Seriously, does it make a difference?
Today has been damp, chilly, wet, gray, heavy, bleak, uncomfortable.
Friends of my son got married on this day. For weeks we've had high blue skies, sunshine fairly bouncing off each surface, shadows dancing in the light, breezes blowing - heavenly. I mourned all day for them!
Today I want to retreat to my easy chair, drape my shoulders with a shawl and read until I fall asleep.Yesterday I wanted to walk around the lake twice.
I'm really rather horrified that my activities are so dictated by the weather. Now if I had been scheduled to work both days, I would only have been marginally affected. But having to marshal the two days on my own, I cavort in the brightness and completely capitulate under the weight of the gray.
Wow.
Gotta move to Florida. Yep old-timer, pack yer bags.
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Friday, October 3, 2014
sugar bread
As if my childhood world wasn't fortified with enough sugar from cakes, cookies, doughnuts, pies and puddings, I still have one particular shining memory of sweetness.
Sugar bread.
Mother didn't allow it often. Wonder why.
But when this wondrous thing happened, one took a slice of Sunbeam bread, the one with another little blue-eyed, blond girl happily eating a slice of white bread slathered with a buttercup yellow spread, spread one's own thickly with soft butter and then - the coup de grace- carefully, over the sink to avoid a mess, sprinkled it thoroughly with white refined sugar. This delicacy was then gingerly transferred out on the porch and down on the steps before one bite could be taken.
My brother and I sat there, in heaven, munching down slowly into the buttery goodness, bite by bite, letting the melting sugar dance on our tongues.
The world may just have been recovering from a major ravaging war whose evil had shaken its foundation.
But for us it was just sunshine and sugar bread.
Sugar bread.
Mother didn't allow it often. Wonder why.
But when this wondrous thing happened, one took a slice of Sunbeam bread, the one with another little blue-eyed, blond girl happily eating a slice of white bread slathered with a buttercup yellow spread, spread one's own thickly with soft butter and then - the coup de grace- carefully, over the sink to avoid a mess, sprinkled it thoroughly with white refined sugar. This delicacy was then gingerly transferred out on the porch and down on the steps before one bite could be taken.
My brother and I sat there, in heaven, munching down slowly into the buttery goodness, bite by bite, letting the melting sugar dance on our tongues.
The world may just have been recovering from a major ravaging war whose evil had shaken its foundation.
But for us it was just sunshine and sugar bread.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
No shades of gray
When I was nine years old, I believed I would go to hell if I read the comics in the evening papers without being "saved" so I took appropriate measures - because I had to keep up with the fascinating life of Kerry Drake!
While I cherish the community and family values my church provided, the early scathing indoctrination of right and wrong is horrifying to me in retrospect.
Yet, now in different ways, I think it is easy to make just didactic judgments in different areas - say politics. I used to know if a person was doomed or not if they used lipstick. Now I know they are if they believe in Rush Limbaugh!
Unless our eyes and hearts are wide open we take that black pencil and white paper and make neat little boxes - all our lives.
While I cherish the community and family values my church provided, the early scathing indoctrination of right and wrong is horrifying to me in retrospect.
Yet, now in different ways, I think it is easy to make just didactic judgments in different areas - say politics. I used to know if a person was doomed or not if they used lipstick. Now I know they are if they believe in Rush Limbaugh!
Unless our eyes and hearts are wide open we take that black pencil and white paper and make neat little boxes - all our lives.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
On the mountain road
On many a summer childhood day the declarative call went out to the kitchen door, "We're going on a bike ride" and the answering maternal call bounced back, "Be careful and be back by suppertime."
That simple.
Yes it was the country and we had simple bucolic roads to travel where the largest danger lurking was a mean dog on Billy Snyder's farm. He would run out and nip at your heels. Terrifying. To be avoided. But still, to get to those side roads meant navigating stretches of the heavily traveled Rt. 322. I still shudder when I think of our sometimes wobbly passages on pavement with no shoulders, high drop-offs, sometimes horse-and-buggy traffic snarls when cars would shoot out behind the slow moving vehicles, and always, always steady traffic. But once the secondary roads were reached we could amble at our leisure. And we often stopped at creeks, ponds, and shady trees to while away the time,whistling through blades of summer grasses.
One afternoon, however, bored with the usual, we decided to stray a bit further. I can't remember if we ever even broached the idea to our parents of riding up to the mountains, a ride far off our beaten path, to visit the radio station there - one we listened to all the time and thought it would fun to explore. We rode and rode - the actual mileage way beyond our scanty memories, anxiety mounting as we kept going. We knew that my friend's grandmother lived on the same mountain road and if worse came to worst, we could stop there and have our parents pick us up. Once committed we just kept riding. The trees got thicker, the road steeper and more lonely.
All of a sudden a car roared by us and then stopped and backed up. I'm remembering at least three men, all scruffy, I'm sure from my now adult perspective, all high on something, called out to us "Hey girls, want to go for a ride?" Petrified, we said no and kept pedaling as they trolled along beside us. Then one of them said, "lets get 'em". The words tumble down through almost 60 years just as clearly as when they were uttered. And one guy opened the door and got out.
So who else was on the mountain that day? I didn't notice the rush of wings, but as we were pedaling indeed as though our lives depended on it, another one of the guys said, "Aw, let 'em go." And guy No.1 reluctantly climbed back in and they roared away.
We stopped. We had to because you can't ride bike with legs of jelly. We probably cried. And you know, my memory stops at that point. We may have pushed on to Grandma Fry's house. We may have turned down the mountain and literally sailed home. We obviously got home somehow. Everything is obliterated from the moment the car sped off. Horror does that.
I'm sure we were reprimanded. I'm sure parental hearts beat much faster at the telling of our story. I'm sure we never ventured beyond the known again. But we still were allowed to ride freely - now with fresh eyes.
So, yes, we lived and biked among birds, butterflies, creeks, dairy cattle in idyllic meadows, small towns with grocery stores, schools and churches in those long summer days.
But up in the mountains where life had shadows, it was not the same.
That simple.
Yes it was the country and we had simple bucolic roads to travel where the largest danger lurking was a mean dog on Billy Snyder's farm. He would run out and nip at your heels. Terrifying. To be avoided. But still, to get to those side roads meant navigating stretches of the heavily traveled Rt. 322. I still shudder when I think of our sometimes wobbly passages on pavement with no shoulders, high drop-offs, sometimes horse-and-buggy traffic snarls when cars would shoot out behind the slow moving vehicles, and always, always steady traffic. But once the secondary roads were reached we could amble at our leisure. And we often stopped at creeks, ponds, and shady trees to while away the time,whistling through blades of summer grasses.
One afternoon, however, bored with the usual, we decided to stray a bit further. I can't remember if we ever even broached the idea to our parents of riding up to the mountains, a ride far off our beaten path, to visit the radio station there - one we listened to all the time and thought it would fun to explore. We rode and rode - the actual mileage way beyond our scanty memories, anxiety mounting as we kept going. We knew that my friend's grandmother lived on the same mountain road and if worse came to worst, we could stop there and have our parents pick us up. Once committed we just kept riding. The trees got thicker, the road steeper and more lonely.
All of a sudden a car roared by us and then stopped and backed up. I'm remembering at least three men, all scruffy, I'm sure from my now adult perspective, all high on something, called out to us "Hey girls, want to go for a ride?" Petrified, we said no and kept pedaling as they trolled along beside us. Then one of them said, "lets get 'em". The words tumble down through almost 60 years just as clearly as when they were uttered. And one guy opened the door and got out.
So who else was on the mountain that day? I didn't notice the rush of wings, but as we were pedaling indeed as though our lives depended on it, another one of the guys said, "Aw, let 'em go." And guy No.1 reluctantly climbed back in and they roared away.
We stopped. We had to because you can't ride bike with legs of jelly. We probably cried. And you know, my memory stops at that point. We may have pushed on to Grandma Fry's house. We may have turned down the mountain and literally sailed home. We obviously got home somehow. Everything is obliterated from the moment the car sped off. Horror does that.
I'm sure we were reprimanded. I'm sure parental hearts beat much faster at the telling of our story. I'm sure we never ventured beyond the known again. But we still were allowed to ride freely - now with fresh eyes.
So, yes, we lived and biked among birds, butterflies, creeks, dairy cattle in idyllic meadows, small towns with grocery stores, schools and churches in those long summer days.
But up in the mountains where life had shadows, it was not the same.
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Pass the fans
The other day I heard that one of our high schools in the DC area was closed for the day because the air conditioning wasn't working properly. And I had to smile.
If that were the yardstick, my entire education experience would have had to be canceled!!
Not from the hot buzz of May days in a two-roomed schoolhouse to the swelter of June in college classrooms did we have air-conditioning. And, surprisingly, we lived to tell about it.
What has happened to us?
I am among the first at the library to mention that the a/c doesn't seem to be functioning well and prompt the call to the HVAC crew. I hate being uncomfortably hot now.
But when I stop to take a cleansing breath, I have to realize that while I don't want to go back, I would like to think that I'm not as pampered as I am!
If that were the yardstick, my entire education experience would have had to be canceled!!
Not from the hot buzz of May days in a two-roomed schoolhouse to the swelter of June in college classrooms did we have air-conditioning. And, surprisingly, we lived to tell about it.
What has happened to us?
I am among the first at the library to mention that the a/c doesn't seem to be functioning well and prompt the call to the HVAC crew. I hate being uncomfortably hot now.
But when I stop to take a cleansing breath, I have to realize that while I don't want to go back, I would like to think that I'm not as pampered as I am!
Monday, September 1, 2014
Forward motion
My Zen calendar's thought for September is "Move and the way will open"
Hmmmm.
I guess I know one thing for sure. It won't open if ones does nothing! Movement will at least guarantee a scattering of molecules in some direction.
But I like the concept. Sometimes the enormity of the situation immobilizes us when taking that first tentative step brings at least a ray of light.
I have friends facing huge challenges right now and I can only guess how much courage movement - any movement takes.
A toast to first steps!
Hmmmm.
I guess I know one thing for sure. It won't open if ones does nothing! Movement will at least guarantee a scattering of molecules in some direction.
But I like the concept. Sometimes the enormity of the situation immobilizes us when taking that first tentative step brings at least a ray of light.
I have friends facing huge challenges right now and I can only guess how much courage movement - any movement takes.
A toast to first steps!
Friday, August 22, 2014
Mary
Our book club - largely composed of women - contains a woman of a certain age - 95! Yesterday, after our discussion, her daughter arrived with the makings of a small surprise luncheon. It was a celebration of pure joy. Mary's body is frail, but her spirit is boundless. She was traveling through a vale of depression following her husband's death a few years ago, and discovered our group. While we have brought life to her, she has invigorated us as well. She reads every book and her comments and observations are just as pertinent as the woman in the next seat.
95. Should I live that long, I want to be attending a book club and reaching for the heart of literature and life, too!
95. Should I live that long, I want to be attending a book club and reaching for the heart of literature and life, too!
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