
A royal swath of crocuses popped up in a sunny niche on my morning walks, assuring me that the sunny warmth of the day wasn't a total fluke.
Lake Anne is free of ice and the geese are giddy!
The brown looped branches that I brought in ten days ago and placed all over the house have burst into yellow! Each day we watched the promise bloom. Admittedly, an orchestrated promise, but no less a miracle.
Hoodie replaced jacket, gloves and scarf for early morning.
And now, snow.
Sigh.
A royal swath of crocuses popped up in a sunny niche on my morning walks, assuring me that the sunny warmth of the day wasn't a total fluke.
Lake Anne is free of ice and the geese are giddy!
The brown looped branches that I brought in ten days ago and placed all over the house have burst into yellow! Each day we watched the promise bloom. Admittedly, an orchestrated promise, but no less a miracle.
Hoodie replaced jacket, gloves and scarf for early morning.
And now, snow.
Sigh.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
For the past 14 years I have led a book club at the library where I work.
For the past several years I have written a "wrap-up" of the book after our discussion.
I think I will start to share some of them on-line. Today's contribution is Cat's Table.
According to Ondaatje, in 1954 a young boy set off from Colombo to England, on a boat named the Oronsay, to meet his mother after an absence of 4 or 5 years. The boy’s name was Michael, known as Mynah to his friends because of his attentive observations and mimicry of his surroundings.
The ship was filled with passengers, but the ones of immediate interest to Michael were the fellow diners at the Cat’s Table – the lowliest table as far away as possible from the Capitan’s Table. Included in its’ occupants were his two mates, Ramadhin and Cassius. In the three weeks that followed, the trio roamed the ship, exploring dark cavities, skulking on the edges of rendezvous, listening in on conversations, swimming in the first class pool and snatching breakfast before the first class world awoke, crouching at night near the manacled prisoner who was being transported, watching, absorbing, testing, experimenting in all the adult behaviors they witnessed around them.
Though formal supervision was non-existent, they were befriended by Mr. Daniel the botanist who was transporting a garden of exotic plants housed in the gloom of the hold; Mr. Fonseka, a lover of literature who conveyed to them the beauty of language and classic literature; and Mr. Mazappa who taught them jazz and bawdy lyrics. In addition a garish array of characters extended the boys’ education by teaching them how to break and enter, chew and smoke exotic substances, cheat at cards, and in general how to grease their way through sticky situations!
Though Michael entered the ship “trained into cautiousness” from boarding school’s inequities of authority and punishment, nothing had prepared him for the sexual, psychological and emotional onslaught provided by the parade of passengers – each with his own personal murky whirlpools. He learned that despite all levels of class and their incumbent barriers, “what is interesting and important happens mostly in secret.” Against the backdrop of the wild grey sea, cultures flare and dance with color, but underneath there is heartbreak and even death…. but also humor - for if Miss Lasqueti’s paperback annoys her she simply flings it overboard!
Walled in by the sea, the boys stalk life. The nine occupants of the Cat’s Table who all seemed non-descript at first glance, unfold petal by petal into glorious, but sometimes, deadly blooms.
The voyage of Oronsay took permanent form within the eleven year old Michael. And as the years passed he recalled what he learned on board from Mr. Nevil, the destroyer of ships, “In a breaker’s yard you discover anything can have a new life, be reborn as part of a car or railway, carriage or a shovel blade. You take that older life and you link it to a stranger.”
And so do we as we silently sit at the Cat’s Table and partake of Ondaatje’s exquisite sustenance.
For the past several years I have written a "wrap-up" of the book after our discussion.
I think I will start to share some of them on-line. Today's contribution is Cat's Table.
According to Ondaatje, in 1954 a young boy set off from Colombo to England, on a boat named the Oronsay, to meet his mother after an absence of 4 or 5 years. The boy’s name was Michael, known as Mynah to his friends because of his attentive observations and mimicry of his surroundings.
The ship was filled with passengers, but the ones of immediate interest to Michael were the fellow diners at the Cat’s Table – the lowliest table as far away as possible from the Capitan’s Table. Included in its’ occupants were his two mates, Ramadhin and Cassius. In the three weeks that followed, the trio roamed the ship, exploring dark cavities, skulking on the edges of rendezvous, listening in on conversations, swimming in the first class pool and snatching breakfast before the first class world awoke, crouching at night near the manacled prisoner who was being transported, watching, absorbing, testing, experimenting in all the adult behaviors they witnessed around them.
Though formal supervision was non-existent, they were befriended by Mr. Daniel the botanist who was transporting a garden of exotic plants housed in the gloom of the hold; Mr. Fonseka, a lover of literature who conveyed to them the beauty of language and classic literature; and Mr. Mazappa who taught them jazz and bawdy lyrics. In addition a garish array of characters extended the boys’ education by teaching them how to break and enter, chew and smoke exotic substances, cheat at cards, and in general how to grease their way through sticky situations!
Though Michael entered the ship “trained into cautiousness” from boarding school’s inequities of authority and punishment, nothing had prepared him for the sexual, psychological and emotional onslaught provided by the parade of passengers – each with his own personal murky whirlpools. He learned that despite all levels of class and their incumbent barriers, “what is interesting and important happens mostly in secret.” Against the backdrop of the wild grey sea, cultures flare and dance with color, but underneath there is heartbreak and even death…. but also humor - for if Miss Lasqueti’s paperback annoys her she simply flings it overboard!
Walled in by the sea, the boys stalk life. The nine occupants of the Cat’s Table who all seemed non-descript at first glance, unfold petal by petal into glorious, but sometimes, deadly blooms.
The voyage of Oronsay took permanent form within the eleven year old Michael. And as the years passed he recalled what he learned on board from Mr. Nevil, the destroyer of ships, “In a breaker’s yard you discover anything can have a new life, be reborn as part of a car or railway, carriage or a shovel blade. You take that older life and you link it to a stranger.”
And so do we as we silently sit at the Cat’s Table and partake of Ondaatje’s exquisite sustenance.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
white and brown
Today, by the path, a snowdrop slowly unfolding against the brown earth,- a startling touch of soft white. What a burden that little flower bears.... for on it's fragile petals rests the weight of our winter fatigue!
I remember as a child, walks to look for spring flowers were always glorious. Down through muddy fields we tramped seeing who could first spy the spring beauties, snowdrops, May apples, Solomon's seal. Horrified as I am to admit it I think we picked some! But we didn't know.
We didn't know.
How often we are hearing that phrase lately. Often the disclaimer has to do with a racist context. Now as children in the 40's that we didn't know not to pick the rare flowers is understandable. As a person who is alive in 2015 and doesn't know a racial slur when they hear it.... ah, well, that is indeed a horse of a different color - words Mr. Shakespeare's was first to use, apparently
If snowdrops rise against a melting freeze might there hope for a rebirth of civility as well?
I remember as a child, walks to look for spring flowers were always glorious. Down through muddy fields we tramped seeing who could first spy the spring beauties, snowdrops, May apples, Solomon's seal. Horrified as I am to admit it I think we picked some! But we didn't know.
We didn't know.
How often we are hearing that phrase lately. Often the disclaimer has to do with a racist context. Now as children in the 40's that we didn't know not to pick the rare flowers is understandable. As a person who is alive in 2015 and doesn't know a racial slur when they hear it.... ah, well, that is indeed a horse of a different color - words Mr. Shakespeare's was first to use, apparently
If snowdrops rise against a melting freeze might there hope for a rebirth of civility as well?
Monday, March 9, 2015
let it be
minty March sunshine
slips through a
slightly open window.
tagged by a snow-sun breeze
delighting my wintered soul
like cool white wine.
from the hand to hand
The other day as I was walking around the lake I had a vision of eating an apple dumpling! And as I was alone in the house when I returned, I made a single apple dumpling complete with butter, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg and flaky pastry - all which melted deliciously in my mouth, each morsel a delight...and as the commercial said, I couldn't believe I ate the whole thing! I had noble intentions of having it last at least two days. But there it was - gone in the first seating!
But as I was scrubbing out the little tin pie plate that had come from Mother many years ago, I remembered how, as she was busily preparing the Sunday desserts, she would take the left-over scraps from her pastry and put them in this small pie plate and bake them for us. When done she would sprinkle sugar over them and let us eat then warm from the oven.... um.
But even better than the remembered taste was the fact that here I was, in my own kitchen, 65 years later, holding the same pie tin that my mother had baked in, washed and put away, just like I was doing today.
History is a lovely thing.
But as I was scrubbing out the little tin pie plate that had come from Mother many years ago, I remembered how, as she was busily preparing the Sunday desserts, she would take the left-over scraps from her pastry and put them in this small pie plate and bake them for us. When done she would sprinkle sugar over them and let us eat then warm from the oven.... um.
But even better than the remembered taste was the fact that here I was, in my own kitchen, 65 years later, holding the same pie tin that my mother had baked in, washed and put away, just like I was doing today.
History is a lovely thing.
Friday, March 6, 2015
finding the right piece
Jig-saw puzzles have always been a part of my life. From my earliest memories when the first serious flakes of snow started swirling, that was a call to the kitchen table to start on a jig-saw puzzle. My father owned a small business and he usually closed shop and joined us as well. And as the snow piled up, the kitchen noise grew! Dad commanded the bottom edge of the puzzle and Mother the top and we kids filled in. The family joke that resurfaced with every puzzle occasion centered in my brother's taking a bunch of pieces - over to the kitchen counter or somewhere, quietly working on his own, and suddenly he brought back a whole assembled portion! It was some historic scene puzzle that had an American flag waving proudly - and while it was a good-sized portion of the puzzle we always called the obvious, easy part of any puzzle "making flag" and of course scorned the achievement!
But what happens with putting puzzles together? A whole bunch of things! There are judgments concerning color, shape, size of course, but that's just the beginning. The assessing, rejecting, regrouping, organization - its all good for your brain! Especially your aging brain! Synapses cartwheels!
But beyond the mental gymnastics, the shared moments around the table shine with a quiet light.
But what happens with putting puzzles together? A whole bunch of things! There are judgments concerning color, shape, size of course, but that's just the beginning. The assessing, rejecting, regrouping, organization - its all good for your brain! Especially your aging brain! Synapses cartwheels!
But beyond the mental gymnastics, the shared moments around the table shine with a quiet light.
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Violets for Ellie
Yesterday at the library I was using the seat of a chair as a dolly to push a heavy box of books to the delivery bin and my mind flew back to childhood and our occasional visits to an "old peoples' home" - a term so scandalously un-pc these days!
My parents had a family friend, Ellie, whom we would visit from time to time at said institution above. In the spring we children would gather the first smattering of deep purple violets, put them in an old white pitcher and take them in to Ellie. The long brick building was fronted by a large lawn dotted with trees and double swings, swaying back and forth with elderly residents. As we entered and the door squeezed shut behind us, the breezy sunshine of the day was replaced by the sharp smell of medicine, disinfectant and floor polish.
Reaching the second floor Room 277, the door opened to our friend
Ellie, She was scarcely as tall as me, and chuckled quietly all the time and said, "my , my, my." I stretched to place the pitcher of violets on her dresser amid medicine bottles, dusty plastic flowers and framed pictures of babies. Ellie sat primly on her patchwork chair in the corner, while Mother fanned and fanned in the over-heated room. We children lined up on the edge of the bed, legs swinging in quiet boredom.
Finally we were granted permission to roam... and roam we did! We looked for our "favorite" people. There was Lizzie who was always needing to "fetch the cows" and must never be given scissors, Mother said. And Fannie whose chin seemed to be attached to her neck. And an unknown person who pushed a chair before her always. We always tried to peer surreptitiously and were faultlessly polite.
When at last the visit was done, we waited for the grand finale. Ellie, our sweet little friend, who could not bear to face the world full on, backed down the stairs! Carefully. When she reached the bottom, she turned around, still chuckling and said, "My, my, I haven't been down here since last fall."
To the our sun-shot world of running, jumping, climbing, swinging, playing endlessly, it was truly awesome - when the word still meant something!
My parents had a family friend, Ellie, whom we would visit from time to time at said institution above. In the spring we children would gather the first smattering of deep purple violets, put them in an old white pitcher and take them in to Ellie. The long brick building was fronted by a large lawn dotted with trees and double swings, swaying back and forth with elderly residents. As we entered and the door squeezed shut behind us, the breezy sunshine of the day was replaced by the sharp smell of medicine, disinfectant and floor polish.
Reaching the second floor Room 277, the door opened to our friend
Ellie, She was scarcely as tall as me, and chuckled quietly all the time and said, "my , my, my." I stretched to place the pitcher of violets on her dresser amid medicine bottles, dusty plastic flowers and framed pictures of babies. Ellie sat primly on her patchwork chair in the corner, while Mother fanned and fanned in the over-heated room. We children lined up on the edge of the bed, legs swinging in quiet boredom.
Finally we were granted permission to roam... and roam we did! We looked for our "favorite" people. There was Lizzie who was always needing to "fetch the cows" and must never be given scissors, Mother said. And Fannie whose chin seemed to be attached to her neck. And an unknown person who pushed a chair before her always. We always tried to peer surreptitiously and were faultlessly polite.
When at last the visit was done, we waited for the grand finale. Ellie, our sweet little friend, who could not bear to face the world full on, backed down the stairs! Carefully. When she reached the bottom, she turned around, still chuckling and said, "My, my, I haven't been down here since last fall."
To the our sun-shot world of running, jumping, climbing, swinging, playing endlessly, it was truly awesome - when the word still meant something!
Monday, February 16, 2015
save the date
Isn't it funny how the powers that be can just take a famous person's birthday and say - never mind that your birthday is on February 22, it's more convenient for me to celebrate it on - say like the third Monday of February, whatever the date might be! Like the ultimate snub more than a celebration!
Ever notice how the more highly evolved we become the more we streamline everything to one unrecognizable blob of commonality?! We do everything for the maximum efficiency and how much money we can save or make!
Washington was born on February 22. The holiday apparently was celebrated since 1879 when it became official. Not until the enlightenment of 1971 was it merged into another day, shared with Lincoln, on neither one's actual birthday! I hear the justification was a four-day weekend for workers, and a uniform time for merchants. Well by all means!!
Seriously, we are a crazy bunch. I for one will raise a glass on the 22nd for good old George. As for Abe, due to my inattention, I already missed his. Better luck next year, when I will mark my own calendar with real events!
Ever notice how the more highly evolved we become the more we streamline everything to one unrecognizable blob of commonality?! We do everything for the maximum efficiency and how much money we can save or make!
Washington was born on February 22. The holiday apparently was celebrated since 1879 when it became official. Not until the enlightenment of 1971 was it merged into another day, shared with Lincoln, on neither one's actual birthday! I hear the justification was a four-day weekend for workers, and a uniform time for merchants. Well by all means!!
Seriously, we are a crazy bunch. I for one will raise a glass on the 22nd for good old George. As for Abe, due to my inattention, I already missed his. Better luck next year, when I will mark my own calendar with real events!
Friday, February 13, 2015
hearts
I think I probably wrote about this before but there isn't a Valentine Day that rolls around that I don't think of this incident and am humbled, so bear with me as I don this year's hair shirt!
The year is most likely 1950 and in our humble schoolhouse, I'm a dweller of the Lowers, Grades 1-4. And as was always the case in those days, in great anticipation of the Holiday of Love we covered a box of some size with white paper and cut-out hearts and valentine doilies. The regal box had a large slit at the top to drop said Valentines in as the days went by. I remember Mother buying Valentines - sometimes in a pack, sometimes the kind that you had to punch out of paper molds. We spent nights matching the appropriate ones to our classmates. Mother always insisted that we give one to everyone.
Not every mother was so inclined. And on that exciting day when St. Valentine finally swooped into our little classroom and the box 's contents were revealed and delivered, it was always a contest to see who got the most Valentines - and then of course to feign modesty if it happened to be you!
When into this frenzied ego trip came one of my conservative Mennonite classmates, with a cloth-lined basket walking up and down the aisles handing out freshly baked homemade sugar cookies slathered with rich creamy icing as her Valentines. And I felt so sorry for her that she didn't have flimsy little paper Valentines to hand out like most of the rest of us. Imagine how she must have felt!
Imagine how I feel 65 years later! Horrified by my snobbery and small mindedness.
And longing to have one of those cookies in my mouth this very minute!
The year is most likely 1950 and in our humble schoolhouse, I'm a dweller of the Lowers, Grades 1-4. And as was always the case in those days, in great anticipation of the Holiday of Love we covered a box of some size with white paper and cut-out hearts and valentine doilies. The regal box had a large slit at the top to drop said Valentines in as the days went by. I remember Mother buying Valentines - sometimes in a pack, sometimes the kind that you had to punch out of paper molds. We spent nights matching the appropriate ones to our classmates. Mother always insisted that we give one to everyone.
Not every mother was so inclined. And on that exciting day when St. Valentine finally swooped into our little classroom and the box 's contents were revealed and delivered, it was always a contest to see who got the most Valentines - and then of course to feign modesty if it happened to be you!
When into this frenzied ego trip came one of my conservative Mennonite classmates, with a cloth-lined basket walking up and down the aisles handing out freshly baked homemade sugar cookies slathered with rich creamy icing as her Valentines. And I felt so sorry for her that she didn't have flimsy little paper Valentines to hand out like most of the rest of us. Imagine how she must have felt!
Imagine how I feel 65 years later! Horrified by my snobbery and small mindedness.
And longing to have one of those cookies in my mouth this very minute!
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Strike up the band
Someone said this morning, "It was snowing to beat the band!". Why do we use that expression? And of course I looked it up!
"Beat the band" has come to mean to the extreme - perhaps outdoing the noise of a band, or the entertainment value since in the early days, a band was the ultimate.
I love that! Henceforth when I hear that expression, I will think of watching out of a 2nd story shop window, against a dark October night, and feeling the utmost excitement when a band came strutting down the crowded streets of New Holland on Parade Night! My heart thrilled to the spangled, plumed uniforms, the muffled boom of the drums, the majorettes with their flying batons, (and , gasp, skimpy outfits!) and of course the patriotic, popular music. It was ultimate magic to my four-year-old heart.
So bring it on, beat the band - make my day! I will remember with joy!
"Beat the band" has come to mean to the extreme - perhaps outdoing the noise of a band, or the entertainment value since in the early days, a band was the ultimate.
I love that! Henceforth when I hear that expression, I will think of watching out of a 2nd story shop window, against a dark October night, and feeling the utmost excitement when a band came strutting down the crowded streets of New Holland on Parade Night! My heart thrilled to the spangled, plumed uniforms, the muffled boom of the drums, the majorettes with their flying batons, (and , gasp, skimpy outfits!) and of course the patriotic, popular music. It was ultimate magic to my four-year-old heart.
So bring it on, beat the band - make my day! I will remember with joy!
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Order
I saw a scary movie last night, based on a Poe story, dealing with Victorian asylums - always the stuff of intrigue and horror! And I have read over the last decade, books dealing with confinements - particularly of women for incidents of hysteria, willfulness - or simple dislike! And the methods of "treatment" are unwatchable or unreadable.
I think we are more enlightened. But still, I think we are ill-equipped to handle those of don't conform to our expectations of civility. This week in working at a different library that is located near a homeless shelter, I encountered in the three working hours there, a lady who carried on a vigorous conversation with the inhabitants inside her head, the entire time. She changed cadence and tone to fully accommodate the parameters of the discussion. It was eerie and unsettling.
My first impulse was not of sympathy but of wanting to be rid of her, hoping she would leave, wanting my orderly world to fall back into comfortable place.
Hmm.
february tease
Spring crooked
a sly finger today,
beckoning me
to the land
of crocus
and tee-shirts.
But
I
know
better.
a sly finger today,
beckoning me
to the land
of crocus
and tee-shirts.
But
I
know
better.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
school days
I'm reading The Whistling Season by Ivan Doig for my book club. It's set in Montana in 1909 and centers around a one-room schoolhouse and the lives of its inhabitants. And although my early schooling featured two rooms Upper and Lower, the spirit emanating from the pages is very recognizable.
Critics may say that we received an inferior education in those sparse two rooms, which so few enhancements beyond the battered texts that were solemnly handed out at the beginning of each year, but what was lacking in externals perhaps was more than compensated in spirit.
We were a community. Obviously we knew everyone. When the sum total of four grades equaled about 36 children, there weren't sheltering corners. You knew, loved, feared, resented, envied, admired, tolerated everyone. No mysteries.
But how many priceless truths were learned in a game of recess "round-town" or hopscotch, or Flying Dutchmen? Or in "fetching" water in a pail, or earning the right to ring the bell, pulling on that gnarled, rough rope as hard as you could (and pray not to leave the floor in my case!) or clapping erasers or washing the blackboards, or sweeping the oiled floors? Music was provided by the ancient off-key piano and our enthusiastic voices. Art was white paste and construction paper. Lunch often involved potatoes baking on the ledge of the big coal stove in the front of the room. Lessons were heard four times - once with your small group and then again below or above you, reinforcing what you had learned and opening windows to new ground. As you weren't even allowed to take textbooks home, when that bell rang at three you were done. Period. Think of that in light of today's children who face hours of homework as well as other organized activities before their heads hit the pillow at night.
Inferior education? I'm whistling through my childhood season along with the kids in Montana!
Critics may say that we received an inferior education in those sparse two rooms, which so few enhancements beyond the battered texts that were solemnly handed out at the beginning of each year, but what was lacking in externals perhaps was more than compensated in spirit.
We were a community. Obviously we knew everyone. When the sum total of four grades equaled about 36 children, there weren't sheltering corners. You knew, loved, feared, resented, envied, admired, tolerated everyone. No mysteries.
But how many priceless truths were learned in a game of recess "round-town" or hopscotch, or Flying Dutchmen? Or in "fetching" water in a pail, or earning the right to ring the bell, pulling on that gnarled, rough rope as hard as you could (and pray not to leave the floor in my case!) or clapping erasers or washing the blackboards, or sweeping the oiled floors? Music was provided by the ancient off-key piano and our enthusiastic voices. Art was white paste and construction paper. Lunch often involved potatoes baking on the ledge of the big coal stove in the front of the room. Lessons were heard four times - once with your small group and then again below or above you, reinforcing what you had learned and opening windows to new ground. As you weren't even allowed to take textbooks home, when that bell rang at three you were done. Period. Think of that in light of today's children who face hours of homework as well as other organized activities before their heads hit the pillow at night.
Inferior education? I'm whistling through my childhood season along with the kids in Montana!
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Growing them smart these days
Small library patron (age 5 max) with a tiara and flouncy skirt: "where are your books on presidents?"
Me: "presidents of the United States?"
Small p: "yes ma'am."
A jaunt to the 900's where books with lists and brief descriptions of them live.
Small p after brief glance: "actually I like to read about their lives"
Me (!): "okay, lets go to the biographies. which one would you like to start with?" (betting on Washington or Lincoln)
Pause by Small p: "Let's start with Grant." (!!)
I came back to my colleague and asked what she was reading at 5 and she said without a pause, "Uncle Wiggly"
Whew, thank God, I'm not alone!
Me: "presidents of the United States?"
Small p: "yes ma'am."
A jaunt to the 900's where books with lists and brief descriptions of them live.
Small p after brief glance: "actually I like to read about their lives"
Me (!): "okay, lets go to the biographies. which one would you like to start with?" (betting on Washington or Lincoln)
Pause by Small p: "Let's start with Grant." (!!)
I came back to my colleague and asked what she was reading at 5 and she said without a pause, "Uncle Wiggly"
Whew, thank God, I'm not alone!
Fish-horn
We had a transom over the door of our "front room" in my childhood home. I can't remember if it was glorified in any way by designs painted or etched. What did give it distinction was the sound it emitted when the wind blew strongly - a hoarse, wild-sounding blare. It was most startling to a stranger, but to us kids, it was intriguing. We called it the fish-horn for some reason.
More than the sound, was the feeling of security it gave me. I imagined all sorts of wild scenarios out there in the stormy night as the wind howled around us. But inside we were circled in comfort, warm, dry and usually in the midst of a spirited family game or deep in the heart of a book.
Fish-horns are good, occasionally, to alert us to danger, but more importantly to underline what is keeping us safe.
More than the sound, was the feeling of security it gave me. I imagined all sorts of wild scenarios out there in the stormy night as the wind howled around us. But inside we were circled in comfort, warm, dry and usually in the midst of a spirited family game or deep in the heart of a book.
Fish-horns are good, occasionally, to alert us to danger, but more importantly to underline what is keeping us safe.
Saturday, January 24, 2015
silence
Our media kills me.
I understand all about hype and how it sells. But must we hear for days and days in advance about the snow storm that will surely alter all our lives and turns out, when the fateful day actually arrives, not to contain one flake or crystal of ice? Could they maybe just say there is a possibility???
I know, I know, I don't have to listen. I happen to be a news junkie, so I share the blame. But really this weather business each winter gets worse I think. I know the only factor in this dilemma that can be altered is me..... sigh.
The one thing that I truly am thankful for this morning is that the rain has washed all the chemicals from my car! And I'm sure the rain is good for the earth. And I'm grateful that none of the traffic/human chaos that always occurs in the DC area with a snowstorm has happened.
... but just once I would love a deep, white snowstorm that quiets all the insanity for just a brief moment.... reminding us of an earlier time when the world was still and you could hear the earth's music.
I understand all about hype and how it sells. But must we hear for days and days in advance about the snow storm that will surely alter all our lives and turns out, when the fateful day actually arrives, not to contain one flake or crystal of ice? Could they maybe just say there is a possibility???
I know, I know, I don't have to listen. I happen to be a news junkie, so I share the blame. But really this weather business each winter gets worse I think. I know the only factor in this dilemma that can be altered is me..... sigh.
The one thing that I truly am thankful for this morning is that the rain has washed all the chemicals from my car! And I'm sure the rain is good for the earth. And I'm grateful that none of the traffic/human chaos that always occurs in the DC area with a snowstorm has happened.
... but just once I would love a deep, white snowstorm that quiets all the insanity for just a brief moment.... reminding us of an earlier time when the world was still and you could hear the earth's music.
Friday, January 16, 2015
tonic
Do you ever feel that you are having an out-of-body feeling looking back on your life? Did I really do that - both good things and bad?
I think all of us have dividers in our lives, like putting those plastic sticks on the check-out conveyor belt to denote where your purchase stops and starts. I do that with my life: childhood, schooling, marriage, teaching abroad, grad school, small children, work, teen children, , full-time work, part-time work and eventual retirement..... marker, marker, marker!
When I stop to reflect, I can scarcely recognize the me inside some of those markers! Sometimes I'm proud, chagrined, unbelieving, sad, satisfied.
I'm friends with someone who fights for serenity every day, every minute because depressing battle fatigue tends to take over - like a cardboard cutout that you have to prop from every side with serious weights.
I can't conceive of such a condition.
Despite whatever regrets I may have in looking back, most of the time, in the ongoing moment, I'm content.
If I could bottle that elixir, I'd be a wealthy woman as well as a happy one!
I think all of us have dividers in our lives, like putting those plastic sticks on the check-out conveyor belt to denote where your purchase stops and starts. I do that with my life: childhood, schooling, marriage, teaching abroad, grad school, small children, work, teen children, , full-time work, part-time work and eventual retirement..... marker, marker, marker!
When I stop to reflect, I can scarcely recognize the me inside some of those markers! Sometimes I'm proud, chagrined, unbelieving, sad, satisfied.
I'm friends with someone who fights for serenity every day, every minute because depressing battle fatigue tends to take over - like a cardboard cutout that you have to prop from every side with serious weights.
I can't conceive of such a condition.
Despite whatever regrets I may have in looking back, most of the time, in the ongoing moment, I'm content.
If I could bottle that elixir, I'd be a wealthy woman as well as a happy one!
Friday, January 9, 2015
Sandman
Naps.
I've never taken them on a regular basis.
But my dad took them like clockwork. Every day at noon he came home for a meal - and I mean a meal - not just a sandwich or some sort - and after that he would retire to the davenport in the front room and snooze. I certainly don't remember how long he slept - what is time to a child! But at a given signal, some internal alarm woke him and he was up and off to work for the rest of the day. I'm sure it benefited him no end. It benefited us children by the coins we dug out from deep in the cushions! But in retrospect I think - what a lovely leisurely way to enhance your day.
Now I know my retired older sibs do exactly the same thing! At night I can sometimes doze off for about fifteen minutes sitting in my recliner reading. But if the nap goes beyond that I awake feeling utterly disoriented!
Why is it that some people can slip into the arms of Morpheus easily and love the experience and for others those arms disrupt the day entirely?
I've never taken them on a regular basis.
But my dad took them like clockwork. Every day at noon he came home for a meal - and I mean a meal - not just a sandwich or some sort - and after that he would retire to the davenport in the front room and snooze. I certainly don't remember how long he slept - what is time to a child! But at a given signal, some internal alarm woke him and he was up and off to work for the rest of the day. I'm sure it benefited him no end. It benefited us children by the coins we dug out from deep in the cushions! But in retrospect I think - what a lovely leisurely way to enhance your day.
Now I know my retired older sibs do exactly the same thing! At night I can sometimes doze off for about fifteen minutes sitting in my recliner reading. But if the nap goes beyond that I awake feeling utterly disoriented!
Why is it that some people can slip into the arms of Morpheus easily and love the experience and for others those arms disrupt the day entirely?
Monday, January 5, 2015
Elusive
Two hugs from patrons today who hadn't seen me for a while. How many jobs offer that as a benefit?
One was a patron from South Africa - long resident of US, but still has a glorious patrician look, accent, bearing. We were talking about her daughter at UVA who is a reporter for the school newspaper and has been in the thick of the fraternity/date/rape furor. Then conversation branched to the most recent murder there and the ones that preceded it. And the 15 unsolved murders along Rt. 29.
Suddenly I remembered one beautiful girl, daughter of a college classmate, on her way to marriage and life, when she stopped by the side of Rt. 29..... forever.
One was a patron from South Africa - long resident of US, but still has a glorious patrician look, accent, bearing. We were talking about her daughter at UVA who is a reporter for the school newspaper and has been in the thick of the fraternity/date/rape furor. Then conversation branched to the most recent murder there and the ones that preceded it. And the 15 unsolved murders along Rt. 29.
Suddenly I remembered one beautiful girl, daughter of a college classmate, on her way to marriage and life, when she stopped by the side of Rt. 29..... forever.
Saturday, January 3, 2015
before his time
In Target.
Marv needed toothpicks.
I stood stock still in the baking items aisle, not finding them. Where in this huge expanse of red and white circles and shining lights would I look for toothpicks. The proverbial needle in a haystack.
Seeing a young man unloading soda at the end of the aisle I asked him.
"Toothpicks?" he smiled uncomfortably. "I would have to look that up." Whipped out a phone of some sort. Apologetically, "Is that one word or two?"
"One," I said taking pity and realizing suddenly I was asking for something outside his "ken"!
"Aw, here it is - A-16 at the front of the store" he beamed with an enormous smile of relief!
How sweet. Toothpicks. Hmmmm. 70 is getting older.
Marv needed toothpicks.
I stood stock still in the baking items aisle, not finding them. Where in this huge expanse of red and white circles and shining lights would I look for toothpicks. The proverbial needle in a haystack.
Seeing a young man unloading soda at the end of the aisle I asked him.
"Toothpicks?" he smiled uncomfortably. "I would have to look that up." Whipped out a phone of some sort. Apologetically, "Is that one word or two?"
"One," I said taking pity and realizing suddenly I was asking for something outside his "ken"!
"Aw, here it is - A-16 at the front of the store" he beamed with an enormous smile of relief!
How sweet. Toothpicks. Hmmmm. 70 is getting older.
Friday, January 2, 2015
outlook
The book I'm reading - correction, one of the books I'm reading! - has the line, "I always remember my mother as being in a good mood."
And it stopped me. I thought back to my mother and with an overwhelming wave of gratitude I realized I could say the same thing. Not that my mother didn't get angry - oh I can quite recall the time I appeared at the back door(sent by older sibs) with black oozing pitch over my white sandals after having gotten into my father's forbidden roofing supplies - my mother's mood was definitely not good!
But I'm talking a day-in, day-out let-the-merry-sunshine-in disposition. She was definitely a glass half-full person. Optimism ruled. She dwelt in the sunny side of the street as much as possible. Not that she didn't have burdens to bear, but, hey, why not be happy along the way. Pollyanna, Anne of Green Gables? Yes, she loved them. Happy endings? Yes. But beyond that, she felt that Life had dealt her a very favorable hand and she was grateful.
And so am I. For her, for her unquenchable gift of sunshine.
And it stopped me. I thought back to my mother and with an overwhelming wave of gratitude I realized I could say the same thing. Not that my mother didn't get angry - oh I can quite recall the time I appeared at the back door(sent by older sibs) with black oozing pitch over my white sandals after having gotten into my father's forbidden roofing supplies - my mother's mood was definitely not good!
But I'm talking a day-in, day-out let-the-merry-sunshine-in disposition. She was definitely a glass half-full person. Optimism ruled. She dwelt in the sunny side of the street as much as possible. Not that she didn't have burdens to bear, but, hey, why not be happy along the way. Pollyanna, Anne of Green Gables? Yes, she loved them. Happy endings? Yes. But beyond that, she felt that Life had dealt her a very favorable hand and she was grateful.
And so am I. For her, for her unquenchable gift of sunshine.
January 1
New year.
How inviting, daunting, inspiring, challenging, scary, exciting....... on and on.
It seems so limitless. White pages, no writing. A pie uncut. Play ball!
Though I never was ambitious, I think as I grow older, I view a new year with a prayer for health and harmony most of all. That doesn't seem like a lot to ask for, but it's the world.
Health is #1, because if you don't have it, every other aspect of your life is jeopardized.
And harmony is #1-A because if you don't have harmony with the world, your work, your community, your neighborhood, your household, your soul - again, everything is up for grabs. You are atilt.
So we do what we can with the health thing. Still, despite all our efforts, stuff happens.
And we do what we can about the harmony thing. Still, again, we are disquieted.
My advice: eat your broccoli and meditate - a lot!
How inviting, daunting, inspiring, challenging, scary, exciting....... on and on.
It seems so limitless. White pages, no writing. A pie uncut. Play ball!
Though I never was ambitious, I think as I grow older, I view a new year with a prayer for health and harmony most of all. That doesn't seem like a lot to ask for, but it's the world.
Health is #1, because if you don't have it, every other aspect of your life is jeopardized.
And harmony is #1-A because if you don't have harmony with the world, your work, your community, your neighborhood, your household, your soul - again, everything is up for grabs. You are atilt.
So we do what we can with the health thing. Still, despite all our efforts, stuff happens.
And we do what we can about the harmony thing. Still, again, we are disquieted.
My advice: eat your broccoli and meditate - a lot!
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