In All Seriousness

Reading about illness (mental and physical) at Jo's blog brought this long-ago published column to mind.

Pollyannas of the world, unite! There’s hope for optimists yet, even in a darkened world. Breaking news (albeit underground and via email), has it that what we currently suffer most from is over-seriousness, causing dis-ease. You can see it for yourself. We’re being terrorized, frightened out of our wits, threatened on all sides, subjected to prophecies of disaster and unless we do something about it, we're doomed!

Ah, but do what? Hit first? Knock some sense into our chosen enemy? Wage war? And if we don’t, what? We’re going to go under some dictator’s thumb? We had better be careful what we dread – arguing for our limitations brings them to our doorstep. With all due respect, you can’t wage war and peace at the same time. News of this new energy center has come at just the right time. It may sound silly and far too simple to be of any use, but go light a single match in a pitch-black room, then come back and read on.

What’s been discovered, according to scientists (who, until this catches on, wish to remain anonymous), is a new chakra. Chakras are energy centers located in the human body. This particular one is lodged between the heart chakra and the throat chakra and has a name directly associated with its function – the clown chakra. If your clown chakra is closed, you can expect major (and serious) problems.

It has been observed that when the clown chakra is open, every cell in the body wears a happy face; closed, every cell frowns. The condition of your own clown chakra is easily discernable on your face. Seriousness forces love out of your cells, making them say, in essence, “I lack love” (or ILL for short). The normal function of the clown chakra is to dispense joy in the form of tiny, red, heart-shaped balloons, invisible but potent.

It sounds like nonsense, and the email bearing this news was certainly light-hearted. However, there’s been enough medical research done to discover that our thoughts do indeed have a direct bearing on our physical selves and on the kinds of lives we choose to live. If I stand in reverence each morning, letting the light of the budding day wash over me, if I let awe creep into the ordinary, if I laugh out loud, my day is better for it.

Allowing myself to be happy doesn’t mean blinding myself to the world and what happens in it. But if, as our science is suggesting, every thought is a pulse of energy let loose in the world, I choose to send out tiny, red, heart-shaped balloons.

Comfort Food

I took eggs and milk out of the refrigerator, found the can of baking powder, measured out flour and powdered sugar. Mixing the ingredients in a bowl, adding enough milk and then water to make a thin batter, I could have been six instead of sixty, helping my mother make French pancakes in the old kitchen on Silver Street.

Mama was not a rise-and-shine person like my father. It took a cup of scalding coffee and a quiet half hour by herself in the kitchen before she was functional. It was the smell of that coffee, perking in the little metal coffeepot on the front burner that opened my eyes in the morning and drew me down the stairs. When she saw me standing in the kitchen doorway, my toes curling inside my slippers, my bathrobe buttoned wrong (I am not a morning person either), Mama would smile and set down her cup and give me a hug. Then she would ask me what I wanted for breakfast. If we hadn’t already had them three days in a row, I would tell her, “French pancakes, please.”

I learned to crack eggs making French pancakes. I was allowed to pour the milk from the bottle into the measuring cup, to make a well in the dry ingredients, to mix the batter with a big spoon. “Not too much,” Mama would caution. “The lumps will take care of themselves.”

Mama would light the burner on the gas stove and set the crepe pan, a round, shallow-sided, long-handled fry pan, on to heat. Then she would drop in a small dab of butter and when it melted into a yellowy puddle, she would tip the pan back and forth until the bottom was coated.

I climbed on a chair and helped her ladle a spoonful of batter into the browning butter. With deft movements, Mama made sure the batter ran right up to the sides of the pan. I stood and watched for tiny bubbles to cover the upper side of the pancake and when I called out that it was ready, Mama came with the spatula, worked its blade under a curling edge of the cake and flipped it over with a sizzling splat. The top side of the pancake was now a delightful golden brown and steam eddied in little curls from the edges of the pan. The first pancake was flipped onto a damp towel spread on a plate, covered over, and placed in the warm oven. As each successive pancake was cooked, it was stacked under the towel until the batter bowl was scraped clean.

The smell of them cooking, and my frequent yelps of, “Okay! It’s ready!” roused my brother and sisters out of their beds. They tumbled sleepy-eyed and hungry into the kitchen. French pancakes were their favorite, too, and we all ate happily, forking the thin, perfectly browned morsels of syrup-soaked cakes into our mouths. Some mornings we had bacon alongside, other times we spread the thin cakes with applesauce or jelly and rolled them up before eating them. Mama often filled hers with cottage cheese and fruit but I liked them best stacked, a little pat of butter melting into the top cake, and streams of amber syrup puddling on the plate.

I still do. This morning, by myself in the tiny kitchen of my cottage, I made a small hill of the dry ingredients, pressed a well in the top with the back of my spoon, poured in the water and milk and beaten eggs, stirred just enough to make a thin batter (“The lumps will take care of themselves,” said a voice in my head), and watched as a dollop of batter spread in the hot pan.

I don’t need to stand on a chair anymore, but I watched the cake as tiny bubbles began to cover its surface. Beside me, in a bathrobe buttoned wrong, stood the image of my child-self. “Okay! It’s ready!” I heard her cry and I took the spatula, and with a deftness that would have made Mama proud, flipped the pancake, letting its other side brown to perfection.

Taking Stock

Recently, Dick posted about the changes aging brings. He began with a quote by Doris Lessing who said one of the great secrets of the elderly is that though their bodies have changed, what is essentially "them" has not. That made me think about all that's changed about me since I was small, and all that hasn't. I'M STILL ...a hermit by nature, content with my own company, happily needing hours of alone time, still moved by music (except for the discordant or screechy stuff), poetry (especially if Collins or Oliver, Roethke or Sutphen, Frost or Rumi or Basho has written it), and works of art that capture some part of the natural world. I'm still in love with wind and rain, puddles and rainbows, dawn light and evening shadows, grassy meadows and deep forests. And I'm still happier out of doors than in, though my little cottage is delightfully cozy. I will always be carrying on a love affair with food, as well, though now I am careful that my diet includes less sugar and other refined foods. I'm still writing every day, though I no longer publish weekly in the newspaper. I self-published a book in 1999 and did contribute nearly half the articles for a coffee table book about libraries that was published in 2007. And I'm also still delighted by children (especially my own, even though all four of them are well into adulthood), animals, snowstorms, travel. My greatest happinesses still come from family, from old friends and new, from moments when I know I am an integral part of something much larger than myself. 

 I'M NO LONGER ...so nervous about trying new things, or at least I can talk myself around my anxiety with greater success. Having learned to drive in a one-horse town, I was afraid to drive in traffic and terrified of getting lost. But in the last forty years or so, I've driven any number of cars (both automatic and stick shift), a fifteen passenger van, a farm tractor, a pickup, a dump truck, and a golf cart, and understood that rather than being lost, I was simply taking the long way home. I've traveled overseas to a country whose language I did not understand, and applied for at least two jobs where I bluffed about my experience, then ended up teaching the the very skills I'd needed. I'm no longer thin and sleek and svelte. I'm more rounded in body as well as in expertise but I'm working at reversing the pudding-bag-tied-in-the-middle look. And I'm not as impatient. Being a mother, a teacher, and a writer has taught me patience and the rewards of taking my time, reworking problems, and slowing down in order to enjoy whatever process I'm going through. I'm no longer a moody teenager, a frustrated young adult, or an anxious single mother. I've learned to pay attention to what's around me, to my feelings, to my thoughts. I have become aware of being the creator of my own life, believing there is no greater privilege or freedom. I am not in doubt about my present abilities or so defensive about what I haven't mastered yet. Each day is both challenging and delightful, the two so often intertwined that I can't experience one without the other. It's a joy to wake up in the morning, and a blessing to sleep at night (and sometimes a genuine pain to be in the middle).

Writing Out

Tomorrow I will hike the Cobble with my naturalist friend. It is supposed to snow. And rain. And snow again. I will have to take mental notes and wait to write them until we are snug in the shelter, watching the birds that frequent the feeders and warming my toes on the heating vent. Perhaps a poem will emerge from the welter of words, or an essay. Perhaps the words will be like track lines in the snow, telling only part of the story. You never know, with words...

The Sound of Silence

I had thoughts of going out this afternoon - to the library, to the gym, to the store. Two hours ago the sun was shining as I hiked along a meadow's edge and explored a stream bank for signs of Spring. Two hours ago the chickadee and the cardinal were singing. Now snow is falling thickly, a silent, drifting veil of dense flakes. On second thought, I think I shall stay in and curl up with the cat, a mug of hot tea, and a good book. It is very, very quiet in my little cottage. I am missing my grandchildren with a gentle, steady ache that will subside slowly over the next few days.

I have been out in the yard, tilting my head up to stare into the white. As far as I can see there are tumbling flakes and a diffused light that only comes with falling snow. Now I am dry and snug and merely lonesome for small arms and soft lips and the high-pitched chatter of happy children.

All Good Things...

This is our last evening together until next month when I head to the grands' house for my grandson's 6th birthday. I've made popcorn and we're watching the old Haley Mills version of Parent trap. (Earlier we watched the Lindsay Lohan version - twice!)

Tomorrow we will have a last visit to the farm and a last cow pancake breakfast. Mumma and Daddy will come late in the morning and there will be lots of hugs and kisses and a few tears as they pull out of the drive. Right now I have to go hug two cherished children...

Being a Grandmother is Grand

It's been a grand week so far. We've had cow and sheep pancakes for breakfast,

visited the farm and conversed with the cows and sheep,

gone sliding down an icy hill, and spent hours drawing and cutting and gluing. We've made pot holders galore,

set up an art school and a bank and a store, had some company, and went visiting. Tomorrow we're supposed to have snow, a visit from a cousin, and tortellini for dinner. Right now it's ice cream and movie time!

In Absentia

The next week will be filled with crayons and markers, sleds and snow pants, creative cooking and bedtime stories. My two grandchildren (ages 8 and nearly 6) will be staying with me in my little cottage. We have all sorts of plans, all of which may change on a whim. It's too early to garden...



(they'll just have to come back in May!) but that won't keep us indoors. We have plans to visit the farm next door to check on the cows and the sheep and make forays into the henhouse for eggs. We'll trek up and slide down the hill I played on as a child, visit relatives, and invite the kids next door over to make some crafts. We'll get up early and stay up late, have macaroni and cheese for breakfast if we feel like it, and pancakes for supper. We'll call my son and his wife every evening to say how noisy we've been and they'll tell us how quiet it is there. If I don't show up here too often in the next few days, it just means I'm having too much fun being a kid again.

A Walk in New Snow

Snow is falling on New England and old England alike.



These were taken after our most recent snowfall.


























The footing is treacherous - under these few inches lies a layer of slick ice.

No Rest For the Weary

Wash on Monday
Iron on Tuesday
Sweep on Wednesday
Mend on Thursday
Clean on Friday
Bake on Saturday
Rest on Sunday


I came across this list the other day and it made me wonder if we’re really better off now than we were 100 years ago when that was written. When I was a child, the weeks still had a rhythm like the one above, though with minor changes. Because she had a washing machine, and we apparently had a lot more clothes than the composer of that list, Mama washed twice a week. She did a white wash on Monday and a dark wash on Wednesday. She ironed two days a week, too, putting the flat linens through the mangle on one day, and smoothing the blouses, shirts, trousers, and dresses with a flat iron the next. On those days, the kitchen smelled of pressed sunshine and starch.

Sweeping was an everyday occurrence. There were four of us kids plus a dog and a cat and we all left evidence behind us. A thorough house cleaning took two days, not one, omitting the mending day, which was fine with Mama. She hated sewing and the thought of spending a whole day with needle and thread would have sent her screaming into the wilderness. Twice a year - in the fall, and again just before the snow melted - the house would be turned upside down and inside out. We kids would be pressed into service, moving furniture, hauling rugs outside to be beaten with brooms, polishing the silver that otherwise stayed wrapped in a cloth waiting for company to come to dinner.

Saturday was just one more baking day in the week. There were always cookies or brownies or cupcakes waiting for us when we got home from school but Saturdays were reserved for bread-making. The dough would rise in the big yellow bowl on the open door of the gas oven and Saturday supper would be accompanied by thick slices of warm bread slathered with butter. Sunday mornings were a bustle to get the roast and the pie in the oven and all of us to church, but Sunday afternoons stretched themselves out like long naps.

Nowadays, my verse looks like this: Work on Monday. Work on Tuesday. Work on Wednesday. Work on Thursday. Work on Friday. Chores on Saturday. Bake on Sunday. The pile of laundry is taller than I am, the breadbox is empty, the floor needs a good scrubbing, the grocery list is as long as my arm, and I can’t even find my iron.

Save me from progress! I am nostalgic for the old days when a verse could give order to the week and end with the wonderful word “rest.”



photo credit: Mandy's Photos

Just a Few...

The other day I came across a filler piece in a magazine, a brief list of the author's favorite things. It was a telling list, and I thought, an interesting way to describe ones' self. What's on your list? Herewith is mine.

Sunrise. (I may as well begin at the beginning.) There's something magical about those first rays, the way the light reaches up, as though the day was stretching, flexing itself, opening its eyes. I like to watch the sky lighten while the earth still sleeps in darkness, see the horizon turn pale gray, then paler blue, then palest yellow at its eastern edge until the ball of the sun bounces up and over, spilling brightness everywhere.

Family, friends, folks I haven't met yet.

Hats. Hats with feathers. Hats with flowers. Hats with wide brims and trailing ribbons. Warm fleecy hats and sailor hats and baseball caps with the bill pulled down.

A mug of hot tea, sweetened with honey and liberally lightened with milk.

My snuggly blue sweater, the one with the shapeless sleeves and the raggedy cuffs. It's the first one I reach for if I'm feeling chilly or when I need a hug.

Flowers-lady slippers that peer shyly from the woodland floor, pepperminty phlox and purple violets, the sweet white bells of lily of the valley and the smiling faces of pansies, blue chickory that nods among the stately white blossoms of Queen Anne's Lace, elegant lilies, graceful iris, the bright yellow skirts of forsythia.

Sun dappled green is one of my favorite colors. So is robin's egg blue and sunset pink, purple the shade of a Scottish thistle, baby yarn yellow and every shade of gray.

A glimpse of wild things - fawns in the meadow at twilight, a startled coyote, turkeys fanning their courtship feathers, a red fox leaping for out-of-reach grapes, an owl drifting silently through the trees.

Warm fuzzy mittens.

Crisp apples.

Rainy days. I like being out in them. I like coming in from them. I like long, slow rains that fall from quilted skies and hard wild rain that falls in wind-driven slashes. I love to fall asleep to the patter of rain on the roof, like to press my nose to the window as it weeps raindrops.

Books.

Holidays. The warm scent of pumpkin pie and roasting turkey, presents and paper and ribbons and bows, decorated trees, eggs the colors of Easter, the bustle, the preparation, the excitement, the gathering of loved ones.

A blank sheet of paper. You never know what will appear there until the first word is written or the first line drawn.

Crayons. Felt-tipped markers. Long sticks of colored chalk. A newly sharpened pencil. Watercolors all misty and pale.

Toast with butter and cinnamon.

Brooks that tumble over rocks with a splash, wide green meadows, the very edge of a forest.

Trees. Sitting under them, hugging them, climbing them, talking to them, leaning back against them to dream.

Ripe blackberries, sun-warmed and succulent.

Solitude. Companionship. Sharing. The sound of laughter. The relief after tears.

Hugs.

Hot fudge sundaes. Rare steak. Cold lima beans.

Lighted windows at dusk.

Holding hands.

Words.

Vive la Difference!

Gary of Follow Your Bliss recently posted (among other observations) about the difference in boys' and girls' writing topics. It reminded me of this experience...

What I Learned at Camp (an excerpt from the original column)

I spent four weeks at summer camp this year. The subject was computer journalism. I was the teacher. Here's what I learned:

No matter how you word it, if the course description has the word computer in it, at least half the kids are going to think "Games!" and are going to be mightily disappointed to find they have just signed up for two weeks of writing.

"Writing? But it's summer!"

"What, you can't write in summer?" I ask.

"I don't want to write in summer!" Eyes roll back in the head, hands clutch at the stomach, a grimace contorts the mouth and the child falls to the floor, feigning death.

So we play writing games. I tell the children to type a sentence on their computer and then move back to the next seat. Each time they move, they must write a sentence that makes sense with the others so the end result is a coherent story. The girls write about flowers; the boys turn them into man eating blossoms that devour whole cities at a gulp. I look at my assistant Connie and we share an "uh, oh."

A child's imagination will reflect his world.

If you don't believe that, you should try playing story rounds with a group of kids. Take an ordinary object, a pine cone say, and give it to one child. Explain that s/he must make up a sentence about the cone and then pass it to the next child who makes up another sentence related to the first. The object is to end up with a story about a pine cone.

"Once there was a little girl who had a pine cone."

"Yeah, and the pine cone grew to be huge."

"Yeah, and it was a man-eating pine cone and it ate the whole town!"

"And then the pine cone took over the whole world."

"Wait," I plead. "Could a pine cone really do that?"

"If it was on drugs, it could."

Hmmmm...

The cone is passed one last time. "After the pine cone took over the whole world it became a nice pine cone and gave everyone an ice cream cone."

Guess which gender the last sentence was written by...

An Interview

Barbara asked me these five interview questions for a meme that's making the rounds:


1. If you had $1,000,000, what would you do with it?

Half a million things! Like establishing scholarships at the local high school and the four colleges my children attended; helping the fire station buy a new engine; giving gifts to the local library, the hospital, the police department. I’d help stock the food pantry every month and create funds for my children and grandchildren. I’d love to buy back my old homestead and start an organic farm where townsfolk could participate. Maybe I’ll need more than one million…

2. What have you learned from your children? What do you think they've learned from you?

My children have taught me patience, persistence, and the meaning of true love. From the oldest I’ve also learned a lot about respecting the earth and the importance of living green; from my second son I’ve learned how to see the possibilities in a predicament; from my elder daughter I’ve learned how to survive with a smile, and from the youngest I’ve learned how to believe in myself. And what have I taught them? I hope they’ve learned to see the possibilities in each morning, that everything changes and that’s okay, and that if they make sure they are the cake, everything else can be frosting.

3. What living famous person would you most like to have as a dinner guest, and why? What would you serve?

I’d love to talk other dimensions with author Richard Bach. If he couldn’t come perhaps cartoonist Bill Watterson would and we could talk Calvin and Hobbes. I make a wicked good chicken potpie using vegetables I put up from the garden. I’m not much good at formal dinners. Or maybe Annie Lamott would come and we could talk writing over a piece of homemade lemon meringue pie…

4. If you could re-do one thing in your life, what would it be?

If I redid one thing, everything would change. I am trying harder to make wiser decisions about men and money.

5. What are you most looking forward to when you are able to retire?

Not having to go to work! I don’t mind working and I like being busy but I hate that morning alarm and the ensuing rush. I have a long bucket list (travel here and abroad, write another book, publish some poetry, draw and paint, volunteer to hold babies in the nursery of a hospital, tell stories at library hour, spend more time with my grandchildren, etc.) so I doubt I’ll be bored.


Now, if you’d like to answer interview questions of my own devising:

1. Leave me a comment saying, "Interview me."
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. (I get to pick what they will be.)
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview
someone else.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask
them five questions.

I Don't Get It

A few days ago, a commenter on one of my posts said, "The beauty we see in nature is partly something we have "learned" to see, I believe."

I answered with a cautious maybe. Then someone sent me an email with the Washington Post story of renowned violinist Joshua Bell who, without advertisement of any sort, stood one rush hour morning in DC's L'Enfant Plaza metro station and played six of the most beautiful pieces of classical music ever written on one of the most valuable violins (a Stradivarius) ever made.

It was a social experiment conceived by Post staff writer Gene Weingarten to see if people would take time in their everyday harried, hurried lives to pay attention to beauty. Of the 1,097 passersby, one man stopped for three minutes to lean against a wall and listen and a three-year-old boy, hustled along by his mother kept looking back at Bell. Only one woman in the Plaza recognized Bell and she, too, stopped to listen. A few people tossed money in the open violin case at Bell's feet. The man who sometimes earns $1000 a minute for his talent, netted $32 and change that morning.

The entire article made me feel discouraged beyond measure. The description of the line of folks at the lottery ticket machine shuffling forward without even noticing the musician made me sad and the mention of the fellow listening to a song on his ipod about severe emotional disconnect and the failure to see the beauty of what's right in front of his eyes (Calvin Myint's "Just Like Heaven") made me feel worse. But this line made me feel nearly hopeless: "Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away."

I bought a copy of "Cricket in Times Square" for my grandson's Christmas. In the movie, the whole of the listening area (a subway in New York City) is affected by the music the cricket plays. In a moving scene that never fails to bring tears to my eyes (I bought a copy for myself too, just to hear that music), people of all walks of life paused and listened and were momentarily changed. It's what Weingarten and Bell expected to happen, I think - that recognition of something so beautiful it halts a person in mid-step. Weingarten goes into the reasons why it didn't happen and all of them are discouraging. (For the full story, Google Washington Post and look up Pearls Before Breakfast by Gene Weingarten.)

I've often thought of humans as odd and incomprehensible beings. We are able to create works of astonishing beauty which we then ignore; we make great speeches about love and human rights and peace, then we plan and execute wars; we often save our appreciation of life itself for life's final few moments.

My cautious maybe of above is still cautious. I think, as much as we train ourselves to see beauty, we also train ourselves not to. Immanuel Kant says beauty is part measurable fact, part opinion, with both being colored by the observer's immediate state of mind. One must be paying attention to beauty, it seems, or at least to the possibility of beauty, in order to see it. Apparently, many of us would rather chain ourselves to something else. Call me Pollyanna if you will, but since I have my druthers, I choose on the side of beauty.

Idle Thoughts on a "Snow Day"

In 1953, the year I was seven, my mother gave me a scrapbook full of pictures she'd cut out of magazines and newspapers of the newly crowned Queen Elizabeth II of England. I clearly remember gazing in awe at the photos of the dazzling young woman clad in an enviably pouffy dress, an ermine trimmed robe and a jeweled crown atop her regal head. She looked enough like my mother to my young eyes that I went to Mama with scrapbook in hand and asked if I could try on that crown.


Ever after that, I thought of my mother in terms of queenliness. She had a dancer's grace, wore her clothes beautifully, looked marvelous in hats (which I sometimes borrowed, pretending they were crowns), and ruled with intelligence and wisdom (albeit with a touch of severity).











Recently I came across this photo of Elizabeth. I can still see a slight resemblance. My mother has long since passed - she would have been 92 this May. The Queen will be 83 in April. The scrapbook disappeared long ago but my delight in thinking, even for a few giddy, childish moments, that my mother was a real live queen has not much abated.




photos of the Queen from www.picmium.com, Annie Liebowitz

Recycling

The pond across the road from my cottage. It is one of nature's ever-changing paintings.

Theelementary posted a delightful piece of writing about looking at familiar things from a different perspective. It reminded me of a post I wrote two springs ago. (You'll notice a reference to greening grass and budded branches. We're a far cry from that at the moment as more snow is falling.) Anyhow, in the interest of recycling, here it is again.

Ancient wisdom suggests we look at each day not as if it was our last, but with new eyes, as if every day was our first. Finding that thought compelling, I step out into the sunrise and am struck by the beauty and the mystery of everything around me. What would it mean to see grass for the first time, green and growing, each blade individual and new, rising from the dried and tangled mat of last year’s growth, yet each shoot blending and waving with its counterparts until they spread out before the eye like a verdant sea? Imagine the wonder at touching a bare foot to the dew-drenched stuff, seeing an imprint dark and mysterious appear, then watching it fade as though you did not exist as the sun rises and drinks the condensation.

What of the lilac tree by the door, its trunk gnarled and twisted, the bark rough and scaly, the branches dusted with the bright green of spring-coiled leaves waiting to open? If you had no word for tree, no language to describe the budded arms that would soon be brimming with lushly scented flowers, wouldn’t the wonder of it all sweep you away?

I leave my yard to walk along the edge of the pond in the growing light and watch the sun coat the ripples with silver. Last year’s dried oak leaves dance toward me in a sudden gust of wind even as this year’s prepare to unfurl. I look up and my eye is caught by the movement of small birds high over the pond, swallows perhaps. They are too far up for me to tell, but their joy is clear as they swoop and rise and sail out over the water and back, diving and skimming and soaring again and again. The sun touches the undersides of their wings so that they seem to float on feathers of pure light.

The wind swoops through the tops of the pines, rushing from one to the next, whispering green secrets. The boughs rise and fall as though breathing and I am caught up in the sound and the rhythmic dance of needles against sky. Then the wind is at my feet, whirling the loose sand into miniature cyclones before blowing off across the open fields, losing itself in the woods at meadow’s edge. Later in the afternoon and into the evening as the light wanes and the day’s colors melt into darkness, I will walk once more beside the pond, watching the water, different water now, new water, make its way to the falls. I will understand again that nothing lasts, though nothing appears to change, and tomorrow and tomorrow I will see again with new eyes the same ordinary things.

Home Again

Companion snowmen - one to say goodbye to 2008, the other to greet 2009. They stood for a full day behind my daughter's little house before warm temperatures and rain rendered them mere memories. I'll get to make more tomorrow - we're expecting between 6 and 8 inches of new snow. It's good to be home!

Wishing you all a happy new year!

until next year...

The 25th is fast approaching. I leave today for a week of celebration with family. The light is on the rise - take heart.

Ask...

I wanted snow and snow I got - there's about five inches on the ground and more falling by the hour. More is on the way Sunday. Looks like it will be a white Christmas after all.

Tis the season?

Last year the season looked like this -
Snowfall on December 31, 2007

This year the lawn is greeny-brown and dry. Last year's flower beds are a mass of broken stalks and weathered leaves. We had a brief snow squall on the 7th and an ice storm in the middle of the week that had New England towns declaring themselves states of disaster. Ice coated tree limbs downed power lines, and at one point, more than a million homes were without electricity. The temperature dropped down and the wind picked up. The weather map showed fingers of pure rain, as much as three inches falling in an hour, reaching down between the sheets of ice elsewhere. My town was in one of those fingers. We had a few flooded roads but never lost power nor saw a bit of ice, while the mountain behind the house was coated in frozen white.

Last weekend snowflakes swirled around my head like flurries of small white birds as I hunted for just the right tree to put on my coffee table. My cottage is so small that I must find a tree with a crooked bottom but a perfect top, undesirable to the hordes looking for tall, straight trees. I found one and brought it home. I hauled the box of Christmas ornaments from the back of the closet, strung colored lights among the branches, draping tinsel over all. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough of a snowfall to so much as whiten the lawn.


Here my mother and her father get ready for Christmas. In the 1930s, lead tinsel cost 29¢. Cut straight at the edges and falling a good 14 inches or so, the tinsel was a far cry from the flimsy, crinkly stuff of today. When I was a child, we used lead tinsel. It's still available on ebay.

This year, as in the years since my grandchildren were born, I will travel to their house on Christmas Day. The three of us are hoping that before I leave, the season will once again look like this.

Best Friends on Paper

Lee, at the suggestion of a reader, posted photos of his bookcases. I was much encouraged - mine look much the same - overflowing, crowded, words everywhere.
The main collection is housed on shelves in the library area of my cottage. There are upwards of 1200 books on 14 shelves. I've read them all at least once and some several times.

This smaller case in the office area holds reference and writing books as well as my cd collection and my printer.


An old but sturdy wooden crate holds children's books - some of my childhood favorites, others from my own children's collections, and still others I've added over the years.

Note: Under my tiny Christmas tree lie several wrapped packages that look and feel like books - I do hope that's what they are!

A Borrowed List

I “borrowed” this from Meggie who in turn borrowed it from someone else. The things I’ve done are bolded, the ones I hope to do are italicized, and the ones I might never do are left alone.

1. Started your own blog Yep, in 2005
and a second one this year-see Laughing On the Way Out in the right sidebar).
2. Slept under the stars Often and happily (except for the occasional mosquito and a thunderstorm or two).

3. Played in a band


4. Visited Hawaii
 A week is far too short for such a paradise.
5. Watched a meteor shower Yes, from the open back of a pickup truck in a meadow in Northern Vermont
6. Given more than you can afford to charity Anything I give is more than I can afford but that doesn’t mean I won’t give.
7. Been to Disneyland/World 
Been to Disney World and loved almost every minute.
8. Climbed a mountain 
Mt. Everett, the one behind my childhood home, several times. It’s 2,624 feet up to the summit.
9. Held a praying mantis Yes, as a child.


10. Sang a solo (in the shower) Why not?


11. Bungee jumped


12. Visited Paris


13. Watched a lightning storm at sea From the shore.

14. Taught yourself an art from scratch Yep – I taught myself how to sketch, to work in pen and ink, and to watercolor, taught myself to knit and crochet (with varying degrees of success), and am a self-taught writer who went on to get a master’s degree in same. 


15. Adopted a child 


16. Had food poisoning Twice, to my dismay.


17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty


18. Grown your own vegetables Every summer for the past sixty years or so, give or take a year now and then.
19. Seen the Mona Lisa

20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight I was one of four siblings – pillow fights are a given. Once we had a water pistol fight with our bed pillows as fort walls. (Notice I say ONCE.)
22. Hitch hiked only twice and I sure wouldn’t do it again.
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill It’s either that or call in dead.


24. Built a snow fort 
every winter as a child.
25. Held a lamb Yep, and the bottle for its feeding, too.
26. Gone skinny dipping Uh huh. Not telling where or when.


27. Run a Marathon


28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice


29. Seen a total eclipse Through one of those paper eye protector thingies. It was way cool.

30. Watched a sunrise or sunset Every day (unless it’s raining).
31. Hit a home run

 Yep, in a cow field when I was 12. We used dried patties for bases. First and only ever homerun.
32. Been on a cruise

 An overnight harbor cruise out of NYC.
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person 
I can still hear that thunderous roar.
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors

 in French-speaking parts of Canada.
35. Seen an Amish community 

Seen one, spent a day in one, had fabulous meals.
36. Taught yourself a new language


37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied Not yet.


38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person


39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke


42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt


43. Bought a stranger a meal in a restaurant
44. Visited Africa


45. Walked on a beach by moonlight any chance I get.


46. Been transported in an ambulance Once in the middle of the night for a kidney stone attack and once for ribs that broke when I fell hard on a wet grassy bank.
47. Had your portrait painted


48. Gone deep sea fishing


49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person


50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris


51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling


52. Kissed in the rain Mm hmmmm


53. Played in the mud I grew up rural. There was LOTS of mud ☺
54. Gone to a drive-in theater often as a teen. We’d pile a dozen kids in the back (and trunk) of one car (admission was $1 a car) and descend on the place!
55. Been in a movie


56. Visited the Great Wall of China


57. Started a business Twice. Once I sold handmade greeting cards and later I became a publishing company for a year so I could self-publish my own book.

58. Taken a martial arts class


59. Visited Russia


60. Served at a soup kitchen


61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies 

OH! Those chocolate mint cookies!
62. Gone whale watching Twice and was luck enough to see those behemoths breach both times.
63. Gotten flowers for no reason Uh huh. And for reasons, too.


64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma 

Once but it was determined I was anemic and so haven’t since.
65. Gone sky diving


66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp


67. Bounced a check 
and got charged $35.
68. Flown in a helicopter

 No, but I flew (and have flown in as a passenger) two light planes.
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy I saved several that the grandchildren now enjoy.
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
 years ago when my children were young.
71. Eaten caviar
72. Pieced a quilt - well, I backed and filled two quilt tops that my grandmother made from her own children’s discarded clothing but I’ve never made one from scratch.
73. Stood in Times Square


74. Toured the Everglades


75. Been fired from a job Only once and for good cause…


76. Seen the Changing of the Guard in London


77. Broken a bone Let’s see – three toes, two ribs, my right thigh-bone
and my collarbone.

78. Been on a speeding motorcycle Well… it felt awfully fast to me clinging to the seat in the back.
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person


80. Published a book 

I self-published Writing Down the Words, a collection of some of my newspaper columns written over 15 years, and I wrote half the entries in a book on libraries published by Berkshire Publishing Group.
81. Visited the Vatican


82. Bought a brand new car Oh and a lovely little thing it was, a cinnamon colored Subaru, and the first new car I ever owned.


83. Walked in Jerusalem


84. Had your picture in the newspaper The paper I wrote for ran a feature of me when I published my book and that article was accompanied by a photo. I appeared again in the same paper when I wrote an account of my first flight lesson.


85. Read the entire Bible I have.
86. Visited the White House

 Well – visited DC and walked around the White House but didn’t go in for the tour.
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating

 We homesteaded in the 70s and 80s and raised chickens for meat. We butchered them ourselves. The pigs we raised were butchered elsewhere and by a professional. When I was a child, I hunted with my dad and once (only) I helped him skin a deer he'd shot.
88. Had chickenpox 

Yes, and measles and whooping cough and rheumatic fever, too.
89. Saved someone’s life I hoisted my two year old onto the roof of the car with one hand when a Cujo look-a-like came rushing at us, barking furiously. My little fellow would have been no more than 3 bites for that dog!


90. Sat on a jury 

Twice. Once for an assault and battery trial and once for a traffic violation.
91. Met someone famous I was racing along a path through the woods at Lime Rock Racetrack in Connecticut, hoping to reach the ladies room and get back in time for the beginning of the first race. I ran smack into some fellow coming in the opposite direction and fell inelegantly onto my derriere. I looked up to see an extended hand. Taking it, I looked at the fellow I’d crashed into and found myself staring into two of the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. “Thanks, Paul,” I managed, and sped into the ladies whispering, “OhmygodthatwasPaulNewmanthatwasPaulNewman!” And oh my god, it was. Years later, I helped edit a book written by William J. Lederer, author of The Ugly American (and my next door neighbor in Vermont), and sold some hand drawn notecards to Anne Lindbergh, widow of Charles Lindbergh and mother of my friend, Reeve.
92. Joined a book club 
For about two months. The talk devolved into gossip and I tired of it and quit.
93. Lost a loved one Mamma and Dad to early deaths, a husband to divorce, a lover to another woman, and a good friend to cancer.
94. Had a baby Gave birth to four of the most wonderful people I know.


95. Seen the Alamo in person


96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake


97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone 

and still do though I use it only for emergencies.
99. Been stung by a bee Oh, ouch! Cutting logs for our cabin in Northern Vermont, I was stung on the hand by a wasp. The resultant swelling encompassed my entire hand and most of my forearm.

Proust Questionnaire Revisited

I have been tidying up my blog posts, deleting a few along the way. I found this one and liked it. I've updated a few of my comments from the original three years ago and post them again in hopes some of you will write your own answers.

Marcel Proust was a French novelist, essayist and critic. He is quoted as saying, "All our final decisions are made in a state of mind that is not going to last," and "Our intonations contain our philosophy of life, what each of us is constantly telling himself about things," and "The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes." I like the way he thinks.

What is your idea of perfect happiness?
A comfortable place to rest when I’m tired, something good to eat when I’m hungry, sunshine on my shoulders, good company in small doses.

Which living person do you most admire?
Each one of my children, for different reasons.

What is your greatest fear?
Unbearable pain.

What is your favorite journey?
The one that takes me home.

What do you consider the most overrated virtue?
Of the seven, diligence. I'm a big believer in frequent breaks, naps, and just sitting, staring off into space.

On what occasion do you lie?
When telling the whole truth would do more harm than good.

Which words or phrases do you most overuse?
"Well, huh!" "And your point is?" "Knock it off!"

What is your greatest extravagance?
Books. Chocolate. Clothes. More books.

What do you dislike about your appearance?
Depends on when you ask that question. First thing in the morning? Egads, my hair! Middle of the day? Egads, my hair! Just before bedtime? Lordy, the bags under my eyes!

Which living person do you most despise?
That’s a strong word – I’m not fond of many Republicans at the moment.

What is your greatest regret?
Losing my home as a result of some poorly-made decisions.

What or who is the greatest love of your life?
My family, my kids and grandkids. My old blue sweater. My down comforter ☺

When and where were you happiest?
Whenever and wherever I stop and remember that I can be happy anytime. As a specific location? My old homestead on Silver Street.

Which talent would you most like to have?
Oh, to be musical!

What is your current state of mind?
Contentment.

If you could change one thing about your family, what would it be?
I’d love to have both of my parents still alive and in good health. But if the question means, would I change anyone in my family, the answer is no – we’re a good bunch.

If you were to die and come back as a person or thing, what do you suppose it would be?
A dust mote so I could dance in a sunbeam and travel the world on the wind.

What is your most treasured possession?
Family photographs. My books. Things my children have chosen as gifts for me over the years.

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Hopelessness.

What is the quality you most like in a man?
Kindness.

What is the quality you most like in a woman?
Kindness.

What do you most value in your friends?
That they ARE my friends.

Who are your favorite writers?
Richard Bach; Elizabeth Berg; Maeve Binchey; Deepak Chopra; Billy Collins; Annie Dillard; Rumer Godden; James Herriot; Barbara Kingsolver; Garrison Keillor; Anne and daughter Reeve Lindbergh; James Mitchner; Mary Oliver; Cynthia Rylant, Rumi; Anne Rivers Siddons; Amy Tan; Lewis Thomas; Margaret Mitchell; Tolkein; Neil Donald Walsch; Laura Ingalls Wilder; Andrew Weil and a host of others.

Who are your heroes in real life?
Anyone who tries to be a little kinder than necessary.

What are your favorite names?
No favorites, though I’m partial to Annie and Jake.

How would you like to die?
Quietly in my sleep while dreaming about something happy.

What is your motto?
Life is short but wide.

***

What about you?

Holiday Break

The best china, the set handed down from my grandmother, is waiting to be taken from the cupboard, the turkey is waiting to be stuffed, the potatoes and the vegetables are waiting the paring knife, the delicate china cranberry dish is waiting to hold the shimmering sauce, the pies are waiting to be baked to golden perfection, and I am waiting for my family to arrive. Tomorrow and the next day will be a flurry of cooking and talking and eating. Happy Thanksgiving to those that celebrate it!

No Particular Reason

I’ve read several posts of clever sayings. Here’s my own contribution to the pile.


Seen on a t-shirt — “National Sarcasm Society: like we need your support"

Warning—I am the grammarian about whom your mother warned you

Overheard: I’m so far behind I thought I was first

Egrets? I’ve had a few…

On a greeting card: I’m fairly certain that, given a cape and a nice tiara, I could rule the world

On a doormat: Welcome to the (insert own name) —putting fun in dysfunctional since 1993 (or whenever)

On a sweatshirt: “Don’t make me use my opera voice”

On a sign: “Traveling at 33 rpm in an ipod world”

On a wall plaque: “If we knew what we were doing, it wouldn’t be called research.” (Albert Einstein)

and my favorite, printed on a plain gray nightshirt—This IS my sexy lingerie!

Preserving the Moment

My friend Peter often delights his readers with photographs of reflections and shadows. His eye is keen and discerning; his posts allow me a glimpse of things I ordinarily overlook. I had a Peter moment the other morning when I went to wash my face. There in the basin of my sink was a detailed reflection of the sheer lace curtains through which the morning sun was pouring. I grabbed my little digital camera and snapped these photos. The whole of the day I was more aware of my surroundings though nothing else rivaled that lovely sunshine play of lace on porcelain.

Walking With a Camera

When I was a young girl, I had a skirt made of the softest velveteen. It was sewn of squares in different fall colors—russet, mustard, forest green, brown. I loved the way it felt under my fingertips, the way the material shimmered in the light as if the colors were actually sunlit leaves. I wore it as often as fashion sense would allow; when I was 13 those things mattered more than they had at ten.

It’s funny what jogs the memory. Yesterday I was walking along my street past the pond, basking in the fretful sunlight, drinking in the last of the autumn colors—russet, mustard, forest green, brown. I saw that skirt in my mind’s eye as clearly as if it still hung in my closet. It brought back a rush of attendant memories, thoughts of other clothing (oh, that lovely flowered dress with bodice ties of black velvet, the leaf print blouse that looked like a watercolor, the brown dress with tiny balloons embroidered on the collar), of the scent of the leaves I scuffed through while walking to the neighbors’ house to iron (the wife had severe arthritis; her husband loved freshly ironed shirts but was unable to do them up properly himself). Injured during his stay in a concentration camp toward the end of WWII, he regaled me with tales of the war as I starched and ironed his shirts.

I stood stock still for the longest time as one memory after another washed over me. All that from the sight of a few colored leaves. I walked on, the young me, the present me, all of a piece and happy.