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“The most important political office is that of the private citizen.”

November 2, 2010

It’s dismal. It rained during the night and the day is dark, damp and cold. Tonight will be in the 30’s, and it won’t get much better the rest of the week. I’m hoping for some sun later. I abide cold better when there is a bit of sun. It makes me feel a little optimistic even wearing layers.

It’s election day. Finally the obtrusive phone calls and obnoxious TV ads will end. The local news last night reported phone outages, some for several hours. It seems all those auto-ads swamped the system and shut it down. I believe differently. I think it was the intervention of a mighty hand, a sort of election day burning bush sending a warning.

I like to vote. It may be only one vote, but I believe I make a difference. I haven’t ever missed voting. It is, in my mind, the responsibility of all citizens to exercise their franchise. Some people rely on the argument there isn’t a candidate who deserves their vote as a defense for their absence at the polls. I don’t buy it. Local questions are on the ballot and walking behind the curtain just to check yes or no for those still counts.

My town still uses black pens for voting, no fancy machines here. Old ladies, always the same old ladies, check you in and check you out. They chit chat and ask me I’m doing while they look up my street to check off my name. It never takes me long to vote. When I walk in the booth, I already know which candidates and which questions deserve my yeses. This election is a tough one.

I bought a car, a red Camry. I’m picking it up this afternoon. I’ve never had a red car. All my others were blue or gray or black. When I saw this car, I fell in love even though I know red cars attract police officers holding ticket books, and I, on highways, am always a good candidate for a speeding ticket. That I haven’t ever had one is a miracle. I hope my luck will still hold.

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“I replaced the headlights in my car with strobe lights, so it looks like I’m the only one moving.”

November 1, 2010

The cold has settled in for a bit. The sky is mostly cloudy with only a bit of blue. The sun is intermittent but is shining now. It has a glow about it which gives everything a brightness, even the browning leaves. The birds are active. Gracie’s coat is cold to the touch when she comes into the house.

We had very few trick or treaters last night, but they looked great. We had a Harry Potter, a soldier, a princess or two and a few I don’t remember. Even their fathers were in costume.

I’m going to pick out a new car today, a new used car. My old car is just fine, but I’m tired of it. It’s a 1999 Corolla I bought used in 2002. The car has been wonderful but it’s time we parted ways. I called my car dealership, and they’ll have a couple for me to look at when I go there today. My only stipulation was no silver or black.

I bought my first car when I got home from the Peace Corps. It was a boat, or at least the size of a boat. The car was a blue Chevy Impala, also used. The back end was huge and had a wing like look about it. No way could I parallel park that beastie. I would have needed a runway.

I stayed with Chevy’s for a while. My parents sold me my next car for $1.oo, their old car. It was a yellow Impala but smaller than my other one. I couldn’t parallel park that one either.

The first and only new car I ever bought was a blue Tercel, and I had to learn to drive a standard before I bought it. My friend took me to the school parking lot on a Sunday so I could practice starting, stopping and shifting. The first obstacle was when my friend told me to feel with my foot the spot on the pedal for idling the car in gear. We were jerked a few times, actually quite a few times, before I understood what in the heck he meant. I also kept stalling the car when I’d shift to the wrong gear. Finally, I got it and the bucking and stalling stopped. I was glad for that. My whiplash went away. I could parallel park that car in even the smallest space.

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“Shadows of a thousand years rise again unseen, Voices whisper in the trees, ‘Tonight is Halloween!'”

October 31, 2010

I am behind my time today. Yesterday we went on the Boston movie tour and the day was long and tiring so this morning I slept in later than I usually do. The tour was great fun, and we got to see where scenes from several of the movies were filmed. We even stopped at the L Street Tavern, seen in Good Will Hunting, for a drink. When the tour was over, we had a late afternoon lunch in a restaurant in my old home town. Afterwards, I gave my friend a tour of all the places she’d read about in my blog.

Tonight I’ll join forces with my friends to give out treats. They’ve invited me for dinner, and later in the evening we’ll watch The Amazing Race.

I remember how on Halloween we could hardly wait until dark or even nearly dark. We’d beg and beg my mother to let us start trick or treating, but she’d tell us it was too early. We knew she was wrong. After all, she was an adult and she had no idea. We’d look out the window hoping to see a kid in costume so we could say, “See, they’re already out,” to my mother as admonishment for holding us back when other mothers were obviously far more understanding. When she finally did let us loose, we’d do our neighborhood first then branch out to the streets all around.

The night always seemed filled with shadows. Moonlight highlighted the outlines of branches so they looked like arms waving across the sidewalks. Leaves blew. Some neighborhoods were darker than others. Most of the front doors were open and the porch lights lit. The old neighborhood ladies always tried to guess who we were. It was part of their fun. They oohed and ahed the costumes and pretended to be afraid. We’d eat part of our haul as we walked, and we’d sometimes trade candy with one another. When we noticed fewer and fewer trick or treaters, we knew it was time to head home.

Once we got home, my mother would give us each a bowl for our hauls. We’d check out the candy, have a bar or two then go to bed and fall asleep exhausted by Halloween.

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“Where there is no imagination there is no horror.”

October 30, 2010

The cold is back. The days are autumn cool, but the nights are downright chilly, blanket on the bed chilly. Yesterday was so windy yellow oak leaves now dot the deck and the lawn is hidden under pine needles. Some trees along the roads are down to bare branches. They look desolate. They look like winter.

Once in a while a memory from Ghana pops into my head. Today I remembered the Chinese restaurant, the only one in the city back then. It was a long way from the center of town. Taxi rides used to cost only 20 pesewas no matter where in the city of Accra you wanted to go, but the Chinese restaurant was a cedi away, a whole 100 pesewas. It doesn’t sound like much money but for us it was.

The restaurant seating was mostly outside. The tables had real tablecloths, and the Ghanaian waiters wore short black jackets over white shirts which made the restaurant seem fancier than it was. The Chinese food was different but it was delicious. For some reason I remember a lot of peas and fried rice.

We never celebrated Halloween in Ghana. The volunteers in my region were spread thinly, and we didn’t get together much as the travel time was too long, and we were teaching. My only acknowledgments of the holiday were some Halloween cards my mother had sent. They were on display on my bookcase. My students, who would often visit in the evening, checked them out and wanted to know what Halloween was. I tried to describe it. They were most impressed with the trick or treat and candy part.

On Halloween there was a knock at my door. Three of my students were there and they yelled, “Trick or treat,” when I opened the door. Luckily I had peppermint candies which I offered. Each of my students took one, said, “Thank you, madam,” then left. Halloween was over.

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“Many’s the long night I’ve dreamed of cheese – toasted, mostly.”

October 28, 2010

I have an early appointment in Boston so I’m writing this yesterday. It seemed like a good idea so I wouldn’t have to hurry in the morning, but I’m having tense problems. I keep wanting to use is so I will.

Today is a favorite kind of day. It’s raining and has been all day. Sometimes the rain is gentle; other times it rages against the windows and back door. The room here is darkened, lit by the television screen and the monitor. Most days I never watch TV, but today I wanted to watch old black and white science fiction. I didn’t get dressed all day. It just seemed right to be comfortable. For lunch I had a toasted cheese sandwich with tomatoes. It was delicious.

My sandwich had cheddar cheese, Vermont sharp cheddar cheese, and it got me to thinking about cheese. Cheddar is my current favorite, all sorts of cheddar. Its parentage doesn’t generally matter.

My favorite often switches as I am a fan of most cheeses, bleu being the exception. When I was in Africa, I craved cheese, but my mother never thought to send Velveeta, and I never thought to ask. It would have been perfect.

I remember entertaining and feeling quite accomplished when I put together and served my cheese balls. They were covered in nuts or some sort of greenery. At Christmas I think there used to a rule which declared that all households celebrating the season must serve at least one cheese ball. I lived through the fondue era and cheese fondue was my favorite though I have a special place in my heart for chocolate fondue and pound cake.

When I have company, I always serve cheese as one of the hors d’oeuvres. I put out a slab of cheese, lately cheddar, and a triangle of cheese like a mango chutney with cheddar. The crackers vary. I also slice pickles and put out something like fig compote and olive tapenade    (which I never touch) to have with the cheeses. I also still use Velveeta, but it’s never mentioned in polite company.

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“Candy Corn is the only candy in the history of America that’s never been advertised. And there’s a reason. All of the candy corn that was ever made was made in 1911.”

October 26, 2010

Last night was so warm I slept with the bedroom window open. The wind was blowing hard, and I could hear the rustling of leaves. Just as I was falling asleep I thought I heard drops of rain, but I wasn’t sure if I was awake or drowsily dreaming. The drops seemed to fall too slowly to be real, but this morning, the street and driveway were wet. The deck is strewn with yellow leaves from the oak tree. The sun is shining. The day is early September warm.

It’s errand day. I always save my errands until I have a bunch as I figure it’s best to ruin one day by running around than several. The errands will start with the allergist and Staples in Hyannis then on to the Christmas Tree Shop for suet, Agway for bird seed and dog treats then finally the grocery store. My larder is empty. I have a list.

Whenever my mother needed anything during the week, one of us was dispatched to the corner store, either the red store or the white store. We never knew the store names. They were just known by their colors. The white store was closer by a couple of blocks. It was a great ride on my bike. I’d go down the lawn hill and hope my father wouldn’t see the bike track then I’d take the street on the left and follow it until the last turn, also a left. From the end of that street I could see the store. It was across Spring Street and facing that last road.

The white store had wooden display cases with glass across the front. That’s where the penny candy was stored. The ladies who ran the white store, sisters I think, were patient. They knew that spending even a couple of pennies was not to be rushed. I tended toward candy which lasted a long time like Squirrels, Mary Janes or those green and yellow wrapped square candies which hurt my jaw to chew. I loved Atomic fire balls but holding on to the handle bar with one hand and using my other hand to make sure my mother’s bag, usually filled with milk or bread, didn’t bump out of my bike basket made it impossible to take the fire ball out of my mouth when the heat got too great. Besides, those were best sucked with a water source nearby.

My mother was smart. She knew we’d hurry to the store when we could keep the change. It was never more than a nickel, but in those days, to us kids, that was big money.

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“Memory is more incredible than ink.”

October 25, 2010

The morning is cloudy and will stay that way all day as rain is expected tonight. It’s warm out and that warmth will continue and be most welcomed. We’ll be close to 70° by mid-week, and I’ll be frolicking on the deck. Okay, I don’t really frolic.

I would love to visit my elementary school, the old school not the new school. I know I’ve mentioned it was the neatest place. There were high ceilings and long windows in each classroom. The corridor walls were dark wood. Right as you walked in the door you faced a huge set of wooden stairs with each stair sloped in the middle from years of use. The stairs led to the classrooms, and from the very top floor, you could look down to the very bottom. I’d take my camera and stop at my first grade classroom. It was huge, or at least it looked that way to me. The famous cloakroom was outside that classroom and two doors, one on each side of the room, led to it. We used to go by rows to fetch our coats and boots. I remember one set of windows looked out at the narrow road on the side of the school we seldom used. The other set faced the schoolyard. I have a sorts of memories from that first grade classroom. I think they were etched in my brain from the fear I felt being in school away from my mother and facing Sister Redempta.

My next stop for pictures would be at the very bottom, in the basement. When we needed to go to the bathroom, we asked to go to the basement for that was where the bathrooms were. From the top floor that meant a hike up and down all the stairs including a separate set only to the bathrooms. The boys’ room was on one side of the basement near the trash bins and the furnace. When I was on the drill team, that’s where our equipment was stored, and it was the first time I got a peek at the boys’ side. On the girls’ side was not only the bathroom but also an open room with benches where I sometimes had my brownie meetings. The room was below ground and had only small, narrow windows around the top sides of the room. The doors in the bathroom were wooden ones painted gray. Its ceiling was filled with pipes running across from one side of the room to the other. I remember they were painted white and seemed always to be peeling.

I am constantly amazed at what gets saved in my brain.

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“A good photograph is knowing where to stand.”

October 24, 2010

It’s dreary today and will be again tomorrow. Rain is expected after that. The day is quiet; no one is stirring. Sundays are like that here.

When I drive home after breakfast, I always take the back road through the historical district. I like the old houses anytime but especially this time of year when many are decorated for fall and Halloween. Pumpkins sit on the doorsteps among the mums and the tall nearly dried wheat stalks. One house has its front yard decorated as a graveyard filled with skeletons. I made a mental note (which I’ll probably forget) to go back there with my camera to take a few pictures.

I have no pictures of me at Halloween. Christmas was the holiday my parents seemed to archive the most though I do recognize an Easter picture from when I was around twelve or thirteen. That Easter dress was a favorite of mine. It had the look of one from the roaring twenties with its low waist. To complement my outfit, I wore tiny squat heels and nylon stockings held up by garters. You can’t see either of them, the shoes or the garters, but I remember the whole outfit well. That picture was taken in the front of the house. It’s funny, as in strange, but just about every outside posed shot my parents took was taken at that very same spot. In a Christmas picture, I’m standing there holding the handle bars of my new bike. In another shot, the dog and I are posed together by the front bushes. My siblings too are usually posed by that front door and the bushes by the garden. I don’t remember any pictures taken in the backyard.

The early pictures are mostly black and white. The first color pictures date from my confirmation when I was eleven. My mother is wearing a broad brimmed pink hat and a fox stole my aunt gave her. I was always intrigued by that stole. The fox still had its head.

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“Give me a laundry-list and I’ll set it to music.”

October 23, 2010

The last few days have been lovely with a bright sun and relatively warm weather, but once that sun goes down, it gets mighty chilly. Yesterday was errand day and Gracie and I were out and about for a couple of hours. I stopped at Hart Farm for some small pumpkins and ended up buying cherry tomatoes, purple and fingerling potatoes, onion jam and honey crisp apples. I couldn’t resist.

On the back of my cellar door is a spice rack. I had it built to fit the width of the door when my spices outgrew their kitchen cabinet. Every time I open that door to go down cellar I catch a whiff of the most amazing aroma, a sweet combination of herbs and spices. I have all the common herbs and spices and some exotic ones, mostly for Indian and Moroccan foods. They are, of course, arranged alphabetically to make it easier to find them. On the inside of a kitchen cabinet door is stapled a typed list of all the rack’s contents. I made the list when I found several cinnamon, cream of tartar and peppercorn jars. I also made the list because I am anal about lists.

My making lists started innocently enough. When I worked, with little free time during the week, I needed to cram everything into week-ends, all the chores and errands, so I made a list. It was one list, one all-encompassing list, until that fateful Thanksgiving dinner when I forgot to bring some food to the table. It was a Waldorf salad left it in the back of the fridge. A flow chart came out of that experience. It starts a day or two before the event and ends with the cooking times: in and out. I was unwittingly becoming a list maker.

One year I forgot a traditional stocking stuffer I always gave my mother, a new linen calendar for the kitchen. She mentioned it, and the day after Christmas I bought her one. I decided then to keep a Christmas gift list of all I’ve bought and the traditional gifts I need to get.

As I grew older, I forgot stuff so I kept a list of groceries, appointments and on and on. Lists tend to beget lists, and I was hooked on making lists. Post-it notes are my friends. I have them in a variety of colors, and they hang off the car dashboard, the computer monitor and the lamp shade.They are but the tip of the iceberg. I am a list maker.

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“Being frightened is an experience you can’t buy.”

October 22, 2010

The morning is cold, and the wind is brisk. The weatherman says the cold will be here for a couple of days. A blanket is permanently on my bed. The windows are kept closed. The deck is bleak, its furniture covered and everything else put away. I can see my neighbors’ houses again through bare branches. Around the house I wear my warm slippers and a sweatshirt. I’m quickly getting into winter mode.

Yesterday in the late afternoon we had a thunder shower. The rain came and went quickly. First it got really dark then came giant drops pelting the house and roof. Gracie raced inside and shook the rain off her fur. I sat in the dark for a while and listened to the thunder. It’s one of my favorite sounds. The storm was spent in about twenty minutes and the sun reappeared.

As a little kid, I loved feeling scared, surprised by the unexpected. It was different than being afraid because scared was fun. It was a haunted house display at Halloween when a creature jumped out waving its arms and screaming boo. We used to love to scare each other. We’d hide behind the house or a tree and jump out and yell. No one ever admitted to being scared, but we were. It always made us laugh afterwards, mostly in relief.

I remember being home when my parents went grocery shopping. If I heard strange noises, I’d stop and listen and sometimes get afraid. Once I even took to hiding under my bed. When I got older, after having seen too many horror movies, I found out it was the first place a murderous creature would look. The closet was a close second. Once I yelled at the noise. “Hello, anyone there?” I figured bravado would scare it away. My father answered. He was at the front door with the groceries, and I had heard him fumbling at the doorknob. He scared the heck out of me.

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