Archive for the ‘Musings’ category
May 5, 2015
The morning is warm but cloudy. Rain is a possibility, but I won’t mind because we haven’t had much rain lately. A while back we had days of rain then it stopped, plugged by an unseen hand. Gracie and I have a couple of errands later including our first stop at the garden center. I have a list of flowers I hope to add to the front garden, and I know what herbs and veggies I want.
When I was a kid, I never thought flowers would become important to me. My father and his pansies were all I knew. Few of the yards around us had gardens either because my neighborhood was filled with lawn people. A green, lush, beautiful lawn was a status symbol. It had to be mowed just right and frequently watered. On hot days we’d run through the sprinkler which sort of annoyed my dad. It wasn’t good for his lawn to have us tamp it down as we ran. The neighbor behind us was a radical lawn lady. Even though we shared a hill, she never wanted us walking on the grass. She’d yell from her kitchen window if we dared pass the line of demarcation between her part of the hill and ours. It wasn’t a real line, but it was the visual boundary between her yard and ours, between a lush lawn and just grass. My father didn’t care about that hill. It was his front lawn which he tended lovingly.
When my parents came to visit, my dad brought all his lawn tools including his mower. My mother and I would go shopping, and my dad would tend my yard. He’d mow and rake the grass then trim the bushes. He’d even venture into my wild backyard and mow the tall grass, reminiscent more of a field than a lawn. I think my neighbors were probably cheering as I never mowed until I figured the grass was high enough to make it worth my while. When my mother and I would get home, my dad would give us the grand tour of all he’d done. The difference was amazing. He always made my front yard looked cared for and loved. That was his gift to me, one he enjoyed giving. I loved him even more for it.
Categories: Musings
Tags: flowers, front yard, garden center, green, herbs veggies, lawns, lush grass, maybe rain, mowing, my dad and his mower, pansies, Shopping, trim bushes, trimming, waram day, wild backyard
Comments: 16 Comments
May 4, 2015
Today is one of those spring days when outside is warmer than inside. The day is absolutely gorgeous. It is warm, even t-shirt warm, while the house is still sweatshirt chilly. I’m hitting the deck as soon as I finish here.
Every Monday at ten o’clock I visit my neighbor who is Brazilian. Niecy and I just chat so that she can improve her conversational English. She offered to pay me but I refused. She is my neighbor after all, and it’s fun just sitting and chatting. Sometimes I even think we should be sharing tea and cucumber sandwiches.
The week is a quiet one for me but then again most weeks are. I have all this time on my hands, and I find ways to keep busy but most times it’s reading or cleaning or even taking a nap. I don’t go out much, but I’m fine with that. Gracie and I did take a ride the other day after the dump run, and I bought myself my favorite sandwich to eat at home which, I know, doesn’t sound all that exciting, but I enjoyed every minute of the ride and the sandwich. It doesn’t take much to make me happy.
Last night I watched The Man from U.N.C.L.E., an episode filmed in 1965. The girls’ sort of slinky dresses, the guys’ skinny ties and the swim were all part of one scene. I know I must have worn the same type clothes and danced in the same way, but it made me laugh anyway. The swim has to be one of the silliest dances.
Color has returned to the world. We are over the rainbow, no more Kansas. My spring flowers have all bloomed, and my neighbor’s front garden is filled with tulips of all colors. All the forsythia in the different yards is still bright and eye-catching. Even the male goldfinch is back to being bright yellow or gold I suppose. I can see buds and some leaves on a few of the trees. It is time for me to start wearing my bright colors, to start wearing spring.
Categories: Musings
Tags: chatting, colorful world, favorite sandwich, Over the Rainbow, ride, skinny ties, staying home, t-shirt weather, tea and cucumber sandwiches, The Man from U.N.C.L.E., the swim, warm day
Comments: 16 Comments
May 3, 2015
Warm weather is coming. Starting tomorrow we’ll have 60+ degrees for most of the week. Given my penchant for falling, I’ll forego clicking my heels in the air to celebrate. A yay will just have to do.
I walked most places around town even when I was a teenager. None of my friends had their own cars and most of our families had only the one, the one our fathers drove. I remember walking home at night by myself. I was never afraid because we hadn’t learned fear. I never rushed because I loved those night walks, especially in the summer. The air was always warm, the sky covered by stars and night birds sang me home. Circles of light were on the sidewalks courtesy of the streetlights. Few cars were on the road. Houses were always lit and most of the time I could hear TV’s. Sometimes I could even see the flickering black and white screens.
The furthest walk I had was from the diner at the end of the square. I used to belong to a drill team, St. Patrick’s Shamrocks, and we had practice at Recreation Park twice a week in the summer during the competition season. There were no lights at that field so practice ended when it got dark. After practice, we’d walk from the field to the diner for a brownie and a coke. For the walk home, my friends went in the opposite direction, and I walked by myself.
During one late walk, a police car stopped beside me. It was driven by my friend’s brother who offered me a ride home. I took it. He turned on the blue lights just as we got close to my house. He walked me to the door. I can only imagine what my neighbors were thinking.
Those long ago walks gave me a love for the night, and I sit on the deck at night with Gracie beside me. The sky is filled with stars, the night birds sing and peepers from the pond at the end of the street join their chorus. Sometimes I even fall asleep on the lounge with Gracie at my feet.
Categories: Musings
Tags: blue police lights, drill practice, family car, night walking, police car ride, Recreation Park, singing birds, St. Pat's Shamrocks, starry skies, streetlights, walking, warm weather coming
Comments: 18 Comments
May 2, 2015
Cold again but sunny-the weather is in a rut.
The red spawn can fly. Yesterday I noticed he was at a different feeder and was sitting and dining al fresco on the backside so he couldn’t see me. I could see only his tail hanging below the feeder. I went slowly across the deck making no noise so he couldn’t hear me. When I got to the feeder, I was so close I could have touched him. His eyes got huge when he saw me and realized he was stuck. I was by the rail, his usual escape route. I stamped my foot to scare him, and he jumped off the feeder and sort of flew to the ground, two stories below. He landed on all fours then ran to the back part of the yard. Sadly, yesterday’s experience will have no affect on that spawn. He’ll be back. I just know he will.
When I was a little kid, feeding the squirrels on Boston Common was exciting. My dad would buy a couple of bags of peanuts and give us each some. I’d shell a few then I’d toss them. A stampede always ensued. Several of the grey squirrels would scurry over, stand in front of me, some on hind legs, and wait for a handout. I thought it was kind of neat to have wildlife so close to me, almost eating out of my hand. I swear the squirrels living on the Common had to waddle from place to place because they were so well fed.
I remember London and Trafalgar Square and the pigeons. My dad and I went touring a bit by ourselves one afternoon. I don’t remember where my mother was. We bought some seed, and the birds attacked. I swear they were Hitchcock extras, hungry and out of work. They jumped on our hands, shoulders and even our heads. I threw the seeds. My dad held on to his, and he was soon covered in pigeons. They were flying around him, and I took pictures. He was laughing in every picture. When he was finally out of seed, we sat on a bench for a bit and concocted a plan. We’d get my mother there, act innocent and have her hold some seeds in her outstretched hands. We did, and the pigeons attacked. I took pictures, great pictures of flapping wings circling around my mother. She was screaming as the birds settled on her head and shoulders. We yelled for her to save herself and throw the seeds. My mother was really upset. This was her first attack by birds. My dad and I acted innocent and solicitous, but I suspected she knew.
I took slides back then and we always had a slide night a month or two later. The pigeons pictures were hysterical, even my mother had to laugh.
Categories: Musings
Tags: attack of the pigeons, bird seed, Boston Common, cold, feeding the squirrels, flying squirrel, London Trafalgar Square, peanuts, pigeons, red spawn, throw the seeds
Comments: 23 Comments
May 1, 2015
Okay, I’m not liking this on again off again sunny day. Today is cloudy and chilly. Supposedly warm days are coming, but I have become a weather skeptic. When I can go outside wearing a short sleeve shirt, I’ll become a believer.
This morning I dragged myself out of bed at ten, yup ten o’clock. Fern and Gracie were still with me. As my mother used to say, “You must have needed the sleep.”
We’re going to the dump today, a day later than usual. We’re also going to buy cat food and dog treats and a treat for me, my favorite sandwich.
Some days I have absolutely nothing to talk about while other days my words runneth over. Today is a nothing to talk about day. It is May Day which means baskets of flowers and it’s also International Workers’ Day, take your pick, both have merit. I’m in a flowers sort of mood hoping they’ll brush away the clouds.
When I was a kid, I felt interminably stuck inside on any sunny, spring school day. My classroom was surrounded by tall windows and looking out of them was a form of torture. I could see what I couldn’t have. There I was using my fingers to count while outside all that sun was being wasted. Even worse was when the sunlight shined on my desk. I loved recess on those sunny days but recess always had the same ending: the officious nun rang the bell, and we dutifully and quietly lined up in twos by class to go back inside. I remember running all the way home so I could play just a bit longer in the sun before my mother called me in for dinner.
I’ll abide the clouds today. It’s not as if I have a choice. I suppose I could be a Pollyanna and build a castle in the clouds, but given my mood, that’s far too much imagination for me. I’m really tired of clouds.
Categories: Musings
Tags: baskets of flowers, cat food, cloudy, dog treats, dump run, favorite sandwich, International Workers' Day, May Day, playing after school, sleeping in until ten, stuck in school, sunny days
Comments: 8 Comments
April 30, 2015
Today the outside world beckons. It is a bit chilly but the sun is bright. I almost want to lie down on the deck with Gracie and soak up the warmth. The cats are sleeping in the sunlight streaming through the front door. Lots of birds are at the feeders. The red spawn was there earlier but now has a Pavlovian response to me. If I go outside and the spawn is on the squirrel proof feeder, it jumps on a branch, runs up the tree trunk and then jumps from branch to branch across the yard. I don’t even have the hose yet, and it still runs away from me.
When I was a kid, the phone we had was a party line. We shared it with Mrs. McGaffigan whose house was at the bottom of our hill. It was a really big house, the sort built in the 1930’s, with a front porch. The house sat right on the corner across from a similar house on the other corner also with a big front porch. I never knew who lived in that house, and I only knew Mrs. McGaffigan by her voice. When the phone rang, we had to listen to the number of rings to see if the call was for us or for Mrs. McGaffigan. Sometimes we didn’t care, and we’d pick up the phone to listen to her conversation. She always seem to catch us. I think we giggled. “Put the phone down right now,” was what was always said. Most times we put it down but once in a while we just pressed the button so she’d think we had, and we’d keep listening. Mrs. McGaffigan never really had an exciting conversation. We liked listening because we shouldn’t. We eventually got our own number, and I always missed Mrs. McGaffigan and her phone calls. When I go back to my town, I drive the familiar routes I walked as a kid. I usually drive right by Mrs. McGaffigan’s. The house still looks big perched on the corner. I don’t know who lives there, and It will never matter. It is always Mrs. McGaffigan’s house to me.
Categories: Musings
Tags: front porch, listening on the phone line, nostalgic rides, party line, Pu the phone down, red spawn, sleeping cats, streaming warmth, suuny
Comments: 8 Comments
April 28, 2015
The day is uninviting. The flags in my front yard are flapping and whipping in the wind. In my back yard, the pine tree trunks sway and almost bend. We haven’t any sun. It rained last night and the clouds just stayed around. Bleak comes to mind except for one amazing spot in the front garden where my forsythia has bloomed in the brightest yellow. It is the most hopeful sign of the progression of the season, of the emergence of spring.
We had a very small kitchen when I was a kid. The table was sandwiched against the wall and at best five chairs could be set around it. There were six of us, but my mother never sat with us so five chairs were enough. My mother was an at the counter eater. Even much later in a kitchen with plenty of room, my mother liked the counter. I never thought it was strange.
My parents never mentioned their pets. I think maybe my mother had a dog, but that memory is fuzzy. I know my dad didn’t have any pets. His parents were not pet people. When I was five, we got our first dog, a Boxer need Duke. From then on our house always had pets, usually a dog and a cat or two at the same time. I can’t imagine a house without a pet.
I don’t know how my parents became pet people. I’m thinking it was just in their natures. They had no history of loving dogs or cats, but they surely loved theirs and mine. Every dog I had was spoiled when visiting my parents. My dad would get a bowl of ice cream for himself and one for the dog. I’d bring up treats and dog food, but each dog turned its nose up at its usual treats and would stand by the fridge patiently waiting for my mother to give it some cold cuts and cheese. She thought it was funny. For Christmas one year my mother gave my dog homemade biscuits. Maggie thought they were manna from heaven. My father never met Maggie and neither of my parents met Gracie. My dad would have been roaring laughing at Gracie and her sass. Maggie would have followed him around and sat with him in the yard. She loved her leisure. I’m sorry that Maggie and Gracie never got to be spoiled by my parents. I, however, fill the gap. In my mind, pets are meant to be spoiled as sort of a small thank you for what they give us, for the love which is immeasurable.
Categories: Musings
Tags: being a pet person, bleak, Clouds, cold cuts, dogs and cats, eating at the counter, forsythia, growing up with a dog, small kitchen, spoiled pets, spoiling dogs, Wind
Comments: 21 Comments
April 27, 2015
No errands to do today, but I have some laundry which I’ve brought down to this floor, only one more floor to go. I’ll probably make my bed, but that’s not a given. I will water the plants. I’ve already showered and read the papers. The day is partly sunny which I prefer over partly cloudy, a choice which reminds me of the half-full or half-empty glass description. I always figured that choice had little to do with outlook and more to do with thirst. Really thirsty makes the glass half-empty.
In our travels, my brother and I would drink water from just about everywhere except the swamp. Beside the tracks, there was a pipe with water flowing from it. Underneath the pipe was a small pool of water which was the start of a stream. We always stopped there for a drink. The water looked clean. That’s all we cared about. There were very few bubblers around town. One was at the field below our street, and we stopped there. We even taught the dog to drink from it. Germs were never a consideration. Cooties were, not germs, but dogs didn’t have cooties. People did. In my head just now jumped the memory of cootie catchers. They were made by folding a paper several times until there were four corners meeting in the middle and each corner had a pocket to put your fingers in so you could move the corners back and forth until a corner was chosen. Inside each corner was something pithy the maker had written. We also used those cootie catchers as fortune tellers, a nicer game. Later I realized these were origami, but knowing that was a long way in the future.
The best and the coldest water was from the hose. Before you drank it, the water had to run a bit as the sun had warmed the water already in the hose. Once it was cold enough, the flow had to be gentle or the front of your shirt got soaked. It was a balancing act which took some practice.
Even in Ghana we drank suspect water which had floaties, our pet name for whatever was in the water bottle, really a beer bottle holding water, but on my latest two visits to Ghana, I bought water, bottled water. I figured I’m beyond taking chances with floaties.
Categories: Musings
Tags: choosing half empty, choosing half full, cootie catcher, cooties, drinking water, fortune teller, Laundry, lazy day, make bed, origami, water from the hose, water plants
Comments: 8 Comments
April 26, 2015
It’s cold again today. The high will be 51˚. The nights are still in the mid to high 30’s. The sun was here for a bit then the clouds came in and the sun was covered, but the day is still light.
When I was a kid, I either went to the early mass with my dad, the usher, or I walked to mass later in the morning. If it was a lucky Sunday, my aunt would be at the later mass, see me and invite me to the Stoneham Spa for a lime ricky. The spa was uptown. It was old and looked like the malt shops on TV. It had wooden booths with all sorts of names carved on the tables, faded signs on the walls highlighting some of the menu items and stools at the counter. It had been a hangout even during my mother’s high school days. I don’t remember when it closed down, but I know it was before I was in high school or we would have been there.
If I didn’t see my aunt, I’d trudge home after mass to spend the most boring day of the week in the house. We didn’t go anywhere to play or roam on Sunday because we had to be there for the big Sunday dinner. It was usually the only time in the week we had roast beef so it wasn’t all that bad being stuck in the house waiting for dinner. I’d read the comics, the only part of the paper I cared about, or watch the Sunday movie. Sometimes we’d go visit my grandparents after dinner, but mostly we just stayed around the house. On Sunday nights we went to bed earlier than usual. My mother gave us the excuse, which we never believed, that because we had been up late on Friday and Saturday nights we needed to go early to get our rest for school on Monday. We used to argue and plead but to no avail. I think my displeasure was evidenced by my feet pounding each step as I went upstairs, but I was usually wearing slippers so the noise wasn’t bad enough for my father to yell.
Sundays haven’t really changed much. They are still mostly boring. Now I read all of the papers, but I still start with comics. Old, ingrained habits seldom die. I don’t cook a big meal for myself but I like Sunday breakfast. That comes from when I’d visit my parents, and my dad always made me my Sunday breakfast. He’d cook eggs, anyway I wanted them, bacon and toast. Mostly I liked them sunny-side up. That’s what I make for myself, but he never broke the yolks. I sometimes do.
Categories: Musings
Tags: afternoon TV movie, boring Sunday, cloudy, cold, comics in the paper, early to bed, malt shop, Mass, pounding feet, roast beef, Stoneham Spa, Sunday breakfast, Sunday dinner
Comments: 12 Comments
April 25, 2015
The house was cold this morning. I really didn’t want to get out of bed and neither did Gracie. She stood up, shook, then settled back down beside me, leaning against me. She’s into warmth. It was late, 9:20, so I dragged myself downstairs to begin the day.
My mother never woke us up on the weekends or in the summer. The older we got, the longer we slept in, but when we were young, we wanted the whole day. On summer Saturdays we’d get dressed, bolt down our cereals then take off, sometimes on our bikes and sometimes on foot. We’d cut through the woods to get to the horses in the field on Green Street. The house on the property was red, large and old. It was one of those square houses I found out much later were called federal. We’d stand by the fence, and the horses would come over and we’d pat them. My brother and I would try to feed them grass but they weren’t interested. A couple of times we climbed the fence hoping to jump on the horses and ride them. They’d take off as soon as we got close which was a good thing. I’m sure riding bareback would have lasted about a minute or two before I hit the ground.
Once in a while we’d alter our walking route and head for a different side of town, the area where the box factory, the railroad station and the red store were. Back then my town had a lot of factories for a small town: the Jones Shoe factory up town and two other factories which make chemicals, both by the railroad tracks. Those two buildings were brick, not common for buildings where I lived. Across the front of one was a black sign, but I don’t remember the name of the company though I passed it more times than I can remember because that part of the tracks was a shortcut home. All the factories were still active when I was a kid. One of my friend’s mothers worked in the shoe factory, and I remember watching the trains crossing the main road on their way to the chemical factories.
I used to love walking those tracks, none of which remain. Even now I always stop and watch trains. There is something about them which grabs my imagination.
Categories: Musings
Tags: bike riding, box factory, chemical factories, cold day, factories, federal architecture, field, patting horses, railroad tracks, sleeping in, walking, weekends
Comments: 17 Comments
