Archive for the ‘Musings’ category

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“Without ice cream, there would be darkness and chaos.”

June 11, 2010

All that rain was worth today. It is cool and sunny and perfectly dry. Yesterday I saw my first hummingbird of the season. It was trying to drink from the tulip solar light. I quickly made sugar water and filled my feeder. I also saw an odd colored squirrel. It was tan, instead of gray. I ran in to get my camera, but the squirrel didn’t wait. I’ll keep my camera handy and an eye out for its return. Tonight is my first play of the season at the Cape Playhouse. It feels like summer.

I am spatially deprived. Pictures mean little to me when putting something together. I need words, step by step instructions. Those I understand. Yesterday a storage ottoman was delivered. It will hold CD’s, just what I need, but it came in pieces, in several pieces, and with a red bag filled with screws and small wooden dowels. The directions are in pictures. I am doomed.

My father corrected us if we wanted ice cream from the Dairy Queen. He told us it was ice milk made from a powder, no cream involved. My father worked for Hood Ice Cream and took his ice cream seriously, no pretenders allowed. He used to bring home great flavors and novelties from the Hood plant in Hyannis where he was the manager, but he never ate the fancy ice cream. His favorite was vanilla with Hershey’s syrup and whip cream from a can. He loved a bowl of ice cream at night while he was watching television, but it wasn’t just ice cream he loved. My dad was big on snacks. He’d pour a glass of milk, grab some Hydrox cookies and sit on the couch in his spot to eat and watch TV. Under the couch was where he hid his candy, nonpareils were his favorite, and at night he’d pull the box from its hiding place. I remember once my dad told someone he seldom ate snacks. I think my mother snorted when she heard him.

I can see in my mind’s eye my dad wearing his light blue shorts and no shirt sitting at the end of the couch beside the table, his spot. On the table are his glasses, generally filled with fingerprints, an ashtray, a crossword puzzled book so he could do the fills-in and a bowl of ice cream. When I visited, he always brought my dog Shauna, the first of my Boxers, her own bowl of vanilla ice cream but without the Hershey’s syrup.

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“Nothing is more highly to be prized than the value of each day”

June 10, 2010

It rained all night. I could hear it from the open window in my bedroom, and I fell asleep lulled by the rhythm of the drops. Though the rain has stopped, the sky is gray and the day is getting darker. My outside lights, timed for dusk, have been on all morning. The return of the rain is close.

I have a poor sense of time now, and I suspect I might be bragging. The days all run together. I go to bed when I’m tired and get up when I am so inclined. My clock radio broke a long time ago, and I didn’t replace it. I saw no need. On my little calendar I write notes to remind me of appointments or obligations. Most days the calendar is blank. Today is one of those days.

I have a list of favorite sorts of things. I’m not talking the big favorites like Christmas or my birthday but rather the simple ordinary day favorites. Lying on the couch on a snowy winter’s day with an afghan keeping me warm is one. Napping in the lull of an late afternoon is another. A book I can’t put down until it’s finished is high on the list as is a night sky bright with stars. I love the smell of burning wood. Chocolate, I can’t forget chocolate. It’s long been a favorite, black jelly beans and really hard Peeps too. I love cheeseburgers from the grill and watching baseball games. I wear my slippers all winter, and I love the way they keep my feet warm. Sweatshirts with pouches are my favorites. I don’t care so much about the hoods. B movies and black and white science fiction while away a rainy afternoon. Add popcorn to make it near perfect.

I’m living a rich life.

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“A small town is a place where there’s no place to go where you shouldn’t.”

June 9, 2010

The morning is chilly. When I woke up, I was glad for Gracie and the warmth of her body. It was even cool enough to bring my furry slippers out of their seasonal retirement. The sun this morning looks muted. It sits behind grayish white clouds. Maybe it will rain was the best the weatherman could do.

My town had the usual stores, the sorts every small town had back then. It also had a hospital, a zoo and a town pool. It had one movie theater, a couple of bowling alleys, a miniature golf course, a Dairy Queen and O’Grady’s diner. My town always felt huge to me. The Independent was the town newspaper. It was published once a week and was crammed with every tidbit of town news. We knew the grandsons of the Riley family were visiting and that the Roberts had celebrated an anniversary. All the pages and stories were filled with names of locals. I even made it myself a few times. The police blotter listed every call. We knew whose cat was caught in a tree and what old lady heard strange noises at night. For a short while, when I was in elementary school, I delivered the Independent. When I was in high school, I wrote a weekly column in the summer about the drill team and the competitions we had every weekend. I loved seeing my by-line. The fire station in town was an old brick building covered in ivy. It was across the street from the town hall. On the grounds of the town hall was a small shaded walkway with a few benches. A World War II memorial in front of the building named every resident who had served. I always stopped to read my father’s name.

In my memories, that town, where I grew up, was idyllic, and I don’t think I’m exaggerating. It had everything a kid could want. We had woods, railroad trains and tracks, Saturday matinees, berry picking spots, the swamp, an ice skating rink in winter and a playground in the summer with its games and sports and all sorts of handcrafts. All of my friends lived there.

When I was forced to move to the cape, I was devastated. I went from everything to nothing. On most weekends that first year I took the bus back to my town. Gradually, though, those bus trips became less frequent and then they stopped. I stayed home.

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“A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.”

June 8, 2010

The days continue to be lovely. Today the sunshine  is sharp and bright, and there is a little breeze, the sort which stirs the leaves. Gracie is having her morning nap. Such is her life.

A Peace Corps friend reconnected this morning. He saw my picture on the Peace Corps Connect  Facebook site and said I hadn’t changed a bit. I thought him kind or maybe just blinded by nostalgia. I love serendipity. Ralph and Steve are coming for lunch. Two Ghanaian Peace Corps friends in one day makes this a special occasion.

Lunch will be at a restaurant on the channel by the harbor. To get there, we have to maneuver through the boatyard. The food there is wonderful but it is sitting so close to the water which makes the restaurant extraordinary. It is where I bring all my special visitors. I can already taste the lobster roll.

I am leaving you with little today. Call it a mini-vacation of sorts.

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“That virgin, vital, beautiful day: today”

June 7, 2010

Every now and then I get lost in the day. Something holds my attention, and when I look up, hours have passed. The morning itself was the first to do that today. It drew me outside. The humidity of yesterday has given way to the most beautiful spring day. The air is clear, the sun bright and it’s cool, but not so cool you want to stay inside. I sat on the wooden chair and watched the birds. I also watched nothing at all. I just daydreamed. When I came inside, my coffee had long been perked.

The papers held me for a while. It was one of those read everything days, even the silly corrections on the second page. I always wonder how they can get simple things like a name or an address wrong. It was rare to find no familiar names in the court news. I did most of the crosswords and word puzzles. The morning was speeding by me.

In between, I’d wander outside and just stand for a few minutes. It’s too lovely a day to waste.

The living room caught my eye. I wondered if a small piece of furniture would look better on the other side of the room. It didn’t, but while I was doing that, I noticed how dirty the glass on the picture leaning against the table was. I cleaned it. About then I got another cup of coffee.

Yesterday, as a reward for grocery shopping, I bought myself two books. Needing something to read with my coffee, I started one. By the time I put it down, I had read several chapters. It was, by then, late morning.

I unloaded the dishwasher, checked on Gracie who’s been out all morning then sat myself down at the computer. Somehow it is three hours later than when I woke up. The day is almost half over. In the scheme of things, I accomplished little. Putting dishes away doesn’t count. The bed’s still unmade, and I’ve yet to get dressed. It’s a good thing then that I don’t count my days by accomplishments. I count my days by smaller things.

A new book is one of the best parts of whiling away a day. An afternoon nap under a cozy afghan is another. Sitting on the deck, reading and watching is the highlight of most summer days. When, at night, my feet are up and the Red Sox are leading, a sigh of contentment easily slips from my lips. It is the end of a wonderful day. Few accomplishments, maybe, but I think it a day well spent.

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“Teeth extracted by the latest Methodists.”

June 6, 2010

The humidity is thick enough to cut. The sun is a visitor staying only a short while then disappearing behind a cloud before it comes back, more to tantalize us than to stay. The weatherman says rain, even another thunder shower.

Yesterday I stayed inside and did all those chores I’ve been avoiding. I washed clothes, polished furniture and cleaned the refrigerator. That last chore was easy. My refrigerator is as empty as it’s ever been. I see grocery shopping in my near future.

Sometimes I wonder how I know weird words. My guess is I ran into them somewhere, looked them up and remembered them, more for their oddity than anything else. Of all the words I taught my students in Ghana, they loved the word bamboozle the best. They pronounced like balmboozle and used it all the time. It became a common word on my school compound. That was the last time I ever heard it used. Too bad as it’s a great word.

Lackaday is another word I’d like to see return. Spell check flagged it. Remus Lupin could never hide his alter ego. It’s in his name. I like that. I remember a Christmas movie where a man described his wife as lachrymose after she had had a few sips of wine. I figured it out from context and watching his wife. I still use the word anon. The Lord of the Rings brought the word wraith back. The moon waxes and wanes. Light and people both waver. Jed Clampett ate vittles. That was the first time I ever heard that word.

Living near the ocean means I get to see waves billow across the strand, and I know to keep boats out of the shoals and what a gunwale is. I am, after all, no booby!

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“But if we continue conducting nuclear tests… it’s possible that another Godzilla might appear somewhere in the world again.”

June 5, 2010

The day is dark and the weather threatening. Rain, predicted for today and tonight, is already palpable in the dampness of the air. Earlier I heard the first rumblings of thunder way off in the distance. The latest rumblings are much closer, nearer to the house. The storm is not so far away.

A rainstorm on a Saturday was never welcome when I was a kid. It meant staying home on the best day of the week. It meant whining about fate and my lot in life. Why me? Why Saturday? The house was small, and on a rainy weekend day we, the six of us, were crammed together. TV was the best diversion when we could agree on a program. Most times it was the morning cartoons and serials then movies in the afternoon. If we were lucky, it was an old horror film from the 30’s, a 50’s black and white B movie or a Japanese creature movie, where none of the characters’ mouths matched their dialogue. The atomic bomb was prominent and gave birth to some of my favorite B movie creatures. (Side note: the rain has started, and it’s tremendous. Thunder is overheard and rumbling constantly. I saw lightning in the front yard. All of the outside lights on timers are lit from the darkness brought by the rain. The windows in this room are open so I can hear the storm.) Now, back to the main feature. One of my favorite creatures created by a bomb blast is The Amazing Colossal Man, who became a nasty sort after the plutonium got him and the cure didn’t work. I totally understand his madness. Wearing a giant diaper is cause enough. I have often mentioned Them, the giant ants, as being my favorite of all, but Godzilla, with Raymond Burr added, is also a huge favorite though it does make me laugh now. I still have a special fondness for several of the creatures who came from beneath the sea.

It seems I have planned my rainy day. I’ll pull out my SciFi Classic 50 Movie Collection, pop some corn and get cozy. I think I’ll start with The Atomic Brain.

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“When angry count four; when very angry, swear.”

June 4, 2010

Gracie wanted out about 6:30, and I obliged. It was gray and overcast. I went back to bed. When I woke up at 8, the sky had miraculously turned blue and the sun was shining. It’s such a lovely day I took my outside shower then sat on the deck for a while. I have designated today put the screen in the back door day, the surest sign of summer.

When I was a kid, the storm windows went up every winter and came down in the spring. My father would climb a ladder and curse a lot as he tried to hold on to the ladder and unhook the storms from the windows at the same time. One of us was on bottom of the ladder duty, and he’d hand the storm window to the duty officer waiting below who would then hand him the screen. The screens slid in and that too was often cause for cursing. They had to be placed exactly in the right spot or they wouldn’t slide. The storms and the screens had wooden frames. The storms were painted white and the screens green. The front and back doors too had painted green wooden screens. I remember how much they slammed shut all summer despite my mother telling us not to let the door slam. We always heard her too late. We were usually already running down the back stairs. She wanted to know how times she had to tell us before we’d remember. We had no idea.

When I bought my house, it came with storm windows and doors. The storm windows slid down in the winter and up in the summer. The screens took the opposite journey. It was easy, no ladder or cursing for me. I just opened the inside window, pushed in the locks on each side of the bottom of the storm and slid the storm window up to its summer position. The screens had no locks and slid down easily. Over time, though, the metal locks seemed to harden, and it got harder and harder to push in and hold them. My fingers usually stung, and I’d finally get to curse. The windows, especially the den window facing north, were drafty despite the storms. It was time for a change.

The windows I have now never need sliding, and the screen is permanently down. In the winter all I do is shut the windows and make sure they’re locked. No more cursing, at least not at the windows!

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“Good as it is to inherit a library, it is better to collect one.”

June 3, 2010

The day is overcast and really damp with a cool breeze. The forecast is for rain later today. I won’t mind. It seems all this grayness should have a reason to stay around.

Today is big city day, Hyannis in these parts, and I saved all my Hyannis errands for one trip though I usually hope for a sunny day as the roads are clearer and people have other diversions. My list is four stores long with the bookstore last as sort of a reward for the other mundane stops.

When I was a kid, the library was where we mostly went for books. My town had no real bookstore, but it did have a bookcase in the back of the Children’s Corner, a clothing store. The bookcase was narrow but tall, floor to ceiling, and filled with Whitman books for 49 cents and Bobbsey Twin books, a bit more expensive. I used to take my half dollar and walk up town to the store where I’d be hard-pressed to choose one book  from so many. The Whitman books were hard cover with colorful spines, and I could find the latest in my favorite series, an adventure based on a television program or a classic like Heidi or Treasure Island. I bought Trixie Belden and Donna Parker, Zorro and Roy Rogers.

I had a bookcase in my bedroom, my own little library, and I loved all those books, but as time went on, the books got packed away, replaced by other books, and I forgot about them. When I moved into my own house, my mother brought down those books she still had of mine. There were several she had kept in boxes and brought with her when the family moved. The books were the worst for time and wear. Pages were brittle and yellow, and many of the covers were no longer attached. The spines too had separated, bent downward so the titles were difficult to read. I didn’t care. I was thrilled to have my old friends back with me. I bought a bookcase just for them. It was one of the first pieces of furniture in my bedroom. My books were back where they belonged.

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“I’m not going to buy my kids an encyclopedia. Let them walk to school like I did.”

June 2, 2010

Gracie battered her bells until I heard them, woke up and let her out, about 4:30. While I was waiting, I went out to the deck and watched the start of the morning. It had that hazy light between night and day. Fog hung over the street low to the ground. The air was damp, an after the rain damp. The first of the morning birds were already singing. I could hear Gracie walking in the underbrush of my backyard. No houses had lights. I was the only one lucky enough to be awake.

Today is cloudy and damp, the perfect day for all those errands. It’s warmer than I would have expected, but dampness this time of year doesn’t get close to the bones. The birds are noisier than usual.

June is among the great months. From the time I was little, I loved June. It meant the end of school. It meant freedom. Our last hurdles before summer were always exams, but they were no big deal. Our futures didn’t depend on them. We would be promoted regardless. I never knew anyone who wasn’t. Nobody was allowed to fail. The  nuns saw to that.

The last day of school was always a half day. We had to clean the room, put books away, clear out our desks and get report cards. I remember running out the door carrying my book bag filled with crumpled papers, pencils and other bits and pieces from my desk. My report card was usually in hand all the way home. I could hardly wait to show it to my mother. “I’m promoted. I’m promoted!” was what I yelled as soon as I opened the door.

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