Wasn't it amazing how bright the full moon made the sky look last night? It looked more like 9PM than the 12:30AM it really was when I finally finished the work I hadn't been able to get to all day, and switched off the computer.
Nine o'clock at night. The perfect hour this time of year to go out on the bike path and look for bats. Something my four-year-old is keeping on me about doing.
song: The Midnight Special • artist: Creedence Clearwater Revival
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The Air that I Breathe
Hi Kelly, thanks for the photo! Great sign!
Sorry to hear about your son's asthma. My older son was in the hospital for a few days when he was a baby for an isolated asthma attack, and just this past week H has been doing nebulizer treatments. With all due respect to Andy Warhol, I think that in the future everyone will have asthma for fifteen minutes. I'm glad the school is encouraging parents to turn off their engines. Remember people, even if you don't care about saving the planet, climate change, or our kids - the price of gas is going up, turn off your engine and at least save yourself a buck.
song: The Air that I Breathe • artist: The Hollies
Garden Song
This is more like it. Fresh, local, and I'm not squeamish about preparing it.
song: Garden Song • artist: David Mallett
Fishin' Blues
Saturday it was steamers. Today it was fish.
Ken took C out on the Patriot Party Boat's afternoon Deep Sea Fishing trip. They caught three sea bass and a scup. They also caught more fish that thankfully weren't big enough to keep.
For 50¢ a fish the ship's mate gutted fish for passengers. The best $2 ever spent as far as I'm concerned; but when they arrived home, I was still looking down a plastic bag full of beheaded fish.
Ken then took both the kids out, leaving me alone with the day's catch. I was forced to go on-line looking for instructions on making fresh fish filets. The directions told me what tools I needed: filet knife, kitchen scissors to cut off the tail and fins, and a big knife to scrape off the scales. There were also some things I needed that the directions didn't list: a big glass of wine and a towel so I wouldn't have to actually touch any fish tails.
I don't know why we even had a filet knife in the house. I don't recall its having ever been used except perhaps as a letter opener. A point that was driven home when I realized the knife was hopelessly dull.
The whole experience was strangely emasculating. I'm a native Cape Codder dammit, I should innately know how to gut and cut up a fresh fish instead of having to consult the Gorton's Fisherman web page. The reality, however, is that when I buy fish from the Clam Man or Cataumet Fish, I'm so queasy about the whole thing I even have the fish monger cut off the skin for me.
I blame my uncle (not a native Cape Codder) for laying a groundwork of doubt around my fishing skills at large. I vividly recall the end of my fishing career. My cousin and I had gone fishing off the floating dock at the yacht club. Fishing to us meant catching one fish a piece and then bringing them home, still on their respective lines, for my uncle to remove. My uncle sternly told us that if we couldn't take the fish off the hook, we shouldn't go fishing.
In retrospect I can see his point. We'd probably inadvertently killed two undersized fish, too small to cook up, not to mention the bait fish used to catch them. Funny how we had no problem sticking hooks right through those minnows. How could it be harder to take a hook out of a fish than to put one in?
Prior fishing expeditions taken by Maureen and I had only been as far as the end of my uncle's dock where we caught all manner of small fish. My uncle would take the fish off the hook, throw them back in the water, and call out to them: "be a smarter fish!"
Another recollection is of my dad cutting fish fillets in our kitchen. They were smallish fish, probably scup, and after he was done I took the still flopping fish across the street to dump them into the Childs River. I naively thought they might be able to swim away with half their bodies removed.
Tonight's filets came out okay. They didn't look restaurant quality, but it was nothing a little butter and bread crumbs couldn't cover up. Sadly, having been so intimate with the fish I found that didn't enjoy them much despite their being fresh and local my two favorite food prerequisites.
Last week Ken took C down to Woods Hole where they saw, but mercifully didn't catch, squid.
song: Fishin' Blues • Taj Mahal
Ken took C out on the Patriot Party Boat's afternoon Deep Sea Fishing trip. They caught three sea bass and a scup. They also caught more fish that thankfully weren't big enough to keep.
For 50¢ a fish the ship's mate gutted fish for passengers. The best $2 ever spent as far as I'm concerned; but when they arrived home, I was still looking down a plastic bag full of beheaded fish.
Ken then took both the kids out, leaving me alone with the day's catch. I was forced to go on-line looking for instructions on making fresh fish filets. The directions told me what tools I needed: filet knife, kitchen scissors to cut off the tail and fins, and a big knife to scrape off the scales. There were also some things I needed that the directions didn't list: a big glass of wine and a towel so I wouldn't have to actually touch any fish tails.
I don't know why we even had a filet knife in the house. I don't recall its having ever been used except perhaps as a letter opener. A point that was driven home when I realized the knife was hopelessly dull.
The whole experience was strangely emasculating. I'm a native Cape Codder dammit, I should innately know how to gut and cut up a fresh fish instead of having to consult the Gorton's Fisherman web page. The reality, however, is that when I buy fish from the Clam Man or Cataumet Fish, I'm so queasy about the whole thing I even have the fish monger cut off the skin for me.
I blame my uncle (not a native Cape Codder) for laying a groundwork of doubt around my fishing skills at large. I vividly recall the end of my fishing career. My cousin and I had gone fishing off the floating dock at the yacht club. Fishing to us meant catching one fish a piece and then bringing them home, still on their respective lines, for my uncle to remove. My uncle sternly told us that if we couldn't take the fish off the hook, we shouldn't go fishing.
In retrospect I can see his point. We'd probably inadvertently killed two undersized fish, too small to cook up, not to mention the bait fish used to catch them. Funny how we had no problem sticking hooks right through those minnows. How could it be harder to take a hook out of a fish than to put one in?
Prior fishing expeditions taken by Maureen and I had only been as far as the end of my uncle's dock where we caught all manner of small fish. My uncle would take the fish off the hook, throw them back in the water, and call out to them: "be a smarter fish!"
Another recollection is of my dad cutting fish fillets in our kitchen. They were smallish fish, probably scup, and after he was done I took the still flopping fish across the street to dump them into the Childs River. I naively thought they might be able to swim away with half their bodies removed.
Tonight's filets came out okay. They didn't look restaurant quality, but it was nothing a little butter and bread crumbs couldn't cover up. Sadly, having been so intimate with the fish I found that didn't enjoy them much despite their being fresh and local my two favorite food prerequisites.
Last week Ken took C down to Woods Hole where they saw, but mercifully didn't catch, squid.
song: Fishin' Blues • Taj Mahal
Sunday, May 27, 2007
under the crib (a list poem)
He looks down at me.
He's up to no good.
He'd drop things on me if only he could.
but there's nothing left to throw
it's already down below:
ten board books
two shoes
two socks
one sippey cup
one garbage truck
one teddy bear
one octopus
He's up to no good.
He'd drop things on me if only he could.
but there's nothing left to throw
it's already down below:
ten board books
two shoes
two socks
one sippey cup
one garbage truck
one teddy bear
one octopus
Sounds of Silence
While weeding in the backyard at 8PM tonight I wasn't sure which was worse - being able to hear the sound of my overtired two-year-old crying himself to sleep out his bedroom window, or, when he was between cries, the sound of hundreds of caterpillars eating the leaves over my head.
song: Sounds of Silence • artist: Simon and Garfunkel
song: Sounds of Silence • artist: Simon and Garfunkel
Friday, May 25, 2007
Vincent
Catherine!
Thank you for the floaty pen from the Van Gogh Museum! I love it. I’m sure that's just what Van Gogh had in mind when he painted Wheat Field with Crows!
It’s extra special because it was a Monday when we visited Amsterdam in 1990 - and the Van Gogh Museum was closed! I’m glad you and Thomas got there.
song: Vincent • artist: Don McLean
Thank you for the floaty pen from the Van Gogh Museum! I love it. I’m sure that's just what Van Gogh had in mind when he painted Wheat Field with Crows!
It’s extra special because it was a Monday when we visited Amsterdam in 1990 - and the Van Gogh Museum was closed! I’m glad you and Thomas got there.
song: Vincent • artist: Don McLean
Thursday, May 24, 2007
O Captain! My Captain!
The photo is of Captain Silas Jones of Falmouth. Curious readers can find out all about the adventures of Captain Jones and the whaling ship Awashonks in Friday's In Season supplement inside your local Enterprise newspaper. The only question the article doesn't answer is: "When do you think mutton chops will come back in style?"But seriously, even more interesting than reading about the 1838 Awashonks Massacre as it became known, was reading later accounts of the incident which grew more and more exaggerated every time it was retold. The entries written in the ship's log are pretty straightforward and gruesome enough as is. Not only is the attack enough to get the movie version of the encounter a R-rating, regardless of whether anyone on board was smoking, so to are the descriptions of the "operations" young Silas Jones had to perform on members of the crew following the attack. Future interpretations, though said to be eyewitness accounts, sound as if they took place on an entirely different ship.
A later account published in 1883 in the journal, The Youth's Companion, claims to have based its story on narrative from Silas Jones. It has the third mate staring down the natives and exclaiming "there was one chap that I didn't quite like the look of ... he has a 'hawk-eye'."
This version of the story also has Mr. Jones witnessing the captain being beheaded, an exaggerated event, though no less fatal, that Silas Jones was below deck for, according to the ship's log.
Ironically, the most blown out of proportion detail is that of a keg of gun powder ingeniously used by Silas Jones and the crew members trapped below deck, to set off an explosion in the stern of the ship. The Youth's Companion describes the event this way: "a blinding shock, followed by a terrific crash of timbers and a chorus of yells, screeches and howls from the terrified savages was the instantaneous result."
The Awashonk's log book makes no mention of a keg of gun powder or a subsequent explosion, leading me to believe the event is entirely fabricated.
An even later account, written by William N. Davis and published in the book Falmouth on Cape Cod years after the death of Silas Jones, recounted the story through the eyes of a supposed crew member named Old Tom, who strangely, is not one of the crew members mentioned by name in the ship's log. Old Tom is apparently a bit of a soothsayer as he ambles up on deck the night prior to the attack and tells the second mate, "I don't like the looks of the stars to-night." He then warns the mate that the natives are likely to "rub noses with you one minute and give you a dig in the ribs the next." The article even quotes Old Tom muttering "He's gittin' as proud as a midshipman with his pocketfull of scupper nails." Who ever heard of quoting a muttering?
The next day it's reported that 60 or 70 natives board the Awashonks. According to the ship's log the number was more like 30. Vastly outnumbered by natives in this account, the quick-witted third mate, below-deck members of the crew, and the salty Old Tom, again turn to that non-existent keg of powder to drive back the natives. The account quotes Silas as shouting "Come boys, break out the run. Get up a keg of powder, and we will blow the companionway sky high." The crew respond with: "Give it to them, Sir."
That Mr. Davis, he spins quite a yarn.
So what's the lesson here? Don't believe anything you read? Don't put much stock in narrative published 75 years after the event it describes. Especially when it's based on narrative written 50 years after said event which is equally factually incorrect. Don't trade with the natives, be they "hawk-eyed" or not? Don't grow mutton chops?
Take away from it what you will, but it gives one pause. if I can pick a single event from the history of Falmouth and find so many gross inaccuracies in the story's telling and retelling, can anything we read about history be true?
poem: O Captain! My Captain! • author: Walt Whitman
Do You Know?
Here's a little quiz for all you label and non-label readers. Guess what the top ingredient is in this Ocean Spray White Cranberry Juice.Optimists in the audience will answer, cranberry juice. Pessimists will go with sugar - otherwise known as High Fructose Corn Syrup.
But guess what? It's neither! It's actually water, then grape juice, with H.F.C.S. placing third, and cranberry juice trailing behind in a disappointing fourth. Good thing nobody had any money on that horse race.
There's nothing wrong with diluting cranberry juice with water - we do it all the time; but diluted, sweetened, grape juice, with trace amounts of cranberry shouldn't be called cranberry juice. A rose by any other name still smells as sweet, even sweeter with a little H.F.C.S. added; but a carnation should be called a carnation.
There is, I should mention, a small disclaimer at the bottom of the label telling shoppers the drink is "white cranberry juice drink blended with another juice from concentrate."
Another juice? What's the big mystery? What's wrong with just saying "blended with grape juice," or better yet, "blended with a whole lot of grape juice."
song: Do You Know? • artist: The Cranberries
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
You Won't See Me
Can you see this crosswalk? I'm concerned that it might be invisible - or a mirage. If you can see it you've got better eyesight than the 20+ cars that drove over it while I was standing at it the other day.
Maybe it's me that's invisible.
song: You Won't See Me • artist: The Beatles
Monday, May 21, 2007
Story of a Life
In yesterday's Globe there was an article about the fall TV lineup and how it featured a number of new shows about women in their late 30s to early 40s. The article seemed to view this as progress but it also seemed to say the women would all be single, childless, and upwardly mobile. Great. It's Sex and the City with hot flashes.
Where's the sitcom that represents my life? The one about the mom with kids who can barely get her act together to work part time, hasn't been out shopping for a new item of clothing for herself in over a year, still gets acne, and isn't sleeping with the gardener.
I remember getting together to watch Thirtysomething in the dorm lounge back in college when we weren't even remotely close to being thirty. Those couples all seemed to have kids and jobs and still be interesting enough to be shown on television. In fact maybe I should check the library for Thirtysomething on DVD just to see how their reality stacks up to mine. I seem to recall the characters all being a little neurotic - guess back then I thought being neurotic was something we'd all outgrow and not come to embrace.
Who's to say my life's not interesting enough for television? Take yesterday afternoon for example. After the dead snake incident my parents came over for dinner which I was mid-way through cooking when the power went out. I had to take my half-baked chicken and traipse next door to my neighbor's house. My neighbor who has a gas stove that is. I had my son bringing up the rear, carrying the vegetables in their respective pans, but he froze on the front steps because he's afraid of Betsy's little dogs.
It worked out okay, all things considered, and the lights came back on just as we were about to light the candles on the cake. Did I mention it was my mother's 74th birthday? Earlier in the day I'd bought those candles in the shape of numbers, a number seven, and a number four. They're a buck-fifty each but I sprung for them because we can use them again in July when Ken turns 47.
You tell me that's not a plot worthy of television? I got a million of them.
Come to think of it, since Ken mowed the lawn yesterday, I guess I am sleeping with the gardener.
song: Story of a Life • artist: Harry Chapin
Where's the sitcom that represents my life? The one about the mom with kids who can barely get her act together to work part time, hasn't been out shopping for a new item of clothing for herself in over a year, still gets acne, and isn't sleeping with the gardener.
I remember getting together to watch Thirtysomething in the dorm lounge back in college when we weren't even remotely close to being thirty. Those couples all seemed to have kids and jobs and still be interesting enough to be shown on television. In fact maybe I should check the library for Thirtysomething on DVD just to see how their reality stacks up to mine. I seem to recall the characters all being a little neurotic - guess back then I thought being neurotic was something we'd all outgrow and not come to embrace.
Who's to say my life's not interesting enough for television? Take yesterday afternoon for example. After the dead snake incident my parents came over for dinner which I was mid-way through cooking when the power went out. I had to take my half-baked chicken and traipse next door to my neighbor's house. My neighbor who has a gas stove that is. I had my son bringing up the rear, carrying the vegetables in their respective pans, but he froze on the front steps because he's afraid of Betsy's little dogs.
It worked out okay, all things considered, and the lights came back on just as we were about to light the candles on the cake. Did I mention it was my mother's 74th birthday? Earlier in the day I'd bought those candles in the shape of numbers, a number seven, and a number four. They're a buck-fifty each but I sprung for them because we can use them again in July when Ken turns 47.
You tell me that's not a plot worthy of television? I got a million of them.
Come to think of it, since Ken mowed the lawn yesterday, I guess I am sleeping with the gardener.
song: Story of a Life • artist: Harry Chapin
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Black Dog
Friday morning I accompanied my cousin up to Logan to pick up her new puppy which was arriving from North Carolina. Normally I'm against that sort of thing on principle - don't they have puppies on Nantucket? But I'm not against three hours of conversation with someone older than four. Plus Priscilla's in the clear, her last dog did come from the island.
Not to mention on the way back she stopped at Bongis Turkey Farm in Duxbury so I could load up on turkey pot pies. I got three big ones. Three is a respectable amount. Approach the register with four and you have the feeling the cashier is looking at you suspect. As in, "Why would anyone need four turkey pot pies?
And the puppy? Very cute!
Our second brush with the animal kingdom this weekend came this afternoon. This being our third day of rain showers, Ken went out during one of the breaks to mow the lawn. We all followed to make sure no irreplaceable backyard toys got chewed up in the mower.
In moving the blue tarp which was along the side of the house, I spied a garter snake. This caused a lot of excitement, and it wasn't until Ken tried to move it with a stick that we realized it was dead. As far as the kids were concerned, it was better dead since being dead meant it wasn't going to slither off any time soon.
C wanted to know why we couldn't keep it, after all dead pets are so much easier to care for. H ran around the yard yelling "Sssssss" and pointing, and C picked the snake up, moved it out of the path of the lawn mower, and told me how it felt rough. I stood by trying to contain my repulsion and kicking myself for not noticing the snake was dead before alerting my overly inquisitive family. It wasn't like C was knee deep in road kill, but still, who wants their kid picking up dead things in the yard? On the other hand who wants to squelch their son's potential future career in Herpetology just because dead snakes give them the willies?
song: Black Dog • artist: Led Zeppelin
Not to mention on the way back she stopped at Bongis Turkey Farm in Duxbury so I could load up on turkey pot pies. I got three big ones. Three is a respectable amount. Approach the register with four and you have the feeling the cashier is looking at you suspect. As in, "Why would anyone need four turkey pot pies?
And the puppy? Very cute!
Our second brush with the animal kingdom this weekend came this afternoon. This being our third day of rain showers, Ken went out during one of the breaks to mow the lawn. We all followed to make sure no irreplaceable backyard toys got chewed up in the mower.
In moving the blue tarp which was along the side of the house, I spied a garter snake. This caused a lot of excitement, and it wasn't until Ken tried to move it with a stick that we realized it was dead. As far as the kids were concerned, it was better dead since being dead meant it wasn't going to slither off any time soon.
C wanted to know why we couldn't keep it, after all dead pets are so much easier to care for. H ran around the yard yelling "Sssssss" and pointing, and C picked the snake up, moved it out of the path of the lawn mower, and told me how it felt rough. I stood by trying to contain my repulsion and kicking myself for not noticing the snake was dead before alerting my overly inquisitive family. It wasn't like C was knee deep in road kill, but still, who wants their kid picking up dead things in the yard? On the other hand who wants to squelch their son's potential future career in Herpetology just because dead snakes give them the willies?
song: Black Dog • artist: Led Zeppelin
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Back in the USSR
Lessons in culture and geography from a four year old.
"Know why they call it Russia? Because all the people are speeding around and rushing everywhere. The speed limit must be about 95. But I don't really know that. We'd have to go there and see what it's like. Can you drive there?"
song: Back in the USSR • artist: The Beatles
"Know why they call it Russia? Because all the people are speeding around and rushing everywhere. The speed limit must be about 95. But I don't really know that. We'd have to go there and see what it's like. Can you drive there?"
song: Back in the USSR • artist: The Beatles
Old Jim (He's a Good Dog, Him)
Maybe I looked like a witch on Thursday but on Wednesday I was a witch. I was the bad mommy who pulled over and took away the library books my kids were fighting over. I was also "dummy" and "stupid" according to my older son. Maybe I should have just felt lucky to have kids who fight over library books.
I didn't feel lucky though. First H was crying because his older brother grabbed away the two books he'd personally picked out that morning at the little library. Then I took the books away from C and gave them back to H which started C screaming. So I relieved them both of the books and listened to them both cry and call me names.
After making a stop at Don's house where I left my wailing children in the car, I explained to them that they needed to work out their problem themselves if they wanted the books back.
"We could share them," said my teary-eyed four-year old.
"Good idea." I said.
And - they did.
Everyone was happy for the rest of the trip home. You wouldn't think there could be so much drama on a ten-minute car ride across town.
The technique of removing the object that's causing friction between children, otherwise known as giving the toy a time out, is not one I made up myself; but as far as "expert advice" goes, it's pretty good. Kids seem more willing to work together to solve a problem when they know they'll both lose if they don't.
I don't like to comment on the politics of the day, because plenty of other blowhards already do, but this incident reminded me of the legislation being explored in Massachusetts regarding a statewide ban on pit bulls. If a handful of owners can't train or control their dogs, then nobody can have them. Sounds a lot like putting the toy in a time out to me except that even a four-year-old could tell you that unless the legislation applies to all breeds of dogs, then it's not fair.
song: Old Jim (He's a Good Dog, Him) • artist: Jonathan Edwards
I didn't feel lucky though. First H was crying because his older brother grabbed away the two books he'd personally picked out that morning at the little library. Then I took the books away from C and gave them back to H which started C screaming. So I relieved them both of the books and listened to them both cry and call me names.
After making a stop at Don's house where I left my wailing children in the car, I explained to them that they needed to work out their problem themselves if they wanted the books back.
"We could share them," said my teary-eyed four-year old.
"Good idea." I said.
And - they did.
Everyone was happy for the rest of the trip home. You wouldn't think there could be so much drama on a ten-minute car ride across town.
The technique of removing the object that's causing friction between children, otherwise known as giving the toy a time out, is not one I made up myself; but as far as "expert advice" goes, it's pretty good. Kids seem more willing to work together to solve a problem when they know they'll both lose if they don't.
I don't like to comment on the politics of the day, because plenty of other blowhards already do, but this incident reminded me of the legislation being explored in Massachusetts regarding a statewide ban on pit bulls. If a handful of owners can't train or control their dogs, then nobody can have them. Sounds a lot like putting the toy in a time out to me except that even a four-year-old could tell you that unless the legislation applies to all breeds of dogs, then it's not fair.
song: Old Jim (He's a Good Dog, Him) • artist: Jonathan Edwards
Friday, May 18, 2007
And She Was
Local elections were held this week. I hope you all exercised your right to vote. I confess that although I try to make informed decisions, occasionally I have no idea who the local, state, or national candidates are, or what they stand for. When this happens, abstaining from casting a ballot or checking a box might be the appropriate action, but instead I opt to vote for the female candidate - if one is running.
Men have run this country for the past 231 years, it's time to put the mothers in charge.
song: And She Was • artist: Talking Heads
Men have run this country for the past 231 years, it's time to put the mothers in charge.
song: And She Was • artist: Talking Heads
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Season of the Witch
I hate this insane weather where it's freezing in the morning and sweltering by afternoon. I had to throw a black sweater on over my black skirt this morning on the way out the door and I'm afraid the kids at preschool are going to tell C his mom looks like a witch.
song: Season of the Witch • artist: Donovan
song: Season of the Witch • artist: Donovan
Monday, May 14, 2007
Green Shirt
Up in the attic tonight I was rummaging through the Rubbermaid containers labeled "Joanne: Summer" and I realized that like that wooden box in my desk, my attic is filling up with clothes I don't wear any more but with which I can't seem to part. There's the usual: one wedding dress, one maid of honor dress, and two prom dresses; but then the collection digresses. Going back 20 years there's the dress I wore to my high school graduation, which would probably be unmemorable except that I made it myself - with a lot of help from the Home Ec teacher. It's in a box with the "Elvis collection" featuring the faux red crushed velvet pants I wore to Las Vegas, and the pink dress I wore to Graceland. Also in the box is the shirt I wore to my one and only Grateful Dead concert. Think my kids will ever want to envision their mom at a Grateful Dead concert much less get a good look at the shirt she wore?
Then there's a bunch of stuff without as much sentimental value but with a lot of "just too cool to throw out" appeal. Several vintage dresses and tiny sweaters with three-quarter length sleeves, a vintage red, white, and blue sequined sweater that I thankfully, never actually wore anywhere. I have several wool skirts that my mother made and wore herself which I also wore, a skirt I made and wore, a sweater my mother knit me that I feel to guilty to part with, and a box full of concert t-shirts (mostly from Billy Joel concerts).
The attic is also the current residence of an assortment of vintage hats, several that were worn at my wedding and which used to hang in my now non-existent sewing room. There's still a chance I'll hang them in the bedroom, I finally hung up all my shoe paintings after seven-plus years of living here so it's possible the hats will be next.
The clothes in my attic don't include some items that are still in my parent's attic like a faux leopard-print swing coat and 1950s flower-print dress from The Garment District in Cambridge. That ensemble I wore to the Metropolitan Opera House. There's a full-length wool coat that was my grandfathers and a black dress with a big bustle that belonged either to my grandmother or my great grandmother. Somewhere I have photos of Aletha modeling it.
Unlike the business cards and wallet-sized photos in the little wooden box, the clothing take up a significant amount of space. After careful consideration and a long walk down memory lane, I decided I couldn't part with a single item.
song: Green Shirt • artist: Elvis Costello
Then there's a bunch of stuff without as much sentimental value but with a lot of "just too cool to throw out" appeal. Several vintage dresses and tiny sweaters with three-quarter length sleeves, a vintage red, white, and blue sequined sweater that I thankfully, never actually wore anywhere. I have several wool skirts that my mother made and wore herself which I also wore, a skirt I made and wore, a sweater my mother knit me that I feel to guilty to part with, and a box full of concert t-shirts (mostly from Billy Joel concerts).
The attic is also the current residence of an assortment of vintage hats, several that were worn at my wedding and which used to hang in my now non-existent sewing room. There's still a chance I'll hang them in the bedroom, I finally hung up all my shoe paintings after seven-plus years of living here so it's possible the hats will be next.
The clothes in my attic don't include some items that are still in my parent's attic like a faux leopard-print swing coat and 1950s flower-print dress from The Garment District in Cambridge. That ensemble I wore to the Metropolitan Opera House. There's a full-length wool coat that was my grandfathers and a black dress with a big bustle that belonged either to my grandmother or my great grandmother. Somewhere I have photos of Aletha modeling it.
Unlike the business cards and wallet-sized photos in the little wooden box, the clothing take up a significant amount of space. After careful consideration and a long walk down memory lane, I decided I couldn't part with a single item.
song: Green Shirt • artist: Elvis Costello
Escape (The Pina Colada Song)
SWM seeks energetic older woman for companionship and play. Me: 32-inches tall, blue eyes, brown hair. You: old enough to cook mac and cheese and stay up past 8PM. Prefer intellectual stimulation to mind-numbing television viewing. Turn ons: long walks, throwing food, and running into the street. Turn offs: the dark and naps. Not interested in long-term commitment, still hung up on my mother. Must be willing to put me to bed.
song: Escape (The Pina Colada Song) • artist: Rupert Holmes
song: Escape (The Pina Colada Song) • artist: Rupert Holmes
Sunday, May 13, 2007
This One's For You
My mother's day card.Guess which ice cream is for me?
song: This One's For You • artist: Barry Manilow
Mother
Ten Songs for Mother's Day
1. Stairway to Heaven - because mom's still cool and at some point everyone thinks this song is cool
2. Souvenirs by Billy Joel - because mom's sentimental.
3. The Way by Fastball- because mom thinks about it but she never would.
4. Your mother should know - because your mother should know
5. The Toreador Song from Carmen - because it's great a great song to play loudly when you're alone in the house and even though he sang Carmen this fiery song, she still turned him down.
6. Where have all the flowers gone/One Tin Soldier - because that's how mom feels about war.
7. I am Woman by Helen Reddy - because - well duh!
8. Harper Valley PTA - because Mommy doesn't like hypocrites
9. Where do the Children Play - because moms worry about the future.
10. Girls Just Want to Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper- because Cyndi's a great dresser and moms aren't always worrying about the future (and we still wonder what we're going to do with our life).
song: Mother • artist: John Lennon
1. Stairway to Heaven - because mom's still cool and at some point everyone thinks this song is cool
2. Souvenirs by Billy Joel - because mom's sentimental.
3. The Way by Fastball- because mom thinks about it but she never would.
4. Your mother should know - because your mother should know
5. The Toreador Song from Carmen - because it's great a great song to play loudly when you're alone in the house and even though he sang Carmen this fiery song, she still turned him down.
6. Where have all the flowers gone/One Tin Soldier - because that's how mom feels about war.
7. I am Woman by Helen Reddy - because - well duh!
8. Harper Valley PTA - because Mommy doesn't like hypocrites
9. Where do the Children Play - because moms worry about the future.
10. Girls Just Want to Have Fun by Cyndi Lauper- because Cyndi's a great dresser and moms aren't always worrying about the future (and we still wonder what we're going to do with our life).
song: Mother • artist: John Lennon
Friday, May 11, 2007
The Portrait (a couplet)
A drawing of C and Me by He
Portraying Me most accurately
(That's me on the left in case you weren't sure.)
Don't Do It
When my two-year old isn't trying to stick his hands in the kitty litter, he's taking the cat's dry cat food out of her dish and putting it in her water bowl. Or maybe he's eating it, it's hard to tell what's going on over in that corner of the kitchen. Well, he shouldn't get any hairballs at least.
I try to dissuade this behavior by putting the baby gates up and raising them six inches from the floor so the cat can get under them but the children can't. This means that instead of running his hands through kitty litter, my son is down on his belly trying to squeeze under the gate; consequently dragging himself all over the filthy kitchen floor. In comparison that makes playing with kitty litter look like a relatively clean activity.
song: Don't Do It • artist: The Band
I try to dissuade this behavior by putting the baby gates up and raising them six inches from the floor so the cat can get under them but the children can't. This means that instead of running his hands through kitty litter, my son is down on his belly trying to squeeze under the gate; consequently dragging himself all over the filthy kitchen floor. In comparison that makes playing with kitty litter look like a relatively clean activity.
song: Don't Do It • artist: The Band
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Dust in the Wind
Remember those dead clams I cooked up for dinner last month? Today I inadvertently ran two of the shells through the washing machine. First I thought C must have left them in his pockets, but it's just as likely H deposited the shells in the washing machine himself. That's the draw back to having a front loader, toddlers can drop random things in it when you aren't looking.
And speaking of laundry - how did I miss this? April 19 was national Hang Out Your Laundry Day. Who knew hanging out ones laundry could be a political act? I know I complain about our tarp and our endless list of home improvement projects, but I can't imagine living in a subdivision or association where the rules would infringe upon my right to a clothes line. With the ever increasing price of energy, I would think that clothes lines would become a mandatory feature in these developments with tree-hugger names like "Whispering Pines" and "Grazing Meadows." How about some government kickback or tax incentive for clothes-line users to offset the price of clothes pins?
song: Dust in the Wind • artist: Kansas
And speaking of laundry - how did I miss this? April 19 was national Hang Out Your Laundry Day. Who knew hanging out ones laundry could be a political act? I know I complain about our tarp and our endless list of home improvement projects, but I can't imagine living in a subdivision or association where the rules would infringe upon my right to a clothes line. With the ever increasing price of energy, I would think that clothes lines would become a mandatory feature in these developments with tree-hugger names like "Whispering Pines" and "Grazing Meadows." How about some government kickback or tax incentive for clothes-line users to offset the price of clothes pins?
song: Dust in the Wind • artist: Kansas
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Tell Her No
My newly-minted two year old was up before me this morning.
I could hear him in his crib practicing his vocabulary:
"No, no, no, no."
"No!"
"Nnnn No."
song: Tell Her No • artist: The Zombies
I could hear him in his crib practicing his vocabulary:
"No, no, no, no."
"No!"
"Nnnn No."
song: Tell Her No • artist: The Zombies
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Tiptoe Through the Tulips
The garden has produced only one tulip.
Is that an oxymoron?
song: Tiptoe Through the Tulips • artist: Tiny Tim
Gridlock
Is there any road in town that's not being worked on? There's Rte. 28A in front of the Market; Central Avenue; and Rte. 28 in front of Mahoney's, and, just beyond the Davisville lights. And that's just me trying to drive to my parent's house in Waquoit.
Let's just say, with half the police force on traffic detail, it would be a good week to rob a bank. Just make sure you plan that getaway route carefully - or use a bike.
song: Gridlock • artist: Warren Zevon
Let's just say, with half the police force on traffic detail, it would be a good week to rob a bank. Just make sure you plan that getaway route carefully - or use a bike.
song: Gridlock • artist: Warren Zevon
Monday, May 07, 2007
Songbird
Cowbirds were in the front yard today. I shooed them away from the holly bush which I'm quite certain has a hermit thrush nest in it. Called parasites, a cow bird will lay its eggs in another birds' nest; leaving the host family to raise its young along with their own chicks.
Perhaps they are on to something. Sure, they miss the chick's formative years, their first peeps, learning to ride a bicycle, their first haircut and the like, but on the other hand, the surrogate parents have to gather extra grubs, foot the bill for college, and, expensive orthodontia.
Why do the hosts put up with this? I suppose it's just too hard to explain where that extra egg came from. Picture the scene in which the male bird returns to the nest and finds the new chick.
"Are you sure it's mine?" He squawks incredulously, "it doesn't look a thing like me."
"Of course it's yours," retorts the wife, "don't you trust me?
"Besides," she adds, "when would I have time for an affair? I'm stuck at home sitting on these eggs all day!"
"I don't know, it just seems fishy to me."
"Like you know fishy. Go get me some more worms."
song: Songbird • artist: Fleetwood Mac
Perhaps they are on to something. Sure, they miss the chick's formative years, their first peeps, learning to ride a bicycle, their first haircut and the like, but on the other hand, the surrogate parents have to gather extra grubs, foot the bill for college, and, expensive orthodontia.
Why do the hosts put up with this? I suppose it's just too hard to explain where that extra egg came from. Picture the scene in which the male bird returns to the nest and finds the new chick.
"Are you sure it's mine?" He squawks incredulously, "it doesn't look a thing like me."
"Of course it's yours," retorts the wife, "don't you trust me?
"Besides," she adds, "when would I have time for an affair? I'm stuck at home sitting on these eggs all day!"
"I don't know, it just seems fishy to me."
"Like you know fishy. Go get me some more worms."
song: Songbird • artist: Fleetwood Mac
Thursday, May 03, 2007
When I Paint My Masterpiece
When Ken and I got married, I folded 1,000 origami cranes (senbazuru) to use as centerpieces at our reception and later to send to the peace park in Hiroshima. One thousand paper cranes, and eight years later, and I still seem to have 500 sheets of origami paper left, paper in which my son has taken a recent interest.
Unfortunately he's a lot like me when it comes to creative endeavors, not enough patience to actually read instructions, or in his case, not old enough to read instructions. So for him origami is just a lot of random folding and creasing, and after he's done he announces what's been created: it's a tunnel, or a flower, or cat in a snowstorm (isn't that some kind of joke?). Then he'll add "did you know I could make such a good flower, tunnel, cat in a snowstorm."
He does the same thing with Sculpey. We have buckets full of modeling clay that never dries out, but he insisted on getting some Sculpey because you can cook it in the oven. It hardens and then your masterpiece can be painted. In my son's case, that masterpiece is some small, unrecognizable object, that looks more like a piece of clay that inadvertently fell on the floor underneath the table, then something that was thought through and purposefully made.
I'm caught between trying to enthusiastically support his artistic endeavors and telling him to stop wasting origami paper or clay. On the other hand, what am I saving all that origami paper for - my second wedding?
When we were kids we didn't have clay that stayed soft. You had to meticulously put your Play-Dough back in its container when you were finished with it lest it dry out. Inevitably lots of Play-Dough got left out, dried, and stuck to the orange shag rug. Eventually, despite being careful, the Play-Dough dried out anyway and there was nothing left to do with it except eat it. Mmmm, salty.
The memory of Play-Dough is why parents today consider clay that doesn't dry out to be a scientific breakthrough rivaling the invention of anesthesia. We can't conceive of why our kids would covet clay that hardens. Why go back to the dark ages? We want to wave a pointed finger at them and say "when I was a kid they didn't have clay that stayed soft forever. You kids today - you're the ones who are soft."
song: When I Paint My Masterpiece • artist: Bob Dylan
Unfortunately he's a lot like me when it comes to creative endeavors, not enough patience to actually read instructions, or in his case, not old enough to read instructions. So for him origami is just a lot of random folding and creasing, and after he's done he announces what's been created: it's a tunnel, or a flower, or cat in a snowstorm (isn't that some kind of joke?). Then he'll add "did you know I could make such a good flower, tunnel, cat in a snowstorm."
He does the same thing with Sculpey. We have buckets full of modeling clay that never dries out, but he insisted on getting some Sculpey because you can cook it in the oven. It hardens and then your masterpiece can be painted. In my son's case, that masterpiece is some small, unrecognizable object, that looks more like a piece of clay that inadvertently fell on the floor underneath the table, then something that was thought through and purposefully made.
I'm caught between trying to enthusiastically support his artistic endeavors and telling him to stop wasting origami paper or clay. On the other hand, what am I saving all that origami paper for - my second wedding?
When we were kids we didn't have clay that stayed soft. You had to meticulously put your Play-Dough back in its container when you were finished with it lest it dry out. Inevitably lots of Play-Dough got left out, dried, and stuck to the orange shag rug. Eventually, despite being careful, the Play-Dough dried out anyway and there was nothing left to do with it except eat it. Mmmm, salty.
The memory of Play-Dough is why parents today consider clay that doesn't dry out to be a scientific breakthrough rivaling the invention of anesthesia. We can't conceive of why our kids would covet clay that hardens. Why go back to the dark ages? We want to wave a pointed finger at them and say "when I was a kid they didn't have clay that stayed soft forever. You kids today - you're the ones who are soft."
song: When I Paint My Masterpiece • artist: Bob Dylan
the snore: a persona poem
Reverberating through the pillow and up to your ear.
In a quiet house at night I'm the only thing you'll hear.
In a quiet house at night I'm the only thing you'll hear.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Everything is Broken
Curses to the manufacturers of cheap plastic toys which break easily and often, and to the grandparents and other well-meaning but misguided people who give them to my children. They are always broken within 24-hours of arriving at our house despite repeated warnings issued by yours truly to, "be careful." But no matter how much I warn my little product testers, they always seem genuinely shocked when the item of questionable quality breaks. So instead of issuing a stern "I told you so," I console my broken-hearted child and mutter the curse again, under my breath.
song: Everything is Broken • artist: Bob Dylan
song: Everything is Broken • artist: Bob Dylan
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Poor Wandering One
Dear Connie,
There was an news brief in today's paper about a guy who rear ended another driver on Main Street because he was distracted by his pet bird! The bird was sitting on his shoulder at the time of the accident.
I hope you don't drive around Ottawa with Buddy perched on one shoulder and Jack on the other!
The brief ended by saying that the driver was given a verbal warning for following the other car too closely. And yet no warning at all about the inherent dangers of driving with a bird on one's shoulder and not a bit of information on whether or not the man was dressed as a pirate. Arrrrr!
song: Poor Wandering One • musical: Pirates of Penzance
There was an news brief in today's paper about a guy who rear ended another driver on Main Street because he was distracted by his pet bird! The bird was sitting on his shoulder at the time of the accident.
I hope you don't drive around Ottawa with Buddy perched on one shoulder and Jack on the other!
The brief ended by saying that the driver was given a verbal warning for following the other car too closely. And yet no warning at all about the inherent dangers of driving with a bird on one's shoulder and not a bit of information on whether or not the man was dressed as a pirate. Arrrrr!
song: Poor Wandering One • musical: Pirates of Penzance
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