Music Sublime

One of my more endearing characteristics, I'm sure someone would point out, is my quirky taste in music. I'm a fan of musicals from the 50's and 60's. I can recite the words to "Lydia The Tattooed Lady" or whatever that weird "Shaving Cream" song was that my husband found and recorded for the children eons ago. I like Beethoven, Bernstein and the Beatles. Music surrounds me in the car, sometimes at work and at home. But I don't own an ipod. I guess I'm not sure how the ear buds work with in- the-canal hearing aids and I'm not interested or concerned enough to figure it out.

If I know I'm going to be in the car for at least an hour, I'll figure out what I'm going to listen to at top decibel way before I figure out the route I'll be taking. I got to thinking about my music choices today for an odd reason. I was coming home from an appointment that I had not been looking forward to. The route I had selected was congested, bumper to bumper, cheek to jowl and grumpy, scowling faces behind the wheel the whole way. I had neglected to "select" my listening pleasure because I was preoccupied with the appointment and weary of the whole entire day. So I turned on the radio. I usually don't do that much, as invariably when I turn it on, the cycle has just finished for the 1/2 hour of commercial free music and I'm stuck listening to a 20 minute tirade of ads for everything from the radio station itself to local hardware stores to insurance companies whose Australian spokesperson is much better on the television. But today, amidst the anguish and angst suddenly the Beatles came on. They sang, "Can't Buy Me Love" and "Penny Lane". There were about four songs in rapid succession and you know, I just felt better after that. What's more, I was singing along with the songs before I knew it and saw several people doing the same thing! It was great! Not because it was the Beatles. But because for just a few minutes we weren't all mad at each other, we were enjoying the melody of the days gone by and savoring the harmonies of those four young men. Would I have felt the same if the Beach Boys came on? Maybe, maybe not. But it was grand on the street, swinging along with the Fab Four and about 100 or so of their fans as we crawled along in traffic on a Wednesday afternoon.

Two Parts of a Whole

I wrote this several weeks ago and after diddling with it, I just thought I'd like to post it as it would have been then. I could have tried to update it, but I really just didn't want to.

It all came down this morning to an envelope. The envelope was full of photos of my nephew. Yes, my nephew...mine and my husband. I have been trying for some reason to separate the two families: these are your relatives, these are mine. But life doesn't separate them, why should I compartmentalize? His funeral service is coming up soon. And the practice these days is to have something like a memory wall, full of pictures of the life of the deceased. I have been to viewings where there are even videos. I'm still not sure how I feel about that--the pictures and the videos I mean. Whose benefit are these things displayed? I know in my logical brain it serves a purpose, it helps to show the person in other circumstances--so the final thought you have of them won't be in the casket. Or it shows you what the person looked like if you are only an acquaintance of the immediate family, but a good friend of one of the lesser mourners.

I realized that in the envelope I had neglected to add the picture on the fridge. The one of his wedding. The one with his dad,my brother-in-law, and his new bride. So I dutifully scanned the image and placed the picture in with the other pictures--the ones of his birthdays, the backyard barbecues, the graduations. All those events with him smiling, laughing out loud or looking like a typical teen, bored with the family gathering. How could these events be done without him I wondered. He actually lived quite a long way away from the rest of the family, so we didn't see him much anymore. But he was part of the fabric of the two clans, spun out in threads across the US: threads in California, Florida, Ohio, New York, Pennsylvania. Interwoven, whether we see the threads on a daily basis or just on Christmas and Thanksgiving.

I had been talking with some people recently and they seemed to think that since it was my husband's nephew to die so suddenly that it was somehow less than a tragedy to me, because it was my husband's side of the family--at least I guess that was the reasoning. It's hard to know what people are thinking (or not thinking as the case may be) when people are trying to tell you they care. And that's when the thought of the envelope came to me. The memories I have of my nephew are of the times we spent with my husband's family, yes. But also I have been blessed to have been part of that family for more than 30 years. That's longer than I lived at home with my biological family. To say that these people are not related to me except by marriage is sort of insulting. I have been through many things with them and they are as much a part of my emotional sphere as any of my siblings or parents. The people who shrugged off the loss of this young man so suddenly didn't really know me that well. If they had, they would have realized how the envelope of pictures was just a symbol of the hole left in the family fabric of both my husband's and my heart.

Age Musing

I turned 56 the other day. When I say that out loud, I don’t cringe. Or shudder. I smile. I say I bought my red hat pin and intend to wear it proudly on my lapel. But in the inner self, I don’t think I’m so thrilled. Not that the alternative is better. Not that I want to go backwards, except sometimes. Sometimes I do want to go backwards. But with the knowledge I have now. I want to view the world as a twenty-something with the fifty-something mentality. Maybe the world or at least my choices would have made more sense then. Maybe I would have been wiser in some of my choices. Maybe not.

Anyway, 56 is my age. Within that time I have married, helped to raise two kids—successfully I might add. They are wonderful young people. I have worked inside and outside of the home, full and part time. I’ve kept a sort of clean home—the Board of Health hasn’t caught up with me yet at any rate. Is the fact that I have done those things, sometimes well and sometimes not the sum and total of who I am? No. They point to who I am. They are nuances of who I am. But they are not the “me” in my skin. The “me” who listens to Frank Sinatra because I like his voice and the songs. Who sings along with show tunes because I like them and know the words. Who taps her foot to the Who, the Stones and the Beatles as well. The me whose running commentary while driving is not always the nicest, Christian way of looking at things, which is what I claim to be. I was reading a book (of course I was reading a book, I’m almost always reading a book) that said I should observe the way I view my life. For some it’s a carousel, for some it’s a trial. But I thought of mine like a journey. And I’ve been on this journey for 50 plus years. A lot of people my age say they remember saying to their friends when they were much younger, that people in their fifties were old. But I don’t remember saying that kind of thing. My grandmothers were old, but I don’t remember thinking that that was necessarily a bad thing to be. I liked my grandmothers. I never thought of my mother as old. Or my father either. They were ageless entities. Always there. Until my dad wasn’t anymore. But my mother is there and still outside the bounds of age. I don’t know why this is. Age just wasn’t important to me. I didn’t pray to God to make me old enough to drink or vote. I just accepted age as what happened when you lived day to day and you didn’t die before you woke up. I supposed at one time I might have lamented not being old enough for something. But I honestly can’t remember wishing to be older. But I didn’t wish to be ancient either. Or crotchety. Or infirm. I’m not--yet. Will I be? I find myself wondering about “what’s around the bend”. Suddenly thinking of growing older. Its’ a new experience for me.

Non-healing wound

The scar that doesn't heal
The hurt that keeps on hurting
Cannot be dismissed by ibuprofen
Or Tums.
The heart can't be healed
With band aids or duct tape
Or explained away with
Self serving solicitations on TV.
Each day takes you one step away
From the fresh pain
The newer hurt, the unforgiving ache.
Each day steps more into the world of
Now instead of then
And the world seeps itself into
Your conscious mind, blurring the thoughts
Numbing the tracks, smearing the lines
Of thought.
Until time slowly slips a skin over the
raw mark. But it never goes away.
And it breaks afresh once in a while
In a tide of onrushing emotions that can't
Be held back with tissues, but is helped with hugs.
Until, once again, the steps of each new moment
Take you out of the past into the day with
A broken heart and a scar that can't be healed.

Dreaming About?

I read a post recently about dreaming and it was obviously on my mind today. I stayed home from work, feeling nauseous and blah. In the middle of the morning I succumbed to a nap and the dream I had was so intense in its reality, I had a hard time waking up and leaving it on the couch where I was slumped.

So this was the dream. I dreamt that I was asleep on the couch and I began to hear kids voices. They were the voices of my children calling to me. My children in reality are young adults and not living at home. But in this dream they were in the house again. I could feel the pull of them calling to me and then hear them pounding down the stairs. The feelings I had hearing them were the same feelings I used to have when they were home--exasperation on their needing me yet again, concern that they had somehow just done something to the house that was irreparable, tired of being "on call." In the dream, my son appeared to me at the door on the porch and said as plain as if I were awake, "Mommy? Come upstairs. We have to show you something." I swear I felt myself rising from the couch, my arms raising to take his hand and then I heard my dream voice saying, okay I'm coming. In this dream I got up and went upstairs to my son's room where it became more weird and dreamlike in the things that took place. But the "feeling" of having them in the house with me again, running up and down the stairs and yelling and calling me, well, I woke up somewhat startled to realize that it was a dream and the reality was that they aren't here anymore and haven't been for a while.

And the rest of the day I missed them and that time with an ache that had nothing to do with the bug I was trying to chase from my system and everything to do with the quiet house.

Being a Slave...to Fashion?

What is it about women and clothes? I mean, I watched, "The Devil Wears Prada" and understand why fashion mavens do what they do and why we buy into it, I guess. But sometimes I believe this stuff was pounded into us subliminally when we were in the womb and we just can't escape.

I offer as an example (this statement said in my best Rod Serling impersonation) this past Friday. My husband and I attended a late afternoon/early evening wedding. It was a lovely day, but very hot. The week previous to this happy occasion, we had attended a funeral and well, let's just say the contrasts between the one service and the other within a week was dizzying. Now as a woman who has spent the last 40 or so years trying desperately to figure out what to wear and when to wear it, the funeral was easy. Basic black is always the preferred. Even navy blue or brown or even gray are fine. But see, weddings elude me. Do you dress festively? Do you wear lighter colors? Since it's fall, aren't your lighter colors already packed away next to the beach towels? I originally decided on a black dress. But I had been in black so much lately with the funeral, I thought I should somehow be more light-hearted! I noted right away at the wedding that this was wrong thinking. Every single woman there had on something with black on it, in it or swirled through it. All of their shoes were black--all of them. I stood there with my cheery, shimmering bronze blouse with a floating bronze and off white skirt and thought, Oh, God, I've done it again. I tried to remain in the background next to the wall paper the rest of the evening. I even wore beige strappy high heels. Horrors! I couldn't even claim to have a darker color wrap to put over my glaring faux paux.

Now I need to point out that not one single person said anything to me, or even looked like they were sneering. Everyone we talked to was gracious and genial and we all thought the company was fine and fun. But, I knew deep down that every woman who saw me, thought, "thank God I wore black." And next time, for sure, I'll wear it too.

a Long Time Ago

It was a long, long time ago
When my hair was longer
And I was thinner, in a skirt set
That was so trendy, I thought it belonged
To my sister.

We went to someone's house
For a christening
Someones I didn't know but he did
And chatting and eating
He talked a lot that day
So unlike his usual self.

I stuck to the outskirts
in my Skirt set
Watching and waiting for what
I'm sure I don't know.
But trying not to put a
Well shod foot wrong
To break the image of belonging with him
In amongst the programmers and office staff.

It was then, trying to remain invisible
Someone gave me a baby to hold.
They --the baby that is--was not fussy or loud
Or uncomfortable
and it wasn't the child of honor.
But a baby nonetheless.

I don't remember holding a baby
Before this afternoon of
Grown ups and parties.
I supposed I must have.
But I was careful and nervous
And remembered that children
Will know your nervousness and react to it
Like a dog can smell fear.
And I didn't want to be afraid,
So I placed this little child on
My lap and gazed at its little face
And it's pumping fists.
As it gazed at me from it's almost
Non-existent lids.
I don't remember if a boy or girl
Was what occupied my lap
But I do remember thinking,
"I can do this"

A thought that never occurred to me before.

Autumn Thoughts

I sat at a red light recently and saw the season had changed. Just like that. With a snap of her saucy finger, Mother Nature had begun to change the leaves. It was hotter than blazes as my grandmother used to say. Sticky and humid and stale as only New Jersey can be. I sat at the light and saw a tree had already changed its color. It wasn't dried out. Its leaves weren’t shriveled as though diseased. They were gold and brown with a blush of red. It looked like fall. It reminded me of so many autumns of the past. When we were rushing to get school supplies. When we rushed down to see the class listings posted on the front doors of the school. When we rushed to a relative’s house for one last picnic before the schedules and responsibility filled all the upcoming weekends. And I thought to myself, I wish for just one more of those fall seasons. My youngest has gone off to live in the land of one season. My oldest will again be teaching. I'm sure she has a whole new set of feelings when she sees the trees change color. But for me, I remember the squeaky new shoes, the starched new dresses, the slicked back hair, the smell of the chalkboard dust, the garbled morning announcements. And for my children, I’ll remember the nervous laughter of the kids gathered at the front of the school on their first day back. And their quick glance in my direction before entering the doors, as if to verify that yes, indeed, summer is over and fall is really here. The tree informed me in a hundred and one different memories and smells that the fall is just a season, no longer an event.

Observations

One of the things that I like to point out to people in my exasperating way, is that I am an observant person. Observant of either physical or empathic things. I have been known to see caterpillars where others have missed them and sensed angst where others have insisted none existed.

I'm not sure why this is. I like caterpillars as much as the next guy I guess. But I like seeing the anomalies that others can't or won't take the time to see. Of course I have friends who hate creepy, crawlies and so therefore, wouldn't look for these things if given a chance or even a reason to.

I think the reason I can sense feelings has to do with being able to feel so deeply when I was younger. I was a lonely kid, not many friends and some of them were rather a pathetic excuse for friends. So I would try and figure out why others acted the way they did and I could do this without attracting attention because, well, no one was paying attention. It was an atmosphere conducive to investigation. And I think I got rather adept at reading facial expressions and body language. Coupled with my lack of hearing, I think I've gotten more attuned to these ques.

Hasn't gotten me much more in the way of friends, but at least now I can understand why...sort of...

And Then There Are Days

Some days are filled with endless, um, stuff to do, I guess is the right phrase-ology. Go to the store, go to the bank, get gas for the car, water the plants, you know, stuff. And then there are the days when the stuff seems like nonsense and you stare for a very long time at the violets on your windowsill, the shape of the flowers, the fuzziness of the leaves, even the color of the blooms is amazing and you aren't even smoking pot! You get frozen in time sort of. Something catches your eye that you've seen lots of times before and maybe it's the way the light is hitting it or the way the breeze is moving it and suddenly it's like nothing you've ever seen before.

The thing that really catches you up though, are not the inanimate things. Mostly, the breath seizing moments are from those you love. You see them suddenly so clearly and so sharply in focus, you wonder how you didn't notice this before. Or maybe you did notice before, but it's been so long you don't remember the last time.

Our mother is 79 (sorry mom, don't read this if you can't "handle the truth" I say grinning). She has whitish, reddish, blondish short hair that either curls or bends its own way. She has a good sense of self most days. People think she is as close to a real-live saint as anyone could get. But I'm thinking of the morning a few weeks ago when I went out to breakfast with her and my step-dad. She and I both love a good breakfast out and we happen to serendipitously have a day when we could indulge ourselves. We went to a place with good pancakes, good coffee and the atmosphere wasn't as loud as a lot of other places. That last is important because we (my mother and I) both wear hearing aids and some places it just doesn't matter how high the volume is cranked on those helpful devices in ours ears, it's just too loud for conversation. Anyway, we got seated in a booth, made our selections and began to talk about this, that and the other thing. I remember thinking how lovely it was to sit and talk to mom, as I have almost always been able to do, about anything. And that her husband would throw in a comment, quip or joke now and then to punctuate our conversation.

It is usually during these talks with mom that my concerns about my children or husband or work come out. Depending on the severity or mood of either of us, we either talk about how to solve the problem, poke holes in everyone else's assumptions about how to work through this or laugh about how you can't choose your family, or employment is hell except for the paycheck. But this particular morning I had picked up that she was concerned about something, I could see it in her eyes. I asked her about it and after briefly dancing around the subject, it came out that she feared she was becoming too much like her mother and it worried her. Now my mother loved her mother fiercely--this I know. But Mom was always able, or at least as far back as I remember, to see my grandmother's flaws--not as a blunt instrument with which to pummel her, but a tool to show others how thinking can be different for different people. My grandmother was not a bad person, she was a person like all others. She had prejudices and feelings about the way things "ought to be" and she shared them relatively freely. Our mother taught us to take those granny-isms and sift through them. Not to take them as decrees from the Almighty, but take them as opinions from someone older and experienced in life. Mom saw a family home movie at our house recently and seeing my grandmother in it, projected the the ways they were alike onto herself--the fact that Mom walks with a limp now and so did our grandmother. The fact that our grandmother couldn't hear and Mom has to wear hearing aids. She saw herself as becoming her mother and she didn't want to be her.

I point out that I loved my grandmother fiercely as well. But saw her as an old woman who frequently did not wish to see the world as it was and by force of will would try to bend it back to the way it "ought to be." But our mother does not do that and I don't believe she ever will. I endeavored to help her see this by saying, "You're not your mother," I told her in my most convincing "Mommy-tone". "You cannot be. You have experienced things she never did, saw things she never saw, reacted to things she never even dreamed of having to deal with. You lived in a different era, you married a different man than your father (we both rolled our eyes at that one!) and you had four children. She only had two. You didn't experience life as she did. Although you shared a past, you had a different future. You are able to see things differently, more openly, more compassionately than she was able to in her lifetime. That isn't a bad thing, it is simply a different thing. As much as you and I are alike, we are not the same person. We can't be. And so neither can you be your mother."

She looked down then. I thought I had upset her and was mad at myself. I didn't know whether she agreed with my assessment or not, but felt it had to be said. After a moment she looked up and mouthed the words, "thank you." I was hit then with the love our mother has for us. The fact that she sees things in us we don't always see, loves us with an unconditional love that I know I feel I don't deserve at times. It was a breath catching moment between us that only lasted a moment, but will remain with me for a long time.

We don't get days of this kind of connection. Just moments. I hope I recognize them when they happen again, just for a moment.

Look it Up

I began to notice that when I want to look something up...no topic in particular, just general random stuff, I go to internet. And one of the things that almost always pops up is something from Wikipedia. Have you noticed that handy-dandy resource? Of course, you have! The problem is trusting Wikipedia for too much. You see anyone can add to it. No expertise required. This is not necessarily a good thing. It's especially bad if you feel too lazy to go somewhere else to look up whatever you are trying to find. Because Wikipedia is soooo easy. Quoting it however, is probably not a wise thing. I mean, once in a while for a quick piece of information its okay. But to trust this site with all your information needs is probably asking to get burned by "Wacked Out Bob in Minnesota."

It is good though for some background things. Some quick reference that you vaguely knew, and just need to have it verified. Or maybe not. See I want to trust the site and the people on it, I just can't. Every time I think it's okay to believe something on there, there's some little quirky piece of info that sort of sounds right, but maybe not.

The hubby is notorious for not believing anything he reads on internet. He's skeptical of everything. I'm not that bad yet. I still believe, well some of the time.

I found myself going to our World Book Encyclopedia on the shelf the other day to look something up. The books seemed reluctant to open in a way. Perhaps they were miffed at being used so seldom. Perhaps they are just old and it's harder to make the old binding work (kind of like me). Anyway it was sort of nostalgic to look something up the old fashioned way. I felt virtuous for having gone this route. But the information I wanted wasn't in there, the books are too old. I perused the pages anyway, looking at this and that. I remember how much I liked to do that as a kid. Just sit and browse the encyclopedia (I didn't get out much). And so I decided that I will try to not be so quick on the trigger (or keyboard as it were) next time I want to look something up. I'll just go to the books on the shelf first. And then consult Wacked Out Bob to see if he has the same info. This might just improve my detection skills. Or it might just remind me to use more than one resource--which is what the old librarian at my elementary school taught us in the Stone Age. Some things just need to be reinforced as we get older.

It had 8 legs and was moving fast!

I am not a fan of spiders. I don't think I ever was. My mother probably gave me the fear, but if not, I probably cultivated it by myself. I was never squeamish about other bugs. I used to lift rocks and sort through underbrush to see beetles, sow bugs, ants, any kind of creepy crawly. But if it had 8 legs, I was out of there. I didn't wait around to see what it would do as I did with other bugs. I was gone. This reticence about arachnids extends to scorpions, though I don't live in an area where they seem to live, so I'm lucky I guess. But spiders are everywhere, I'm told. Even Antarctica. I wonder what penguins think of them...

Anyway, I have cultivated a sort of calm demeanor about sightings as I age. I no longer scream when I see one. At least if it's small, say about a centimeter or so. If they politely scurry out of sight, I can pretend I didn't see it. The bigger ones still bother me, though. I couldn't live in a place where they grow to tarantula proportions. And don't help me out by saying, "any spider if it lives long enough can get that big." I don't want to know. And if it is that big, it had better not show up in my house. Which leads me to the next train of thought. If it's in my house and it isn't tiny, I do not believe it should be in my house, therefore I squish it. Do not tell me how helpful they are about eating other bugs. I will not listen to reason in this respect, so you might as well save your breath. If you're that fond of them, I'll put them in a jar and send them 'round to your place, shall I? A family member bought me a spray can of some noxious stuff that had an ugly gargantuan spider on the front of it. The can said it would kill a spider immediately. I unfortunately tested this out once while my children watched in fascination as I emptied the entire contents on a rather large specimen in our basement sink. It did not die quickly. It's legs folded up under it, while those multiple eyes sparkled at me malevolently, as it slowly collapsed. It was horrifying. Trust me. Even though the kids thought it entertaining. I keep going down the basement sure that it's relatives are waiting for me skulking along the duct work and pipes, waiting to catch me unawares. But I'm never unawares, I'm always armed and watching. It makes for interesting conversation for those around me as they see me prepare to descend the cellar steps. My family also bought me a robotic tarantula. It stays in the top of the closet in the family room. Where I can't see it. It's probably lurking with the real dead spider's kith and kin, waiting for the moment to leap and give me a heart attack.

I realize that I have given these creatures power over me, but I can't seem to help myself. It seems to me that they are more like the evil behemoths from the movie Arachnid than Charlotte from Charlotte's Web. And so yesterday, when I drove down the driveway to park the car outside of the garage and turned the car off, the fates favored the spider over the human. I saw an orange spot about the size of a quarter skitter down the windshield, tethered slightly by a sticky strand off it's rear end. It practically rolled down the glass and slid like a baseball player coming into home plate down under the wipers and then under the hood of the car. It happened so quickly I couldn't even turn the car on to make a token swipe at it with the wipers. And I sat there temporarily unsure what to do. Where would a spider go under the hood of the car? Was it just under the hood, waiting to spring out at me if I opened to look for it? Was it running down through the various wires, metal things and rubber hoses to drop down to the ground and take cover in the ivy next to the driveway? Was it biding it's time waiting for an opening to somehow crawl inside the car and leap on me, sucking the juices from me as I drove into a telephone pole? Where in the hell did it go? I was so unnerved, I slowly got out of the car and wouldn't get back in. My husband had to park the car for me. I told him I would drive him to the train station this morning, and I approached the car with trembling fingers. Fearing that a web would have been woven across the window, the steering wheel or the seat. But none of those things were there and there were no tell tale sticky strands in the car that I could see. But then I suppose, it's just biding it's time, with the fake tarantula and the deceased spider's relatives from the cellar. Waiting, waiting...

A Different World

When you exist in a place, going from day to day
Seeing, but not
Hearing, but not
It takes on the feeling of Musak
Just background without substance.

And so as I look out the window this evening,
In the distance I can see a glow of lights from something, maybe a town?
Six floors up is a unique perspective.

I am in a hospital bed this evening. I was admitted this day with discomfort in my chest. Can't call it pain, really. I wanted to ignore it and now some twelve hours later, I wish I had. The pain from the Nitro-patch is worse than the original experience. Eventually the nurse removes it and gives me pills to ease the headache.
I'm wearing a monitor hung from my neck, like an albatross, only not fuzzy. It doesn't hurt either. It just a reminder, beeping as it does.

The hospital is a strange place at night after the visitors have left. There are far away moans and coughs. Nearby rustlings of bed sheets, murmured questions, clicking of bottles, tubes and paraphernalia. Shoes squeak down the hall and the bing, bing, bing of the nurse's call button is heard in several places.

The blowing of the air conditioning, the grunting of the guy across the hall, backdrops all to the stream of recriminations in my mind. Why did you come here, it asks. You could have ignored it, it states. I'll never get to sleep, it nudges. Unfortunately, that last voice is right.

When I come home the next day, the sounds are there, the ones I hadn't been hearing lately. The birds at the bird feeder. The bubbling of the fish tank. Even the whine of the cat looking for dinner, all remind me I'm home. I like these noises better.

The 4th

What is it about patriotic holidays that makes me so sentimental? I really like all that flag-waving, fireworks shooting, family picnicing. And then they show those war movies on TV and I'll even watch one or two. My eyes well up when I hear the Marine Band play, or the radio plays the occasional all male choir from some military institution or another and "I fill with pride and deep within my breast, I thrill to see old glory paint the breeze."

My father was a WWII vet and I'm proud of that. But I'm filled with a sense of wonder about how this country came to be and continues to be. Yes, I know there are things that are wrong with this country. Yes, I know that there are things which need to be fixed. But what other country in the world has a democracy that works so gloriously. So allow me my flag waving, my filling with pride. I will go back to the grumbling about bad policies, bad decisions by law-makers and corporations alike after this weekend. But just for this weekend, Hooray for America!

The Chlorophyll Influence

My son sent an e-mail the other day informing me of his purchase of a plant for his new apartment. He included a picture. He knew I would be pleased with his new purchase because we always have plants in our houses. It was not always so with me. I didn't really pay much attention to plants at our childhood home within. I was always more interested in the flora outside the home, gazing at the "four-o-clocks" in the front yard, looking into the abyss of a hole in the giant maple tree out front. When I got married, one of the first presents was some kind of stalky green thing from the people my husband worked with--to keep me company when he had to work late on a special project. Now 30 something years later, it is that same kind of stalky green thing my son has purchased for his place. What goes around comes around I guess.

I like plants. Looking out the front window of our living room, the green dogwood is framed by the plants on the windowsill. The sun filters through the arrow-head shaped leaves and glances off the upright growth of the plant next to it. I'm not going to name all the kinds of plants I have in the house. I don't think I know all the names of them anymore. I mean their generic names, I never quite mastered the scientific ones of anything. And I don't name them either--Ethel, George. I do talk to them though and gently rub their leaves from time to time. The ones I currently have growing here are a amicable bunch. They don't demand too much.

I don't have a good relationship with certain plants, I've noticed. Boston ferns and I do not understand each other. Their idea of ideal growing environments and mine simply do not mesh. And Fushias are much too picky for me. Water me now, NO, too much, well now I"m bone dry. Nope, I just don't want to hear their whining. Of course, I received one for a present recently so I've placed her in a window and hope for the best. But she isn't with the rest of the plants in the living room. No one likes a whiner. I received an orchid recently, also as a present. Orchids and I do not have a good history either, but I was determined to figure out how to keep this one alive and so far I have--a breakthrough to be sure. Poinsettias and I get along famously. Every year I buy at least four of them, and they happily shed, bring little black bugs and endless watering accidents into the home. But by May, when they are still thinking they own the place, I plant them outside in one of the flower beds. They grow just fine until the cold winds of November. No, I do not dig them up and take them in. I let them die a natural death then buy four new ones to perpetuate the cycle in December. I like to think I'm doing my part in the floral economy with this cycle.

I have a palm tree, too. It was part of a planter that my father-in-law received when he moved into a nursing home. After he died, I took the planter home and re-potted all the individual plants. They all died of something or other except the palm. He has been dead for seven years now and the palm is waist high from the floor. I look at it and think of him, his laughter, his calm demeanor and I feel like I have a piece of him with me.

I add on to my collection from time to time. I have a pink-spotted plant on the porch which is a recent addition. It seems like it can't decide whether it is a close growing bush-kind-of-thing or a taller-more-majestic-kind-of-thing. I'm letting it work itself out on it's own. There are two tree-like stalky things growing on the plant stand above the pinky. They've been in residence for a while--they were the new kids on the block for some time. They grudgingly grow something like an inch every 5 years, so I really can't be certain whether they are okay or not. I think they like to confuse me, so I keep them on because of the challenge in their growth--attitude makes the difference.

My sister seems to think I am a plant guru. But really, I just water and let them go. I do feed every now and then. I pet them occasionally and promise I won't let the cat chew on them (she's getting too old for that challenge any more anyway). The african violets on the windowsill bloom for me in grateful appreciation for finding the right light in a house which has a lot of shade. So the plants and I get along. We've found peace in suburbia together. Watching the sun shift through their leaves day and day out with nary a whine in between.

He Would've Been 86

Dad, that is. Would have been 86 today. I find myself thinking of him between now and the anniversary of his death. He creeps into my consciousness in small sparks of recognition. A phrase here. A song there. A gesture from one of my siblings will remind me of him. The sparkle in my nephews eye makes me remember his. The missing him is not as intense as it used to be--that's to be expected. It was after all 22 years ago he died. But I'm introspective now. And not as easy to distract by the mundane. Will I always do this, I sometimes wonder? Stop what I'm doing and think of him. It's so intense sometimes, the memories. I made a vow to visit the grave this weekend. Because it's Memorial Day, there will be lots of people planting flags. Every year I remember that I promised to make sure there is a flag at his grave. I am supposed to make sure the cemetery knows he was a veteran, bu every year I forget. It's okay. Nobody is keeping score I know. I don't visit the place like I used to. But it's quiet there. And I feel like he knows I'm there when I go. Is that blasphemous? I mean I'm sure he's in heaven wherever that is, but it feels like he just might be there in the quiet and stillness, the small breeze that plays over the grass, the muted traffic whizzing by. So before the picnic and the family I'll go over and say hello just for a little while. Just to let him know I remember.

Naturally Wonderous

Sitting on the deck
Watching
The wind, its susurration through the backyards of suburbia
Bowing the majestic tree heads, rippling their secrets.
The birds, a profusion of robins
Drop down and lift off through the green, green grass
So green, it looks pretend
But you know it's real because of the dandelions.
The littler birds, the sparrows, I guess, are invisible
Brown and black hiding amongst the occasional bare branch,
They sing across the yards, calling to each other.
What are they talking about? I wonder.
The sun comes out in fits and starts behind the clouds roaring
Endlessly with the jet engines which pierce their foaming majesty.
And it warms me on the deck
Amidst the potted flowers of Mother's Day.

Old Time Poetry

I was thinking about the poetry I used to read when I was younger. It rhymed. All the time. There was no such thing as free verse in my younger universe. All of the poetry that I committed to memory rhymed. It had a certain cadence to it also. I can't quite remember the specific type of cadence (iambic pentameter?), but it all went to a certain beat and was predictable--unless you read Ogden Nash, in which case anything was possible. Do they still write poetry like that anymore? My daughter's friend wrote a book of poetry which won an award. I bought the book as I wanted to support friends of my daughter. But it was, well, not what I expected. It wasn't bad! But it was difficult to decipher for me. I suppose that means that I'm basically a simple person (you probably already guessed that).

Whatever happened to things like, "The House by The Side of Road," or "Abdul Abulbul Amir"? I have two giant volumes of old poetry and almost all of it is rhyming. I came across two of my old favorites the other day and I was amazed at the witticisms in the verse. "Strictly Germ Proof" was a poem I memorized early on because my mother hated the first line, "The Antiseptic Baby and the Prophylactic Pup, were playing in the garden when the bunny gamboled up." She always choked on the word, prophylactic. I didn't really know what it meant, but I loved it because it made her gasp. The other one I looked at was, "The Modern Baby"; a paean to the new way of raising children because the old way was bad for them, as the poem says, "The Washingtons and Jeffersons and Adamese you know." But in perusing the tome of poems I used to love to read, some papers fluttered out. It was a copy of the "Jackdaw of Rheims". I did not know what a jackdaw was when I first read this. So I went about looking the animal up and it's a bird. This was found on Wikipedia, "jackdaws are known to steal shiny objects such as jewelery to hoard in nests," which goes along nicely with the story of the poem. I re-read it and it's still a favorite. There is one poem, though, that is not a rhyming one that I've know about for a long time. In my emotional youth, it struck a chord because it reminded me that things are not always as they seem. I have reproduced, "Motherhood" by Eleanor Agnes Lee as follows:

Motherhood

Mary,the Christ long slain,passed silently,
Following the children joyous astir
Under the cedrus and the olive tree,
Pausing to let their laughter float to her--
Each voice an echo of a voice more dear,
She saw a little Christ in every face.

Then came another woman gliding near
To watch the tender life which filled the place.
And Mary sought the woman's hand and spoke:
' I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed
With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke
Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.

' I ,too, have rocked my Little One.
And He was fair !
Oh, fairer than the fairest sun
And , like its rays through amber spun,
His sun-bright hair.
Still I can see it shine and shine.'
Even so, the woman said, 'was mine.'

' His ways were ever darling ways'-
And Mary smiled -
So soft, so clinging ! Glad relays
Of love were all His precious days.
My Little Child !
My vanished star ! My music fled ! '
' Even so was mine,' the woman said.

And Mary whispered : Tell me, thou
Of thine.' And she :
' Oh, mine was rosy as a bough
Blooming with roses, sent, somehow,
To bloom for me !
His balmy fingers left a thrill
Deep in my breast that warms me still. '

Then she gazed down some wilder,darker hour,
And said -when Mary questioned, knowing not :
Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?'--
' I am the mother of Iscariot.'



I'm not a scholar of poetry by any means. And I do a little free verse from time to time here. But I love those old poems. Does anybody still write them like that?

Down Home Diner

Cooking is not something I like to do normally. On any given day, if you say take out, I'm right there with the money in my hand and the car warming up. But once in a while I like to make things. Especially things that just taste better home made. Sometimes its a hassle getting the ingredients; if the fuss is too much bother, I come home, play a few games of solitaire until the feeling passes and then take out a frozen-something-or-other from the freezer. Because it is now just the hubby and I, it doesn't feel like I'm hurting anyone much. Hubby doesn't cook, not interested in it at all and is usually content as long as something is hot on the table some time after he comes home. Does this sound sexist? It isn't really. He does so many other things around here I'm getting downright lazy! But I digress.

I decided to make stuffing tonight. I didn't have turkey, but I had pork chops. So I made the stuffing and browned the chops and put them on top of the stuffing to cook in the oven. It's almost a one dish meal, only you have to make the vegetables on the side. Well, I have to make them on the side. I don't like the way veggies come out when they are cooked with stuffing. It's just a personal prejudice--deal with it. And while I was making the dinner, I thought to myself, "I remember our daughter saying one time that one of the smells she liked best at our house was when mom made stuffing." She said it felt like home.

Some food is just does that. Mac and cheese. Meatloaf. They cook and the house smells like home. I sometimes wonder about having a personal cook who would make those things in the house, and I could come home and it would smell like that. Would I regress to my childhood? Probably not. And I probably wouldn't like what the cook put in the dishes. I'm not a huge fan of a lot of spices. Just plain. That's what I like. Not too spicy and not too fancy--forget morrel mushrooms. Or truffle oil. Sometimes even garlic seems like too much. Just the down home smell of something simple and easy. But it has to taste good, or what's the purpose? So come on down to the Down Home Diner. You might want to bring your own spices, 'cause Mom doesn't like things too spicy. And don't forget your manners. We'll set the table for you.

And another one gone, and another one gone...

Another one bites the dust.
A week that is, not a person.
Another week gone. Poof.
Up at 6:00, down at 10:00.
Breakfast at 7:00, break at 10:00, lunch at 1:00,
Off by 4:00.
Then walking, then talking, then eating,
Cleaning--dishes, floors, cats, myself, then
Blessed slumber for another round in another six.
The days go on rumbling
The weeks tumbling
Like the rock tumbling machine.
But nothing much glistens like jewels
Except an occasional laugh or wry grin.
Where is the time of reflection
Wonder, gazing in rapture at the clouds?
Gone with the dust and the dishwasher clatter.
Gone with the silence and no-longer-matters.
And the week ends as the next one
Lines up to take it's place.
Sunday evening, just a breath away.
Another one bites the dust.

Easter Finery

I have a remembrance of this time of year scrambling to Sears or the "nice" store in the local town to find white gloves and frilly socks (and don't forget the hat--had to have a hat) to wear for Easter Sunday. My grandmother more often times than not, made our dresses or skirt sets for my sister and I. She was an incredible seamstress--although I was not always appreciative of her efforts until much, much later. Easter was a time to dress up and look spiffy. Lent was finally almost behind us, with its dreary long days and bare trees. Easter meant that the world began to look green again (and pink and purple and yellow). And we could celebrate and look festive.

Have you noticed the earth in this hemisphere does that too, looks festive, I mean? I was outside cutting some daffodils to put in a vase on the table and thought, "Oh, look, the forsythia are blooming, too" so I cut a few sprigs of those as well. The bright yellow on the kitchen table reflects what I see out the window. The earth is waking up. The lacy white flowers on the Bradford pear trees are out now (and smelling particularly pungent I might add). The bushes around the house are greening up again. The giant trees in the backyard are still bare but the tops are fuzzy with new growth that can't be distinguished from the ground. It gives the mini-forest out back a softer look than the harsh lines of winter. The grass is even getting green again with the dandelions pushing their brash agendas into every nook and cranny, not just in the yard but the driveway as well. And people who have those lovely cherry trees in the yard down the street can wake up the delicate pink cascade every morning--surely a more welcome sight than the previous brown sticks poking from the main trunk.

I really do love this time of year. I have friends who hate it because of their allergies. But since I haven't suffered from that, I get to enjoy the weather even though the pollen count is climbing rapidly. The box elder beetles are making themselves known against the garage doors again, their black and red armor a stark contrast to the ivory color on the doors. They try to blend with the bricks, but they are just too brightly colored. Moths and butterflies are beginning to show as well, although their appearances are shadowy and sporadic as the birds are making a big comeback right about now. Their morning chirps and squawks can nudge even the most sleepy awake unless you happen to have a hearing deficiency. They then become a muted symphony with which to become aware, slowly.

"The earth laughs in flowers," quoth Emerson. And her joyful presence is spectacular at Easter. Go outside and enjoy the world's finery on display at this time of year. Me? I'm still looking for the right hat.

Palm Sunday

It is Palm Sunday today. There are a few observations I have about this day from the sublime to the well, you can decide if they are ridiculous or not.

The church I am a member of uses the observation of this particular Sunday to process. We gather someplace other than the sanctuary, grasp and grapple with our palm fronds, hear the story of Palm Sunday and then begin the trek to the worship area singing a capella "All Glory Laud and Honor, to Thee Redeemer King." Most of us are usually off key and a stanza slow when we finally arrive up the steps wheezing, holding our palms aloft and straggling to a pew. We muffle our voices somewhat to find out what stanza the rest of the well-rested congregation is singing (these are the people who didn't want to process because they are: a)too old, b)too young (and are being held by their tired looking mommies and daddies) or c)too smart to want to climb those steps and be all out of breath by the time they get to the pew). The service continues after we all get up there as though we started from the same place.

I am reminded that years and years ago, the Sunday School, when it was still a robust and lively program used to encourage bringing in Spring flowers for a Styrofoam shaped cross. Some older ladies would arrange the beautiful daffodils and tulips onto the cross form and it would precede us up the steps to the sanctuary. The tradition began to fall off though, as attendance began to lag and as children didn't bring in real flowers, they brought in plastic ones and the cross began to look, well, fake--which of course it was by then. In the gathering area this year before the actual reading of the lesson began, the palms were just sort of plopped on an old piano bench. I noticed that they were not individual fronds necessarily, they were sort of clumped together and I began to separate them. Maybe I was thinking that there would be a run on them or something and we wouldn't have enough (that never happens). So I began to separate them. Soon we had several people doing this chore and I began to think about when we were kids going to the Palm Sunday Service at our old church. The leaves/fronds whatever they're called seemed stiffer then. Better for jabbing out eyes or tormenting smaller children in the pew in front of you. I decided that I wouldn't separate any more, why should today's children not be subjected to the same torments as I as a child? Several people in our congregation know how to make those beautiful crosses by criss-crossing the stems into braided works of art. I don't how to do that. I always put mine on the top of a picture frame in the dining room and forget they are there until the middle of the summer. They're wickedly sharp by then, but my siblings live too far away to torture and they would probably look at me strangely if I tried (well, okay, they look at me strangely anyway--but not because of that).

We do a kind of re-enactment of the entire Passion during the service. It was pointed out that we began doing this to remind us of the week ahead, so we won't forget it was just a triumphal entry, but an ending as well. I read a devotional that said the person was kind of annoyed with this practice. I had to agree. Palm Sunday was always cheerful amidst the cool breezes heralding Easter and Spring. As a child we celebrated it with a nice dinner and fond thoughts of that little donkey with that big guy (yeah, you know, Jesus) sitting on him. I liked the warm fuzzy of that without the reminder that this week was not a picnic to be him (yeah, Jesus--stay with me here). But I know we need to be reminded what this Sunday and the rest of the week is about.

So Happy Palm Sunday, everyone. Only one more week of giving up whatever you gave up for Lent. Only one more week and then it's Easter! The time for a big dinner and warm thoughts about the big guy, yeah, you know Jesus.

The Insidious Pocketbook

It began, innocently enough with a simple patterned cloth. Even the design was simple. Designed to draw the eye and weigh next to nothing. The strap could be used over the shoulder and it could be washed as well. Yes, it was a ingeniously hatched plot. The only obstacle, if you could call it that, was the price. Some would not be able to afford it...not that it should have been expensive, mind you. It was only a small handbag, made of cloth. But you didn't think of it, did you? Therefore, they could charge whatever they wished--they thought of it first. And so the empire grew from that one small purse. Soon women everywhere began to notice them. And want them. Money began to not be a problem. It was habit-forming, owning these precious bags. And new patterns of cloth became available four times a year--I think it was four times. But who was counting? The people who came up with the idea, thats who. They were counting all right. Counting the dollars rolling in. Soon the little bags became bigger bags, then overnight bags, then diaper bags, then backpacks, then suitcase-like things. Ah, but they became smaller as well, clutch bags, wallets, smaller wallets, change purses. And let us not forget the glasses holders, the cell phone holders and the pocket savers! And then the true genius took hold. Why not take the design of the cloth and imprint things with it, like pens, clipboards, frames for glasses and picture frames! Why not indeed? Shops began to spring up like weeds, touting the products. Women were drooling for the next pattern, the next shape, the next gee gaw and doo dad. Catalogs were produced with family members as the models--what could be more natural? But of course, the families were beautiful and stylish in their patterned finery.

It has been hinted that the tsunami of lust for the bags has crested and things are beginning to settle down now. But summer is coming and there are new patterns to display.

Computers are our friends

One of the main parts of my job at work these days is feeding the data base information about attendance. I work in two different elementary schools and the data base must be fed a certain way each day to record attendance. When I began working at these elementary schools I became aware of one in particular thing I had taken for granted when I worked at the board of education office. The board office has faster machines. They seem light years ahead when I think of it now. I could turn on the machine and actually be working within 10 minutes of pushing the start button. Now I have time to go get coffee, walk around the building and teach a third grade class handwriting before it even gets to my e-mail! I was lamenting just today to one of the wonderful, generous and helpful tech people (hey! I'm being sincere!), when he asked me to re-boot just to see. We stood and chatted for a few minutes, and he looked at the computer screen. I smiled sweetly. We chatted for a few minutes more and he again looked over at the screen--still not up and running yet. His face twitched, but we continued on with the discussion at hand. Finally, he looked over my shoulder and said, "boy, that's really slow!"

Now I have no need to lie to the nice tech people. They help me out of scrapes and tough problems all the time. But I have complained about the slowness of my machine at this particular school for quite some time and I guess they all assumed that I was trying to see if they would look my way so I could get a smile or something. For him to validate that the computer was indeed dinosaur-ish he needed to see it for himself, thereby invalidating my observation. Heavy sigh.

Anyway, he removed me from my chair, did three finger salute and began to fiddle. I really have no idea what he did do (except remove a perfectly lovely background screen which I can't believe would have had anything to do with it's slowness). It seemed to work slightly faster the rest of the day and I was and am grateful. But why did he have to be there to witness the sluggish behavior? Did he really think I didn't have anything better to do than complain? Anyway, the computer at the one school is now somewhat faster than the other school. But the other school has a better keyboard. Maybe I'll see a tech guy tomorrow and he can change the keyboard. Or maybe I'll just be satisfied for now.

Down and Dirty

When I left a job recently, the gang I was leaving, in a very nice gesture, gave me a a planter. It had five plants within, each in a small container. The plants looked to be the kind I like--hard to kill. I finally got around to planting them in separate containers today. I realized when I took the planter outside, that I didn't have enough smaller pots to plant them in, so I had to go to the garden center. It's early in the spring season, so there weren't a lot of plants at the garden center. Nor many customers. Normally this would be a good thing for me, I could browse and peruse to my heart's content. However, I really wanted to plant those things and I only had a short window of time, so I skipped the pleasure of sniffing, smelling, reading the little labels, and grabbing things that I probably didn't really need and just got the pots--oh-and some potting soil--and some of those plastic saucers to put under the newly planted vegetation, so when I over zealously water them, it would stay in the saucer and not run all over the floor or carpet. I trundled home and began to separate, dig, water, dig and re-arrange. I did it all outdoors. It was a perfect day for planting and I have to say how pleased I was with the results.

I like plants. I have a few in the house that were presents from others. I have one that was in a planter for my father-in-law before he passed away. It has grown to be a rather large palm, but every time I look at it, I think of him in some way. I have a Christmas cactus that seems to only want to bloom either during Thanksgiving or Easter, but stubbornly refuses to flower at the season of it's name. I have poinsettias still, from this past Christmas. I will plant them after the threat of frost. I like them. And am probably a little absurdly pleased that they haven't died on me as yet. I don't really name my plants--I know that caught you off guard, but there are people who name their plants. They aren't really my pets, per se. They are my hobby I guess. I like the greenery in the house and if they flower, they are really on the top of my list. I have several african violets on the windowsill in the kitchen. They bloom periodically. Last year they bloomed all together, like a cheerleading team. I don't know how that happened, but it doesn't seem to be happening this year. One is blooming and the others are all looking at it askance. I don't know all the kinds of plants they are. That used to bother me, because I had this huge catalog of plant names and characteristics in my head that I could call forth at random. Not anymore. There's too much other stuff in my head these days and there's just no room for philodendrons or phlox. My sister I think is annoyed with me when I can't remember the names of the plants. I was always the "go to" gal with plant info and help. I guess I can't be bothered anymore. Now I just make sure they are get wet if they appear dry and pat them and talk to them once in a while in passing. They get plant food if I remember every few months, but if I forget, well, they seem to be a forgiving lot, so I guess it's okay.

I will be looking at them all over the house, these new comers. Seeing if the light is right for them, moving them to accommodate their idiosyncrasies. I'll talk to them once in a while and make sure the cat doesn't chew on them.

Welcome to the house, guys. May your dirt never dry out!

Spring is Here!

After what seems like an eternity, the sun is out today. It is about 60 degrees and no rain is forecast for a while. I feel like a person again! I went out and just sat on the deck steps and breathed in the air. I walked around the house and saw the daffodils, crocus and hyacinth beginning to poke their way out of the mud. There are little tiny buds on some of the trees and bushes. And its only one day that this is all happening! Oh, its marvelous. People are riding bikes, walking, jogging, kids are having baseball practice, the neighbor is picking up debris (well, she does that no matter what the season, but other people are now doing it too). The sky is actually blue, not that lumpy, roiling gray. There are robins hopping about on the neighbors lawns. I feel re-born almost. Watching the flag on the friend's house next door flap in the gentle breeze without getting stuck together from the constant rain is well, relaxing and calming. This is when I like New Jersey--the Garden State. When it appears to be a garden again with more green than brown, more gentle breezes than gale force winds, more people walking around and waving, then huddling in their coats and mumbling--their faces obscured by scarves and hats or gloves being breathed into to keep the circulation going in the fingers. It means Easter is coming, more sun is likely on the way.

Spring is here, I hear.

One is the lonliest number

I was going to write of my singular thinking today. How odd it is that I come home to an empty house and rattle around until the hubby comes home. But what I got to thinking about in light of this "rattling around" I do is this: I work on the computer--the laptop that is. I sit and stare out the window and write. It was a gift of immeasurable importance that I had no idea was important until I had it. Does that make sense? It has allowed me to begin randomly putting words out onto a medium that had bottled up inside for, well, quite a long time actually. And they are words that are mine alone. Not the editing that I do for various bosses or colleagues. Not the endless stream of reading I do. Nope just MY stuff. I've even gotten back to trying my hand at free verse. I'm not sure exactly what all this means. I don't feel more well adjusted or anything. But I think I feel better inside where I hide sometimes. I feel more myself these days. Less a character of the adult I am most of the time. And that is most certainly a good thing. I'm more comfortable with my thoughts this way. Even though my actions still need a little work!

And because it's a singular activity, one that is not shared with hubby or even the cat, it belongs to just me. And to discover me at this age is a gratifying thing.

Elegance in German

I have noticed that when I look for things to catch me unawares, it usually doesn't happen. I suppose because I'm looking for it? Duh! But what does happen once in a while is something stops me in my tracks that is either so beautiful or so sentimental or both that my eyes fill with tears and my throat gets all constricted. This happened last night. The thing is, though, it will not seem like much. I hope I can convey what it felt like though.

My generous husband, bought tickets for us to attend a "series" of concerts/musicals/events in the city we live near. He is not particularly a fan of musicals, but he likes most other kinds of music and is much more open to interpretative things than I--I've always been much more of a traditionalist. It has been lovely. We go out to eat and then attend the "theater" for whatever the musical gathering happens to be. This was such a great present for me as I enjoy going out to eat almost as much as a good musical! Because we are "empty nesters" and I seem to be having a hard time with that, this is just what the doctor ordered so to speak. The problem, if there is one, is that the series sometimes comes with an entertainment that neither he nor I have ever heard. We look up the artist on-line to see if we can get a glimpse of what we're in for, but that isn't always helpful. The event we attended last night, for example was a band from Berlin, as in Germany. The write up on internet made much of the band and singer, though we had never heard of either of them. We decided we might as well go and see them anyway, you never know, we might even like them!

If you don't know this yet, I love big band music. But not even just big bands, the music of the 30's and 40's speaks to something in me: of romance, times gone by and the tenuous tie with our departed father who listened to nothing else. I know oodles of songs from the era, memorized lyrics and can sing along with whomever is interpreting those songs. I also happen to love Fred Astaire musicals. I realize his singing wasn't the reason you watched, but Oh, Lord he was elegant. In his movements and even his interpretations of the songs he warbled. Cole Porter is said to have marveled at Astaire's ability to interpret lyrics. I learned many a Porter/Gershwin tune from those movies.

So there are we last night in this old music house. Not the newly refurbished, glass house, but the old dame. The seats are practically on top of one another vertically and the chandeliers need some serious work (as does the upholstery, carpeting and yes, even a paint job). The German band comes out wearing the tuxedos reminiscent of days gone by and they have those podium-like desks in front of them as the big bands used to have, with the leader of the band emblazoned on the front (or maybe just his initials). The lead singer comes out with white tie and tails and begins to talk about male/female relationships in a witty and urbane Cole Porter-esque fashion. His selections were a compilation of German and American songs--sung in both languages--from the 20's and 30's. He had a beautiful voice that had an interesting range. It was pleasant. Ah, but then the band began to play something and I thought, hmm, that sounds familiar. When I recognized the melody of "Cheek to Cheek" I thought, wonder what this will sound like? And then he began to sing. It was like Fred Astaire was standing on the stage singing to me. "Heaven. I'm in heaven. And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak." I closed my eyes and I could see him dancing. And singing. I swear this singer sounded almost exactly like Astaire with an accent. It brought tears to my eyes. It was absolutely perfect. And the orchestra played the song to perfection, not too sentimental, not too antiseptic, just right. And it carried me to the place I go where I don't have to work for a living and there is still romance living and breathing, even if it is just on the stage. And it carried me, "dancing cheek to cheek." I don't believe my husband noticed me wiping my eyes after this, but I don't care. It caught me unawares and reminded me that there is beauty all around whether you dance or not. Whether you sing for a living or not. And sometimes it's found in a German retro band with white ties and tails.

The Ears The Thing

"Out of the depths have I cried unto thee"
But no one is listening.
Well, I don't really know if they are listening, let alone speaking
As I can't hear.

I began a new job this week. It's not an onerous task or I should say, series of tasks. It doesn't seem like something I can't do. Except. The phone. The bane of my working existence. For starters, it seems like the phone I have doesn't pick up voices very well...I really don't want to think it's the hearing aids. They were expensive enough without having to worry about whether they do their job or not. But all of the voices I heard on the phone today seemed muffled. And I don't know if it's because I don't recognize the names they're asking for, or because I can't hear them. And how would I know? I cannot ask everyone to answer the phone for me. It doesn't work like that in an office. Do I ask for a new headset? Do I ask for the kind of thing which plugs into my ears without a handset? Shit. Sorry, it just makes me crazy and I don't know what to do about it exactly. It makes me not want to go to work. It makes me want to be anywhere but at my desk. It's hard enough to learn a new job, but do I have to have new equipment before I even get started? I hope not. That special dispensation thing makes me so uncomfortable. But I know I'll have to do something. I can't just turn up the volume, because then all I get is feedback. I'm hoping tomorrow is better, that somehow the voices will be somewhat clearer, the questions will make sense and I'll be able to discern. But right now, I'm not feeling too good about the whole thing.

Winter's Eve

Sitting in the quiet, having removed the hearing aids
I watch the wind rhythmically push the limbs on the trees outside
As the snow swirls round about.
Will it accumulate? The way it is predicted?
The flickers from the television in the room next door
Tell me the husband is watching sports
Or maybe "This Old House", trying to figure out
How to make this one younger again.
I can barely hear the clicking of the keys on the keyboard
and there is a faint rumble from the furnace or is it the TV?
It's cold out there, winter is whispering
Dancing in the dark with snowflakes the size of postage stamps.
Neath the glow of the streetlight, it comes down horizontally
Glistening and flashing to the ground, sometimes laying there
Sometimes disappearing onto the blacktop.
I have not liked winter this year with its constant cold and snow
And the need to bundle up and walk like penguins to just get to the car.
But the silence of a winter evening is alluring
And pretends to be something that it really isn't.
I'd like winter if it was warmer...

The silence is--well--pretty quiet

I haven't sat down for a whole week at this blog. I've been busy. Busy going to work, busy making dinners, making lunches, breakfasts, shooing the cat out of the way while doing those things and just well, really busy. If I had to point to something, I wouldn't be able to, the days all ran together and now it's Friday. But one thing I've noticed is that I have been writing--just not here.

Because Lent is here, I had gotten into the habit of writing small skits for the church to use on Wednesday evenings during the season. But with the new changing of the guard (read pastor), my services don't seem to be immediately needed. But the call went out at the last church service that if someone wanted to contribute something to the Good Friday service, "have at it." I couldn't resist a challenge and began tooling and nipping and tucking right away. So I've been productive, just not here. But I imagine I'll have to stop working on the Good Friday thing at some point this week coming up. If I stay on task too long with that particular thing, it loses something. So I'll probably flit back and forth.

See ya later.

The Sweet Potatoes of Life

We ventured out of the frozen tundra yesterday for supplies. We were out of the essentials like frozen breakfast sandwiches, kitty litter and "plastic" cheese, which isn't really plastic, nor come to that is it really cheese, but that's for another post. We got to the mega warehouse store and filed in with our cart, following lemming-like the crowds before us. We had a list and a purpose and so we tore ourselves away from the troglodytes staring at the big screen TVs (ohhh, pretty lights!) and wandered up and down the huge racks of things looking for our listed items. Our goal is always to stay on the list, stay on task and for god's sake don't stray to the candy aisle. Our goal never seems to make it. When we stray, the baked good cry out for rescue. The large tubs of frozen cream puffs look longingly-albeit through a frosty lens--at us. But what caught my eye yesterday and unfortunately I couldn't resist were two tubs of a fast food's sweet potatoes. I had seen other offerings from this fast food place before. Nothing enticed me, not the spiced apples, not the mac and cheese. But the sweet potatoes caught me in a vulnerable moment. So I plopped them in the cart. My husband is not a fan of sweet potatoes, really. I meant he could eat them if he had to eat something, but they just aren't his cup of tea-er-um potatoes-well, you know what I mean. He raised his eyebrows at me, I'm usually the one who tells him to put stuff back because a)this place sells stuff by the gallon and we don't need a gallon of whatever-it-was and b)it'll go bad before he decides that he really didn't like it that much before he bought this ginormous size. I understood his look. It was two tubs of the same stuff, it looked to be enormous since there are only two of us now in residence and who was gonna eat all that? I refused to put it back, though. And here's why:

This fast food restaurant isn't around as much anymore, but in it's "heyday" if you will, it was everywhere. Our family who was busy almost all the time, made it a practice to eat dinner together every night, no matter what the circumstances--unless the circumstances were too large to overcome--think working late, a basketball game in which one of the children figured in as a player as opposed to just watching, a committee meeting either at school or church that couldn't be accommodated by coming in later. Some of those days, I was just too tired to cook, or too lazy, take your pick. Some days it was a toss up. I was (and still am) the chef in the family, my husband never learned to cook and it usually didn't bother me to do this. But some nights it did and the fast food place that served chicken or turkey dinners with sides to go along was too good to pass up. So we would write down our preferences and the hubby and one of the kids would trek over to this place, get the order and come back. We'd feast on a dinner which though tailored to our specific likes, usually included at least either a fruit or a vegetable and it wasn't just a hamburger. I felt positively virtuous some nights after these dinners. So we fast forward to more recently. The children are no longer in residence and I'm feeling, especially on the weekends, somewhat melancholy about this. You'd think by now I'd be done with particular pity party, but I never was one to follow trends and this obviously isn't one I'm going to go along with either--for a long time. Anyway, I see something that I can do to sort of "relive" the days of having take out around the table with four of us instead of two and it doesn't cost a fortune. I'm not putting it back.

So I got home and when it came time to make dinner, I followed the package directions, put it in one of our own dishes and served it up. And it tasted really good. I remembered how much our son loved these as well and when we visited him out in sunny CA, we stopped at this fast food place and we both indulged in a side of these delicious sweet potatoes, laughing and remembering those dinners. And just for this particular President's Day weekend, I could pretend they were just upstairs in their room getting ready to come down to dinner. It was worth two tubs...

Discontented Winter

Winter is not very forgiving
And winter storms are like the girlfriend
whom you try not to see across the room
But she keeps staring at you with her arms folded
Across her chest, frostily.
It's hard to ignore.

In the grip of the storm
The snow floats noiselessly, relentlessly
Into a sugar coating of all things
nailed and un-nailed down.
Making everything look softer, fluffy, kinder.
But if you go outside, it isn't soft
It's cold and stinging, harsh and hard.
Although it is as quiet as a cemetery
At midnight.
Afterwards, the next day, when the sun is shining,
It stuns your eyes everywhere with it's
bright, brash light.
Then as the ice melts and
Pings softly against the house, it starts to look
Dirty and rumpled, like it was awakened and doesn't like it.
And everywhere the sound of digging, scraping and occasional laughter.
When the sun finally begins to set
All is awash in a subtle yellow light, not as brash
Like a girl just come from her first dance.
But the ice awaits at night and looks for you unawares.
It's evil slyly hidden in the blackly opaque frozen puddles
Of the street.
Not too forgiving, but sometimes beautiful in its aggressive anger.

My Circular Taste

I have to begin this post with a remembrance from my earlier years listening to my dad's preference in music on the radio. Most of the stations that played big bands, also played Easy Listening or Pop as well. This is where I heard Steve and Edie Gormet, Frank Sinatra and Jack Jones among others. As I got older I found I liked listening to this music more than the 70's stuff most of my generation listened to, therefore, I kept it hidden. I played it in the car when no one was watching-er-listening. But I knew the songs so well from having heard them so many times that I would sing along with the singer. Some of the songs were what people term as "standards". Songs like Blue Moon sung by Mel Torme or I've Got You Under My Skin by Frank Sinatra. I say "by" meaning, the vocalizations most identified with the song. They didn't write them, they just made them hugely famous by singing them. So we come to some other songs which entered my brain for one reason or another and stuck there. They weren't wildly popular, probably. Songs like "Who Can I Turn To," with Sammy Davis, Jr. singing it or "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" with Tony Bennett. Something about those songs stayed with me. So, anyways, one of those stayed-with-me-songs was one called "She Loves Me" and I think I originally heard some woman sing it--can't quite recall who--but the lyrics were witty and catchy. They faded into the background and I would it hear it once in a blue moon, but nothing too much on the radar. Then I heard the Jack Jones version and I loved it right away. His voice and the lyrics were great! But of course, no one played it very much, so when it came on the radio I wouldn't remember how much I liked it until I couldn't get it out of my head for three or four days.

Now we fast forward to a few months ago. I was purchasing a CD of Jack Jones songs because I still do like his voice, his phrasing and his eyes are really great, too! And on the CD I purchased was a song called, "She Loves Me." I have pretty good recall on those older songs, but I thought this one was some smarmy something or other and ignored it until I was tooling along in the car listening when it came on and I felt like I found an old friend. I played it numerous times in a row after that to refresh my memory of the lyrics I found so enchanting. Unfortunately, whilst refreshing my memory, it stayed running through my head repeatedly, so I needed to do something with it to make it go away. I decided that I would look up the lyricist for the song--not really something you can do on internet too well if someone recently released a song of the same or very similar name and all it wants to do is give you hits on the newer versions. I typed and retyped and revised and circumvented as best I could and finally found what I was looking for on Wikipedia--sort of. I found the guys' name, but the entry mentioned that the song actually came from a musical done in 1963 from a book entitled, Parfumerie written in Hungary.

I need to digress a moment here and tell you something else. I like old movies, too. And I watched one entitled, "In The Good Old Summertime" with Van Johnson and Judy Garland and was instantly entranced. I found out it was a remake of the movie, "Shop Around the Corner." I have since learned that "You've Got Mail" with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks is a remake of that film essentially. I watched "Shop Around the Corner," one Saturday when it was on some obscure movie channel. I decided that I would like to have the whole trilogy as it were: I now own the Judy Garland/Van Johnson and the Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan one. I just need to purchase the other one.

So we come back to my looking at the Wikipedia write up of "She Loves Me" and what I find out is that the Hungarian play turned into the musical is the same story line as the above movies. All the same. And the music is from the musical.

I think this proves that I really don't have taste all over the map, I have really only one thing I love and that is this story, told over and over and over again. How depressing. I thought I was discerning. Here I find out, I'm not so much.

The words to the song, by the way are this (the song has kind of a bossa nova beat the Jones sings it):

Well! Well! Well! Well! Well!
Well! Well! Well! Well! Well!
Will wonders never cease?
I didn't like her!
I didn't like her!
I couldn't stand her
I couldn't stand her!
I wouldn't have her!
I never knew her,
But now I do!
And I could...
And I would...
And I know...

She loves me
And to my amazement
I love it knowing that she loves me
She loves me,
True, she doesn't show it
How could she,
When she doesn't know it.
Yesterday she loathed me, bah!
Now today she likes me, ah!
And tomorrow, tomorrow...
AAAAAAAAAAAh!

My teeth ache from the urge to kiss her
I'm speechless for I mustn't tell her
It's wrong now, but it won't be long now
Before my love discovers
That she and I are lovers
Imagine how surprised she's bound to be,
She loves meeeeeeeeeee!

I love her, isn't that a wonder?
I wonder why I didn't want her.
I want her, that's the thing that matters,
And matters are improving daily.

Yesterday I loathed her, bah!
Now today I love her, ah!
And tomorrow, tomorrow...
AAAAAAAAAAAh!

I'm tingling such delicious tingle,
I'm trembling, what the hell does that mean?
I'm freezing that's because it's cold out.
But still I'm incandescent
And like some adolescent
I'd like to stroll on ev'ry wall I see
She loves me!
She loves meeeeeeeee!

Just as a sidelight, another song in that musical (which had a revival in 1993, I think) is the song, "Will He Like Me," which Barbra Steisand made so wonderfully. See? I just like the same thing, I just didn't know it!

Music For Me

I am writing about music I like today because my children and husband don't like the same stuff I do and I feel left out. What I really feel though, is superior. Because what I like are things with melodies, and strings and flow and balance. What I do not like are things that are either screaming or incoherent babble. And screeching guitars, gotta say, I really detest screeching guitars. Actually screeching anything are pretty much something I don't like. The word makes my hearing aids tingle. The actual sound is much, too much for me.

But to continue. I went to visit my mother and stepdad today. We went out to breakfast, a very unusual event. I am still working and they aren't. But I have some days to burn before I lose them, so I took off and went to see them for a couple of hours. In the process of getting to their house I have noticed that the music that accompanies me is music that I can't hear on the radio anymore. Of course, if I had that satellite radio thingee, I might still be able to find a station, but I don't want to listen to all that talking and commercials and things. I want to hear what I like. And what I like isn't played anymore on the stations in my area. I like Sammy Davis, Jr. and Steve and Edie Gormet, Jack Jones and Frank Sinatra. I have a pretty good catalog of Gershwin, Porter and Berlin in my head. Lots of lyrics, too. Sung by those guys and some gals who used to perform on my father's radio stations. I have CDs, too. Lots of Frank. Just a few of the others. I put on whatever my particular favorite is for the day, and drive the next 45 minutes or so either listening or singing along--depending on my mood. Sometimes I skip around on an album, sometimes I play 'em straight through.

Some of the songs I realize are real relics of the past. Some of them make me cringe in their "political uncorrectness" these days. But hey, when they came out, they were very popular. And singable. And I got to thinking--what will my generation dance to at their children's weddings? If they take dancing lessons, they aren't learning to dance to "My Sweet Embraceable You" are they? Or are they? The music of the 70's was a rebellion of their parents music. I understand. But their parents music--okay--my parent's music is good for what it's called, "Easy Listening." There isn't any subliminal message underneath. It smooth and easy and not too demanding. Will I dance to Inna Gotta Davita or however it's spelled at my daughter's wedding? Geez! I hope not. And if that means I have to take dancing lessons with the hubby while listening to Frank or Sammy, then bring it on! He won't be thrilled, I'm sure, but I will be.

I remember reading a book one time and it said that this music I am referring to is, "the music of the ages." Like it lasts forever. It feels that way to me. Like it lasts forever. It brings me back to childhood and makes me wish that some of that "rosy glow" still existed. And so I listen to that music most of the time. I like the Beatles, the Stones, the Beach Boys and lots of other bands from the 70's. but I love those crooners of the past more than any other kind of music.

I intend to blog more about this kind of music and the songs. But I'm gonna go do the dishes now and get ready for my husband to come home from work. The dinner will be on the table (or at least the table will be set) and I'm glad that I can re-create that little bit of time in our house this evening.

Schools

The insistent ringing
The bleating bell
The constant chatter of the office.

The unfinished story, anecdote, sentence
Hangs for hours in the air
To be snagged in the off moment and half-finished
While the parents parade on and on.

With the snacks and lunches and the backpacks
Forgotten in the car, on the bench, in the front room
With stories of their delightful children and their
Endearing ways too numerous to mention.
Or their sad lamentations of forgetfulness
Of the parents of course, never the children.
Ruefully smiling, acknowledging that of course, it was
The children, but they're not to blame.

And the phone again rings and rings
Of children sick, or just simply staying home
Or the questions of safety duty, lunch duty, lunch selections,
Time of after school activities, during lunch activities and
The amount of time needed to get them to CCD.

The teachers are asking for their renewed schedule
their forgotten duties, their students home phone numbers.
And are we ordering out today? How much is that? What time will it arrive?
And are the pickles on the side?

The children stream into the nurses' office with
Lost and loose teeth, bloody noses, bruised skin and egos.
Parading past with assistants who need copies and schedules, too.

Did I miss this? Yes, surprisingly I did. As I trudge
Up the steps once again, as I did 7 plus years ago
Carrying papers, news, help and a smile or two.
But I will be denied it once again apparently.
Moving on to older students who don't need you to care
Just to make sure you don't get in their way.
Who will mow you down with a brief nod in your direction
Which is supposed to suffice for an apology.
They won't need the parents satellites as much, but they will
Need texting priviledges. They won't need a hug, but they
Would like it if you knew the answer to number 4 on the Math Quiz.

How different will it be, I wonder.
How much will be the same? Starting again and yet not.
I wonder. I wonder.

Happy Brother's Day

I want to write about my brothers. Not just because I love them, as I hope they are aware. I want you to know something about them because they are wonderful men and the world would be less if they were not here.

My older brother shares an awful lot of things with me in terms of hearing deficiencies, tastes in books, slow but determined understanding of a problem and dry humor. He is kind. His writing style is packed. Packed with eloquent descriptions and touching humaneness. He wanders about here and there in his writings, but I can follow his tracks and not get lost in the prose. His love and kindnesses flow through his life, his writing and his laughter. I am always enriched with his conversations which are never enough and his e-mails which are infrequent due to his busy schedules.

My younger brother shares a lot of things with me too. We are the two younger siblings, the "sweetie twins" dubbed by the older pair. Partners in play and laughter, we can find joy in music, books, buildings, flowers and each other. He hasn't had much time lately to get to the sweet spot of joy, but he knows its there in his undulating laugh and that sparkle in his "dad" laden eyes. His creativity and vision is so impressive to me. He may not write for a living(although he could--he is excellent with words), but the eloquence he uses with lines and angles speaks entire libraries. He is also full of love and kindness and compassion. We don't talk much either, he is so very busy treading these days. But when we do, we are sitting out back of the old house once again, watching clouds and making observations and I'm home again.

I spoke with them both yesterday--a very rare occurrence and I was reminded that though we share roots and a past, we also have a friendship in the present and future. There are so many strands of our lives which intertwine with each other, that make each other more than what we would be alone. I could not be who I am with others without my brothers. And I think that is a very good thing.

So Happy Brother's Day, guys. Love ya.

Happy Birthday

It's not my birthday. I'm sure it's somebody's birthday somewhere, but not mine. I was thinking of birthdays today though as the youngest will be celebrating 23 years of existence next week. I was thinking of birthdays past, both mine and the children's.

Remember how it was for your birthday? The excitement of, the anticipation of, the list-making, plan making, totally involvement of the birthday. Some birthdays were bigger than others. Not necessarily the age, but the experience. The "wish list" for your birthday was excelled only by the ginormous list you made for Christmas. There were always the exotic requests (gold earrings? cowboy boots?)alongside the "sure to receives" like underwear or socks. Somewhere in between was the reality.

In our house as a child, you got to have your choice for dinner and dessert. I remember the dessert part most. Chocolate cake with vanilla icing? Vanilla cake with chocolate icing? Mint chocolate chip ice cream? You name it, it was yours.

I tried to hold onto that tradition with our children as long as I could, but the allure of "eating out" overtook us. Alas, we go out to eat either due to my culinary skills (or lack of) or the excitement of the varied menu, never available no matter how many times you asked.

Birthdays were made for dreaming. They made you think bigger, older, more grandiose dreams than the everyday ones. Maybe this year you would go horseback riding? Or the party could be somewhere other than your house (now I know that today, the party is almost ALWAYS someplace other than your house, but in the Old Days, they were never anywhere else.) Maybe you would get money to buy the newest record, or a new outfit or that boy you liked would give you a ring! The possibilities were endless.

I still look forward to birthdays, because I still wish on them like the candles on the cake. But I wish for different things now: happiness for my children, long life for my siblings and mother, health for my husband. It's still fun to dream.

So Happy Birthday to you!

Being of two minds

The ambivalence of the season following the season is confusing
Would the Wise Men have stopped to converse with us about our confusion?
The "Thank God its over" conundrum with the "It's over already?"
The pinging of the evergreen needles is counterpointed with the ticking of the clock
The false candles in the window reminding us of the need for light at 4:30
The sweets festooning the dining room table are far outweighed at the scales in the bathroom
Red and green poinsettias stand amidst the other greenery
Ostentatiously preening in the window as the philodendron snickers silently,
"It won't be long," it whispers, "you'll be just green like the rest of us."
The fireplace, never used except during this time of year, goes dormant, sullenly
hoarding it's heaped up piles of ashes for another winter.
The wreaths on the door, the festive flag flapping on the winter breeze, even the electric wooden tree, painted to resemble the evergreen in the corner will all soon fold themselves up for a long winter's nap.
The bareness of the walls, floors and doors a testament to the fleeting of seasons and the march of the hours.
Are you sad or glad it's done? It's hard to say, being of two minds.

Frosted Pindowanes

The words to holiday songs are one of the reasons I sing them, even though I have been informed by numerous friends (and family, too) that I'm off key. I really do love to sing songs at this time of the year. When I hear the words to "I'll Be Home for Christmas", it reminds me of my father who said the servicemen hated this song when they were overseas in WWII because they knew they wouldn't be. The words to "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" seem like they are fine and upbeat until you hear the haunting melody which tells you that perhaps the singer isn't so thrilled with the holiday this year. The Chipmunks sang a variety of songs from a few albums, but "Hang Up Your Stocking" is the one that makes me think of my older brother, bobbing his head along to the chorus. My daughter makes a mix CD every year of Christmas songs for me and this year in the collection was "Do You Hear What I Hear?" sung by a male group interspersed with Baba O'Reilly. It was fantastic! I've played that over and over until my husband shuffles quietly out of the room, mumbling something.

Before my daughter made mix CDs though, I made a couple myself. The one that seems to be the family staple (or the one they either love or detest the most, I suppose) has a compilation of some standard favorites sung by Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Johnny Mathis and the Muppets (from a Muppet Christmas Carol). It is the one I hide after the holidays so that I can bring it out around November each year and play it repeatedly before the new CD is received. I can sing along to every single one of those songs. A few years ago, I added a song to the repertoire, "Christmas Stays The Same." It was a version sung by Linda Eder-I think that's how you spell her name. And when I finally learned the lyrics, I decided that this was my new favorite Christmas song.

Here are the words:

Santa Claus and mistletoe,
Carols by the fire
Send a card and spread a little Christmas cheer.
Silent night, a fall of snow
Listen to the choir,
Everyone is happy that it's here.
For we all remember, some past December
Of tinsel and holly and people we love.
Put the angel on the tree then enjoy the view.
Wait until the children are asleep and then
Put together all the toys,
Hide a gift or two
Wishing you were just a kid again.
For we all remember, some past December
Of train sets that whistled and dolls we could name.
Oh the years may change
But Christmas stays the same.
Turkey and gravy,
Hams full of honey
Cousins you see once a year,
Fathers who scold you,
Then slip you some money
And roofs full of tiny reindeer.
Yes we all remember some past December;
Of grandmas and kitchens with kettles aflame.
Oh the years may change
But Christmas stays the same

Of course the music is lilting and wonderful and I get all misted up at the last, "Yes, we all remember some past December," because each and every time I remember all those Christmases ago, from long past and recent past and they blend together in one giant Christmas carol. It's sung in harmony and slightly off key, but it couldn't be any more beautiful than the angels that first Christmas in my mind.

Its That Time of Year

I awoke this morning, the first day of the New Year, in pretty much the same funk I've woken up to for the last umpty-ump years. This year was just slightly, well, funkier. The house is still festive--can't take down the Nativity scene until at least the Wise Men make their entrance. And the stockings are still hung by the chimney with care. But Santa has come and gone and so have the children.

And there it is, ladies and gentlemen. The house is so quiet. The cat is sleeping--well there's really nothing noteworthy there, the cat is always sleeping. The gifts have all been put away. The good china is back in the hutch until the next family event. There are scads of cookies still to be eaten, candy in the candy dish and gift breads still on the counter in the kitchen. There are empty boxes still on the hearth from the youngest. He took the contents and left too quickly to my mind, to go back to warmer climes, chummier company, and a schedule in retail that forbids family time. Oh, that was so unfair of me, I think. By now, if he and his sister were still under the roof, most of the goodies would be gone, consumed by the constantly grazing hordes that come with those two. I look around at the snowmen decorations, the angels, the little stuffed teddy bears I put in some people's stockings and think to myself that even though I knew it would be over sooner this year, I didn't really know it. But now I do. I'm re-reading about 4 books at once, playing more inane computer games and putzing around the house trying to stay away from the West Wing collection that someone loaned me so I won't stay wrapped up in the blanket all day, feeling fuzzy and not of this world. I probably need to get back to work so I can stop thinking. But what can I do to stop feeling? That my friend is what makes it the hardest time of the year.