Archive for the ‘Musings’ category

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“Man is rated the highest animal, at least among all animals who returned the questionnaire.”

May 12, 2010

Some events catapult other events and a chain reaction ensues. For example, I took the blanket off my bed in the heat of an early spring. Shortly thereafter the temperature plummeted. I don’t take the whole blame, but I have do admit come culpability.

The weather isn’t predicted to get much better in the next few days. This morning  is cloudy and breezy and chilly. After my shower earlier, I got into comfy clothes, inside the house where nobody can see them clothes, and I intend to stay in them all day. I also intend to stay home where it’s warm and cozy. My plan is to loll about and do absolutely nothing constructive. Some days just lend themselves to sloth.

When I go to bed, the natural order is in place. Gracie is at the foot of my bed, where every self-respecting dog since Viking times has put its head, and Fern, the cat, is snuggled beside me sharing bodily warmth. At some during the night, an upheaval occurs. Gracie and Fern move. Gracie sprawls across the bed. I, in the arms of Morpheus, react unconsciously. My body shifts to sleep at an angle and my legs bend at the knees, all for Gracie’s comfort. Fern too changes position and moves to my hip, something I can’t abide when drowsy or awake, but Fern is cagey and knows I am asleep and totally unaware of her movements. This morning when I woke up, my legs were cramped, my back hurt and my hip ached. The solution seems easy, shut the door and exclude the two of them, but it isn’t easy at all. Gracie would scratch and whine at the door keeping me awake and making me feel increasingly guilty. After all, she has slept on my bed the whole of her life. Fern too isn’t above scratching the door, and, besides, she needs access to her food and litter box which are hidden in the eaves of my room. Anyone with a pet understands. We have been perfectly trained.

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“Always vote for principle, though you may vote alone, and you may cherish the sweetest reflection that your vote is never lost.”

May 11, 2010

Our usual Cape spring has returned. The morning is chilly, even in the sun, and we are expecting 50’s every day this week with even colder nights. I was spoiled by the wonderfully warm April.

The pine pollen is here. My car is covered in lime green powder, and the deck  too has a coating. I’m sneezing.

Today are my town elections. The only race is for selectman where four people are running for two spots. I just voted at the police station, and there was no line and no wait. Local elections don’t bring out many people. Only about 30% of the town votes. I never miss one. I’d feel too guilty.

My first time ever voting was in the presidential election of 1968. I had turned twenty one in August of the previous summer and registered to vote the very next day. I was excited to vote, to be part of the electorate, and believed that even one vote was a voice heard. I remember standing in the voting booth behind the curtain and reading my ballot. I had done my homework and knew every candidate and every issue. Back then we used a black pen to fill in the circles beside our choices, and I took my time to fill them exactly as I had been instructed. I didn’t want to mess up my first election. My candidate did not win. I was keenly disappointed.

The next time I voted was by absentee ballot in Ghana for a state senatorial election. The ballot got to me too late, but I voted and sent it back anyway. That year my candidate won, even without me.

I still believe in voting and see it as the most basic duty for a citizen, at least for this citizen. I don’t always have a candidate for whom I’d vote so sometimes I just vote the issues. This little town still uses black pens to fill in circles on the ballots. This morning I filled in two circles for selectman and chose yes circles for both issues. When I checked out, I was a given an I voted sticker. I’m proud to wear it.

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“The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.”

May 10, 2010

What’s with the cold morning? My house was only 62° when I disentangled myself from the dog and the cat huddled beside me. It’s sunny, but the sun is a ruse. The wind, from the north, is a chilly wind, and it blows the leaves to show their backsides. Tonight will be blanket weather, in the mid-30’s.

When I was a little kid, I don’t remember feeling hot or cold or caring one way or the other. In the winter, in the snow, we’d stay outside until our lips were blue. No self-respecting kid ever wasted snow. If my mother hadn’t forced me, I’d never have worn a hat or mittens or even buttoned my jacket. My protests that it wasn’t even cold fell on my mother’s conveniently deaf ears. We were forced to wear layers better fit for winter on a Siberian steppe.

In the summer, we’d get sweaty and filthy, but they were badges of honor, proof we had made the most of our days. I remember the joy of walking in mud and the sucking sound my sneakers made when I lifted them out of the ooze. Sometimes a sneaker got stuck in the mud, and I’d hop on one foot, reach down and pull it out of the muck. It was great fun. To my mother, though, mud was offensive. We weren’t allowed in the house proper and were banished straight to the cellar from outside. My mother met us, stripped us of the offending sneakers and garments, threw them right into the washing machine and muttered to herself the whole time about forever washing clothes and filthy kids. A bath inevitable followed.

I forget how old I was when mud stopped being fun and a stain on a blouse meant it was no longer wearable. It was around the same time that cute matching knitted scarves, gloves and hats became voluntary winter wear. It was the end of my childhood.

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“My mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune.”

May 9, 2010

It is a beautiful, sunny Mother’s Day.

This morning I filled my heart with memories of my mother. Thinking about her made me smile. I miss her today as I do every day.

My mother had a generosity of spirit. She was funny and smart and the belle of every ball. She always had music going in the kitchen as she worked so she could sing along. She played Frank and Tony and Johnny and from her I learned the old songs. My mother drew all the relatives, and her house was filled. My cousins visited often. She was their favorite aunty. My mother loved to play Big Boggle, and we’d sit for hours at the kitchen table and play so many games we’d lose track of the time. Christmas was always amazing, and she passed this love to all of us. We traveled together, she and I, and my mother was game for anything. I remember Italy and my mother and me after dinner at the hotel bar where she’d enjoy her cognac. She never had it any other time, but we’re on vacation she said and anything goes. I talked to her just about every day, as did my sisters. I loved it when she came to visit. We’d shop, have dinner out then play games at night. I always waited on her when was here. I figured it was the least I could do.

My mother loved extreme weather shows, TV judges and crime. She never missed Judge Judy. She also liked quiz shows and she and I used to play Jeopardy together on the phone at night. She always had a crossword puzzle book with a pen inside on the table beside her chair, and I used to try and fill in some of the blanks. On the dining room table was often a jig saw puzzle, and we all stopped to add pieces on the way to the kitchen. My mother loved a good time.

She did get feisty, and I remember flying slippers aimed at my head when I was a kid. She expertly used mother’s guilt and, “I’ll do it myself,” was her favorite weapon. We sometimes drove her crazy, and she let us know, none too quietly.We never argued over politics. She kept her opinions close. We sometimes argued over other things, but the arguments never lasted long.

I still think to reach for the phone and call my mother when I see something interesting or have a question I know only she can answer. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was of her.

Happy Mother’s Day.

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“Rain is grace; rain is the sky condescending to the earth; without rain, there would be no life.”

May 8, 2010

Thunder boomed directly over the house this morning, and I swear the room shook. Gracie and I woke up, both of us a bit startled for the moment, but neither one of us had any trouble getting back to sleep. As I was drifting off, I could hear the thunder rumbling farther and farther away from us. I guess it stopped by just long enough to announce the rain.

Today has that quiet a rain shower seems to bring. It is still day, not even a leaf flutters. The room is dark, the way I like it on a rainy day.

When we were kids, Saturday was our day. It started with Saturday morning television and breakfast in front of the set, always cereal with lots of milk. We got to watch old friends like Howdy and Buffalo Bob and all those western heroes. I’m still partial to Annie Oakley though Sky King isn’t far behind her. The rest of the day was ours to do whatever we wanted. Sometimes it was the Saturday matinee while other times it was exploring on bikes or on foot. A rainy day, as long as it wasn’t pouring, was never a deterrent. I don’t ever remember my mother telling us to stay inside because of the rain. I suspect she was glad to get rid of us.

Walking through the field and the wet grass got us soaked. My sneakers and the cuffs on my dungarees were saturated and filthy, but I was a kid so I didn’t care, probably barely noticed. That would be my mother’s job. We’d roam the woods, sword fight with sticks, play at the swamp and watch the two horses in the pasture on Green Street. If it started to rain, we’d run for cover under trees heavy with leaves. One of the best sounds in the whole world is rain hitting the leaves overhead one drop at a time.

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“I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.”

May 7, 2010

It’s a might chilly. This morning, I threw an afghan over the spread, got warm and cozy then fell back to sleep. Gracie joined me. We slept a long while so it’s a late start.

Last night, on the way home, I saw two coyotes. They have become a common sight here on the Cape. Our neighborhood used to have one, but he hasn’t been around in a while. I know because I’ve seen the rabbits. One rabbit is a frequent visitor who eats my flowers and sits on the lawn outside the front door to torment Gracie. When a coyote is around, there are no rabbits or skunks or other small animals. My friend once saved her dog from a coyote. It was early evening, and she was inside when she heard the whelps of her dog, a sheltie. A coyote had it by the haunches and was dragging it away. My friend scared the coyote who ran and left the dog who was unhurt except for a few scratch marks from the coyote’s teeth. Gracie is too big for a coyote.

I used to be a night person, up all hours. In the summer, I’d sit out on the small farmer’s deck I used to have. All the houses around me were dark. I could have been the only person alive in the whole world. I’d sit and listen to the night. I’d hear birds singing and peepers and frogs and katydids who were always the loudest of them all. As I drifted off to sleep at two this morning, I heard the night. It was alive with sounds.

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“At a dinner party one should eat wisely but not too well, and talk well but not too wisely”

May 6, 2010

Our weather continues to be astounding. A gray early morning has given way to sun poking through the cloudy sky. A brisk breeze rustles the maple leaves when their tree limbs sway. The chimes on the small tree in the backyard send a sweet, gentle sound into the air. A mourning dove, huddled against the breeze, is sitting on a thin branch. It reminds me of a hunched, square bodied old woman dressed in a shapeless overcoat walking in a snow storm.

My body aches and my back hurts. If I never chop another onion or tomato, my life will be near perfect. Dinner was wonderful, from appetizers on the deck to dessert. We sat at the table a long time, talking and laughing. My two friends, Rick and Jay, cleaned up afterwards. They always do. It is a gift they give me after every big dinner. They also divvied up the leftovers. Everyone took a taste of dinner home with them.

After dinner, we stood out on the deck. The yard is lovely at night. It is lit with subtle strings of lights on stakes and solar balls of changing colors. On the deck, solar tulip lights stuck in planters shine red, orange and yellow in the darkness. The night was warm, more like a late June night than one in early May. We finally dragged ourselves into the house to make our goodbyes.

I love doing theme dinners. Even the flamingo on my deck was dressed for the occasion in a serape and a sombrero. Mexican music played all might. A bright papel picado hung over the table, and I brought out my Mexican dishes. The souvenir was a picture. Hung in a doorway was  a stick your head in the circle picture of a pair of flamingo dancers. Everyone took turns, and it was fun and funny.

Today is a rest up and do nothing day. It’s trivia night, and I need all my wits about me.

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“Nothing is permanent”

May 5, 2010

These wonderfully sunny, warm days are a welcome surprise this early in the season, but I am still leery of New England spring weather, especially here on the Cape. The paper claims it will be 69° today. I’d like to believe it, but the skeptic in me has the upper hand. After all, I have lived in New England most of my life and never take the weather for granted.

The sky is the most remarkable blue, deep and dark, and the color spans from one side of my world to the other, from horizon to horizon. Not a cloud can be seen.

My house is redolent with the aroma of chili. Today is Cinco de Mayo, and I have company coming for dinner. I made the chili yesterday, cooked it for a while, put it in the fridge then started it in the crock pot earlier this morning. The other dishes are timed on my flow chart, and I’ll begin when I finish here. The Mexican crockery is washed and ready. I have even started decorating the house. I love that I can entertain on school nights now.

Mammy wagons or mammy lorries were for traveling between towns in Ghana. Most had slogans across the front and back. God was prominent and Trust in God was common. I always thought it was because mammy lorries were barely safe. The passenger part was open on three sides and you sat on a bleacher like seat. There was little to hold on to when the wagon traveled curvy, bumpy laterite roads. I always sat in the middle figuring the people on each side were buffers. No time to die was another common slogan, and that was easily my mantra when traveling on mammy lorries.

Store signs were also amazing in Ghana. The colors were wonderful with lots of bright reds, greens and yellows in imitation of the flag. In Bolga, I could shop at the Praise the Lord or God Will Provide small open stores. Their signs were hand drawn and painted by the owners. My favorites of all the signs were in front of barber shops. Crudely drawn heads showed a variety of hair cut choices mostly from the side or backs views. All the faces were smiling.

The sign I most remember in my town was posted on the sides of buildings. Don’t spit, it spreads tuberculous was its message. Most people spit anyway. It was no big deal.

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“We call this a fine mess of squirrels.”

May 4, 2010

The windows are all open. The air is warm and smells of spring. I sat on the deck for a long while, drank my coffee and finished reading the papers. I had to drag myself inside when the phone rang. I’ll be quick here then I’m going back outside to fight with Gracie for the lounge.

Every day this week will be in the high 60’s, a heat wave for spring on Cape Cod.

I heard a grinding noise this morning, ran to the window and saw a squirrel gnawing at the paint on my deck furniture. He did the same last year. The beast has gnawed to the metal below the black paint. The arms and feet of the chairs have silver teeth marks and are rough to the touch. This morning he was at the rim of the table, a new spot. I’m going to have to hire Skip, my factotum, to sand the rough spots and paint over them. For now, the chairs are leaning up against the table. Granny Clampett would be a welcome visitor. She cooked a great squirrel stew.

Part of the fun of traveling is the unknown. I have eaten strange, exotic foods. I’ll try almost anything and don’t always ask what I’m eating. Half the time I probably wouldn’t want to know anyway. If it tastes good, that’s enough, but I’m drawing a line at squirrel stew, even with lots of vegetables and gravy.

Today I am short winded. I have been too long inside the house. The bird feeder’s need filling and my book is getting interesting. I’m taking all the sun time I can.

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“There is no such thing in anyone’s life as an unimportant day.”

May 3, 2010

Perfect days come along every now and then. They are usually any day, not Thanksgiving or not even Christmas. Today is shaping up to be one.

It’s dark and it’s started raining, a quiet rain. I needed a rainy day. We’ve had sun for a while, and I missed the rain. The sky is the gray color of a snow pile too long beside the road. The day has some light. I can see the pale green leaves of the maple tree by the deck. Rain water drops from the eaves.

I woke early this morning and took an outside shower, my first of the season. It was amazing. The hot water sent steam into the air and into the backyard. I stood under the shower and let the water keep me warm. As I was drying and dressing, quickly in the chilly morning air, I could hear bird songs. I recognized the chickadees. They were all around me. I was a part of their morning for just a bit.

My sister gave me some peat for Christmas. The pieces were small and used like incense. I had one left, one I’d been saving. It is burning now and filling the room with the memories of a cold spring night in Ireland when my mother and father were fellow travelers. I can’t think of anything more pleasant than a day of sweet memories, especially about people we loved.

I toasted a Portuguese roll for breakfast. It was nicely browned. On it I put amlou, a Moroccan peanut butter made with argan oil, peanuts and honey, which I had had in Marrakesh every morning for breakfast spread on fresh flat rolls of Moroccan bread. This morning I didn’t have the Atlas Mountains as a backdrop or a basket of fresh bread, but it didn’t matter. It was the indescribably delicious taste of the amlou which made the bread. When I had finished spreading it, I used my finger to clean the top of the jar like a little kid might. I didn’t want to waste even the smallest taste.

I have had an amazing day already, and it really only just started. I can’t imagine what the rest of the day will bring, but I can hardly wait.

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