The jellybean lure

Every Easter someone (usually me, but not always!) puts together an Easter basket full of chocolate, marshmallow chicks, malted milk eggs and jelly beans. The fake grass which is put in the basket hides the jelly beans pretty effectively until most of the other stuff is gone. Then the little egg shaped jellies sit and call to you as you walk through the room where they nest. I've always loved the yellow and orange ones, though the green ones will do in a pinch. And I don't particularly like the spiced ones, though I realize there are those who are appalled by this. I looked around on the internet regarding the origins of the candy. Apparently, no one knows the exact origin. Something about Turkish Taffy and Jordan almonds all mixed up somehow or other. There is a mention of them as early as the US Civil War! But it wasn't until the 1970's that the Herman Goelitz Candy Company began to flavor the little beans exotically that these treats became gourmet attention getters. They were the ones who came up with pina colada, toasted coconut and other such flavors. I still prefer the old stand-bys like lemon, orange and cherry. But what do I know? I loved in the Harry Potter books, Bertie Botts had "every flavor beans" like ear wax and vomit! They apparently are so popular at Easter because of the shape of them and the fact that they are brightly colored, rendering them perfect for finding in the fake grass of an unsuspecting basket. The problem is that they are small and so you can eat like a million of them before you realize it and they are probably rotting your teeth even as you munch your 600th. Most of the time candy is big enough so that you've eaten one and you think, "whoa, if I keep this up I'll need two seats in an airplane". But the jelly bean is insidious in it's size. You walk past the basket and grab a couple. You realize, "hey, that was pretty good!" and the next time you walk past, you find yourself looking for all the yellow ones (or orange or green or if you are like my dad the black licorish ones). And the next thing you know you are standing at the table, searching for all the single color ones you have latched onto and you've completed your mission and you now have a sugar buzz and need to go out and run around the block for a while as you work it off. Of course, you don't do that. Instead you walk into the living room and crash out asleep on the couch as your body tries to balance out the sugar content in your system. When you wake up you feel like you have a hangover and you grope your way to the kitchen, only to see the basket out of the corner of your eye and you begin wondering if you got all the yellow ones (or green or red or, well,you get the idea). If you have enough will power you will not go and check, but if not you wander back to the basket and cycle repeats itself. I have considered throwing the basket out, so the temptation won't be so great. But the idea of throwing away food is repellent to me and why waste a perfectly good jelly bean? And so I can hear it in the dining room, on the table, whispering my name in a low monotonous tone. There still might be some yellow ones left. Or maybe orange. Or even green in a pinch.

The Flowers of Spring...NOT

Okay, I like to garden. I have some quirky things in the garden I plant (poinsettia's from last Christmas come to mind), but I like it and it suits me. I don't go at it full tilt all the time. Hence the weeds and funny looking thingees that grow in between the hyacinths and daffodils. But on the whole, I like to be out digging around. In the early months of the summer, I usually spend a bundle at a couple of local garden centers and grab a mish-mosh of plants to put in containers on the deck. It's the only place where the sunlight seems to concentrate, so it's more a garden in pots than in the ground. But last year, ah, last year...I read this article that explained how you could plant a whole batch of tulips in a small area and the colors would be gorgeous and concentrated in this one small spot. I was thrilled! This was it! My place to really go wild! I followed the instructions to the letter, weeding, mulching, fertilizing, chasing away squirrels, tending, talking to them, chasing away more squirrels. And lo and behold, it was so! A lovely batch of spring green beauties sprouted, waving their bulbous heads and bursting into fabulous color! Oh, it was beautiful! The neighbors were impressed with my display and to tell the truth, so was I! It is now Spring again. Tulips bloom again and again, right? So I wasn't quite as diligent as last year. But we had a mild winter. Not too much frost. Hardly any snow. The green shoots pushed their way up into the bright sunlight. I waited for the brilliant display to begin. And waited. And waited. The daffodils are already spent. The forsythia is more green than yellow by now. But not one tulip has graced a stalk. Not a one. No color. Except spring green. Not a single bloom. How can this be? Every time I back out of the driveway, they wave mockingly at me. See? They seem to say, we're still here, but we're all the same color this year! Oh, where did I go wrong? I'll have to research this phenomenon on internet. It's almost Easter and no tulips. Heavy sigh.

The Dance

Do you remember going to dances when you were in middle school? It seems Middle America has been waltzing with this "rite of passage" for a very long time. I was thinking about going to dances in the sixth, seventh and eighth grades the other day as the burb was having a dance at the Middle school. I pondered my own children's experiences but then I thought of my own and I couldn't get the thought out of my head. I remember getting ready the day of, deciding what to wear. In those "olden times" you got dressed up to go to a dance--like in a dress. It was important to look older, I recall. Flat shoes just wouldn't do, and always stockings. Of course this was before pantyhose, so the requisite armored undergarments were necessary. The hair had to be Just Right. Not too long, but definitely not short either. It had to be unfettered also. No ponytails, no upsweeps. Down and as straight as you could get it. But all that was the preliminaries. At the dance the girls stood on one side of the gym and the boys on the opposite. Certain girls were allowed to mingle, but they had certain words attached to them too (fast, easy and trash spring to mind). The boy always asked the girl to dance. This dancing was the old fashioned kind too. Box step, I think it was. One foot forward, one to the side, one back, one to the other side. You didn't travel much and there wasn't much call to talk as you were concentrating on either leading (if you were the boy) or following (if you were the girl). This was right before the Beatles music brought with it the idea that dancing could be done independently, gyrating across the floor without any seeming partners. Your right hand was on the boy's shoulder, your left in his hand. There was usually quite a distance between your bodies as you began your box-stepping. I remember one of the fast girls and her boyfriend went by the guy I was dancing with and they yelled, "Hey, want a ruler to make sure you're far enough apart?" They shuffled off, hanging on each other, snickering. We danced to songs like, "Blue Velvet" or "You Belong to Me" trying not to read too much into your partner's semi-embrace, but hoping it meant that they liked you at least a little. There was a lot of nervous laughter at least on the girls side of the gym. And the guys side seemed to be a lot of pushing, shoving and guffawing. And when the night was over and the moms and dads picked the kids up at the end, you frequently had something to write about in your diary. A long time has passed since I was at a dance. I'm sure the music is different and the gyrations are more pronounced. But I'll bet the butterflies in the stomach are still there. The jostling around on the side of the dance floor. Wondering if you'll get to dance with that cute guy or not. Some things probably never change.

It's just a little pinch...

The above is what almost any doctor will tell you before they plunge a needle into your skin. Whether it's for an antibiotic or Novocain, they preface the pain you'll feel later with the anticipation of the short pain you'll feel when the needle punctures your skin. And, in their defense it usually is just a little pin prick, hardly worth mentioning. I think they say it so you'll be prepared instead of flinching and causing them to tear a hole in your arm, mouth or wherever the "pinch" will be placed. I heard this little phrase this morning as I went to a dermatologist to get a small cyst removed from my face. She gave me three "little pinches" above my left eye in anticipation of the cut and subsequent digging in my face to get this small growth out. And it was small, really. It felt big when I touched it above my eye, but in retrospect it was less than a centimeter around and sort of a brownish-lumpy looking thing. The numbing agent she gave me is beginning to wear off now and the dull ache that I feel in my forehead is probably a foreshadowing of a long night to come. But this piece of me that I didn't want there is gone, anyway. I had two moles removed last summer. They weren't grotesquely evident to anyone, even to me really. But the location of them was troublesome when wearing a necklace and the one on my back sometimes would get irritated by my clothing. The dermatologist assured me that they weren't cancerous or anything, but I got to thinking then as I am thinking again today of why I went to the trouble of being punctured and prodded. Why not leave well enough alone? The moles have been with me since, well, childhood, I guess. Most of the time I didn't think about them. The lump underneath my eyebrow was just sort of there suddenly, but it didn't hurt. So why the removal? I don't know honestly. I don't really think it's vanity, although I've fooled myself about that enough to believe that I'm not (for those who have trouble following that statement it means I don't think I'm vain, but I know I really am!). The lump under the brow was removed because I secretly thought it might have been something bad and if I ignored it, it would become larger and more arrogant. But the moles were, well, I guess I just figured I had good insurance, so why not make sure they weren't anything bad and have them removed. Of course the "bad" is cancer. The specter of cancer lurks in my mind many times. It's a shadow cast behind family and friends. I've lost people I've really loved and admired to that big "C" and I don't want that disease to think it has a chance to become my new best friend because I've overlooked something. So here I sit on the couch, blogging away, as the numbness wears off and the day wears on. Thinking of this and that and waiting for the next dosage of Extra Strength Tylenol. Fending off thoughts of what it could have been and knowing that I'm okay. And hoping you're the same.

Moonrakers

While hubby and I were perusing the local paper the other night we became aware that the house we first lived in together was on the market. Yep, the first house we fixed up, re-wired, painted, papered and had our first child in was for sale. The owners who are selling it obviously have done some work since we lived there. The ad states it has an eat in kitchen. The little galley kitchen we used barely had room to turn around in, so obviously it has been upgraded. I have dreamed of that house repeatedly. In those dreams it is still the cute little place where I learned to be a wife, then a mommy. In the dreams though, I am always leaving it for somewhere. I don't know what that means in "dream speak". I don't think I care really. Our daughter laughingly said we should buy it and thereby come full circle. And so help me, I thought, maybe that was a good idea. But hubby and I, if we ever move, want something on one floor. Something that as the little old people we are becoming can stay in and not worry about climbing onto the roof of the porch to fix it or climbing into the attic to find out what was leaking into the kitchen. So practicality has been our motto; if we ever move. Still it was fun to reminisce about the ol' homestead. And think what life was like then and how it has become now. The sale sign is gone now and I'm sure some young couple has begun their new life there. I wish them luck and happiness. Something the house seemed to bring to us. We've been to Moonrakers and we've moved on.

Greenery

We attended the Flower Show yesterday, hubby and I. The theme this year was Hawaii. There were hundreds and hundreds of orchids everywhere! I love to look at orchids. I've only got one in the house and it seems to be growing well--oh, I shouldn't have said that, now it'll probably die. Anyway, I love admiring the varieties of orchids and well, really, any type of flower. Squinting closely at the way the coloring seems to follow the veins in the petals, admiring the graceful arch of leaves, checking out the way the roots either push up from the dirt to get a better sky view or humbly remain hidden in the dark recesses of the loamy soil, I really do enjoy studying plants. As we wandered the aisles and elbowed our way into the display areas, I was again amazed at the variety of say, tulips or daffodils. The seemingly endless array of orchids. The subtle nuances of the various ferns in the judging areas. Of course, I looked at the blue ribbons and thought to myself, hey my "insert-plant-name-here" is just as good looking as that, I could have won! But the difference between the people who entered their plants and I (besides the fact that they entered and I didn't) is that they care about winning the ribbon. Whereas I just like to have them inhabit my space with me. I love the way the poinsettias are still blooming in March in the front window of the living room. I appreciate the green accents in the sun porch in the corner, even if I can't remember the names of the plants. The african violets on the windowsill are my way of greeting the morning, even when I can make myself wake up enough to say hello to the hubby. Outside, the weather has been relatively warm for a winter in Zone 7, and the daffodils and crocuses are confused and coming up a little early to greet the season. I like their ambition. I like the splash of color before everyone else gets into the act of dressing up in their greenery. I restrained myself at the Flower Show. I bought two small plants to add to my collection. I would have loved to have purchased so many others. But we needed to ride home on the train and lugging a wheel barrow full of posies was not really what I wanted to do. But still, I took a few pictures with my phone and I'll be able to revisit the blooms if I choose. Which isn't as good as having them here with me, but it will have to do until next time.

She Walks in Beauty with the groceries

Beauty is for looking at
No matter what others say.
If the visage is not beautiful
They will not be looking your way.
Trust me on this.

The beauty of today is slim and straight
And hardly any curves
Unless you are selling underwear
With wings attached.
Trust me on this.

Skin is flawless
Lips are full-ish
Lashes are grotesquely long-ish
And hair is flowing, flowing
Past the shoulders in lustrous waves
Of rippling brown (no longer blonde-mostly)
Trust me on this.

And those of us who are
Or never have been willowy
Our hair is short, our stature shorter
Our underwear white and serviceable
Without wings or even possibly lace
Watch in haunted shadows
The passing of those long, cool drinks of water
Sometimes with a lump of envy
Sometimes with a note of irony
And mostly with a wonder, what if
Trust me on this.

We populate the daytime
With mini-vans
Small economy cars full of groceries
And love and angst
And fierce pride in our broods
We do not pout, nor whine, or expect roses
Or even dinner out (except maybe once a year).
We are real, those without the visual beauty
And we are beautiful to one another
We recognize each other
Even if not in some man’s fantasy.
Trust me on this.

It's Stupid to Get Mad, But...

I consider myself okay with computers. I know how to do certain things and in turn certain things get done for me. It's a basic premise, one that I'm comfortable with from day to day. Ah, but there are those days. I decided to be lazy and instead of sitting at my desktop, I decided to use my laptop which I hadn't powered up for a little while. I briefly recall that hubby had it upstairs tinkering about a week ago, but I didn't think anything of it. Until I tried to get on it. It is not connected to the wireless in the house...hunh? How could it not be connected to the wireless? It doesn't have to be plugged in, right? It just has to have the proper little code to work...right? And then I remembered. He moved the wireless router. We live in a brick house. The poor little laptop is lost within the walls of the dead space between brick and mortar. I have to change my location. It took me 40 minutes, I'm sorry to admit, to remember he told me this. I sent him a text message before I remembered with a snarky, sarcastic tone. Forty minutes of swearing, mumbling, yelling at the screen and then finally powering off to remember this little tidbit of info.

I'm on the desktop now. Breathing deeply and trying to remain calm. But it was just one of those days.

Good Ol' Music

I know I've written about this before, but it bears a repeating, sort of. I love music that my father loved. My hubby found on Pandora, a succession of songs which I have to admit made me dance about the kitchen with a goofy smile on my face. I knew most of the lyrics, could guess most of the singers, and even knew their phrasing! It was great! Because it's just he and I, during dinner we are usually serenaded with classical. It's soothing, sometimes I recognize the music, sometimes I don't. But after our respective busy days, it's nice to listen to soothing melodies.

But since the radio station went off the air that I used to listen to with this kind of music, I don't get the variety anymore. My own personal playlists are heavy on the Sinatra, Bennett and not too much else. It was wonderful to hear Ella, Jimmy Durante, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis, Jr. and even Bobby Darin. I asked him to leave it on just a little longer as I cleaned up the kitchen. They even played, "In the Mood" by Glen Miller! Oh, it was marvelous. I finished cleaning up, and just sat in the chair in the kitchen with that small smile remembering all the times I must have heard The Lady is a Tramp, As Time Goes By, and oh, I don't know, hundreds of others all those years in the car singing along.

It was superb! I'm sure my husband, who by the way retreated to his lair upstairs, could do without my out of tune warbling. But it restored me for the evening. And reminded me that my memory is just fine for these songs. I swear I have so many memorized, it's a wonder I can remember everything else. Which I would like to believe is the reason I can't remember everything else.

Anyway, I'm singing along now and hope to continue for a little while yet. I'll catch up with you all later...after hours...maybe at a quarter to three. If you don't get that reference well then, nevermind.

The Passage of Time

I visited my nephew's grave today. His birthday was February 3 and I just thought to go over and see where it was, the new headstone, well, whatever. It was cold and blustery there. The cars were whizzing by on the highway and the side streets, people hurriedly going about their business on a Saturday. I looked down and thought of him.

I remembered my sister, upon hearing of his death, say, "Oh, that's just so unfair." And she was right. It was. And still is. I am not unknowing about the world, I am aware that life can be unfair. I know that people die all the time in accidents and even because bad people make choices that affect innocent people. I read the paper. I watch the news, only not so much anymore. I don't like the news. All that death on purpose makes me uneasy. And sad.

He should have been around to witness all the wonderful things going on with his family this year, the weddings, the new baby, even the usual birthdays. I do not want to hear someone say, "he is with you in spirit," right now. Maybe he is, but he isn't here in person is he? And that's what I miss, what I'm thinking of, not the ethereal "other"; the here and now. He is not in the here and now with us.

Life changes so quickly. And goes on. I said to my husband, "life still goes on," knowing that it wasn't a breaking news bulletin. Just a realization. Life progresses without us when we cease to be. In the play Our Town, the character Emily has died and is counseled by the people on the hill who have gone on before her. But the stage manager tries to answer the question she asks about realizing how life is going on all around us, "every, every minute." Do they realize, she asks? And he says honestly, no. Maybe some, poets he mentions, but most of us see the time we are living in at this moment as just the second leading up the next second to the next minute, hour, day, week, month, and year. The slip stream of time blurs by our eyes so fast, that we weren't even sure we saw it. And then when someone slips out of the stream, we notice the vacancy, but the current takes us past and the vacuum is gone, until the next time we take a minute to see it. And so I stood in the blustery gloom and stared at the stone with his name on it, trying to fill the void for just a few minutes.

Happy Birthday John, wherever you are.

Christmas Time is Here

The above is the first line from the skating scene song in "A Charlie Brown Christmas". It's sort of obvious, but with the shushing of the drum beat in the background, it's sort of like underneath stuff too. On the surface there is that hubbub and rushing and baking and cleaning and laughing at stupid old songs. But I've noticed that many columnists point to the season as being-well-less than stellar for them. They aren't hearing the undertones. They lament that it's too full of things, too full of getting, not enough of giving, yada, yada, yada (as the Seinfeld gang would say).

And I for one would like to post that I give all those uber-cool guys the raspberries. Excuse me if your Christmas is commercial, gimme, over the top greedy. I'm sorry for you, really. I probably don't give as much to charity as I could. I probably don't remember the poor and homeless as much as I should either--although I'd like to think I got a few brownie points for some of the stuff I DID remember. But almost to a one, every person I know thinks Christmas is pretty wonderful and happy and full of good things. We adore giving just the "right thing" to people in our family (and sometimes they aren't even related!). We laugh at antics of Christmas past. We relish the time given to us because it is given to everyone and you can either be glad about it or complain. I read far too many columns from some high-brow snooty people about how Christmas is just for the people with money. But I still believe Christmas is in the heart, not the pocketbook. I see lots more smiley faces, lots more letting into traffic, lots more "no you go ahead" in the checkout lines at the grocery store. I'm sorry they don't see this Christmas that I see. I wish they could. I wish everyone could see the light which shines over all darkness and illuminates the spirit. Oh, how I wish Scrooge wasn't such a hero before he gets changed.

So I'm not cool again this year. I am hopelessly in love with the season, my family and friends and how they celebrate it and I hope the same for those curmudgeons grousing about their houses in their bathrooms today.

Merry Christmas, God Bless us EVERYONE!

People and Their Dogs

Okay, I don't own a dog. I used to share ownership of lots of dogs at various and sundry stages of my life, but I no longer own one and probably have forgotten many of the things associated with owning or even taking care of one. But one of the things I know that is supposed to happen with a dog is a walk. It's universal like a remote control (unless you live in my house in which there are several remote controls for the same thing, but I digress). So you walk the dog, probably poopy scoop after them and both of you get your exercise and everybody's happy--mostly.

I have seen the scenario I'm about to describe to you for at least 3 nights now, when I go to pick up hubby at the train station and I don't understand it. I imagine what it means, I try to logically figure it out, but alas, I'm at a loss. Dispassionately, the scene looks like this: a women is holding, no make that restraining her snarling, barking German Shepherd who is carrying on in the direction of a man who is either standing on a porch or the front yard of what I assume to be his own house. He isn't moving, isn't taunting the dog. He is either standing with his hands on his hips staring at this excited beast or looking relatively unconcerned with his hands hanging down at his side. He isn't approaching the woman and her dog. He isn't even conversing as far as I can tell with either of them. He's just standing there. And she isn't reprimanding the dog for these shenanigans either, she is simply holding him and letting him "express himself" at this man's expense. It's such a bizarre tableau. What is going on? Does he know them both and teases the dog regularly and this is their "playing"? Does she dislike the man and this is the only way she can be sure he knows it? I have no clue. So what do you think?

Company again

We are hosting company this weekend. Yes, the family just got done being together, but this group is made up of our daughters friends. They are coming together to look at dresses for the upcoming wedding. Deciding on what to wear, the color, the style, the logistics. They like each other (a blessing, I'll admit) and they are a fun bunch to talk with. They are staying for a couple of days. We are spending an inordinate amount of time around the kitchen table laughing and eating. The ebb and flow of conversation is different that when the family was here, but the current is fine to jump into once in a while and observe the rest of the time.

I'm cleaning up again and dusting and straightening. The house hasn't been this organized in I don't know how long. It's amazing really. I'll need to take some time off before the next round at Christmas.

But I like it! and I like having them around. See you when I get done doing another round of dishes!

Ah, yes, the family

We are getting together this weekend. A whole lot of family. All sides. They are coming from all over, too! And this time it's a happy occasion, a celebration of a milestone birthday. There are plans already made, plans in the making and contingency plans for the plans that don't work out. It will be raucous, noisy fun when we all assemble and I'm really quite excited about the whole thing. I love it when all the siblings get together with their spouses. I love it when those who aren't actually related by blood or marriage cram themselves and those who are blood relatives into a space and laugh and talk and laugh some more. Sometimes, as I told my sister recently, I wish I could hear better. But really, it's so great to go from group to group, catching pieces of conversation here and there, sliding into a joke with this crowd and delving into the philosophical question with that assembly. Re-telling the same family stories, even though everyone has heard them twenty-five times is still a tradition. And amidst all that, we really like each other. Oh, sometimes we lose patience with one or another. Sometimes we get angry over something someone says or does, but mostly I would say we really enjoy our company.

I like it when everyone has left, too and you can re-think things over. Replay the laughter and conversations in your mind and file it away for some long afternoon when maybe it seems colder and darker outside than normal.

I know this post sounds really "Pollyanna-ish", but I make no apologies. We're getting together this weekend and its a happy occasion.

An American Tune

I really love music. Not all kinds I know. But I love it when a tune I know sneaks up behind me and taps me on the head and I whirl around and recognize it suddenly. I was in church this morning--where I am most Sunday mornings and as we ambled our way along the liturgy and readings a song arose in mid-service. Mostly when I don't recognize a song as one from the random memory, I listen to a verse or two before joining in, trying to categorize it, see if indeed I'd heard it before somewhere else. This has happened a few times with hymns in the past and I'm always pleasantly surprised when I do know the song.

Anyway, while listening to the melody during the second verse of this second hymn, it seemed to me that I knew this song but not from church. I looked down at the teeny-weeny notes which shows the person who wrote the lyrics and the music. The music was done by Bach. Well, that didn't help me much. I mean I like Bach, I guess when I recognize it, but I usually hum Beethoven in a pinch. But I just knew this music. I could feel the synapses pushing stuff aside, shuffling, shuffling and suddenly I had it! I had Paul Simon's American Tune! Okay, it didn't match exactly, but it was there, right there! And I was amazed!

An American Tune is one of those songs that gets stuck in my head for long periods at a time and here there it was! A mosh up of Bach! I went to our wise and wonderful music director after church and explained my excitement at recognizing a tune in an unfamiliar place. He was trying to figure the melody out from American Tune, but he couldn't quite remember how it went so he asked me to e-mail him the song so he could hear it.

Okay, so this is where some people will turn off the post...because the version I remembered most was not the Paul Simon version, but the Starland Vocal Band version. It was sung acappella with beautiful harmonies and it was just my favorite song for a very long time. So I found this version and after playing it about 100 times just to hear it again, I sent it off to the music director. I'm not sure if he's appalled that I sent this instead of the other. I haven't heard back from him yet.

But I love this...the fact that I was actually listening to something written a long time ago and never even knew it!

The Meaning of the Date

For most Americans, this Sunday is an anniversary of a horrific event 10 years ago. Even though life has gone on and people live their lives in pretty much the same way, it's still something in the collective American memories of 9/11 which rush back, asking, "What were you doing when?"

But the significance of this date has taken on a new meaning for our family. A tragedy last year swamped our emotions, flooded our consciousness and pushed the national mourning to the recesses of our minds. We are remembering a different scenario than most this Sunday. We are asking ourselves, "where were you when you got the call?" We, too have moved on with our lives, pretty much the same way. But the hollowness in the corner of our heart is still there and is still somewhat fresh. It still hurts. It catches us unaware when we are going about our lives. It robs us of breath sometimes with its jagged edge of memory. It stings with the thoughts of what those loved ones won't be sharing with us: the new baby, the new engagements, the laughter of coming together. And it's more personal than watching the images of those buildings crumbling to the ground. We thought we were lucky then because we didn't lose anyone in that calamity. But we lost them years later on essentially the same day.

So we are mourning again, in a way taking comfort that the nation is mourning along side of us for a different reason. There is a comfort in a way of all those people feeling sad, even thought they aren't aware of our own personal sadness. But we are sorrowful in a way that the nation isn't. Eventually we'll heal and it won't be as sore as it is now, just like the nation. But we aren't there yet. It takes time.

After She's Gone

I kept thinking that it seemed wrong to sleep through the storm last night. That “trusting” the devices that will alert us of problems will continue to work seemed sort of naïve. I lay awake for some time next to the snoring spouse, watching the trees bend to and fro with the weight of wind and rain bowing their backs. We’re fine this morning. There wasn’t even a power outage, which is something of a surprise in the bubble. Usually the random thunder storm causes the power to blink owlishly. But not for the hurricane of 2011! The Bubble is intact. There were a few leaks of water. Several hundred twigs lying lifeless on the lawn. Watery graves for thousands of ants, sow bugs and seed pods of the nearby ash tree. The aftermath is forlorn and solemn. And the world seems somehow quieter, having escaped the wrath of Mother Nature, there are no cars zooming to get to wherever it is they go. There aren’t any people patrolling the streets yet, like they do after a snow storm, checking to see if they can shovel or not. Only the shushing of the wind, only the dripping of the water out of the gutters, only the groaning of the ancient trees.

Good bye Irene

The hurricane moved through last night
It’s path hurling wind and water
In the murky light of the street lamps
Against the house

It seemed wrong to sleep
During this furor
But sleep we did, in the
Air conditioned comfort that
Blissfully secured us
The bricks and mortar
Pushing the tempest back
Outside where it belongs

Most of our trees are still standing
Still being bent by the aftershocks
Of the storm that was
Their twigs strewn about like autumn leaves
Abandoned because of their size
Or weight or both

Life goes on,
The wind whispers still
Water collects in puddles in
The gutters and driveways
Remnants of nature
Spent fury during the night.

Plans and more plans

Things have been a little busy in the neighborhood bubble lately. Of course, these things are only related to me, therefore I'm more conscious of them than say the neighbors across the street or even across the far end of the bubble. Our daughter has become engaged to be married and the wheel of planning has begun to turn. You must pick a date, preferably not when one of your friends is doing the same thing. You have to decide on a place, see the same "peferably" mentioned above. And there begins to be a sense of reality as these things get filled into the calendar. You find things out about about your child that you thought you knew, but didn't really. They aren't important things necessarily. Things like the dance they will be dancing to will not be either a singer nor song you have ever heard of before. Although I will admit the song is beautiful and haunting. You will suddenly become aware of stores you didn't notice around you before. Specifically bridal salons. Those stores were there before, for quite some time, they just had some nebulous name to go along with their nebulous purpose. But now, ah, we know what the name means and that it does indeed have a purpose. The bridal magazines in the stores which before were just in the peripheral vision of the magazine rack, now grab your eye. And you realize you don't know what your daughter will pick for her gown, her colors or her theme. And yes, you need to have a theme and no, it won't be "look I"m getting married." It's educational this process. And not particularly frightening, not yet anyway. I have been assured by several friends who recently did this, that it will become increasingly frightening, annoying, time-consuming and breath taking (in many ways) and sometimes all at once. I think I'm ready for this. Our daughter is worth the fuss and hullabaloo. Her fiance is a rock-steady young man and not prone to hysterics or demands, which I'm sure will be a blessing as time goes by.

And so I am busy. And she is busy. Her father and fiance are standing next to us and listening. Which is what we both need right now, I guess. And we need a new calendar for the dates. It's getting busy in the bubble. And it's exciting as well.

Of Long Distance Phone calls

I got a phone call at work today from Kate Middleton. Honest! That's what she told me her name was and she had a wonderful British accent and everything! But I just knew it wasn't the princess or duchess or whatever her title is since the wedding. And some lackey would have called for her anyway, even if it had been her. But for just a minute, I thought, OH!

The real reason she called was that apparently the old high school in which I work was once the site of a house in which her relative resided. She was looking for a picture of it. We have loads of old pictures on the wall of graduating classes that go back to the Stone Age, I think. But no photos of a house. We even have aerial views of the building as it was expanded and enlarged (you'll notice I didn't mention upgraded). But no residence. I told her I had a book at home, something about historic houses or some such thing. But I couldn't remember the title exactly nor even the contents come to that. So I gave her my home e-mail and asked her to write me a message and I would reply with whatever information I could find. Alas, I came home, pulled out the beautiful coffee table book I was thinking of and the house wasn't even mentioned. Her relative however at one time owned a "shop" downtown. And I could locate his name in some dreary write up about the historic businesses of the town.

I opened my e-mail, but she hadn't written to me. I was disappointed. Kate Middleton, writing to me! My brush with fame was short-lived. I wanted to tell her to tell the prince I said hi! But as I said, she wasn't the princess or the duchess or whatever. So it's a moot point.