Archive for the ‘Musings’ category

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“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear.”

April 12, 2012

Today is one of those days when I wish I lived in Victorian England and could languish on the chaise with a case of the vapors. I’d press the back of my hand against my forehead and sigh. It’s not that I feel bad today but I’m tired of neither days: neither sun nor rain. Today is such a day: cloudy yet again without the possibility of rain.

Yesterday was chore day, no wonder I want to languish. It was a trip to Boston for a doctor’s appointment, a change the bed, do the wash and hit the dump day. The dump was last, a half hour before it closed. I thought it would be empty, but there were so many cars I was thinking there must be prizes being given away but, alas, there were none. I even had to sit and wait for a place to park just to dump my trash.

I seem to have nothing on my mind today. No memories pop to the surface, and my life is quiet, almost routine. Even the birds are fewer at the feeders. A flicker, a goldfinch and a chipmunk have been my only visitors. The spawns of Satan have been missing of late so I haven’t even had the opportunity to rant. The chipmunk gave me a chuckle because it was dining on the squirrel buster but weighs too little to close the seed ports. I did shoo it away, and when I did, I noticed it had cheeks filled with seeds as if it had the mumps.

I watched an odd movie the other day, Vanishing on 7th Street. Almost the entire population of Detroit had disappeared and only their clothing, glasses and shoes were left, lying about where the people had been standing. The movie plays on fear of the darkness on what used to make us afraid to look under the bed. The darkness flows and surrounds the people who are left then they disappear and their clothes fall to the ground. Only light keeps the darkness at bay.

I like the feeling of being afraid but not for real. I want my fear manufactured by a scary movie or book. I never want to worry about what’s hiding in the closet or under the bed.

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“The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.”

April 10, 2012

The day is spring lovely. The air is warm and still and the sky cloudless. This morning I bought some pansies for the basket on the front steps. They are hardy enough flowers for these cold nights when the temperature still dips to the high 30’s. We have had a fire warning in effect for the last few days. As it hasn’t rained, there have been several brush fires, and the fear is there may be more.

When I was a kid, I always loved the coming of the warm weather when I could get rid of the pounds of winter clothing I’d endured for months. Away went the scarf and the mittens and the layers under my winter coat. Sometimes my snow boots became mud boots when the spring rains arrived and the softened ground turned to mud. On the way home from school, we walked across the field below our street, and it oozed with mud and water. We loved it; my mother hated it. Sometimes a boot got stuck, and while trying to pull it out, the other one would get stuck. That’s how my socks got dirty and muddy.

My bike tires left grooved ruts when I’d ride through the muddy grass, and the bottoms of my pant legs were flecked with blotches of mud spots like brown poker dots. The ruts were tell-tale signs to my father that we had used his grassy hill even though we had been told over and over not to use the hill but to walk down the steps with our bikes. That was the silliest request we’d ever heard. What self-respecting kid on a bike would ever bypass a hill for steps? We never did.

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“It gives one hope, this great strength of Africa”.

April 9, 2012

Easter Sunday was a wonderful day. The weather was chilly, but that didn’t matter. My friends and I went to our usual restaurant and sat at a window by the water. We looked out and saw across the horizon the light gray sky and below it were small white-capped waves and the light brown sand of the beach. A rock jetty jutted into the water. Some people walked the beach, a couple with dogs. One small dog played as he walked, jumping into the air and chewing on his leash. A family stopped to watch the waves. Their little girl wore a pink wide-brimmed hat with a matching pink purse. Pink was the perfect color against the backdrop of the ocean.

We were dressed up for Easter Sunday as were most of the people in the restaurant. Though I am more comfortable in my grubbies, the day was special so I dressed accordingly. I wore shoes which needed pantyhose, but as I had none, I wore knee highs which were hidden by my dress, and that made me chuckle. It was sartorial splendor with a small nod to quirkiness.

My friends dropped me off at my car, and I went home to take a nap as did they. We intended to watch The Amazing Race together, but it was running late so I just stayed home. The race was in Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, and it was so beautiful I decided to add that country to my list of places to visit. The teams took small planes to their destination in the bush, and they flew over a huge flock of flamingoes. From the air, there were so many birds it looked like an ocean of bright pink. The teams landed near a Masai village, and the colors of the cloths the Masai wore and the bead work around the women’s necks were breath-taking. The last team, knowing they were probably going to be eliminated, had the car stop so they could watch a herd of elephants, including a baby, go by them, something they would probably never see again. They weren’t eliminated, but, even better, they made a memory I doubt they’ll ever forget.

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“Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.”

April 7, 2012

Not a single errand is left. I don’t think I’ve missed a store. All I seem to do is haul bags into the house. Yesterday one errand was grocery shopping, but I timed it so the store was fairly empty. I even had a list, but it still wasn’t fun. The candy store was the best stop.

Today’s weather is almost the same as yesterday’s but without the clear blue sky. Partially cloudy is the forecast. I don’t know why it is never partially sunny.

The Easter bunny comes tonight. We were excited, but it was never close to the excitement of waiting for Santa Claus, and there was no countdown to the big night. In the morning, our baskets would be on the kitchen table or on the table in the living room or sometimes even in our bedrooms. Grass was always at the bottom of the baskets, but I don’t know why. I still don’t. We never questioned a rabbit bringing eggs and candy especially one wearing clothes and standing on his hind legs. That proved to us he wasn’t your average rabbit. The baskets were straw and multi-colored. I think everyone I knew got the same sort of basket. Even now I see the similar ones for sale in all the stores.

New Easter clothes were part of the spring renewal. That they were pastels was a goodbye to winter’s drab colors. We were like spring flowers bursting out in yellow, blue or lilac. When I was little, my mother chose my clothes. No outfit was complete without a hat and white gloves. Shoes were usually patent leather with a small square purse to match. The shoes had one strap across the top that buckled on the side. White ankle socks, sometimes with lace tops, completed the outfit. We used to stand in front of the steps for pictures. All the pictures were in black and white.

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“I know a man who doesn’t pay to have his trash taken out. How does he get rid of his trash? He gift wraps it, and puts in into an unlocked car.”

April 2, 2012

The rain started last night, and I woke up to a rainy morning. I heard it on the roof and I heard it dripping from the eaves, but the rain has since stopped leaving behind a dark, cloudy day. The dampness makes it feel colder than it actually is. I have a few errands on my list, but I’m thinking today is a good day to stay home and while the time away in a good book.

Gracie and I went to the dump yesterday, and it was as crowded as I’ve seen it in a long time. I was in a line of cars waiting for a spot near the newspaper recycle bin. The trash bins too had a line so Gracie stuck her head out the window to get a better view while I just sat in the car and waited. I watched the people as they went about dump business: emptying trunks and walking from recycle bin to recycle bin.

When I was a kid, we always had trash men who hung on to the backs of the trucks as they went from house to house. They’d hop off, grab the barrels, empty them then toss the barrels back on the sidewalks. When the back of the truck got filled, the trashman would grab a lever and the top of the bin would come down and compact the trash. I thought that was sort of neat, and it was definitely noisy. My father usually brought the barrels back to the yard when he’d get home from work.

When we moved to the cape, my father loved the dump runs every Sunday. If we had company, they were always invited to join him as if it were a lark, a fun ride. The dump back then was a real dump with huge piles of trash and seagulls circling above them. You could see the dump and its trash from the highway. The cans always shined in the sun. I know when my parents moved off-cape my dad must have missed his dump. Putting trash cans on the sidewalk just didn’t have the same allure.

When I was working, I always went to the dump on Sunday. It was, after all, a family tradition.

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“It is the ability to take a joke, not make one, that proves you have a sense of humor.”

April 1, 2012

When I went to get the papers, I saw the shaded parts of the street still had frost, and the car at the house facing my street had a frosted back window, but I’m guessing the white rime will have a short life and disappear quickly as it is 40° even this early at 8:15. The morning air had that sweet smell cooler spring mornings have and it gave  hint of the warmer day to come.

Consider this a Part II as I went to breakfast in between. The place was as crowded as it gets in summer, and I had to wait in line for a booth. My friend Pat with whom I have breakfast every Sunday always figures they’re people down for the weekend. I think the warmer weather brings out the locals earlier in the day. By the time we’d finished, the crowd had miraculously disappeared and five booths were empty.

Today is Palm Sunday. My mother used to keep her palm fronds behind the crucifix over her bed. I remember them there, the only things on that wall, from when I was a kid. The frond was so long it used to stick out from both sides of the crucifix. After mass on this day each year, she’d take down and toss out the old dry, brittle frond and replace with the new ones given out at the end of mass. I remember seeing all the people walk out of the church down the long steps each carrying a frond. I knew they were called palm fronds, but I thought they were named after the Sunday, and it wasn’t until I was a little older that I connected them to a palm tree, and it took a little bit longer than that to connect them to the liturgy.

Today is also April Fools’ Day. My mother would call and try to catch us, and my sister Moe was her favorite target as Moe was easily caught. The rest of us were a bit more skeptical, but my mother usually concocted a plausible story which we were hesitant to dismiss. She sometimes got us all. I used to try to fool my friends, and I could tell a whopper, as I had learned from the best, my mother, to make my story believable. I loved it when my friends fell for it. I’d yell, “April Fools’ Day,” and laugh and so would they. That was all you could do if caught!

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“I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library.”

March 31, 2012

Finally we have some rain! After our snowless winter, they are predicting possible drought conditions this summer so any rain is welcomed. For some reason, though, the rain makes me lazy. In my imminent future I see movies about climatic upheavals and a nap in the darkness of the afternoon. The animals are already asleep.

It’s cold this morning, but I don’t care. The house is warm and cozy. When I was young, this was the sort of day I’d stay in bed and read by the light of the bed lamp hanging off my headboard. It was a quiet time when I could be by myself. I’d follow Nancy and Trixie as they solved cases and feel bad for Heidi looking for her grandfather. One of the joys in life is finding and reading a great book for the first time. Sometimes I’d read the whole book in one sitting hour after hour. I’d close the cover and hold the book for a bit still savoring every word. My mother used to tell me to take my time, but that was never possible. Once a book grabbed me, it didn’t let go until I’d read the last word.

My love of books and reading has never changed over time. When I was younger and backpacking through Europe summer after summer, I’d bring 3 or 4 books. When I’d finish one, I’d carry it until the next stop. Staying in a hostel was the best opportunity to trade, and I found myself trading for and reading books I probably wouldn’t have otherwise read. That was the fun of it.

In the old days, Peace Corps used to give volunteers book lockers, cardboard boxes which opened into small bookcases. They were filled with paperbacks. In mine, left by a previous volunteer, was The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings trilogy. I devoured all four books and would never trade them to any of the volunteers passing through town. I knew I’d go back and read them again. Before I went up-country to live after training, I visited the university bookstore and stocked up with more paperbacks, all of them printed by Penguin Press. They were trade material. My town had a library and most of the books were by British authors. I read Ngaio Marsh, Ruth Rendall and the wonderful Dorothy Sayers for the first time. Such joy!

Despite having and using my iPad, I still cherish the printed word and love holding a book in my hand, and I still sigh when I’ve finished a book I loved.

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“If bad decorating was a hanging offense, there’d be bodies hanging from every tree!”

March 30, 2012

Today is beautiful, sunny and bright. A few white whispy clouds give the blue sky a bit of character. A strong breeze is shaking branches and whirling bird feeders. It makes the day feel a little bit cooler than it is. I’m glad to see the sun.

I have never been one for domesticity. My house is always kept clean, but I don’t always make my bed. I never learned to crochet or knit, and I’m sorry for that, but I can do crewel and needlepoint but haven’t for a long while. Sewing a button is about the best I can do. In most situations, tape or a stapler work just fine. I do love to cook, and I sit and look at recipes imagining menus and how the foods fit together, and I’m good at it. I am a utilitarian dresser with comfort being the over-riding factor. What goes best with what is way out of my fashion zone. My house is a hodgepodge of styles and I think I did a good job of putting everything together. The walls are bright with color. There’s red, pink, lilac, blue and yellow. This room is the only one untouched. It’s too filled with so many collections like books, DVD’s, hats and so much more which makes moving everything to paint the room an almost endless task so I live with the drab white wall. I think my house is cosy, and I love dressing to match it and leisurely taking in the day.

My house in Ghana had four rooms inside: two bedrooms, a living room and the eating area where the fridge and kitchen table were. All the furniture came with the house. In the living room I decorated with posters from home. The bookcase was the same sort we all had in college: bricks and lengths of wood. I made a bed spread which meant buying enough cloth to cover the bed. I did get fancy and make matching curtains. I measured the wall of windows, cut the cloth the right length then cut string a bit longer than the cloth and finally sewed a hem so it covered the string. I tied the curtain from one side of the windows to the other. From the outside it looked better than from the inside. My lightbulbs hung down from the ceiling and weren’t all that attractive so I made a lampshade from a Bolga basket for the living room. You can now buy Bolga baskets from catalogs, and they are pretty expensive. I probably paid a cedi (like a dollar) or less for mine so cutting it for a shade wasn’t a big deal. I’d probably do it again if I lived in Bolga now as the baskets there are still cheap, but I’d give the curtain job to a seamstress or I’d bring my stapler.

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“Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”

March 29, 2012

The weather prediction is for cloudy and maybe rainy through Sunday. A couple of sunless days don’t bother me, but a string of them makes me lethargic. I loll around the house with little ambition. A sunny day gets me active and the floors get washed, the cabinets cleaned and the world looks to be a better place. Later, I’ll drag myself upstairs to shower and make my bed. They will give me some small sense of accomplishment.

We lived in what was called the project. The houses were wooden duplexes, not brick and not high-rises, and there were eleven or twelve of them on Prospect Street and up the hill around a small rotary which made the street a circle. Each side of the duplexes mirrored the other side. We had a kitchen, living room and three bedrooms. The cellar was huge, and it was where we often played and where we stored our bikes and where my mother’s washing machine stood. The big, black oil tank was against the wall on one side. I don’t remember where the furnace was. All the backyards faced each other, and all of them had below ground garbage bins with metal tops right beside the stairs and lines for laundry, three for each family. I have the memory of white sheets blowing on those lines. My mother had one of those hanging cloth clothespin bags. She moved it down each line as she hung the laundry. The backdoor was wooden, and it always slammed in the winter when the storm windows were on it. Our house was white with green trim, all of the houses were. My father kept care of his lawn and the front flower garden beside the stairs. A giant grassy hill stretched across the backyard and separated us from the duplexes on the top of it. Each of the fathers in all the duplexes facing the hill mowed his part of the grass on the hill. We used to roll down the hill so we’d get dizzy.  I remember a slip and slide one summer that everyone used.

Only families with children could live in the duplexes and one parent had to be a veteran. We moved to our first duplex, one with two bedrooms, in 1951. We had lived in the city, in a high-rise brick apartment building. After my sister was born, we were granted a larger duplex, and we moved down the hill from 37 Washington Ave to 16, and that’s where we stayed until 1964. All of my childhood memories were made on Washington Ave.

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“Food is our common ground, a universal experience.”

March 26, 2012

The sun was here then it disappeared. The sky keeps getting darker. I checked the weather which says sunny. It’s not and doesn’t look as if it will be. That’s fine with me. I’m staying home and doing laundry. I figure a cloudy day is perfect for chores. I feel as if I’m not missing a thing.

I’m back to isolation with the windows closed, but on a Monday morning not much is happening. The birds are in and out, and I enjoy watching them. The gold finches have disappeared but the chickadees have retunred. I guess they just take turns like having deli numbers.

Lately I’ve been cooking more, reading recipes and looking for appetizers I can use this sumer on movie nights. We are muhammara fans so that’s on the list. The cheese pesto dip and the calzones I made for the first time last night for our Amazing Race viewing are now new favorites. I love cooking foods I’ve never made before. It’s an adventure in eating.

Last week I saw a program about McDonald’s restaurants in other countries. I always thought they were refuges for Americans craving familiar foods. Come to find out, they are very different from country to country and reflect local foods and customs. In India there is no beef, but you can order the Chicken Maharaja Mac sandwich, made with two grilled chicken patties topped with onions, tomatoes, cheese, and a spicy mayonnaise. In Singapore you can have a fried shrimp sandwich. Norway offers grilled salmon in dill sauce. In Israel the food is kosher, and you can order a McKebab which is two patties with Middle Eastern seasonings stuffed into a pita bread. In some McDonald’s, you can even order beer. I’ve decided not to be such a food snob and check out the McDonald’s in any country I visit, but I’ll wear a disguise.

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