Bad guy down!

If you've committed a crime and served your time, and you are struck and killed by a hit and run driver, the newspaper, and television news will report not only the unfortunate instance of your death, but that in life, years ago, you served time for the crime of rape. That is, if the driver of the car that killed you was being chased by the police. (Of course, only briefly, after calling the chase off BEFORE the impact.) And the account on TV also cautioned, that though pedestrian death is sad, people crossing the road do need to look both ways. Good advice, don't you think?

Babies' First Two Words:

Baby #1 : "Nana's House"
Baby #2: "Secret Storm"
Baby #3 "Aw, 'it!"

To Whom It May Concern

"Bring on your wrecking ball."

Aspirations

Some people have a Bucket List,
I have a F#*@!--it List.

Word.

Oscars presenter said a director's job is to make sure "you don't over exaggerate or under exaggerate what you're trying to say." I get the excess of over exaggeration, but is it possible to under exaggerate?

The Penguin!

There he was, inexplicably buried in the box of a lifetime's memories: a little wood and cardboard penguin, with movable feet yet. It was one of those items that even when you haven't seen or thought of it for years and years, is instantly recogizable. It is as familiar as any memory of your childhood, although it was never really important in any way. I don't know where it came from. We seldom received any new toys, and I don't think this was ever new to us. I expect someone at work may have given it to my father to bring home to the kids. It's kind of a silly looking little thing, a four inch tall cardboard tube, with wooden head and feet. It was meant to walk (yes, really propel itself, no batteries needed) down a slight incline, such as one of my father's wooden cigar box covers. It didn't work very well then; it kept falling over. Not surprisingly, that is still true today, still falling after all these years. I don't know how it ended up among Dorothy's treasured memories. Could we have quibbled over who should get to play with it? We argued over many things back then, in our secret childhood fashion. Did she stash it away when we were little so as to maintain her portion of a shared possession, and it fell, forgotten, into her memory box. Or did she want to take some memory of her childhood when she left home at age 24 as a married woman? That question will never be ansewered, but I must say if it was to preserve her share of the mutual ownership, she won that battle hands down. I have it now, but it's going to be hard for me to hold onto it for the 45 years it was in her home.

Ashes to Ashes

For what is probably the first time in my life, I didn't receive ashes on Ash Wednesday this year. I know it's not a Holy Day of Obligation, but we always went anyway. The message that we are destined to return to ashes is not one that I need a visual reminder of. When my mother died, I was frozen as to how to deal with what few material things she left behind. The first step I took toward doing so, and the only one for some years, was to take her medical records, billing, doctors' reports, all of which I'd dealt with for her, out into her back yard and set fire to them. She didn't like that part of her life, and had turned all that sickness business over to me. I felt satisfaction in seeing all those reminders turn to ashes.
Again, my mind is contorted by what to do with what is left. You can tell yourself that you're doing what the one who is gone would have wanted, but you know you will never be sure. I only know that when last summer, I took all her accumulated medical files and documentations, a great amount, out into my own back yard and burned them, I felt the same vague sense of satisfaction as when I burned my mother's medical papers. Ashes to ashes.....

Treasures of A Lifetime

The usual---photographs, school reports and awards,
Diplomas from college, citations from work,
A box of Elvis clippings and magazines,
Souvenirs from her travels and from events attended,
Postcards and thank you notes from family and friends,
Graduation, dance recital, wedding and birth announcements,
From the next generation, as well as hers.
And, more somber, the Prayer Cards from the services
Of those who went before her.
And the love letters, from various romances,
Some meaningful, others not to be taken so seriously,
And an age worn ring box-empty but for a card with the words,
"Will you marry me?"
Her answer was yes, though the empty jewel box
Outlasted the vows.

Vacation--old style

"Come on kids, let's go with Daddy." He had a business meeting in Charlotte, NC, so we thought we'd take the kids and make a mini-vacation of it. The two older were willing and ready on a day or two's notice; the youngest, at age 3 or so, was a homebody who didn't want to leave "mine own house and mine own toys," but we packed him up anyway. We were traveling in the company-leased station wagon, shocking now to think the kids just stretched out their sleeping bags in the back, and for most of the trip lay there reading their books, keeping their travel journals, watching the sights outside the window, etc. We were traveling light on this trip; I remember thinking my jeans were pretty much all I'd need to wear with no events planned, just to hang out at the motel pool for few days. After a few hours, sad little homesick Danny said his stomach hurt, so he sat on my lap in the front seat. (I know--now it would be child neglect and endangerment, but then it was perfectly acceptable.) I remember trying to soothe away his homesick blues, figuring that was the reason for the tummy ache. That turned out not to be the case though, because somewhere in New Jersey, he threw up all over the front seat, including me and my only pair of jeans. I have one vivid memory of us stopped along the turnpike trying to clear the mess from the front seat, Danny, and me. The other clearest part of that trip is me scrubbing my jeans in the motel sink, and trying to dry them with the hairdryer.

Right on, Michelle O.

I'm not endorsing Harbor House fish fries---well, maybe I am because they're very tasty----but I think they must be the best value for the money. Yesterday I waited, only briefly too, for a pick-up order. In that brief time, I saw folks leaving the store, the preponderance of whom were, not just overweight, but obese, really obese. They say if you want the best coffee and eggs, go to the restaurant where tractor trailers are parked. Similarly, if you want the largest portions for the best price, follow the fat people. (Only $3.99 per!)

Yes, you are ugly.

....and, no, you are not pretty. Not because of what you look like, but because it's an extremely repugnant thing to do to thrust your face into the public eye, and invite comments on it. You should concentrate on developing a sense of decorum, reasonable manners, and modesty as to your position in the grand scheme of life. The only thing more repulsive is how the media has made this the issue of "du jour." If I said I saw this so-called story televised a thousand times in the last two days, that would be an overstatement. If I said I saw it fifteen times already today, that is probably an understatement. Planting the seed in the minds of impressionable young girls that this is a newsworthy story will almost certainly do more damage than downplaying the sensational aspect and dealing with each case individually. The media chooses to select the faces of innocent-looking girls begging for confirmation that they are cute. The media overlooks similar FB instances of teens provocatively dressed and posed, and asking . "Am I hot?"

The Bait

Where and how Ann spent the earlier part of her adult life, I don't know. History is mystery in that respect. And the following is one child's memory, a child who was always trying to understand, but without the platform to ask any questions:
Something had happened in Ann's life where she felt she must insure her future. In those days, that meant a man. She used to visit the Fogarty family, down the road from my grandmother's house. Maybe a connection with Judge Brannigan, her relative, I don't know. Anyway, she found out about Matt, the single man up the road. So she arranged to stay with the Fogarty family for a time. During that time, she would be on the watch for Matt's schedule, and arrrange to be on the roadside when he would drive by. I think she might have asked him for a ride a time or two. So eventually they fell into some sort of relationship, though I doubt it meant then what it means now. It seems they also had a strained relationship; Nanny was still alive. I recall Agnes saying Matt was again more drawn to that Helen woman, but now he had Ann to deal with. I know Matt later told my mother that the only reason he married Ann was that she had threatened to kill herself if he didn't. I seem to recall she was going to throw herself into traffic. There was so very little of that he may have thought she meant him. At any rate, my grandmother died in November 1950, and they got married about a year later. It was a small wedding. I think my parents and Dorothy might have gone. I didn't go, probably because I had to work in Sara's store every single day from age 11 on. Sara's store was open 7 days a week, from 10 to 10 and she said she HAD to go home to eat, so I had to stay. During the time between my grandmother's death and the wedding, Dorothy frequently stayed over for the weekend to keep Helen company, and because she was a sweet girl, and they loved her. After the wedding, Matt, in his male oblivion, and because Ann had let him believe anything until she got the marriage license, thought the 2 women living in the house would work out. He reasoned that they could keep each other company. And that's a tale for another day. Stay tuned.

The Trap

We know that Ann was one of 9 children, that her mother was committed to a mental institution, that Ann spent part of her childhood in the school taught by nuns---could it have been St. Colman's? And so, she had little use for the Catholic Church. We know that Judge Brannigan was her relative, from Green Island, that her father taught tap dancing, which Ann loved. During the WWII period, she did her civic duty by working for the federal government, Watervliet Arsenal, maybe. Somewhere in my house, I have relevant dates and places, and when or if I come across them, I'll add them here. We know that of the 9 Burke siblings, only one son had children, 11 of them, all super-brilliant and eminently successful. The father set the pace, having been the man in charge of G.E.'s entire outfit in the area, until an unfortunate incident at a Northway rest stop. Ann told me once that when she was little and living in Troy, and evidently home for the weekend, her father would take her and sibs for evening walks around Troy, including the house where the Donovan family resided, I think on 3rd Street. She remembered her father greeting Matt's mother as they walked past, little knowing their paths were destined to cross much later.

Matt's Romances

When I was a little kid, I thought Matt was the most handsome man I knew. It was true that I hadn't seen very many men at all until we moved to the Valley when I was 5 years old, but by all accounts and from old photographs, Matt would seem to have had it all as far as movie star looks went. He was tall for his time, about 6 ft, 2 in. or more, lean and muscular, with Kennedy-like thick wavy brown hair. He owned a car, had a good job; I think he worked at Behr-Manning, besides his free-lance radio repair side business. I can remember he would seem so happy to see us, and would lift us up in the air---it seemed so far up---and he would encircle our waists with his big powerful hands. (Well. maybe he only did so once or twice when I was probably 2 0r 3, but I remember it.) After his brother Timothy's death, Matt became the sole support of the family, his mother, Helen, Ma, and Agnes. I think their sister Marguerite died in 1918, during the flu epidemic. Maybe because of the Irish tradition, or maybe because he had bartered his youth for adult responsibilities, Matt was catered to. Helen of course would do all the cooking and house work after Ma and Agnes married and left Cooksboro, and Nanny was pretty much crippled with arthritis in her hips and knees. They called it rheumatism then. I can remember Helen felt responsible for clearing the driveway of snow so Matt could drive in when he came home from work. I understood he would "have his teeth out" if that wasn't the case. I assumed that meant a grimace---not happy.
Then, as now, women would evidently pursue an eligible man, or one they only perceived as eligible. For Matt would not be available until his mother's death. I don't know whether Nanny extracted that vow from him or whether he voluntarily so pledged, or if it were just an understanding. But even I knew that was the way it was. His first girl friend that we heard about , or woman, as so they referred to her, was named Helen. That really confused me then, and it didn't help that it was a secret romance; everything about it was spoken in whispered conversations. Agnes seemed to have an inside track somehow; I think that Helen may have been Matt's co-worker, and maybe Agnes or Tommy knew someone who knew her. Anyway, it seemed an on-again, off-again relationship, easy to understand now with Matt in his 40's and not free to even speak of a romance. The 3 sisters, Helen, Ma, and Agnes seemed receptive to that woman named Helen, but the Matriarch was not one to be confronted. And so somewhere in that time period entered ------Ann Burke!!!

The Last Letter

Mailed from Schaghticoke, April 25, 1957 at 5 P.M. Typed:

Dear Dorothy,
Once again we are approaching the summer months, and perhaps you are considering having your hair cut. Please don't. It grows more beautiful as it grows. I wonder if there is not some way that we can arrange for me to run my fingers through that silken loveliness? If you would like to give me a token. Leave a lock of your beautiful hair in an envelope and place it alongside the northwest corner of the large vacant house----the last house west of yours on the River Rd. in Valley Falls. Do this by next Saturday night. If you do, you will hear from me again. But whatever you do, do not cut your lovely red hair.

For some reasom the font inexplicably changed; the rest of the letter is as written, typed. I don't remember much about this letter. It was a year later, we were in college, and I'm sure Dorothy had other "suitors" to spend her time on than this creep---may he rest in his anonymous peace.

What Not to Wear

Note to Mitt Romney: You should not wear blue jeans in public.

The Horror!

Once again the media is giving universal coverage to one of today's most urgent stories------a shipment of 25-30 cats has arrived at a local animal shelter, from Wyoming County no less. The cats came from "deplorable' conditions, and many are sick, but recovering with the treatment they are currently receiving. I thought the local shelter routinely euthanized healthy but unwanted kittens and cats, so why import out-of-towners, most sickly at that. And why is it considered a news story, other than to advertise that the shelter has, or will soon have, a new load of cats for adoption. Who selects the stories, why do all the channels carry the same stories, and why are they aired several times a day? Would it be a terrible thing if a viewer saw the 25-cat story on Channel 6 at noon, and then tuned in to Channel 10 for the evening news and didn't see that they covered the cat story? Didn't anything else happen that day? And when the cats turn out to be unadoptable, and condemned to death, will all the networks simultaneously carry that news? I'll keep watch and be sure to blog the results.........

Mind-numbing

An independent study shows that anti-depressant drugs are useless in the vast majority of the cases where they are prescribed. This is destined to be a finding soon to be forgotten, or buried, considering the power of the drug companies, one of the largest, if not the largest, lobbying groups in the nation. Except in the cases of the severely depressed, who are by far the minority of the patients on the meds, the drugs have been shown to be no more effective in the treatment of depression than placebos, prescribed in conjunction with the medical visits to the prescribing physician and staff who interact with the patients on a regular basis. A psychiatrist, who not incidentally is employed as a consultant by a pharmaceutical company, was confronted with the findings of the new study. Even he finds that only 14% of the non-severely depressed benefit from taking anti-depressants. He acknowledges the other 86% most likely receive no benefit. He bases that percentage on the case studies that were conducted, even though when evaluating the case studies, only the results that supported the 14% effectiveness rate were included; the results from the case studies that did not support the case for the effectiveness of anti-depressant drugs were discarded. Children, teens, and some adults tend to use the word depressed to describe sadness, disappointment, boredom, fatigue, loneliness. Pharmaceutical companies don't care; they want to turn a profit, so they create and perpetuate the illusion that life should be a carefree journey through a flower-strewn field with an abundance of fluttering butterflies. To block out the annoyances of sadness and losses which inevitably accompany the joy and accomplishments of life, they would have you take a pill to deaden the impact. Seems so wrong, doesn't it?

Artists of Deception

I've never seen a rubber tank before today. Well, it was not an actual tank, but a picture of a real rubber tank. The picture showed 4 American soldiers holding a tank aloft. That would have been after the secret was out, the secret being the tactics used by the "Ghost Army"to deceive the German army into thinking that the American troops were more prevalent than they actually were---a mobile deception unit. The pictures have been declassified, and are part of an exhibit now on display in Mechanicville. The visual deception strategies required artists able to stage the media illusions, so the army recruited the best talent available. Their artwork is incredible and beautiful; one of the artists was Bill Blass. In addition to the artwork on display, the exhibit features a video with voiceovers about how the artists went to various locations to draw their pictures, and to blend in with the regular army. One location frequented by the artists was a whorehouse where they, artists to the core, sketched the nude women. At first I thought the narrator said poorhouse, but I soon realized that he'd used the w-word. A-hem; a picture IS worth a thousand words. Since the kids were 8 and 9, we all pretended not to have heard. War is hell.

Drat!

All my life, I've gone by the dictum that one should never move a man out of the king's row until absolutely necessary. I guess nobody told Kindle Fire that because that's the second move it makes. Damn smartass.

Foot Notes

It's decision time. I've worn socks to bed, and because once my feet have warmed up, and they always do, I absolutely need to get those socks off my feet. I can't sleep through the night with my feet encased in socks. I have 2 choices. I can sit up and remove the socks like I would during the daylight hours, or, more tempting, I can take the lazy way and try to take them off with the toes of my opposite foot. That way I don't have to get out of my sleep mode, but there is about a one out of ten chance that the lazy method will cause extreme, albeit brief, agony. I can't think of any pain more intense than the foot cramp that results when you flex your foot to use your big toe as a lever. Worse, the pain can last for several minutes, until you rub the tendon or whatever it is, back into its normal state. Being lazy, though, I usually figure it's worth the risk. I am a survivor.

Dog Lovers and Anthropomorphism

I love dogs as well as any dog lover, though my most dearly loved dogs are not alive any more, but those who purport to love dogs should know that it is never a good idea to:
approach any dog you do not know,
try to befriend a dog that has recently suffered a traumatic event,
get close to a dog in strange environment, with lights, cameras, action,
cozy up to an 85 pound animal, especially of the guard dog mentality,
and, most importantly, do not try to kiss on the lips a dog that is snarling and baring its teeth, especially if that dog has a head the size of a cinder block, with teeth that look like chisels.
Those who disregard the above advice may well find themselves the recipient of 70 or so stitches and with their mouths sewn shut so their new lips have a chance to establish themselves.
Nature had certain functions in mind as to what dogs were to do with their mouths, and it's pretty obvious what those functions are when dogs in their natural state greet each other and groom themselves. Some dogs will lick, or kiss, practically anything, including the faces and hands of human beings. Maybe some humans have a similar need (Steve Caporizzo and his "kisses" to canines), and if so, remember you do have 10 fingers, but only one face.

The Schaghticoke Fair 2012

David Skyped this morning because Annabel was active and he wanted to show us her accomplishments. Louise was on her way to the gym, so we had lots of time to talk, about the future, theirs not mine. I told David about Michael and Kendra's trip, including to the Bluezoo, and David remarked Disney was probably in their future too, with Annabel. I told him not to forget the Schaghticoke Fair, a necessary visit (though I think I missed it for the first time this past year). I remembered, though no, I didn't mention it to David, that one year at the fair, Marilyn was pushing baby Gregory in one of those strollers with the sunshield, and he slipped out and she ran him right over with the stroller. She was by the animal barns and she must have thought the resistance was from the dirt. He was about 9 months old then, and a big baby, so he wasn't hurt. (It was kind of funny though, her pushing as hard as she could to get the stroller over the bump in the road.)

Fatigue

I watched the entire Grammy production, and I'm exhausted. But I was left with some lasting impressions:
Alzheimer's is a tragic and inexplicable disease in its progression. Glenn Campbell gave a smooth performance, voice strong, stage presence perfect, knew all the lyrics without a prompter, interacted with the audience comfortably and professionally, thanked backup at the end of his number, but after he was finished singing, was confused, asking where am I supposed to go.
I liked Adele's songs the best, but truthfully, at the end, I was tired of hearing them. Really, what does "Sometimes it lasts to love" actually mean? And did she use the "snot" word after accepting her final award?
Carrie Underwood probably should not be singing Tony Bennett songs.
The Antebellum lady singer does not have much of a neck, and her head sits too far forward on the stem she does have.
Jennifer Hudson gave a lovely performance.
Sir Paul doesn't have much of a voice left, but, darn it, he's still cute.
There is a fine line between sanity and insanity and "The Exorcism of Roman" comes dangerously close to crossing it.
What was it with those evil puppets?
If that guy with Miranda Lambert was her husband, their body language indicated divorce in their future.
And, pointed out by all the tributes, there are way more dead people than living people.

Beach Buoys

Watching the Grammy's reminded me. I don't know how Ben is going to celebrate his 10th birthday this March, but for his mother's 10th birthday, in addition to a classmates roller skating party at Guptill's, we took her, and David, to their first concert--the Beachboys at Glens Falls. Part way through the show, one Beachboy, Mike Love maybe, fell into the orchestra pit. I know he was wearing a white suit and had been playing the piano. The crew just pulled him out and put him back up on stage, and the show went on.

Back to the Future

You can buy a classic manual typewriter at Hammacher Schlemmer's for only $199.99. It was good enough for Ernest Hemingway and Jack Kerouac, and I understand Larry McMurtry still writes on one. Quaint, rustic and retro.

Rage Against the Machine

One of the games on my new Kindle Fire is checkers. I played 2 games. I used to be pretty good at playing checkers, seldom, very seldom losing a game. Well, I must have only thought I was good, or all of my victories must have been over poor opponents, because I was so soundly defeated that I will never again play checkers.

Making People

When Shirley and Frances were really young, they came to visit us once in a while. When they got a little older, their parents wouldn't bring them anywhere. They had to stay home, though they always brought Tommy. I loved it when Shirley came to our house. She was kind of a leader, and always had ideas, certainly a new and welcome change for us. Of course, we were always to play outside, in pretty much any kind of weather. One such time when they came to visit was when we lived on "the hill" now Brundige Road. The house is still there, but the old barn is not there anymore. Attached to the back of that old barn were 3 or 4 boxes built right up against the side of the barn, probably nesting or egg laying boxes for the free range chickens. Shirley had started school, so she had ideas. "Let's make people." She told us how, and we did it. We gathered up old corncobs, easy to find, rolled them in mud, also readily available, and, then the important part, we breathed on them, or Shirley did anyway, and placed them in the hens' boxes, which were probably not in use. I clearly remember my big worry----I was afraid that the new people who hatched out would be "big people." We, or at least I, thought we had enough big people, and they were boring because whenever big people came to visit, all they did was sit and talk. I thought my mother felt trapped at those times, though of course we never spoke of it. Years later, I brought this story up to Shirley. She had no memory of it, but laughed and said it was probably something she picked up in the Catholic school in Troy she'd attended then. She said the nuns there had all these strange stories from the Bible and such, and that was one way she interpreted them.

No Strings

I've never cared for puppet shows.

Say what?

I wonder why so many TV guests, when responding to a question start their reply with either "Yeah, no," or "No, yeah." Just listen, you'll hear it.

Why in the world?

Of the thousands, or millions, of things that happen in the world every day, why are the same select few items considered newsworthy by every tentacle of the media, and why are they reported at the same time. Why do they have to be coordinated timewise? Is it really newsworthy that Tom Brady's wife mouths off at his teammates, and if she'd been drinking wine when she did so? If one media venue deems it so, why do all have to follow suit? There must be at least a few other things that happened that day deserving of some coverage. Sure, only so many stories can be covered, but why does everybody have to report the same ones? The other morning, early, one channel announced they were going to give the "disturbing details" of the man who we already knew had slaughtered and blown up his family. Whatever disturbing details that lay beyond that, I didn't want to know, so as quickly as I could, I changed the channel. The channel I switched to was covering the same story, albeit somewhat apologetically, so I tried another, and another. Same story, and first thing in the morning. I turned the TV off, but it didn't help much. The noonday news, and the evening news were still focusing on the grisly details even worse than cold-blooded murder. No wonder we become inured.

"Jaysus"

The kitchen table had huge brown legs, carved with vertical grooves from top to bottom. It was the centerpiece of the kitchen, and was set back against the far wall, just far enough from the outside wall to make enough room for my grandmother's chair, where she could usually be found with her bowl of tea. Never a teacup, but a certain grayish white bowl banded with a green stripe. I was little then so the table legs were a prominent feature of the room, being small enough that the legs were what were in my line of vision. But not on this day. My brother and I wanted to see what was going on atop the table. So we backed up against the far kitchen wall near the kitchen door and next to the slopjar by the sink that had no drainage, craning our necks, trying to figure out what was going on with all the activity involved in making the tabletop ready for something. We knew something different was going on, or at least that's what we suspected. My grandmother's bedroom was off to the right of the kitchen, and that's where the activity seemed to be centered. Somebody, I think it was Helen, came out of the bedroom with a bundle in her arms and put it on the table. That's where memory becomes cloudy, though I think I recall somebody picking me up later and showing me what the table top held. I don't think I had any sort of epiphany: kids weren't told much in those days, and I was only 18 months old. I don't think I remember hearing the words so my mother must have told me, probably much later, that Nanny had said, on her first look at Dorothy, " Oh, Jaysus, the baby has red hair!" (It's all too true, that for most of my life, I never knew what was going on until it was over.)

Is anybody out there?

It's so odd to think that there is nobody left in the world--except maybe one other person--who has any memory of the things that seemed to me at one time to be the pillars of our existence. The objects of my memory were so real and prominent that they seemed to have always been exactly where they stood, and so fixed that they would remain so forever. There was a large mirror in my grandmother's kitchen that must have been one hundred years old at the time. The wooden frame was dark mahoghany and the glass mirror was shaded in the center in the exact shape as if a person's darkened reflection were staring back out at the one who looked in. I always was a little afraid of it; it looked eerie, and ghostlike. I came to believe that so many people looked into it so many times that it was worn out from all their reflections. Though at the time, I knew no one who had died, I still thought that all the previous owners of the hand-me-down mirror were now ghostly figures themselves. I never asked any questions, we kids seldom did, so no one ever explained anything; whether they could have or not I don't know. Nor do I know if the mercury backing of a mirror glass can be eroded by being looked into. That may be so because I can still see the shape of the figure looking out.

The clock on the shelf

I loved to visit my grandmother's house
When I was little.
That's where my mother seemed happiest
Talking with her mother and sister,
Freed for a brief time from daily chores,
And the loneliness of isolation
With her husband gone all day at work
And only small children for company.
Laughing around the kitchen table,
As they recalled past adventures,
My mother seemed relaxed and content.
So I did too.

We usually left for home in daylight,
Old car, bad roads, pets at home
All called us home before darkness came.
But a few times, for now forgotten reasons,
Iced-over engine, someone falling sick,
Or my father's leaving to go elsewhere,
And returning to pick us up.
We stayed at my grandmother's house
Past the daylight hours.

Darkness transformed everything.
No more walking the fields to pick wildflower,
Or playing with Aunt Helen's trove of little treasures,
Or sitting at the big square dinner table,
Feeling special enthroned on the Monkey Wards catalog,
So I could reach the plate set before me.

It was dark, the rooms were quiet.
Conversation had stopped.
All was still-------except THE CLOCK.
It sat on its shelf in the kitchen,
Above the sink that had no water.
After the talking had stopped for the night,
And with no electricity to break the silence,
The clock ruled the night.
I would sit, bleary-eyed with sleep,
Waiting, and wanting to be home in my bed,
Feeling lost and alone, a pit in my stomach,
At every TICK-TOCK the clock intoned.
Odd that the clock went unheard during the day,
But at night, the sound was overwhelming, and unceasing.
I will always connect that sound with waiting,
Waiting, and filled with the dread
That what we wait for
Will never come to be.

"Over Home"

The house had a full-length porch at the entry, which I think Matt added to the shot-gun style construction some time after Ellen Hogan and her remaining children moved into the house. She bought the house with the insurance payment from her oldest son's accidental death. She wanted to get out of the city of Troy where he so tragically died, and so she moved to what must have seemed the end of the earth at that time, a little house out in the country on a dirt road neighbored by a few hardscrabble farms. No power, or phone lines, and at first no plows or road repair, as I remember being told. My mother told me her mother had paid for the house with the check she received when Timmy died, the sum of $200. That doesn't seem like enough, but back in about 1916, it may well have been. But back to the house we visited every 2 weeks or so, when my mother yearned to go "over home." Walk up a few steps, through the glass-windowed porch into the kitchen, which led into the dining room, and then into the parlor. There were rooms to the right of each of those 3 rooms. The kitchen had 2 adjoining rooms, a narrow pantry just to the right of the sink (no running water though). I remember going into the pantry with Helen to get the wooden potato masher. The second doorway off the kitchen led to Nanny's bedroom. I think I only entered that room one time in the 12 years of "over home," and that was to say good-bye to her. She'd taken sick, we made an unscheduled visit, Ma stayed while Daddy drove us home, and that was the first time I ever saw my grandmother in her bedroom, and the last time I ever saw her alive. To the right of the dining room was Matt's bedroom, and I'm pretty sure I never entered that room. All the bedrooms were probably just about big enough for the bed, and maybe a dresser. Back in those days, with no central heat and no electricity, a bed room meant exactly that. The dining room held most of Matt's stuff---his radios and equipment and stacks of Popular Mechanics' magazines. Though Matt dropped out of school in about the 6th grade, after punching the nun who pulled his ear to get him back in line and off the haywagon, he was genius-like in teaching himself about the new invention of radios. Even without electricity, he built and powered them with batteries using all the skills he learned from magazines. Later in life he found additional work as a radio and then TV repairman. The last room in the series was the parlor, always cold, unused and unheated, but when the temperature allowed, we kids played on the antique pipe organ, imagining we were making music. However, off that room was Helen's bedroom, and that was the high spot of many of our visits. Helen was delighted to have visitors, especially kids. Looking back, I suppose she may have been lonely but she was always cheerful. Sometimes she would invite us to go "furging" among the many treasures she had stowed in her tiny bedroom. There were religious items, buttons, beads, jewels, pictures, little boxes and containers, and once she had hand-sewn a family of little cloth dolls, and stuffed them with cotton. Helen joined us in playing with those little items, always carefully returning them to their places afterwards for the next time. As is true in life, sadly, we never know at what point there will be no "next time." I have a feeling that we kids gave up on this adventure while Helen would gladly have continued; it is a fact that childhood lasts only a brief time.

Gobble

There is a 22 lb. turkey in the freezer in my house. I hope somebody will come for dinner at some time in the relatively near future. It will require about a 10 day notice; it's solid as a brick.

Punctuate this.

I can't explain why I hate it when writers use periods to emphasize that they are being dramatic and their words are measured. They. Seem. Like. Idiots.

Long ago in February

One February, I went on vacation to New Orleans. I was teaching then in Cambridge, and two other teachers and I decided to take in the city. Another teacher had wanted to go, but her boyfriend had just surprised her with an engagement ring, so she felt she shouldn't go. (We recently reminesced about our old teaching days and she said she'd always regretted not going with us. She married and divorced that ring-bestowing trip spoiler.) We'd wanted to go for Mardi Gras, but couldn't get reservations until after that event, so we arrived in The Big Easy in time to see all the celebratory trash, and a few celebrants themselves, strewn in the streets and alley-ways. We stayed in the French Quarter at the Hotel Monteleone, and we had the time of our lives. Pat was an exchange teacher from England and she was bound and determined to experience every attraction that New Orleans had to offer. She was super-sociable and so had a network of friend contacts with people and places in New Orleans. So we had the "Letter of Introduction" to the trendy Playboy Club in town. Three nice young men met us and escorted us as their guests to the club, where they knew everybody, and to a Revue, a play where one of the guys was a cast member, though he wasn't then performing. The title was "Nobody Likes A Smartass," and it was a riot. That cast member, Dave, and I became quite good friends for the 5 days or so we were in town. But it all had to end! I think we 3 girls ate in every famous restaurant in the area, at Pat's insistence, no doubt. My favorite was The Court of the Four (or was it 3) Sisters. Pat had ordered frogs' legs, and gamely did her best to enjoy her dinner. I had ordered some kind of game hen, and it came flaming, and with live musical accompaniment--a gong, and maybe trumpets, I don't remember but it was exciting. One morning we had breakfast at the famed Brennan's, which Pat and Liz really enjoyed, but I couldn't find anything to order that didn't have eggs in it. We spent an evening at Al Hirt's Nightclub; he wasn't performing that night: I think we saw the young Checkmates, and they were very entertaining. We walked into Preservation Hall, where mostly older black musicians performed live for donations, and one afternoon we witnessed an elaborate Jazz Funeral procession right down the middle of the street Then, I don't know about now, you could drink on the streets, and at night everybody seemed to do so, carrying their drink glasses with them. You had to be careful where you stepped to avoid stepping on discarded glass. I was 24, maybe 25, at the time, the same age as the other 2 girls, but I was proofed at the clubs, even though the drinking age was 18. I thought I looked at least as sophisticated as they did, so felt a little embarrassed at having to prove my age. (Those good old days.) Pat was from England and loved to walk---we didn't mind, but within limits! One morning we took a streetcar to the outskirts of town. (We saw The Streetcar Named Desire, but it was on display, not in service.) I followed whatever was scheduled for the day, willing to let somebody else make the plans. The only other riders were black women, who it turned out were traveling to their housecleaning jobs in the wealthier section of the city. We got off, near Lake Ponchartrain, and Liz and I proceeded to follow Pat on her walk. We walked, and walked , and walked, miles. Finally I asked what was our goal, and it turned out she wanted to circle the lake. I think that would have taken several days, so we persuaded, well, forced her to turn back, and we eventually got back to civilization. We cruised the Mississippi on the "Mark Twain" where the Cajun operator told us we were in danger from crocodiles and rocks in the river, but we thought he was just trying to make a rather boring trip interesting. Oddly enough, on that boat, Liz encountered her mother's neighbors, who had no idea Liz would be there. Liz lived in Cambridge at the time, and her mother lived in Greenwich. They were surprised to run into each other, joking that it was fortunate they hadn't been seen with a different partner. We went to several plantations, old churches, and to the capital, Baton Rouge, which seemed oddly deserted. The people in New Orleans were invariably friendly, and offered us all kinds of unsolicited advice. One woman stopped us to tell us that if we wanted genuine food,to eat in the cafeteria of whatever office building we were near at the time, so we did. The specialty of the day was red beans and rice cooked in New Orleans style. I don't remember anything about how the others reacted, but I regretted that meal, for sure. I remember when we flew into NYC , it was dark, and we were so exhausted and befogged, that we set our watches the wrong way. When we landed, we thought it was almost morning so decided to drive home instead of staying over. Pat had driven us in her car, which was a borrowed-in-this-country really really old clunker. The roads were snowy, slippery,and eerily deserted, but we finally made it home, back to Cambridge. There we discovered we had made the time mistake, and had driven through the dead of the snowy, slippery night. Back then, though, we didn't worry or care about that type of thing---as I said , "The good old days."

Pimp your Homecoming

Why do so many of the military on leave from their overseas assignments orchestrate a reunion at their children's schools, with audience present and cameras on? The reunions are always of the "Surprise!" type. Sure, the reunions are emotional, especially if the newly arrived father/mother/sister/brother/beloved aunt/revered uncle has been gone a long time. But isn't that kind of a double whammy for the kids, to be reunited in such a public way. Wouldn't it be easier for the children to have the meeting in the privacy of their own homes? Not every memorable event has to be recorded, and certainly not before an audience. (I just saw such a televised reunion, where the announcer said it was an emotional event: a woman was meeting, of course by surprise, her little sister, of course in the child's school, and the cameras were rolling, of course. The little sister came forward when the older sister motioned for her to do so. The child looked confused, seeming not to recognize her elder sister, after a 2 1/2 year absence. I would say the only "emotion" displayed was awkwardness.)

Mitt, Noooo!

"I'm not concerned about the very poor." You just can't SAY that! And it doesn't help to try to balance it off by saying you're "not concerned about the very rich either." Don't you realize you just fed red meat to your opponents. Maybe you thought you were in the clear because you seem to have weathered the storm you created by saying you liked to fire people. Diplomatically speaking, you could have said that you think people who are not doing their jobs do not deserve your business. You didn't have to reveal that you enjoyed firing them; you could have stuck with saying it was out of necessity as they weren't able to do the job. You didn't have to say that you were not concerned about the very poor. The segment of our society that comprises the very poor is a negative, costly, shamefully frustrating national problem of epic proportions, needing much time and energy to try to eradicate the causes that create a caste system of abject poverty, where individuals must rely on social programs and charity for their existence. You could have stated the truth that the very poor do have resources that the working poor do not have, and that you wanted at this time to prioritize assistance for the "working poor." But then you would have to venture into the territory where the working poor are worse off than the "very poor," and since many of the working poor would name lack of health care as a primary concern, you would be venturing onto the subject of the dread Obamacare. Of course, the very poor are not voters, and it's open season right now on people who receive social services, or "welfare," except of course for notable exceptions like Social Security, tax writeoffs, etc. So now you will have multiple media opportunities to explain what you really meant. Anyone can misspeak, though preference should dictate that politicians, representing others, should be able to choose their words more carefully. So your statement about not being concerned about the very poor because they have a safety net, is either a thoughtless foolish blunder, or else, if you're as smart as is rumored, your statement is a deliberate pandering to those in our country who are fed up with what they perceive as parasitic welfare recipients. Which is it, Mitt? Please clarify.