This morning I linked up to Spotify and the 50's as I was doing my morning crossword puzzle. It took me forever to complete because I had to get up and dance every second song! Those wonderful, catchy-tune/ridiculous-lyric songs!! As each new one popped up I could feel myself being transported back to the living room, the bedroom, the kitchen of our Hinkletown home!
Saturday morning's Your Hit Parade really messed up my cleaning procedures which were sketchy at best and very distractible. Mother's instructions were to dust and sweep the living room and I recall a very superficial interpretation! But the music soared and sweetened the chore. Love yearned for, achieved, lost, mourned, warned against, and sought all over again!
And the living room never really did get cleaned.
Saturday, June 30, 2018
Wednesday, June 27, 2018
Jumping rope.
The two words evoke all kinds of images to me. I guess mainly I think of recess at Hinkletown School when we would stream out of the oiled floored classrooms and grab that rope. It had to be heavy enough to swing perfect arcs providing safe, predictable rhythms to enter the dance. It was one activity that our "modest" dresses didn't produce a show of underwear for the ever vigilant farm boys eyes! Recent attempts at rope-jumping have revealed to me that it is utterly exhausting! But still in the early days we lined up, two or three jumping at one time and the rest waiting their turn. Fifteen minutes of cardio before we returned to our desks.
But the big guns in rope jumping happened at events like farm sales - I remember one in particular where a big rope was put into action on a wide wooden barn floor. I can't even imagine that the girls could turn it, but that rope was lethal! I remember one girl misjudged her entry timing and that harsh, prickly, huge rope neatly snapped her glasses in two! Not to mention the "brush-burns" resulting from the rope hitting a too-slow arm or leg!
No one told us it was good exercise, it was just good fun! Different accounts take its origin back to ancient China. The Dutch seem to get the early credit in America - maybe that's why we called the simultaneously swung ropes Double Dutch! In any case, it is lovely to think of children all through the ages delighting in this simple, exhilarating event. A rope, an arm, two agile feet.
No wifi required.
The two words evoke all kinds of images to me. I guess mainly I think of recess at Hinkletown School when we would stream out of the oiled floored classrooms and grab that rope. It had to be heavy enough to swing perfect arcs providing safe, predictable rhythms to enter the dance. It was one activity that our "modest" dresses didn't produce a show of underwear for the ever vigilant farm boys eyes! Recent attempts at rope-jumping have revealed to me that it is utterly exhausting! But still in the early days we lined up, two or three jumping at one time and the rest waiting their turn. Fifteen minutes of cardio before we returned to our desks.
But the big guns in rope jumping happened at events like farm sales - I remember one in particular where a big rope was put into action on a wide wooden barn floor. I can't even imagine that the girls could turn it, but that rope was lethal! I remember one girl misjudged her entry timing and that harsh, prickly, huge rope neatly snapped her glasses in two! Not to mention the "brush-burns" resulting from the rope hitting a too-slow arm or leg!
No one told us it was good exercise, it was just good fun! Different accounts take its origin back to ancient China. The Dutch seem to get the early credit in America - maybe that's why we called the simultaneously swung ropes Double Dutch! In any case, it is lovely to think of children all through the ages delighting in this simple, exhilarating event. A rope, an arm, two agile feet.
No wifi required.
Tuesday, June 26, 2018
Break!
Yesterday was the first visit to the pool for the summer - for me. It struck me how that I have been using Reston pools for 38 years and while the externals change, updates in pool furniture, personnel, accessories, some things never change!
First, the inanity for the ice-cream truck's tinny song that cranks on forever and ever, The Entertainer's endless monotonous calliope tinkle, luring in the kids as surely as moths to a flame. The there is the lifeguard's incessant whistle for swim lane invasion, hanging on the ropes, "NO RUNNING" orders, and the perpetual game of Marco Polo that manages at some point to push you into the teeth-grinding mode.
All distractions.
But other than that - the first time my hot, flushed body ducks under the water, swimming across the bottom through the aqua, sunlit water, and surfaces with a sigh, I know I'm home.
Summer and Reston pool-time. Such a far cry from the Conestoga Creek!
First, the inanity for the ice-cream truck's tinny song that cranks on forever and ever, The Entertainer's endless monotonous calliope tinkle, luring in the kids as surely as moths to a flame. The there is the lifeguard's incessant whistle for swim lane invasion, hanging on the ropes, "NO RUNNING" orders, and the perpetual game of Marco Polo that manages at some point to push you into the teeth-grinding mode.
All distractions.
But other than that - the first time my hot, flushed body ducks under the water, swimming across the bottom through the aqua, sunlit water, and surfaces with a sigh, I know I'm home.
Summer and Reston pool-time. Such a far cry from the Conestoga Creek!
Monday, June 25, 2018
walking along
Walking along,
I picked
an early morning bouquet
of snowballs,
sheeting fountains,
blue skies,
swaying day lilies,
swooping swallows,
dancing lakes,
- and tied them all up
with a cool breeze bow.
Monday,
may I present
a small token
of my profound appreciation!
.
I picked
an early morning bouquet
of snowballs,
sheeting fountains,
blue skies,
swaying day lilies,
swooping swallows,
dancing lakes,
- and tied them all up
with a cool breeze bow.
Monday,
may I present
a small token
of my profound appreciation!
.
Tuesday, June 19, 2018
and away we go
Our library's summer reading program's theme is "Reading Takes You Everywhere."
And the first time I saw that I went flying back - mentally - to Nancy Drew and her adventures! As a child I may have lived in a sleepy little village in Lancaster County, but with ND's help I was exploring spooky passageways that led to cobwebbed attics, or tracking down a gang of counterfeit swindlers in caves, or following malicious doctors into private hospitals where patients were being held prisoners - the world's oyster had cracked wide open!
And thus one of the greatest pleasures of my life began.
Think of the gift of reading - mere words on a page transporting you far beyond the limits of your world wherever it may be, however old/young rich/poor, ill/healthy you are.
And for a little while you are completely and gloriously lost. Amazing.
Now, back to Magpie Murders.
Monday, June 18, 2018
faith of our fathers
Another postscript to Father's Day -
I am reading Tender is the Night and came upon this gorgeous passage as Dick Diver kneels in the old cemetery by his father's grave:
"These dead, he knew them all, their weather-beaten faces with blue flashing eyes, the spare, violent bodies, the souls made of new earth in the forest-heavy darkness of the seventeenth century. 'Good-bye, my father, and all my fathers.'"
Sometime I think we fret that the world as we know it will simply implode from all the deadly news.
But those who have gone before us have left deep, hopeful footsteps for us to follow.
Or ignore.
I am reading Tender is the Night and came upon this gorgeous passage as Dick Diver kneels in the old cemetery by his father's grave:
"These dead, he knew them all, their weather-beaten faces with blue flashing eyes, the spare, violent bodies, the souls made of new earth in the forest-heavy darkness of the seventeenth century. 'Good-bye, my father, and all my fathers.'"
Sometime I think we fret that the world as we know it will simply implode from all the deadly news.
But those who have gone before us have left deep, hopeful footsteps for us to follow.
Or ignore.
Saturday, June 16, 2018
father's day
Father's Day.
The more books I read, the shows I watch, the programs I listen to, the people I meet and hear the father accounts, I want to blurt out my story. But my background tells me that would be bragging - although I had not the slightest thing to do with being my father's daughter.
As I think of my childhood, Dad is always there, physically, spiritually, morally, socially - name the way. He was our rock, our staying point, our refuge, our background color, our protector, our benefactor. I scratch the years for faults and of course there were short-comings of day-to-day living - sometimes being late for something, sometimes taking too much time for someone else, but you see what I mean-its really vague. He did have expectations of behavior and beliefs, but they were so in line with all our friends, neighbors, church members, relatives that they didn't seem onerous.
He was quiet, gentle, long-suffering, charitable, forgiving, but never dull. He had an adventurous spirit that pushed him from the earliest days to travel. He would get "wild ideas" according to my home-loving mother, and after much persuasion, she'd relent and join him on the open road.
I don't know what he would have accomplished with formal education because he had his own business at the end of his teens and when at last he retired in his sixties, he took a realtor exam and sold houses at his leisure. He was never wealthy, but always comfortable and shared his bounty with us, the neighbors, the extended family, the world.
And when he died suddenly at 71 we knew that our mother thought that until that day she had been the luckiest woman in the world. Ditto his children.
So, on this Father's Day, I don't want to brag, but I walked with one of the great ones - for 38 years.
And I cherish each in his presence and in his memory.
The more books I read, the shows I watch, the programs I listen to, the people I meet and hear the father accounts, I want to blurt out my story. But my background tells me that would be bragging - although I had not the slightest thing to do with being my father's daughter.
As I think of my childhood, Dad is always there, physically, spiritually, morally, socially - name the way. He was our rock, our staying point, our refuge, our background color, our protector, our benefactor. I scratch the years for faults and of course there were short-comings of day-to-day living - sometimes being late for something, sometimes taking too much time for someone else, but you see what I mean-its really vague. He did have expectations of behavior and beliefs, but they were so in line with all our friends, neighbors, church members, relatives that they didn't seem onerous.
He was quiet, gentle, long-suffering, charitable, forgiving, but never dull. He had an adventurous spirit that pushed him from the earliest days to travel. He would get "wild ideas" according to my home-loving mother, and after much persuasion, she'd relent and join him on the open road.
I don't know what he would have accomplished with formal education because he had his own business at the end of his teens and when at last he retired in his sixties, he took a realtor exam and sold houses at his leisure. He was never wealthy, but always comfortable and shared his bounty with us, the neighbors, the extended family, the world.
And when he died suddenly at 71 we knew that our mother thought that until that day she had been the luckiest woman in the world. Ditto his children.
So, on this Father's Day, I don't want to brag, but I walked with one of the great ones - for 38 years.
And I cherish each in his presence and in his memory.
Thursday, June 14, 2018
feet
I came upon this quote - clearly in my handwriting on a random scrap of paper - " You are the place I stand when my feet are sore."
Love it. Have zero recollection of where it comes from. Have zero recollection of writing it! But never mind, I have lived a few years.
Back to the quote - if someone said it to me I doubt I could feel more honored. Balm for sore feet. Bliss.
I once had a friend who would pay his kids 50 cents for a half- hour foot massage!
I love pedicures for all kinds of reasons, but that warm, currented soak before anything begins is the portal to heaven. Yes you can soak your own feet and rub them but that somehow is not the same. You want that external pampering.
Now, feet washing as a kid in summer was a nightly affair as daily showers or baths were unheard of in our house with limited water. And never mind the spa waters or the gentle gelled massages. A basin or bucket of water was plopped down somewhere and said, dirty feet were inserted. Feet that had clambered over fields, stream, driveways, grasses, barns, oiled floors and gathered all the dust of the centuries were summarily dunked and cleansed. Or at least the first coat of grime fell away! With a houseful of children, you didn't linger for the spa treatment!
Feet. So much depends on their happiness.
Love it. Have zero recollection of where it comes from. Have zero recollection of writing it! But never mind, I have lived a few years.
Back to the quote - if someone said it to me I doubt I could feel more honored. Balm for sore feet. Bliss.
I once had a friend who would pay his kids 50 cents for a half- hour foot massage!
I love pedicures for all kinds of reasons, but that warm, currented soak before anything begins is the portal to heaven. Yes you can soak your own feet and rub them but that somehow is not the same. You want that external pampering.
Now, feet washing as a kid in summer was a nightly affair as daily showers or baths were unheard of in our house with limited water. And never mind the spa waters or the gentle gelled massages. A basin or bucket of water was plopped down somewhere and said, dirty feet were inserted. Feet that had clambered over fields, stream, driveways, grasses, barns, oiled floors and gathered all the dust of the centuries were summarily dunked and cleansed. Or at least the first coat of grime fell away! With a houseful of children, you didn't linger for the spa treatment!
Feet. So much depends on their happiness.
Monday, June 11, 2018
slippery slope
Wax paper.
It used to be it was an item I remember from the way-long-ago past. And its uses were many, although I cannot see a roll of waxed paper without thinking - sliding boards! We would sit on a piece of wax paper and slide down whatever slope we had - ending up with quite slippery ("slippy" as we said in those days!) surfaces. Down at our summer cabin by the creek there was a long metal sliding board that required years to build courage even to climb the huge ladder steps.
But earliest use of said wax paper was on our cellar door. We would apply enough wax paper to get a decent quick slide - all of about five feet, probably! And of course there were skirts to deal with - and consequent splinters. And in the case of the cabin's long slide, that metal could get mighty hot for bare legs on a fine summer day!
Nowadays, I tear off a sheet of wax paper and cover my items to microwave.
How utterly boring. This is progress?
It used to be it was an item I remember from the way-long-ago past. And its uses were many, although I cannot see a roll of waxed paper without thinking - sliding boards! We would sit on a piece of wax paper and slide down whatever slope we had - ending up with quite slippery ("slippy" as we said in those days!) surfaces. Down at our summer cabin by the creek there was a long metal sliding board that required years to build courage even to climb the huge ladder steps.
But earliest use of said wax paper was on our cellar door. We would apply enough wax paper to get a decent quick slide - all of about five feet, probably! And of course there were skirts to deal with - and consequent splinters. And in the case of the cabin's long slide, that metal could get mighty hot for bare legs on a fine summer day!
Nowadays, I tear off a sheet of wax paper and cover my items to microwave.
How utterly boring. This is progress?
Saturday, June 9, 2018
strawberry wine
Strawberries.
The word, in addition to activating my salivary glands, elicits the smell of earth, early sunshine on the long rows, and stooping or squatting to pick seemingly endless strawberries to fill the endless wooden, slatted quart boxes - none of this cardboard stuff then! Our reward - a nickel a box! and many strawberries in said bellies! Our neighbor raised strawberries and seven daughters and come May/June - those two entities went head to head. A pleasant retrieve from picking was tending the strawberry stand artlessly set up on a card-table in front of the house which was situated along a busy highway. It seems to me the quart boxes may have sold for 50 cents a pop! Car after car pulled into the narrow stony space in front of the walled yard to scarf up the early summer goodies. I bought a quart of strawberries for $6.00 this morning at my suburban farmers market.
Yes, I want to support the local farmers.
No, I don't want to support larceny.
Yes I want to relive the burst of childhood culinary sweetness.
No, I don't want to resent paying what I can, but feel is craziness!
Now if I were in Lancaster, PA, I would drive way out in the country, by the plowed fields, rushing creeks, and rambling barns and farmhouses, and would buy the earth's goodness at a God-fearing price!
The word, in addition to activating my salivary glands, elicits the smell of earth, early sunshine on the long rows, and stooping or squatting to pick seemingly endless strawberries to fill the endless wooden, slatted quart boxes - none of this cardboard stuff then! Our reward - a nickel a box! and many strawberries in said bellies! Our neighbor raised strawberries and seven daughters and come May/June - those two entities went head to head. A pleasant retrieve from picking was tending the strawberry stand artlessly set up on a card-table in front of the house which was situated along a busy highway. It seems to me the quart boxes may have sold for 50 cents a pop! Car after car pulled into the narrow stony space in front of the walled yard to scarf up the early summer goodies. I bought a quart of strawberries for $6.00 this morning at my suburban farmers market.
Yes, I want to support the local farmers.
No, I don't want to support larceny.
Yes I want to relive the burst of childhood culinary sweetness.
No, I don't want to resent paying what I can, but feel is craziness!
Now if I were in Lancaster, PA, I would drive way out in the country, by the plowed fields, rushing creeks, and rambling barns and farmhouses, and would buy the earth's goodness at a God-fearing price!
Friday, June 8, 2018
It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
Recently we were in Pittsburgh and we revisited the Heinz Museum which housed the Fred Rogers exhibit. He of course was a native son of Pittsburgh and the recreation of the TV set is excellent. I was talking to a guard and he sat the Mr. Rogers section of the museum is one of the most beloved. I was in tears, just listening to the familiar, "It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...." as it took me back to our sons and how they loved the soothing, comfortable show. Sesame Street and the Electric Company and others were on in the same time frame, but they had completely different effects on the boys - and me! At first I found his deliberate repletion of actions and words strange. But gradually I realized that he was reinforcing every concept of parenting I was attempting to convey - particularly of kindness. "Please won't you be my neighbor." And the consistency that we tried to practice in terms of behavior, health, sleep, conversation - all of these Mr. Rogers did in a short program each day, essentially saying to me, "I got your back."
That is why I think thousand of adults stand before the reconstructed Mr. Rogers Neighborhood with eyes and hearts full of tears.
Have we ever needed his message of gentle civility more as a nation?
That is why I think thousand of adults stand before the reconstructed Mr. Rogers Neighborhood with eyes and hearts full of tears.
Have we ever needed his message of gentle civility more as a nation?
Thursday, June 7, 2018
let the merry sunshine in
A cardinal whistled right into my window as I sat down to my computer! Cheeky thing! I particularly love the chatter of the birds in the morning. It feels like all of creation is on the same page and we all seem to be saying - new day, new possibilities. The cycle of darkness and light surely overlays our very beings. The night never lasts, but neither does the light. We have to cherish each.
But right now, open all the windows, open all the doors! And whistle back to that saucy cardinal!
But right now, open all the windows, open all the doors! And whistle back to that saucy cardinal!
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
modeling
At the edge of the surf a young mother was sitting with her baby. The child was probably 6 months old - crawling, not walking - but more importantly, definitely not afraid. The mother sat really close, but wasn't holding her and she played with the sand and surf happily as wave after wave crashed near her. A sudden big wave engulfed them both and while the baby blinked and gasped at the dunking she didn't cry. I was astounded.
Later as I passed them back further on the beach I stopped and said "You are raising a fearless daughter!" And she laughed and said that she was a swimmer all her life and didn't want her child to have fears of the ocean. She said, "I figured she would take her cues from me." To which I replied, "She will take her cues from you in everything." and she agreed in some surprise.
We are so molded by our parents' attitudes early in life. Yes, we can change, alter, correct, backslide, whatever. But that first instinctive response is pure Mother or Dad.
Another reason to give thanks today.
Later as I passed them back further on the beach I stopped and said "You are raising a fearless daughter!" And she laughed and said that she was a swimmer all her life and didn't want her child to have fears of the ocean. She said, "I figured she would take her cues from me." To which I replied, "She will take her cues from you in everything." and she agreed in some surprise.
We are so molded by our parents' attitudes early in life. Yes, we can change, alter, correct, backslide, whatever. But that first instinctive response is pure Mother or Dad.
Another reason to give thanks today.
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