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.