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“In summer, the song sings itself.”

June 21, 2014

Some words are magical not because they possess any special powers but because they conjure all the best memories and bring hope for more. Summer is one of these words, and the mere mentioning of it fills my head with remembrances. We visited my father’s aunt once and swam in her pond. It had leeches, and when we got out of the water, they were on our arms and legs. My mother freaked. My brother and I just pulled a few off each other. I can still see in my mind’s eye the pond, the overturned derelict white rowboat with flowers all around it, the Adirondack chair where my mother was sitting when she saw us and the black leeches on my arms. I think I was around five or six, the age of curiosity, not fear. On one New Hampshire vacation, there was a small waterfall by our cottage. My brother and I sat at the top, and I remember how funny the moving water felt under my legs. Playing softball in the heat of the afternoon made me sweaty and dirty, badges of honor. Sleeping outside at night was glorious. Every night there were a million stars. The drive-in meant pajamas, home-popped corn, bug juice and never seeing the end of a movie. The streetlights stopped mattering. Meals were haphazard, no special time. Sunday dinners went on hiatus. Shorts and shirts and sneakers were the clothes of every day.

Even my adult summer memories are filled with laughter and fun. Saturday night movies on the deck always mean popcorn, malted milks balls and nonpareils. Sitting around the table having a few drinks and playing Sorry is a summer tradition. One memory is among my favorites. At the end of my street, there are bushes not in gardens but along the side of the road, and they  make seeing cars and getting safely out of the street difficult. I remember sneaking up to the bushes one night and trimming them. We skulked like commandos. Why no one heard us laughing is still a mystery. We stay outside late on the deck. All around us are quiet houses with their lights out. We always feel bad for them missing all the fun of a summer evening.

Today is the first day of summer, and it makes me want to giggle. Summer does that to me!

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“Walking the stacks in a library, dragging your fingers across the spines — it’s hard not to feel the presence of sleeping spirits.”

June 20, 2014

The morning is cool and breezy. I slept in a bit later than usual as did Fern and Gracie, but for some reason I have been busy already. I made my bed first thing then watered the vegetable garden and the deck plants, filled the bird feeder, put the dog blankets and pillow in the washing machine and hauled up from the cellar bags of cans for recycling. It is as if I am Popeye after eating the can of spinach.

Today I had nothing planned, but I’ll take in the cans and see how much I make, pick up a few things at the grocery store, buy canned dog food and maybe take a ride to nowhere. I haven’t done that in a long while.

When I was young, I loved just sitting and reading. The library was a weekly stop for me. The librarian, on the kids’ side, was the epitome of librarians with her bun hairdo, her old lady silky looking dress with buttons and her clunky tie shoes. She was a husher who would put her finger across her lips to remind whoever was talking to be quiet. Libraries back then were like churches. You sat quietly in your seat or you walked, almost on tip toes, from bookcase to bookcase. If you spoke, it was always in whispers. Even the librarian whispered. I’d find my books and leave as quickly as I could. Nobody hung out at the library. Sometimes on the walk home I’d stop and sit on one of the benches near the town hall and read a bit. The benches were shaded and there was usually a bit of a breeze and I couldn’t wait to start a new book. I’d read a few chapters then walk the rest of the way home. The next week I’d do it all over again.

My little town library is a hubbub of activity. There are speakers on some Thursdays, the librarian has no bun, wears pants and talks aloud to all her patrons. The library is a welcoming place. The kids’ section is filled with wonderful books, stuffed animal book characters and kid-sized tables and chairs. In the summer there are story hours and not a single kid is ever hushed. I can always count on a perfect recommendation for a book from the librarian, and I don’t have to speak in whispers.

Libraries have a lot of competition from e-books. I buy them too, but I still love visiting my library. There is something comforting about being surrounded by all those books. I can walk up and down the aisles, pull out a book, read the jacket and then decided whether or not I want to read it. I always end up with three or four books. I save the e-books for when I travel. I just can’t curl up with a good book on my iPad.

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“Someone once threw me a small, brown, hairy kiwi fruit, and I threw a wastebasket over it until it was dead.”

June 19, 2014

The day was just beginning when I woke up this morning. I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t so I came downstairs. The papers weren’t even here yet so I checked the TV news then went on the deck. The sky is cloudy and the morning has a damp chill. People have yet to stir. Across the street my neighbors still have their shades drawn. I can hear four different bird songs. It has been a long time since I last woke so early.

My mother never bought peaches. I didn’t like them and I don’t think my sisters did either. I always thought peach skins looked hairy, and I could never get beyond that. When I was little, my mother used to peel my apples for me. She’d also cut the oranges into pieces, sometimes four, sometimes eight. I was on my own with bananas. My mother only bought tangerines at Thanksgiving. They were easy to peel and eat in segments. I just didn’t like the seeds. There were always so many. Pears were best when they were yellow. I learned that when I used to take green pears from the neighbor’s tree. They were hard to bite and tasteless. Another neighbor had grapes and never minded when we picked them. They were big and purple. Watermelon was summer and I remember juice rolling down my hand and on my cheeks. Cherries were best because you got to spit the seeds. We always had a contest. I didn’t usually win.

Exotic fruits were of the future. I could never imagine a kiwi, a pomegranate or a carambola. I ate my first mangos and paw paws, papayas, in Ghana. I thought the mango tasted like furniture polish, but I loved the paw paw and eventually even came to love the mango. Cut fresh pineapple and sweet green oranges sold by the aunties on the sides of the road were my favorites. For lunch every day I had a bowl of cut fruit.

I buy bananas, and I love strawberries. Only if I have a recipe in mind do I buy blueberries. They are not for eating out of hand unless you’re picking them. I love watermelon. Cold watermelon on a hot day is like manna from heaven. It still drips down my hand.

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“Grown up, and that is a terribly hard thing to do. It is much easier to skip it and go from one childhood to another.”

June 17, 2014

The streets were wet this morning so it rained during the night. The morning started out as cloudy, but the sun is in and out so I hope it might just end up being a pleasant afternoon.

That was one exciting soccer game last night. The US scored in just the first forty or so seconds but Ghana later tied the score. After the US broke the tie, I sat on the edge of my seat for what seemed like forever, but Ghana didn’t score. The US won 2-1.

I have only caught 4 mice in the cellar trap. The fourth was released last night. He had been in the trap about a day and was totally scared, even in a panic. It took a while before he’d leave the trap. I hope he finds some friends in his new neighborhood. I’ll bait then return the trap to the cellar later. Mice do like peanut butter.

Every time we went to the beach when I was young, I collected shells and a few dead starfish. The shells I got to keep but not the starfish. They always started to stink and out they went. Sometimes I’d find a really neat stone by the water, a flat, round stone with different shades of gray across it, and I’d save that too. Those shells and stones were my first collection.

I’ve noticed that being a kid and being older have a lot in common. I know if I wore plaids and prints or plaids and poker dots people would just think my ensemble was chosen by an old woman who has lost her fashion sense. When I was a kid, we didn’t have any fashion sense. I wore what was in the bureau drawer, and matching wasn’t taken into account. At stores like Woolworth’s or Grant’s, I always took my time choosing what to buy with my dime or quarter. My slowness probably drove the adults crazy, but I never noticed their impatience. I do notice old people in stores and how slowly they walk or push their carriages, and I’m often caught behind them. They stop in the middle of the aisle. I say excuse me so I can pass but most times they don’t move. I figure they didn’t hear me so I ask more loudly. If they don’t move,  I just backtrack and change aisles. I wonder sometimes if I am looking at my future and one day I’ll be in the middle of the aisle. Kids and old people are discourteous at times. I used to think old people felt entitled because they had lasted so long. Kids just do what they can away with doing.

It occurred to me that there is a name for this phenomenon, for this similarity. First there’s childhood then second childhood with all its rights and privileges.

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“Get close to grass and you’ll see a star.”

June 16, 2014

The day is glorious. I was out and about early: met my friend for breakfast, went to the dump, shopped at Agway and went to my local vampire for blood drawing. On the way home I saw a field of dandelions aglow in bright yellow and stopped to look. I smiled all the way home.

Today will be in the low 70’s here, low 80’s in Boston. It is a day to be outside, to sit in the sun with a good book and a cold drink.

When I was a kid, I never minded the heat. On the hottest day, we would run through the sprinkler. The water was always cold. Sometimes we’d jump over it while other times we’d stand in the spray as the sprinkler spun. I remember the sprinkler always made a whirr sound when its arms turned, and the arms turned so quickly they almost blended together. My dog used his paw to stop the sprinkler so he could get a drink of water. We always thought he was the smartest of dogs to do that.

My dad was never thrilled with our sprinkler jumping because the lawn took a beating, and he loved his lawn. In our neighborhood, men were judged by the quality of their lawns. My father mowed his every Saturday with the hand mower. He swore by that hand mower the whole of his life. It always cut the lawn exactly right he’d say. I liked to listen to him mowing. The mower blades clicked as they turned, and I could tell when my father changed direction because the mower would be quiet for a minute or two. My father would finish off by raking, and that too had a distinctive sound, a scraping sound. His pile of grass would get bigger and bigger as he raked, and he had to work harder to keep the pile moving. When he was done, the mowed grass went into a barrel and he’d dump it later in the afternoon.

My parents moved while I was in the Peace Corps, and I never lived in that house, but I stayed there summers. My Dad had a front lawn on two sides of the driveway. He kept his mower in the garage for the winter and got it sharpened every spring. I can remember my Dad asking me if I had noticed how great his lawn looked when I had parked in front of their house. I always told him it was the best lawn in the neighborhood, so green and lush. That always made him happy.

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“It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.”

June 15, 2014

This is my annual Father’s Day post. It brings back a rush of memories every time I read it. My dad was one of a kind in the best of all possible ways.

I have so many memories of growing up, of family trips and my dad trying to whack at us from the front seat and never succeeding, of playing whist in the kitchen, my mom and me against my dad and brother, of Sunday rides, of going to the drive-in and the beach and of being loved by my dad. Memories of my dad are with me always, but today my memories are all of my dad, and my heart is filled to the brim with missing him, but when I close my eyes, I see him so clearly.

It’s a warm day so he’d be sitting on the front steps with his coffee cup beside him while reading the paper. He’d have on a white t-shirt and maybe his blue shorts. He’d wave at the neighbors going by in their cars. They all knew him and would honk back. He loved being retired, and we were glad he had a few years of just enjoying life.

He was the funniest guy, mostly on purpose but lots of times by happenstance. We used to have Dad stories, all those times when we roared and he had no idea why. He used to laugh along with us and ask, “What did I say? What did I say?” We were usually laughing too hard to tell him. He was a good sport about it.

I know you’ve heard this before, but it is one of my favorite Dad stories. He, my mom and I were in Portugal. I was driving. My dad was beside me. On the road, we had passed many piggyback tandem trucks, all hauling several truck loads behind them. On the back of the last truck was always the sign Vehiculo Longo. We came out of a gas station behind one of those. My father nonchalantly noted, “That guy Longo owns a lot of trucks.” I was laughing so hard I could barely drive and my mother, in the back seat, was doubled over in laughter.

My father wasn’t at all handy around the house. Putting up outside lights once, he gave himself a shock which knocked him off his step-ladder. He once sawed himself out of a tree by sitting on the wrong end of the limb. The bookcase he built in the cellar had two shelves, one on the floor and the other too high to use. He said it was lack of wood. When painting the house once, the ladder started to slide, but he stayed on his rung anyway with brush in hand. The stroke of the paint on the house followed the path of his fall. Lots of times he set his shoe or pant leg on fire when he was barbecuing. He was a big believer in lots of charcoal lighter fluid.

My father loved games, mostly cards. We played cribbage all the time, and I loved making fun of his loses, especially if I skunked him. When he won, it was superb playing. When I won, it was luck. I remember so many nights of all of us crowded the kitchen table playing cards, especially hi-lo jack. He loved to win and we loved lording it over him when he lost.

My father was a most successful businessman. He was hired to turn a company around and he did. He was personable and funny and remembered everyone’s names. Nobody turned him down.

My father always went out Sunday mornings for the paper and for donuts. He never remembered what kind of donut I like. His favorite was plain. He’d make Sunday breakfast when I visited: bacon, eggs and toast. I can still see him standing over the stove with a dish towel over his shoulders. He always put me in charge of the toast.

If I ever needed anything, I knew I could call my father. He was generous. When we went out to eat, he always wanted to pay and was indignant when we one upped him by setting it up ahead of time that one of us paid. One Christmas he gave us all $500.00, not as a gift but to buy gifts.

My father left us when he was far too young. It was sudden. He had a heart attack. I had spoken with him just the day before. It was pouring that day, and I told him how my dog Shauna was soaked. He loved that dog and told me to wipe his baby off. I still remember that whole conversation.

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“Part of the urge to explore is a desire to become lost.”

June 14, 2014

The rain has stopped but the day is still damp and cloudy. There is such an after storm stillness that even the leaves aren’t moving. I was on the deck for a bit this morning and was surprised by how warm a morning it is. Today is a free day. I have no lists.

When I was a kid, we roamed a lot on Saturdays. On days like today my sneakers and the bottom part of my dungarees would get soaked. I never cared. The best part of being a kid was needing no sense of style or fashion. Dirt was acceptable. Fields and woods were for exploring, and rain was never a deterrent, at least not misty rain or, as my mother called it, spitting rain. The leaves always glistened when it rained, and I remember slurping rainwater from the leaves when I got thirsty. We wandered far afield usually staying in the woods or along the railroad tracks. Once we found a raft and used it to pole around a pond. The raft was made from an odd combination of wood pieces, and there were holes between the pieces so our feet were always in water. We poled a couple of times around the pond and then put the raft back where we had found it. At the swamp, we jumped across the little canals from one island to another and went as far back as we could until the underbrush was too thick and there were thorns. It was only in the winter that we could follow the swamp to where it ended.

My town had a box factory and two factories which made chemicals and all three of those factories were by the railroad tracks. We used to see the people from the box factory on their breaks. They’d be sitting outside on the steps talking together and smoking cigarettes. The factory was at the end of the tracks near what used to be the station. The windows were too high for us to see what was going on, but there were piles of unfolded boxes stacked on the loading dock. Two railroad cars were always on the tracks across from the factory. They never moved, and I don’t think they were ever used for anything. We couldn’t get into them but we did climb the steps and look wistfully inside.

We were gone all day, but my mother never worried even though she didn’t know where we were. When we were leaving, she’d ask where we were going. We never knew so our answer was always,”Around.”

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“Candy is childhood, the best and bright moments you wish could have lasted forever.”

June 13, 2014

The rain this morning was heavy for a while. The wind is still blowing. All my windows are closed to keep out the damp cold air. I’m even wearing socks.

I went out for breakfast and brought Gracie. I left her in the car with a couple of windows open. That’s when it started to pour. I had to run outside and shut the windows. Gracie was in the middle of the seat away from both windows. No dumb animal is my Gracie.

I used to love Bonomos turkish taffy. My favorite was vanilla. Banana was my second favorite. Finishing a whole bar was a huge investment in time and effort. To make it easier, I’d crack the bar so they’d be smaller pieces to chew because larger ones took forever. My jaw always got tired.

Fire balls were a challenge. The contest was for who could keep it in the mouth the longest without having to take it out for a breather. I used to move the fire-ball from one cheek to the other hoping it wouldn’t burn as much. My sister put it in a bowl of water so the red would wash off. In actual time, the burning didn’t last long, and the red disappeared, replaced by white. I liked it when the fire-ball finally got small enough to crack with my teeth.

When it came to penny candy, I always wanted the best buy for my penny. I’d look up and down the rows behind the glass counter trying to find the candy which lasted the longest. Even pennies were hard to come by so my candy choice had to be a wise one. Mint Juleps were a safe choice. They took a long time to chew and they had a great flavor. Banana splits were also a great choice. Like Mint Juleps, they took a while to chew. Root beer barrels, Squirrels and Mary Janes were also wise purchases. The only soft candy I usually bought was Bull’s Eyes. I always ate the outside caramel first and saved the middle for last. It was like having two different pieces of candy.

I wouldn’t dare eat most of those candies now, with the exception of Bull’s Eyes. Teeth are hard to come by.

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“You never know the true value of a moment until it becomes a memory.”

June 12, 2014

The morning is chilly, but the sun is shining which gives hope for a warmer day. Rain is coming maybe tonight but definitely tomorrow. I love this time of year when my world is wonderfully spring green.

This morning I realized I know too many useless facts. They are taking up space in my memory drawers, and they don’t seem to have much value beyond a bit of cocktail chatter. Who really cares that the Mona Lisa has no eyebrows or eyelashes? I didn’t even notice until I had read this somewhere. In the shower, most people wash starting head first. I know I do. It makes perfect sense to start at the top and work downward. We all have lyrics in our heads to songs we sang years ago when AM radio was it, was all we had. I even remember the singing commercials. They and the lyrics don’t ever disappear, but ask me state capitals, and I hesitate. Is Helena North or South Dakota? It’s neither. It’s Montana’s.

My descriptive powers are growing in leaps and bounds. Adjectives are my friends. I don’t remember names of famous people as much anymore, but I can tell you how tall they are, whether they have facial hair and sort of describe the movie they might have been in. I read an entire book and forget the title, but I can describe perfectly the plot. The names of authors disappeared long ago. I look to friends for help, and they are as perplexed as I. Every morning I wake up and figure out the day of the week.

I have always been a list maker. Long ago I learned that lists make life easier. Now I find them essential. I keep a grocery list and add to it as I run out of stuff. I have my to do list with items in no particular order or set for any specific day. That’s sort of an out in case I don’t feel like doing anything but lolling. My calendar is a tear off day by day desk calendar with, of all things, a trivia question each day. I put a reminder on my calendar the day before any event because I missed a couple of events by not tearing off the old day. Tomorrow is breakfast with friends.

I think my most important memories don’t ever disappear. They seem to stay around, vivid and almost alive. For the rest of them, there is always Google.

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“Last night I dreamt I ate a ten pound marshmallow. When I woke up the pillow was gone.”

June 10, 2014

If ever there was day to rejoice, it is today. The toothache is gone. The tooth was pulled yesterday afternoon. The oral surgeon, my former student, decided not to wait. He numbed the area, and after a tug, the tooth was a memory.

Today I went to an early meeting and came home and took a nap, the reason for the lateness of my musings. I wonder, though, if three and a half hours still rates as a nap.

I got three phone calls. One was last night from the surgeon and today I got calls from the Care Center and my dentist’s office. All wanted to know how I was doing. I like that.

It rained today, and the day is still damp and chilly. I shut all the windows to keep the house warm and turned on lights to keep the darkness at bay. I am in my stay at home clothes, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.

The other night I made myself a peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff sandwich. When I was young, it was a snack stand-by. We usually ran out of cookies quickly, but we always had bread to make a sandwich. I preferred marshmallow over jelly because marshmallow never slid out of the bread. Jelly did. It was always grape jelly which came out of the jar in globs and usually ended up on my shirt. The other problem with jelly was it made the bread squishy and the middle of the sandwich sink. There was, however, an upside. My mother bought Welch’s because you got a glass out of the deal.

My niece’s almost two-year old son had a rite of passage a few weeks back. He had his first fluffernutter. It was on his fingers and his cheeks, and he devoured every piece of it. My brother-in-law chronicled the event with pictures. They don’t have Fluff in Colorado so when any of us visit we bring a few jars. It goes quickly. Even my nephew who’s over thirty has a sandwich or two.

White bread is the best for a fluffernutter. I’ve tried it with wheat, and it isn’t the same. Wonder bread was our childhood bread of choice, but you really need a sturdier bread so the marshmallow can be spread without making holes. My sandwiches even now seem to overflow just a bit when you add the top slice of bread. I still get marshmallow on my fingers. I lick it off.

 

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