I Resolve: No Resolutions

This last day of year 2011 finds me with too many things to do that I'd rather not have to do; at least, not today. I wanted to write a serious post, one that requires serious thought and analysis of my chosen subject; that being, Where Do I Go From Here?  (Redundancy intentional.)


It isn't that I haven't a clue to answering that question, just that I want to give it the undivided attention it deserves. Instead, I have errands to run, housework that MUST be done (absolutely must be done - my house is beginning to resemble a rabbit warren.)


One thing I will not waste time on is making resolutions for the coming new year. I never keep them. Maybe I should resolve to keep my resolutions. No, not on your life! It won't work, trust me! I know me too well.

What will happen is that for the first couple of weeks in January, I will remember the list of resolutions first thing every morning, pointing out to myself that I haven't made any effort to keep even the simplest of them.  Next comes the the compromise that, okay, so I didn't do it yesterday, but I can do it today! Just as soon as I get X, Y and Z accomplished this morning. By early afternoon, then. Well, for chrissake, before bedtime, anyway!

The next morning starts off the same and goes on thusly for perhaps ten days. At which point, the resolutions have become a niggling, nagging, mosquito-whiny something-or-other thing I was supposed to recall upon rising. The word resolutions has faded from conscious memory, and my subconscious has dug its grave, laid the banana peel at the edge of the hole and is waiting quietly for the word to wander by, whereupon it will be guided to take a look at what's at the bottom of the grave. You know the rest of the slap-stick routine.


Now, see? I could have spent the twenty minutes or so that it has taken me to scribble  write TYPE this nonsense thinking about the more important things I wanted to say. But, no-o-o-o! I'm going to post this, sans picture (sans relevance?) then run my errands.


What was it I said I would do today, while I was sitting on the side of my bed, trying to wake up this morning?

Aha! I have a resolution I know I can keep. I resolve: to take a pad of paper and a pen upstairs for my bedside table, so that I can write this stuff down at the moment the thoughts occur. In fact, I will place them on the stairs as a reminder.  Before I run the errands.  Yes, that's what I'll do!


(Keystone Cops moment: woman slips on ignored pen, still on stairs the next morning, and slides down the steps, face up, head first. Airborne pad of paper lands on her face. On the top sheet of paper, in bold face, two-inch capital letters, is her note-to-self: TAKE THIS UPSTAIRS! Fade to black.)

Celebrating Leonard

A recent discussion of Leonard Cohen and his music started at Lorenzo da Ponte's blog, then moved to Avus' blog, where he posted one of the many LC songs that move me, that touch my soul, that stir my heart – feel free to substitute any other clichéd (but sincere) phrase used to express adoration.


I fell for Leonard Cohen’s writing when I was 22, when I first heard his song, “Suzanne.” His song title became my daughter’s middle name. As LC has aged, so has his voice, once as smooth as the skin on his face, but now wrinkled by time and smoke, and living, into the seductive (to my ears) gravelly growl that only endears him to me all the more.


You can hear the change from youth to older man in these two links.

Another of his songs that I cherish: Dance Me to the End of Love. 

Happy New Year, everyone.

Hark

(Photo taken last year.)

Holiday decorations wouldn't be complete without the little Hummel angel strumming her lute.  I think she is older than I am, though not by much. 

Best wishes for a happy, successful New Year, too. 

Gifts

Gifts come in all sorts of packages, including no package at all. The best gifts come when we least expect anything, or from someone we don't know. I think the greatest gifts we receive and can give are friendship, compassion and understanding.

Today (Wednesday) was a day of such gifts for me, starting with the one when I awoke. (Another day, kid; try not to waste it, will you?) My habit each morning is to visit blogs while having breakfast. I don't always have time to leave comments, but I like to visit, to see what's new in other parts of the world.

When I visited Zhoen's place today, I listened to the song she had embedded, by singer Lesley (Sam) Phillips, titled "One Day Late." On first listen, you might think this is a lament, or a complaint, but I didn't take it that way. I took it to be a song of hope, perseverance and encouragement. As such, it came at the right time for me. I planned to write Z a short note when I got to work this morning, but was surprised to find she had already emailed me, with the lyrics of the song and more words of encouragement. Her gesture was completely unexpected, yet so like her.

Another gift, from the secretary of the historical society where I work, was a vaseful of cuttings from her herb garden. Martie is a Master Gardener in our county, as well as co-chair of the committee that oversees the lawns and gardens of our two properties. She brought in clippings of sage, two kinds of rosemary and scented geraniums, thyme and marjoram. As the day wore on in the office, the heat in the room caused the plants to release their oils, creating a melange of delightful aromas that lifted my spirits every time I walked past them.

Then there is Gustavus, Gus as his family and friends call him; my angel in a blue cap. I ran out of gas within sight of the gas station I was headed toward, and coasted to a stop near an auto and tire store, parking close to a large eighteen-wheeler sitting nearby. I borrowed a gas can from the auto-tire shop next door and walked to the station. On the way back, my asthma kicked in and I was struggling to get back to the car. From out of nowhere, this young man was at my elbow, took the can and poured the gas into the Jimmy's tank. I thanked him for his kindness and said that his mother certainly had raised him right. He laughed and said that when he saw me with the gas can, he knew his grandmother would never forgive him if he didn't come help me.

Gus is from Mobile, Alabama, near where an aunt of mine used to live. Until the BP oil spill, he was a shrimper. In fact he is known as 'Gus the Shrimp King.'

"From my boat to your throat," he said is his business slogan, advertising the freshness of his catch. Now he drives truck up and down the east coast. I think he'd rather be back on his boat, out in the Gulf, hauling in shrimps.

Gus's gift was not so much his assistance with the gas can (although I am grateful he came up when he did) as it was his chatting with me about the South, about what life is like there, about some of the places I remember well and miss. I've lived here in Pennsylvania for two thirds of my life, but my heart belongs to the South, probably buried there with my mother. I get homesick for that part of the country and for my family members who still live there, especially at this time of year. Gus, with his soft southern speech, his gentleman's mannerisms and his thoughtfulness, took away some of the homesickness, took me outside of my blues.

These are gifts you can't buy, for any amount of money. They will be treasured and forever remembered, brought out on cold, lonely nights to warm my heart and spirit again and again.

Thank you, Zhoen. Thank you, Martie. And thank you, Gus; safe journey home.

Food Bank

(Those of you who don't like long posts should skip this one.)

Roughly 75 of us showed up at the food bank last night, some with children in tow, so maybe there were 85 of us squeezed into a room big enough for 40, at most. We ranged in age from an infant only a few months old to an old woman in her 80s. A few of the people were migrant workers, very few. Most of us were Caucasian. Most of us were unemployed, or underemployed. A few of us smelled like we had just crawled out of a vat of cheap whiskey. (The rest of us tried not to notice, or we stepped outside to escape the odors – and the noise.) No matter our differences, we all were there because we needed food, because we couldn’t supply that for ourselves, because we all were hungry.

A couple of times, I thought of leaving because I was ashamed to be there. After all, I have a job. Yes, it is part-time and does not provide all the income I need – not all I want, mind you, just what I need to survive. But, I have a job. I think one-third of us in the room have jobs, but those jobs aren't providing what we need to adequately feed ourselves and our families. I also have a home. It is falling apart faster than I can repair it, and I can’t heat it adequately, but I’m not living in shelters, or worse (and like a few people in the room), trying to survive out on the streets. How could I sit there, waiting for my number to be called to fill a shopping cart, when so many others sitting around me have it so much worse? I felt like a whiny-ass fraud. But I stayed. I needed the food the church was giving out more than I needed my dignity at that point.

The first time I went to the food bank, I arrived in time for The Sermon. I listened to the fellowship pastor talk about Papa God’s love for all his children and Big Brother Jesus’ ultimate sacrifice so that we could beat death. All around me, people sat with downcast eyes, looks of shame or embarrassment on their faces. One man twisted his cap in his hands, as if trying to wring Poverty’s neck, anything to make the woman stop talking about how we were sinners and if we turned to Papa God and our Big Brother Jesus everything would be forgiven and we would see the Kingdom of Heaven. What does that have to do with the immediate need of finding something to eat? Does that mean that if we weren't sinners we wouldn't be at the food bank, hat in hand, so to speak, asking to be fed? If I'd had a cap, I'd have been wringing it to pieces, too.

After I registered for the food bank, I was taken to a back room to be interviewed about my employment status, my income, my bills each month, how many were in my family, and whether I was a Christian. I said no, I am a Quaker. Thank heavens, the Pastor Woman thought I was joking and laughed. I told my daughter later that had I known I would be asked about my relationship with BBJ in order to be allowed to receive food, I would have worn saffron robes and danced the Krishna for Pastor Woman when she got to that part of the process. (No offense to any religious group, belief or creed intended.)

Last night was my second visit to the food bank, and I got there about half an hour after the doors opened, to avoid The Sermon. I arrived late enough to be near the end of the line, and the need was so great this week and there were more families with young children needing help, that the shelves were nearing empty by the time my number was called. That’s the trade-off, I guess. But, the good thing is that the young families, who have many mouths to feed, were served well, as it should be.

Still, there was enough for all of us. Thank you, Papa God, for the generosity and compassion of the people in this church.

Now, let’s talk about this economy, PG. What can You do to fix this mess? And could you visit a little hard times on your child, Newt Gingrich? I think he could do with some compassion and a whole helluva lot of humility.

Not Exactly Turkey, But I Give Thanks

Grilled cheese, apple and masala chai - YUM!

We didn't have a Thanksgiving dinner today. We've postponed it until Sunday. Nature (flooded basement), a rough day at work (preparing for an audit)on Wednesday, and a few other things got in the way.

Grandson had another emergency trip to the hospital yesterday afternoon that took up most of the evening. (He's okay. Another black-out, this time while riding his bicycle.)

All the things Daughter and I had planned to do yesterday in preparation for dinner today would have kept us up all night - most of it, at least - and we all were physically and emotionally drained by the time I dropped them off at their apartment. So, we agreed we would enjoy the day more if we put the festivities (such as they are) off until the weekend. (As it turns out, their next door neighbors invited them over for dinner, which was nice.)

Still, this being a day of giving thanks, of recognizing the blessings we have, I offer thanks for the following:

• 
  
  family and friends (my child and her child, my sisters and brothers; friends here and in blogland).


• 
  
  my home, including the spiders and crickets (not the silverfish, though).


• 
  
  my job, the fact that I have one, when so many people are struggling to find work, which saddens me for them and their families. I need to find another part-time job, and I'm looking. I am hopeful one will come along soon.


• 
  
  local food banks, which help me put food on the table, so that I don't have to choose between eating and having the medicines I need to stay alive.

There are many more things for which I am grateful, but this is long enough.

My dinner today (shown above) was a grilled cheese sandwich, which tasted better than all the others I've ever had, and I've had some very good ones in the past. Being mindful makes all the difference.

Almost forgot: I'm still here, the greatest blessing of all. Wonder of wonders.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

At 2:30 AM, the rumbling thrum of the sump pump woke me from a not-so-deep sleep. It was cycling on as frequently as when the hurricanes passed through a couple of months ago.

In my half asleep state, I stumbled downstairs to make sure there was nothing on the basement floor that would be damaged by rising rainwater, then trudged back up to peek outside to see how things looked - besides wet, I mean.

You know how earthworms crawl out of the soil during heavy downpours, seeking drier ground? I counted a dozen of them on the concrete pad at the bottom of the steps. That's a lot of worms in one spot, but the one that alarmed me was the one trying to climb the trunk of the dogwood outside the back door.

This is not a good sign.

The only thing to do is make a nice cuppa, then go back to bed. It's supposed to rain steadily like this for another twelve or so hours.

I hope the worms find higher ground and make it through the night. I'd offer them some tea, but that's probably the last thing they'd want right now.

'Night, y'all.

Collector, or Hoarder?

I mentioned to Daughter last week that I planned to attack the house before it attacks me.

"I want to sort and box up my collections," I began, but didn't get far.

"Mom, you aren't a collector. You're a hoarder."

Uh, well, no I'm not. I can still walk from one room to the next without falling over stacks of stuff, and the things I 'collect' are useful and used. Plus, there are no dead bodies under piles of clothes (unless you count spiders, maybe), and I don't collect cats or dogs or any other animal (unless you count spiders and crickets, which come in uninvited; I do not collect or hoard them.)

I have almost 300 books, on various subjects and lots of fiction, but they are neatly put away on bookshelves or in boxes in the attic. (Where there are many, too many silverfish, but I don't collect them, either.)

Many of my belongings, that are not in boxes, collect dust, but that's on them. I don't collect dust. For one thing, I don't sit still in one place long enough to collect dust.

I do have a plastic bin for junk mail, although I wouldn't call that a collection, either. When the junk reaches the top, I put it out in the trash. The bin might be a little overdue for dumping - okay, maybe a LOT overdue - but I'll take care of that this evening.

When I cleaned the downstairs powder room (where do we get the names for these things?), I discovered I own five hairbrushes, so one could argue they are a collection. Maybe that many brushes, when I haven't much hair to brush right now, constitutes a hoard, but I threw three of them out. Besides, I didn't know I had that many brushes, so that didn't count.

One thing I do collect - not hoard, mind you, just collect - is rocks and odd shells and other natural objects. I have a few jars and boxes of them, enough to fill an overnight bag, perhaps. Not a Pullman case, though.

When I tried to tell Daughter that my various collections do not mean I'm a hoarder, she asked me if I thought I would have all my beads, buttons and other jewelry making supplies off the dining room table in time for Thanksgiving, or were we going to have to use TV trays?

We can't use the TV trays, I said.

"Why not?"

All my paints, brushes and canvases are on them right now.

(Pic above is a small representation of my natural objects collections, found under all the other stuff when I cleared off my desk this afternoon. I found the container under the kitchen sink. Rather, it found my foot when I opened the cabinet door and it fell out, followed by a landslide of cleaning supplies...which I also do not collect. Or use all that frequently, either, it would seem. )

More Coins

Iceland's eyrir

1939 Reichs mark obverse

Morocco 50 centimes obverse

Morocco face

1901 US Indian head (Liberty) penny in advertising case, from Ohio

Coin of the Realms

I've been on a cleaning jag, a serious one. Over the last several months, while the Octopus was visiting, I let everything go to hell in half a dozen hand baskets. That's what happens when depression takes a choke hold on my psyche; I quit caring about looking after things, myself included. Fortunately, Octopus has retreated far enough into its lair that I am caring again.

Found a small leather pouch left behind in Ex-B's dresser. It contained a bunch of old coins, some US, but most are from other countries. The oldest coin is an 1865 US Indian head (Liberty) penny; the most recent, from 1970s Germany.

Coins tell a great deal of history about their countries of origin. For instance, one of the German coins, a 500 mark dated 1923, is made of aluminum and reminds me of pre-1970s New Orleans Mardi Gras coins we used to catch when I was a kid. These were minted during the recession years following the end of WWI. I recall Ex-B said he was told that was a time when people carried their money in wheel barrows to go shopping. Can you imagine? (Sure hope the current world's economies don't reach that point!)

By 1936-1939, the German economy had improved to the point that the von Hindenburg 5 Reichs mark (shown below), a hefty german silver piece (silver+nickel, I believe), indicated a much wealthier nation. A 1969 2 Deutsche mark, struck in celebration of the Bundes Republik Deutschland's 20th anniversary, is headed back toward lighter weight, and has a yellowish cast to the metal. It's about half the weight of the Reichs mark.

The Danish 5 kroner is the largest coin (3.5 cm), though not the heaviest (5 mark has that distinction) and Iceland's 1 eyrir (1.6 cm) is the smallest, and still heavier than the 1923 mark.

The 1924 50 centimes coin is from French Morocco, made of copper and brass, it looks like. Lots of 'stuff' on the coin, very busy.

I was thinking I might sell the coins, but none has any value to speak of, plus I like them too much to sell them. Don't get me wrong, I would part with them if the value was high enough to outweigh sentimentality.

Some are more worn than others, with some older ones in better condition than more recent coins. These all are works of art, including the Nazi era coins. Too bad I still associate the atrocities of Hitler's regime with anything bearing the swastika. On second thought, that's actually a good thing.

There are more coins than I could load with this post. Among my favorites are the Edward and the George coins from the Empire. One can see the resemblence of the three kings to each other. Handsome men, all.

For Lucy.

Bangs, circa 1954

My second grade school picture. Haircut by my Mom.

Most recent cut

I had asked for what we used to call, back in the 1950s, a pixie cut. My hairdresser, a student at the local 'beauty' school and all of 19 years old, asked me to describe it. I told her wispy bangs and short on sides and back. I believe she did as best she could, given my poor descriptions. Besides, the cut was inexpensive, which I needed it to be, and it's only hair - it will grow back out. Someday. Maybe. I hope.

Too Soon

Almost ready

Friday morning bloomed overcast, drizzly and chilly, though by late morning the sun shone brightly and things warmed up a bit. The historical society I work for had scheduled their fifth annual Ghost Walk around town for that evening, and it looked as if the night would be perfect for it, the first time in the five years we've been holding the event.

Alas, it was not to be. By late afternoon, the clouds moved in again and the drizzle with it. However, the drizzle was light enough that the hardy souls who'd signed up for the walk got to go ghost walking. I stayed home, indulging in pots of hot tea and snickerdoodles. I noticed the weather forecast called for the possibility of snow overnight, but since this is only the end of October, I didn't think much would come of it. If we did get any snow, it wouldn't stick; too early for that, of course.

So, here it is Sunday noon and the heavy wet stuff is still here. Large clumps of it are falling off the trees, hitting the roof of the house and sounding like big dogs falling from the sky. The sound of snow shovels scraping against sidewalks can be heard up and down the street. This stuff is too heavy for snow blowers - more like shaved ice than snow, really. As soon as I finish this post, I'll join my neighbors in the ritual that usually doesn't start until after Thanksgiving.

There is a bit of ancient weather folklore around these parts that the date of the first snowfall dictates how many snowstorms there will be in the upcoming winter season. Wonderful. We're in for 29 storms before the fifth of May, then.

The fifth of May is when most local farmers consider winter has ended; traditionally, that's when the danger of frost has passed. We haven't even had our first frost of the season, yet we have snow. The persimmons in the front yard haven't finished ripening, but we have snow. There are still leaves on the trees, for heaven's sake, so what's with this snow?

(Sorry. Shoveling snow, even hearing shovels scraping on sidewalks, makes me feel crotchety.)

Quickie

Found this at one of the artist blogs I follow. Funny post, cool video.

Out running errands this morning. Hope all of you are having a great day, wherever you are.

WHAT?!??

Okay, so I finished posting the previous bit about Cricket and thought I'd check the headlines on MSNBC before going to bed, now that it's nice and quiet in the house again, and my heart stopped when I read this one.

Really, people?!? You honestly think I'm going to go outside and look upward for this?!

I don't bloody well think so, dudes! I'm headed for the basement. Look out, crickets!

Call of the Wild

I've mentioned before that I like crickets. In fact, I look forward to their song every fall, and to having them take up residence in my basement. I know the spiders who live down there like having them come inside, too, but we won't go down that road just now.

For the last two days, there has been a particularly boisterous fellow somewhere here on the first floor of the house. Night before last, shortly after I went to bed, it began a loud serenade, so loud that I thought it must be in my room. I listened for about half an hour, trying to drift off to sleep. It was late and I had to be at work too darned early to get up and search for a cricket. So, I shut my door, which blocked out most of the sound.

In the morning, I kept hitting the snooze button on my clock, thinking the buzzing sound in my ears was the alarm going off. It was Cricket. At 4:45 AM, almost two hours before I usually rise.

Did I say I like cricket song? Hmmmm...

Last night the serenade began at nightfall and ran all the way through breakfast, through my shower and getting dressed, and for all I know, all day long while I was at the office. I located the sound somewhere in the downstairs bathroom, but couldn't find the singer. I got close a couple of times, because the chirping stopped, but no such luck. Cricket greeted me when I walked through the back door this evening, this time from somewhere in the living room. That's quite a walkabout for one so little - from the bathroom, through my office, through the kitchen, then into the living room. Still, I could not find it.

I planned to blog about a few other things this evening - the flock of swallowtail butterflies that visited the mint blossoms on Saturday, for instance - but all I could think about was Cricket and its incessant singing. I think I'll suggest to the CIA that they use cricket singing as a torture device.

Anyway, I needed a photo of a cricket and sent Google on a search. Found a great photo of a spring field cricket, which is not the same animal as the one in the living room. However, attached to the image, when I clicked on it, was a sound file of a Gryllus pennsylvanicus (fall field cricket, my new housemate) that sounded just like Cricket. This led to other cricket sound files, and I was distracted listening to them. There is a cricket called the fairy bell cricket, because its call sounds like a tinkling bell - so cool!

I was so fascinated listening to those songs that I wasn't paying attention to Cricket, who suddenly appeared in the doorway between the kitchen and my office. Cricket was chirping in response to the other calls, waiting about a second from the end of the recorded calls before starting his/hers.

This was too cool for words! I forgot how aggravated I was earlier and began playing back the recordings so Cricket wouldn't feel so alone. He/she chirped back to the recordings for close to ten minutes, edging closer to the desk all the while. When I stopped the recordings, Cricket continued singing his/her own song.

Something in the song made me feel sad for this little thing, lost in this house all by itself (no other crickets to commune with, that is), trapped with this grouchy old woman who earlier in the evening had contemplated committing cricketcide just to shut it up.

So I gently scooped Cricket into my hands and tossed his chirpy little butt out the back door. I really do like cricket song, and I happily share my space - okay, my basement space - with them; just not tonight, all right!

Thanks to Michelle (see comments) for this pointer to Dancing with Daisy's post about cricket song! Please go listen to the video Daisy has posted there. Truly beautiful sound. Thank you, Daisy and Michelle, for the pointer.

Flehh! Everything's Wet!

Down to only one inch now.

2:50 AM, Thursday morning

I am about ready to move to the Sahara or perhaps the Gobi, someplace where rainfall is a myth told around campfires under starry skies, where camels sail the dunes like ships upon the oceans – similar to the one in my basement right now.

How long has it been raining? A week, maybe? I’ve lost track, any recollection I might have had driven out of my mind by the constant (every thirty seconds, for ten seconds duration) humming of the sump pump. Wasn't it just a few short weeks ago that I was grumbling about how hot and dry it was around here? Some people will complain even if you hang them with a new rope.

Half an hour ago, the rain came straight down so hard I couldn’t hear myself think. It fell in this manner for about forty minutes then tapered back to a mere torrent. Sometime in the midst of the deluge, the sump pump started up again, after having been asleep for a couple of hours following the last sweeping of the rain, which started as soon as I arrived home from work Wednesday afternoon. So far, the sump pump, unsung hero of hurricanes drenchings and floodwater risings, and I have been able to keep the water level down to less than two inches, with the sump pump doing most of the work. I grumble for both of us. Let me just add that sweeping water is like herding cats or corralling snakes; it goes where it wants, to hell with my intentions.

Whoever installed the sump pit didn’t take the lay of the floor into consideration, although he probably did the best he could under the circumstances. There are high and low spots along the floor before it reaches the sump. The southeast side of the foundation is where most of the water enters the basement, but the sump is situated diagonally across the room from there. Getting water to the sump is a bit like the Thanksgiving song, “Over the River and Through the Woods,” because of the aforementioned peaks and valleys. Last time I went down to sweep water, I noticed it is seeping under the foundation along the northeast face of the house, and pouring down the steps under the bilko door.

Could be a lot worse, though. Despite my bellyaching, this is not as bad as Vermont and her neighbors had it in the wake of Irene, for which I am most grateful. Nor, from current reports, is it as dire as in Harrisburg, York and the Amish country. In Texas, they are probably crying for this rain. Well, I wish I could send it to you, folks!

Here comes another deluge, dadgummit! I might have time to make another pot of coffee before I go back downstairs to help throw all this rain back outside. Thank goodness for that pump!

Supper Guest

I usually do not fall victim to grocery displays, but yesterday I did. Just inside the door near the produce section was a display of home-grown (so the sign alleged) late summer vegetables: snowy white onions, brilliant red bell peppers, dark green zucchini, lemon yellow summer squash and plump, firm purple-black eggplants. They were lit up like the counters at jewelry stores, and were all sparkly from the overhead lights. The arrangement suggested ratatouille to me, as I'm sure it was designed to do, and I gave in to the merchandising ploy. As I rummaged through the eggplants, one of them made me burst out laughing. It had a nose! It looked very much like Richard Nixon, saggy jowls and all. Naturally, that's the one I brought home.



I spent several minutes turning Mr. Nixon this way and that, chuckling at the idea that the former "I-am-not-a-crook" President had been reincarnated as a vegetable. Then I began playing with my food. (Can't help it; I'm just made that way.)

As I added features with bits of other vegetables, Mr. Prez became Mme. Aubergine. I even loaned her a pair of my earrings so she could dress for dinner. Of course, she - like the oysters in Lewis Carroll's poem, The Walrus and the Carpenter - had no idea that she was to be the main course.



I prefer couscous with ratatouille, but had none, so I made do with rice. Mme. Aubergine was a very tasty guest, mixed well with the squashes, onions, mushrooms and the red pepper. Yum!


(C) 2011 Text and photos by Martha McLemore

After the Ball

From the white oak

Happily, there isn't much to report in the aftermath of Irene's visit to our town.

The wind blew in a window in the northwest face of my attic a few minutes after the storm made its presence known. I had forgotten to replace the molding along the sides when I took the window out to repair a cracked pane a couple of years ago. I used the base of my favorite flashlight, Skull-Crusher II, as a hammer and soon had the molding nailed in place.

We lost power for a couple of hours in the wee smalls, which I discovered when I came down this morning: two hours and seven minutes, to be precise, according to the clock on the microwave. I could hear the buzzing chorus of chainsaws in the neighborhood, so there are a few limbs down. I haven't walked about yet, so there may be more than just a few limbs, but the chainsaws are no longer buzzing as I write this. I'm thinking there wasn't much for them to sing about, which is a good thing, a blessing.

The old sassafras is still standing, though a good-sized widowmaker fell onto the alley, directly below where it had been hanging since a windstorm broke it off last October. It was too high up for me to reach, and probably too heavy to carry had I been able to in the first place. Every so often, in slight breezes, it would teeter back and forth, a teasing reminder that it would eventually come down, and a warning that I'd better not be standing beneath it when it did!

Farther down the alley, toward the barn, the white oak lost a dead branch, so rotted that it shattered into a dozen punky pieces, posing no threat to anyone. Oh, and a lovely bunch of leaves with a single acorn still attached. I grabbed it before it was lost to the squirrels.

We continue to have strong gusts now and again in the steady breezes Irene left behind, maybe as strong as 15mph, which is not so unusual. We frequently have much harsher winds blow through town on a regular basis, though not with sustained strength as you have in a hurricane.

When I finish cleaning up the small mess on my property, I'll head out to see what happened in other parts of town. All in all, I think our town was very fortunate that all Irene did was wave at us on her way north. The eastern coast was not so lucky. They lost more than tree parts and attic windows, way more.

PS: That 15mph should be 35mph.

Goodnight! Irene!

I've been in only one hurricane, Hurricane Betsy, back in mid 1960s, in New Orleans. Once was enough.

In 2005, those in my family not in Katrina's path were terrified we had lost our sister, Sandra, who was in the path. We couldn't reach her for three days. That's how long it took her to get out of her neighborhood to an area where she could get phone coverage. We thought we would never see her again, but, thankfully, she survived.

There have been brushes with the edges of a couple of hurricanes here in my current home over the last twenty years, mostly high winds, heavy rains, downed trees and power lines, flooded basements - all minor compared to the areas hit full-force, but scary enough for me to be concerned about Irene. Looks like she might hit the Northeast pretty hard, with serious damage to the Mid-Atlantic region. That's the forecast as of this afternoon, anyway.

I am hopeful that Irene will downgrade before she hits land, lose steam and speed, but I think I'm being overly optimistic about that. My greatest concern is for the flooding issues and the high winds. I am preparing for the possibility that more trees in my yard will be knocked down and that my basement will flood, deep flooding. There is a dangerously old sassafras tree right next to my house. The last hurricane that blew through our area broke off the highest branches and tossed them down the street, fortunately (amazingly!) missing all the homes in their path. This old tree is half dead and one I wanted to have removed earlier this spring when I had others done. The funds I had set aside for the tree work had to be used for other things, so the sassy still looms over the house, like Snoopy doing his vulture imitation.

I remember Betsy and the preparations my mother made before it hit. I do NOT anticipate that Irene will do anything to my area anywhere close to what Betsy or Katrina did to Louisiana, but I'm taking those same precautions my mother did all those years ago. Luckily, we have a couple of days to prepare.

I'm putting things in the basement up off the floor, as high as I safely can. Before the storm hits, I'll unplug the washer and dryer and put them up on bricks. I will clean out the well of the sump pump, so that it will work as long as we have electricity. In case our water supply becomes undrinkable (a remote possibility) I will have bottled water on hand. Canned goods and food that doesn't require refrigeration and can be cooked on the grill are on my grocery list for this afternoon. Batteries, too, for all the flashlights I own, maybe even get a couple more lights for spares.

If it looks like we will be hit harder than I anticipate, I'll go stay with my Daughter and Grandson, who live in a very secure building just a few blocks from me, less than a mile away. I guess I must sound like a nervous nelly, but I’d rather be prepared than sorry, you know?

I just wish I could get rid of these Betsy/Katrina memory jitters. But, being prepared and having a plan will help, I know: maybe even put the jinx on Irene hitting the coast in the first place.

Now to find my insurance policy, to see if I'm covered against hurricanes.

I bet not. I mean, we aren't even covered against earthquakes, because they never happen here. Yeah, right!

All Shook Up

Hey! Guess what?!

We had an earthquake!

Well, somewhere in Virginia they had a 5.8 or 5.9 earthquake and we felt it all the way up here in Pennsylvania, to be factual about it. However, that doesn't change the fact that the earth moved, the building I was in shook (I was at work, which is actually a house), and my chair rolled in one direction while the desk slid in the opposite direction. COOL! (Okay, it was a little freaky, too, but mostly it was way cool.)

Had the tremor, which lasted between five and ten seconds, by my reckoning, been any stronger or lasted longer, perhaps I wouldn't think it was so interesting, but given that hardly anything ever moves anywhere in this town, this was neat.

The last time I was in a quake this strong (which is not strong, I realize), I was living in California. I had the flu at the time and was headed for the bathroom to upchuck and thought the motion I felt was due to my illness. Then I noticed that the water in the toilet bowl was swishing side to side. I forgot all about hurling, grabbed Daughter from her crib and ran outside. A neighbor was out on the balcony, having her morning cup of gin and her "special" cigarette. She told me that was nothing to worry about, just a tiny tremor, like a mild hiccup.

When another mild hiccup hit, this time knocking her cup of gin to the floor, she hustled Daughter and me to the middle of the street, where we stood for about ten minutes, awaiting the next one, but there was no next one that morning.

And here I was, while getting dressed this morning, telling the Universe that just once more, before I die, I want to be in a loving, sexual relationship.

I want to feel the earth move, just one more time, I pleaded, only half-jokingly.

Be careful what you ask for, right? Now I have to wonder if this means I'm about to croak?

Summer Bits

Tonight's dessert.

Not much happening in my neck of the woods; that's worth reporting here, anyway.

Went to the local farmers market on Saturday past, in search of peaches, tomatoes and fresh corn, for a birthday feast for Daughter, whose birthday isn't until the 27th, but we feared the peaches would be all gone by then. (She's turning 41 years of age this year. Holy cow! Where have the years gone?)

The weather has cooled a bit, back to what it usually is at this time of year. No more of those 100F-plus days. Now the crickets have begun serenading us at night, after the cicadas have quieted for the evening. I long for cricket song each year, perhaps because of that Chinese folktale I read when I was a kid about the emperor who kept one in a cage, to bring good luck to his palace. I don't know if they bring good luck, but I like going down to the basement to do laundry in late summer, early autumn, and listening to my visitors chirping to one another. Their singing is poignant, given that they have come in to die. Sometimes, I sit on the basement steps, in the dark, listening.

My crow family, that I've been watching for more than fifteen years, hasn't been coming around so much lately. I think there have been too many feral cats making themselves at home in my yard for the crows to feel comfortable. Either that, or it's because I haven't bought the hot dogs I used to put out for them. If I'm given a pay raise this year, maybe I'll add the bird-dogs to my grocery list again. I miss the crows.

I think I hear a peach calling my name, so I'm going to go drown it in a bit of cream and be happy that summer has finally returned. I have no idea what that blistering season is called, but I'm delighted it has passed. Good night, folks.

The Last Firefly

When I was a child, one of the best parts of summer, other than watermelon seed spitting contests and hand-cranked ice cream, and chunking chinaberries at my brothers, was chasing fireflies across the lawn. I learned how to poke holes in the Mason jar lid with an ice pick (without stabbing my hands) so the fireflies I caught could breath. Many's the time, as an adult, that I've pulled over to watch fields come alive with their yellow-green light.

So, it was disappointing to read that scientists believe the fireflies are disappearing. Excessive pesticide use, habitat destruction, destructive weather changes, light pollution - all are being blamed for their demise. Probably doesn't help that biomedical research companies pay a penny a firefly bounty, dead or alive, to anyone who will catch them. Fireflies are easy to raise, and seems to me a more efficient way to meet your supply needs. Let the wild ones live, I say!

I noticed there weren't as many in my backyard this year as in years past, but I blamed it on the hellaciously hot and dry weather of the last two months, just when the larvae were scheduled to emerge from the earth as beetles to mate and die. The fact that I had begun lighting up the backyard after I was burgled earlier this spring might have added to the parched earth problem, too.

With that in mind, I turned off all the lights around the back of the house. I watered the prairie around the back door, to loosen the soil and provide moisture. I was rewarded with an increase in fireflies - still not as many as before, though. Then the heat hit us with a vengeance and I stayed indoors during the worst of it, whiner/coward that I am, and for several days toward the end of their season, the fireflies ceased to glow. Oh, one or two flickered a couple of times, but that was it.

We had a break in the heat over the weekend, so I went out to refill the birdbath and cut grass. By the time I finished, deep twilight had settled over us, turning everything to shadows against dark purple-blue sky.

Flash. Flash. A lone firefly sparked out a call to any females sitting in the grass near the carport steps. Flash-flash, this time over the Indian mound. No response.

The solitary male continued around the yard, flash-flashing, then waiting. This went on for several minutes. I thought at first that perhaps there were many males flashing, but I could see only the one beetle, a dark spot flitting around the yard, lighting up every few feet, looking for love - okay, looking for sex. Just as I was about to go in for the tiny flashlight on my keychain, with which to signal back, a soft, fluttering shape swooped down from the evening sky and nabbed the firefly in mid-flash!

Guess I can add bats to the list of reasons fireflies are disappearing - at least, in my backyard, anyway.

Another Milestone on the Road to Manhood

As Daughter and I were concluding our phone call this evening, she said that Grandson wanted to tell me something. I could hear him urging her to let him tell me - whatever it was, he didn't want his mother spilling the beans.

"Guess what I did, Nanny."

I can't imagine, I replied. Go ahead and tell me.

"Just guess," he implored. "It's something we were talking about the other day; something I've been wanting to do for a long time."

Oh, god, I thought, which of his hundreds of things we've talked about could it be?

You drove a car?

"No, not that."

You kissed a girl?

"Well, yeah! Months ago, Nanny!"

You didn't get into any trouble, all day?

"You aren't going to guess, are you?" Big sigh of exasperation.

"I shaved!"

You shaved what? (Clearly, I was not very sharp this evening.)

"My face! I shaved my face! The first time!"

I was trying to think what there was to shave, other than the light fuzz under his nose, or his eyebrows, which are prodigious, resembling dark brown wooly-bears across his brow ridge. Then I remembered the patch of long, very light red, downy hairs that ran from the base of his chin down his throat to where it meets his neck.

Oh, I said. And you didn't slice your throat?

"No, not a single cut. I've already got five o'clock shadow and it's really itchy."

Shadow? When did you shave, Boo? (I'm thinking he had just shaved a few minutes before.)

"Last night, but I missed a bunch underneath my chin and on my lip, so I shaved again this morning." He sounded so proud of himself that I bit my lip to keep the giggle from bursting out.

"I won't shave again until tomorrow morning. I told Mom I need some of that shaving gel that makes your beard stand up so you can get a closer shave."

Well, Boo, you've joined the ranks of the Razor Regiment. You've taken another step along the road to being a man. Good for you!

"Yeah, I know, Nanny. Mom says I need to hang up now, so I love you, Nanny. I'll talk to you later."

This was one of those tender-funny moments that are gifts. Clearly, it was an important moment for him and I was being given the gift of his confidence, of his growing up. This may sound corny, and I guess I don't care if it does, but I want to laugh, to cry, to dance, to sing, all with joy and melancholy at once.

All because Grandson gave his man-child face its first shave today. God love him!

(I went looking for Rossini's Barber of Seville to mark the occasion. Thought maybe Domingo might have done it. But I found this group, which seems perfect. Hope you will enjoy them.)



Then this morning, I think this song is also appropriate.

On the Back Burner: Simmerings

Curly

I am, by nature, a person who has to have answers, who has to understand why and how things come about. Sometimes my questions come across, even to me, as whines, but that isn’t what they are – for the most part.

Take, for example, my grandson’s autism. He is an Aspie, short for Asperger’s Syndrome, his section on the autism spectrum. I long ago accepted that he has this permanent condition. I am beginning to accept that he might never learn how to get along as an Aspie adult in the predominantly non-Aspie world, a world that doesn’t want to make room for the “imperfect” (note the sarcasm in my voice, please) among us. It pains me to think this, but I see evidence of the possibility; probability, more accurately.

For instance: he attends a social program designed to help Aspies (and others on the spectrum) learn to cope with the rest of the world. This program closes its doors at a certain time with no admittance if a client is late. The purpose of this rule is to help the children learn to follow rules, to be punctual and to be considerate – all useful attributes for the work place, as well as school and home. Besides all that, it takes a while to get the kids settled into the program’s routine each day, and latecomers delay and disrupt the routines. So, grandson is very conscious of getting out of the house and down the street to the Amazing Kids’ Club on time.

As I was getting ready for work yesterday morning, about to leave the house, grandson calls.

“Nanny, I don’t know what to do,” he begins breathlessly. “The fire alarm is still going off and I can’t get back in to the apartment until it stops and I’ve got Curly with me and I have to go to Kids’ Club. I can’t be late and Mom’s in Lebanon at the VA Hospital.” Heavy, fearful breathing almost drowns out the words. “Can you get my cat? Do you have to work today?”

I tell him that I can’t help him with the cat (his therapy pet) and ask if he thinks it will be okay for him to take the cat with him to the club. Is Curly in his carrier?

“I can ask Mr. B [club director] if it’s okay to have Curly there. I don’t know what to do. Should I call Mom?”

He is trying not to panic; I can hear it in his voice. He tells me his mother won’t be back from Lebanon until late in the afternoon.

It didn’t occur to him to call Kids’ Club about his situation, to see if he could arrive a little late because of the apartment building’s rule that no one is allowed in until the fire department gives the all clear. He didn’t think to ask if he could leave his cat with a neighbor until he or his mother could get back. He was afraid his mother would be angry if he didn’t go to Kids’ Club as he was supposed to do, and afraid that Mr. B would either be angry, too, or wouldn’t allow him in. Grandson looks forward to Kids’ Club, a bright spot in his day. He was confused and anxious. He can’t think clearly or rationally when situations arise that are not in his routine. Just one of the curses of this neurological disorder he endures.

My grandson is almost 19 years old and over 6’4” tall; extremely intelligent (most Aspies are, by the way); a gentle, loving, kindhearted young man who tries to help others however he can; who frequently behaves like he is only 10 years old. He doesn’t fit well in this world.

No, that’s not right. It is the world that doesn’t fit in well with him. The world could adapt. It looks like he might not ever be able to do that.

So, I want to know why? Not “why him,” which is whining. Just why? What is this condition and why haven’t we any more answers, or help, or funding for research, or programs to assist the families and their Aspie kids?

I hope I am wrong about his ability to adapt. Many Aspies can learn to compensate for their brains’ wiring problems and do quite well in this narrow-minded, unforgiving world. It is my fervent plea to the Universe that Grandson is one of those, and that I can live long enough to be of use in that quest. And that we who are not Aspies can learn to fit into their world.

Maybe then “why?” won’t matter so much.

Too Darned Hot for This Whiner!

I wanted to write something funny and scintillating this morning but my brain is sitting in its underwear in front of the air conditioner, and two fans advertised as mobile typhoon generators, sweating snynapses all over itself.

My fingers are hanging limp at my sides (I'm typing this with my tongue) panting from the sweltering heat and humidity, wondering when did we move back to New Orleans, and why weren't they told? Now I know how those in the midwestern states felt over the last two weeks. Only we haven't reached temps higher than 102F yet, so we don't have it as bad so far.

It is so blasted hot that YouTube has forgotten how to embed videos. I tried to bring several vids to illustrate just how hot it is today but every one of them failed to launch, so after several attempts, I quit trying. I Googled melting ice cubes, waterfalls and Ella singing Cole Porter's, "It's Too Darned Hot," but could not embed them nor provide links. Must be because I'm typing with my tongue and I'm not holding it right.

At least I can listen to Queen Ella of the Fitzgeralds on my boom-box while standing in a shower of cold water.

Right after I dry off the keyboard. See y'all later!

Blue Pencil Blues

So, I'm going through my story files in search of something I can revise down to 1,000 words or less to send to one of those flash fiction sites. (Listen, I have a hard time revising my grocery lists, so you can imagine how well this is going today.) While I tend to ramble in posts to my blog, because I usually write here the way I converse, my fiction is much more precise--not perfect, just tighter--and I'm having difficulty trimming words from a piece that I had already trimmed down to the gristle of the story.

Take, for instance, my story "Chickasaw Summer," about a hard-headed, trouble-making kid who stays with her uncle's family and finds a UFO (she thinks) in the woods. I took the first chapter, which sets up the story nicely, thinking I could cut 800 words from it to send off. Those 800 words are essential to setting up the following chapters, and I was left with the dullest piece of garbage I've ever read--and written.

Same thing happened with one of my crow stories, although the chapter titled "The Last Gathering," about a memorial service at a Quaker meetinghouse, has promise as a vignette. I intend to work on it when I'm finished here.

Another story, which took first place in a college writing competition, also set in a Friends meeting house, might work, too, now that I think of it. That was one of the first pieces I wrote several years ago. One of the prompts our writers group gave was for a romance, a genre I'd never tried before. "The Promise of Love" has about 500 words over the limit for flash fiction, but I probably can tighten it up without losing the essence of the story.

Trying to rewrite what I've already edited almost down to bare bones is a lot harder than writing the stories in the first place. It's a good thing I don't have to do it like Orwell did in his sample above, typing, then re-typing and typing still again and again, because I think I'd give it up. Maybe I should write something new.

Of course, if all else fails, I could send them one of my grocery lists.

Has Anyone Seen My Vampire?

Some years ago, so many that I can’t even remember how long ago, I bought Karen Elizabeth Gordon’s book, The Transitive Vampire, more for the title than for the content. I was looking for a book on grammar, having doodled my way through that section in grade school, as some of my writing clearly shows. I knew, even then, if I hoped to make it as a writer, I was going to have to clean up my grammatical act. Gordon’s clever title caught my eye, and my sense of fun—something I don’t normally associate with learning grammar (or algebra, either). Buying her book turned out to be a good investment. As so often happens to valuables in my household, though, I have misplaced my Vampire. It probably isn’t lost, but I can’t easily put my hands on it, now that I have decided to get serious about writing—for profit, I mean. Fun doesn’t put food on the table or gas in the Jimmy.

Whilst out running errands for the historical society this morning, I found something almost as good as the Vampire, though nowhere near as entertaining. The big-box office supply store in town is gearing up for the return to school, with all kinds of things on sale, such as the laminated, bi-fold, four-page quick study guide to English Grammar & Punctuation (the ampersand is theirs) that I brought home.

In college English classes, my papers were continually marked down because of my misuse of commas, so that section of this guide will be worth at least half of what I paid for it. The section titled “End Punctuation” shows the proper use of exclamation points; “No cigars! Put that out now!” However, the section on commas doesn’t say if I should have set off the title listed in the last sentence with commas, something I seem to remember being told to do in Eng. Comp: 101.

So, this afternoon, while the thunder crashes and the lightning flashes their way through town, I’m going to read this dry-as-a-bone, humorless guide, in hopes of learning what I should have paid attention to in grammar school (pun intended). It ain’t my funny Vampire, but it will do.