Fall. Autumn. October. Three of my favorite things, all wrapped up into one. After a horribly hot, arid, and miserable summer, plants and lawns that weren’t killed off completely this past July and August are starting to go green again, thanks to the occasional rain, and the cooler temperatures.
There’s nothing better than sitting on the deck after dark on a late September or early October night that renews the spirit. (Well, almost nothing - the deck could be on a lake. Hopefully in retirement…) Come early fall on my deck, the air is crisp, free of the heavy humidity of late spring and summer. The stars show brilliantly in the sky, although not as brilliantly as they did 12 years ago when we were still out in the county. The encroachment of civilization has brought with it those pesky night time lights that make it harder to see those stars. Parking lots, headlights, porch lights, and those turn-night-time-into-day lights at the high school football field, tennis courts, and soccer field unfairly dim that which God has given. Still, sitting on the deck and listening to the sounds of homecoming cheers from the high school just under a mile away, is kind of a neat and homey feeling, right along with the crash into the screen door of the last of the June bugs, and the chirp of crickets who are slowly looking for a way to access my home for the winter.
Sitting out on the deck, sporting a sweater to ward off the chill, I think of the days when all I could see behind me were soybean fields, forest, cattle, the hills in which the county lake is nestled, and more than a body’s fair share of deer, coyotes, turkeys, possums, raccoons, skunks, and the ever present sounds of, but only occasional glance of, bob-white and pheasant. I’m glad it at least lasted while Eric was in his formative years. My mind is filled with moments of my son and his friends high up in Fort EJ in our back yard, backpacks filled with juice and snacks, fishing line, dry shoes and socks, binoculars in hand, as they planned their assault on the bad guys out there in the wilderness. Some days they were the cavalry, others WWII soldiers, still others the native Shawnee who once lived on this very piece of land which we now call home, or even James Butler (Wild Bill) Hickok, who was constable here in 1858. As soon as the farmer harvested the soybeans and the field was stubble, the kids took off for the woods and the creek (durable walkie-talkies on their belts in case they needed help from home), hunting for bad guys, arrowheads, cool rocks, and the greatest prize ten year old boys could ever find – petrified animal poop. It made me envious. Being brought up in a home where there were things girls just didn’t do (sports, play outside, ride bikes, etc.) it made me wonder that if I had been brought up in the country instead of the heart of a big city, would I have been allowed the freedom to explore that I subsequently gave my son? I doubt it, but that was also the 50‘s when girls were girls and still had to wear dresses to school and gloves and a hat to church. It could be why today, I love being outside even more.
Another thing I love in autumn is sunflowers. They grow all year, but there’s something about them in the fall that makes them pop. It could be because a lot of the other vegetation is dying, or maybe because the corn, beans, wheat, and whatever have all been harvested and now we can see that majestic yellow waving freely against that impossibly blue sky with those great fluffy, white, cotton candy clouds. One year for my birthday, my neighbor went out to the field, cut some sunflowers and made the most gorgeous arrangement I’ve ever seen. There’s something so inherently cheerful about those big yellow blooms that make me instantly squeal and smile when I see some while driving along. Even though this is the sunflower state, people around here consider them more of a nuisance and don’t see the beauty…then again I love looking at that ol’ invasive species known as kudzu. They way it creeps up poles and across abandoned buildings, creating really cool sculptures in what seems like a mere hours is amazing. I need to take a drive along my favorite river road to take a look at it before it starts to die back for the winter, then I’ll go back, camera in hand, in the third week in October or so, once the leaves are in their deepest colors.
Brown is my least favorite color, and unfortunately, in this neck of the woods, brown is the main color we see for good seven or eight months out of the year, so with autumn comes another thing I love – the leaves, or as an acquaintance once said in a deep, deep southern accent, “Oh, mercy, the leaves.” After this house was built 12 years ago, I met with the landscape designer and had exacting requirements for the trees he would choose. I wanted a variety of colors and textures – even in winter, and by golly, Rick delivered. The builder planted two unsightly ornamental pears in front, and a sad little crab tree in the back (which has long since met it’s maker along with one of the pears…good old Kansas storms are to blame.) Rick added four luscious columnar Norway maples in the front because the house is tall and angular looking from the street. In the fall, the purplish red of the pear leaves against the deep yellow of the maples is stunning against the darker green of the house, and in winter, the color contrast between the wood of the pears and maples is quite nice. In the back, we have a thornless, seedless honey locust whose small feather-like leaves turn yellow, as does the Oklahoma redbud’s large heart-shaped leaves. The corkscrew willow with its definitive corkscrew shaped branches also turns a lovely yellow, and all three of those trees balanced against the absolutely brilliant red/orange of the Tupelo tree in the far back (also known as sour gum or black gum) is amazing. In the winter, against the snow, the different branch structure of those four trees is stunning. I love my trees. When I move from here, a deal breaker on a new house may very well be not the size and layout of the rooms, but the size of the deck, the yard, the quantity and type of trees, and is there a body of water within sight, not to mention is the temperature decent enough I can enjoy them all year…..not just for a few fleeting weeks.
Then there are the smells of autumn, which are smells of comfort…..wood from fireplaces, the earthiness of decaying leaves, chrysanthemums and autumn clematis in full bloom, a big pot of marinara from next door, a roast from my own oven, and the headiness of warm chocolate cake wafting over from the house on the other side, all combine to say ‘Welcome home. Take a load off and sit a spell.” It’s like a big, warm, intense hug from a big, warm intense friend. Safety. Security. Love.
Winter is cold, unfriendly rejection, spring is a first crush, all new and giggly, summer is an I-don’t-have-the–will-to-care languid few months, but autumn… Autumn is love in full bloom, mature, patient, and oh so very fleeting, but right now, it’s here, and I intend to enjoy it while it lasts.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
On Books
What a privilege it is to be able to read. For as long as I can remember, books have been some of my best friends. I don’t recall when or how I learned to read, or even who taught me – as far as I know, I slid out of the chute with a pair of glasses on my nose and a book in my hand. I don’t remember being read to as a child, but surely someone did, didn’t they? Doesn’t every parent read to a child? I know I started reading to mine the day we brought him home from the hospital, and didn't quit until....well, he's nearing 20, and much to his dismay, I'm still trying to read bits and pieces of things to him.
There are a myriad of favorite stories and Little Golden Books with which I have populated my adult library (under the guise of purchasing books for my son when he was wee.) Pokey Little Puppy. Peter Goes to School. Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel. The Little Engine That Could. Then there was Little Black Sambo. Alas, that was no longer published by 1990, so my son never heard the tale of the smart little boy who out-witted a bunch of hungry tigers until they churned around a tree so fast they turned into butter, and then he had tons of pancakes for supper. I so loved that book - wish my mother had saved it. I once tried to get my little brother to run around a tree so he’d turn into butter and go away forever. It didn’t work. (Today some smart-ass child would file a class action lawsuit against the author, the publisher, the store that sold the book, and whoever read it to him. The Happy Man and His Dump Truck! I loved it when the pigs went flying out. Grandpa Bunny. Saggy Baggy Elephant. Tawny Scrawny Lion. Tootle. I can see I need to get into the LGB bin and pull some out for nostalgia's sake.
I could go on about Little Golden Books forever, but eventually I grew out of them and started reading chapter books. I was never a Nancy Drew girl, but loved the Hardy Brothers and the entire Trixie Belden series and there were even a few chapter books about the Lennon Sisters and the mysteries they solved. I lived a very sheltered, and to my mother’s way of thinking, a very proper life, befitting a young lady of the times - no bicycle…those were for boys. No sports either. I learned to sew, and cook, and most especially, the proper way of ironing (I think I was taught that one because my mother hated it.) I learned how to pick the vegetables that I would later learn to clean, snap, pit,and ‘put up.’ In my spare time, I was allowed to read and play with my dolls. (There was a huge fight between my mom and her dad once, when he showed up with the fire truck I so desperately wanted. Grandpa lost.) As I got into those chapter books, they took me away to a world where girls had worth outside the home, rode bikes, got dirty, had adventures, and occasionally even spit. – all the things I longed to do, but knew I couldn’t without getting my backside tanned.
Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, Pippi Longstockings (what little girl wouldn't want to be her), the Danny Dunn series, Mrs. Pickerell, Toby Tyler, and then the bonanza of all bonanzas was revealed to me. I was led to a box that housed a gift that my parents bought when I was born; The Young Folks Shelf of Books, also called The Junior Classics. Ten books put out by Collier (the Encyclopedia people) that was the ultimate classic reading guide for the well heeled young child. How I treasured those ten books, each brightly colored binding housing some of the best reading I’ve ever done.
Volume one was fairy tales and fables, and they had them separated by what country they were from. Two was stories of wonder and magic: Beatrix Potter, Uncle Remus, Carl Sandburg’s Rootabaga tales, Mary Poppins, Pinocchio, Pooh, Peter Pan, The Arabian Nights, Hans Christian Anderson stories, and those by Howard Pyle and Frank Stockton.
The third volume dealt with myths and legends. There I discovered the Vikings, Odin, the Golden Fleece, old Navaho stories, Celtic tales, and the saints. Next book covered heroes…Odysseus, The Song of Roland, El Cid, Beowulf, King Arthur, and Robin Hood. Five was aptly called “Stories That Never Grown Old.” Alice and that silly old White Rabbit, Nicolette, Dickens, Gulliver, Don Quixote, Kipling’s Kim, Sleepy Hollow, good old Rip Van Winkle, Robinson Crusoe, and the Swiss Family Robinson. All scaled down versions for the 8-10 year old set, but enough to make you get to the library and check out the real thing as soon as you could. There was a book with stories about boys and girls: Heidi, Tom and Huck, Caddie, Penrod, and of course Little Women.
The volume about animals never really interested me much – none of the titles seem familiar. I suppose I need to give it another chance someday. Volume 8 was stories from history and I loved that one! It’s where Rudyard Kipling, Rachel Field, Esther Forbes, James Fennimore Cooper, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, Sir Walter Scott and all the myriad of other became such good friends of mine.
The ninth book was unbelievable…adventure! King Solomon’s mines. (I later fell in love with Deborah Kerr and Stewart Granger because of the book. What a film!) Sherlock Holmes, Amelia Earhart, Anne Morrow Lindberg. Wow. I think I’ll be picking that volume back up tonight.
The last book was my favorite, however – poetry. It started with nursery rhymes, and moved on. From the ones I marked, as a child I was fond of almost anything Emily Dickenson, Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll (‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…..who knew what it meant, but to a child, it was way cool.) Eugene Field’s gingham dog and calico cat, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. Longfellow’s Hiawatha (good old Nokomis), Barbara Frietchie, Whitman’s dear Captain and so many others. There are also checks next to good old Billy Shakespeare, William Cullen Bryant, Robert Louis Stevenson, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Oliver Wendell Holmes.
If you can’t tell, I now have those books in my possession, copyrights 1938 and 1948, and they mean more to me than just about anything, because in so many ways, they are my childhood. I can let one fall open to a well-read page, and more than likely cite chapter and verse of something it triggers from 1957, or 1961, or 1968 as I desperately looked for something easy to memorize for class. I now own hundreds and hundreds of books, but when it falls back to those that mean the most, it’s those Little Golden Books from my earliest years, and the Junior Classics my parent bought in 1950 for their new baby girl. I wonder if they knew that 60 years later, I'd still get so much enjoyment from them?
There are a myriad of favorite stories and Little Golden Books with which I have populated my adult library (under the guise of purchasing books for my son when he was wee.) Pokey Little Puppy. Peter Goes to School. Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel. The Little Engine That Could. Then there was Little Black Sambo. Alas, that was no longer published by 1990, so my son never heard the tale of the smart little boy who out-witted a bunch of hungry tigers until they churned around a tree so fast they turned into butter, and then he had tons of pancakes for supper. I so loved that book - wish my mother had saved it. I once tried to get my little brother to run around a tree so he’d turn into butter and go away forever. It didn’t work. (Today some smart-ass child would file a class action lawsuit against the author, the publisher, the store that sold the book, and whoever read it to him. The Happy Man and His Dump Truck! I loved it when the pigs went flying out. Grandpa Bunny. Saggy Baggy Elephant. Tawny Scrawny Lion. Tootle. I can see I need to get into the LGB bin and pull some out for nostalgia's sake.
I could go on about Little Golden Books forever, but eventually I grew out of them and started reading chapter books. I was never a Nancy Drew girl, but loved the Hardy Brothers and the entire Trixie Belden series and there were even a few chapter books about the Lennon Sisters and the mysteries they solved. I lived a very sheltered, and to my mother’s way of thinking, a very proper life, befitting a young lady of the times - no bicycle…those were for boys. No sports either. I learned to sew, and cook, and most especially, the proper way of ironing (I think I was taught that one because my mother hated it.) I learned how to pick the vegetables that I would later learn to clean, snap, pit,and ‘put up.’ In my spare time, I was allowed to read and play with my dolls. (There was a huge fight between my mom and her dad once, when he showed up with the fire truck I so desperately wanted. Grandpa lost.) As I got into those chapter books, they took me away to a world where girls had worth outside the home, rode bikes, got dirty, had adventures, and occasionally even spit. – all the things I longed to do, but knew I couldn’t without getting my backside tanned.
Mrs. Piggle Wiggle, Pippi Longstockings (what little girl wouldn't want to be her), the Danny Dunn series, Mrs. Pickerell, Toby Tyler, and then the bonanza of all bonanzas was revealed to me. I was led to a box that housed a gift that my parents bought when I was born; The Young Folks Shelf of Books, also called The Junior Classics. Ten books put out by Collier (the Encyclopedia people) that was the ultimate classic reading guide for the well heeled young child. How I treasured those ten books, each brightly colored binding housing some of the best reading I’ve ever done.
Volume one was fairy tales and fables, and they had them separated by what country they were from. Two was stories of wonder and magic: Beatrix Potter, Uncle Remus, Carl Sandburg’s Rootabaga tales, Mary Poppins, Pinocchio, Pooh, Peter Pan, The Arabian Nights, Hans Christian Anderson stories, and those by Howard Pyle and Frank Stockton.
The third volume dealt with myths and legends. There I discovered the Vikings, Odin, the Golden Fleece, old Navaho stories, Celtic tales, and the saints. Next book covered heroes…Odysseus, The Song of Roland, El Cid, Beowulf, King Arthur, and Robin Hood. Five was aptly called “Stories That Never Grown Old.” Alice and that silly old White Rabbit, Nicolette, Dickens, Gulliver, Don Quixote, Kipling’s Kim, Sleepy Hollow, good old Rip Van Winkle, Robinson Crusoe, and the Swiss Family Robinson. All scaled down versions for the 8-10 year old set, but enough to make you get to the library and check out the real thing as soon as you could. There was a book with stories about boys and girls: Heidi, Tom and Huck, Caddie, Penrod, and of course Little Women.
The volume about animals never really interested me much – none of the titles seem familiar. I suppose I need to give it another chance someday. Volume 8 was stories from history and I loved that one! It’s where Rudyard Kipling, Rachel Field, Esther Forbes, James Fennimore Cooper, Robert Louis Stevenson, Charles Dickens, Alexandre Dumas, Sir Walter Scott and all the myriad of other became such good friends of mine.
The ninth book was unbelievable…adventure! King Solomon’s mines. (I later fell in love with Deborah Kerr and Stewart Granger because of the book. What a film!) Sherlock Holmes, Amelia Earhart, Anne Morrow Lindberg. Wow. I think I’ll be picking that volume back up tonight.
The last book was my favorite, however – poetry. It started with nursery rhymes, and moved on. From the ones I marked, as a child I was fond of almost anything Emily Dickenson, Edward Lear, Lewis Carroll (‘twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe…..who knew what it meant, but to a child, it was way cool.) Eugene Field’s gingham dog and calico cat, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. Longfellow’s Hiawatha (good old Nokomis), Barbara Frietchie, Whitman’s dear Captain and so many others. There are also checks next to good old Billy Shakespeare, William Cullen Bryant, Robert Louis Stevenson, John Greenleaf Whittier, and Oliver Wendell Holmes.
If you can’t tell, I now have those books in my possession, copyrights 1938 and 1948, and they mean more to me than just about anything, because in so many ways, they are my childhood. I can let one fall open to a well-read page, and more than likely cite chapter and verse of something it triggers from 1957, or 1961, or 1968 as I desperately looked for something easy to memorize for class. I now own hundreds and hundreds of books, but when it falls back to those that mean the most, it’s those Little Golden Books from my earliest years, and the Junior Classics my parent bought in 1950 for their new baby girl. I wonder if they knew that 60 years later, I'd still get so much enjoyment from them?
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Nashville Airport Observations
The past week, I have spent approximately nine hours in the Nashville airport (I don’t recommend it to anyone) and have had more than my share of people watching opportunities. One of my favorite games is to sit there and play “Who’s the Spy?” There has to be at least one international spy in every airport y’know, and I saw him last Thursday at BNA. Medium height, stocky, swarthy, black hair with enough oil in the back comb to fuel my CRV for a month. He was wearing a very expensive black silk suit, white shirt with cuff links, black tie, and top dollar shoes. He spent well over an hour walking here, walking there, always looking around him, and never making eye contact with anyone that I could tell. Unlike everyone around him, he never touched a cell phone. That was a dead give-away, because we all know that calls can be monitored. Was he there to make a hit? Meet a La Cosa Nostra member from the old country? I pretended to read my Kindle and kept track of him from behind my Foster Grants. After over an hour of discreet observation, I was quite disappointed to see him standing at the bottom of the escalator with a sign……he was merely a chauffeur waiting on a late arrival. The spy was probably the granny sitting next to me.
I adore the reunions between grandparents and grandchildren. I really love it when the little guy spies the much loved grandparents and squeals their names as they go racing across the floor to be scooped up. Gramma, Grampa, Nana, Boppa, whatever…..it makes me choke up, missing my own, all of whom have been gone many years.
On a random note, the Nashville airport has more guitar-toting people and more tattoos than I have ever seen in my entire life. It also has the market on tall men with toothpick legs – and they all wore jeans so tight I could tell their religion.
Another observation is that people in shoes pretty much all walk the same way, but put a pair of flip-flops on the same feet and things change. First off, why do so many wear open toe shoes/flip-flops/sandals with their toes hanging over the front of the footwear? Here’s a hint….buy a size that fits the entire foot! It doesn't cost a penny more. As far as styles of walking, first off are the flat-foot flip-flop wearers who raise the knees in order to walk and land the foot flat on the ground without the usual heel to toe rolling motion. They remind me of a horse in a dressage competition, and I want to shout out tips to improve their style.
There are those afraid of losing the flip-flop. They are the ones who have their toes clenched tightly to the keep the center thong under control. They make me want to watch them walk away to see if the butt is clenched as tightly. Loosen up! Wear some sandals with straps and stay away from watching prison movies or “Deliverance.”
The oddest flip-flop foot walk I saw belonged to a woman who when lifting her foot to step, also lifted her toes away from the flip-flop, curling them upwards as if they were trying to touch her ankle. As soon her heel hit the floor, the toes curled completely up, only to come in contact with the shoe when the toe area had to push up off the ground. That walk fascinated me. I practiced it in the privacy of my hotel room, but never even came close to mastering it. It will probably haunt me the rest of my days.
After that, I'll probably just keep my toes under wraps while in public.
I adore the reunions between grandparents and grandchildren. I really love it when the little guy spies the much loved grandparents and squeals their names as they go racing across the floor to be scooped up. Gramma, Grampa, Nana, Boppa, whatever…..it makes me choke up, missing my own, all of whom have been gone many years.
On a random note, the Nashville airport has more guitar-toting people and more tattoos than I have ever seen in my entire life. It also has the market on tall men with toothpick legs – and they all wore jeans so tight I could tell their religion.
Another observation is that people in shoes pretty much all walk the same way, but put a pair of flip-flops on the same feet and things change. First off, why do so many wear open toe shoes/flip-flops/sandals with their toes hanging over the front of the footwear? Here’s a hint….buy a size that fits the entire foot! It doesn't cost a penny more. As far as styles of walking, first off are the flat-foot flip-flop wearers who raise the knees in order to walk and land the foot flat on the ground without the usual heel to toe rolling motion. They remind me of a horse in a dressage competition, and I want to shout out tips to improve their style.
There are those afraid of losing the flip-flop. They are the ones who have their toes clenched tightly to the keep the center thong under control. They make me want to watch them walk away to see if the butt is clenched as tightly. Loosen up! Wear some sandals with straps and stay away from watching prison movies or “Deliverance.”
The oddest flip-flop foot walk I saw belonged to a woman who when lifting her foot to step, also lifted her toes away from the flip-flop, curling them upwards as if they were trying to touch her ankle. As soon her heel hit the floor, the toes curled completely up, only to come in contact with the shoe when the toe area had to push up off the ground. That walk fascinated me. I practiced it in the privacy of my hotel room, but never even came close to mastering it. It will probably haunt me the rest of my days.
After that, I'll probably just keep my toes under wraps while in public.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Fabric of Our Lives
Ever notice how, to change a phrase, music, not cotton, weaves the fabric of our lives? I grew up in a house with very little music. No one played an instrument or took lessons of any sort. My parents had a scant number of old 78 RPM recordings of Hawaiian music for which they had no explanation, and one 78 of Gene Autry that they played every Christmas Eve to let me know that “Here Comes Santy Claus.” They didn’t even listen to the radio, so except for Lawrence Welk and music inside the classroom, I grew up bereft of the wonderous sounds of music.
It all changed in 1961. I turned 11 and was given as a present, a small, red, plastic box with an earbud…the original AM transistor radio. To a young girl in her last year of elementary school, it was the sheerest form of Heaven. I immediately found 710 on the dial, home of WHB, the World’s Happiest Broadcasters, sat on the front porch and started catching up with what all my friends had always taken for granted - real, live, current, popular music. I don’t remember what I heard first, but every tinny sound that came out of that 4x6 red plastic box gave me complete joy, for the early sixties were golden years of music. Chubby Checker was twisting again, Del Shannon was chasing his little runaway, and telling tales on his girl Sue, who was a runaround. Pat Boone was up a moody river, Connie Francis was where the boys were, Dion was wandering, Gene Pitney was in a town without pity, Elvis was lecturing his girl's little sister, and The Tokens were letting us know that the lions were sleeping at night. In no time at all, I was hooked on music.
By the time I was in high school and earning babysitting money, I saved it and bought a record player. I spent all my spare change from then on, at the Katz drug store, buying records. By the time I was a senior and on into college, teen music had changed a lot. There were still feel-good songs like Itchycoo Park, Judy in Disguise, and On A Carousel, but social consciousness was quickly seeping into the airwaves. Crosby, Stills, and Nash sang about the four students shot at Kent State, the Beatles wanted a revolution, Joni Mitchell was pensive about the peaceful qualities of seagulls, and Zager and Evans told us how it would be in the year 2525. Through out it all, Archie Bell and the Drells couldn’t stop dancing.
My tastes have expanded and changed over the many years since, but like most people for whom music was pivotal in high school and college, those songs are still among my most played, even when they take me back to such heartache and angst I can hardly stand it. These days, I’m as likely to listen to country (both old school and new), jazz, fusion, classical, and even hip-hop, but just as it was back in 1961, music is everything to me. The radio or iPod is playing whether I’m cooking, cleaning, working, or writing blogs about music. During the last hour, thanks to the shuffle mode, I’ve heard The String Cheese Incident, George Jones, ZZ Top, Jason Mraz, Rod Stewart (old school and new), Bread, John Prine, Van Morrison with the Chieftains, and a few others whom are already locked away in the vast wasteland known as my subconscious.
Music is such a powerful force, when I hear certain songs, I’m instantly taken back to the past where I see, hear, smell and feel specific moments in my life. Zager and Evans instantly transports me back to Half Moon Bay on the California coastline, while Simon and Garunkle’s Cecelia puts me in a sorority house with a pledge who really thought they wrote the song for her. Mercedes Benz plants me right in front of Janis Joplin on stage, half a football field away from me, as I reveled in the raw power of her mere presence. Paul Revere and the Raider’s Hungry sits me right back in the up-front seat at the Music Hall as I (and several hundred other girls) cried every time Mark Lindsay opened his mouth to sing. (Hey - we were 16 - it was mandatory.) Eddy Arnold’s voice always reminds me of my maternal grandpa, his tiny living room, and the big, blue, horsehair, overstuffed chair that itched a little girl’s bare legs. Money by Pink Floyd gives visions of the in-laws living room and their massive, blonde, console stereo. I can’t hear Garth Brooks sing a particular song without seeing an adorable blond three or four years old in nothing but cowboy boots, and underoos (sports on my shorts) sing very loudly “I got friends in low places where the keys are round and the bears are chasing my boots away.”
This year it’ll be 49 years since I first discovered the magic that music produces. It can soothe a soul or rile it up. It can make a person giggly, sad, or introspective, and sometimes can even provoke feelings that can’t be described or understood. It can create lasting memories, or give us something to cling to when we desperately need something - anything, to give us hope. Music is more than the fabric of our lives - it’s life itself
It all changed in 1961. I turned 11 and was given as a present, a small, red, plastic box with an earbud…the original AM transistor radio. To a young girl in her last year of elementary school, it was the sheerest form of Heaven. I immediately found 710 on the dial, home of WHB, the World’s Happiest Broadcasters, sat on the front porch and started catching up with what all my friends had always taken for granted - real, live, current, popular music. I don’t remember what I heard first, but every tinny sound that came out of that 4x6 red plastic box gave me complete joy, for the early sixties were golden years of music. Chubby Checker was twisting again, Del Shannon was chasing his little runaway, and telling tales on his girl Sue, who was a runaround. Pat Boone was up a moody river, Connie Francis was where the boys were, Dion was wandering, Gene Pitney was in a town without pity, Elvis was lecturing his girl's little sister, and The Tokens were letting us know that the lions were sleeping at night. In no time at all, I was hooked on music.
By the time I was in high school and earning babysitting money, I saved it and bought a record player. I spent all my spare change from then on, at the Katz drug store, buying records. By the time I was a senior and on into college, teen music had changed a lot. There were still feel-good songs like Itchycoo Park, Judy in Disguise, and On A Carousel, but social consciousness was quickly seeping into the airwaves. Crosby, Stills, and Nash sang about the four students shot at Kent State, the Beatles wanted a revolution, Joni Mitchell was pensive about the peaceful qualities of seagulls, and Zager and Evans told us how it would be in the year 2525. Through out it all, Archie Bell and the Drells couldn’t stop dancing.
My tastes have expanded and changed over the many years since, but like most people for whom music was pivotal in high school and college, those songs are still among my most played, even when they take me back to such heartache and angst I can hardly stand it. These days, I’m as likely to listen to country (both old school and new), jazz, fusion, classical, and even hip-hop, but just as it was back in 1961, music is everything to me. The radio or iPod is playing whether I’m cooking, cleaning, working, or writing blogs about music. During the last hour, thanks to the shuffle mode, I’ve heard The String Cheese Incident, George Jones, ZZ Top, Jason Mraz, Rod Stewart (old school and new), Bread, John Prine, Van Morrison with the Chieftains, and a few others whom are already locked away in the vast wasteland known as my subconscious.
Music is such a powerful force, when I hear certain songs, I’m instantly taken back to the past where I see, hear, smell and feel specific moments in my life. Zager and Evans instantly transports me back to Half Moon Bay on the California coastline, while Simon and Garunkle’s Cecelia puts me in a sorority house with a pledge who really thought they wrote the song for her. Mercedes Benz plants me right in front of Janis Joplin on stage, half a football field away from me, as I reveled in the raw power of her mere presence. Paul Revere and the Raider’s Hungry sits me right back in the up-front seat at the Music Hall as I (and several hundred other girls) cried every time Mark Lindsay opened his mouth to sing. (Hey - we were 16 - it was mandatory.) Eddy Arnold’s voice always reminds me of my maternal grandpa, his tiny living room, and the big, blue, horsehair, overstuffed chair that itched a little girl’s bare legs. Money by Pink Floyd gives visions of the in-laws living room and their massive, blonde, console stereo. I can’t hear Garth Brooks sing a particular song without seeing an adorable blond three or four years old in nothing but cowboy boots, and underoos (sports on my shorts) sing very loudly “I got friends in low places where the keys are round and the bears are chasing my boots away.”
This year it’ll be 49 years since I first discovered the magic that music produces. It can soothe a soul or rile it up. It can make a person giggly, sad, or introspective, and sometimes can even provoke feelings that can’t be described or understood. It can create lasting memories, or give us something to cling to when we desperately need something - anything, to give us hope. Music is more than the fabric of our lives - it’s life itself
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Sunday Morning Observations
I love sitting in front of television on an icy, sleety, snowy Sunday morning when they are telling everyone to stay in because the roads are just too treacherous to attempt. I curl up with those Sunday morning news shows, booing, hissing, and only occasionally atta-boying the guests of honor of the misguided panelists. At the same time I am keeping one eye on the closings list scrolling across the bottom of the screen. I have learned that Baptist churches are the first to close and even during the Christmas Eve blizzard, the Catholic ones remained open…probably because the priest lives in the house next door and just has to walk across the lawn or parking lot, instead of driving across town.
I love watching the names of churches scroll by. Arise Ministries International. Smack dab in a very modest working class, almost redneck neighborhood, I wonder where the international fits in, because I know it's no where in the surrounding several miles. Church of the Harvest unfortunately makes me think of Children of the Corn. Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church Madhani Alem. OK, now that’s a church worth investigating. It evokes richly ethnic sounds, smells, and visions, similar to a bazaar scene out of an Indiana Jones movie. I see a church where people are completely involved in the faith and the community rather than, ‘it’s Sunday, get dressed, we gotta go to church.’
So many churches let you know exactly where they are: Blue Ridge Boulevard United Methodist, Independence Boulevard Christian, Rosedale Congregational, Welborn Community United Church of Christ, Pittman Road Church of God. Their names tell you not only the denomination but thanks to the location, a lot about the people who go there, much like the nickname my sister-in-law gives her own church....Our Lady of Mercedes. Other churches let you know what they offer: Shower of Blessings, Miracle Temple, Redemption Ministries, Atonement Lutheran, Works of Faith Ministries, Full Faith Church of Love in Jesus Christ, Mercy Church, River of Love Church, A Place of Praise, Celebration Community Fellowship, I Can Ministries, New Beginnings, and Refuge of Hope. I can practically see the congregation for each one.
I am confused by the many types of Baptist churches: Baptist, ABA, American, Cooperative Fellowship, Free Will, GARBC, General, Independent, Independent Fundamental, Missionary, National, North American, Primitive, Regular, Southern, and Sovereign Grace, and I want to shout, can't you all just get along? LOL
There are churches for everyone looking for a mainstream religion - Methodist, Baptist, Lutheran, Congregational, Catholic, Orthodox, Buddhist, Gospel, Assembly of God, Episcopal, African Methodist Episcopal, Zion, Charismatic, Seventh Day Adventist, Latter Day Saints, Nazarene, Evangelical, Mennonite, Jehovah’s Witness, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, Christian Scientist, not to mention the small, non-denominational ones like the Refreshing Waters Worship Center.
And today, thanks to ice, sleet, and snow, they’re all closed unless the pastor or priest lives next door. Feel free to give thanks in the privacy of your own home.
I love watching the names of churches scroll by. Arise Ministries International. Smack dab in a very modest working class, almost redneck neighborhood, I wonder where the international fits in, because I know it's no where in the surrounding several miles. Church of the Harvest unfortunately makes me think of Children of the Corn. Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church Madhani Alem. OK, now that’s a church worth investigating. It evokes richly ethnic sounds, smells, and visions, similar to a bazaar scene out of an Indiana Jones movie. I see a church where people are completely involved in the faith and the community rather than, ‘it’s Sunday, get dressed, we gotta go to church.’
So many churches let you know exactly where they are: Blue Ridge Boulevard United Methodist, Independence Boulevard Christian, Rosedale Congregational, Welborn Community United Church of Christ, Pittman Road Church of God. Their names tell you not only the denomination but thanks to the location, a lot about the people who go there, much like the nickname my sister-in-law gives her own church....Our Lady of Mercedes. Other churches let you know what they offer: Shower of Blessings, Miracle Temple, Redemption Ministries, Atonement Lutheran, Works of Faith Ministries, Full Faith Church of Love in Jesus Christ, Mercy Church, River of Love Church, A Place of Praise, Celebration Community Fellowship, I Can Ministries, New Beginnings, and Refuge of Hope. I can practically see the congregation for each one.
I am confused by the many types of Baptist churches: Baptist, ABA, American, Cooperative Fellowship, Free Will, GARBC, General, Independent, Independent Fundamental, Missionary, National, North American, Primitive, Regular, Southern, and Sovereign Grace, and I want to shout, can't you all just get along? LOL
There are churches for everyone looking for a mainstream religion - Methodist, Baptist, Lutheran, Congregational, Catholic, Orthodox, Buddhist, Gospel, Assembly of God, Episcopal, African Methodist Episcopal, Zion, Charismatic, Seventh Day Adventist, Latter Day Saints, Nazarene, Evangelical, Mennonite, Jehovah’s Witness, Presbyterian, Pentecostal, Christian Scientist, not to mention the small, non-denominational ones like the Refreshing Waters Worship Center.
And today, thanks to ice, sleet, and snow, they’re all closed unless the pastor or priest lives next door. Feel free to give thanks in the privacy of your own home.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Smile Experiment
I used to smile a lot. Heck, I could even be accused of downright grinning a good percentage of the time, however as the years have passed and life has gotten more complicated, I’m seeing that a smile on my face is a rarity. I’m more apt to be seen frowning, grimacing, or just staring blankly. I admit it – I have become a monumental grouch. Oscar in his garbage can has nothing on me.
I’ve noticed it in others also, whether it be at work, sitting at a stop light, at a restaurant, or the grocery store. OK. Given the poor excuse I have for a grocery store, I can truly understand that one, but it’s genuinely rare anymore, to see a smile on a friend, let alone a stranger.
When did the world stop smiling? When did we start thinking unkindly of those who think differently from ourselves? When did we become so busy we can’t look someone in the eye, acknowledge their presence, smile, and say good morning? Wouldn’t the entire world be more civil if everyone smiled at just one extra person tomorrow, two the next day, three the day after that, and so on?
Thus comes my challenge.
Smile more.
Smile when I don’t want to.
Smile when I don’t think I can.
Smile at people I don’t know and wish them a good day....and mean it.
Smile at people I know and with genuine feeling, ask them how they are...and listen to their answer.
I have a feeling that if I practice what I preach, I’ll be out of those grouchy, bitchy doldrums in no time flat, and I just may make a few others smile in return. Coca Cola wanted to teach the world to sing....I'd like to teach us to smile. It’s worth a try.
I’ve noticed it in others also, whether it be at work, sitting at a stop light, at a restaurant, or the grocery store. OK. Given the poor excuse I have for a grocery store, I can truly understand that one, but it’s genuinely rare anymore, to see a smile on a friend, let alone a stranger.
When did the world stop smiling? When did we start thinking unkindly of those who think differently from ourselves? When did we become so busy we can’t look someone in the eye, acknowledge their presence, smile, and say good morning? Wouldn’t the entire world be more civil if everyone smiled at just one extra person tomorrow, two the next day, three the day after that, and so on?
Thus comes my challenge.
Smile more.
Smile when I don’t want to.
Smile when I don’t think I can.
Smile at people I don’t know and wish them a good day....and mean it.
Smile at people I know and with genuine feeling, ask them how they are...and listen to their answer.
I have a feeling that if I practice what I preach, I’ll be out of those grouchy, bitchy doldrums in no time flat, and I just may make a few others smile in return. Coca Cola wanted to teach the world to sing....I'd like to teach us to smile. It’s worth a try.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Me and Chicken George
I need to get back to my roots. Obviously there’s a hair appointment due, but I’m talking about my other roots... those who came before me....my ancestors; specifically, genealogy. I’ve dabbled, I’ve played, I’ve taken it seriously for maybe 2-3 weeks at a time, but I really need to get into it and get into it big time, because it really is fun.
My dad started me off - he has been huge into genealogy for a long number of years, and has given me most of the information he has, but I have questions about certain lines and branches that I need to go off on my own search to figure things out. He has also entrusted me with a wealth of photos that leave me with tons and tons of questions.
How can you substantiate family stories that you’ve heard all your life about something that happened 100 years ago or more? I’m not talking things that one can eventually find on a paper deed, or a courthouse record, but a rumor, like the one about Jesse James. There’s been talk all my life, that my great grandfather (I think he was the one) had a secret basement in which he hid his buddy Jesse, when posses were a-ridin’throughout northern Missouri. Cool, cool story, but how does one substantiate it? Everyone that knows is long gone, but could there be a newspaper report or something in a memoir someone wrote?
Even when there are records, so to speak, there’s the looseness of them. I have an ancestor from North Carolina who lived to be over 120 years of age....or 115....or maybe 100. Depending upon what information you find, ol’ Robert could have been any age, but one thing is for sure – the man was quite the character if even half his autobiography is true. What I’d give to spend a few hours with the dude, even with the ego he seemed to have.
You can’t depend upon the word of those involved either. My maternal grandmother was known to stretch the truth she didn’t know. For years I thought I was a descendent of Isaac Watts, the English hymn writer (she said he was her grandfather.) Only after starting research did I find that her mother was born in 1870, and the man my grandmother claimed was her mother’s father died in 1748, unmarried and childless. At least I no longer feel guilty about not enjoying some of those stodgy, old hymns of Isaac’s. I did finally get a photo of my great-grandfather’s fish and chips shop in Sutton Bridge, England, however. That was neat.
My paternal grandmother however, tickled me to no end when she revealed that her mother, my great grandma Maggie, met her husband Earl, when he was a comedian in a burlesque house and she was the piano player there. Oh, the stories I missed not knowing that little tidbit until 30 years after Grandma Maggie died. In the same family, Bud Ledbetter, the famous Oklahoma territory marshal known as The 4th Guardsman, was a cousin of my great-grandfather Earl. There’s a lot of info out there about Bud, including a book I own. Now that’s cool stuff to read and know it’s all about kinfolk. My fifteen minutes of fame, so to speak.
A friend of mine and I have a theory about roots. We say we’re drawn to the type of life our ancestors had. Both of us came from long lines of rural people. Country folk. Farmers. Small shop keepers. Small town dwellers. She and I are both happiest and most comfortable in those type settings, and cringe at the thought of big cities and large urban spots. My husband, on the other hand, has ancestors from super large cities in Europe, and he can’t stand the quiet life. He needs the hustle and bustle of the cities, and the people, and the noise. When he went to New York City for the first time a few years back, he came back saying he’d move there in a (pardon the phrasing) New York minute. I, on the other hand, have no desire to ever even get close, so needless to say, we don’t necessarily agree over vacations and retirement. He prefers noise, hustle, bustle, bright lights, and lots of people, while I tend more to a stack of books, a comfortable chair, plenty of trees and flowers, a glass of red, and a body of water where I can watch my son fish.
Considering my husband and I both grew up within 50 miles of each other, I’d say genetic imprinting has more of a hand in our likes than does environment. He yearns for a place far larger than the million and a half people metropolitan area we live in/near, and I long....no...I yearn for something about 1/1,000th of that size. Mayberry, if you will. If we could only win the Powerball we could afford to retire in both places. Well.....kinda. He’d be welcome to come visit me anytime, but no way am I going to NYC to see him. A girl’s gotta keep to her roots.
My dad started me off - he has been huge into genealogy for a long number of years, and has given me most of the information he has, but I have questions about certain lines and branches that I need to go off on my own search to figure things out. He has also entrusted me with a wealth of photos that leave me with tons and tons of questions.
How can you substantiate family stories that you’ve heard all your life about something that happened 100 years ago or more? I’m not talking things that one can eventually find on a paper deed, or a courthouse record, but a rumor, like the one about Jesse James. There’s been talk all my life, that my great grandfather (I think he was the one) had a secret basement in which he hid his buddy Jesse, when posses were a-ridin’throughout northern Missouri. Cool, cool story, but how does one substantiate it? Everyone that knows is long gone, but could there be a newspaper report or something in a memoir someone wrote?
Even when there are records, so to speak, there’s the looseness of them. I have an ancestor from North Carolina who lived to be over 120 years of age....or 115....or maybe 100. Depending upon what information you find, ol’ Robert could have been any age, but one thing is for sure – the man was quite the character if even half his autobiography is true. What I’d give to spend a few hours with the dude, even with the ego he seemed to have.
You can’t depend upon the word of those involved either. My maternal grandmother was known to stretch the truth she didn’t know. For years I thought I was a descendent of Isaac Watts, the English hymn writer (she said he was her grandfather.) Only after starting research did I find that her mother was born in 1870, and the man my grandmother claimed was her mother’s father died in 1748, unmarried and childless. At least I no longer feel guilty about not enjoying some of those stodgy, old hymns of Isaac’s. I did finally get a photo of my great-grandfather’s fish and chips shop in Sutton Bridge, England, however. That was neat.
My paternal grandmother however, tickled me to no end when she revealed that her mother, my great grandma Maggie, met her husband Earl, when he was a comedian in a burlesque house and she was the piano player there. Oh, the stories I missed not knowing that little tidbit until 30 years after Grandma Maggie died. In the same family, Bud Ledbetter, the famous Oklahoma territory marshal known as The 4th Guardsman, was a cousin of my great-grandfather Earl. There’s a lot of info out there about Bud, including a book I own. Now that’s cool stuff to read and know it’s all about kinfolk. My fifteen minutes of fame, so to speak.
A friend of mine and I have a theory about roots. We say we’re drawn to the type of life our ancestors had. Both of us came from long lines of rural people. Country folk. Farmers. Small shop keepers. Small town dwellers. She and I are both happiest and most comfortable in those type settings, and cringe at the thought of big cities and large urban spots. My husband, on the other hand, has ancestors from super large cities in Europe, and he can’t stand the quiet life. He needs the hustle and bustle of the cities, and the people, and the noise. When he went to New York City for the first time a few years back, he came back saying he’d move there in a (pardon the phrasing) New York minute. I, on the other hand, have no desire to ever even get close, so needless to say, we don’t necessarily agree over vacations and retirement. He prefers noise, hustle, bustle, bright lights, and lots of people, while I tend more to a stack of books, a comfortable chair, plenty of trees and flowers, a glass of red, and a body of water where I can watch my son fish.
Considering my husband and I both grew up within 50 miles of each other, I’d say genetic imprinting has more of a hand in our likes than does environment. He yearns for a place far larger than the million and a half people metropolitan area we live in/near, and I long....no...I yearn for something about 1/1,000th of that size. Mayberry, if you will. If we could only win the Powerball we could afford to retire in both places. Well.....kinda. He’d be welcome to come visit me anytime, but no way am I going to NYC to see him. A girl’s gotta keep to her roots.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Going Mad in Winter
Dear Diary,
I don't know what Charles has gotten us into. Spending all my life in Wisconsin until he moved us here to this little house on the Kansas prairie, you'd think I'd have been prepared for winter, but nothing short of moving to the North Pole would have been adequate. Last week, Santa couldn't even make it through the blizzard to leave the poor children modest trinkets in their stockings, and it's snowed every day except two since Christmas Eve. Charles and Albert can't keep up with keeping a path shoveled to the barn, and I'm afraid one morning we're all going to wake up and find the house is buried in that nasty white stuff. I hate it. Why couldn't I have runaway with a snake oil salesman who would have abandoned me, unmarried and with child, in Florida? Alone in the warmth and sunshine has to be better than being trapped in a one room unheated cabin with Mr. Machobullcrap and the depressingly upbeat cherub faces brats. When the hell are they going to invent vodka? I can't wait.
Love,
Caroline
I don't know what Charles has gotten us into. Spending all my life in Wisconsin until he moved us here to this little house on the Kansas prairie, you'd think I'd have been prepared for winter, but nothing short of moving to the North Pole would have been adequate. Last week, Santa couldn't even make it through the blizzard to leave the poor children modest trinkets in their stockings, and it's snowed every day except two since Christmas Eve. Charles and Albert can't keep up with keeping a path shoveled to the barn, and I'm afraid one morning we're all going to wake up and find the house is buried in that nasty white stuff. I hate it. Why couldn't I have runaway with a snake oil salesman who would have abandoned me, unmarried and with child, in Florida? Alone in the warmth and sunshine has to be better than being trapped in a one room unheated cabin with Mr. Machobullcrap and the depressingly upbeat cherub faces brats. When the hell are they going to invent vodka? I can't wait.
Love,
Caroline
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