Friday, October 20, 2017

TROLLOPS...



…Anthony Trollope and otherwise. I woke up the other morning, having just had a dream about working in a shipping office. I made a saucy remark to one of the clerks, and he smiled and fondly quipped “trollop.” I woke up wondering if the word trollop had anything to do with the writer. I know his name, but I’ve read little more than excerpts of his work.

Checking the handy-dandy Wikipedia, I realized that the author’s name is customarily spelled with an added ‘e’, though the Norse origins of the name allow for varied spellings. Trollope comes from trolls. Trollop derives, in its last permutations of another type of troll, then to trull, or lady of the evening. All of which is either very interesting to you, or will bore you to tears.

All this is by way of explaining to you how I come up with some of my essay subjects. 



Friday, October 13, 2017

FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH - AGAIN




Heads up all you friggatriskaidekaphobia and paraskevidekatriaphobics: it's Friday the Thirteenth, and this is an article I did up for a community magazine article and for a blog in 2012. Researching the number 13 was an interesting job. At the time I did the research I didn't recognize that there was a movie Friday the Thirteenth, made in 1980. Who knew? 


Triskaidekaphobia means fear of the number 13.  It is from the Greek: tris means 3, kai means ‘and’, deka means 10, and phobia means ‘fear’. The word was coined 100 years ago in 1911.  Frigga was the Norse goddess for whom Friday was named, so add her name to the front and it becomes fear of Friday the Thirteenth. I won’t begin to decipher the meaning of that second word; it suffices to say it means the same thing. 

In western culture, the number 13 is widely associated with bad luck. No one wants to live on 13th Avenue, or have an apartment on the 13th floor.  Hotels also eliminate the 13th floor, but the floor is really there, isn’t it?  It’s just been renumbered.  Out of sight, out of mind, I suppose. For ages the number thirteen was just one of many and had no special significance.

The superstition surrounding 13 seems to have arisen in in medieval times.  It is said that folks became aware that there were thirteen at the Last Supper, and thereafter tried to avoid thirteen - not only at a table but everywhere else.  Norsemen may tell you that when the mischievous Loki crashed the party at Valhalla to which Odin had invited eleven of his closest friends, all Niflheim (that’s Norse for hell) broke loose, resulting in the death of the beloved Baldur. Another case of thirteen at the table.
   



Fear of Friday the Thirteenth, that paraskevidekatriaphobia, is a newer, just as irrational fear.  Some point to the fact the Jacques de Molay and many of his fellow Knights Templar were arrested for heresy on Friday, October 13, 1307, but many other significant events, good or bad, could have taken place on other Fridays the Thirteenth.  It really seems to be a combination of fear of 13 and the fact that many people wouldn’t care to start anything on Friday.  Actually, neither would I. Not that it really matters, but starting a job on a Friday seems strange: Monday, with the whole work week ahead, seems more logical.  Folks don’t usually want to get married, start a business venture, move, start a trip, or even give birth on a Friday.  “Friday’s child is full of woe.” 


There are probably a baker’s dozen of reasons to admire the number thirteen: a baker’s dozen cookies, or loaves or biscuits, fits nicely on a baking tray.  Thirteen is a prime number, divisible only by 1 and itself.  It is also a Wilson prime and a Fibonacci number, but that’s more mathematics than we need to know right now.  There were thirteen original colonies in our United States, and thirteen stars and stripes on the flag. We’ve added a star as each state was admitted to the union, but we’d be down to pinstripes if we hadn’t kept just the original six white and seven red.



There are thirteen players on a rugby team and thirteen cards in a suit. At thirteen you become a teenager and can watch all those PG-13 movies.  Wilt Chamberlain, Shaquille O’Neal, and Dan Marino wore number 13. Alex Rodriguez, A-Rod, wore it for the Yankees. Well, that’s not quite a baker’s dozen reasons, but you get the idea.

And by the way, it might come in handy to know that for some obscure reason the first Friday the Thirteenth of the year is also observed as Blame Someone Else Day.
     Don’t look at me: I didn’t think of it.





P.S. In searching the net for pictures to go with my essay, I came upon this electronic version of an old American Express ad I cut from a magazine and stored in one of my scrap books years ago. Something about it just struck a chord in me, and I thought I'd add it here for you to see too.

That's the jockey Willie Shoemaker, 4 feet 11.5 inches tall, leaning on our No.13, Wilt the Stilt, at 7 feet, 1 inch. 


Friday, October 6, 2017

BEDTIME TALES



I am in the midst of writing a piece on Charles Perrault for an upcoming issue of our community magazine. It will commemorate the anniversary of Perrault’s birth. (I’ll post the finished piece to this blog on January 12, 2018, his 390th birthday.) In telling the story of this Father of the Fairy Tale, I wrote the following:

“Parents no longer tell fairy tales to entertain and enlighten their children. In this age of almost universal literacy, we’ve books and electronic devices to provide the lessons. We read to our little ones, rather than make up stories.”


That reminded me that I was a lucky child, in that I had a father who did tell me stories at bedtime. I don’t remember them exactly. There were quite a number of them, but I’ve always remembered that they were about the adventures of two children whose names were Inge and Christopher. Is it any wonder that those two names have always been special to me? I picture him sitting beside me on my bed - my earliest childhood memory. I couldn’t have a better one. 



Friday, September 29, 2017

LINES FORM A MOVIE


I always thought that my reading was not well rounded because, like some of the more literary characters in the books I did read, I never could remember anything witty or apropos to throw into a conversation. I’ve never amassed a repertoire of pithy sayings from, say, the Odyssey or Finnegan’s Wake, even from Catcher in the Rye. Only recently has it occurred to me that the writers fleshing out those literary savants they’d created had time and references to make their characters widely or aptly read. The ones I admired for their bon mots were just characters – not real folks. And if there are, and there probably are, such folks floating around in the real world – and I’d guess they’d be closer to the academic world than I am – they are few and far between. Yes, most folks know a few lines or sayings from Shakespeare or the Bible, but most don’t know that they know them, if you know what I mean.

Few of the books I’ve read lent themselves to memorable catchy phrases,* but now that we are into the second century of the cinema, there are plenty of times I can quote appropriately from the movies. Frankly my dear, one could go on and on with quotes from Gone with the Wind, Dirty Harry, The Godfather, Casablanca, Star Wars, Love Story, even Blazing Saddles – though that’s more of a sound bite than a quote.                

“Round up the usual suspects.”



*With the exception of one book: Shibumi by Trevanian. I wrote about it here.




Friday, September 22, 2017

RAG BAGS AND POTATO MASHERS






Last week, my husband wanted a cloth to use to polish something. He asked what I had that would do the job, and I joked “I’ll look in the rag bag.”  The rag bag? Well, I really don’t have one. I keep a few odd, old socks for jobs like this, but I don’t have an actual rag bag like my mother’s. It hung just inside the door down to the cellar, and all of us knew where it was when she wanted a rag. In these days of Swiffers, microfiber cloths, and shammys, rag bags are obsolete. Oh, and “shammy” reminds me that there was always a leather chamois, ready to use, by the rag bag.

Rag bags are among the things that have left the building. Taking a mental inventory of my mother’s home, I note the potato ricer and the masher, and the orange juice squeezer and the meat grinder. They can still be found, even purchased brand new, but most gals these days use an electric appliances to do the job. Speaking of electric mixers, who uses an egg beater these days? You can buy them, but unless you’re off the grid why would you want one? Me, if I’m going to beat eggs, I use a whisk.

One of my earliest memories is of my mom using a washboard. I can not, in my wildest dreams, imagine using a washboard on my sheets. Just handling all that wet fabric must have really burned up the calories and built up the arm muscles. I remember her first little washing machine, with its hose hooked up to the kitchen sink. Cute little thing – I remember it as being about the size of a three-drawer file cabinet, with a wringer on top. No more wingers either – progress is wonderful. Until the mid-fifties when we moved to a house that had a washer-dryer, mom always hung the laundry out to dry. I can still remember her wrestling the sheets into the apartment window on a freezing cold day. I don’t need one of those fancy aroma candles because I still have the scent in my head.

What else? My mind is still wandering through the house. A rug beater. Mom would throw the throw rugs over the wash line and bet them dustless. Just thinking about some of the chores she did gives me the groans. According to the time – day, week, month, and on – she had a regular job to do. Every week, I mean every week, she cleaned out the refrigerator. Me, I whisper “clean” into the fridge and call it a day.


You can go online and find all the things that are perhaps not gone for good, but gone from regular use: rotary dial phones, even land lines, clothes pins, coffee percolators, baby carriages, record players, typewriters. I won’t go on. 

Friday, September 15, 2017

THE HIGH HOLY DAYS

Here's one I wrote that appeared in this month's issue of our community magazine. It was extremely interesting to research, and it brought back memories of the Jewish neighbors in my childhood, and all the things I'd learned and forgotten over the years.


Even though they may not celebrate them, many people are aware of Passover and Chanukah because they coincide with other religious observances in spring and winter. Where the Christian observances are usually Gregorian calendar-related, Christmas on December 25, always falling on the same date, most others, including Easter, Passover, and Chanukah are celebrated according to a lunar calendar.

Also falling according to a lunar calendar, each year in the fall, Jews around the world celebrate the High Holy Days of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. This year, Rosh Hashanah begins the Hebrew year 5778 at sundown on Wednesday, September 20. It will last through sundown on Friday, September 22, though some observe it for only one day. The New Year is celebrated at this time, in the Jewish month of Tishrei, according to the tradition that this was when God created the heavens and the earth and the Book of Life was written.

Rosh Hashanah is a formal, solemn observance during which work is prohibited. After religious services, a festive meal is served. Many people begin afresh with new clothes for the occasion, and use their finest table linens, dishes, crystal, and flatware. Only the best foods are served, including the traditional round, braided challah, and apple slices dipped in honey. The ancient Jews, who knew a lot about what could affect our health and well-being, knew that apples had healing properties - “an apple a day.” Along with them, the honey signifies the sweetness of life and the hope for a sweet year ahead.

The days of Rosh Hashanah are spent in prayer and anticipation of a new year, and are followed, in the days leading up to Yom Kippur, by a time of self-examination and repentance. As observed and manifested in the various confessional rites of many of the world’s religions, there is introspection, assumption of responsibility, shame and regret, and asking of forgiveness, leading to a promise to atone.

In Leviticus 23:27-28, we read: “the tenth day of the seventh month is the Day of Atonement. It shall be a sacred occasion for you. You shall practice self-denial. And you shall do no work that same day because it is the Day of Atonement.”  The strong words associated with this observance: introspection, repentance, shame, regret, responsibility, self-denial, and atonement, indicate the great importance of Judaism’s holiest, most solemn day, Yom Kippur.

Yom Kippur begins with fasting, after a traditional meal before sundown, when services begin on the eve (erev) before, and ends at sundown the next day. Kol Nidre, meaning “all vows” is both the title of a song or chant, and the name given to the first part of the Yom Kippur services. The presentation of the Torah scrolls is part of the traditional customs and rituals for the observance that also include prayer, preferably in congregation, solemn music, and the wearing of white as a symbol of atonement and purification.

The sound of a ram’s horn, the shofar, is heard before and throughout the High Holy Days from Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur. This last day, this time of atonement, this time of vowing to do better, is brought to a close with a final blast.





Friday, September 8, 2017

SCOTCH TAPE



I had a lovely chuckle this morning. I read in The Writer’s Almanac that on this day in 1930, 3M began marketing Scotch Tape. Every once in a while, when I’m called upon to use some of my own supply of this ubiquitous tool, I’ll remember my mother telling me how, when she was in her room wrapping Christmas presents, I’d knock on the door and call out “I hear Scotch Tape!”


I was always curious to know what she was doing and how she was doing it. My sister, also curious, went even further: she’d open the wrappings and peek at the packages to try to find out who was getting what. I delight to look with my mind’s eye and see her doing that. Mom always knew. Sometimes we’d swear she had “eyes in the back of her head.”

I do love it when little things that happen bring back such wonderful memories. They certainly set the pace for a happy day.



Wednesday, September 6, 2017

STILL - I BUY BOOKS

My cousin reminded me that today is National Book Day. (Thanks E!) I thought it appropriate to re-post this one from March 2013. Buy or borrow, books are my delight. All these years later, I've even have given in to the Kindle way of reading, though I still prefer a book in my hands.



I don’t smoke or drink or even chew gum. My vice: I buy books. Many are worthy of any good library, many, some of you might think, are not.  Recent purchases in the former category include Jacques Barzun’s From Dawn to Decadence: 1500 to the Present, and the Merriam Webster New Book of Word Histories. The latter? Well, let’s just call them Fiction: Romances, Mysteries, Romance Mysteries – I’ve a long list of favorite authors.
Since 1990 when I stopped lumping in book money with the rest of our entertainment expenditures, I’ve spent just over $14,000.00 on books, many of them used. Egad! That’s a nice chunk of change.  I’m sure the lifetime total would be nicely impressive too, and I delight in every dollar’s worth.
I was reading Theodore Dalrymple’s essay Why second-hand bookshops are just my type, and I came upon the telling of a bibliomaniac whose library was sold after his death for only a third of what he’d paid for the massive collection. I sold off my college text books – about twenty years later - but I can’t imagine selling my books now. I’ve always given them away when I was finished with them. I’ve read many of my books four or five times, but usually when I’ve read a book twice – or have gotten only part way into a real dud – it goes into the bag to be taken to the library for the sale room.  Sell them? I’ve not got the time: I’m reading!
Dalrymple’s essay mourns the passing of second-hand bookshops. I’ve rarely had the pleasure of browsing in a second-hand bookshop.* I do now have the pleasure of browsing in second-hand book sites on line. My favorite is Thrift Books, and Britain’s Awesome Books is pretty well that: awesome.
Really, really esoteric volumes can sometimes be found, used, of course, at Amazon – but then, what can’t you find at Amazon?  I do browse the shelves of the sale room at the library – always going with book lists in hand to be sure I’ve not read that one before, always looking for new treasures. (And library sale rooms are great sources for children’s books. I’ve got on hand new birthday and Christmas books for my granddaughters well into 2016, but used books are great to hand out throughout the year for un-birthdays and such.) 
I don’t know if you’ll think this good or bad, but though I’ve always belonged to the library wherever we lived and occasionally do check out books, I’d really rather own a book than borrow it. If it is mine I can take as long as I want to read it: though I read many books in a week, it gives me the itch to have a time limit on my reading.  If it is mine I am happy to let it just sit in my stack of to-be-read and enjoy its being there.

In one paragraph, talking about the pleasures of finding markings and various papers and bookmarks in used books, Dalrymple says “there is no substitute for being able to hold the physical book in one’s hand.” I agree wholeheartedly – but for another reason on another plane: I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with an electronic book. A good friend of mine has shown me the wonders of her iPad, and how she can enlarge the type, and how it remembers where she left off, and all the other delights of electronic reading. Not for me. I want to be able to flip back to that remembered reference to a certain character or place – and I remember it was on the left hand page about two inches from the bottom. Yes, there it is. I remembered the ‘landmarks’. Can’t do that with an electronic book. 
This is just a fraction of th books I once owned. I keep them
and all my litle dustables in our bedroom - this way none of it
has to be dusted very often.
I want to hold the book and not have to be too careful not to drop it in the toilet if I’m in a bathroom reading session – though there I usually read magazines. I want to refer every once in a while to the jacket’s cover picture or inside blurb and bio. I want to see my books – especially the ones I’ve kept and reread for years. Just seeing the books on the shelf gives me a fleeting remembrance of the story. I can’t get that feeling with an electronic device.

Books are neat and compact, easier to collect and store and dust (though I rarely do) than say salt and pepper shakers or automobilia. Yes, for many reasons on many levels, I’ll stick to books as my vice of choice.

*but I love pictures of them – so higgledy-piggledy, stacks and stacks.  As the bibliophile’s lament goes: So many books, so little time. 



Saturday, September 2, 2017

POEM FOR A BOOKWORM


My regular readers know that I am a great bookworm. Though once I’d read almost every book that came my way, in my old age I am a bit more selective. I’ve swung over to mostly fiction, shunning those written in the first person or present tense, and I’ve narrowed down my reading to the lists of several favored authors. And I do mean lists. I keep a loose leaf binder filled with my favored authors’ book lists – titles, dates, have I read it, do I still have it, was it g, or vg, or vvg, or pu. You know what p u means. So you can imagine my delight when I read this poem in The Writer’s Almanac.  I like the line "life is continuous as long as they wait to be read." Yes. It's pleasing to have a pile of books sitting, waiting for me.


The Bookstall  
           by Linda Pastan

Just looking at them
I grow greedy, as if they were
freshly baked loaves
waiting on their shelves
to be broken open—that one
and that—and I make my choice
in a mood of exalted luck,
browsing among them
like a cow in sweetest pasture.
For life is continuous
as long as they wait
to be read—these inked paths
opening into the future, page
after page, every book
its own receding horizon.
And I hold them, one in each hand,
a curious ballast weighting me
here to the earth.




Friday, August 25, 2017

STEPHEN



This is Stephen. This was 1965, and he, my oldest nephew, was exploring in his Grandmother’s back yard. I just happened to have my camera in hand. It could be any little boy on any given day, and the picture has always been one of my favorites.



Wednesday, August 23, 2017

LAGOM REVISITED



Though they didn't have the word 'lagom,' the Shakers practiced the concept every day.
This is a picture I took at the Hancock Shaker Village, in Hancock, Massachusetts.


I had a small chuckle this morning when I read an article from this morning’s BBC News Headlines email – “The Swedish Word Poached by the World.”  The BBC referenced articles from Vogue and ELLE, saying this new word, 'lagom,' will replace the word Swedish word ‘hygge.’  According to my handy-dandy Engelsk-Norsk dictionary, and, having traveled a bit in Norway, I do have such a dictionary right on my desk, ‘hygge’ is the same in Norwegian, and it means ‘comfort, coziness.’

But ‘lagom’ is in a class by itself. The word expresses, in two syllables, the idea of “just enough.”  Though the Norwegians have no word for it, they certainly practice the concept, as do all Scandinavians. We can learn a lot from them.

So why the chuckle? Because back in April of 2012, I’d done a blog about it. The word had caused a bit of a stir in those just discovering it. It certainly spoke to me. Five year later, though I've really cut down on what I purchase, I’m still getting rid of stuff. One of these fine days, lagom will be me. (I hope!)




Friday, August 18, 2017

THE SMALL BUT POWERFUL MUSTARD SEED




These are the “dog days” of summer, so named because the Dog Star, Sirius, rises with the sun each morning. These are the days of indolence, days when whole countries, like France, go on holiday. These are the days of sun tans, swimming pools, beaches, back yards, and barbecue. It is no wonder that the “powers that be” designated the first day of August as National Mustard Day. At this time of year, mustard is purchased by the gallon.

The pungent, peppery-flavored mustard plant grows over much of the world in warm and temperate climes. Many of the world’s cultures have ways to prepare and eat the mustard’s leaves and stems, but the truly powerful part of the plant is its seed.

Every good cook keeps Coleman's
dry mustard on hand.


It’s no great stretch of the imagination to picture one of our ancestors who had made something tasty out of other seeds, nuts being included in that group, thinking up some way to use the fiery little mustard seeds. She ground them up, mixed them with something on hand, and added them to the meal to add some zip. In really warm climates, hot, inexpensive condiments made from herbs like mustard could cover up the taste of meats that were not too fresh, shall we say.

this image is from Wikipedia


The ancient, original condiment we now call mustard was probably made basically as it is today: ground mustard seed in a liquid carrier. The permutations of mustard vary around the world. There are several regional types of mustard seed, basically, several colors: white, yellow, brown or black. The seeds are powdered, cracked, ground, smashed, mashed, and otherwise chewed up, and then combined with a carrier of one of several types of vinegar, or wine, beer, even Jack Daniels. To this mixture you can add spices and herbs, horseradish, honey, hot peppers, or whatever you think might enhance and differentiate the flavor of the mustard.

Mustard, a condiment in itself, is often an addition to other condiments and dressings. In some dressings such as honey-mustard, it is added as an emulsifier to keep the oil and vinegar mixed. It is often used in marinades, and, because of its many varieties, can be the really secret ingredient in barbecue sauces, especially here in the Carolinas. Mustard has found its way onto and into pretzels, into salads, even into stroganoffs and soups.

Heinz, French's, even store brands of
yellow mustard are the nation's favorite


Many modern mustard aficionados, preferring the more esoteric blends, turn up their noses at good old American yellow mustard. Ah, but the numbers have the last laugh because that good old American yellow mustard, which gets it color from turmeric, the mustard of the ball parks, barbecues, and many street-food vendors, tops them all in sales in this country.

With several types of mustard seeds, many ways to open them, several different carriers, and innumerable other ingredients to stir in to the mix, the end results number in the hundreds, even thousands. At state fairs and food fests, the competition can get fierce for the best mustard, whether homemade or commercially prepared. Entrants can only hope that their preparations come up to the judges’ expectations, that they “cut the mustard.”



Friday, August 11, 2017

THE SALUTE



This is Watkins Glen, August 1978. Frank and I were regulars at the 6-Hour, Trans-Am, and Can-Am races at The Glen. This was a weekend for us to stay at the Hilton in Corning, enjoy some wonderful meals and perhaps a summer-theater offering, and explore the museums there. That was back in the days when there were great buys to be had at the Corning Glass store. All these years later, I still have the Pyrex ware I bought.

This man and his son were always at The Glen too. Many’s the time the boy had on his Cub Scout uniform, and he always paid respect to the national anthems that were being played: ours and O Canada.

I brought a copy of the picture along with me the next year, but the father and son duo weren’t there. I often wonder what they were doing that August weekend.



Friday, August 4, 2017

ECLIPSE

This piece was written for and published in the August issue of our community magazine. Heaven forbid I don't use it again. It's just a lighter (pun intended?) look at the eclipse that will cross our path here in the Carolinas. Right where we live, we'll see the eclipse at 98.7% totality - that will be close enough for me. I'm trying to decide what seeing the eclipse will do for me. Not being a scientist, it won't mean much more than being able to say I saw it. That and $2.20 will get me a round-trip, reduced Senior fare ride on the Charlotte LYNX light rail.



It’s been said that if you knew it all you’d go crazy.

Just think of all there is to know – everything from the exact amount of pi,* to the last time your neighbor went to the bathroom; the bloom time of each and every daffodil, to the time of the next eclipse; from the function of the microorganisms in your body, to what’s in the center of a black hole. Questions abound about the esoteric, the ecclesiastic, the extraterrestrial, and the down-to-earth. There is just too much to know.

Well, there’s one thing there that might prove to be interesting: the time of the next eclipse. In addition to the time, it is always helpful to know where the show is going on. Every eclipse can’t be seen everywhere, but this August we South Carolinians are in luck. All North Americans will be able to see at least a partial eclipse, but a very short ride south of Sun City Carolina Lakes will take us to the path of totality.

The last path of solar totality that included any part of the United States, mostly the north-westernmost states, was back in 1979. Where were we 38 years ago? The next two will be in 2024 and 2044, and they, and many of us seniors, won’t be within hundreds of miles from here.
The small town of Hopkinsville, Kentucky, is calculated to be the place to view absolute totality on August 21. The locals there will benefit outrageously from this free, passing natural phenomenon. Scientists, and gawkers and folks who just must be a part of such events, have commandeered and booked solid every available room, campsite, and RV spot for miles around. They’ll take hours and even days to get there to witness a totality show that will last for 2 minutes and 40 seconds, give or take a nanosecond or two.

From the first bite out of the sun to the last, the partial eclipse, the one that can be seen from here will last almost three hours, starting at just after 2:15 p.m. The total eclipse can be seen if you travel just south of here, say to somewhere along I-77 south of Exit 41, to just south of where I-77 and I-26 meet. You might want to drive down and pull off the highway anywhere down here. Better yet, totality will be seen in the many small urban parks in Columbia and Greenville, at the Riverbanks Zoo and Gardens, at Congaree National Park, in Manchester State Forest, and further afield in places like the South Carolina Botanical Garden at Clemson, or the Nantahala National Forest. 



Don’t think that you’ll be the only ones smart enough to pick your preferred viewing spot. Pack a picnic lunch and get there early. Check the eclipse path on line and check the times for your chosen spot. Above all, be sure to be equipped with the proper eye protection for viewing. On-line sources like Amazon have them already.


*which we now know to be infinite – but perhaps knowable




Friday, July 28, 2017

EAST OR WEST

I-90 - Eastern Montana - 1994
A great load of hay - that was a lucky sign.
Our trip there was wonderful.

"Just a long, flat highway with nothing at stake between us"

“East or West, home is best.” I’ve remembered that line since I was child. It is one of the maxims the nuns in school would bestow on us every once in a while. I came upon this wonderful poem in June at The Writer’s Almanac. The poem spoke to me of two places I love but have never lived in. I’ve been to Vermont, close to my upstate New York home, more times that I could ever count. I’ve been to Montana, home of one of my very special people, only once. Both the green, treed Vermont and the golden brown, vast Big Sky openness of Montana speak to me of home – I could happily live in either place. Maybe in my next life…

I titled this one "Vermont Cow"

"spring's sky-blue gown"


Habitats
You can take Vermont,
the edge of the woods in tears
even with spring’s sky-blue gown
as you prowl through those trees
bird whistle on a lanyard and compass
tucked in your camouflage pants.
I want Montana for myself,
some little-known hot spring,
glimpse of wild horses running,
notebooks, novels, no plans
as the sky rolls out its
dazzling welcome mat.
Just a long flat highway with nothing
at stake between us.
Someday we’ll signal one another—
you with the call of a partridge,
me with the song of a meadowlark.



Friday, July 21, 2017

CLYDESDALES

This week's post is one I wrote as a sidebar to a magazine article. I think that the big draft horses are beautiful. I cherish the memories of seeing several teams of them on their way to a farm show up in Vermont, and also when the big team from Reminisce magazine, on a country-wide tour, came by on U.S. Rt. 20, just a mile away from our house in New York.  We couldn't not be there.



Summertime - and I remember the only times I ever enjoyed a cold beer was at a beach house I shared out on Long Island’s north shore with a large group of great people. Exhilarated, exhausted, and really sweaty after a great game of beach volleyball, there was nothing like a cold beer from the keg of Bud that one of the guys had brought in.

Think of beer on draft, think of work and horsepower, think of horses, think of powerful draft horses, and you’ll always think of the iconic Budweiser team of Clydesdales, the “Ambassadors of Excellence.” The Bud ads that featured them were always a hit. They are truly magnificent animals. (Budweiser must have switched ad agencies, because their current ads are screamin’ terrible.)

Throughout Europe, where breeds of draft, or draught or dray, horses became individualized from earliest times, there was a need for strong work and farm animals. The largest of the draft horses, Shire horses are from England. Percherons, descendants of war horses, are from France. The eponymous Belgians, and several breeds from other countries, are joined by the Clydesdales from Scotland.

Raised on a farm near St. Louis, and based there and in New Hampshire and Colorado, several teams of Clydesdales are on the move across the country, promoting Budweiser for most of the year. Ten gelded, matched, bay-colored horses make up a team, and eight at a time are hitched to the big, red beer wagon. The sight of the wagon and horses coming down the pike, or even in a television ad, is enough to stir the soul of any animal lover or beer lover, and bring on a great smile.



P.S. Did you know that a Dalmatian often accompanies the Budweiser Clydesdales? Their heritage is as guard dogs, and they were used by draymen and firemen to protect the valuable horses from theft.


I went looking in Google Images for Budweiser Dalmatian pictures.  
It was really hard to pick just one or two. 




Friday, July 14, 2017

THE MIDNIGHT MOCKINGBIRD

You know, of course, that I didn't take this picture.
 (What would I do without Google Images for most of my illustrations?)
I was happy to find a picture of this bird in mid-song.


Good grief, I am going to throw a boot (never a book!) at that bird! Does he think he is a nightingale? He’s a mockingbird, and one who should be doing his mocking thing in the daylight, not in the dark.

For several nights now I’ve awakened to the sound of a mockingbird perched somewhere in the nearby trees or on the fence. I often wake a time or two at night, usually for a bathroom call. These last few nights that bird has been singing his heart out in the darkness. Loud too. 

I remember one of our neighbors, long ago on Long Island. Charlie swore he was going to kill that mockingbird. Me? I never ever heard it. At that time I was young and slept through the night, come what may. Older now, of course, older by over thirty years, irregular sounds wake me right up. 

This morning, I found it was as loud as it was because the window has been open for days behind the closed drapes. Who closed those drapes? I did. I never remembered or noticed the open window, and the air conditioning has been on in the house. Ah, well. I hope that tonight the bird has given up and gone to sleep like all good birds. His ‘song’ is definitely not melodious. 



Friday, July 7, 2017

THE MAPS IN OUR HEADS

Again, this is an article I wrote for our community magazine. It was published in the July issue, and I have had a few compliments on it. It was a bit of a challenge to write - to remember all the places I passed in my city neighborhood in Richmond Hill, New York, and to find the words to describe the sounds and smells. I did leave out the ice cream parlor - Adele's. Adele's was the closest store to where I lived, and though I have fond memories, especially of their creating a chocolate-covered ice pop in whatever three flavors struck my fancy that day, I completely forgot to put it on my tour. Shows you how the senior mind works - or doesn't work, as the case may be.

Googled "ice cream parlor" and found this picture that reminds me of Adele's,
though for some reason I remember it being darker.


The map of Sun City Carolina Lakes is a curvy one. Many of us raised in the rectangular grids of the cities of the north find ourselves mystified as to the compass direction of our friends’ homes: “Well, they live over there somewhere.”

Louise Penny, in her latest novel, A Great Reckoning, writes about a cartographer who made exceptionally beautiful maps, especially local ones, and “recognized the connection people have to where they live. That it isn’t just the land: our history, our cuisine, our stories and our songs spring from where we live.”    

Searching for an illustration of some kind to show a beautiful map, I came upon this.
That's what the maps in our heads do - they come to life.


Most of us maintain a connection to where we’ve lived, especially during our school days, and in our memories we have maps that we take with us for life. They don’t necessarily match those of MapQuest or Google Earth. We keep our own maps of the route to school, the playing fields and parks, to a friend’s house, to the shops and train station, or to Grandma’s house. We can walk there in our memories and smell the aromas, stop off for a brief look-see, and hear the sounds along the way. The sound of a lawn mower and the perfume of lilacs or honeysuckle in a neighbor’s suburban yard are sweet memories. We walk past the Italian restaurant with sauce simmering and dishes clinking, past the bakery with the fresh-baked bread, on to savor the smell from the grills at the burger or bar-b-q place and the sound of the juke box. A sniff as we pass the open door of the hardware store gives us the tang of construction nails and the stink of garden fertilizer. Our memories smell the nose-crinkling, boozy breath of the liquor and beer soaked into the carpet at the corner bar. We hear the clang of metal on metal at the local garage, and hear the screech of breaks on wheels as we pass the train station. The smell of cloth and the hiss of steam at the cleaners, and the clove and Vitamin B-aroma of the pharmacy are immediately recognizable.

This looks a lot nicer than what I remember of the
corner bar in our neighborhood.

The beautiful thing about on-line maps today is that not only can we get directions and plot a route, we can also get a bird’s eye view of almost anywhere. We can take armchair visits to places we wish we’d have visited – Venice anyone? – and we can hover over the neighborhoods where we grew up or where we raised our families. We can see the changes. We can even get familiar with the streets in our own SCCL community.

You are where?

But you don’t need to go on line to visit the maps in your head. Take a break, get comfortable. Close your eyes and think about all the different things that happened there. Where are you? Let your mind roam outward from your daily self and think of the things – mundane or marvelous, but only the good things – that happened there. Keep the neighborhood around you for the rest of the day.





Sunday, July 2, 2017

TANGY THREE BEAN SALAD


Though it has been summer for quite a while here in the Carolinas, the Fourth of July holiday really brings out the summer recipes. Yesterday I got into the spirit of things and made potato salad, from the old standard recipe on the Hellmann’s mayonnaise jar, and a great three bean salad. I’ve no idea where I got the three bean recipe, but I’ve been using it for so long that I no longer need to refer to the printed version. I was going to make the wonderful summer succotash recipe from Marian Morash of the old Victory Garden show, but it’s just the two of us for this holiday. If I’d made all those salads, I think we’d have been fed up in no time flat.
I wanted to share this recipe on my blog, so I took a few pictures as I made it. It's really an easy recipe.



INGREDIENTS:

1 can each - chick peas, dark red kidney beans, and cut green beans 
2 small onions, diced
1 large carrot – peeled and sliced thin

1 Cup vinegar
1 Cup vegetable oil
½ Cup sugar
2 Tbsp. sweet paprika
2 tsp. salt

METHOD:

Drain and rinse the chick peas and kidney beans.  Drain and reserve the liquid from the string beans.

Prepare the onions and carrots. Put them in a pot with the vinegar, oil, sugar, paprika, and salt. Bring this all to a boil, let it cook for a minute, and then turn it off.
Pour the hot liquid and veggies over the beans. Add any of the reserved green bean liquid to completely cover the veggies and beans. Let this cool and then refrigerate it.  Makes 8 to 9 cups.  Keeps for a long time.

NOTES:

Avoid the use of olive oil because it will solidify in the fridge. If you do use it you’ll have to let the salad sit a while out of the fridge before serving.

Use more carrots if you like. Just make sure they ‘cook’ a bit so that they are not too crunchy.

You can reduce the oil by replacing all or some of it with water. Less calories that way.

You can use fresh green beans, just cut them up and add them to the vinegar/oil liquid to cook off some of the crunch.

Try a teaspoon of celery seed added in to the salad.