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“A man may be a pessimistic determinist before lunch and an optimistic believer in the will’s freedom after it.”

September 28, 2010

It’s a warm day which can’t seem to make up its mind. We had sun then clouds, then sun again, and now it’s cloudy. The weatherman said maybe rain, and that’s the forecast for most of this week, maybe rain. Sebastian, the younger, worked on my garden all morning; he is the younger as Sebastian, the older, is my neighbor and the boss of the landscaping crew. The Sebastians are not related and share only a name and a nationality, Brazilian. The younger planted grass seed on bare spots, moved day lilies, cut down the dead flower stalks, trimmed bushes, weeded my herb garden, got rid of the mint and planted the mums I’d bought and be given as gifts. The garden has been readied for winter.

My mother made great school lunches. She never gave us peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Most days we had bologna. On Friday it was tuna. On really cold days we had hot soup in our thermoses. Chicken noodle was a favorite. I remember my lunchboxes always had wire holders to keep the thermos from moving around and breaking, but one year the thermos broke anyway. I still remember how scared and horrible I felt hearing the sound of the glass shaking inside the thermos. That was the year of no soup. My mother sometimes put in potato chips and she always included dessert. The days after she had grocery shopped were the best for desserts. We’d get a Hostess cupcake or a sno-ball. Later in the week we’d get cookies wrapped in plastic, usually Oreos. We didn’t get fruit all that much, an apple every once in a while. I used to buy my milk. Just before lunch, a milk crate filled with cartons was delivered to the room. The milk was always in one of those small waxy cartons which were never easy to open. Good thing they gave us a straw.

We used to keep our lunchboxes under our seats. They never went in the cloak room. When the lunch bell rang, it meant we could talk and soon enough we’d be running outside for recess. For some reason I remember the fourth grade the best when my seat was in the back and my lunchbox was plaid.

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“No great work has ever been produced except after a long interval of still and musing meditation”

September 27, 2010

The day has a welcome dreariness. Rain is in the forecast. It’s a great day to go to the dump.

A woodpecker woke me up this morning. I could hear it tapping on the side of the house. It was one persistent bird until I opened the window and scared it away. Later I noticed the feeder is out of suet. Maybe the bird was just reminding me.

It’s one of those days when my muse has taken a vacation and left no forwarding address. I’ve combed my memories and nothing jumps out at me. Today will be a mishmash.

Last night was the start of the new Amazing Race, and I laughed out loud a few times. My favorite part was the turtle shell boats. The background music was wonderful as the boats slowly sank and teams were left standing in waist deep water wondering what the heck happened. A few boats sank three or four times before the teams learned to balance themselves in their boats. One of the teams is at a distinct disadvantage as the race travels the world from country to country. They were looking for Stonehedge and were unimpressed when they found a pile of rocks. At the castle challenge they needed to find a flag on the battlement, and the team went from person to person asking each if he or she was the battlement. That same team couldn’t find the small turtle shell boats right behind them, and they answered London when asked what country they were in. There was  a preview of next week. The teams will be in Ghana.

The house is quiet. The windows are closed against the damp chill, and the animals are napping. I can hear even Gracie breathing. She’s on the chair in this room; Fern is on a pillow in the living room and Maddie is on the bed upstairs. I am the only creature stirring.

Every day I’m on the hunt for a trip, but nothing has appealed to me. The only criterion is I can’t have been there before. With so much of the world still there for me to see, you’d think I’d find something.

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“Leftovers in their less visible form are called memories. Stored in the refrigerator of the mind and the cupboard of the heart.”

September 23, 2010

The last two days have been magnificent, coffee and papers on the deck mornings and lazy in the sun afternoons. This morning two nuthatches reprimanded me. They weren’t at all pleased to find the feeders empty. Feeling guilty, I went to the car, brought in the new bag of seed, filled the feeders then cleaned and filled the birdbath. The birds arrived in droves, and I went back to my coffee and papers.

I have odd memories of events which happened when I was really little. They seem to have no context and stand singly. One memory has to do with a pond and a half submerged row boat. I remember water lilies and leeches and my mother screaming. I can still see white Adirondack chairs standing by the water, and I have a hazy memory of my father’s aunt. I don’t remember my great-grandmother, on my father’s side, but I can still see the narrow wooden stairs in her house which connected one floor with another. I do remember my great-grandfather, on my mother’s side, who used to sit by the giant heater in my grandmother’s living room. He scared me, and I’d run by him as quickly as I could. I didn’t remember why I ran until my mother told me he once took my Easter basket away.

At 37 Washington Ave., the stairs had a landing. I remember playing there with my dolls. I was probably no older than five or six as we were still there when my sister, five years younger than I, was born. 16 Washington Ave. was where we moved shortly after that. I always think it funny that the houses are remembered by their numbers.

I have tons of memories of Christmas though most of them have jumbled together over the years. For some reason, though, I remember the ice skates. They were old ones, the kind that buckled to your shoes. When I first woke up, they weren’t under the tree. Later that day they were. When I asked my mother, she told me I must have missed them, but I knew I hadn’t.

My last memory stills make me laugh. I wore braces for years, including the ones where tiny elastics were stretched from my lower to my upper braces. I remember sitting behind my father in the car and talking when one elastic flew  out of my mouth and hit him in the back of the neck. He swatted his neck like he’d been bitten by a wasp. I suppose I must have said something, but I don’t remember it. Maybe I just laughed.

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“I stopped reading science fiction once I saw that the UFO was real. It became science fact that just hasn’t been proven yet.”

September 21, 2010

It was an early morning appointment which put me behind, an alarm setting early morning appointment. It was a shock when I first heard the radio and saw the time. I have come to love waking up whenever and slowly making my way into the day.

On the way back from Hyannis, I took the long way home, Route 28. I noticed some buildings have disappeared since I last took that road. One was a guest house where college kids used to stay all summer. A dirt filled lot sits where the house used to stand. Friendly’s has been torn down, and an almost completed CVS will replace it. Just what we need, another CVS, a behemoth with no local personality or flavor. As I was driving, I saw so many other changes and remembered what some of the buildings used to be. Johnnie Yee’s was our favorite Chinese restaurant. It’s now a buffet place catering to tourists, a squat, gray building with no personality. Fruitland was an all purpose store with a meat counter and a great variety of groceries. It was reincarnated several times but nothing lasted. It’s now an empty building. The Gay Nineties was a perfect place to take company to eat good food and listen to great music. It was right across the street from the Barefoot Trader Gift Shop. The two buildings are still there. The Gay Nineties has been replaced by an antique store and the gift shop has become outlet stores including Bass shoes and a shirt company. My parents used to bring relatives to the Compass Lounge where the waiters and waitresses would break into song, mostly show songs. Later it became a nightclub. Now it’s a CVS.

I got tired of 28 so I took the back road through the historical district. The shoe repair shop is still there, and it was open. It reminded me of the cobbler’s shop in the town where I grew up. I never saw the cobbler standing. He was always bent over one of those metal shoes lasts working on resoling somebody’s shoe. He wore an apron. A pile of shoes stretched across and filled the counter. Pairs were tied together with a tag. The shop smelled of polish and leather.

I swear we have been invaded, and we don’t know it. The aliens are disguised as workers in CVS stores across the country. The stores all look alike, these Stepford stores, and enough will soon be build so the aliens can show their hands or suction cups or webfeet or whatever it is theses aliens have. The one thing I know is germs won’t defeat this bunch.

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“Behold congenial Autumn comes, the Sabbath of the Year.”

September 20, 2010

The morning light was different today. A few dark clouds bathed the deck in shadows while sunlight glinted through tree branches in another part of the yard. I was chilly standing on the deck so I came inside and got a sweatshirt then went back out and enjoyed a bit more of the morning. The windows are still closed, but the back door is open and sunlight is pouring onto the floor where Fern is sleeping. Gracie is having her morning nap on the couch.

I haven’t much going on this week. Actually, I have nothing going on, not a single event planned. My dance card is totally empty, and I can’t remember the last time that happened. I do need to get an allergy shot, but I don’t count a shot as an event. Wednesday is supposed to be in the high 70’s so I’m thinking I’ll pencil in a ride with the lovely Miss Gracie. We haven’t done one in a while.

The other day I dug my slippers out of the debris at the bottom of my closet. My feet were cold, a sure indicator of the changing of the seasons.

Here in New England every season has its own wardrobe. Fall is a warm sweater. It’s shoes and socks and cozy clothes for the chilly nights. Winter is the layered season, a sweater and a warm shirt under a heavy jacket. It’s mittens and hats and fleece lined boots. Winter is a blanket on the bed. Spring is a bit of winter and a spark of summer. It’s a warm jacket on a chilly day or a lighter one on a sunny day. It’s an open window and fresh air. Summer is sandals and short sleeves. It’s cotton weather. It’s a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

Today is a long sleeve shirt day but still a sandal day.

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“A good holiday is one spent among people whose notions of time are vaguer than yours.”

September 19, 2010

Steam rose from the wet bark of the pine tree earlier this morning as the sun moved across the morning sky, and its warmth reached the bark. Today is the sort of fall day when outside is warmer than inside. The deck is bathed in sunlight. As is my wont, I stood for a while outside to take measure of the day. I noticed my neighbor has strung red and blue balloons around his deck. At four o’clock this afternoon is the party for his three year old son, and I’ve been invited. Sebastian, my neighbor, has asked me twice to make sure I’m coming. I have a feeling the party might be a bit like every evening when I sat in the living room of my Ghanaian father’s house in Bawku. The room was filled with people who spoke Hausa, and I understood very little. I just nodded my head and smiled a lot. Sebastian and his family are Brazilians, and when they are together or have company, I hear Portuguese more than I hear English. I suspect I’ll be nodding and smiling a lot.

I have been combing through travel sites looking for a place to go this fall, but nothing has piqued my interest. When air fares are posted mid-week, I look for a flight to somewhere exotic, to somewhere a bit different. I remember getting off the plane in Marrakesh and smelling unfamiliar spices in the air. I remember the trip from the airport when I first saw the ancient pink wall surrounding the old part of the city and  calishes traveling along the sides of the roads. I remember smiling and waving at the passengers. I knew I had chosen well. I want that same feeling again.

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“Sex education may be a good idea in the schools, but I don’t believe the kids should be given homework.”

September 17, 2010

The sky opened and the rain fell, all night into this morning, and I drifted off to sleep listening to the sounds of the rain. The storm was quixotic. The drops sometimes pelted the roof then they’d fall gently, in almost a whisper. Today is quiet, the way it is after a storm; only the birds break the stillness.

It was one of those guess the day mornings. I could have sworn it was Saturday, but a quick review of the last few days brought me back to Friday. I had no plans for the day, whatever it was. The house is clean, the larder filled, and I have some books from the library. I think my world is just about perfect.

Most times we didn’t get homework on Fridays. I guess it was the nuns practicing charity. Every other day of the week, though, found me at the kitchen table in the afternoons right after school. I liked to do my homework right away so the rest of the day could be mine. I never moaned about getting homework. Somehow I understood it to be my lot in life, and it never took much time when I was in elementary school to do a few arithmetic problems or learn some new spelling words. I was quick and out the door in no time.

At the end of the year when I was in the third grade, I got three ribbons for excellence: one for spelling, another for religion and a third for English. I still have them upstairs in a scrapbook. The ribbons were homemade by the nuns, and each had a pin on the back so I could proudly wear them. They were the first prizes I ever received, and I wanted to save them forever. I’m still working on that.

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“Learning is a treasure that will follow its owner everywhere.”

September 16, 2010

The day is sunny and still but a bit chilly. I was outside earlier watering the deck plants and, as usual, got caught up in all the activity. I watched my birds and I watched Gracie. She ran at full tilt the circle of the yard including up one set of stairs and down another. She did this a couple of times until her tongue was hanging and she had exhausted herself. She does this run just about every day. When she runs the straight back of the yard, she reminds me of a greyhound. Gracie is lean and leggy.

When I was in the sixth grade, I was finally on the second floor of the new school, the floor reserved for the older kids, for the sixth, seventh and eighth grades, two classes of each. The supply room, the janitor’s closet and the principal’s office were also on the second floor, their doors beside each other all in a row. I used to sneak peeks into the principal’s office on my way back from the girls’ room as her office was almost directly across from the girls’ room door.

We never asked to go to the bathroom in elementary school. I have no idea why. In the old school, we’d ask to go to the basement because that’s where the bathrooms were, but in the new school we’d ask to go to the girls’ room or the boys’ room. A bubbler separated the two doors.

My sixth grade teacher, Miss Quilter, is my favorite teacher of all time. I remember her standing between rows of desks in the front of the class. She always wore a 1950’s shirtwaist dress, usually with a belt, and she’d hold a book in one hand and gesture with the other. She wore the thickest glasses I’d ever seen, and they made her eyes looked enormous. Miss Quilter made lessons come alive. History was like listening to a story. She even made arithmetic interesting, a labor Hercules could admire. She made me hungry to learn, and I digested everything she taught and wanted more and more and more.

The sixth grade is one of the most important years of my life. It was the year I started to love learning, and I will forever thank Miss Quilter for opening up a whole new world for me, one I inhabit still.

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“I collect clothes-they keep building and building. I buy them instead of having them washed.”

September 14, 2010

The morning is gone. Blame my tardiness on the sun. Because the day is warm and lovely, I dawdled and sat out on the deck for the longest time, even after I’d finished with my coffee and papers. I watched the birds. The goldfinches are back, mostly males still bright and beautiful in their summer colors, and my crow too is back. He watched quietly from his usual pine tree perch. A slight breeze wafted the aroma of food from my neighbor’s kitchen to my deck . The aroma is both familiar and foreign. It is familiar because I smell it often and foreign because I have no idea what’s cooking. My neighbors are Brazilian, and when I ask about the food, I get the name of the dish in Portuguese. I also get a list of ingredients, but that doesn’t help all that much. Some of those are in Portuguese as well.

The winter covers for the new furniture arrived yesterday, but I left them in their boxes. It’s not yet time to give up the deck. When a sweatshirt and the chiminea stop being enough to keep me warm, I’ll cover the furniture.

Because yesterday was a work day, today I play. That’s one of the rules I established when I retired: no two days in a row are to be wasted on any sort of work. The only exception is making the bed. That’s no chore for me. It has to do with my innate need for tidiness.

My mother never made us do chores when I was growing up. That was just the way it was, and I never gave it any thought. She made our beds, washed clothes and did the dishes every day. When we came down in the morning, breakfast was on the table, and our lunches were already packed for school. I’d throw my dirty clothes in the hall hamper, and a day or two later they would magically reappear washed and folded. It wasn’t until college that I learned to use a washing machine.

On a recent Peace Corps Ghana blog, I saw a picture of line after line of clothing drying in the sun. The caption described the clothes as belonging to trainees who had washed them in buckets. Not once did I ever do that. Even during the first two weeks of training, people found a laundry lady. We’d bring her our clothes one day and fetch them back the next. Our per diem money during training was small small, as they say in Ghana, but none of us ever thought paying for laundry was extravagant, especially after we saw a Ghanaian iron. It was kept hot with charcoal.

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“They’re here already. You’re next. ”

September 13, 2010

Today is mundane task day, and I’ve already started. I did a wash and managed to pay bills without bursting into tears. As for the rest of the day, the furniture needs polishing, the bed needs changing, the floor is long past needing to be swept, and the larder needs filling. I suppose I could do a task a day, but I figure by doing everything on one day, only one day gets spoiled.

It’s sunnier and warmer than it’s been so I’ve opened the windows. My usual quiet neighborhood is filled with the sounds of sawing and hammering and the voices of my neighbor’s wife and their three year old son. My neighbor is adding to his deck, and his son is outside chatting with his father. I was out earlier wishing them all a good morning.

Kevin McCarthy died in a hospital in Hyannis on Saturday. He was 96. I most remember him as a doctor in the original Invasion of the Body Snatchers, one of my all time favorite movies. When I was an English teacher, I taught a science fiction class, a course I had created, and during the semester I usually showed a couple of old movies. Invasion of the Body Snatchers, made in 1956, was one of them. The kids always chuckled at the reactions of the characters to the unfolding of the plot. All of the characters smoked. Any time there was a traumatic event, the characters raced to tame their terror with a glass of whiskey. Finding growing bodies in the backyard sent four of the main characters to the living room bar where they discussed what they’d seen, each of them with a glass of whiskey, neat, in hand. At the bar, they speculated, strategized and poured.

My students always me if that was how it really was in the old days.

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