Tulips on the Windowsill

There are two bunches of them
Tulips, I mean
Swaying in the afternoon breeze.
They came to let me know
He is thinking of me
Across the miles
Across the years.
They were tightly closed when they arrived.
Buffered against the elements by cardboard
And careful packing.
But today they are gradually opening
Letting in the light
Letting in the warm breeze.

They make me think of him,
The tulips, I mean.
As a baby he was tightly wrapped
And as he grew he opened
His thoughts, emotions, and yes, tantrums.
And then he began to close slightly,
Like the tulips at night
Closing their petals against the evening air
And the dark.
He would close those glimpses into
His emotions and thoughts,
Making his own night.
Protecting him from the elements
Toughening him to the outside.

But now, as the years pass
He opens slightly again.
In passing glimpses, in slow head nods
In small smiles.
It takes a week to see him again as he
Was before and
Then he is gone again
As the petals fall off the tulips
And lay on the windowsill.
Reminding me still of him.

Pets or Something Like Them

I don't know what it is about pets. Why do we have them? What Neanderthal thought up the idea of bringing the dog in the cave first? Or who thought of the idea first to bring the cat into the home or decided to have a bunny for a friend rather than Sunday dinner?

Pets get in the way almost always. They shed. They make pulls in your sweaters. They leave trails of water and food all over the place. You have to clean up after them in one way or another. Depending on the type, they either love you, tolerate you or cower from you except when you feed them. They almost always take up space, time and energy and when a person gets older none of these are things are easily given up. So why exactly do so many people have pets? When pets eventually get old, you have to decide their quality of life for them as they are unable to articulate this for themselves. And you end up feeling guilty and horrid if you have to put them to sleep because it's such a burden to take care of them anymore. They cost money, too. Veterinarian bills are not cheap. And if you don't register your pet, at least in our town, and the powers that be find out about it, you can be fined. And if their shots aren't up to date, you can be fined for that as well. I'm just not sure I understand why pets are so important.

Growing up in our house we always had a dog of some kind. I don't recall particularly caring for them much. I fed them once in a while. I played with them occasionally. But they were on the periphery of my life, not the center piece. We had cats, too. They were amusing, but again, not something I remember taking responsibility for very much.

When I grew up and married and moved away from home, my husband, a true lover of cats convinced me that having a cat was a good thing. And two cats would keep each other company. Until they got old. And someone had to take care of their messes and their bad health. And eventually someone (how did I get nominated?) had to take them to the vet to be put to sleep. I cried over them, but my husband was much more sad than I. And then, we got two more cats because we had kids and they needed to learn how to take care of pets, right? And now we are down to one cat. And she is old and making messes and you can see where this is going, can't you? Especially since the children are grown and living away from home. And it becomes hard to do this. And I don't really want to anymore.

And so, gazing out the window on the back yard at the old cat laying on the stone driveway, I wonder. Why do we have pets? And I still don't have an answer.

Spring is here

I always appreciate when Spring arrives. The problem in our "neck of the woods" with it is that Spring seems to blast through in a week or so and the hot furnace of summer blows in before you're ready. Here you are walking down the street marveling at the daffodils nodding their heads in greeting, smelling the heavy perfume of the hyacinths, appreciating the pink cherry blossoms when "BLAMO" the next day is eighty degrees and you haven't put away your sweaters and have no idea where your short sleeves shirts are hiding. I could ask for a few weeks just to appreciate the fact that the snow is finally gone and that I don't actually have to hunt up a pair of gloves just to go out to close the garage door. Just a little time to savor the light jacket wearing, the fresh breeze in your face, the pungent smell of the Bradford pears (okay, I'd be fine without that particular harbinger of Spring-but you get the idea).

So whom do you petition? I have no idea. But it's a lovely dream.

Birds of the air

I've been contemplating birds lately. When my hubby placed a bird feeder outside of our kitchen window where we eat, I at first thought it was a bad idea. Because there are a bank of windows, I thought our movements would keep the birds away. But apparently we aren't as frightening as I supposed and the brown sparrows, black-capped chick-a-dees and garden variety finches that frequent the columnar breakfast bar seem undeterred by our paper reading or breakfast eating. The startling red of the cardinal surprises me sometimes. And the raucous blue jays who really are too big for the feeder, but muscle their way in anyway, are the ones that start the precarious thing swaying in the breeze. A few weeks ago the feeder was suddenly empty and we wondered what happened. It was then we saw a hawk on the branches outside the other window. He was rather large, but beautiful in his plumage as he looked left and right for the feast that had been there not five minutes before. He flew off, looking I'm sure for easier prey, but it was astonishing to see him so close to the window as we observed him.

We had a visit from 3 wild turkeys the other Saturday. They strutted through the ivy in the back of our yard and flew over the fences which separate one domain from another. I was so excited I ran out the back door with a camera only to discover they were directly in the line of the sun and all my pictures showed lots of washed out something or others. I loved them as well, watching them pump their neck and heads as they grandly walked from place to place. They didn't gobble. At least I didn't hear them. The only sound was their feathers rustling and their feet shuffling through the underbrush. I really hadn't realized how big they were until one, trying to decide whether to fly over the fence or simply walk back where it came from came right towards me. I think my squeal startled him as much as me and he bustled off in a flurry of wings and ungainly feet.

But the birds that, for some reason have had the most impact for me were the pelicans. I really never analyzed why these birds get to me the way they do. They are ungainly on land, waddling about with their overlarge bills clacking. But in flight and on the water they are graceful and elegant. When I watched the movie, Jurassic Park, at the end as the helicopter swept away the survivors, Dr. Grant looks over the ocean and sees a flock of pelicans majestically flying over the water and John Williams music sweeps to a crescendo reminding us that birds are the dinosaurs of our time. They look almost reptilian when observed close up. But that beautiful music swept me away with their flight as I watched (and subsequent times thereafter). I saw pelicans for the first time in person when I was in California during a writer's conference. We went to a small place in Malibu for dinner one night and crossed the Pacific Coastal Highway to get to the ocean. As we stood there, watching the waves meander in, watching the light mellow over the Pacific, a flock flew low over the water. It was just breath-taking. They soared so effortlessly. They are large birds, but in flight they dance on the wind as if they weighed no more than one of their feathers.

Just recently I was in South Carolina. I was there on vacation, but initially it was hard to relax. My siblings and I went to the beach on the second day we were there. I am not a beach person and probably never will be. But the wind was blowing gently, it was warm and I was with people who love me no matter what (a comfort I don't always have). As we walked along the sand, two of us dressed for the warm weather, two of us looking as though we belonged in the cooler regions, I looked over to the horizon. I could see two pelicans bobbing gently along on the tide. Later we watched as they dove headlong into the waves to catch their lunch. I was so filled with the wonder of the place then, of the love for my family, of the good graces of the world around me, I cried. Not great sobbing gulps, but tears nonetheless. I think the tears were of the joy at being in the world, of being able to be away from the things that so often make me tired and sad, of being able to thank God for the amazing blessing I have in my life.

And all because of some birds.

The Spring Inside

Inside of me there is Spring.
The wind is howling and threatening
To wipe the new buds off the trees.
But inside, the daffodils are blooming
And the hyacinths are nodding their
Many bloomed bodies
And the dogwoods are unfurling
While soaking up the sun.

It's supposed to snow and rain tomorrow
In late March no less, snow.
But inside of me the sun is warming
My innards like a lizard n a rock
And the perennials are poking up
Through the moist soil for a peek at the world
They haven't seen since last Spring.

My family has brought Spring to me.
By being there and listening and laughing
And not judging or criticizing or berating.
But just being there to feed the soul like
The Spring sun, which is residing inside me
This day.

In Love

It's the first day of Spring today. Time when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of...baseball or March Madness. But it is during Spring that I most think of romantic love and all that it encompasses. I don't know why this is. Something about the sap running through the trees probably (and yes, I meant the pun). But always, always I think of love and it's permutations. What it is and what it can be. What the real and the imagined is like.

I have always thought that there must be something to the stuff of movies. How could that wonderful thing of love portrayed in endless movies, only exist there? It must be real, right? The Rosie O'Donnell movie line I most remember from Sleepless in Seattle is, when speaking to Meg Ryan about what love means to Meg she says: "you want to be in love in a movie." Which I thought a priceless line as that is exactly what was going on in the movie. But it's true, also. I've always wanted to be in love, like in the movies. And fortunately or unfortunately, I've wished this for my daughter as well. I want her to have fireworks and excitement, but I also want her to have something truer than a Saturday night, too. Something stable and lasting but romantic, too. The fairy tale. But with her responsible for her end of the bargain too. Not just something that falls into her lap and she has no input. But something to hold onto in the dark watches of the night.

And so love and Spring are on my mind today. And it's raining. I wonder what that means?

Hurry Up, I'm Waiting

I’m impatient
For the world to be going on
For the phone to ring when they say it should
For the clock to move, when it seems to stall

I’m impatient for the doctor in the waiting room
The dentist in the waiting room
And the little Asian lady
To be done with the nails in front of me
“How long could it possibly take?”

The computer is so slow
The laptop even slower
The cell phone takes forever
To dial and texting
Is as bad as mailing.

I’m impatient for the week to start
For the week to end
For the theater tickets to be made real
The nice dinner to be seated
The conversation to flow

And when those things don’t happen
According to plan
I’m impatient to be done with them
And moving on to the next thing on the calendar
Marked in red, sometimes underlined.

Hurry up, I’m waiting, used to be the refrain
For a children’s card game we played.
But now the reality of life intrudes
And it’s the refrain of a life spent rushing
And waiting, in toe tapping angst.

I’m impatient.

The Rythym of Life

I had the opportunity to walk around the burb today about the time the students got out of school. They were walking in lumps and clumps along the sidewalks, laughing, poking each other, and some were seriously considering some post or tweet or whatever was on one of their high-tech phones. I looked at my watch and realized that with my being away from my desk today, I had lost track of the time. And then I thought of something else. There was a time when I made sure I was home, in the house at this time of day. I did this for something like 12 years, give or take a day. I was home when the kids came home. The cycle of their days were the same every school day of the year. I thought, when I was in this cycle, that these days would never end. Some days it was tedious, when I knew I had other things to do and couldn't do them until someone got home. Some days I knew it would be interesting, I knew that one of the kids would tell me how their project was received, their report was graded or just the latest news of the school. But those days are a long way away now. And the end of the school day passes by with hardly a blink. I know school day is over when I have to pay more attention to the hordes of children trying to cross the same street I am trying to cross in my car. I notice suddenly, it seems there is more noise outside the window of my living room as they chatter and scream and yell on their travels back to the house.

And suddenly the silence of the house muffles all the outside noises. And the cat and I are alone again, contemplating the quiet.

The Everyday-ness of Everyday

There is a song by Sondheim which talks about all the people coming off a train and mingling with all the hundreds of other people so that they are indistinguishable from all the people that were there before them...and even after them. Sometimes the days are like that. Each day is the same as the day before that and the day that comes after is the same. The weather changes somewhat, sunny, cloudy, rainy, snowy. But the days progress one after another in a straight line on into the future. When you have reached a level of some proficiency in your job and your job is essentially the same every day, then the sameness bleeds into the hours and the days and the weeks and oh-my-heavens the years before you even know it.

I went to pick up the hubby at the train station today and I realized that the previous days had seemed to be like a carbon copy of the previous week and the same of the week before.

The plants need to be watered, the cat needs to be fed, the dishes are fed dirtily into the dishwasher only to be revived again after they are cleaned to be put on the shelf to be made dirty again. Cycle after cycle after cycle. The sun unfolds sleepily in the morning and droops back into the horizon at evening. And it was morning and it was evening...that's from Genesis.

I'm not going to talk about the surprise of each new day in this post. Because I didn't feel it today. I do some days. Some days I am astonished at the variety of life and experiences all around me. But not today. Today I'm looking forward to falling into bed to be awakened by the grudging grayness of another morning. And another hundred people just got off of the train, and the plane and the bus.

Room at the top

I remember the slanted ceilings of the old house. The house wasn't a "dutch colonial", but it had those ceilings anyway. Why didn't I put more posters on them? Why didn't I decorate them more? I have no idea. I can't remember my thought processes from those times. Except, once in a while, I get a glimpse of what I was thinking. I'll see the light bend a certain way, or the leaves on a tree through a window and remember how it was to see that every morning when I woke up. To look out the narrow window out front and see the maple trees, see the way the light shone through the branches in the winter or the leaves in the summer. And the slanted ceilings, sliding away to the small walls where the beds reside. In the back bedroom, the beds were put so that the head was perpendicular to the slant, but in the front bedroom, they were parallel, so the ceiling gave you a sense of enclosing you. In the front bedroom you couldn't look out the windows, but the back bedroom you could. The front bedroom had the fan, that if you talked into while it was running, your voice would get all wavery. The air almost never circulated all the way to the back bedroom. No one ever heard of air conditioning back then. It was sleep and sweat all the way.

I don't know what made me think of that upstairs, but I did. Slanted ceilings, twin beds, four children, so long ago.

Feline Posting

For those that know about the animal I'm about to speak of, I'll let you know that she is fine. Probably better than fine. She is eating all her wet cat food, peeing and pooping in all the designated areas (more or less) and still sleeping at least 19 hours a day. What could be wrong? Life is good. If you are the cat.

I was wondering just today what it is about this animal that vexes me so. I hear her little collar bell tinkle, tinkle, tinkle and I grit my teeth. I hear the clicking of her nails on the floor (which tells me she needs them clipped again) and I find myself either counting to 10 before going into the next room or getting on the computer and playing 700 rounds of solitaire. So I decided to just stop being annoyed by her existence for a few minutes and become a rational human and think this through.

When we first brought her home, she was an affectionate thing. Always wanted to be in your lap, purring constantly, following you around from room to room. She began to glom onto my husband shortly thereafter. If he sat down on the couch to watch TV, she would jump up on his lap and settle herself there. My husband is a cat lover from way back, so he just let her. It's seventeen years later and she still jumps in his lap, but now she can't seem to get comfortable for at least 20 minutes, turning, stretching, readjusting her position, licking (oh, let's not forget the licking) and not just herself is she bathing, she bathes whatever is in proximity to her nose, my husband's shirt, his chin, the couch and occasionally herself. Twenty minutes! Someone, usually me, can't take it after five, and she is removed from the couch. She wanders around the house for a few minutes, forgets that someone removed her and jumps back up to start the cycle all over again. Now, because she is 17, I am assuming that she forgets. But in all the time we have had her, she has a habit of repeating behavior that is obviously annoying to me. Maybe I'm reading too much into this, but really, she has been like this since we had her, so I'm not sure senility is the problem.

She used to jump up on the counters to see what was in the garbage bag. Nothing would deter her; balloons, aluminum foil, nothing. The only deterrent which seemed to work for a while was me losing my temper out of all proportion and screaming at her and smacking her tail end. She was sufficiently terrorized for a while to stop jumping up. But suddenly I would come home one afternoon from work and there she would be again--on the counter and looking like a deer in the headlights because--OH GOD that crazy lady caught me again. We solved the problem somewhat by putting the garbage bag in the microwave, but then that began to smell and well, anyway, I should be able to leave the bag out without having to protect it like some rare gem.

Her favorite ploy is to sit or lay somewhere in the middle of things and when a person, almost always me, begins to move around, she either jumps up and tangles herself in my legs or I step on her, because I didn't see her. I really don't like hurting animals in any way, but that screech she gives out makes my blood run cold. I feel like I've just tortured her and am more careful until the next time. And there is always a next time.

Today I am home taking care of a few things and battling the sniffles. She has run back and forth from room to room several times, that damn tinkling bell accompanying her jaunts. It's driving me crazy!

So I'm trying to devise a reason to go out. Any reason. So I don't have to listen to that sound or the screech when she sits under my legs and I move. I'm developing bad nerves. And I think she knows it. Senility my eye!

I've Never Visited Tuscon

But I visited Arizona with my sister a few years ago. It was a breathtaking experience, not because of her driving...honest. But because Arizona is beautiful. It's purple mountains are indeed majestic and the numerous plains were inspiring as well, with waving fields of green and golden grasses and birds dipping down to sample some juicy bug buffet. It was a wonderful trip because of our being together and talking and laughing. But I remember the grand vistas of Sedona and Phoenix, begging her to stop so I could get out and take more pictures. My mind is filled with these pictures even now, scrolling through the blue expansive sky as it turned golden and honey-hued at sunset, the rolling hills, like waves of the ocean undulating into the horizon. I thought dessert was dry, dusty, arid, lifeless. It turns out that the Arizona countryside is alive and living and full of flower, prose and poetry in it's grandeur. And I didn't even get to the Grand Canyon!

Hi-Ho The Lyrical Life

I was taking part in a class the other week and we were doing one of those "getting to know you" exercises. The particular exercise was that you had to name two truths and one lie about yourself and others in the class had to guess which was the lie. After pondering what I could possibly say which would be interesting and enlightening about myself I picked the following, stating in my best voice that they were all true: I can juggle, I failed Phys Ed in college, and I can tell you the lyrics of at least 25 musicals--all of the songs in that musical--all the lyrics.

The last of course, for anyone who knows me even a little is the truest of all truths I could tell about myself. I am not going to tell you the lie above...it's not relevant, really. Okay, I can't juggle. Well, I can juggle several tasks at once, but not the 3 different balls in air kind of thing. Anyway, why is it that I know so many lyrics? Why do musicals fascinate me so much? I know more musical music than any other kind of music, including the kind I grew up with (either rock and roll or 40's--take your pick, I grew up with both). I cannot read music. My hearing is such that I'm never really sure what I'm listening to when I hear a melody. But put the words to the melody and I can pick it up and run with the rest of the song, the rest of the story-line, the rest of the entire musical until the dramatic-usually happy-but not always-ending. I think it's because my singer of choice from an early age was Barbra Streisand and she always sang quirky things from musicals. Or the first entire score I memorized was Oklahoma from my uncle's albums stashed at my grandmother's house. The lyrics for me speak what I cannot say. They tell universal human truths, sometimes while being witty, sometimes while being wise-ass, and sometimes so poetically you almost miss the point. I picked up a book about Sondheim lyrics the other day entitled, "Finishing The Hat." I felt so smug because I knew where that title came from and could, almost, but not quite finish the lyrics of that song. There are some musicals with which I cannot do my "magic finishing act" like Sunday in the Park With George. The lyrics are intense, scatter point and I haven't listened to them enough to commit to memory. But for the most part, I can do the lyrics and tell you a little of the back story. The problem with this "talent" if you will, is that nobody actually considers it a talent. And now that my children are grown, no one really cares that I can do this. There was a time when I had a captive, yet young audience in my children. This is definitely no longer the case.

And so I listen to my musicals on my iTunes, hum the songs when I catch a phrase someone throws out and even belt out a few verses when no one else is listening. I think I was meant to be on stage, or maybe I was in another life? Who know? Not me I'm sure. I'm just sitting here in my own little corner, all alone in my own little chair.

Santa and ?

I've had a song in my head for the last two days. It's an old Santa tune, something like this: Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane. It's a jaunty number and has a bunch of verses. But the part I remember for some reason (whatever those quirky synapses are doing in my head is beyond me)is the verse which has the following: Let's give thanks to the Lord above (pause) 'Cause Santa Claus comes tonight. Now before you think I'm going to rant and rave about the fact that Santa and the Lord are mentioned in the same song, think again. I see nothing wrong with them being in the same song. I see nothing wrong with them being linked in the same season if the truth be told. And since this is my blog, this is my truth. I'm all for Santa. I loved the story of him for years. When the movie came out which supposedly explained where all the myth and legends originated, I watched rapt as it was laid out for me. I loved all of that stuff because it was hopeful, fun, and exciting. But for me and my faith, I love the fact that we are giving thanks for such a wonder-filled time of year. It's full of joy and hope and excitement. Yes, the kids are excited for presents, too. I get that. But in most of the houses I have been to, there is a Nativity scene as well. And there is a sense of anticipation there as well, whether you accept that Jesus is coming again or that he came before and you're just excited about that (some people don't want to acknowledge the ramifications of the coming again). I can't fault people for their joy in whatever fashion. I just can't. At this time of year, to feel hope and happiness is the underlining to the Good News. And if that makes us give thanks to the Lord above for anything, then I say that is good news indeed.

The Door at the Top of The Stairs

The door is closed
An important point to make.
The rest of the year
The door is open,
Dad uses the desktop
Mom puts things on the bed.
But today the door is closed.

The alien head and menacing jaguar posters
Warn that there is someone behind the door.
It's not that you cannot disturb him.
It's that he is home
From a long way off.
Sleeping, dreaming, thinking
Staring at ancient wallpaper
Made for little children
Remembering days gone by.

The door is closed
And for only four or five days
It is a message to me
That a piece of my heart is in residence
Under the same roof again.

Soon the other door at the end
Of the hallway will be closed as well.
Bringing the other piece of my heart home
Under the same roof.
She visits more often,
She rarely stays over night,
Staring at the ancient wallpaper
Dreaming and thinking.

Their rooms are attached by a connecting door
And their lives attached by the
Beating heart of two people
Who wait for their doors to be closed
Just one more time.

They Hide in the Darkness

I am not afraid of bugs. If there is a bug, no matter how big or even small in my house, and it does not belong there I will either gush it or send it packing outside. Outside I look at them, watch their behaviors, marvel at their mechanics and try not to molest them in any way. I say bugs, not insects as I have been known to actually watch arachnids on occasion, if I'm sure they don't look too big nor too hungry.

But while having dinner with three friends the other night, we got, for some reason that I can't quite remember, on the topic of camel crickets. These bugs have bulbous brown bodies (think of the idea of Shelob in the Lord of the Rings), with long wavering antennae and huge-and I mean out of proportion-back legs with which to jump. They jump erratically, too. They don't seem to have that "scurry and flee" reaction that most bugs have. They jump willy-nilly, helter-skelter and many times right at you! A disturbing tendency to be sure. As the discussion of these strange creatures went on, several tidbits of information were shared as we have all observed them. One is the aforementioned ability--bordering on desire it seems to us--to jump at their impending doom as opposed to away. Another creepy side-light to their nature is their cannibalistic propensity to eat each other, especially when one is unable to defend itself. Having a cat who used to enjoy maiming these denizens of the basement without actually eating them, I have witnessed this phenomenon myself. It is not a pretty sight. We were all discussing their sudden appearance in our homes, particularly in the basement when one of our friends stated that her husband has an electronic fly swatter (which looks like a tennis racket with smaller holes) and she wondered if it would work on these? Her eldest never travels into the basement without this weapon of destruction, but she felt as though they could "feel" the vibes of it and stayed out of his way. My daughter used to go down to the basement armed with either a large cardboard tube (for whacking at a distance), or would use rolls of wrapping paper she would procure whilst down amongst them. Hmm, maybe they only attack the oldest of the family? Nah. They have jumped at me as I came down to get something from the freezer and I have developed a sort of St. Vitus dance trying to leap counterpoint to their hopping so that I land on them before they get a chance to propel again. I'm grateful the neighbors can't see this uncoordinated jig, as I'm sure it would be the topic of much across the fence hilarity.

We ended our discussion of these bugs with the idea--creepy as it was--that we hoped we never found ourselves falling down the basement steps at the mercy of these critters. They would show no mercy, we were sure and without the trusty electronic zapper, nothing would be left as they ate us and each other. Ewwww!

Function versus Fashion?

What made me use the above title has to do with how I begin my day getting ready for work. It starts with the "what to wear" problem. I am not, nor have I ever been a fashion maven. I know what I like and it probably isn't what Stacy and what's-his-name on "What Not To Wear" have envisioned for me. The problem, especially in the winter is that I get cold. A lot. And sometimes that cute little short-sleeved sweater that would go so well with my brown pants? Well, it's a little too cold for short sleeved sweaters unless you have a turtleneck underneath of them. And of course, these cute sweaters weren't made to be worn on top of other things. They make them rather form fitting, so stretching them to fit over another shirt is, well, not attractive, shall we say? Sort of akin to stuffing sausage skin. Not a good look. Especially for some one who is not svelte to begin with and probably never will be--given the amount of layers it would take to keep this person warm. So I"m stuck with the problem of having sweaters in my drawer, even hanging in my closet that I won't wear except for the brief two weeks in late spring or early fall when I would actually be comfortable wearing short sleeved anything to work.

I know women who are always fashionable. They don't seem to feel the cold as they walk around with their short sleeves and skirts. Maybe the pointy-toed shoes have caused them such discomfort that they no longer feel temperature change. Or maybe they're just from Mars. Or was it Venus? Whatever. The other problem of course with the layering of clothes is this does not take into account the hot flashes. When that happens then at least two layers come off before it passes and the layers have to be added on again. It's hard work getting dressed these days!

And I never quite got the hang of lipstick with the rest of the make up routine. I mean I put on make-up at like 6:30 in the morning and I don't do anything to it the rest of the day. But if you put on lipstick, you suddenly have to re-apply all day. I'm not interested in re-applying. And that stuff that stains your lips? It turns weird colors, so people think you've been out buying twin pops (in this weather??) and the color doesn't look the same when you get outside anyway, so it doesn't match.

I wasn't made to put up with this. I was made to get out of bed, walk to the computer downstairs and work from home. But alas my job doesn't offer this as an option. So there I am week after week, trying to figure out what to wear on my body and my face. Maybe I'll be come independently wealthy and it will become a moot point. But until then, It's bulky sweaters and turtlenecks for me!

What Do You Mean, "Take a Hike?"

Hubby and I have been pursuing our own avenues of personal fitness. He is an avid bike rider and will go for 25 miles on any given weekend through the wilds of South Jersey. I'm not very confident on a bike, especially on roads with cars on them, so I've been left to my own devices, so to speak. I joined a gym with the eldest was still living at home and have sporadically attended, but tried to keep up somewhat with the idea that if I at least move I won't eventually become immobile.

In the light of the fact that we go our separate ways in so many ways, it was interesting to note that a few weeks ago, Hubby suggested that we do something physical together (no not that, you cretin). He suggested we find ourselves on a hike.

I dived into the idea, looking up hiking clubs, finding out the local places where they would go, what kind of equipment would be needed and if it cost anything. I printed out pages and pages of information to "get us ready". I contacted a local hiking club for their "beginner's hike" and we were set.

One of the things I noticed about these hiking websites is that they will tell you what kind of hike it is, easy, hard, fast paced, rocky, hilly, all the required elements to let you figure out if this is the right place for you to go. They also have these little codes on their sites to let you know how many miles, how easy, etc. For example, the hike we were to try was labeled 2A/c/5-6, which roughly translated means this is an easy hike for about 5 or 6 miles if you're game. So I figured we were game.

We were to meet at a National Park for this walk in the woods, so we left a little early and got there in plenty of time. We were trying to figure out who was hiking along with us, making comments about the people walking around with their dogs, admiring the myriads of butterflies donning the butterfly bushes. An older guy walked past us wearing one of those well-worn fishing hats, tall dark socks and wispy white hair. My husband just knew he would be on the hike with us and sure enough he came and sat beside us on the bench.

As the group finally gathered together there were very few novices I noticed. Many had hiking boots (we had old sneakers), many were holding walking sticks (we had a camera), most had backpacks--and so did we! However, the contents of theirs was different from ours. But we didn't know that at first. The person who was to be our leader was apparently well known by most of the group. She told us the general direction and route we would take, asked for questions, let us know about how to join the hiking club they were all apparently members of, and then we were off.

We walked a small incline, a paved road no less, then branched off through the forest following the painted blobs (called blazes-as in "what the blazes is that?") on various trees. Now the problem of our hiking with a group soon became evident. For one thing, when I walk anywhere, woods or otherwise, I like to look at things. Flowers, trees, birds in flight or on branches, even interesting bugs. I can walk quite quickly if I don't want to observe all this, but in new environments especially, I like to see what's around. My husband doesn't walk fast. For any reason. The guy who saunters through the crosswalk after the light changes? That's him. He is not arrogant. Okay, he can be, but in most instances he just has one speed: slow. When we walk together, I have to slow down to keep up, he won't be speeding up for me, you can be sure. So there the two of us are in the new found wilderness with 15 or so people who are there to hike, goddammit, not to dawdle. We were soon at the back of the pack. Thankfully there were some who were even behind us. They were the woman who could not put down the cell phone no matter where she was-talking loudly and gesturing. And the older, portly guy who was obviously laboring to stay with the pack in some way, even if only from a distance.

The problem with not being as quick as the rest of the group, or should I say as directed, is that they get ahead of you and then find a place to stop and rest. So that by the time you reach them, they are all rested up and proceed to pull up stakes and continue, leaving you puffing and panting in their wake as you've not had a proper rest since this whole sorry episode began. By the time we reached the "halfway" point, my husband and I were tired, somewhat grumpy, and our idealized dream of tramping through the woods was ruined. Okay, not ruined, but bruised. We checked our pedometers to see how far along we were when we realized that the blurb on the web site misstated our total mileage and this hike would end up being 8 miles. For someone who hadn't exercised for a while, eight miles seemed like not just pushing the envelope, but carrying the missive by hand across country. This was not what I signed up for! But if we didn't continue, we'd never see our car again as it was parked at the place where we began. Oh, Lord, I thought, please deliver me! By the time the end of the trail was in sight, I was red in the face from the heat of the day, the exertion and the frustration of being lead out and brought back without a good "timeout".

We learned a lot that day about hiking and what to do and not to do. It was important to bring extra water (which we did). To bring along binoculars (which we didn't). To carry a walking stick to help take some of the weight off your knees. And if you're walking with a hiking club, keep up with the leader to get a proper rest every now and then. It was an interesting experience. However, now my husband and I walk on trails by ourselves. We go at our own pace, looking at the things we pass, admiring whatever views are there to admire, appreciating the nature and the silence of being away from the constant sound of phones and cars. I like this hiking better. And we are doing it together, which is really nice. And we can rest whenever we feel like it. But we still don't have walking sticks.

Why Was it Sad?

In conjunction with the previous post on music, of which I am not and never will be an expert, I had an experience the other day that I wanted to share. There is a new public television special out entitled, "LennoNYC". It was about John Lennon not the hero of the USSR. Anyway, hubby and I bought tickets to see a preview of it. We were supporting the local public television station and Hubby has always loved anything to do with the Beatles. Well maybe not everything, I don't think he likes bobble heads...but I digress. There was a young man who serenaded us before the screening. He played the guitar and piano and had a very nice voice. He sang selections from the Beatles eras, from some unknown (at least to me) stuff and well, a smattering of many of Lennon's compositions. We were surrounded at this mini-concert, as you might presume, by plenty of boomers and very few Gen-Xers. Many of the crowd had long, ponytail length gray hair, were wearing crocs, jeans and their most comfortable shirts. Almost everyone kept time with either their feet, tapping on the carpet or their fingertips, tapping their hands. Some of the more exuberant sang out loud with the young man. The songs made you re-live certain things, remember certain things, even sort of long for some long ago things. It was wistful, was what it was. When the young man moved to the piano and sang, Imagine, I gotta say, I was close to tears, thinking of that other young man who died just because some crazy person had a gun and some stupid idea.

After watching the movie, which chronicled Lennon's life pretty much with Yoko Ono after the Beatles when he lived in NYC and he became house dad with Sean--I began to appreciate that he had been writing again. He had worked on an album, was hoping to finish it and tour again. I didn't know that. I only minimally knew some of his newer songs. But the potential for more music was there. And I again I became sad and thought what a waste that this man who helped to create the music that my contemporaries and I grew up with, that he should be killed and never reached whatever new boundaries in music he set for himself. My hubby and I agreed that the movie was a tad too long, but interesting nonetheless. Although I could have done without the Yoko Ono influence, but that's just my opinion. And so I went home and listened to some Beatles music, just for old times sake. And mourned again the talent that is gone just because he was in the news.

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.