Archive for the ‘Musings’ category

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“You are as welcome as the flowers in May.”

May 1, 2010

In the old days, May Day was cause for the dreaded Soviets to haul out their tanks, missiles, assorted weapons and legions and march through the streets of Moscow. In the really old days it was time to wear a flower crown in your hair and dance around the Maypole. I’m all for ribbons and crowns.

It’s going to be a beautifully warm, sunny May Day. Gracie is already asleep on the lounge in the sun. I sense a territorial skirmish is afoot.

May was a big month when I was a kid. There was Mother’s Day and there was the May procession.

It was about this time we started practicing all the songs for the procession. They were the same songs every year, and I still know most of them, “O Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today, Queen of the Angels, Queen of the May.” The week before the procession, the nuns would herd us into the school yard and we’d practice marching two by two, class by class. The whole school took part in the May procession. Parents and grandparents lined the streets. The second graders wore their first communion white dresses and white suits and the rest of us wore our Sunday best. We walked from the school a couple of blocks around to the stone grotto. I remember how excited I was to march and how hard I tried to be solemn, as befitting the occasion. I remember it was always sunny and warm.

I was in eight May processions. In my last one, in the eighth grade, I was chosen to do the crowning. That made me last in the procession. I stopped often to pose for pictures.

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“Don’t grow up too quickly, lest you forget how much you love the beach.”

April 30, 2010

Warm weather is coming. I’m breaking out the sandals and the sunscreen. The sweatshirt goes back into the drawer.

Most of our family vacations were made up of day trips. Our parents couldn’t afford to go away, but we never noticed. A day at the beach is just as much fun close to home as far away. My mother would pack a huge lunch, fill the tartan jug and load up the towels, blankets and toys. When we were little, the lunches were sandwiches, chips, fruits and cookies. When we were older, my mother started making my favorite of all picnic foods, peppers and eggs, and she’d bring along rolls because peppers and eggs are best eaten in rolls. Those peppers and eggs were stored in a Tupperware sort of container, and my mother would sit on a blanket and make the sandwiches. You couldn’t make them ahead of time. The rolls would get soggy. My mother never made enough. We always ran out of peppers and eggs.

One vacation we took with another family was in Vermont. It was so long ago my sister, now a grandmother, was young enough not to be walking yet. We stayed in a huge old Victorian house right on the road, a small two lane country road. A porch wrapped around the front of the house. I remember my sister sitting in one of those bouncy chairs on the porch most of the time. The house had a crank phone in the kitchen, and I got a small shock up my arm when I used it. The lake was across the road. It was shallow only near the shore and really deep beyond it. I don’t know how big the lake was, but I thought it was enormous. I remember seeing fish as I rode on my father’s back to the deep part of the lake. The backyard of the old house ended at a huge hill with a pine tree forest just beyond it. From the top of the hill we could see the whole world.

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“We Are Borg. We Will Assimilate You. Resistance Is Futile!”

April 29, 2010

The sun is out today, but there’s a breeze so it’s a bit chilly. Warm is coming though. It will be in the 60’s the next few days, may even reach 70. I’m figuring lots of deck time.

Yesterday was a do little day. I did clean out a cabinet and found lots of food older than my dog on the top shelf in the back. I guess I should think of the whole experience as an archeological dig. Maybe I’ll bury it all in the backyard. Years from now anthropologists can try and figure out who Snap, Crackle and Pop were, if all the jars of mustard were part of a ritual, if three was a significant  number for white vinegar and whether or not every family had several jars of pepper jelly.

If Stephen Hawking is to be believed, those messages we’re sending into space are really invitations to come and ravage our planet. I just can’t believe it. Any aliens who tune into The Beatle’s Across the Universe on their space radios would probably be looking for concert tickets, not cities to level to the ground.

If Hawking is right and there are aliens bent on world destruction, maybe they’re here all ready. All we have to do is watch. I saw all the science fiction movies when I was a kid so I know what to look for. They don’t show emotion. Their faces are blank. People who disappear for a bit return with odd robot-like behavior. Their personalities lack any warmth. They don’t drink alcohol, a sure sign of an alien presence. Remind you of anyone? I’m thinking of Sister Redempta.

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“Fairness is man’s ability to rise above his prejudices.”

April 28, 2010

The sun has returned this morning so I finished my second cup of coffee on the deck. It was cold out, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to waste any sunlight. It’s been so cloudy and rainy the last few days the solar lights in my yard were dark last night.

The flowers and herbs except for two small pots of mint are planted. Later this morning I’ll plant the mint in the backyard where it can spread. I bought only a few flowers this first trip as my garden center was still fairly empty. Most of the flowers need a bit more warmth than the cold nights we’ve been having. The zinnias for my window boxes won’t be in for a few more weeks, and I’ll have to let the possum know the tomatoes haven’t been planted yet.

When I was in the seventh and eighth grades, I played CYO basketball. That was when the rules in girls’ basketball stated you could only dribble twice and hold the ball three seconds before passing. Guards played one half of the court and forwards the other. Guards never shot, even after being fouled. A forward took the shot. My scoring average at the end of every season was 0.00. We had practice every Saturday morning, but we wanted more. In school, at recess, the boys hogged all the basketball courts while we girls were supposed to stand and chat or jump rope. I went and asked if one court could be designated for girls so we could practice. That request horrified the power that was, sister superior, and we were told no. I was livid. My teacher at the time, Mrs. Corchoran, we had nuns only every other year back then, squatted beside my desk and quietly explained why it was an inappropriate request. She asked first if I had had my friend. I didn’t know which friend she meant. That gave her the answer. She went on to explain that girls cannot play strenuous sports, and I would learn why in due time. I had no idea what in the heck that woman was talking about.

It’s strange but I remember every bit of that incident. I was two desks from the back of the room  and can still see, in my mind’s eye, Mrs. Corchoran squatting and then whispering to me. She was facing the back of the room. Afterwards, I was a bit stunned. It made no sense to me that my being a girl was reason enough to say no.

It was the beginning of awareness for me, a belief in fairness and equality. It was the start of rebellion.

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“Every time one sees a relative one finds a thorn”

April 27, 2010

Rain last night and cold, in the 30’s, predicted for tonight. Such are the vagaries of spring in New England. I just noticed a patch of sun trying to break through the light gray clouds. Go sun!!

The house we lived in on Cape Cod was far bigger than the house before it. My brother and I had our own rooms on the first floor while my sisters shared a room across from my parents on the second floor. The washer and dryer were in the kitchen because the house had only a dug out cellar with a bulkhead entrance in the backyard. A block from our house was the pond, a huge swimming pond with fish and turtles. My sisters sneaked over and swam at night when my parents were sleeping. My father would sometimes spend a bit of time fishing when he got home from work. The fish were small, but it was the fun of fishing my father loved. During the winter, I’d have to walk on the sidewalk along the pond’s edge to get to school. The wind whipped across the water, and it was always the coldest walk. My brother used to sneak in and out of the house through his bedroom window. I never did. When relatives came to visit, my bedroom became the guest room, and I’d have to sleep on the couch. I always hated that. My aunt and uncle came often. They used to bring Italian pastries which we loved and my cousin Bobby, whom we didn’t love. He was rude and obnoxious. My mother told me I punched him in the face once because he wouldn’t stop harassing me no matter how many times I asked him. I don’t remember hitting him, but I suspect there was a feeling of satisfaction. My aunt and uncle stopped bringing Bobby, but they still brought Italian pastries. The house, like most houses on the Cape back then, was never locked. When my parents moved, they couldn’t even find a door key.

It was when I was in the Peace Corps and my brother was in the army that my father got a promotion. His company transferred him to Boston and the family moved. My father joked he wasn’t sending either of us a change of address.

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“Old hippies don’t die, they just lie low until the laughter stops and their time comes round again.”

April 26, 2010

The day is rainy, just as predicted. The birds seem especially noisy this morning. I can hear their raucous calls through the closed windows. I suspect the blue jays are responsible for all the noise.

I need to score some weed, some Mary Jane, some grass. I’m late to the party. I read in the paper a while back how the use of illicit drugs among baby boomers 50-59 rose 63% from 2002 to 2005. People are rediscovering it, for its medicinal purposes of course. This morning I read an article entitled “Vroomer Boomers” which said the average age of motorcyclists is on the rise. After I finish here, I’m going through the boxes in my cellar to find my ponchos, my fringed shirts, head bands and beads. They can’t be far behind.

Today’s article reminded of my Wild One days, not my Easy Rider days as I missed that movie. In Ghana, I had a motorcycle. It was small, a Honda 90, and modest as we had to wear dresses all the time. I learned the gears and the brake when I bought the moto, as they called it in Ghana, and then rode it over 100 miles from Tamale to Bolga. It was exhilarating. I loved the road and the wind on my face. The bugs were not so welcome. I learned to be exhilarated without smiling. A few inhaled bugs and a choke or two taught me that lesson. I rode along singing out loud to pass the time. I figure a few villagers told stories later about the crazy batura on the moto. It took hours to get home though I went as fast as I dared. The road was a good one, paved all the way. It was called the road to Bolga and it went straight there so I never worried about getting lost. I stopped for a warm coke at a store along the road and to stretch my legs. When I got to the school gate, I honked so the gateman would let me in. He smiled a toothless grin and pointed to my bike. I smiled back and nodded.

I only had one injury from my motorcycle, a round burn on my lower leg. As I was standing and waiting for goats to pass, they turned and ran into me. I dropped the bike out of surprise and burned my leg on the exhaust pipe.

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“Sex is good, but not as good as fresh, sweet corn.”

April 25, 2010

Today is a chilly, dreary day with clouds and periodic rain. The weatherman says the next few days won’t be any better.

My front walk is lined with potted flowers and herbs waiting to be planted. They are from my first run at the garden center. My herb garden, though, needs to be weeded and cleaned first, but I’m waiting for some sun before I tackle that job. I bought my herbs with recipes in mind. There’s cilantro for Mexican food, spearmint for drinks and thyme for just about anything. The basil will come later. Oregano, sage  and lemon verbena are already growing high in the garden. I can barely wait to snip my own fresh herbs.

I’ll make several trips to the garden center before I’m finished. The front beds need more flowers, the deck flower boxes need to be filled and I want tomato plants. Last year the possum ate my tomatoes. I’m hoping this year I will.

When I was a kid, the only fresh vegetables we ate were carrots, summer corn and fall squashes. I don’t count potatoes because their skins always looked old to me. The rest of our vegetables came from cans. My mother served LeSueur baby peas, French green beans, regular green beans, yellow beans, and corn niblets. She also served creamed corn, but I always thought it look gross. My father liked canned asparagus, but the rest of us didn’t.

I roamed all over town, and I don’t remember a single backyard vegetable garden. Nobody had little stands in front of their houses selling mounds of zucchini or bags of native tomatoes. I remember the lady across the street had grape arbors, and I thought that was amazing because I got to see grapes growing in the wild and eat some fresh off the vines. They tasted spectacular.

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“To the illumined man or woman, a clod of dirt, a stone, and gold are the same.”

April 24, 2010

The sun is out, but this time of year it’s not yet strong enough to dispel the evening chill. The days get only as high as the 50’s and hover there. I have a window open in my bedroom, and it’s chilly at night, but I snuggle under the covers, and every morning I wake to the songs of birds.

The front lawn got cut the morning. It was tall and thick and deep green. Afterwards, I could smell cut grass from the deck where I was standing. I think it one of the best of all smells. It conjures memories. It brings to mind summer and warmth and rolling down grassy hills. I remember the click clack of the hand mower as my father cut his lawn and the feel of soft grass between my toes when I ran through the sprinkler. If the lawn needs mowing, summer can’t be so far away.

I think the amount of dirt you can tolerate is in direct proportion to your age. The dirtier you are, the younger you must be. When I was really little, a mud puddle was about the best place to play. My hands and clothes always got filthy, and I still remember the stiffness of my fingers covered in dried mud. It was fun. When I was older and riding my bike, I never cared about scuffs on my sneakers or grease from the chain on my pant legs. It was the joy of the ride which was all important.

Puberty brought a keen awareness of looks and clothes. I’d rather have thrown away a stained blouse than wear it. Sweaters back then were sometimes less a fashion statement than a cover-up. My white sneakers had to be pearly. The standard was high.

I still maintain a pristine look in public, but it’s getting harder, and I’m starting to care less.  I travel nowhere without my Tide pen. It is in my bag and a back-up is in the car. My Tide pen has saved blouses and shirts from the rag pile. It makes me look good. I don’t need to bring a sweater. The stains miraculously disappear.

At home, though, it’s a different story. I wear sweatshirts with stains and even a few ratty holes. Who cares? It’s just me.

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“Do not make a stingy sandwich; Pile the cold cuts high. Customers should see salami coming through the rye.”

April 23, 2010

It’s an on again-off again chilly sunny day. Last night, it rained. We were at the beach enjoying the last of our after dinner ice cream cones when we saw the darkest black cloud moving across the sky. It was mouth dropping beautiful with fluffy edges billowing and drifting back and forth and small pockets of light trying to shine through the different shades of gray and black. I watched it all the way home.

My dance card is empty today. There are places I could go and things I could do, but I’m staying home. I have a new book.

A sub shop was only one block from my elementary school. It was Mr. Santoro’s Sub Shop, the very first ever in town, and Mr. Santoro worked behind the counter with one or two of his sons. He was a short stocky man who always reminded me of my Uncle Lorre, the token Italian in my family as my father used to joke. Mr. Santoro’s sub shop was small with no tables and only stools in front of a counter on the wall opposite the glass case which held all the meats and salads. Silver containers behind where Mr. Santoro took orders held all the fixings. Potato chips hung off tall racks. It was a treat to have enough money to get a sub for lunch, and it was a treat to get out of school for a bit. We’d walk over and patiently stand in line. I’d watch Mr. Santoro make the subs while I was waiting. He was quick and had the rolls filled, topped and wrapped in only a few minutes. I usually ordered tuna on Fridays and Italian the rest of the time. I always had pickles, onions and hot pepper, still do. I’d take my lunch and eat at the counter on chilly days. On nice days I’d walk one block over to the town hall and sit at one of the benches. Eating at Mr. Santoro’s sub shop was my favorite lunch.

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“Only when the last tree has died and the last river been poisoned and the last fish been caught will we realise we cannot eat money.”

April 22, 2010

Today is Earth Day. The first was forty years ago, and I missed it. Not long after, I read about Earth Day in the weekly review section from the New York Times. The Peace Corps used to send it to us so we could keep up with the world, but I already knew Earth Day. I was living in Ghana where Earth Day was every day. Nothing went to waste in Ghana.

If the soles of my sandals wore out, I brought them to the market where the shoe man re-soled them using old tires. The treads were worn, but those soles outlived the sandals. A friend gave me a year’s subscription to the New York Sunday Times. Four or five papers would arrive at once. When I had finished reading, Thomas, my house boy of sorts, took the papers and sold them to make extra money. Mine was the only market in Ghana where rice was sold wrapped in a cone made from the New York Times. Bucket baths were common especially during the dry season when water was turned off for days at a time. One whole bucket of water was good for a bath and a toilet flush at the end of the day. Even when I could shower, there was only cold water. I learned to shower quickly to make use of the first water from the pipes as it had been warmed by the sun. None of the chicken ever went to waste. The head and feet were boiled together and made great broth and a tasty base for cooking rice. Ghanaians sometimes ran out of beer because they were out of bottles in which to put the beer. Green Star beer bottles were sold in the market filled with palm or groundnut oil. During the spring rains, termites were fried and roasted, or made into bread. I was never a fan of bugs, cooked or uncooked.

Ghana was never paradise. It had trash heaps and open sewers. It had public toilets which were walls around holes in the ground and smelled God-awful. People tossed things anywhere. Mammy lorries spewed smoke and were never inspected. I saw accidents and people lying in the road. I saw Ghana in the best light and in the worst light.

I saw it all, and I brought the best home with me. Like the Ghanaians, I recycle. I save cans, plastic in all colors, newspapers, magazines, cardboard and bottles. I live by the maxim that you always leave a place better than when you found it.

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