~Upstream and Down~

Function over form~

2012-01-04T17:33:00.004-05:00

I spent the last day of 2011 with a group of photographers, taking pictures in Saint Anthony of Padua Church in New Bedford. The ornate interior, decorated for the Christmas season, was beautiful. Gleaming floors and polished wooden pews reflected color and light from stained glass windows and detailed carvings.

Despite the color and detail available to shoot, I found myself drawn to the light that played through the rails of the drab stairway leading to the second and third levels of the church.

The stairs were off to the side of the foyer, easily overlooked by anyone intent upon entering the splendid sanctuary. Probably those who trudge up to the choir loft, which looks out over the gleaming center aisle in the nave, don’t give the stairs a second thought, but they are as necessary as the marble columns that support the arched ceiling.

A friend who saw my photos called the stairs “grungy and worn and burnished with age.”

And I thought … if we live long enough, we’ll all end up worn. But burnished? That’s something that comes only to those who allow the stresses of life to polish them, rather than scrape them raw. Not an easy thing. It comes, I think, from a willing acceptance of our purpose in life. As I said, not easy to accept that our function is ultimately greater than our form...especially in this world where glamor and glow distract us from inner beauty.

---

You can take no credit for beauty at sixteen. But if you are beautiful at sixty, it will be your souls's own doing. ~ Marie Sropes

It is the pervading law of all things organic and inorganic,

Of all things physical and metaphysical,
Of all things human and all things super-human,
Of all true manifestations of the head,
Of the heart, of the soul,
That the life is recognizable in its expression,
That form ever follows function. This is the law.

~ American architect Louis Sullivan

---

Inside the box~

2011-11-23T17:04:00.002-05:00

At Thanksgiving time, I always think back to my years as a young teacher. It was traditional to have students list all the things they were thankful for. But I was a think-outside-the-box teacher, and I urged them to think beyond what I thought were the obvious things to be thankful for.

Yes, yes, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, I'd think, as I listed their comments on the board. Sure, food and pets. Yes, of course, your house.

"But what ELSE?" I'd ask.

They were silent.

For these seven- and eight-year-olds there really was nothing else. What they were thankful for fit neatly into the box.

And I've come to realize this is true for me, as well. My box is full of the obvious blessings. What ELSE could I ask for? What else really matters?

The blessings outside my box--and there are plenty-- are mere frosting on the cake...or should I say, stuffing in the turkey?

Happy Thanksgiving. May your boxes be full. May all your thorns have roses.

---

Giving Thanks For *You* (2007)

Some people are always grumbling because roses have thorns; I am thankful that thorns have roses.
~Alphonse Karr

Just for fun...

2011-11-01T21:50:00.003-04:00

Sometimes it’s fun to photograph something different, something playful, to take a break from landscapes and sunsets, as much as I love them. Fun to shoot something I could never do on my own. So I was happy to have the opportunity through the Plymouth Digital Photographer’s club to do just that.

Roy Marshall, a member of two local camera clubs, did the prep work, setting up a sophisticated system that relies on perfect timing, with strobes designed to flash in time to catch the split-second of action--in this case, a splash of colored water.

Roy partially filled three brandy snifters with colored water and set them on a platform. About twenty of us stood behind our cameras, which were perched on tripods, and focused on the glasses. Then Roy pulled the platform up a short incline, and lights were turned out.

In this pitch-blackness, we clicked open camera shutters, using "bulb mode," which allowed the shutter to stay open until released. We waited for the platform to be released to slide down the incline and come to an abrupt stop. This triggered the high-speed flash to light the snifters so we could capture the resulting slurp of the colored water.

Fun. Different. Pretty cool!

Roy's Suggested Camera Settings
• ISO 200

• F Stop: about f/11 to f/16

• Manual focus

• No auto focus and Anti Vibration off

• Camera on Blub or able to have a 2 to 4 sec. exposure.

Cause and effect ...

2011-09-15T23:11:00.002-04:00

A local man, Michael, was killed when the North Tower of the World Trade Center, where he worked on the 105th floor, collapsed on September 11, 2001.

For the ten-year anniversary of 9/11, a monument in Michael’s memory was designed and built by an architect from his town, and was to stand somewhere in the section of the town cemetery dedicated to veterans.

The architect wanted two things: granite of a certain grey color that to him signified somber respect, and granite that was quarried in America.

He searched for granite wherever it is architects search, and eventually found just the grey he’d envisioned. And it was quarried in America -- Shanksville, Pennsylvania, to be exact – a perfect and symbolic touch for a 9/11 monument.

It didn’t take long for those in charge of the 9/11 ceremony to pick the proper spot for Michael’s monument. It was placed just behind the Iraq memorial … because the attack on the World Trade Center had spurred another man from this town, Shayne, to enlist in the Marines.

Shayne served in Iraq, where he was killed, in effect, because of the attack that killed Michael.

I don’t know why it is that these connections have stayed with me since September 11th, when I covered the 9/11 ceremony for the paper. But I keep thinking about the links people share.

Sometimes, as with Michael and Shayne, the connection is tragic. But I’d like to think that more often good comes to others through the unseen threads that stretch from person to person.

Then there are the coincidental connections that tie up the ragged ends of loose threads in a more satisfactory way -- such as finding the perfect granite from a town that serves as a burial ground for passengers of United Airlines Flight 93.

This story, of course, begs for further examination of cause upon cause, decisions upon decisions, going way back that ended with these men, and so many others, in a cemetery.

---

"A hidden connection is stronger than an obvious one." ~Heraclitus

The rest of the story...

---

Timing is Everything~

2011-08-18T22:07:00.002-04:00

I was in Rockport recently, a picturesque North Shore coastal fishing town. It’s got a small artsy village where tourists roam the narrow street that leads to Bearskin Neck and a view of the ocean.

Bruce and I stopped to watch a cat hunting a grasshopper in a raised flowerbed, that bordered the roadway. The cat was quick. She darted and leaped, following the erratic hopping of the insect.

When the cat looked right, the grasshopper leaped left, perching triumphantly on a zinnia. I thought briefly of scooping it into my hand and moving it farther away from the cat, who was still searching.

Then the grasshopper hopped onto my foot, but before I could walk away--taking it with me out of harm’s way--it made a dynamic leap into the street ... where an oblivious tourist immediately stepped on it.

The crunch--like biting into a potato chip—stayed in my ears. The unexpected unfairness of it still lingers.

The man continued walking; the cat went on hunting. And I was left to think that surely there was a moral to the story. Or at least a lesson.

But all my lessons seem too grim. This was only a tiny slice of a grasshopper's life, and why should I expand it to mean more than just unfortunate timing? A little good luck followed by bad.

Timing is everything.

---

The timing of death, like the ending of a story, gives a changed meaning to what preceded it. ~Mary Catherine Bateson

A bird in the hand~

2011-05-09T21:51:00.002-04:00

Recently I had the privilege of going with a group of photographers to a bird banding station in Plymouth—Manomet Center ForConservation Sciences. In the roughly forty years the center has been operating, the center has banded more than 350, 000 birds.

The coastal acres are thickly wooded. Fine mesh nets edge trails and capture low flying birds. Volunteers check the nets hourly and gently extricate any birds that have become entangled, then band them and send them on their way.

Because the staff knew we were coming—twenty of us with our cameras—they had held onto a few birds for us to photograph up close.

What became quickly apparent was the personality of each species. Some are cooperative and preen for the camera, some are flighty and flustered at being the center of attention, some peck at the handler, and others resort to unusual postures, like the blue jay who bent its head at a ninety degree angle to its body and stuck his beak in the air, resisting gentle "rearrangement" attempts for the camera . Some just patiently await release.

The birds were in the care of volunteers who know just how to hold them and what to expect. They are calm and measured and make no sudden moves to startle the birds. In fact there are several previously banded chickadees who’ve discovered that the food placed in walk-in traps is worth repeated capture and release from such kind souls.

But as much as I appreciated seeing the birds up close, and as much as I recognize the value of the ongoing study of migrant birds, I couldn’t shake an uncomfortable feeling at seeing such wild creatures in human hands.

How would I do if a being many times my size clamped an ID to my ankle and then said, “Go in peace?” I'd probably be one of the species who peck at the handler. The birds seem none the worse for their momentary fear. I’d still be having nightmares…unless I was in hands as gentle and caring as those at Manomet.

---

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will...” ~Charlotte Bronte

Sunrise... my new friend~

2011-04-27T23:03:00.002-04:00

Since I retired, I don’t often see the sunrise—by choice. No more setting my alarm. I wake when I wake, and it's usually well after the sun has broken the horizon.

As a photographer, I know this cuts out the best light of the day, but what's wrong with sleeping late and going after the sunsets?

Recently, I joined Plymouth Digital Photographers, an online photography club that has frequent live meet-ups to shoot at various places in the area.

A twice a year opportunity arose this week to photograph the Bourne Bridge and the Railroad Bridge with the sun rising beneath them both! The same alignment happens again in August, so I’ve been told.

So when my alarm went off at 4 a.m., I dressed quickly, got my camera and tripod, and set off for Wareham, a town on the "mainland" side of the Cape Cod Canal-- a forty minute ride from where I live.

The forecast was iffy; it had rained off and on in the night. Who wants to wake early if the sun might stay in bed?

Still, I made myself go. And the sun more than rewarded me and the one other lady who showed up. Not only did we get some beautiful shots, we chatted over coffee and bagels afterward.

This early morning trip revived my love of early light. I just may set my alarm now and again. In fact, I'm sure I will.

Click on photos to enlarge.

"The grand show is eternal. It is always sunrise somewhere; the dew is never dried all at once..." ~John Muir

Winter's just pouting~

2011-03-25T15:11:00.000-04:00

You think I LIKE working overtime?

Going, going, almost gone!

2011-03-15T22:24:00.004-04:00

Winter on the way out?

Vote yes!

I always toss my camera in the car, so when I parked in Ikea's parking lot this past January I took a picture simply because I liked how it looked. Reviewing shots today, I thought the picture used its 1000 words to say exactly what I'm feeling.

Good bye winter. Hurry spring.
~~~~~
Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn. ~Quoted by Lewis Grizzard in Kathy Sue Loudermilk, I Love You

That voice we all use~

2011-03-06T19:33:00.002-05:00

As I walk down the carpeted hall of the assisted living facility to visit my mother, I notice several new “welcome” signs hanging on the doors to other rooms. Residents have died and left a vacant room. There is always a waiting list.

My mother’s door is ajar and I peek in. She’s on her couch watching TV. How small she looks, and how alone!

I tap several times before finally walking in saying, “Hello--oo!” in that cheery voice we all use in such situations—the ones the nurses use upon entering to give her her pills.

She turns to look. No expression. And then, like an iron that has been plugged in and slowly warming up, I see a puzzled look in her eyes, then a glimmer, a spark of recognition, and then she smiles.

“So good to see you,” she says.

She’s good at this game, my mother is. The one where she’s lost in time and place, but manages to fall back on social niceties, the right words, the right expressions, so that no one suspects she has no idea who she’s speaking to.

And because this might be the case, I say, “It’s Ruthie, Mom.” I add “mom” for additional information to help her place me. Just in case.

“I know who you are,” she says firmly. “How could I forget?” And I believe her because I need to, although once she told me that her memory of my father had slipped away.

She flips off the TV, a politeness she’s retained from a time when people never entertained visitors with the TV on. Then it is up to me to fill the silence. Conversation that is mostly questions asked while I water her withering plants and read the cards she’s received: Have you been playing Bingo? Have you been exercising? Have you met your new neighbors?

“No,” she replies to all.

But, I think, she must still play Bingo. I see new prizes --stuffed animals-- on the back of her couch. And I hope someone makes her exercise, other than the walk to the dining room three times a day. And surely she would have been introduced to the new residents at dinner.

But she doesn’t remember so the answer is no.

I see on her daily schedule that there is a man who will entertain on the piano soon. I think she’d like the music, the time away from the TV.

But, no, she tells me. She doesn’t want to go listen to the man play the piano.

“I’ve heard him,” she says dismissively, making piano playing motions with her fingers.

“I used to have friends here,” she tells me, “but they’ve all moved.” A pause, “Or they may have died.”

“I guess it’s not as fun doing things without them,” I say.

“No, it isn’t. But I have my TV,” she hastens to add, “and I can choose any channel I want.” My mother so seldom complains and when she does, she finds a silver lining…even if it is lead grey.

“You know, Mom, I’m sure that the new people want to make friends. They must be lonely, too. You can do things with them.”

“They’re younger,” she tells me. So she has met them.

As the conversation limps on, she tells me four more times that she used to have friends here.

It makes me sad that she doesn’t remember that’s she’s said this, but that she remembers the loss.

Soon she says in that voice we all use when we want to bring a visit to a polite close, “So good to see you. Do come again.”

“I will,” I say, giving her a kiss goodbye.
~~~~~

I cannot forget my mother. She is my bridge. ~ Renita Weems

Egypt in our living rooms~

2011-02-03T23:03:00.005-05:00

I met an old friend I hadn’t seen for years—decades, actually—in the supermarket today. We talked about life: snow, more snow coming, husbands, husbands shoveling, and, of course, our kids. And snow!

Not once did we talk about the situation in Egypt, although I went home to the constant news coverage; maybe she did too.

It’s so odd:

… to think about filling the bird feeders because another storm is coming this weekend—another!—while watching the footage of cars mowing down people in Egyptian streets.

…to compare prices of vitamins, knowing that shops have closed in Cairo. No food, let alone vitamins for sale.

…to drive down streets narrowed by snow, knowing people narrow Cairo's streets.

…to watch my son toss in free throws in his college basketball game, while other mothers' sons toss Molotov cocktails.

…to live an everyday life, while, right in my living room, I see others, miles across the world, living their not so everyday lives, wanting what we all want: happiness for their loved ones… and freedom.

But happiness isn’t a “one size fits all” proposition. It never was and never will be. What makes one group happy makes another miserable. Yet, we’ll all choose sides. It’s what we do.

Some, of course, think they have all the answers. But that’s nonsense. It’s all a house of cards that stands or falls depending on any number of possible events, and none are predictable. It’s like driving in the fog. Who knows what will appear on the road ahead?

There’s enough analysis to sink a ship. But after watching the same footage over and over in our living rooms, to think we have a grasp on the bigger picture is foolish.

And so it goes. Everyday life. Chaos. Violence. More snow… and feeding the birds.

-----
Those who hate most fervently must have once loved deeply; those who want to deny the world must have once embraced what they now set on fire. ~Kurt Tucholsky

The groundhog says...

2011-02-01T21:29:00.003-05:00

Drum roll, please!

Phil, the famous weather prognosticating groundhog of Punxsutawney, PA, will be closely watched on February 2, as he has been for 120 years. Not the same groundhog, of course, although some say he is: magic punch fed to Phil each summer lengthens his life by seven years.

And who knows? Maybe. Sometimes it seems like meteorologists may have been sipping some sort of punch…although, I must say, they’ve been accurate about the snowstorms this winter.

If Phil sees his shadow when he pokes his head out of the burrow, he'll scurry back inside for six more weeks of winter.

But given the current weather across much of the country, sun and shadows seem unlikely. That would mean an early spring!

Except that, while Punxsutawney Phil has forecast an early spring 14 times in his 114 recorded predictions to date, his predictions have been correct only 39% of the time.

So we might be better off if he does see his shadow.

But don’t tell poor Phil that spring--the vernal equinox--is a fixed date based on when the sun is directly over the equator. This year it will arrive officially on March 20, at 11:21 p.m. So there’s a bright light at the end of winter’s six-week tunnel no matter what Phil does.

Whether the mounds of snow we have now will melt by then is another story. And I’m betting we’ll still have mounds of it left.

But in any case, even for those of us who like snow, doesn’t it feel good to know that spring is only six weeks away?

Old man winter...I kind of like him~

2011-01-29T20:06:00.002-05:00

I wished the recent snowstorm had hit during the day so I could have watched it unfold. Instead, I woke four times in the night and moved from window to window to watch the snow pile up. My husband slept through the excitement—not that he considers a snowstorm exciting.

He doesn’t share my love of storms. Not many do, it seems. They wreak havoc, of this I’m aware, and I don’t want to have people or their homes harmed. But still, I look forward to storms from the moment the TV meteorologists begin their warning hype, and I feel gypped somehow if they fizzle.

When the power went out in a recent storm, my husband gave me a grumpy look, as if my love of storms somehow had the power to stop electrons from flowing through wires.

“And you like this?” he says.

I do!

We shoveled, kept the woodstove burning, lit the gas burners on the kitchen stove with matches, so we were warm and well fed. But by afternoon the power had been out for 12 hours, and it seemed less and less likely that it would be restored before dark with so many outages across the region to be dealt with.

We could live without the Internet and TV for a while, but we decided to brave the slippery roads to get some batteries so we could at least read. Sharing the lantern wouldn’t work, and candles are hard to read by--Abe Lincoln and Laura Ingalls Wilder not withstanding.

Off we went to Home Depot where my husband discovered near the battery display some LED lights on head bands, perfect for reading because there would be no need to hold a flashlight and book at the same time.

We pulled into our driveway, but before we got out of the car, the lights went on in the house.

My husband looked disappointed. He wouldn’t get to try his new light.

Although it seems that this winter we may get several more chances.

Just a minute ago a TV announcer said, “Old Man Winter is showing the Northeast no mercy. Another storm is on the way.”

Then he entreated us to stay tuned to “find out how bad it could be.”

I will!

---
There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm. ~Willa Cather

Oh, that old thing?

2011-01-17T23:19:00.007-05:00

Last March I had a freelance photography assignment in Gloucester, MA. When I was done, I headed up the coast to take some shots of the waves crashing on rocky shore, windswept beaches, and the beautiful homes in the area. I drove to Rockport because I wanted to get some shots of Motif #1—the “most often-painted building in America,” according to Wikipedia.

I’d know it when I saw it, I’d thought--a red fishing shack built in the 1840s, the subject of so many paintings from the artist’s colony in Rockport that painter Lester Hornby dubbed it Motif #1.

But, like overlooking a celebrity walking the dog without her hair and makeup done, I dismissed the old fishing shack I saw as a second rate look alike. That faded, old thing? Couldn't be. Where, oh, where was the real Motif #1?

Recently I had my chance to look for the shack again when a group of photographers met to shoot some winter pix along the rocky North Shore coast. Rockport was on the agenda. And what do you know? The "faded, old thing” I’d dismissed last year turned out to be Motif #1-–a celebrity sans makeup. Or not without makeup, actually. It turns out that the paint used to maintain the shack is formulated to look weather beaten even when freshly painted.

Our expectations play such a role in what we see ... or think we see ... and what we dismiss as "that faded, old thing."

-----

The soul of a tree~

2011-01-15T13:27:00.002-05:00

Sometimes a thing can be right in front of you, but you just don’t notice it for some reason—too busy, too distracted, or maybe there is something else that catches your eye instead.

I’ve driven by this willow countless times in the past thirty years… and never once noticed it—not enough to have it register ... as anything special, anyway. Just an ordinary weeping willow among others on the edge of a lake.

If I saw it at all, I looked beyond it at the view of the sparkling lake, reflecting the life on its shores, the island in the middle, and of course, jet skis, motorboats, and kids fishing on the banks.

But in the midst of a recent snowstorm that was busy erasing all familiar landmarks--including the lake--the tree stood alone against a background of white. I saw it—really SAW it--for the first time. How had I never noticed this tree with its delicate, graceful branches spread protectively over its two small companions?

Despite the fact that it was snowing heavily, and plows were fighting to keep roads clear for those of us who needed to get batteries because the power was out, I slowed, then turned around and went back to look … and of course take pictures.

The next day I drove back to see my tree, but the lake was back, and there was a car parked at the end of the driveway. The tree was nothing special. Just an ordinary weeping willow among others on the edge of a lake.

But I know it’s not ordinary. I’ve seen its soul. I'll look for it now whenever I drive by. It'll join the rest of MY trees that I "visit" as I drive or walk through town.

-----

I frequently tramped eight or ten miles through the deepest snow to keep an appointment with a beech-tree, or a yellow birch, or an old acquaintance among the pines. ~Henry David Thoreau

Setting my mind to it~

2011-01-06T21:12:00.011-05:00

Here it is again. That turning point called the NEW YEAR, the start of which is considered a perfect moment to try, try again to do whatever it was you’d vowed to do at the start of last year, but failed to maintain for 365 days.

Why is it so hard to stick to goals? Especially when they are good for you? And even when you really WANT to stick to them?

I don’t know.

When I was slim and trim (and young), exercise was a reward in itself. I loved the relaxed feeling after working up a sweat in an aerobics class, the feeling of power after weight training, the slim, trim body with defined muscles. I exercised routinely for years and years.

Then, when I was forty-six, I had some minor surgery and had to stop working-out for a while. I discovered how nice it was to come straight home from work and sit with a cup of tea and the newspaper. Somehow I never got back into consistent daily exercise. I'd start and stop, start and stop, with longer and longer times before I started again.

After I retired, I determined to get back into shape. I searched for something that would keep me invested, even when results were not immediate as they were in the days when I could skip lunch and lose five pounds. I thought I'd found it.

When Chicken Soup for the Soul sought essays--true stories by men and women who found a way to make diet or exercise work for them--I wrote up my tale and sent it in. It was accepted, and SHAPING the NEW YOU was published more than a year later.

When my copies arrived in the mail recently, my husband read my story. Then he looked at me and asked, “Is this true?”

“Yes, it’s true,” I said, somewhat indignantly.

“I don’t remember you going to the gym,” he said.

“Well, I did.”

It can take more than a year from submission of an essay to publication of the book, and although I’d been exercising consistently at the Y, sometime in that pre-publication period, I’d quit. Again!

My husband asked, “Why did you stop going?”

I don’t know.

I need to let the memory of a formerly buff body fall by the wayside, and view exercise as a health insurance policy. Keeping my bones and heart strong, getting rid of evil belly fat should be front and center. I won’t ever look twenty again, or forty for that matter, but I can set a plan in motion that will keep me in good health. But how do I jump-start the desire to do what it will take?

I don’t know.

“You just set your mind to it and do it,” says my husband.

But my mind doesn’t set so well any more. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “What I need is someone to make me do what I can.”

Now who would do that?

I don’t know.

Actually, I do. Me. Who else?

Innocent until proven guilty~

2010-11-15T21:15:00.001-05:00

I recently sat in an overheated courtroom with seventy-five prospective jurors waiting to be called to fill twelve seats, but most hoping to go home. As the judge read the charges there were audible gasps from many of the jurors, angry shakes of the head, disgusted faces. I too recoiled inwardly—it was an ugly crime: "rape of a child with force," and "assault on a retarded person."

When introduced, the defendant stood and turned to face us, expressionless as coached, lest we judge the curve of his mouth or the level of an eyebrow. We are primed, each of us, to read subtle facial and body language cues. We often form a first impression in seconds. While we may come to change that impression in time, it's not easy. First impressions are potent.

There is a definite prejudice against those accused of crime, studies show. There's an initial presumption of guilt. After all, people think, this person has been arrested, he's been charged, and he's sitting in court with a lawyer, for Pete's sake.

Several times the judge reminded us of that most basic tenet of criminal law: a defendant is innocent until proven guilty.

While waiting through the lengthy voir dire, the tension was palpable. One person after another was excused from serving on the jury. On their way out, most walked past the defendant without looking at him, but several gave him a dark look, a glare that said, "What a nasty beast you are."

Right now he's innocent, I reminded myself as I waited. For this day, at least, he's innocent. The burden of proof is on the prosecution to prove guilt "beyond a reasonable doubt to a moral certainty."

By the end of the day, eight jurors were selected from the pool. I was one of them. The jury was filled the next day, and we settled into our seats to hear the details of the case.

After two days of testimony it became apparent to the dozen of us that there was no evidence that could convince us to convict this young man.

"Not guilty on both counts," was our verdict.

The defendant let go his expressionless demeanor and put his face in his hands and cried. So did his mother. And in the privacy of the juror's room, so did a juror or two.

It's so easy to form an opinion based on any number of things other than the actual evidence. So human…and so dangerous. And yet, could this young man have actually "done something" as one of the jurors wondered as we were deliberating?

Of course. But there was nothing to prove it beyond a shadow of doubt. As for me, I don't think there was even a shadow.
---

I'm a calendar girl!

2010-11-11T20:23:00.006-05:00

I'm a calendar girl four times over! Ms. January, Ms. July, Ms. September, and Ms. November.

Ooh la la!

Not exactly me (of course!), but my photos. *Four were chosen in a photo contest by the Taunton River Watershed Association for their first ever calendar.

I'm happy to be part of an organization that works hard to protect the local watershed.


*My photos are #3, #5, #6, and #10.

Simplifying~

2010-11-09T22:11:00.006-05:00

It's strange how the mind works. There's a stream of subconscious memories flowing continuously beneath our radar that influences us think or do things for reasons we're often unaware of.

When I downloaded this picture to my computer, my mind jumped back forty decades to when I was in college and worked as a cashier in J.M. Fields--a department store that has long since gone out of business.

I had a reputation among the various department managers as someone who could restore order from chaos, as in: refolding and organizing a customer-mussed pile of baby clothes, rearranging cups, plates, and wine glasses on the shelves in the housewares department, and folding bras—some with cups big enough to fit my head—and organizing them by size. Not rocket science, but an inherently pleasurable task making things neat is.

The long-ago praise from managers, so rare in jobs like that, still comes to mind when I'm organizing something--a kitchen cabinet, a sock drawer, a piece of writing—and for some reason, this photo made me think of it yet again.

This photo "neatens up" the tangled thicket of grasses, vines, and shrubs, pulling the important things (to me) to the fore, and downplaying the rest.

That's part of the lure of photography. Out of the myriad of things that assault the eyes and compete for attention, I can focus on one and pull a single image out of the clutter, one simple shot from among the millions I could have taken.

An inherently pleasurable thing to do.

-----

Three Rules of Work: Out of clutter find simplicity; From discord find harmony; In the middle of difficulty lies opportunity. ~Albert Einstein

What's your name?

2010-10-24T21:14:00.008-04:00

I walked into the assisted living home to find a dozen or so of the residents singing "I'm Looking Over a Four Leaf Clover." I was going to skirt the room and take the stairs at the far end to the second floor where my mother's room was. But I paused to look at the faces just in case she was part of the group.

She was.

She wasn't expecting me; I hadn't called to say I was coming, and she wouldn't have remembered if I had. This I'd discovered on other visits when I had called before making the hour-and-a-half drive.

She always had that spark of recognition when I knocked and then entered her room.

"Hi, Ruthie," she'd exclaim, and I always felt relieved, knowing I was still in her shadowy memory bank.

Today I went over and knelt on the floor beside her chair. She smiled and said hello. But she'd spoken politely as she might do to a stranger. Then she gave me a quizzical look.

"You look like my daughter, " she said, searching my face.

"Because I am, Mom," I said. "I'm Ruthie."

She chuckled and clasped my hand, but I could see she wasn't sure. We listened to the music for a while. A lively woman was taking the residents on a European "tour," telling a fanciful story and singing songs from each country.

My mother joined in on "Loch Lomond," a song she and my father sang on car trips. Although she doesn't remember the trips—or my father, anymore—she didn't miss a word. "For me and my true love will never meet again..."

Then she said, "You look like my daughter."

"Mom, it's me. Ruthie."

"What's your first name?" she asked.

"Ruth," I said, shaking my head to myself. She'd slipped mentally since my last visit.

"No, what's your first name?" she repeated.

And it came to me. Since birth I've gone by my middle name, but I carry my paternal grandmother's name as my nearly forgotten first.

"Lillian," I said.

"It is you," She said. And she laughed, and held her arms out for a hug.
~~~~~

Click to read: The Scent of a Mother
Click to read: Citrus-scented Love

Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to forget. ~Kevin Arnold

Thirty-nine men~

2010-10-21T12:09:00.019-04:00

They were men in 1967, albeit young and untested, until the dense and steamy jungles of Vietnam became an exam they dared not fail. Now they call themselves the "Boys of '67." They met as a group in 2008 for the first time in forty-one years as graduates of the class of 5-'67 at the Basic School in Quantico, Virginia. From that reunion the desire to honor their missing classmates in a permanent way emerged.

The "boys" placed a new monument at the Marine Museum in Triangle, Virginia, in honor of their thirty-nine classmates who died in Vietnam. This monument was a gift from those who never forgot--never could forget and never will--their friends who didn't return home. Dedicated in a ceremony on October 16, it speaks to the power of the loyalty that is often generated in the worst of times.

Families of the deceased were invited. Many came--brothers and sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, and one ninety-five-year-old mother who's lived forty-three years past the death of her son. All were moved to realize that those who knew their loved ones only briefly remembered them still. The men whose names were engraved on the monument were as present as any of the men who bowed their heads as the names were read.

From the Vietnam War--any war, really--came turmoil, hate, division, fear… and much death. And yet the men who faced it together forged bonds that rose above the ugliness. Along with the horrors of the war lodged in unwanted memories, these men share a respect and love for each other that no other relationship can rival. They talk, but it isn't usually to recount battlefield stories. They leave most of those memories pressed like a thorny rose between the pages of a closed book--a mere shadow of reality, and not to be examined often.

Just because it's over doesn't mean they forget. Just because it's been forty-three years doesn't mean the hurt has faded. There are too many names carved in cold, black granite.

~~~~~

Reunion~
Battle Scars~
One Veteran's Story~
Memorial Day Tears~
What Will They Think of Us?
Mother's Eyes~

Click photos to enlarge. Click back arrow to return to blog post.

Midsummer night's dream~

2010-07-31T14:17:00.012-04:00

Midsummer eve~
Click on photos to enlarge them.

What better way to spend a midsummer evening than a picnic on the lawn overlooking a vineyard … listening to live music … drinking wine … watching kids play the air guitar… smiling at the others enjoying the same thing … while the setting sun puts on a fantasia in light?

Being there with friends, maybe. But last night we made a last minute decision to go to Westport Rivers Winery for the Friday night concert. We tossed sandwiches and fruit into a cooler and went by ourselves. We sat in the crowd, eating and drinking to the mellow sound of One Bad Ant, a local singer—Gary Duquette--with his unplugged mix of country songs. Good stuff.

Summer concert~

The evening was a people watcher's delight, and I'd often find people watching back. I'd been glancing at a nearby woman who reminded me of a younger friend. This is just how she'll look when she ages—pleasingly plump and like she's a lot of fun. The kind of person who's always wearing a smile.

Later this woman saw Bruce and me doing the "you-take-my-picture; I'll-take-yours" thing, and she came over and offered to take one of us together.

"If you saw me watching you, it's because you remind me of a friend," I told her. She said a man once told her she had a Norman Rockwell look about her.

Bruce and me~

Indeed, the whole event would have had Norman sketching to beat the band, so Americana it was. There was a group of mixed-race families and their children sitting together. I wished Rockwell were still here to capture this changing face of America and let its beauty shine. We need these pockets of humanity, people spending a few hours together for no purpose other than enjoying the moment, to remind us that we're all in this together--sharing a brief moment in a world that depends upon working together and recognizing the similarities beneath the thin layer of skin that holds our important parts together.
-----
One of my theories is that the hearts of men are about alike, no matter what their skin color. ~Mark Twain

Tour de Maine

2010-07-13T21:52:00.016-04:00

While Alberto Contador and Andy Schleck—and, of course, Lance--raced along the oxygen-thin ridge of the French Alps, Bruce and I hopped on our own bikes. We rode two "stages" for a total of fifty miles, compared to the twenty-stage, 2000-plus mile run of the Tour de France.

Our "alps" were the rolling hills of coastal Maine where the oxygen is at a comfortable sea-level dose, no matter how high the hill might seem to the biker. And we weren't racing. But still… I'll bet every one of the eighteen of us on the trip thought of Lance with great respect at least once, especially when puffing up a steep incline. And there were a few!

When my friend Amy suggested the Maine Coastal Camping Bike Tour sponsored by L.L. Bean of Freeport, Maine, I thought it sounded fun. What better way to explore than on a bike, where the sights and scents are not held at bay by the walls of an air-conditioned car? The website promised a leisurely paced weekend bike tour along scenic routes, a boiled lobster dinner, a night of camping on Casco Bay while watching the sunset over the water.

What they didn't promise was… the sun.

When you pick a date a month ahead, all you can do is cross your fingers and hope the weather cooperates. In this case it didn't. The region was swathed in showers, and the grey clouds that threatened in the distance wended their way directly above our bikes right about noon on both Saturday and Sunday. The rain soaked us to the skin. But the thing is, it didn't—couldn't--dampen our spirits. It kept us cool when we might have been dripping with sweat and complaining about the heat.

In her three years of being a guide, Rachel told us, it was the first time it had rained on a bike tour. So we had the distinction of being "the first," a distinction we'd not have competed for, but a distinction nonetheless. I ended up grateful for the rain, a blessing in disguise that didn't stop any of us from having lots of laughs and doing everything planned, including watching a magnificent sunset after all…complete with a rainbow. Can't have those without rain!

The champions!

(L-R Front) Nancy, Tony, Mary, Ginny, Debbie, Nancy, Teresa, Nate

(L-R Back) Bruce, Ruth, Frank, Rich, Amy, Willie, Joe, Joe, Phil, Josh

A heartfelt thanks to our hard-working guides, Dave and Rachel, who did everything they could to make the weekend work, including making blueberry pancakes after all. They succeeded.

More pictures will be posted here: Ruthiedee's Photography in the "Maine Bike Tour" album. Scroll to find the album. Click on each thumbnail to enlarge the view. There will be several pages, so make sure to see them all.

Ready to rumble!

2010-07-07T12:25:00.008-04:00

Toby and Tucker, the two young cats we adopted, race and romp through the house while we sleep until their fur is flying. I wake each morning to the muffled sounds of padded paws pounding up and down the stairs, and to a living room rug from which I vac enough fur daily to knit a small kitten.

Becky had become sedate in her dotage, so having two spunky young cats in the house feels a little like the not –so-gentle reminder you get the first time you have the grandchildren overnight. Oh, yeah! The young have energy. I'd forgotten just how feisty young cats could be.

The leaves on the houseplants bear punctures from feline fangs. Swishing tails knock picture frames off the end tables. The cats discover that nibbling my toes is a good way to get attention at 2 a.m. (and 4:30 and 6:00…) And I no longer have the Galileo thermometer on the bookshelf…or anywhere. It shattered during an early morning chase, scaring the cat that knocked it off as much as it scared us awake.

"Mom, let's just go to the Animal Protection Center and look," David had said to me one morning a month after we buried Becky. He knows I would never live long in a catless house, but I'd planned to get through the summer and then think about adopting. I was in no hurry. Still, what does it hurt to look?

We looked at all the cats more than once. The place was full to overflowing. We patted and stroked and wished we could take them all. It's heartbreaking to pass by the cages--tiny paws reaching out, soft meows, and eyes pleading for attention. There weren't enough cages, and the cats that were deemed sociable shared a "living room" complete with couches, rugs, and more toys than a preschool. Sitting in there was cat lover's heaven—and yet sad, too. Poor homeless things.

Like looking at cupcakes in a bakery, it's tough to leave without one. We left with two. I wish it could have been more.

Toby and Tucker are already carving their own spaces in my heart, right next to Becky's. Amazing how wide hearts can stretch for animals.

Enjoy her while she's here~

Missing Becky~

Don't Blink~

2010-05-16T23:12:00.006-04:00

My son shared a Kenny Chesney song with me today… Don't Blink.

"Listen to this, Mom," Dave said. Then he left me to listen, and went back down stairs to continue unpacking. He's home from college for the summer and is trying to reestablish his nook in the basement.

I don't think he expected to find me in tears when he came back to the kitchen. But the song moved me… a cliché of a song really… and that's not meant to take anything away from it. It was a "time flies" song, and that theme's been done to death. Remember Turn Around?

*Turn around and you're two,
Turn around and you're four,
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door.

Tempus fugit. Whether you're having fun or not.

But there's no reasoning with emotion. There was something about the music and the lyrics, something about the YouTube video portrayal of an old man of 102 exhorting us to love… that hit me.

Dave hugged me. "Sorry," he said. "It's kind of depressing." I rested my head against his chest, this tall young man who just yesterday, I swear, was my baby.

But no, I assured him, it wasn't depressing at all. Just poignant.

I recently attended a 100^th birthday celebration. I was there to get the story for the newspaper, but the celebrant, Rose, fell and was whisked to the hospital rather than her party, so I didn't meet her until later. A lovely woman, she didn't look 100--or what my image of 100 is, anyway--and she seemed not to think her milestone age was much of a big deal.

"I never gave it any thought," she said. "I took each day as it came."

There is no secret, formula, I suspect, for reaching a ripe old age--other than good genes and a little luck. But there is a secret to being happy at any age: love those around you. Don't hold back. Time flies.

*A hundred years goes faster than you think.

So don't Blink.

*Turn Around by Harry Belafonte, Malvina Reynolds and Alan Greene. Published by Clara Music Publishing Corporation

*Don't Blink by Kenny Chesney
~~~~~
The Present is a Point just passed. ~David Russell

Missing Becky~

2010-04-27T11:48:00.025-04:00

Becky~ August 19, 1991 to April 26, 2010

She was so loved, this gentle pet of mine. And how she loved us back.

I've been alone in my house before, of course. Those days when my husband took the kids out for the day, being able to vacuum without a baby in one arm and a toddler, riding the vacuum cleaner like it was a bronco, was solitary pleasure. Later there were quiet days as the kids were at camp and my husband at work. And then came the bittersweet aloneness when kids left home for college and a life apart. Still, I'd always liked being alone, knowing it was short lived.

This morning, after my husband pulled out of the driveway with a day full of plans, I stood in the living room feeling alone in a way I never had before. An unfamiliar emptiness and silence surrounded me.

Yesterday we put our 18-year-old cat, Becky, to sleep. The decision to do so was surprisingly easy. The vet had told us Becky would let us know when it was time, and somehow she did. But the decision wasn't without its pain, and we mourn her loss deeply. If you have not loved a pet with all your heart and soul, perhaps it's hard to understand how tight and loyal is the bond between human and animal—how unconditional the love.

For 18 years, Becky has been here, filling the house with her quiet presence. Who would think that a tiny eight pound cat sleeping on the couch could have sweetened what I thought was silence with her soft and constant song of love? I now experience real silence--a hollow void. I miss the silent noise that has been with me for years… even when I thought I was alone.

I miss you Becky… I love you still and always, my sweet girl.

More about Becky: "Enjoy Her While She's Here."

~~~~~
I love cats because I love my home and after a while they become its visible soul. ~Jean Cocteau

When the sun gets serious~

2010-03-10T21:37:00.008-05:00

I wander through the winter weary yard,

a collage of brown,

crisp and dry,

asleep

but for the tender tulip tips

blushing pink,

but not shy.

They know the power they contain,

the joy they'll bring when the sun gets serious.

Magic wands~

2010-02-22T22:44:00.008-05:00

Golden grasses sway,
seemingly subservient
to wild winter winds,

but they are magic wands

waving spring closer.

RD~

POLL: This Woman feels sorry for Tiger. Is she sane?

2010-02-19T19:52:00.008-05:00

I have mixed feelings about Tiger Woods.

If Tiger were Joe Schmoe, would I care what he does in his spare time? Not at all. By the same token, I don’t much care what Tiger does in his. And there were plenty who didn’t care what President Clinton did in his free time, either.

If I were Tiger’s wife… well, if I were his wife, I wouldn’t be his wife any more. Money and the good life be damned. But then, I never loved him like Elin has, and I haven’t had a chance to see how much being a multimillionaire might change my mind. So who knows, really?

What happened is between Tiger and Elin… and by default, his children, who are blessedly too young to absorb what’s transpired. At the present, anyway.

It’s not for me to judge. I wasn’t primed for fame from age three. I wasn’t blessed with (cursed with?) the power, money, and good looks to send men flocking to my feet. It’s easy for me to sit in my living room, with my cat purring on my lap, and shake my head at Tiger’s indiscretions, but what if I were a gorgeous golfer who traveled the world? I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t earn the knick name “Tigress” but still…

And then there’s the question: Which is worse? Screwing around with 20 women once or twice each? Or taking one life-long lover that you sleep with 20-40 times? Pick your poison if you’re the unknowing spouse.

After Tiger’s public apology the pollsters began gathering data: Do you think Tiger is “sincere?”

Seriously?

How would anyone know? He’s clearly of capable of deceiving. You have to at least appear sincere to have umpteen lovers and a devoted wife at the same time. It’s an art form, appearing sincere.

And now people are not only judging Tiger’s sex life, but also his apology.

Headlines scream:

“Body-language experts divided on Tiger's speech”

“Watch His Apology, Get Celebrity Reactions & Share Your Thoughts Now”

“POLL: Tiger's Speech: Perfectly Professional or Too Cold?”

“Do you think Tiger Woods did enough today to put the scandal behind him?”

And what even weirder is that is ... I Googled “Tiger’s speech” and the page refreshes constantly. Every thirty seconds. This is big. Wag the dog? Or just vicarious thrill? Or righteous indignation?

Oh, boy.

I feel sorry for Tiger.

Headline:

“POLL: Woman feels sorry for Tiger. Is she sane?

Visit to the post office~

2010-02-01T21:11:00.006-05:00

Our mail comes to the mailbox at our driveway's end—a black plastic box that replaced the metal one the plow took down last winter. This is where I stick my outgoing mail, as well, flipping the red flag to attention so the mailman will stop, which he'd do anyway, because there are always supermarket fliers to deliver, if not bills. But today I need to mail a book to someone who reviews for the Internet Review of Books, so I go to the post office.

Post offices are funny places--friendlier than the Registry of Motor Vehicles, but not much more efficient. I've met some great people in both, and had some wonderful conversations while waiting my turn. Efficiency is not conducive to chatting; I'm fine waiting and talking.

Today I stand in line with a book in a "Priority Mail" envelope and a five-dollar bill in hand to pay $4.90 to send the book from snowy New England to New Mexico's desert in a day or two.

The line shuffles forward; only one of the two windows is open, but people are patient. Each person has a reason to wait—they send packages to servicemen, birthday gifts to grandchildren, a camera to a winning eBay bidder. And a book to a reviewer.

The clerk is Al. He has a toupee. It's an old one, well-worn, and the part is wide as a pencil… white fabric of some sort, no hair there. He's a serious man and he always asks me five questions:

Do I want delivery confirmation?

No.

Insurance?

No.

Do I want something else?

No.

Do I want another thing?

No.

And when my package is in the bin behind him, do I want stamps, today?

No, thanks. Have a good day. Bye.

Today, when he opens his mouth to ask, I say with a smile, "No, no, no, no, no. I'll save you from asking. You must be sick of saying it."

"I could say it in my sleep," he says.

Puffy eyed from a wakeful night, I say, "At least you sleep."

"First I talk to my uncle Jim," he tells me. I notice his lack of a wedding ring. I picture him, lonely, touching base with his uncle, his mother's brother maybe, before he sleeps.

I say nothing, and he says, "I talk to my uncle Jim, or my uncle Jack."

And I get it. I laugh. "Your uncle Jim Beam?" I ask. "And Uncle Jack…?" I know the name, but I can't bring it to mind.

"Daniels," he says. His eyes twinkle and I don't even look at his toupee. I see the life in his eyes instead.

"You know," I tell him, "I have an Auntie Merlot. Maybe I should give her a call tonight.

"You should," he tells me. He smiles and forgets to ask if I want stamps, which I don't.

No, thanks.

Who you callin' a recluse?

2010-01-30T20:57:00.014-05:00

When people die, friends and family eulogize them, unless, somehow, they are "famous," in which case everybody gets into the act… as is the case with J. D. Salinger, author of, among other things, the acclaimed The Catcher in the Rye, a book you may have been exposed to in high school, and if not, then you must have been meaning to read it lo these many years. If you fall into this category, it's time you meet Holden Caulfield. Get thee to the library.

Apart from his publications that ceased decades ago, Salinger has been getting his share of recently ignited posthumous attention after living out the last nearly half century of is life as a media endorsed "recluse," before dying at 91 this week.

For the past five decades he was a resident of Cornish, New Hampshire, a town touted for harboring its share of "reclusive" artists. Salinger got out and about—church suppers, book stores-- and maybe stayed home just as often, like many folks do in towns where the population is 1700 or there about. While his widow thanked the town for affording her husband "a place of awayness from the world," is that what makes a recluse? Who doesn't want some "awayness?"

Are not writers solitary creatures? Try writing productively in a crowd. Or at least while engaging with the crowd. Do not writers, perhaps, create believable and memorable characters because they observe more than they engage? And might not writers decide that writing for public consumption isn't what matters to them? So they stop. And might they tire of endless public evaluation of their work? And shouldn't they be granted this gracefully… no questions asked, or speculative magnifying glasses aimed their way?

Recluse? Is that what we call someone who once gave us good tales, and then stopped providing them for whatever reason? What about the other residents of Cornish? The…regular people. Were they recluses because they lived in a small town that afforded them privacy? And what is privacy anyway? Can you not be as private camouflaged on a crowded sidewalk in a city of 500,000 other souls to whom you don’t even raise an eye?

John David Salinger was a man, just a man. He wrote, and was published, and we read his stories and liked them or not. But now he's gone… leaving some of his words behind, and maybe, hopefully, many more hidden. Recluse. Who knows? Who cares? And what's the big deal anyway?

Salinger was who he was, and now he will now be redefined, many times, post death. He was a man, just a man. But we'll pull him back into the limelight now, poor guy.
~~~~~
I hope to hell that when I do die somebody has the sense to just dump me in the river or something. Anything except sticking me in a goddam cemetery. People coming and putting a bunch of flowers on your stomach on Sunday, and all that crap. Who wants flowers when you're dead? Nobody. ~J. D. Salinger
~~~~~

Winter sings~

2010-01-26T21:17:00.006-05:00

Sometimes

cold and shadowy winter sings

in tones so low you'll miss them

if you don't put on mittens and scarf and squint into the setting sun.

Then the quiet aria becomes a duet,

then a quartet,

until soon

all nature raises its voice in harmony.

Do you hear it?

Do you join the chorus?

RD~

A thousand silent words~

2010-01-05T23:15:00.006-05:00

In silence,

with no fanfare,

you blew your crimson trumpet

and heralded the snow.

This New Year thing~

2010-01-03T22:36:00.008-05:00

A tiny planet traveling at about 67,000 MPH makes a trip around a nothing special star 93 million miles away—and we who ride along mark its completed circuit with a big celebration.

These circuits—years—accumulate into centuries, millennia, eras; we measure our history with them. And yet we seem not to think far in the future to the time when the present will be but a dusty memory, a two sentence paragraph in a text book--or maybe not even that.

Thomas Paine thought he lived in the “the times that try men’s souls.” Haven’t all generations before him, and those living after, thought the same thing? That the decades we live are the toughest, the most meaningful, the ones that will be remembered as especially noteworthy? A turning point? Something more important than anything in the past?

When I listened to the 2009 wrap up… pundits declaring certain moments as highly significant and memorable, I couldn't help but think of how many of the events are but shooting stars… sound and fury… figments of our own self-importance.

What we do, individually and collectively, does matter, of course, and will affect the years to come. But we have to recognize that we are just a small part of the warp and weave of a universal tapestry and that no thread is unnecessary or less important… that we build on the old just as those in the future will contend with what we have contributed, for better or worse.

As this new year begins, I look with humility at what small stitch I might add to the future, what small touch of color I might add to the tapestry.

Last trip to the mall~

2009-12-22T18:25:00.010-05:00

It’s that last minute crunch time before Christmas when I start worrying that I haven't bought the gifts that will make people happy--even though I know happiness has nothing to do with gifts. I mentioned to Bruce this morning that I was going to go out and look for some surprises, aka something "off list."

He got that look--the one where his eyebrows rise to his receding hairline. Apparently I have a reputation of last minute buying "with no purpose or plan." Moi?

So we did our own thing: Bruce went out with a purpose and a plan—and the paper list and a mental one. I went out without either kind of list... hoping for inspiration. Looking for surprises. Waiting for something to "strike me."

After battling traffic into the mall, I entered Best Buy and felt that sinking feeling. I wanted to go home to the comfort of my laptop, to a cup of tea with lemon and honey.

"Can I help you find something?" said a young salesman... shorter than me, and bald--the shaved head kind of bald.

I must have stared at him blankly because he rephrased. "What are you looking for?"

"Looking for?” I took a breath and tried to think how to explain my issues. “I'm not sure, really. I'm sort of... " I made some random motion with my hands.

"Hoping for inspiration? " he finished for me.

"Exactly." I said. "I’m going to wander a bit." Aimlessly, with no purpose or plan.

I realize I have a problem when it comes to shopping for others. I can't shop the way it's supposed to be done--with brave abandon, with confidence that my choices will bring smiles. I never hold up things and say, “Isn’t this adorable? Won’t she love this?”

Here's what happens. Every time I see something that might make a nice gift, I run through my list of practical questions until I've convinced myself that the item isn't worthy… and the end result is there is not a blooming thing that seems to be worth buying in the entire mall. And then I get into my “Christmas is too commercialized” mode, and this isn’t the meaning of Christmas mode… Then I stop at the Orange Julius stand before leaving the mall. Shopping makes me thirsty.

Today I came home empty handed.

Which is better than the year I came home with the infamous, soon to be returned, but never to be forgotten “tune belt,” a word that has become synonymous for my frantic last-minute shopping rampages.

David, my youngest, was barely into his teens and I guess I thought he might like to listen to his CDs while walking, or jogging, or any time he might need to listen “hands free.” What's better than to sport a fashionable “tune belt” around one’s waist? Especially at 14. Be the first on your block to have “tune belt.”

Not!

So to make a long story short, my husband has taken over the shopping, and I do the wrapping, a division of labor that works for both of us. When I get a little anxious, David tells me, "Mom, relax. Christmas isn't about presents."

So true. I was the one that taught him that. Sometimes I need to be reminded.

~~~~~
The best of all gifts around any Christmas tree: the presence of a happy family all wrapped up in each other. ~Burton Hillis

How to spend a snowy day~

2009-12-20T20:40:00.007-05:00

The weather outside was frightful, and the woodstove so delightful, and since there’s no place [I wanted] to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!

And it did.

My husband and I shoveled eighteen inches off the driveway and walks this morning, and then, having freed the cars for use, chose to stay home.

And I, who doesn’t much enjoy the daily grind of cooking--peel, chop, boil, broil, serve, clean up, repeat daily—spent the day cooking. I baked meat loaf and lasagne, and then tackled the carrots we had only recently pulled from the back yard garden. Root vegetables can stay in the ground until a freeze, so we left them until the weather said, “Pull now.”

It seemed odd to peel and slice fresh garden produce while the snow swirled, and odder still to utterly enjoy it. Usually preparing veggies for canning or freezing is a late August chore. Standing over a pot of boiling beans, beets, tomatoes, or whatever in 90 degree weather isn’t all that much fun, just a necessary task.

But peeling, slicing, and preserving a taste of summer in the midst of a winter storm was pleasure. Shredding carrots for muffins that filled the house with cinnamon warmth was delightful. And of course eating a buttered muffin warm from the oven was worth staying home for.

Let it snow, again!

And yet, I was ever aware of those less fortunate, those on the streets, those whose stomachs grumble, roar even, with hunger, those with no shelter, cold and alone… The awareness tempers my pleasure, while making me ever more grateful for what I have.

~~~~~
What does love look like? It has the hands to help others. It has the feet to hasten to the poor and needy. It has eyes to see misery and want. It has the ears to hear the sighs and sorrows of men. That is what love looks like. ~Saint Augustine

Cats and dogs~

2009-11-29T21:50:00.010-05:00

“Cats rule, dogs drool,” meowed Sassy, the cat in Homeward Bound. Sassy was a bit of a prima donna, but despite her annoying prissiness, I agreed with her comment and its implication. Cats are cool.

I’ve had both cats and dogs for pets, but if I had to pick one over the other it would be a cat. Today when I left the house to meet up with my friend Lisa, my cat was snoozing on the couch—food and water in her bowl, litter box clean, ready and waiting. How easy is that?

I picked Lisa up, and after a quick lunch, we planned to wander in the Blue Hills with our cameras, not minding that we’d likely get more exercise than photos on this late November day when the only color was in the sky.

For all the families that came to hike the trails, leaving sleeping cats at home, just as many brought their dogs. All kinds, large and small, mutt or purebred, singles or in pairs, scampered alongside their masters in the unseasonably warm sunshine. It was dog’s day out.

Dogs are like grandchildren. They are adorable, funny, smart, and full of surprises. And if they get a bit carried away with their jumping, and licking, and heavy breathing, well, fine. They don’t live with me. I can go home and relax with my cat. Which is just what I did.

But it did occur to me that dogs make such good companions on days like these, a little friend to share a walk with. It would be nice to have one. But cats are keepers of the hearth, ever ready to curl up on your lap and purr a welcome home. And for me, that’s just a bit nicer.

Maybe I just need a granddog.

~~~~~
Cats are smarter than dogs. You can't get eight cats to pull a sled through snow. ~Jeff Valdez

Enjoy her while she's here~

2009-10-25T22:48:00.007-04:00

“Just enjoy her while she’s here,” my husband says. "It's all we can do."

He’s talking about our cat eighteen-year-old cat Becky, who is sleeping at the other end of the couch. Comfortable now, it appears. No twitching and tossing and turning. No frequent change of position. Just what looks like a normal cat nap. She’s napped for most of the day, but that’s par for the course for an old cat.

Becky’s my baby. We got her when my youngest, was three. He’s twenty-one now, and Becky is… old. And so loved by us all.

Early on, she chose me as her objet d’amour, and she became mine.

The kids always said, “You love Becky more than us, Mom.”

Of course I didn’t, and they know that, but damn, she ran a close second!

And now she’s on borrowed time.

“If a cat lives beyond fifteen,” the vet said, “that’s something!”

Something, but not enough, really.

Just enjoy her while she’s here. Bittersweet love.

She’s had a healthy life until recently when old-age issues led us to the vet, who, with a gloved finger where the sun don’t shine, discovered a mass. A mass. Such a loaded word, and it matters not what it’s loaded with in Becky’s case—cancer or benign, it’s inoperable according to the vet--Becky’s pediatrician cum gerontologist.

Better to have loved and lost than never too have loved at all. Undeniably true. The sorrow when a pet dies is balanced by a lifetime of pleasure she provides—and the reciprocal love that passes back and forth is priceless.

For now, Becky seems to have rallied from her setback. I knock on wood as I type; I’m aware that she’s fifteen plus three. I’m realistic. Even stoic, in a small way. Been here, done this. It hurts. I'll heal.

But for now, she’s here. And I’ll enjoy her company for as long as she stays--my sweet girl.

If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans. ~James Herriot

A tattoo and a prayer~

2009-09-19T20:01:00.027-04:00

I stood, camera in hand, waiting my turn at a local bakery where a mouthwatering array of pastries and cakes would tempt the most ardent dieter to fall off the wagon. Fall? Make that, leap off the wagon. Happily. Diet schmiet!

Colorful cartoon-character cupcakes, with candy eyes focused on elegant petits fours on dainty doilies, shared prime shelf real estate with brash Italian pastries stuffed with cream cheeses.

When the counter woman asked, "May I help you?" I explained that I was a photographer and would like to take some pictures of the goodies.

I expected a quick, "Sure, go ahead." But instead she looked confused, and said she'd have to ask the manager in the back room.

"Ask him if I can set up a time to take some photos of someone decorating a cake, too, please."

The answer was no. No, I couldn't take any photos in the shop, nor of someone decorating a cake.

And no, I will not buy anything from your bakery either, I thought silently, while I made my lips say, "Okay, thanks for asking. I appreciate it."

And then, because I'm me, I said, "I'm curious, though. Did he give a reason?" She just shrugged; she seemed the type who wouldn't think to ask why, especially not of a boss. Maybe not of anyone.

But there are people who welcome the lens pointed in their direction. Broad Street Tattoo was happy to allow me in with my camera.

"Come back at 1:15," shop owner Joe Staska told me. "I'll be setting up for my next customer, and you can get some photos then."

Joe Staska of Broad Street Tattoo

When I returned, a kid--a young man, I suppose--clean-cut, sort of sweet and innocent looking, was sitting on the couch. I figured he was waiting for someone who was getting tattooed, maybe his mother. Or maybe a friend with a five o'clock shadow at 1:15. Someone wearing a do-rag and tee shirt with the sleeves ripped off, the better to show bulging biceps in tattoo sleeves.

But then he took out a wad of cash and counted it--twice. "Are you here to get a tattoo?" I asked.

He was. He smiled and told me he'd always wanted a tattoo, this was his first--he'd just turned eighteen--and he was excited about it, that he wasn't worried about the pain. Yes, his mother knew, and no, she wasn't upset at all.

Nick Bennett

All sorts of designs adorned the walls. "What are you going to get?" I asked, thinking of my son's tattoos. Ghoulish designs that, nonetheless, have meaning to him.

"The Serenity Prayer," he said. "I've always loved that."

I'll never know the reason he chose that tattoo. There are only so many questions one is entitled to politely ask. But I'll bet there is a good story there. I wish I knew it.

~~~~~

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

~~~~~

Read my story, Coffee Break, at Camroc Press Review--a tattoo related tale of mother and son.

For Alice~ She's home!!!!!!!

2009-09-09T21:23:00.029-04:00

What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sometimes it's all about knowing that loved ones and friends stand behind you,

knowing that support is there on the down days,

the worry days,

the days when you feel off-center,

out of sync,

bedraggled emotionally,

and in pain,

but knowing all the while that you're not alone.

You're not alone...

Alice is an online friend--she lives in Hawaii-- who belongs to the writer's workshop that I do. We've only "met" online, but those who have online friendships know that they can be just as strong as those in-person relationships.

Alice was hit by a car while walking, and is in the rehab phase of things. She's working to regain mobility after a broken pelvis, a broken arm, and a broken nose. It's scary to realize how, in the blink of an eye, life can lurch and our plans for a time are displaced by survival and healing. We've all been there--the place where the road veers sharply and suddenly--and it is then that we see how much our friends mean to us.

Alice---
Pohai Nani Good Samaritan Retirement Community
Weinberg Care Center Room
45-090 Namoku Street
Kaneohe, HI 96744

September 12 update... Alice says: Please tell everyone that I'm walking better and better. My physical therapist even let me try a cane instead of a walker and suggested that it might be better to use in the house instead of the walker. We're beginning to discuss logistics and I'm working harder and harder. Able to rise almost gracefully and get myself out of bed. Getting back in is another matter, not quite so elegant, but pain is at a minimum.

September 17 update... Alice is making good progress. She'll soon be able to go on "outings" with friends or relatives, and is looking forward to seeing the ocean again.

She writes: I do have a lovely piece of news - I'm moving into a private room! There are only two. Mine has a patio facing the forest that covers the hill behind Pohai Nani. The private room is my luxury. I do believe I've earned it.

It's probably easier to send any future snail mail to my home address. My husband, Sachi, brings it to me every day.

Alice Folkart
333 Aoloa Street #324
Kailua, HI 96734

September 20th update:
Dear Friends,

I still don't know when they're going to let me go home, but I did make a very pretty polymer-clay rose--pale pink--in occupational therapy(OT) yesterday. Clay play is good to improve dexterity in the broken-arm hand. In physical therapy(PT) I endlessly stepped up and down, down and up on a low step.This is supposed to get me ready for climbing stairs.

In addition to two hours a day of OT and PT, I walk and walk and walk, mostly with my walker but sometimes with my lovely new cane. There's not much of any place to go except round and round in the corridors or in tight circles in the little garden.You can't leave the building without setting off an alarm. So, I don't do that.

We have a black standard poodle here named Hoku. He is definitely NOT a therapy dog. He'll only go to people who have food preferably French fries. He's very naughty. I'm trying not to take him personally.

Wish I could give you some local color, but the big news here is when someone's doctor has increased
or decreased some blood pressure meds or maybe when someone has convinced the nurse that he really does need a suppository. Big news! Am loving my private room and my very own shower. That's it, what's big here.

Thank you all again and especially Ruth.

More later.
Love,
Alice

September 25th update: Alice is home!!!!!!!

The scarlet letter~

2009-09-04T21:24:00.012-04:00

I feel like Hester Prynne, except, instead of a scarlet A on my bosom, I have a big red X on Facebook… next to a picture of Obama.

There was a "quiz," and though I seldom take quizzes I saw that other people had big green check marks showing that they had taken the quiz, so I clicked the link.

Here's the question:

Should President Obama be allowed to do a nationwide address to school children without parental consent?

-Yes
-No
-I don't care

Well, in a blink of an eye "without parental consent" trumped the president in my mind, and I clicked the box beside No.

Then I thought, I really should find out what this is all about. I looked for the cancel button, but there wasn't one, so I returned to the Facebook page.

Branded!

There was a big, fat, red X next to a picture of Obama at the chalkboard on my page, like I was Xing him personally. Everybody else has pretty green check marks next to the picture on their pages.

Some of us are just doomed to fail multiple-choice tests, aren't we?And we know what a red X means beside an answer.

If my kids were little, would I complain about an encouraging message from the president to children? Not at all.

If they came home and said, "Guess what, Mom? In school today, we all watched a speech from President Obama."

I'd say, "Oh? And what did he tell you?"

"That school really matters. That we should try hard, blah, blah, blah…"

"Great!"

But still, there is something about "without parental consent" that bothers me. Not that I think there is something sinister or political about this speech. I don't. Some parents raised issues, as is their right, and those in charge made changes to some of activities that were suggested teachers do with their classes afterward. Good move.

But the bottom line for me, after years of teaching and interacting with parents of my students, is my I belief that each parent should have the final say over what his child is exposed to. Yes, even the "kookie" parents. The one whose views differ from mine. The ones I really don't see eye-to-eye with. The ones who sound… uptight, overly concerned, paranoid, or … fill-in-the-blank with an adjective of your own. Because if we don't grant parents their different opinions and approaches… then whose opinions do we replace them with?
~~~~~
The moment we begin to fear the opinions of others and hesitate to tell the truth that is in us, and from motives of policy are silent when we should speak, the divine floods of light and life no longer flow into our souls. ~Elizabeth Cady Stanton

It's all peachy~

2009-09-02T21:04:00.017-04:00

Full steam ahead. It’s harvest time. And time to can and freeze as much as possible, a hot process in steamy late summer.

My husband doesn’t remember that I canned peaches last year, he says, although I have the pictures to prove it--and memories of pleasant winter breakfasts of peaches on oatmeal when he--oblivious, I guess--had toast.

This year, we make it a team effort. Although, to be honest, right now, I'm not playing. I’m on my laptop, and he’s peeling peaches at the sink. We have a small kitchen, poorly designed. If I get in his way in the crowded space he sighs in annoyance so… fine… peel away. Have fun. We’ve bumped elbows enough, and he is too precise for me, and I’m too loose for him.

“Why don’t you do such and such?” he asks me.

“Because this way works fine,” I reply.

He times things. I don't. He measures. I don't. He doesn't cut corners. I do. this is an exaggeration, but you get the point.

He sighs. Exasperated. “I don’t know why you insist upon doing things your own way,” Don’t you think the experts know what they are doing?”

“Experts? Experts!” I cry. Who’s the expert? You’re just reading directions on someone’s blog!”

The freshly cut fruit needs to have lemon juice on it to prevent the oxidization that turns it brown. I have lemons. How much juice, he asks, am I adding? Enough, I tell him, as I squeeze lemon juice on the slices. My fruit never rusts. But he bought a 32 oz. bottle of lemon juice and he adds a precise 1/4 cup to his fruit. This bottle will see us through many seasons…. maybe well past 2015.

“Hon,” he says, “it was only $2. 29. How much did your lemons cost?”

“More than that,” I admit, “but at least they’re real. If I squeeze them in tea they don’t taste like ….”

And so it goes. But come December, come the blizzards and Nor’ Easters, we’ll sit down to oatmeal with peaches and cream, peach muffins, peach cobbler, and peach jam on toast--not to mention what we did with the apples and pears-- and when the temperatures plummet and the wood stove keeps the house cozy, we'll be tasting summer.

We’ll forget all about lemon juice and what the "experts" said. We’ll forget who measured, and who didn't. It won’t matter a whit come winter. We are both experts who work differently. And it's impossible to eat peaches and not smile.

~~~~~
Proof of last year's canning.

Peaches.

And more peaches.
~~~~~
Life is better than death, I believe, if only because it is less boring and because it has fresh peaches in it. ~Thomas Walker

River of hope~

2009-08-08T20:10:00.016-04:00

There was a woman taking a nap on the granite bench that curves along the river walk running through downtown Providence. She had on several layers of clothing despite the warm August sun, and used her backpack as a pillow. I stood photographing city architecture from my place nearby. She must have heard the click of the camera's shutter .

"No pictures of me," she said sitting up to swing her legs up on the bench in the opposite direction.

"No, I wouldn't. I won't," I assured her. Then I asked, "Do people take your picture?"

Truly, I'd thought briefly of doing so--a photo journalistic impulse, a poignant documentation of the sadder, sorrier side of life. In honesty, I might have taken a picture had I been using my zoom lens from farther away where she might not have noticed me. I've been tempted at other times, with other homeless folk, although something always holds me back from what feels like a blatant invasion of privacy.

"Lot's of people do," she said, and then angry words delivered in a measured tone, "I tell them they better stop, or I'll grab their God damned camera, and I'll . . .

She was already lying down again with her back to the river and me. Her words became indecipherable

"Oh, well, they deserve that," I said lamely as I walked away. I'd deserve that, I suppose, had I given in to impulse.

And I left her lying there beside a bridge with Rhode Island's symbolic brass anchor--HOPE--shining in the summer sun for all who walk beside the river to see.

But not for all to feel. Some people see the flip side of hope.

~~~~~
Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without words, and never stops at all. ~Emily Dickinson

A sip of summer~

2009-07-26T14:31:00.004-04:00

A sip of summer

Recipe:

Collect shells along the beach.
Pocket them till they rattle as you walk.

Pour shells into an eight ounce glass.
Add warm, golden sunlight.

Savor in small sips all year long.
Summer's glow keeps well.

~~~~~
Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time. ~John Lubbock

Mama Peach~

2009-07-20T12:05:00.011-04:00

"Mama Peach" is on her nest this morning, and something in her eye--a watchful but calm and peaceful glint--makes me feel envious of her leafy retreat in the peach tree.

I begin my summer mornings with a walk around the yard, cup of coffee in hand. The cat trails behind me, stopping to wash when I pause to inspect the blooms or pull a few weeds.

The peach tree hangs heavy with an offering that should be ready next month. I inspect the soft peach-fuzzy fruit in the morning sun from several angles, the way I would if I had my camera.

And that's how I discover Mama Peach's nest.

There is no bird on the nest, but three eggs wait in the nest's deep bowl. I try not to worry that the eggs are unattended. It's early in the day, and robins--quintessential early birds--leave their nests to grab worms before the heat drives them to wriggle deeper underground. Besides, a mother robin often doesn't settle on the eggs until she is through laying--four being the average number of eggs per nest--to ensure that the babies hatch at pretty much the same time.

So I trust nature to manage what it's done so well for time immemorial. And there are multitudes of robins in the yard to bolster my faith.

But I do peer daily through the peach boughs, and I'm always relieved when I see Mama Peach sitting, immobile and camouflaged, on her nest.

Today she looked so content that I found myself wistful. Her task, needing only time and patience, requires her to remain still and out of life's spotlight. Seeing her reminded me of the times years ago when I'd settle in a quiet room, rocking the baby at my breast to sleep. I heard life go on around me: muffled conversations from the other room, the TV, the ringing phone. I knew what was happening. Like Mama Peach, I was hidden, but not apart. I felt as content then as Mama Peach looks now. She reminds me of the pleasure such quiet interludes bring.

By the time the peaches are ready for picking, Mama Peach will be caring for her babies. I'll wait patiently for fruit and fledglings. Some things deserve time.

~~~~~
“It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.”
~C.S. Lewis

How old are you now?

2009-07-11T20:29:00.019-04:00

I stopped in the local pet shop the other day to buy meal worms for the remaining class pet, one of two sweet girl geckos I brought home when I retired a year ago. She's . . . can she be 9 now? Her sister died recently, and this one--Tillie or Lizzie, I never kept them straight--lives alone in the aquarium that has prime real estate in the living room . . . so I won't forget to feed her. And, okay, so she'll have "socialization," such as it is. Sometimes she gets more attention than I do, but that's a post for another time.

I live in a home of old creatures. An old gecko, and old cat, who at 18 is amazingly youthful despite her missing teeth, and gives me more attention--and eye contact--than my husband (also old) does. But this is for the other post I mentioned.

I'd made a comment to the woman at the pet store, a joke really, about having mid-life issues. And then I thought, "Midlife. Who am I kidding?" To be truly MIDDLE aged I will have to live to 116.

I got a book from the library the other day, Memory Lessons: A Doctor's Story, a memoir by a gerontologist who writes of his father's Alzheimer's disease. He calls his father the "oldest old."

It seems that in the world of gerontology "old" has been split and redefined in several categories. Age sixty-five to seventy-four is considered "old." Those between seventy-five and eighty-four are labeled "old old." And the "oldest old" are eighty-five and up.

The young me

I'm none of those yet, but I hope to become each of them in due time. I'm "old mid-life" if I may create my own label, but I feel ageless inside. As my father said in his latter years, "I feel like the young me looking out of the same eyes." I guess this is why mirrors or photos provide a jolt. Who is that old middle aged person that looks a little like me?

May I someday be among the oldest old?

Yes, please!
~~~~~
Old age isn't so bad when you consider the alternative. ~Maurice Chevalier

When you get lemons~

2009-06-30T22:23:00.009-04:00

Make Lemonade

The month of June in Massachusetts has not been good to its beach goers or vacationers, or, I suppose, to any of us who have been looking forward to some warm summer sun. But being raised by a mother who often reminded me that complaining accomplished nothing, and most particularly where the weather is concerned, I'll not complain.

When it's raining lemons, I'll make the metaphorical lemonade.

I picked cherries in the rain. Not counting what we ate out of hand, our five-year-old Rainier cherry tree blessed us this year with a pie and two cobblers.

Who wants to bake in the hot summer? Not me. But in the unseasonably cool rainy days, I found it pure pleasure to mix and stir, and pop a pan into the oven, and then fold laundry while the delicious sweetness filled the house.

I thought often of my grandmother. I think it was the act of pitting the cherries--truly manual labor--and it brought to mind the long-ago summer days I'd sit with her while she shelled peas or snapped beans for supper. While I folded clothes, I thought of my mother who would iron while watching Afternoon Playhouse on TV. I can still smell the starch, and hear the hiss of steam.

Those were labor intensive days in many ways, yet they forbade the multi-tasking we are so prone to today. Laundry day was for doing a week's worth of laundry; shopping day was for buying groceries for the week. I find my self tossing in a daily load of wash and then jumping in the car to pick up some milk and bread, and then doing the same the next day. And the next. I've lost the sense of being done for a week that my mother and grandmother had.

Maybe I need a little old fashioned one-thing-at-a-time in my life.

~~~~~

Smiles don't have to be saved for a rainy day. it's good to waste them. ~ anonymous

Retirement anniversary~ one year!

2009-06-24T20:52:00.014-04:00

When I retired last June, my then 24-year-old daughter was on a business trip in Copenhagen, and couldn't attend the retirement party. She sent this note, which my son read aloud. It made me cry then, and I see now that it still chokes me up. Forgive my indulgence for posting it . . . but an "anniversary" warrants looking back. And I am.

Mom,

For 36 years, you have corrected quizzes, monitored lunch rooms, chaperoned field trips, assigned homework, led discussions, read aloud, taught spelling words, and taken home class pets for summer vacations.

I’ve gotten used to finding containers of mealworms – the most recent class pet’s food of choice – firmly wedged into the refrigerator between the butter and the cream cheese.

You’ve made it clear to children that their, they’re, and there, are spelled differently – something a lot of adults I work with can’t get right, but your 11-year-olds wouldn’t be careless enough to mix them up for fear of disappointing you, and your red pen.

You’ve tied shoes, explained the multiplication tables, patiently stated that just using spell check isn’t good enough, and taught children how to think critically, and most importantly, think for themselves.

When I was a little kid, I loved visiting your classroom. I remember bright sunlight streaming through the windows, and books and building blocks spread throughout the room. I relished sinking my feet into the soft carpet of the reading circle and testing each desk to see which had the best view of the chalkboard. It was a treat to sort through all the posters and decorations you had saved to adorn each bulletin board for each change of subject or season, and I especially loved tapping on the glass of the current rat or lizard in the cage by the windowsill. I looked at the student essays tacked on the walls and eagerly anticipated the day when I would write my own essay, to be stuck on our refrigerator at home.

You set the bar for my own time in elementary school extremely high, and I constantly compared my own teachers’ classrooms to yours, knowing that the chairs in your classroom were better, you read every character’s voice flawlessly, and you had a far better variety of books in your bookshelves. Certainly you were reading Charlotte’s Web to your kids while I was stuck practicing my handwriting.

Having you for a mother has ingrained in me a deep respect for all teachers. It is one of the very toughest careers, requiring endless patience, intelligence, and creativity – traits you have in spades. Your students look up to you and they will always remember you when they think about their childhood, and thank you for the positive impact you had on all their lives.

All one has to do to see just how much respect and admiration your students have for you is look at the cards you get from them on every holiday and last day of school. Crayon messages on carefully folded pieces of construction paper bear words of thanks and admiration, and when you would bring boxes of cards and candies home on these special days I would get a lump in my throat to see there were so many other kids out there to whom you meant so much. Then I would dig through the box to look for any chocolate chip cookies.

And now, after years of being a guiding light to so many lucky students, you are going to turn your classroom lights off for the last time and start on your own “field trip.” And you’ll finally be able to sleep in.

You have so much in store for you!! Think of all the time you now have to do anything you want!! You’re going to garden. You’re going to write. You’re going to travel. You’re going to photograph everything. You’re going to read so many books that your favorite authors are going to struggle to keep up. You can throw away your alarm clock, and you’ll never again have to rise before the sun to shovel out your car on a frigid, blustery winter morning!

You will do all these things and more, knowing that for the rest of your life, wherever you go and whatever you see, you are held in the hearts of hundreds of children and colleagues who remember you as a fantastic teacher, inspiration, and friend.

And, if you ever miss teaching, just remember that you’ll always have a permanent student in me.

I’m so proud of you. Congratulations!

Love,
Joanna

Happy Father's Day AND Happy Birthday! Call me!

2009-06-20T21:33:00.011-04:00

I hear my husband downstairs in the living room.

"Dial home," he says. And again, "Dial home," a firm command with precise enunciation.

I think of ET, the loveable extraterrestrial asking to call home.

But Bruce is actually speaking to his new iPhone, trying to get it to recognize a voice command.

"Call Ruth Douillette, home," he commands.

The phone rings. That's for you, he yells up the stairs.

I'd figured as much.

"Hello there!" I say.

"It's me," he says.

So we talk for a bit about the marvel of this new device that does his bidding--no questions asked, no ifs, ands, or buts.

A couple of days ago, he'd asked, "Want to know what you can get me for Father's Day and my birthday?" The two are days apart.

Of course I wanted to know.

I hate shopping, and I'm a lousy gift picker-outer, to boot. I hate to disappoint, so I belabor choosing a present, looking at it from so many angles until I convince myself that it's a stupid idea, until eventually every gift seems like a stupid idea. So if Bruce knows what he wants, and he usually does, bring it on!

He wanted an iPhone. He was in line early yesterday when the phones went on sale, along with many others. It reminds me of the Cabbage Patch doll thing. Only at the Apple store they don't trample.

I don’t much understand this techno-love, and as a result, I'm probably not much fun. He tells me excitedly about all the available applications.

"But what's the point of that?" I say. "You can just . . ."

Each one seems to do something one could get better results with another way. Like seriously, would you download an app on your iPhone to tell you how to read the results of your EKG?

I thought not. That's not one he's interested in either.

But he's happy, and I already have his birthday present taken care of. Nothing to worry about from now till Christmas.
~~~~~
Read about my phone: Call me.

Scientist announced a device that can be placed in a pacemaker and will call your doctor whenever you are having heart trouble. When told about it, Dick Cheney said, "I can't afford those kind of phone bills.~Conan O'Brien

What will they think of us?

2009-05-26T18:57:00.028-04:00

Yesterday a new name was unveiled on the black marble monument that stands in the town common. A new name under the name of a new war . . . or rather an old war renamed and continued through the centuries in locations all across the globe--different civilizations, different weapons, but for the same reason: power, resources, religion.

And I wondered . . . eons from now, long after ancient wonders have turned to dust; long after Stonehenge is mere grains of sand; pyramids are flattened plains; cities are piles of rubble, and the archeologists discover us anew, what will they make of these indestructible monuments of polished black marble buried at odd angles beneath ruins across the world?

Will they deduce their purpose? Will they decipher our ancient language? What will they say about our society?

That we take pride in our countries?
That we honor our heros?
That we recognize sacrifice?
That we mourn for loved ones lost?

That we never found peace? Never made peace?

And will they learn from our sad lesson?

~~~~~
About Kevin T. Preach
Read Memorial Day Tears on Camroc Press review

Peace has its victories no less than war, but it doesn't have as many monuments to unveil. ~Kin Hubbard

Only a dream~

2009-05-20T20:50:00.012-04:00

Into the future . . .

I cried in dreams two nights in a row.

Dream one: I was at a teacher's meeting. We were planning to give an important test the next day. There was a lot of preparation to be done. At the end I thought, "Wait a minute. Someone will be giving this test to my class. I'm not responsible. I'm retired." I pointed this out to another teacher. I left the meeting and cried.

Dream two: I was waiting for an important phone call, but in the mean time had tried to get things done. I'd cut the time too close and realized my cell phone was in the car, not my pocket, so I ran to be sure not to miss the call. I found my phone already flipped open. When I said hello, it was my mother. She told me that her mother--long dead--no longer recognized her, and wasn't that funny? "It's funny," I acknowledged, "but it's also sad." Yes, my mother admitted. And I cried.

They say dreams mean something.

They say dreams work out conflicts we struggle with in daily life.

They say dreams are cathartic.

They say a lot of things.

I only know that I'd been unnaturally sad for a few days before the dreams.

I'm fine, now. Outwardly, any way. As far as I know.

But I'm willing to bet I'm struggling with change, at the very least. Things have been left behind that mattered very much--my job, for one. I thought I'd moved on, and quite happily. But there must be a residue of melancholy. My mother will be 89 soon. It makes me happy that she still remembers me; she doesn't remember much. But if ever she doesn't remember me . . . I've felt the pain already . . . in a dream.
~~~~~
Life is its own journey, presupposes its own change and movement, and one tries to arrest them at one's eternal peril. ~Laurens van der Post

Life's games~

2009-05-03T21:57:00.006-04:00

Erring on the side of caution seems reasonable. I've certainly followed the axiom now and then through the years.

I've looked before I've leaped; I've double-checked; I've played it safe rather than sorry.

I've also taken chances, risks--reasonable ones. Can you live without taking risks? Should you?

Along the line of acting cautiously in regards to the swine flu, the Center for Disease Control has placed the country at Level 5: continue with daily lives but take precautions. Wash hands. Check out symptoms. Don't panic

Common sense. I've done that for years. Especially the "continue with daily life" part.

There is a considerable amount of media hype and comment from our leaders--both Joe Biden and Nancy Pelosi said they'd keep their families from traveling--that sends a message of fear. I don’t mean to make light of a potentially serious situation. Yes, it's better to be cautious where the flu is concerned, but there is such a thing as over reacting in fear.

My hairdresser has two plane trips coming up next month: one across the country to California, and one across the Atlantic to France. She had been excited, anticipating the time away. But now the swine flu has put a damper on that. She's worried, and might change her plans.

But think of this, I told her, "Suppose you stay home and catch the flu from someone here. And if you’d gone you wouldn't have."

It isn't really about the flu; it's about thinking we can control what happens to us. If we stay home we'll be safe, we think. But not necessarily, because bottom line, we have so little control. We play life like it's a game of chess, but sometimes it's a crapshoot. Life has plans. We get dragged along.

I finished reading Life Lists for a review next month in the Internet Review of Books. It was a biography of the famous birder, Phoebe Snetsinger, who was diagnosed with melanoma and given a year to live. She determined to pack that year full--no more playing it safe for Phoebe. Her cancer went into remission, then reappeared . . . several times. Twenty-five-years after her "death date," she died. Not from cancer.

So what am I saying?

Wash your hands. Stay away from people if you feel ill (and why weren't you doing this anyway?) Take precautions. Don't panic.

But mostly, continue with your daily life.

Spring speaks in poems~~

2009-04-26T11:44:00.009-04:00

There's a flower blooming.

An unassuming plume of pink

As generous as a baby's grin

And just as captivating,

This is newborn spring!
RD~

The bees are bumbling.

Tumbling over blossoms,

They, too, are thirsty

For the first sweet sip of spring.
RD~

~~~~~
Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems. ~Rainer Maria Rilke

Pajama party on the Cape~

2009-04-21T20:13:00.024-04:00

I love getting away overnight. As my husband explained to David when I told him I was going to spend a night at a friend's cottage on the Cape, women never give up the pajama parties of their youth.

Why would we? There is something to be said for staying up late talking and eating, eating and talking.

The get-together started mid afternoon, talking, snacking, and sipping wine on the couch in the cottage. Later, out to dinner we talked through Martinis, soup, and salad. Upon returning to the cottage, we talked and ate strawberries in cream and chocolate chip cookies. Then lights out and more talk before sleep.

Talk is key. The only thing different from the school day pajama parties of days gone by and the adult sleepover is that adults talk about husbands instead of boys. And eventually we do stop talking and go to sleep.

There is, of course, the inevitable shopping portion of the day. I know I'm not the only woman who gets little to no pleasure from shopping, but I am a decided minority, and the only one among my friends.

While they shop, I'm happy to spend an hour or two in a bookstore, or in this case, walking off our huge breakfast.

I hadn't walked far when I ducked out of the wind into Nantucket Natural Oils. I love essential oils, and prefer them to perfume. This was my kind of shopping: sitting at a bar in front of a variety of bottles . . .

Photo from Nantucket Natural Oils webstite.

I ordered up sniffs of this and smells of that. Now and then the shop owner gave me a cup of coffee beans to breath deeply over to clear my olfactory nerves, freeing them to smell again. I was planning to buy, and was at the point of exchanging wrist sniffs with a friend who had wandered in. How does this smell on me? Wrinkled nose, sniff of coffee beans, the question is taken as seriously as, how do these sun glasses look, or this dress?Eventually I settled on a quarter ounce bottle of Nantucket Rain, a mix of three oils.

We drove back to the cottage and spent the rest of the day talking and finishing up the guacomole and chicken wings, me basking in the pleasant fragrance rising from my wrists. Good stuff , Nantucket Rain. I'm wearing it now, a scented reminder of a great pajama party.
~~~~~
Last year's trip to the Cape: Like an Early Spring.~
~~~~~
Happiness is perfume, you can't pour it on somebody else without getting a few drops on yourself.

Sharing hope~

2009-04-03T20:26:00.016-04:00

The other day I took a walk along the power lines without my camera. I do that when I'm weary of my photographic eye being on high alert. I take mental pictures anyway--can't help it--but when I have my camera I stop-focus-snap-stop-focus-snap throughout the walk.

This particular day I just needed to walk and think after sitting too long at my laptop. I wanted to move, and breathe, and find that quiet place in my mind. I walked faster than I do with the camera, which felt good. I did stop, but only twice: to feel the satiny, grey pussy willows the size of new peas, and to listen to the faint song of spring peepers--chirping tree frogs whose melodious chorus means spring is really here to stay.

Rounding a turn I caught a familiar shape from the corner of my eye. Among plants that fringe the trail was a brown strand of grass whose tip curled into a shape like the breast cancer support ribbon.

I thought instantly of a friend I met through the blogosphere who is entering the dreaded territory of breast cancer. I thought of her faith, her bravery, her determination to learn something from this adventure she had not asked for. And it seemed this hopeful symbol, crowded by a tangle of vines and prickles, was a confirmation that hope and blessing exist, there is reason for faith, even when we are trapped in a thorny thicket.

I returned the next day to get a picture. Hope should be shared.
~~~~~
Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark.~George Iles

Read Wanda's post about the "ribbon."

Of giants and flying~

2009-03-26T21:25:00.009-04:00

Driving home after lunch at a local steak house, my son and I were quiet. My mind wandered. I looked out the window at the naked trees--stiff, brittle, and woody-- but in the late sunlight the bare branches somehow looked soft as grass. Wispy. A giantess could dip the branches into mud makeup and apply color to her humungous cheeks with a tree, I think.

I asked David, "If a giant--a really huge one--were standing in the woods, would the trees feel soft to him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Would the trees feel soft to someone so much bigger than they are? The way moss feels soft to us?"

"Moths?"

"Mosssssss, " I say. "If something very tiny were driving through a moss forest, the moss might feel stiff and tree-like, even though it's soft to us."

"Why would the giant have to be so big, Mom?" he asks, and I think he doesn't understand.

"He has to be big enough to step on trees," I say.

"There are some very small things we could step on that would feel sharp. Like thistles. It's not about the size. It's about what things are made of."

He's right. If giants step on a tree, they better be wearing boots. Trees would be sharp, even for giants. Massive splinters!

When we pull into the driveway, Dave says, "What super-power would you rather have? Being invisible or able to fly?"

I picture my mid-life body struggling to stay afloat in the air while I frantically flap my arms. Who wants the neighbors to see that?

"Can I be invisible while I fly?"

"No. One or the other."

"Then definitely invisible," I say. "Besides, I'm afraid of heights."

"Well, you wouldn't need to be if you could fly, " he says.

That's logical.

And I suppose if I could fly I wouldn't need to flap my arms frantically, I think. I'd soar effortlessly. But I don’t change my mind. Invisible is better. More useful.

Back to reality, when we get in the house Dave goes down stairs to study for a poly-sci test. He'll drive back to campus tomorrow.

I make tea, and think some more. I love taking to Dave. He's fun. He humors me. He gets me. He'll talk about giants. And super powers.

We all need at least one person in our life who does that.
~~~~~

Hurry, spring~

2009-03-21T19:16:00.014-04:00

You can't hurry love. No, you just have to wait. You got to trust, give it time, No matter how long it takes. (The Supremes)

Neither can you hurry spring.

I've learned you can't hurry much of anything. Or, rather, you can try, but the results will never be quite what you hoped for.

Spring is like a baby waking from a nap. Slowly. Eyes flicker momentarily. More sleep. Another flicker. One eye opens. More sleep, but lighter. Until finally, fully awake, life resumes after a long winter's nap.

A week ago a friend and I drove to a pretty place. We had our cameras and hoped for the tease of early spring, which was only a week away, but with both eyes tightly shut, spring still snored. The day was cold with patches of snow in the deep woods, mud in the sun, and varied shades of brown everywhere. Pretty enough for winter's end, but we were impatient for a change.

As we chatted in the parking lot before heading home, Lisa gently fingered some soft magnolia buds on the pruned branches in my truck bed. They were fuzzy, mouse-grey, full of life's promise. Like soft sacrificial lambs--the rest of the tree would be better without them--they awaited the brush pile at the landfill. Lisa seemed to be comforting the buds in some unconscious way as she touched them while we talked.

I got home and pulled the branches from the truck, clipped the ends, and stuck them in water. To have come so close to blooming and then be tossed seemed sad, a waste, a loss.

"Maybe I should have waited until fall," my husband said, but he's a hurry-up guy. The tree needed pruning, so he pruned. He didn't feel the ouch, or hear the cries. I did.

I wasn't sure if the branches would respond, but days later buds began to open; the grey fuzz split to reveal white petals. Small green leaves sprouted. Weeks ahead of the tightly clamped buds on the mother tree in the yard, these were opening.

It appears I can hurry spring.

But somehow it feels, if not wrong, not quite right, either. I'll enjoy the forced beauty, and try not to think of caged birds that should fly free. The flowers will grace the kitchen, even as I look beyond them through the window to the tree that will bloom freely on it's own time.
~~~~~
Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.~Lao Tzu

The next day~

2009-03-10T21:29:00.012-04:00

A couple of days ago, the weather was unseasonably sunny and warm, like a day in May. I reveled in the spring tease, while raking the canvas-like blanket of oak leaves off tender shoots-- pale and yellow--as in need of the sun as I am.

But I'd heard the forecast. A "wintery mix" was predicted was for the next day. More snow. Cold and grey . . . like one expects in February in Massachusetts.

This isn't going to last, I found myself thinking of the day's beauty. Too bad it's going to snow tomorrow. With the sweet sun warming my shoulders, I thought over and over, too bad it's going to snow tomorrow.

Until I caught myself . . . looking ahead, living in the future, instead of the here and now--the only moment in which we exist--the present.

So many times I've told my kids, "Don’t worry about tomorrow. Enjoy what you have right now. Don’t ruin today worrying about tomorrow" I managed to take my advice.

I spent the rest of the day examining the remains of winter through the lens of my camera, capturing faded, wilted, brown, and surprisingly beautiful, remnants of last summer fall--dried flowers and seed pods soon to be replaced by the buds already swelling on bare winter branches.

And the next day was full of its own fat-flake-swirling beauty. Nothing to complain about at all.
~~~~~
Live this day as if it will be your last. Remember, you only find "tomorrow" on the calendar of fools.~ Og Mandino

Snowman's last hurrah~

2009-03-01T21:19:00.010-05:00

When Christmas was over and I packed up the decorations for another year, I decided not to put the snowmen away. I wasn't quite ready to go from Christmas to normal overnight. It was winter after all, a very snowy one. And I happen to love snowmen.

Today with spring's official arrival only two weeks away, I decided to gather up the snowmen and pack them away. One was wearing a scarf of ivy that was stretching in the springlike sun. Enough already. Enough shoveling the driveway, enough four wheel drive, and boots, and ice sidewalks. Enough of the ugly gray patches of snow that edge the roadways. I'm done with snowmen no matter how cute their cheery faces.

Maybe when they're in storage winter will recede. Not that I blame my collection of icy men for the weather, mind you. But I'm ready for new green growth, nesting birds, and green grass.

Mother nature with her quirky sense of timing, however, has more snow planned even as I pull snowmen from their perches and set them on the stairs before boxing them up.

New England is braced for the storm that is coming up from the south, coming from places that shouldn't see snow at all, let alone on March 1st. But March persists in doing her lion thing no matter how ready we all are for the lamb.

And yet, I have the weather station on and I delight in the Doppler radar image for my area. I've always loved storms. Always got excited about the chance of a no school day. For me, all days are no school days now, but my son and his girl friend came home from their colleges for the weekend and I can feel their hope that classes will be called off tomorrow.

And I'm pulling for them.

Bring it on! This too will melt!

Spring always comes sooner or later.

A mother's eyes~

2009-02-18T20:37:00.017-05:00

Kevin Preach

It was snowing the day my son called from his college dorm to tell me that a former high school classmate, a Marine, had been badly injured in Afghanistan. The truck he was in had driven over an IED. Kevin had lost both legs and was badly burned.

He was in a coma, Dave said. Could I get him the family's address so he could send something ? Friends were rallying, supporting Kevin's girlfriend, collecting money for the family, gathering on Facebook to console. There was hope. There always is, especially when you're young.

After I hung up, I pulled on boots and gloves and went out to shovel the driveway.

I cried. . . because Kevin is too young to suffer like that, because he is one of so many who suffer, and because I didn't think he'd live.

He didn't.

He was buried today [Feb. 2009]. The funeral and procession to the cemetery were covered on the local news, like so many we've seen through the years: small town, friends and neighbors holding hands . . . flag draped coffin.

The TV camera caught Kevin's mother, zoomed in, and held her face. Her empty eyes, as she watched her son's coffin pass, spoke more than cries of pain. The eternal question silently screamed, leaving tears to be shed later.

Why?

It snowed again today. And I cried again . . . because Kevin is too young to die, because he's one of so many, and because I saw his mother's eyes.
~~~~~
God sees us through our Mothers' eyes. ~Ganeshan Venkatarman
~~~~~
Lance Corporal Kevin T. Preach, United States Marine Corps, died February 7, 2009, from injuries sustained during an attack while serving in Afghanistan in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. Kevin was a Machine Gunner with 2nd Marine Division 3/8 Weapons Company. He was age 21.

World's End~

2009-02-01T22:26:00.013-05:00

Sometimes when the world is full of madness and mayhem and I'm tired of it all, I grab my camera and head out to focus on something that's not on TV or the radio, not in the newspaper or the Internet.

Today I drove forty minutes a place called World's End. I don't know who named it, or why, but I'm guessing because it feels like the edge of the world where land meets sea.

The world at large indeed faded away as the beauty of this spot--rolling hills jutting into the ocean, whisk broom trees scratching a cloudless sky--seeped into my soul.

I was by myself, but not alone. Others were also trekking the snow covered lanes. There is nothing like the rhythmic crunching of footsteps in the snow, huffing and puffing a little, sweating a lot, birdsong, and warm sun, to melt the frustrations of the real world.

Or maybe this is the real world. I wish . . .
~~~~~
It is said that the world is in a state of bankruptcy, that the world owes the world more than the world can pay.~Ralph Waldo Emerson

The necessity of hope~

2009-01-20T20:54:00.009-05:00

Carrying the torch~

Like a wedding after a whirlwind romance, the inauguration of our 44th president captured the country's heart--and the world's: a ceremony of promise and hope.

All new relationships start with hope. To a country with a debilitated economy and fractured expectations nothing is needed more at the moment the torch is passed from one administration to another than this positive emotion.

Hope!

And change.

Things will change. Change is constant. Change comes from making choices, or not making them. Things will change. We hope it will be positive.

And here is where hope is tested.

When the emotional high fades, and real life resumes as it always does, differences that seemed easily surmounted stand out starkly. Change--what must change and how--is clarified. Disagreements arise. Ideologies diverge. Goodwill dissipates. Hope fades.

And without hope we lose ourselves.

Many have already stated what they believe are the most critical issues the president faces: global warming, terrorism, the economy, education . . . Yes, all of those and more are critical. But Barack Obama must keep alive the flame of hope he's fanned--the expectation that we can come together and overcome differences to move forward with positive change requires nothing less than hope.

United we stand.

Together we can.

I hope.
~~~~~
We gather because we have chosen hope over fear, unity of purpose over conflict and discord. ~Barack Obama

Life's lens~

2009-01-18T19:34:00.018-05:00

In this fourth New England snowstorm--a beautiful one with snow falling gently and clinging to trees--I took my camera and braved the poorly plowed roads to capture the beauty in pixels.

Feeling expansive, thinking of the nation poised to inaugurate a new president, I chose my wide-angle lens to shoot landscapes. I'm aware that my mood, my mindset, controls my photography. I was not in the mood today for close focus, certainly not the minute detail a macro lens allows, and I had already zoomed in on birds waiting in the tree by the driveway for their turn at the feeder.

I wanted to think about the country while I focused on the beauty of the countryside.

I don't know what the future holds. I listen to the president elect's words on the radio in my truck and think how he has not provided specifics, but he's fed hope to a hungry nation . . . a nourishing meal, as long as it lives up to its promise.

I'm anxious for a breath of fresh air that a new administration brings, yet aware that hope is just that. Hope. I will remain optimistic. If the talk of change provides only a temporary placebo effect, then . . . I will still remain hopeful.

I stand at the edge of a field, a stubble of corn stalks, like stiff whiskers, poke through the snow. The trees are soft in the falling snow; two hawks rest in their bare branches.

My cell phone rings. A teacher friend's husband has died. Unexpectedly. Victim of a brain aneurism. Discovered when his wife got home from school.

Lenses. I think of lenses. How this friend's lens was wide-angle as she drove home. She was thinking of how happy she was to have a day off on Monday--Martin Luther King's Day, maybe. Maybe she had plans she wanted to share with her husband. But her wide angled view abruptly narrowed. Macro. Up close. The world fades away in times like these. The funeral will be Monday. Her day off.

I continued to walk along the road beside the fields, stopping when I came to the place where the bridge is out. A wide chasm splits the road in two . . . like my friend's world.

I know the snow will stop. The clouds will open, allowing the sun's rays through, and even with eyes shut tight in pain, my friend will feel their warmth, although she will not see the light for a while.
~~~~~
I wanted a perfect ending. Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle, and end. Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.~Gilda Radner

Why?

2009-01-08T19:27:00.012-05:00

I can’t . . . won’t . . . judge the combatants in the Israeli Palestinian battle in Gaza. There are plenty who have strong opinions; plenty who think one side—either one--is justified, but not the other. Plenty have voiced their thoughts . . . some in words that are as piercing as the weapons soaring across the border.

Words are weapons, too. Incendiary as bombs, they injure; they imprison others in hate. They strike without warning. “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” Not physically, maybe, but they do hurt. Eventually it becomes physical.

Thoughts. Words. War. How many degrees of separation?

I do have opinions, but what good are they? What do I know, really? This issue goes back so far that my fifty plus years of sheltered living in the United States are not nearly enough for me to grasp the hate, the rivalry, the fight to the death mentality that is part of the middle east, and has been for centuries.

I’m naïve enough to wonder why everybody can’t just get along, why they can’t share, but realistic enough to accept that they just can’t . . . or won’t. It’s pride, it’s territoriality, it’s, sadly, human nature. At it’s worst anyway.

We suffer for the innocent. Citizen casualties. Collateral damage. Children. This goes without saying. But look into the faces of the warriors. The ones who systematically send weapons from one side—either one--to the other. They’re just people, someone’s son or daughter. Someone who once said, “When I grow up, I want to. . ."

What? Kill my neighbors?

Who ever really wants this?

So why does it continue?

Life's too beautiful. Life's too short.

What's war supposed to do . . . for anyone?

~~~~~
What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or the holy name of liberty or democracy?~Mahatma Gandhi

Day #1~

2009-01-01T21:15:00.012-05:00

We love new beginnings. Time to start fresh, forgive others, forgive ourselves. A time to try, try again.

And at the stroke of midnight here’s our chance: a new year. Unmarked. Like fresh snow. No mistakes. Like a newborn baby.

Poor year has a hefty load to carry: all the hopes and dreams of the world. Hopes are pinned on 2009—all six plus billion of them—for peace, prosperity, blessings. Health, wealth, and good luck.

Happiness.

Happy New Year!

But already we see the tracks in the snow. Awful ones in the Mideast. Terrible ones at a Beijing nightclub on the very stroke of the new year. Still more that carried over from the past year, and the one before that, unto the dawn of time.

Yes, there will be joys and blessings this year, too. Many. I’ve experienced some already. But I prefer to take my blessings--and sorrows--one 365th of the year at time.

One day at a time.

Happy New Day!
~~~~~
We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called Opportunity and its first chapter is New Year's Day.~ Edith Lovejoy Pierce

Taking a "snow day" or two . . . or several~

2008-12-05T21:57:00.009-05:00

My daughter arrived home from a week-long business trip to Amsterdam bearing gifts: a snow globe for my collection, magnets for the fridge, a small Delft shoe, chocolates, and for each of us, a pouch of "hot chocolate to die for" from the batch she intends to take to work and give to her colleagues.

So I sat-- feet tucked beneath me, blanket over my lap-- reading a book and savoring a cup of rich hot chocolate straight from the Netherlands at 3 in the afternoon. Not a book for review. A book for pure pleasure, no less. A book for me.

And I wondered . . . did I plan so well in the years leading to retirement, in an effort not to end up twiddling my thumbs, that I forgot the importance of hot chocolate and a book on a cold grey afternoon?

Seems I did.

I have a full schedule. It feels fuller than when I was working, if that's possible. I'm doing what I love, but it has expanded to fill the space of my days, and squeezed out "me time."

Ages ago when my kids were small, I often sat with a blanket, a book and a cup of tea. At a time when the kids needed a constant watchful eye, it was the perfect way to supervise while also relaxing.

But now they're grown and I'm retired and . . . somehow I seldom sit with a blanket and a book any more.

That will change.

Today with a hint of snow in the forecast, I commented to David that his college is in a snow belt, and he could expect to have classes canceled for snow this winter.

And then I said with a touch of sadness, "I'll never have another snow day."

"Mom," he said, "Everyday is a snow day for you, now"

When I worked, I got vacations; they were scheduled-- a time for a change of pace. I'd be wise to schedule vacations into retirement, as well.

And to schedule in some snow days, too!

***From now until after the New Year: first vacation from the blog in nearly two years. I'll return refreshed in January. Enjoy the holidays, and best wishes to you all.
~~~~~
“Sometimes it's important to work for that pot of gold. But other times it's essential to take time off and to make sure that your most important decision in the day simply consists of choosing which color to slide down on the rainbow.” ~Douglas Pagels

The need to say it~

2008-11-22T20:45:00.025-05:00

I live happily in my own head, content and entertained by my own ponderings and observations. This outward look/inward analysis serves the writer in me well.

I'm a bit isolated during the time it takes to transfer words from head to paper. The process requires uninterrupted time while the download takes place.

Usually I listen to the words in my head and type them-- an easy flow from mind to lap top. Who needs a pen and paper these days? I ignore a multitude of distractions around me to the point that my husband will complain, "You don't remember a thing I tell you."

Huh? Has he spoken?

It's not that I've forgotten, exactly; it's more like I never heard him in the first place. I could well have looked him in the eye while he told me he had a meeting at six o'clock, but my look would have been the vacant stare of a sleepwalker. I may even have nodded and given an affirmative mmm, hmmm, but I didn't absorb a thing. The thread of my own thought was still running in my head, blocking anything else from penetrating. And it must be that way, or I'd lose everything I need to say.

Need is a strong word, but it feels like a need. I write, and in the process clarify something for myself. And the best of circumstances what I need to say resonates with a reader who lets me know.

Today I got a hand-lettered envelope, rare in this day of email and junk mail. The note, a thank-you, read:

Dear Ms. Douillette:

A dear friend, 87 yrs. young, ten years older than I, always gives me her old CSMs and I am reading the September 23 issue today. Your article Citrus-Scented Love has great meaning for me. Thank you for writing it.

The way the brain remembers fragrances and associations connected to them is a beautiful mystery of life.

Warmly,
Helen

She included her email address, but I'll send her a real note like she sent me-- the old-fashioned pen and ink kind. I'll tell her how much it means to know that she felt what I needed to say. And I'll pay it forward when another writer's words resonate with me.

You really do not see~

2008-11-09T20:27:00.009-05:00

The Tree on the Corner
By Lilian Moore

I've seen
The tree on the corner
in spring bud
and summer green.
Yesterday
it was yellow gold.
Then a cold
wind began to blow.
Now I know--
you really do not see
a tree
until you see
its bones.

I came across this poem years ago when I was a new teacher. It was perfect for young students with its simple words, and simple expression of the sequence of the seasons.

I printed the words on chart paper, using the appropriate color for each season's verse. I drew a bare tree, branches reaching and dividing and running off the paper, and leaves on the ground around the trunk. I hung it on a bulletin board every year in November. The children loved its rhythm . . . like the rhythm of the seasons.

I left this poster behind, along with many others, when I retired. But the words remained with me when I left.

Today I walked into a hospital room to visit my mother. She'd broken her hip yesterday and was waiting for surgery.

Pale, slack-faced in sleep, her form looked small as a child's under the white blanket. The skin on her arms and face was as wrinkled as bark . . . and I thought, "You really do not see a tree until you see its bones."

I looked for a long time hesitant to wake her.

This is her winter.

But when she opened her eyes, and reached for my hand with a smile, and said my name with pleasure . . . I saw she still had spring inside.

~~~~~
“Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple tree.”
~Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The tough get going~

2008-11-03T16:44:00.005-05:00

I took a picture yesterday morning of frosty leaves on a prickly vine. Not fine art, or anything, but the sun sparkling on the frost caught my eye, so I took the picture. I posted it on Flickr with the title: "When the going gets tough."

The plant will succumb soon enough to the cold by dropping its leaves and hunkering down in survival mode for the winter, but in the meantime, it was hanging in . . . the tough get going.

The title now seems a bit prophetic after I answered the phone this morning. An older son issue. Again. The kind that wrenches a mother's gut and calls for maternal toughness. Again.

So I need to be strong when I feel anything but, act decisively when I have no clue if I'm doing the right thing. Time will tell. I can only take one step at a time. Each one takes me to a new vantage point, another decision to be made.

One step at a time, day by day. This works.

Somehow I've learned to stop worrying about where I'll be called to step in the future. When I get to that point, it will be clear to me. Or as clear as it ever is.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going. Frosty leaves on a prickly vine. Come spring the vine will burst forth with tender new growth. I can count on that.
~~~~~
Toughness is in the soul and spirit, not in muscles. ~Alex Karras

It matters not~

2008-10-21T20:28:00.008-04:00

Some days I don't make time to read the paper; others I go from front-page headlines, to Op Eds to obits. The obits I scan, mostly to see the age of death and maybe the cause. Some days are "good" days. The good died old. Other days . . . not so good.

Today there was the story of a 17-year old girl whose last hours were spent in a swamp . . . I can read dry-eyed the stories of the men and women who die in their 90s with accolades and acknowledgements. But a child's death brings a pain sharp and cold to my heart.

It matters not that underage drinking likely played a part. Who, reading this, can say they have not, by the grace of God, or the luck of the draw, or fate, escaped the consequences of a foolish act?

Not I.

But this girl paid the consequence of partying with friends, drinking, and then saying good-bye . . . but wandering into a swamp instead of her car.

"This is why you have to know where your kids are at all times," my husband says as I read the story to him, my voice breaking with emotion.

I know he wants to think that parental control is enough, that our kids are safe because he "knows" where they are. That he can keep them safe. He sounds tough because it hurts to think there are things he can't control.

"Her parents thought they knew where she was," I say softly.

Once I woke just before midnight at the sound of a crash. Against my husband's advice, I pulled on my bathrobe and walked out into a surreal world of flashing lights that made midnight brighter than noon. And in the strobe effect I saw two young boys-- 16- year olds-- lying lifeless on my neighbor's lawn. Yes, they'd been drinking and rushing to be home before their curfew when they hit another car.

My comment the next day when the local news station came with their camera and mics looking for a comment was, "It wasn't an accident. It was a consequence."

It was a consequence, but there was no comfort in the words I uttered years ago when my own slept in cribs . . . and I knew where they were. No understanding that it matters not why loved ones die, or even their age. The pain is the same.

It hurts.
~~~~~
While we are free to choose our actions, we are not free to choose the consequences of our actions. ~Stephen R. Covey

Spinning straw into gold~

2008-10-15T19:39:00.007-04:00

If I take credit for my daughter's intelligent, organized approach to life, then I must take blame for my youngest son's overdue library books. If I take credit for his athletic prowess and caring personality, then I have to blame myself for my oldest son's problems.

I'd love the credit, but not the blame. In reality, I deserve neither -- or maybe a little of both. But only a little. They are who they are, these kids of mine. They've been unique individuals from the moment they entered the world. I only polished the surface, and not even that these days as they live independent lives-- or nearly so. I've stored the "character polish" with the baby pictures. Its use by date has expired.

I gave my children half their genes and all my love. They didn't come with instructions for care. Each was-- is-- unique. What worked, what didn't, what was helpful or not, was different for each child. It was up to me to determine what would be best for each of them. And I wasn't always sure.

I advised, nurtured, and disciplined, fine-tuning my mothering to fit each child's needs as best I understood them. I relied more on common sense and innate maternal wisdom than on generic advice from child care experts who never met my children.

Despite me and because of me, my children are in control of their lives. Or in the case of my oldest, he holds the reins, and I have to let him, despite the fact that he often rides off into the brambles.

Faith, like muscle, is built by use. Saying you have faith is not enough. Faith requires you to lean hard on the object of your trust without flinching, without bracing for the chair to be pulled away just as you sit. I have leaned hard on myself, for I must have faith that what I do, what I have done and will do still, if nothing else, is the best I have to offer. That matters.

My children will take the tools I've provided and continue to shape their lives-- for the better, I hope. Or not. But that is for them to decide. I have faith in them, too. Each of them.
~~~~~
“If you raise your children to feel that they can accomplish any goal or task they decide upon, you will have succeeded as a parent and you will have given your children the greatest of all blessings.”~Brian Tracy

The real world~

2008-10-10T21:40:00.017-04:00

I'm not sure exactly what the "real world" is anymore.

This morning I emailed a friend to say I was going to get out of the "real world" for a few hours and wander around some cranberry bogs with my camera. I amended my message to say that maybe I was, in fact, actually heading into the real world.

What's real? What matters? Is what matters real?

Philosophy aside, who knows, and maybe who cares? I'm not sure I do. But I've steeped in politics until I'm purple. I'm so tired of it all. It's a game I'm being forced to watch and play.

And as for the current financial meltdown . . . it pays to have so little to lose. I'm not happy about the whole thing, but my life will continue pretty much unscathed, maybe a bit pinchier in the penny department.

Gates held the top spot-- richest man in the world-- for 15 years, according to Forbes magazine. And now he doesn't.

I wonder if he feels any pain from losing his perch to Warren Buffet. Is Buffet gloating? I have not a clue. To me, rich is rich. What difference is there between the first or 31st spot? It's still more money than I could spend in a lifetime. A billion lifetimes.

There is a book I used to read my students when I taught math: How Much is a Million? by David M. Schwartz. My kids loved the book and so did I. Such a huge concept as a million needs a children's picture book to make it assessable to adults.

"If a million children climbed on each other's shoulders, they would reach higher into the sky than airplanes can fly; if a billion of them made a human tower, it would reach past the moon."

Can you imagine?

Then there's this I stumbled upon somewhere and saved to share with my classes.

A million seconds is 12 days. 
A billion seconds is 31 years. 
A trillion seconds is 31,688 years.

Our country has not existed for a trillion seconds.  Western civilization has not been around a trillion seconds.  One trillion seconds ago – 31,688 years – Neanderthals stalked the plains of Europe.

So . . . the real world? I think the real world differs depending on who we are. The real world for me exists of things I can touch and see and hold in my hand-- or more importantly, hold in my heart.

I have a billion of nothing. But I feel rich. I am rich.

Bill and Warren might not understand, but I hope, for their sakes, they do.
~~~~~
The man who has won millions at the cost of his conscience is a failure.~BC Forbes

To be, or just to be~

2008-10-04T19:51:00.010-04:00

To be, or to just be. How? That is the question.

Or to be busy as a bee.

I exist; I'm a human being. I am, so of course I be.

But there's being, there's being too much, and there is just being, I'm discovering, and I've been being too many things at once for too long. I'm trying to learn how to just be "in the moment" as they say, even while being busy as the proverbial bee.

"First things first" (my motto) sounds good, but it's tough to manage if the to do list is overloaded, and mine was. So I did many things first, seldom doing one thing at a time . . . or if I did, I dropped that task unfinished, hopped to another, and then to another, and eventually back to the first. Breathlessly finishing at deadline became a habit-- and a bit of a rush, to be honest-- a habit I now want to break.

Did I have to wait until retirement added hours of formerly prescribed time to my day to learn to just be? I suspect not, but I'm not sure.

Maybe it was the fact that my job took a huge chunk of my time, leaving my "wanna do" list squeezed into the constraints of a weekend along with my "must do" list, that made me feel so frazzled. I guarded my free time zealously, not wanting to waste a weekend minute cleaning the oven and fridge.

So here I am with some free time on my hands for the first time in 35 years, and feeling a little at loose ends. I'm not complaining, exactly, not complaining at all, really, but it's odd to be able to just be after years of rushing.

And old habits die hard.

I need to stop thinking I'm wasting time if I sit down and read for pure pleasure . . . in a bubble bath no less; or if I only do one thing at a time, slowly even; or if I do something that I want to do but doesn't absolutely need to be done . . . ever.

I want to stop resenting the everyday tasks--cooking, making beds, vacuuming-- as intrusions on my "free time," and slow down and do them one by one. All time is free, after all. I know no one who has more than I do, or less. Where can you buy time?

It's a gift, time is, and perhaps nothing wastes it more than to pack it so tightly that it passes in a blur.

So I'm keeping busy, but doing it more slowly. Busy as a Zen bee.
~~~~~
To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles
and by opposing end them.~ William Shakespeare

That's a fair~

2008-09-26T21:52:00.019-04:00

I didn't like King Richard's Faire, but I didn't tell the king when he asked, "Did you have fun?" I said, "Yes. Thank you for the ticket." What would you say to a king on the next yoga mat?

I'm not one who likes dressing up in 16th century garb and talking in a fake English accent, or being called milady by fake lords or whatever the were, and everybody there seemed to like that sort of thing. That's fine. I'm sure they'd find my propensity to wander in the woods with a camera odd, too. To each his own.

Just inside the gates to the fair were three ATMs and the lines were long. Once inside everything was for sale . . . even the "free" shows.

I watched a puppeteer behind a mask fleece his audience. He made his puppet say, "Put your hands in your pockets. Grab some bills. Pull them out. Wave them in the air. I want to see a sea of green." Then the puppet dispersed ushers to collect the money.

Okay, I don't like puppets. I'm no judge of a show involving a skeleton puppet with a fake English accent making lame jokes.

I could see how families would like the atmosphere. The day was beautiful, there were darts to throw, arrows to shoot, rope ladders to climb-- all for a price-- but that's a fair. The food-- turkey legs and chowder-- was expensive, but that's a fair. There was nothing to do that did not cost money-- except to watch the jousting match-- but that's a fair. I would have like a beer; people wandered all over with them, but I could have bought two six packs for the price of one drink, and yes, that's a fair, but that's not me.

There was a woman, in costume and high above the crowd on stilts who was dressed as a baby. Her purpose was to get suckers to put dollar bills in her pouch. . . . under the guise of entertainment.
She talked baby talk; she had wax over her teeth so it looked like she had baby gums. When a man asked if she drooled, she produced a dribble of spit and let it run down her chin. "I'll do anything for you, daddy," she said, and then kept at him until he put money in her pouch. I stood back and watched the crowd. The adults laughed and gave her money. Money! For being a baby puppet on stilts! Who drooled for money! But the expressions on the children's faces said it all. You can't fool children. She was weird and creepy.

And she became the flavor of the fair for me, somehow-- a way to make money, no particular talent needed, and kind of weird.

That's a fair. Not my thing.
~~~~~
Keep the circus going inside you, keep it going, don't take anything too seriously, it'll all work out in the end.~David Niven

King Richard does yoga~

2008-09-20T22:17:00.011-04:00

King Richard is in my yoga class. I noticed him because while the rest of the class twisted to the left, I twisted to the right-- I am directionally challenged-- and stared straight at the portly, equally twisted, grey-bearded man less than three feet from me.

He plays King Richard at the annual King Richard's Faire in a neighboring town, but I didn't know that until the class was over and he offered us complimentary tickets-- I took two, a fifty-dollar value.

He was a bit of a noisy breather, this only man in the class of woman. The instructor remarked that we were "quiet breathers" and this spurred him to breathe more avidly. She commented that he was using the "ocean breath." It sounded like the one my husband uses when he falls asleep in front of the TV.

I've done yoga off and on for years. I don't much like the breathing noises. When the instructor says, "exhale," I think about all the other breaths-- colds, viruses, whatever-- entering the roomful of air I share. The directive to breathe through the soles of my feet leaves me baffled. The command to pull my naval to my spine-- I wish!-- makes me feel . . . plump. I have left/right problems, and I breath in when I should breath out.

But I go to yoga classes for the stretching, the delicious feeling when my spine loosens, the feeling of limberness, the tightening of my muscles as I hold a pose, the deep relaxation at the end of the class . . . this I relish.

At the end of this session, we rested on our mats. The instructor covered each of us with a blanket, mellow music flowed, candle light flickered, and I felt myself relax.

Then the hot flash began. I decided not to fling off the blanket (or my clothes) as I'd have done at home in bed. Instead, I practiced serenity . . . inhale cool, exhale heat. Forget that you're burning up, I told myself. Relax. And then King Richard began to snore. Not the gutteral ocean breath, but something akin to muck being sucked down a drain. And with it went my peace.

Tomorrow I'll use the $50 complimentary tickets at the King Richard's Faire.
~~~~~
Blessed are the flexible, for they shall not be bent out of shape. ~Author Unknown

Landing on my feet~

2008-09-17T21:52:00.009-04:00

My retirement began "officially" slightly more than a dozen days ago. So I still think on "school time." I wake about the time first period begins. I know the teachers are hustling their classes to the cafeteria at 12:05 for a noisy lunch, then recess. I think of them again at 2:15 when the kids board the buses to go home.

Don't get me wrong. I'm glad I'm not there, although I am still there in my head . . . a little. I visited the school website yesterday and looked at the daily bulletins. Same old, same old: meetings, fundraisers, and the lunch menu. I clicked around the site a little more. Nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to work there.

Last night I had a dream. I was in school watching all the hustle and bustle as teachers prepared their classrooms and gathered supplies. I chatted with them as they scurried around. I was glad to see everyone, but aware that my roll had changed. They were involved and I wasn't. They had work to do. I didn't.

One teacher was high up on a ladder picking books from a shelf. I climbed up to talk. I can never make it past the third rung in real life, but I climbed to the rafters. So this is where they keep the books now, I thought. Then I looked down and froze. I was dream high, impossibly high, and scared stiff.

I needed to get down, and fast. So I closed my eyes and stepped off into thin air . . . and floated, soft as a feather to the floor.

So . . . I guess I've stepped into retirement and landed on my feet. I wonder when it will feel real, and not just a dream.
~~~~~
Nothing happens unless first we dream.~Carl Sandburg

The sun will come out tomorrow~

2008-09-09T19:52:00.012-04:00

Pain, sorrow, disappointment, worry: these can be squashed into a tiny dense lump and hidden beneath the heart, covered with light, airy emotions: anticipation, excitement, hope, pleasure. You can smile, laugh even, with a core of pain secreted away.

Sometimes things around you contrive to awaken the buried feelings . . . an article someone writes, a book you read, a conversation, a phone call, and when they all happen at the same time, there is no choice but to reexamine the pain you've hidden. Time to get it out into the light and look at it long and hard. To feel it, experience it again. To rise above it.

When my kids were little and fell and skinned a knee, I'd hold them tight on my lap and rock them and say, "It's only pain. It hurts I know, but this is as bad as it gets." I'd blow on the cut and say, "See it hurts a little less, now. You can stand it. You'll be fine."

And they were.

They didn't need me to blow on their cuts after a while. They knew they were stronger than the hurt.

"I'm fine, Mom," they'd say.

And they were.

I did the same for their emotional pain as they grew older. Hurt feelings are worse than skinned knees. "It hurts, but you'll live. This part is the worst. It gets better. It doesn't last forever. You'll see."

And they did.

I believe in facing down hurt. Looking it squarely in the face and letting it wash over me. Feeling it. It isn't bigger than I am. I am stronger.

It has been said that when tears flow they take with them some of the chemicals that arise in sorrow. Experiments have been done. Tiny vials held beneath lachrymal glands collect the drops. Scientists in a laboratory examine emotions under a microscope. I don't know what they've discovered. I don't know if crying helps.

I think shedding tears is like a rainstorm that washes the dust and pollutants from the air so that when the sun comes out again-- and it will-- things look brighter.

I tell myself this as I hang up the phone. My oldest. I said no. Again. Tough love is an exquisite pain. But I can handle it. I've seen how bad it can get, and I'm stronger.

And for each of you with your own private pain, I can't blow on it and make it better, but I can be with you as you rise above it. That's all we can do for each other.
~~~~~
The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
~Lord Byron

A jar of summer~

2008-08-29T20:50:00.009-04:00

Today I decided to stock the larder for the coming winter. The abundance of peaches, some so ripe and ready that they are dropping off the tree, warrants more that the momentary pleasure of eating them with brown sugar and cream for breakfast.

I could eat peaches and cream for three meals a day, and still not eat them all before they drop to the ground for the ants, and something else that bites chunks from them sometime in the night.

I figured I could make peach preserves and have myself a golden taste of August when the snow flies and the wind beats on the windows this December.

I needed Ball jars. I'd given away the jars left over from my last domestic surge, an unpleasant event involving yellow beans several years ago. Since then I learned it was easier-- and therefore more my style-- to vacuum pack, and freeze fruit and veggies. And then, I stopped doing even that. Who wants yellow beans in the winter? Although, as I write that I feel a twinge of awareness that many people have far less on their plates than I do, and would devour yellow beans anytime, and here I am sticking my over-fed nose up at eating them in December.

So it's a little of that guilt, too, that makes me decide to can peaches today. That, and the idea of peaches on oatmeal in the middle of a New England blizzard. My mouth waters in anticipation.

I left the store having overestimated how many Ball jars I'd need. I stacked four 12-packs in the passenger's seat. The car treated me like a negligent mother, flashing the seatbelt light, then "pinging" in an ever-increasing tempo until I pulled over and buckled up my jar babies.

Of the 48 jars I bought, I filled four with peach preserves. Lots of labor to produce quintuplets. Loads of peaches to peel, and slice, but peaches are juicy and they take up much less space after simmering for a while. Still, four jars will get me through the month of December.

I had a moment of being very hard on myself-- about the time I took a nap while waiting for the sugar to "draw the juices" from the peaches. The recipe said this would take two or three hours and I was sleepy. As I was drifting off I chastised myself. If I was in a little house on a prairie and my family depended on what I preserved for their survival through the months of winter, would I take a nap? Probably not, but only because the house in my imagination had only one room and I had five crying children under the age of ten wandering near an open fireplace while I tried to get comfortable on my cornhusk mattress.

In real life, I had a nice nap, and woke to finish "putting up" my four pints of peaches. Good thing I have an empty nest. But I just might can some salsa and tomato sauce tomorrow. And maybe put some of my seashells in some of the other jars. That's a nice touch of summer that will see me through the winter when the peaches are gone.
~~~~~
"In the depths of winter I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer."~ Albert Camus

Mature and female~

2008-08-20T21:47:00.011-04:00

I went to the bookstore today to find something about photography. But first I did the circuitous route I always take, starting with the bargain books outside on the sidewalk, and then the half-price book tables inside, then on through the various genres, whether interested in them or not. There is just something pleasant about being surrounded by books, even the ones I wouldn't read if someone paid me.

I watch people no matter where I am, and watching someone pick a book from the shelf and browse through it is interesting. I always wonder if the man in the "relationships" section is conscious that he's being observed reading a chapter called "How to Please Your Mate." I glance sideways from the corner of my eye while unobtrusively flipping through a book. Who knows? Maybe I'm being observed reading, "What You Wish Your Husband Understood About Emotions." Totally made up book, but someone should write it.

The pile of books in my arms grew until I finally went to the coffee bar to sit and sip and look them over. As always happens, I left more books behind than I took home. I left with two photography books and The Female Brain. The Female Brain cover blurb says, the author "follows the development of women's brains from birth through the teen years, to courting, pregnancy, childbirth and child-rearing, and on to menopause and beyond."

I probably should have just stood and read the pages on menopause and beyond, but you never know who might be watching you from the corner of their eye in a bookstore. So instead I paid $14.00 for the 22 pages entitled "The Mature Female Brain" that pertain to me.

I find the brain fascinating and have read many books about brain research. I actually had a bit of a reputation for a while in the teachers' room for being the "brain expert," as my friend Nancy dubbed me. I suppose dropping terms like "anterior cingulate gyrus" into the conversation made me seem likes an expert, but I'm far from it.

To be honest this book attracted me because of the dialogue I saw while skimming. Apparently a man asked his mature-brained wife where his lunch was? Hadn't she brought salami? He'd wanted a sandwich, poor thing. Unbeknownst to him, the hormones in his wife's brain that used to nurture him had faded, and now she no longer did all the nesting things he'd come to expect. Fortunately for the husband, his wife took hormones for other issues and her former cooking and sock-picking-up self returned.

I don't take, nor intend to take, hormones of any sort. Ever. Instead, I've marked that chapter to show my husband when he asks, "What's for supper?"
~~~~~
“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself in any direction you choose."~Dr. Seuss

Peach season~

2008-08-16T22:04:00.010-04:00

It's peach season again in the northeast. Forget the year-round imported peaches I ignore in the supermarket. Fresh picked local peaches are mounded in local farm stands.

But better still, the tree in our back yard is hanging heavy with peaches almost, but not quite, ripe. One, riper than the rest, dropped onto the grass when my husband bumped a branch while mowing the lawn. When he was finished, we shared it, the way we do with the first fruit from each of our trees, including the first tiny cherry we carefully divide in half.

Bruce peeled off the skin and sliced the peach into wedges. Our peaches are fuzzier than store-bought peaches, and the skin is speckled with black fungus spots. But underneath the golden flesh drips with flavorful juice. This one was so delicious that I've checked the fruit daily since tasting that one, gently squeezing to see if it's ready to pick. And eat.

The other day we took a bike ride on a trail that curved along the Rhode Island coast. The trip was 15 miles each way, so we took our time stopping to take pictures., and at one point to examine fresh produce, preserves, and baked goods in a farmer's market set up in a shady park. The peaches, pink and softly fuzzed, caught my eye, and before we hopped back on the bikes I bought one.

I told the lady behind the table how good our own peaches were, but that hers looked so much better. "Ours have skin speckled with black spots," I told her.

She wrinkled her nose. "Oh, that's a fungus," she said.

"What to you do to avoid it," I asked. "Do you spray?"

She was horrified. "No! We don't use chemicals. We hire a company to treat the peaches."

She became distracted by a man she thought had just stuffed an ear of corn down his shorts, so I didn't get to ask how the company treated for the fungus without chemicals.

With the memory of my back-yard peach making my mouth water, I stood beside my bike and bit into the fruit. It was a flavorless mush, pale fleshed and dry. I finished it only because I paid for it-- I was raised not to waste money or food-- but I enjoyed it not at all. Ick.

I'm sure there are things we can do to eliminate the fungus, and make the preaches have more eye appeal, but I'd stack the flavor of our peaches against any other peach anywhere. Hands down. There is no better peach than the ones on the tree in my back yard. Just close your eyes and open your mouth.

Read Inner Beauty, last summer's peach story.
~~~~~
“Life is better than death, I believe, if only because it is less boring and because it has fresh peaches in it” ~Thomas Walker

Does it matter?

2008-08-08T22:04:00.015-04:00

Egocentricity: the state of being self-centered. And who isn't? How can you not view the world, and experience it, through your own eyes, filter it through your own experience, make sense of it through what you understand?
~~~~~

Did you watch the opening ceremonies of the Olympic games in Beijing? Look at China shine! Did your heart not recognize China's pride? Were their ceremonies not magnificent? Did you see the precision, the care, the unity, represented in each presentation? I was so impressed and moved. But I see this event, I understand it, as if it were staged in the USA and paid for by private donations. It's not.

At what expense-- at whose expense-- am I seeing this grander-than-ever introduction to an event that hearkens back to the ancient Athenians? An event performed in far simpler venues, for simpler reasons. Or were they?

Does what dazzles my eye, and impresses through technology-- a history lesson delivered via pyrotechnics-- also impress those who were hurt by the very country that stages the event that captures my imagination? This is a nation's pride on display for all the world to see. But what of the individual citizens? Are they dazzled?

At what expense to her own people did China display her glory? Halfway through the event a nagging voice said . . . be not deceived. This comes at great expense to many. And still I watch . . . one eye amazed and applauding, and the other spilling a tear. There was Tiananmen; there is Tibet.

And yet . . . we have our human rights violations, our horrors, in our brief 232-year history. Shameful ones. Have we risen above them yet? How much harder might it be for an ancient country like China, one bound in traditions for millennia the way its girls' feet were once bound? Might they need a longer time to unwrap the bindings?

Do you not see the beauty of the young athletes? Do their proud excited smiles not capture your heart? Skin colors from coal to cream. Does it matter? A language for every color-- some with alphabets, some without-- the words sound different, but they say the same thing. Does it matter? Do you see the symbols in the ceremonies? Peace, unity, harmony, togetherness, love . . . Do we not all want this?

What matters most? Our differences, or similarities? What matters most? Power, or understanding? What matters most? But it isn't this simple, is it? It isn't this simple at all.

It should be, but we just don't know how to make it work . . . yet. I'm not turning a blind eye to civil right violations. None of us should, in our country or any other. The love for our fellow man has to burn like the flame in the Olympic torch, and be carried from place to place until it burns in every heart.

It seems a distant hope, but I'd like to think it's possible.
~~~~~
The Olympics are a wonderful metaphor for world cooperation, the kind of international competition that's wholesome and healthy, an interplay between countries that represents the best in all of us.~John Williams

Would you trust this dog?

2008-08-03T22:08:00.005-04:00

Seems dogs have issues that can be sorted out with a DNA test. For a price-- $55 to $200-- pet owners can get their mixed breeds tested to find out exactly what their genetic makeup is.

My first thought when I read the story in The Boston Globe was why would you care? I mean, apart from curiosity, why spend the money? I just wouldn't be curious enough. People often times know less about the babies they adopt. And we're talking dogs.

An aside here: I know a man, a South African black who is as white as I am, who paid $300 dollars to find out his genetic mix. This man has a fascinating story of growing up in South Africa. When he came to the US and applied for a professorship at a state college, he overheard a conversation through the door as he waited for his interview. Whoever the South African was, the blacker the better, someone said. I guess racial quotas were at stake. But he got the job, pale as he was.

Anyway, just as knowing a child's family history is useful to doctors, so it is with dogs and vets. The tests are marketed as a way to promote awareness of health issues that might arise in a dog. Some breeds are prone to hip displasia, some to breathing problems, for example.

And then, there's the issue of breed profiling, a close cousin to racial profiling, or judging a book by its cover. The dog of suspicion in today's world is the pit bull. Apparently if a dog even has a hint of pit bull-- the shape of the head, a barrel chest-- the MSPCA has to label it as being part pit bull.

And so what?

Well, for one thing, dog owners don't want their dogs associating with such rabble, and for another, doggie day care centers and landlords can discriminate against any dog perceived to be part pit bull. And in Boston these dogs must be muzzled on public property.

There is no, "don't ask, don't tell" in the canine world, and no canine equal rights amendment. No Doggy Liberties Union. And lots and lots of dogs have features that just might be pit bull.

Interestingly though, a vet who has been classifying dogs for ten years was amazed how wrong she was when test results came back. "I realized, I didn't know squat, " she said.

Makes me think. You can't judge a dog by its looks. Nor a human. It what's inside that counts, and I don't mean the DNA. I mean the heart.
~~~~~
A dog is not "almost human" and I know of no greater insult to the canine race than to describe it as such. ~John Holmes

This retirement thing~

2008-07-22T22:46:00.008-04:00

This retirement thing . . . it seems like it should be so easy, so effortless, so thrilling, to stop the daily grind. It is thrilling; at least I think it will be come September when I'm not following the school buses to work.

But it's not easy.

I had a plan book on my desk for 35 years, one I filled in weekly, scheduling new lessons at 45-minute intervals, meetings, parent conferences, and field trips. I knew what needed to be done and when.

I got up at the same time everyday (5:45 a.m.), ate lunch at the same time (12:06 p.m.) and watched the kids pack their bags for home everyday at 2:15 p.m.

I'm not sorry to give up that regimentation.

But three weeks into the summer, I find myself making lists of things I need to do, and there is so much to do that I can't imagine how I managed while I was working eight hours on top of it all.

There are the household chores, gardening, exercise (aren't retirees supposed to get fitter?), freelance writing, book reviewing, reading the book to review, editing, interviewing and writing for the paper, admin work on a writing site, photography, time with friends, time with family (my aging mother needs a visit), I need an eye exam and the gyn appointment needs to be scheduled-- I'd put it off until I retired-- and I'm supposed to get a bone density test. . . Oh, and this blog. And I know I'm forgetting a lot.

I'm thinking maybe I need a plan book.

After putting in a couple of hours this morning on odds and ends, I forced myself to take a break. I went for a bike ride-- killing two birds with one stone: getting exercise, and taking pictures.

I locked the bike to a tree and walked the perimeter of a pond at Massasoit State Park until the noise of the swimmers and my "to do" list faded. I relaxed-- by myself, but not alone.

I kept silent company with dragonflies, little helicopters that hovered in front of me before darting off; bees intently nosing for nectar; butterflies, ragged wings open in the sun; three curious sunfish side-by-side in the shallows looking up at me through the watery lens. All so busy, but not rushing, just doing what they needed to, one thing at a time, while pausing to bask in the sun.

That's what I need to put in my plan book: Take time to bask.

I'm thinking maybe I'll buy a hammock. I'll pencil that in for tomorrow. First thing.
~~~~~
Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering. ~Pooh's Little Instruction Book, inspired by A.A. Milne

If I could put time in a bottle~

2008-07-12T23:42:00.009-04:00

I've always been intrigued by Albert Einstein's theories of relativity. Time is relative, he says, in many, many more words.

I won't be so bold, or foolish, as to interpret, but I'll explain what the theory means to me-- rightly or wrongly. Probably more of the latter

Time is not a fixed rate. It varies relative to speed and mass. In other words, the faster we go the slower time moves. If we could speed up to light's velocity as it cuts through the universe at 186,000 miles per second, time would stop. Would that be called eternity?

I don't get it, but I like thinking about it.

E = MC2

Energy is equal to the mass of an object times the speed of light squared. Eventually if mass were speeded up enough, it would cease to be matter. It would become energy. Think "beam me up, Scotty."

We are energy . . . just moving too slowly to manifest that way. We're mired in matter, time, and gravity.

Time goes more slowly in lower gravitation. Clocks that move tick slower than stationary clocks.

I don't get it, but wow!

So.

Time.

I've never mastered time. I don't sense time moving, or rather I do, but then I lose track of it. It moves slowly, and then surprise, it passes on by.

My theory is time speeds up the closer it gets to an important date, a date you've been waiting for. When that day arrives, time is going too fast to stop. It races past, and damn! I missed it. I feel the breeze as time flies.

Twice this month, and we're only on the 12th; I've missed important birthdays of people I care for. Birthdays I saw coming for months, but missed on the very day I'd been waiting for.

The slowest time ever passed for me was the last months of my teaching career. The preceding 34 years were gone in a blink, and then the . . . last . . . year . . . crawled.

This disproves my theory, I see now, because I was waiting for the last day, and it took its sweet time coming. At least I didn't miss it.

So no excuses, no blaming time. This is the way I am, and if I hadn't been this way all my life, I'd be worried, but this is how I've always been.

The fault lies within me . . . or maybe Einstein left out some important part of his theory that I am just now discovering. I'll have to work out why time doesn't affect others the way it affects me.

A friend of mine kindly paints my time issue in a favorable light. "You live in the moment," she says. "You live in the now." And she adds, "I wish I could be like that."

Sigh. No, you really don't.

So, happy birthday, Marilee. Happy birthday, Carter. "Belated birthday" cards were made for the likes of me, and others, who for one reason or another experience time differently.

Cheers!
~~~~~
"Time is a sort of river of passing events, and strong is its current; no sooner is a thing brought to sight than it is swept by and another takes its place, and this too will be swept away."~Marcus Aurelius Antoninus

I (don't) love a parade~

2008-07-05T17:23:00.015-04:00

I didn't bring my camera to the Fourth of July parade. It felt strange not having it hang like a pendant around my neck, but it had rained throughout the night, as only an insomniac would know, and was cool and sprinkley with more rain pending.

I'm not a lover of parades. The wait for them to begin is often longer than the parade itself. I'm not sure there is a point to a parade, really. Without my camera to capture odd bits passing buy, I just watched, snapping mental pictures that would have been awesome photos-- the fish that got away mentality.

Four towns drove fire equipment down the street, lights flashing, sirens screaming. As a kid I'd have loved it, I suppose, the sensory overload and all, but today I just thought, "God help us, and the surrounding towns, if there's a fire!"

Next, old cars. I guess a parade's a place to showcase vintage cars, and some must be beauties, if you appreciate cars. Which I don't. A skinny old man driving a sleek aqua something -- a Pontiac? -- came to a stop and revved the engine. It roared and people laughed. It didn't strike me the least bit funny, just kind of juvenile.

I leaned over to the lady next to me, and said, "And I'll bet as a teen he 'laid rubber.' Peeled out, squealed his tires, and all that."

She laughed. "That type drove me crazy," she said.

Then came an assortment of marchers: one band, a dance troupe, an art club, two town Selectmen, a state rep, horses, dogs in colorful scarves leashed to their owners-- the animals I like-- and a scraggly pack of Cub Scouts riding on a flatbed.

"Why aren't the marching?" whispers my husband, somewhat indignantly.

And I ask in return, "Where are they all?" A dying breed it appears--Boy Scouts.

Finally, floats from competing banks and local businesses-- thinly disguised advertising, of course. One display by "Patriotic Solutions," a plumbing company, which, according to the blurb on the truck, can flush away all your clogs and grease, featured a man sitting on a toilet reading a newspaper.

So, no, I'm not especially fond of parades. I don't see the point at all.

Afterward, I chatted with friends, acquaintances, and strangers, about the weather, art, politics, gas prices, pets, and more politics. I met a woman with a longhaired Chihuahua-- a four-pound handful wearing a tiny hooded sweatshirt. He could sit and shake hands just like a real dog. I patted 4H goats, and watched kids feed them straw. I talked to a man who whittled walking sticks, and another who made pottery, and watched people in the long line to buy fried dough.

It was much later in the rainy afternoon that I understood that parades bring people together for something besides Town Meeting. They provide a place for all ages to share a common event. They make us stop, and wait, and look around, and stand still long enough to smile and shake hands with others who share in our community.

What does that better than a parade?

I still don't love a parade. But I like what they do.

~~~~~
And when it rains on your parade, look up rather than down. Without the rain, there would be no rainbow.~G. K. Chesterton quotes

A sudden, swift move~

2008-06-27T22:27:00.018-04:00

I was young-- maybe 8 or 9-- when, while taking a bath, I allowed a spider to build a web from the wall to my arm. The spider was intent, single-minded, and even as a child I knew this spider was determined to build a web to capture food. I wanted to be part of its success. Its survival depended upon it . . . and on me, I'd thought. I remember wondering why it chose such a barren landscape as our tub, and such an insubstantial anchor as me. Didn't it know? Couldn't it see?

I was fascinated, and somewhat horrified, to realize that I was allowing a spider to use my body as a connecting point for its web. That was a responsibility I couldn't live up to, and when my father knocked on the door and said, "Time for bed. Let the water out," I yanked my arm hard and the spider scurried away. I tried not to think about it as I crawled into bed.

Decades later, I hesitated for a few seconds before ruining a web a spider had built from the lamp post beside the driveway to my truck's door. I had to get to work. But it bothered me to ruin the hard work of this arachnid with a sudden, swift move it hadn't bargained for. By now I knew the strength of gossamer was five times stronger than a steel fiber of the same size. The web had strength, but I had greater force on my side. The next morning, the spider had rebuilt. And again I applied my force. Didn't it know? Couldn't it see?

Lately the news is full of the devastation of peoples' homes-- tornadoes, earthquakes, floods, fire . . . sudden, swift moves. Like spiders, people build homes trusting they'll endure, trusting in their strength. But they don't endure, not always. And I think of the spider, its determination, its desire to survive.

The fragility of humans is on a par with the spider, I think. There are forces larger than our strengths. We feel in charge; we use our brains. We and plan, and consider, but yet, all it takes is a sudden, swift move. We think it won't happen, but it does. Not always, but enough to show our vulnerability. Don't we know? Can't we see?

We see, but somethings are bigger than us. So it becomes a matter of determination, a desire to survive. And that we humans have. Like all of nature.
~~~~~~
“Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.”~Winston Churchill

Who me, crazy?

2008-06-20T22:13:00.006-04:00

Thirty five years will do this to you.

I'm done!!!!

~~~~~
Life begins at retirement. ~Author Unknown