Archive for the ‘Musings’ category

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“Health food may be good for the conscience but Oreos taste a hell of a lot better.”

June 2, 2011

I sort of know how Dorothy felt when she left Kansas and landed in the wonderful land of Oz. Yesterday was dismal, cloudy and damp with periodic rumblings of thunder. Today is gorgeous, warm and sunny, with a lovely breeze. Right away I hauled out my cleaning supplies and cleaned off the layers of pollen from the deck table and chairs then I brought out my coffee and papers. It was my first morning this season on the deck.

I noticed the birds aren’t around. It seems they’re not liking the new seed I bought so it’s back to Agway later today. I’ll put blinders on as that’s also my gardening store. I watered the deck plants while I was out there and rearranged a few candles on the trees. Gracie was with me a while then came inside for her morning nap. Fern is in the sun by the door, and I have no idea where Maddie is.

The one constant in my life has always been Oreo cookies. They have never let me down. When I was young, I could always count on my mother buying them every Friday night when she grocery shopped. My sisters, sitting together on the back steps, used to open them carefully so as not to break the wafers then they’d scrap off the cream with their teeth, the best method of all for eating the cream. The wafers went to the dog. I can still remember how the cream looked with teeth marks across it, almost like ruts on a wintry country road. I am an original Oreos fan though I do like the double stuffed. The orange ones at Halloween just don’t seem right. I know they taste the same, but my eyes tell me differently. I found a drink that tastes just like an Oreo cookie and a cookie on the rim is the garnish. It’s a bit of heaven here on Earth.

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“I have sporadic OCD cleaning moments around the house. But then I get lazy and I’m cured. It’s a very inconsistent personality trait.”

May 31, 2011

The day is perfectly lovely, the sort of day I dreamed about when the ground was covered with snow and the air was so cold it froze my nose. The morning has been strange: one small task has led to another then another. When I went to get the papers, I took down the red, white and blue buntings from the front fences and gate then saw the one off the deck and made a mental note to get that one too. I came inside, read the paper and drank my coffee then went to get another cup for drinking with my second paper. When I walked into the kitchen, I noticed the kitchen floor needed sweeping so I took out my broom and swept the dust and such out the back door. I noticed the bunting and went outside to bring it inside. Once I’d gathered it, I went to sit for a minute on the deck to watch the birds then I noticed the spawns of Satan had knocked down the glass candle holders from the chandelier hanging from the tree. I went down to the yard to retrieve them and saw where my outside living room light was disconnected so I connected it. In the process I saw gifts from Gracie in the yard so I dug a hole and buried them. I also found two big, flat rocks, just what I needed. My umbrella stand wobbles even though it weighs 100 pounds, and it makes the umbrella stand crooked which drives me crazy. When I got back to the deck, I put the rocks under the stand and righted the umbrella then sat for a short time and watched the birds. It was then I noticed the cardinal’s untouched grape jelly feeder was covered in pollen so I took it down to be washed. While I was at that side of the deck, I saw the three Japanese lanterns hanging from the tree branches just didn’t look right so I played around with moving them until I found the right combination. By then I was ready for my coffee and paper. I left the bunting outside.

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“I believe it is the nature of people to be heroes, given the chance.”

May 30, 2011

Memorial Day

A handful of old men walking down the village street
In worn, brushed uniforms, their gray heads high;
A faded flag above them, one drum to lift their feet—
Look again, O heart of mine, and see what passes by!

    There’s a vast crowd swaying, there’s a wild band playing,
The streets are full of marching men, or tramping cavalry.
Alive and young and straight again, they ride to greet a mate again—
The gallant souls, the great souls that live eternally!

    A handful of old men walking down the highways?
Nay, we look on heroes that march among their peers,
The great, glad Companions have swung from heaven’s byways
And come to join their own again across the dusty years.

    There are strong hands meeting, there are staunch hearts greeting—
A crying of remembered names, of deeds that shall not die.
A handful of old men?—Nay, my heart, look well again;
The spirit of America today is marching by!

                                                                   – Theodosia Pickering Garrison

I went to my town’s parade this morning. It lasted about five minutes, but that didn’t matter, only the occasion did. An old soldier and an old sailor walked in front of a WW II jeep to the music of bagpipes. A newer jeep carried two of their comrades, too old to walk. The middle school band played well. Boy scouts and girl scouts carried small flags and waved at the people along the roadside. It may have been small, but it was heartfelt.

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“Sun is shining. Weather is sweet. Make you wanna move your dancing feet.”

May 29, 2011

This morning’s weather is the same as yesterday’s, cloudy and damp. I just hope the day turns as lovely as yesterday’s did. ‘Tis the season of pine pollen which now covers everything, including my car. I have to clean my windshield so I can see before I drive. The deck too is covered in lime green, a Popsicle lime green.

Lots of people around this weekend. Even the summer church is open. My breakfast place had a line outside the door by the time I left. We generally figure the tourist season officially opens around the 4th of July. I’ll have to get my hunting license before then (okay, I’m kidding). The Cape Times says bookings are up from last year: oh hooray! more people filling the roads and stores. It seems I’m getting into my summer siege mentality early this year. Good thing the library is so close.

When I was growing up, my family used to spend a day at the beach most summer weekends. We’d go north to Gloucester. I think my dad wanted to keep us away from Revere Beach which still had its boardwalk and its rides. I remember coming home from visiting my grandparents and seeing the top of the roller coaster from the road. It was the highest hill, and the white rails were easy to see. When I was in high school, my friends and I would sometimes go to Revere Beach and spend the evening on the rides and walking around eating fried dough and sausage subs with peppers and onions. The boardwalk was filled with people, most of them eating something. Neon signs lit the night. The beach was right across the street. It was usually moonlit and lovely.

When I was really young, lots of my family would go to Revere Beach together for the day. My parents and my aunts and uncles took turns watching us kids while the other adults slipped across the street to a boardwalk bar. We didn’t care. We didn’t even notice. Mostly I remember the gray sea wall, blankets and towels spread on the sand, pails and shovels to make castles and picnic baskets to rummage through. On the way home, those baskets were still filled but not with food. They carried shells and driftwood and all the other treasures we’d found.

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“Humor is by far the most significant activity of the human brain.”

May 28, 2011

The sky is cloudy white, and there was a mist earlier when I stood on the deck watching Gracie in the yard. Pine pollen has arrived, and my outside table top is green. I worked on the deck yesterday, and it is summer ready. All the plants were potted and the feeders filled, but the birds haven’t found the seeds yet. The red spawn of Satan did.

Humor changes over time. Being a kid meant being a bit gross and sometimes even a bit insensitive. Milk spurting from someone’s nose used to be one of the funniest things we’d ever seen. It sent us into spasms of laughter. Someone tripping and falling set us off as well. We’d try not to laugh but just couldn’t help ourselves. Catching a nose picker was a bonanza. We’d whisper and point and laugh. My father reprimanding us was sometimes far too funny. As he spoke, he’d be pointing and then tapping our chests with his finger, and we’d be holding back from laughing right out loud. My father often accused me of smirking. He was right. I was a great smirker. We were never mean or malicious. We just took advantage and laughed at anyone’s ill fortune. We were being kids.

In college we laughed all the time, sometimes at each other. That hadn’t changed from when we were little, but it had gotten a bit more sophisticated over time. If someone droned on, we’d all pretend to go asleep or turn our backs to the speaker who’d get indignant enough to make us laugh. Quick wits and snappy comebacks became our humor.

As adults, we still love the snappy comeback, and a good one rates a finger or two and an expletive from the victim. When we play games, we laugh all the time and make fun of each other, good-humored fun. Sometimes, in the middle of a sip, we laugh so much we spurt coke but never from our noses. We seem to have out-grown that.

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“Any subject can be made interesting, and therefore any subject can be made boring.”

May 27, 2011

Today is beautifully sunny and warm. When I went on the deck earlier this morning, I could smell the sweetness in the air. It smelled of flowers and herbs and a touch of the ocean. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in the backyard. I have a few flowers wanting pots so I’ll be outside taking in the sun and potting some plants for the deck. The fountain needs some tubing so I’ll visit the hardware store late in the afternoon so as not to waste a minute of the sun. It has a tendency to disappear.

I don’t remember my graduation from the eighth grade, and that amazes me as memorable events in my life usually hang around in my memory drawers just waiting to be tapped. I figure it could have been in the church as that was large enough or even the town hall with its stage and rows of wooden chairs. I do remember wearing a frilly dress. The boys wore jackets and ties. The nuns wore habits.

Today is a tabula rasa day. I don’t seem to have much going on in my head. Maybe it’s the sun and my wanting to be outside. Maybe it’s because I haven’t really been doing much of late. Polishing bookcases, doing laundry and changing my bed make for boring conversation. Perhaps I should embroider a story, an adventure, but you’ve been around every day and would know it was make-believe. I did buy a new piece of luggage, a duffel on wheels, and I’m now a Global Entry Member. That means I get to go to the head of any US customs’ line. I just have to wave my passport and card and someone will take me to the head of the line. I’m figuring the person I cut in front of won’t be too happy.

Well, that’s it. The sun is calling my name. I’m done for today!

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“Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.”

May 26, 2011

Yesterday I had to go to Boston. Yesterday was a perfectly gorgeous day, sunny and warm. I missed it. Today is warm, but the sun is somewhere else probably resting after yesterday’s exhaustion. I hope it decides to return. Regardless, today I have a few errands then I’m getting the deck summer ready.

I don’t see anyone from my childhood. A few are Facebook friends, but I haven’t seen them in years. One friend, whom I used to see, wrote on my Christmas card that she missed me. I miss her. When I visited my mother, I always stopped into her house for coffee. I don’t see any of my college friends anymore either. When I went into the Peace Corps, they wrote for a while but two years is a long time. They went on with their lives, and I wasn’t there. I was going on with mine in a different way. When I got home, I reconnected with several, but we had little in common anymore, only our pasts. I have friends with whom I was in the Peace Corps, and we keep in touch, call periodically and see each other every year or so. Others with whom I served are e-mail friends. The longest friendships I have are with people with whom I worked. We have been friends nearly forty years, and we stay close, always in touch, see each other all the time. My closest friends lived down the street. We were sporadic friends for years but became family when we retired. I see them all the time, and we share adventures and holidays and nights on the deck. We watch baseball together and moan and groan and curse the Sox on occasion. We play games and harass each another as we play. The air is sometimes blue.

I suppose some people live in the same town where they grew up and never lost touch. Their kids go to the same schools they, maybe even have the same teachers, but for many of us, we grow older, move from school to school or town to town or job to job and vow to keep in touch. We do for a while, but life gets in the way. We do make friends and memories at every stop and for that I figure we are the luckiest of all.

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“Have you watched the fairies when the rain is done, Spreading out their little wings to dry them in the sun?”

May 24, 2011

Evolutionary changes are supposed to happen over eons, not in a few weeks, so why have my feet begun to web together? Soon enough I’ll look like Kevin Cosner in Waterworld. The day is 61° and it is damp from the pouring rain of last night, but I’ve decided to look on it all with great optimism. Everything got planted yesterday so the rain will help my new herbs and flowers feel more at home. I’m sure they’re stretching their roots right now. My grass will stay, and here is that word again, lush. But when the sun does return, I’ll celebrate and welcome it, and I’m already planning a summer solstice gala. Druid dress is optional.

I loved the rainy season in Ghana. All the grass turned a spectacular green, the fields were filled with millet getting taller and taller, baobab trees had leaves, the market was bursting with fresh produce and everywhere looked sparkling and new. It was quite a contrast from the dry season when it didn’t rain from September until late April or early May, and every day was sunny. The sky, except during the harmattan, was blue. We used to joke and say today looked like rain. Everything turned brown: all the grasses and the fields surrounding the school. The farmers, in the field behind us, worked on their compounds redoing walls and roofs. They’d sing and dance at night. We could hear the drums. We longed for rain, but it came with a price. As we’d get closer to the rainy season, the days got hotter and more humid. The nights got uncomfortable for sleeping so I’d move my mattress outside and sleep in the backyard. We all waited for that first storm which was always spectacular. But after those first magnificent storms, the rain settled into a pattern, and it would rain every day for parts of the day. The rainy season was always my favorite time of year so maybe, just maybe, I should remember that more often, especially now.

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“A lawn is nature under totalitarian rule.”

May 22, 2011

Most of my flowers and all of my herbs are now planted. Only the deck flowers are still in their pots waiting for a more permanent home. After everything was planted yesterday, I saw I still need more herbs for the garden, some for the window boxes, geraniums for the deck pots and more flowers for the front. After my dump run today, I’ll go shopping.

The weatherman was right: still no sun. The rain came last night which was good for everything I’d planted. The sky is gray and the day is still damp. The leaves on the oak tree are getting bigger and darker. Maybe they sense summer coming better than I can.

When I was little, I often presented my mother with a bouquet of yellow dandelions. She was always thrilled and made a big deal of putting them in a glass of water then on the table or the windowsill. She made me feel as if I had given her the most beautiful flowers anyone had ever seen. I remember buttercups and holding one under my friend’s chin to see if she liked butter. If she did, the yellow was reflected on her. I remember blowing dandelion puffs. The field below my house was filled with them, and we’d run through, grab a few, blow and let the wind take them. They always seemed to waft gently.

I don’t remember lots of flower gardens in my neighborhood. Most people, like my father, planted a few flowers in front and none in the backyards which were filled with clotheslines and a wide hill of grass stretched across the back of where all our houses stood. Lawns were the big thing. There wasn’t an acknowledged competition, but it existed none the less. My father mowed a certain way. Every Saturday you could hear the click clack of his mower as he walked across the lawn in the particular pattern he favored. None of us ever mowed. We didn’t do it right. We’d cut the grass, but the pattern was always wrong. My father had a beautiful lawn, but he was never the winner. Mrs. Burns always was.

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“I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train.”

May 21, 2011

I spent so much money at the garden center yesterday, the employees stood in a group, applauded and then released balloons. My backseat and my trunk were filled. Now, those new herbs and flowers, lined up on the walk, wait patiently in their pots. They wait to be planted into the deck window boxes and the two gardens, but it won’t be today, another dank, cloudy and damp day. Earlier, when I went to get the papers, we had misty rain. The weatherman predicts the rain will be gone on Tuesday and leave in its wake a sunny day in the 70’s. I guess that’s Mother Nature’s gift for this stretch of over a week of rain. I keep looking out my window here by the desk at the forlorn and empty deck.

I miss trains. One ran through my town when I was a kid. I used to watch it and listen for the whistle. Near where my grandparents’ lived was one train master’s house. He’d come out and lower the wooden gate to stop the cars. That house still exists, but it is just a regular old house with a strange configuration. The other house was torn down to make way for a lumber yard. The square brick train station has been many things including a gift shop. I don’t what it is now. The tracks have disappeared for the most part. They have been gone so long many people probably don’t even know they existed.

A train ride is like nothing else. The clack of the wheels is background music. The windows give views of the backs of houses, and I’d peeked through those windows as the train went by them. I took night trains when I backpacked through Europe. They were my hotels. I remember as we’d near the station, the view would change, and I’d see factories and lines of track after track. The stations were always busy. I’d get my bearings, find a tourist kiosk and a cheap hotel room, change money and use my map to find my way around.

I took trains in Ghana. In the first class compartments with their huge leather chairs and sliding doors, I always felt like a character out of an Agatha Christie book. I’d travel from Accra to Kumasi, but from what I’ve read, most of those trains are gone too. That’s too bad.

I think we need to bring back trains. I’ll take a berth and fall asleep to the music of the wheels.

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