It is quiet here. No presents to wrap for grandkids, since we only have a grandcat. No reason for a tree, for getting into the attic with our arthritic backs seems too much trouble. So what do we do to feel the glow of the season? We buy lots of colored lights. String them across the front porch and around the living room walls. They are turned on all evening and we remember Christmases past...
Our first child, J, on his first Christmas had a shiny new fire engine and a package of Play Do sitting on the fender. On that morning, he ran to the engine, picked up the Play Do and never saw the fire engine. We left it where it was near the small tree until he noticed he had a second gift from Santa a week later.
In my growing up family we opened gifts Christmas Eve, and celebrated the Day preparing the big meal. In my own, only two of the three children wanted to open gifts the night before. So we made a practive of choosing one gift. As they grew we felt less inclined to provide innumerable gifts for the sake of gifting. We usually bought one gift that cost about $25 and a few small ones that were in the $2-$5 range. That was in the 1960's. We attended church Christmas Eve, followed by the opening of one gift.
The practice of a few gifts (because we couldn't afford buying more) gave us a way of teaching our kids that Christmas wasn't receiving as much as giving. We finished projects to give to special neighbors, friends, relatives. I don't know how many enjoyed receiving soap with pictures under wax, hand painted wooden ornaments, tuna cans wrapped in colored cord--but the idea of making and giving was the lesson.
Our middle son was affected the most by not receiving electronic equipment like the other kids in his class...we explained that sometimes the meaning of Christmas was lost on some families, or something like that. But S had so little to tell his classmates when January classes began. Later I found out that he created his gifts to appear "equal" to them.
One Christmas we gave him a watch that costs $25 and came from Sears (we had a standing account there for over 15 years). However, we picked one that had an interesting name other than "Sears". That, along with a few shirts and socks, was all we could give. We had two others to think about. When S returned to school his watch was the hit of the class--it was classy, according to S. We smiled. To this day, unless he reads this, he's never known the origin of his watch.
For several days of Christmas my husband's mother would spend the night and welcome Christmas Day with us. Once we wanted a family picture, so R showed Eliz how to hold the camera. "When I say 1-2-3 Smile, you push the button." He turned to us and said, "Now smile, everyone," and CLICK went the camera. "No, no, Mother, let me say 1-2-3 first, then SMILE before you push the button." Again he said softly to us in front of the tree, "Smile, everyone!" CLICK went the button. By then we were laughing so hard we didn't think a picture would ever be made! A few more tries with Daddy giving us hand signals did Eliz push the button, preserving that moment forever. This is one of our favorite grandmother events.
Funny about this grandmother. She always said she didn't believe in giving gifts. That's ok we said, you don't have to give anything, but accept what we give you. She just couldn't relax when she opened her gifts. Either the powder wasn't her fragrance, or the dish not useful. The key later, I discovered, was to say the gift was from her son, not from the family! When she did give her only grandchildren gifts they were:
chocolate covered cherries to the oldest grandson, her favorite
a bar of soap for the second grandson
a tube of toothpaste to the only granddaughter
You can imagine the reaction of these 8-12 year olds. But Mom and Dad fussed happily over the gifts, later explaining the meaning of receiving. As Grandmother explained, "I like to give useful gifts."
Her gifts continued in the same vein until she died. I have to say as they grew older, their thankfulness to her must have made her feel truly grateful for having selected "useful gifts."
Decorating the tree was a hassle. (Isn't it in any family?) Who did what last year? The oldest just wanted to put the Snoopy ornament on the tree while the sister was hefted up to place the star at the top, and the middle son put on the icicles...
Oldest son J was always the earliest riser Christmas mornings, quietly reviewing the packages and trying to figure out which were his. I wrapped each child's in a different figured paper and they didn't know which was theirs until we were gathered around the tree with our cups of hot apple cider.
Christmas morning breakfast was blueberry pancakes...the early (7 am) snack was our hand-me-down recipe of crackers topped by a slice of cheese with a marshmallow on top, broiled until the cheese melted; this still the ritual today when we gathered, no matter the season...
Those Christmases linger in our memories. Our oldest son lives nearby and continues a few tradtions for us. Daughter lives in Maine and middle son this year is celebrating his birthday and Christmas in Morocco. No grandkids yet...
.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Missing But in Action
I've not added an entry in a month. Too many obstructions, like getting out seasonal cards, making a trip to VA, preparing for the BIG LUNCH on the 25th.
However, my trip to Virginia was a lesson many sons and daughters of aging parents need to heed.
I volunteered to drive my frail cousin to her new home near Leesburg. Her daughter, unable to fly to Mississippi every time her mom needed someone, found an apartment near her home in Vienna, and the dread of leaving the familiar for the unfamiliar was enough to keep my cousin delaying for 12 months.
M's problem is one faced by innumerable older people who have to leave their homes. She had lived in a 4 bedroom, 3 bath home chock-full of furnishings and accessories that took 3 days to pack into the largest van I've ever seen. In the apartment complex, as the men unpacked, M began to fret. Where to put this, that, that over there? What to keep, what to move to daughter's basement? For hours the moving men worked steadily, men with patience and compassion for this little lady, until a path was made from one room to the other.
My job was to help M unpack boxes and make some semblance of a home for her. Be her companion for a week. We talked about family history, rehashing old stories passed down from parent to child, asking and answering questions about each of our parents. Her mother was my dad's oldest sister in a family of seven. We cleared family rumors, recalled visits as children...all those things that cousins talk about.
Within a few days M realized that once I left she had no friends and only her daughter, busy with her own life, to call upon when she needed company. An overwhelming grief and aloneness hit. I promised to call her often, visit her yearly on our way to New York. She may never feel comfortable, and this apartment will serve as a way station, a resting place until she dies. That thought alone made her feel her life shortening, although the average family age for passing is some 10 years away. There, in a strange conglomeration of apartment buildings she felt OLD. Yet, she has been one of the busiest, feisty ladies I know. She could do more in one day than I could accomplish in several.
No son or daughter in his/her prime of life rarely understands that one's own life must be put on hold when parents age. Not wanting to but needing to lean heavily on the only people these elders know, their children, comes unexpectedly. The parent cries out for a companion, listener, cook, traveler, and driver. How difficult it is to recognize that one can no longer do simple tasks without supervision. The stove becomes as dangerous as a loaded pistol; preparing meals alone becomes crackers and cheese one day and soup the next; making up the bed too much trouble, all the while one or more television sets blare in every room to dull the silence. Time is the propeller for accepting this new role in life.
I'm aging now with no need to leave the familiar for the unfamiliar. I hope my own children will find time to be my friend and companion.
However, my trip to Virginia was a lesson many sons and daughters of aging parents need to heed.
I volunteered to drive my frail cousin to her new home near Leesburg. Her daughter, unable to fly to Mississippi every time her mom needed someone, found an apartment near her home in Vienna, and the dread of leaving the familiar for the unfamiliar was enough to keep my cousin delaying for 12 months.
M's problem is one faced by innumerable older people who have to leave their homes. She had lived in a 4 bedroom, 3 bath home chock-full of furnishings and accessories that took 3 days to pack into the largest van I've ever seen. In the apartment complex, as the men unpacked, M began to fret. Where to put this, that, that over there? What to keep, what to move to daughter's basement? For hours the moving men worked steadily, men with patience and compassion for this little lady, until a path was made from one room to the other.
My job was to help M unpack boxes and make some semblance of a home for her. Be her companion for a week. We talked about family history, rehashing old stories passed down from parent to child, asking and answering questions about each of our parents. Her mother was my dad's oldest sister in a family of seven. We cleared family rumors, recalled visits as children...all those things that cousins talk about.
Within a few days M realized that once I left she had no friends and only her daughter, busy with her own life, to call upon when she needed company. An overwhelming grief and aloneness hit. I promised to call her often, visit her yearly on our way to New York. She may never feel comfortable, and this apartment will serve as a way station, a resting place until she dies. That thought alone made her feel her life shortening, although the average family age for passing is some 10 years away. There, in a strange conglomeration of apartment buildings she felt OLD. Yet, she has been one of the busiest, feisty ladies I know. She could do more in one day than I could accomplish in several.
No son or daughter in his/her prime of life rarely understands that one's own life must be put on hold when parents age. Not wanting to but needing to lean heavily on the only people these elders know, their children, comes unexpectedly. The parent cries out for a companion, listener, cook, traveler, and driver. How difficult it is to recognize that one can no longer do simple tasks without supervision. The stove becomes as dangerous as a loaded pistol; preparing meals alone becomes crackers and cheese one day and soup the next; making up the bed too much trouble, all the while one or more television sets blare in every room to dull the silence. Time is the propeller for accepting this new role in life.
I'm aging now with no need to leave the familiar for the unfamiliar. I hope my own children will find time to be my friend and companion.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
More About Rangle
Our newspaper today, this Sunday before Thanksgiving Day, is full of pro and con letters to the editor concerning CR's remarks about our state.
One of our weekly columnist and book author, a chef extrodinaire, wanted to remind this Democrat that despite NYC having a gaggle of chef-driven restaurants, some of the best Southern food can be found in our state. (Has he tried our shrimp and grits?)
Other letters invited CR to visit before ever criticizing a place; declared that his crude remark didn't convince any troubled(by his remarks) Mississippian to think that his beloved New York City was better when pollutants, crowded real estate, high taxes, impossible prices for living quarters plague citizens.
Perhaps our slow speech and laid-back life give a false impression of our abilities and education. Our governor, Haley Barbour, was recently named the nation's most outstanding governor in the November issue and a 2006 Public Official of the Year, by Governing magazine, an independent magazine focusing on coverage of state and local government. The magazine stated this honor was for "being straight about the utter devastation in the area but also for his own demeanor in public appearances that suggested the state would summon the will to rebuild."
The state is full of famous and successful writers, professional football players, actors, businessmen. Ask Morgan Freeman why he's living in Mississippi between movies. Ask Brett Favre why he yearly returns to his home state. Ask any literary buff why Eudora Welty remained in her home state after several awards from the French government and world-wide recognition. These and other greats have found the quiet life of our state far more enticing and inexpensive than any place in the East.
We have cleaner air, lower taxes, reasonable real estate prices, and we are hospitable. We don't constantly say "I hate Democrats(Republicans)!" Hate isn't a part of our disagreement vocabulary. We vote, and if the other party wins, we quietly go about working with that party. "We are brought up to be nice to people like him (CR)" stated one writer. "What he may not know is that we are the first to go anywhere in the world that we are needed."
And to that remark, our helping others, a young woman aiding Katrina victims on the Gulf Coast, related recently on local radio, that volunteers from New York City, which included firemen and policemen, complimented the locals for their willingness to help one another, despite having lost so much themselves. They thought our hospitality overcame any preconceived misgivings the volunteers had before arriving on the Coast.
Another writer from Staten Island, stated "It's absolutely true that New York City sends tons more hard-earned tax dollars to the federal government than it ever gets back, and Mississippians get more back than they pay." How does he come to this conclusion? Wages are high because living there takes a large chunk of earnings. There are probably far more have-nots in the City than in our state, and tax dollars are levied on those who have. True, our tax base isn't as high, but we, too, have a part of our population that doesn't work, depends on the government for existence, lives in poor housing, etc. Our taxes can't begin to help them when our public school education is drowning, populated by those same low economic class folks. We suffer from money problems as does the City, only to a lesser degree.
Everyone has carved a little heaven where (s)he lives and no one should blatantly criticize another's home without first-hand knowledge.
Well, Charlie apologized, but only after pressure was exerted. He will be under scrutiny until he can prove he's a better leader than an extemporaneous speaker.
One of our weekly columnist and book author, a chef extrodinaire, wanted to remind this Democrat that despite NYC having a gaggle of chef-driven restaurants, some of the best Southern food can be found in our state. (Has he tried our shrimp and grits?)
Other letters invited CR to visit before ever criticizing a place; declared that his crude remark didn't convince any troubled(by his remarks) Mississippian to think that his beloved New York City was better when pollutants, crowded real estate, high taxes, impossible prices for living quarters plague citizens.
Perhaps our slow speech and laid-back life give a false impression of our abilities and education. Our governor, Haley Barbour, was recently named the nation's most outstanding governor in the November issue and a 2006 Public Official of the Year, by Governing magazine, an independent magazine focusing on coverage of state and local government. The magazine stated this honor was for "being straight about the utter devastation in the area but also for his own demeanor in public appearances that suggested the state would summon the will to rebuild."
The state is full of famous and successful writers, professional football players, actors, businessmen. Ask Morgan Freeman why he's living in Mississippi between movies. Ask Brett Favre why he yearly returns to his home state. Ask any literary buff why Eudora Welty remained in her home state after several awards from the French government and world-wide recognition. These and other greats have found the quiet life of our state far more enticing and inexpensive than any place in the East.
We have cleaner air, lower taxes, reasonable real estate prices, and we are hospitable. We don't constantly say "I hate Democrats(Republicans)!" Hate isn't a part of our disagreement vocabulary. We vote, and if the other party wins, we quietly go about working with that party. "We are brought up to be nice to people like him (CR)" stated one writer. "What he may not know is that we are the first to go anywhere in the world that we are needed."
And to that remark, our helping others, a young woman aiding Katrina victims on the Gulf Coast, related recently on local radio, that volunteers from New York City, which included firemen and policemen, complimented the locals for their willingness to help one another, despite having lost so much themselves. They thought our hospitality overcame any preconceived misgivings the volunteers had before arriving on the Coast.
Another writer from Staten Island, stated "It's absolutely true that New York City sends tons more hard-earned tax dollars to the federal government than it ever gets back, and Mississippians get more back than they pay." How does he come to this conclusion? Wages are high because living there takes a large chunk of earnings. There are probably far more have-nots in the City than in our state, and tax dollars are levied on those who have. True, our tax base isn't as high, but we, too, have a part of our population that doesn't work, depends on the government for existence, lives in poor housing, etc. Our taxes can't begin to help them when our public school education is drowning, populated by those same low economic class folks. We suffer from money problems as does the City, only to a lesser degree.
Everyone has carved a little heaven where (s)he lives and no one should blatantly criticize another's home without first-hand knowledge.
Well, Charlie apologized, but only after pressure was exerted. He will be under scrutiny until he can prove he's a better leader than an extemporaneous speaker.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
I Forgive You, Charlie
You probably have never been south of Philadelphia, PA; never eaten soul food; never were interested in American History; never knew the exact location of the state of Mississippi. Well, Charlie, folks like you should never make public a ridiculous remark as you did.("...who'd want to LIVE in Mississippi!")
I forgive your senseless remark. It was made in the heat of the moment. Made without forethought. Made in the ecstasy of your win.
How would you have reacted if at your door a few days later you found a dozen roses, a box of home made fudge, balloons attached to a box of home made cookies, a frozen container of turnip greens with cornbread, a lovely coconut cake made from scratch???
Well, we folks should have killed you with kindness in that manner; however, we dismissed you with a wave of our hand. Perhaps later next year we'll understand your importance in the government. Perhaps you'll have to make a trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast to be sure the money being spent there is done wisely. Perhaps you'll discover by talking to our local folk that we are very friendly, show interest in your visit, and perhaps you'll be invited to eat dinner. You'll discover how independent we are, that we know how to pull ourselves up by our bootstrings, rarely complain about what the government isn't giving, yes, GIVING, to us. We don't feel entitled to let the government help us until we've helped ourselves.
One bit of advice, Charlie Boy: Think before you speak. Smile. Speak softly.
Maybe we'll respect you before the next year wanes.
I forgive your senseless remark. It was made in the heat of the moment. Made without forethought. Made in the ecstasy of your win.
How would you have reacted if at your door a few days later you found a dozen roses, a box of home made fudge, balloons attached to a box of home made cookies, a frozen container of turnip greens with cornbread, a lovely coconut cake made from scratch???
Well, we folks should have killed you with kindness in that manner; however, we dismissed you with a wave of our hand. Perhaps later next year we'll understand your importance in the government. Perhaps you'll have to make a trip to the Mississippi Gulf Coast to be sure the money being spent there is done wisely. Perhaps you'll discover by talking to our local folk that we are very friendly, show interest in your visit, and perhaps you'll be invited to eat dinner. You'll discover how independent we are, that we know how to pull ourselves up by our bootstrings, rarely complain about what the government isn't giving, yes, GIVING, to us. We don't feel entitled to let the government help us until we've helped ourselves.
One bit of advice, Charlie Boy: Think before you speak. Smile. Speak softly.
Maybe we'll respect you before the next year wanes.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
A n Out-of-Town Visit
Today I visited Philadelphis, MS with my sister. She was gathering notes for an upcoming article on the town for Mississippi Magazine. I'm her critic, editor, and sounding board.
What made this trip worthwhile for me was to see how the town has progressed from the days of the Civil Rights era. There was definitely a vibrancy around the town square. Gone were the hokey stores that once faced the town square. In their places were an up-to-date coffee shop serving just about any kind of coffee we're used to having at a local Starbucks; jewelry stores, antique corners, dress shops. An active theatre group uses the old downtown theatre.
Our job was to talk to local folks, including the shopkeepers, and get a sense of their continued interest in Philadelphis. The first person interviewed was eating at our table at Peggy's, a family-owned luncheonette in an old home two blocks from Main Street. Tony is about 40 years old and when he answered our question about his living there, he embarked on the story of how he moved from larger cities to this small town to raise his daughter. He felt safe, he said, to let his daughter wander around town on any given day without fear, how pleased he was of the school system, how comfortable it was to have withing the town square all the stores one could ask for, without going to any chains.
Next, we visited a store whose main attraction was hand-painted tees. A smiling owner warned us about tripping over the holiday boxes of garland and ornaments currently being used on the interior trees. She told us of her 6 year enjoyment of her store, which arose from the hand-painted signs she had created for years for owners of cabins of the Neshoba County Fair. The tee designs were most unusual, despite being the usual Santa and his reindeer.
We strolled to the coffee shop and was surprised to see how cozy the interior was. As most coffee enterprises, there were bags of flavored coffee beans, individual cookies, and any coffee, tea, cider, or chocolate milk drink available. We remarked on the stage area and were told they were for visiting bands. But the fact that the downtown area closes for the day at five p.m., it was difficult to have bands play to near empty seats.
Finishing our lattes we jumped into the car and made our way outside the area to where the Choctaw Indian compound was. This includes a school, museum, tribal council headquarters, Headstart, and a multiple of Indian businesses were located. The Choctaws today are the descendants of the approximately 1100 Indians who refused to move to Oklahoma during the Trail of Tears. From that humble beginning and the leadership of Chief Martin, a multibillion dollar campus was created giving the Indians jobs. Two casinos and an outstanding golf course lures out of staters as well as Mississippians to this area.
Just down the road is the famous Williams store, which sells under one roof clothes, shoes, groceries, bacon and hoop cheese slice as you please. I failed to pick up sweet potatoes at thirty-nine cents a pound. This store has occupied the same spot sine the early 1920's. They like to boast that Archie Manning used to work there summers. Sister and I know that Archie didn't meet Olivia Williams until Ole' Miss days, but we didn't let on to anybody. I taught school with Archie's mother in Drew, a small Delta town. At that time Archie was perhaps elementary school age. Around her any and every one has an Archie story.
By 3:30 Sis and I were content that we had felt the tone of the town and hoped that after our generation had passed on, that the stigma of Philadelphia's past would
have faded and the town grown beyond expectation. We drove to the interstate on a two-lane road, watching beautiful rolling fields pass by, glad to know that this town was getting back on its feet.
What made this trip worthwhile for me was to see how the town has progressed from the days of the Civil Rights era. There was definitely a vibrancy around the town square. Gone were the hokey stores that once faced the town square. In their places were an up-to-date coffee shop serving just about any kind of coffee we're used to having at a local Starbucks; jewelry stores, antique corners, dress shops. An active theatre group uses the old downtown theatre.
Our job was to talk to local folks, including the shopkeepers, and get a sense of their continued interest in Philadelphis. The first person interviewed was eating at our table at Peggy's, a family-owned luncheonette in an old home two blocks from Main Street. Tony is about 40 years old and when he answered our question about his living there, he embarked on the story of how he moved from larger cities to this small town to raise his daughter. He felt safe, he said, to let his daughter wander around town on any given day without fear, how pleased he was of the school system, how comfortable it was to have withing the town square all the stores one could ask for, without going to any chains.
Next, we visited a store whose main attraction was hand-painted tees. A smiling owner warned us about tripping over the holiday boxes of garland and ornaments currently being used on the interior trees. She told us of her 6 year enjoyment of her store, which arose from the hand-painted signs she had created for years for owners of cabins of the Neshoba County Fair. The tee designs were most unusual, despite being the usual Santa and his reindeer.
We strolled to the coffee shop and was surprised to see how cozy the interior was. As most coffee enterprises, there were bags of flavored coffee beans, individual cookies, and any coffee, tea, cider, or chocolate milk drink available. We remarked on the stage area and were told they were for visiting bands. But the fact that the downtown area closes for the day at five p.m., it was difficult to have bands play to near empty seats.
Finishing our lattes we jumped into the car and made our way outside the area to where the Choctaw Indian compound was. This includes a school, museum, tribal council headquarters, Headstart, and a multiple of Indian businesses were located. The Choctaws today are the descendants of the approximately 1100 Indians who refused to move to Oklahoma during the Trail of Tears. From that humble beginning and the leadership of Chief Martin, a multibillion dollar campus was created giving the Indians jobs. Two casinos and an outstanding golf course lures out of staters as well as Mississippians to this area.
Just down the road is the famous Williams store, which sells under one roof clothes, shoes, groceries, bacon and hoop cheese slice as you please. I failed to pick up sweet potatoes at thirty-nine cents a pound. This store has occupied the same spot sine the early 1920's. They like to boast that Archie Manning used to work there summers. Sister and I know that Archie didn't meet Olivia Williams until Ole' Miss days, but we didn't let on to anybody. I taught school with Archie's mother in Drew, a small Delta town. At that time Archie was perhaps elementary school age. Around her any and every one has an Archie story.
By 3:30 Sis and I were content that we had felt the tone of the town and hoped that after our generation had passed on, that the stigma of Philadelphia's past would
have faded and the town grown beyond expectation. We drove to the interstate on a two-lane road, watching beautiful rolling fields pass by, glad to know that this town was getting back on its feet.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig!
Two questions were posed to me last weekend: How long will it take you to acclimate to "regular" life in Mississippi? What will you do there?
Last year upon returning to the South after our first stint living off the grid, I was confused to locations of favorite stores, unable to find specific auto keys, ID cards to the fitness center and the library, and remembering names of people I've known forever.
My first day back in water aerobics class while the ladies asked about my experiences, a dense fog settled in my head and into my eyes. A tiny motor began racing around the crooks and turns of my brain searching for the names of those standing near me. I finally admitted my memory lapse and asked their names. One friend looked at me quizzically and said, "I know yours, why don't you know mine?" I admitted everything Southern had been on the back burner for five months, replaced by a new set of names and places eastern. That problem was solved this year by making a list of my friends' names here and there and reviewing the list enroute.
What will I do at home? this New Jersey lady asked me. I raced through my list: use the computer more to keep up with all the tidbits of world life I've missed; write frequently on my blog page and catch up on what my blogger mates have been ruminating all summer; exercise three times a week in the water; work on improving my jewelry techniques (although, I must admit I may never improve, but persistence is still my strong suit).
Mostly, I want to spend more time with my sister who graduated from chemotherapy classes in September. We love plays and good movies. We'll see "Hairspray" in Nov and travel to Montgomery AL to the Shakespeare Theatre. We grew up planning to tap dance and sing our way onto the Broadway stage.
One practice I keep while in Mississippi is twice a month take a different friend to lunch. Keeping in touch wth my women friends from college, church associations,past neighborhoods, and Friends of the Library remains a part of my daily life. We age together and share our full lives.
Husband R and son J will get their share of time. After the summer months visiting our daughter and son in the East, this will be J's time to share with us. After starving for television's golf games, R asked that I not assign him any tasks for the rest of the week so he can watch TV. With J we'll find new restaurants , talk about our computers, and listen to his adventures while we were gone.
We have an interesting life. Many opportunities abound in this age not to take advantage of them. I think participation keeps us young in thought and behavior, and keeps us in reasonably good health. What more could we ask of our time on Earth?
Last year upon returning to the South after our first stint living off the grid, I was confused to locations of favorite stores, unable to find specific auto keys, ID cards to the fitness center and the library, and remembering names of people I've known forever.
My first day back in water aerobics class while the ladies asked about my experiences, a dense fog settled in my head and into my eyes. A tiny motor began racing around the crooks and turns of my brain searching for the names of those standing near me. I finally admitted my memory lapse and asked their names. One friend looked at me quizzically and said, "I know yours, why don't you know mine?" I admitted everything Southern had been on the back burner for five months, replaced by a new set of names and places eastern. That problem was solved this year by making a list of my friends' names here and there and reviewing the list enroute.
What will I do at home? this New Jersey lady asked me. I raced through my list: use the computer more to keep up with all the tidbits of world life I've missed; write frequently on my blog page and catch up on what my blogger mates have been ruminating all summer; exercise three times a week in the water; work on improving my jewelry techniques (although, I must admit I may never improve, but persistence is still my strong suit).
Mostly, I want to spend more time with my sister who graduated from chemotherapy classes in September. We love plays and good movies. We'll see "Hairspray" in Nov and travel to Montgomery AL to the Shakespeare Theatre. We grew up planning to tap dance and sing our way onto the Broadway stage.
One practice I keep while in Mississippi is twice a month take a different friend to lunch. Keeping in touch wth my women friends from college, church associations,past neighborhoods, and Friends of the Library remains a part of my daily life. We age together and share our full lives.
Husband R and son J will get their share of time. After the summer months visiting our daughter and son in the East, this will be J's time to share with us. After starving for television's golf games, R asked that I not assign him any tasks for the rest of the week so he can watch TV. With J we'll find new restaurants , talk about our computers, and listen to his adventures while we were gone.
We have an interesting life. Many opportunities abound in this age not to take advantage of them. I think participation keeps us young in thought and behavior, and keeps us in reasonably good health. What more could we ask of our time on Earth?
Thursday, October 19, 2006
The Numbers Game
I avoided college math and opted for foreign language many years ago. Now I'm paying for being numbers weak. I have to apologize frequently for miscounting my change and trying to correct the cashier, writing down my bank account instead of my social security, thinking I've a bargain purchase when after careful check I don't...
Wednesday I called to pay my telephone bill and arrange for disconnection here in New York. Again numbers played a game with me:
--Ma'm, what is your account number?
--Umm, 0000.
--No, that's your pin number.
--Umm, I guess I don't have one.
--Ma'm, it's 00000 000.
--Oh, that sounds familiar.
--Now, Ma'm, what are the last four numbers of your social security?
--Oh, that's 0000.
--No,ma'm, that's not what we have on file.
--Try 0000, my husband's number.
--No, ma'm, that's not the number. Can you tell me your birday date?
--That, I can do. August 30,0000.
--Fine, ma'm. Now can you recite your full social security number?
--Uh, 000-00, not that's not it; 000-00-0000.
--Well, that's not what we have here.
--Now,listen, I've had that number for upteen years; either someone there took down the wrong numbers or....look, I'm just an old lady who can't remember numbers...(my standard excuse).
--Ma'm, think again.
--Ok, 000-00-0000. That's it! I do get the last number mixed up with another one.
Whew! I have to say that combo several times before the right set of numbers click.
--Ok, ma'm, what is the nature of your business?
I needed a cold drink after that strenuous conversation...however, it doesn't compare with the Dell switchboard that moves me from one telephone no. to another, then having to haggle with someone in Timbuctu whose English needs ironing.
Now the Educators That Be are realizing that schools should return to the old math via rote. I was a product of the old math. I only stumbled with 8's in multiplication; per centage was a mire; division, easy if I wrote it out and then figured the answer. I loved high school algebra, failed geometry. So when I hit college I assumed any advanced math couldn't improve what I knew about addition, subtraction, multiplication and division.
But I've paid the price many times since. Would I have been a better math student if I'd followed the college track?
Wednesday I called to pay my telephone bill and arrange for disconnection here in New York. Again numbers played a game with me:
--Ma'm, what is your account number?
--Umm, 0000.
--No, that's your pin number.
--Umm, I guess I don't have one.
--Ma'm, it's 00000 000.
--Oh, that sounds familiar.
--Now, Ma'm, what are the last four numbers of your social security?
--Oh, that's 0000.
--No,ma'm, that's not what we have on file.
--Try 0000, my husband's number.
--No, ma'm, that's not the number. Can you tell me your birday date?
--That, I can do. August 30,0000.
--Fine, ma'm. Now can you recite your full social security number?
--Uh, 000-00, not that's not it; 000-00-0000.
--Well, that's not what we have here.
--Now,listen, I've had that number for upteen years; either someone there took down the wrong numbers or....look, I'm just an old lady who can't remember numbers...(my standard excuse).
--Ma'm, think again.
--Ok, 000-00-0000. That's it! I do get the last number mixed up with another one.
Whew! I have to say that combo several times before the right set of numbers click.
--Ok, ma'm, what is the nature of your business?
I needed a cold drink after that strenuous conversation...however, it doesn't compare with the Dell switchboard that moves me from one telephone no. to another, then having to haggle with someone in Timbuctu whose English needs ironing.
Now the Educators That Be are realizing that schools should return to the old math via rote. I was a product of the old math. I only stumbled with 8's in multiplication; per centage was a mire; division, easy if I wrote it out and then figured the answer. I loved high school algebra, failed geometry. So when I hit college I assumed any advanced math couldn't improve what I knew about addition, subtraction, multiplication and division.
But I've paid the price many times since. Would I have been a better math student if I'd followed the college track?
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Food, Glorious Food
The above words are misleading, as I'm going to talk about ONE of my favorite dishes.
Our trip recently to Milford, PA, to get a car adjustment put us there at 7:30 in the morning, an unusual hour for retired folks. After the procedure was completed, we headed into town, a short mile away, and entered the best diner in the area. Searching the large menu for something besides French toast, we spied the word GRITS. Feeling a bit reckless, we order this Southern dish to test the mentality of the chef.
A single portion was enough for two, and just looking at the white lump told us to suspect real hominy-style grits. Butter on the side, no less. (Southern diners bathed their grits in butter!) Ah, what a delight! You'd thought we were in gourmet heaven! Despite the fact that we prefer sour cream with our grits (a taste sensation bar none)we rolled the mixture across our tongues in bliss. We congratulated the owner in having a chef who knew his grits.
As Roy Blount, Jr. said in "One Fell Soup":
When my mind's unsettled, when I don't feel spruce,
When my nerves get frazzled, when my flesh gets loose--
What knits
Me back together's grits.......
Now let's sing your own tune to these final words of his:
True Grits
More grits,
Fish, grits, and collards,
Life is good where grits are swallered.
Grits
Sits
Right.
Our trip recently to Milford, PA, to get a car adjustment put us there at 7:30 in the morning, an unusual hour for retired folks. After the procedure was completed, we headed into town, a short mile away, and entered the best diner in the area. Searching the large menu for something besides French toast, we spied the word GRITS. Feeling a bit reckless, we order this Southern dish to test the mentality of the chef.
A single portion was enough for two, and just looking at the white lump told us to suspect real hominy-style grits. Butter on the side, no less. (Southern diners bathed their grits in butter!) Ah, what a delight! You'd thought we were in gourmet heaven! Despite the fact that we prefer sour cream with our grits (a taste sensation bar none)we rolled the mixture across our tongues in bliss. We congratulated the owner in having a chef who knew his grits.
As Roy Blount, Jr. said in "One Fell Soup":
When my mind's unsettled, when I don't feel spruce,
When my nerves get frazzled, when my flesh gets loose--
What knits
Me back together's grits.......
Now let's sing your own tune to these final words of his:
True Grits
More grits,
Fish, grits, and collards,
Life is good where grits are swallered.
Grits
Sits
Right.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Why Do You Blog?
I began last year because so many of my friends and relatives wanted me to write them of our first year off the grid. My husband and I were venturing into an area none of them would dare ("Leave my tv? No way!"). I strangled at the thought of writing an email stuffed with information and it not be published. Also, I needed to satisfy my desire to write for myself only. Since 1992 I've attended writing classes and discovered that (1) I could write a scene (2) I could write magazine articles but(3) NOT a novel. I did get a few short stories on paper, but no one who supposedly knows what makes a writer thought them good enough for me to proceed with other stories. Blog was a word bantered about on TV, referred to on radio, but I wasn't sure anyone could participate in this unknown world of words. I didn't want to add my two cents about political and religious thoughts. But, once introduced to "Compose", this blank page dared me to pour out the words. Later I discovered that blogs were forever!. I can imagine my gggggggggdtr (who may be a writer herself) finding me online one cold winter day of boredom and laughing at the simplistic manner in which I pen my words.
A few weekends ago NPR had an interview with the creator of www.technorati.com. I was driving and jotting notes at the same time, so if some of my facts are off, please correct me, if you heard the same program.
Mr. Technorati mentioned:
1. There are over 500,000 bloggers, two new ones every scond!
2. Growth since 2002 has occurred every 5-7 months.
3. Blogs by non-English writers have risen tremendously, many wanting to "have their say" about world events. (Probably, this is the only medium where self-expression is uncensored!)
4. The most popular blogger is an actress from China who writes daily and includes photos she takes on her phone of what is happening behind the scenes of her films.
5. Most bloggers write because of the power it gives them.
6 And, last note, Mr. T. believes this need to express oneself about world events will reinvigorate civics. (This is a notable point.)
His website is jammed with good reading, and when I have nothing to do, or I can't sleep between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m., I'll read the happenings in the blogging world.
Power--I don't think of this as the basis of my writing. I appreciate that each of us writes words of encouragement to those whose entries we read. We've become cheerleaders. A wonderful sense of goodness emanates from these. Breaths of fresh air lure us away from the daily headlines and give us the sense of connection...
...so... why do you write?
A few weekends ago NPR had an interview with the creator of www.technorati.com. I was driving and jotting notes at the same time, so if some of my facts are off, please correct me, if you heard the same program.
Mr. Technorati mentioned:
1. There are over 500,000 bloggers, two new ones every scond!
2. Growth since 2002 has occurred every 5-7 months.
3. Blogs by non-English writers have risen tremendously, many wanting to "have their say" about world events. (Probably, this is the only medium where self-expression is uncensored!)
4. The most popular blogger is an actress from China who writes daily and includes photos she takes on her phone of what is happening behind the scenes of her films.
5. Most bloggers write because of the power it gives them.
6 And, last note, Mr. T. believes this need to express oneself about world events will reinvigorate civics. (This is a notable point.)
His website is jammed with good reading, and when I have nothing to do, or I can't sleep between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m., I'll read the happenings in the blogging world.
Power--I don't think of this as the basis of my writing. I appreciate that each of us writes words of encouragement to those whose entries we read. We've become cheerleaders. A wonderful sense of goodness emanates from these. Breaths of fresh air lure us away from the daily headlines and give us the sense of connection...
...so... why do you write?
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
A Daily Parade
No matter how often we see it, nor the number of times a day, the parade of turkeys evokes from us the same thrill of discovery. The family crossing the road, little spots on the tarmac dutifully following mom, suddenly become a family of teenagers wobbling faster as their legs grow stronger.
Then there are the six toms who faithfully cross the road, walking towards our yard, seemingly aimlessly, until we watch the now familiar path they take each evening, pulling at the blueberries as they go. Up the hill to the back of the cabin where they find their nesting trees. We watch this parade daily--this marvel of nature.
Deer don't parade. We do have a doe who seems lost from her family. She nibbles and cavorts through the trees. Just last week a 4 point buck stood not 20 feet away from us, interested only in the delicious leaves of the mountain laurel. He pays no attention as we whisper, point our camera, snap a few times. We twist our fingers hoping he doesn't see our new flower garden.
Interesting, isn't it, how little we notice creatures of nature when we live in the city? I'm waiting for the parade of bears to cross our yard one evening. Now's the time for their migration. Wouldn't that be a magnificent sight?
Then there are the six toms who faithfully cross the road, walking towards our yard, seemingly aimlessly, until we watch the now familiar path they take each evening, pulling at the blueberries as they go. Up the hill to the back of the cabin where they find their nesting trees. We watch this parade daily--this marvel of nature.
Deer don't parade. We do have a doe who seems lost from her family. She nibbles and cavorts through the trees. Just last week a 4 point buck stood not 20 feet away from us, interested only in the delicious leaves of the mountain laurel. He pays no attention as we whisper, point our camera, snap a few times. We twist our fingers hoping he doesn't see our new flower garden.
Interesting, isn't it, how little we notice creatures of nature when we live in the city? I'm waiting for the parade of bears to cross our yard one evening. Now's the time for their migration. Wouldn't that be a magnificent sight?
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Return to the Woods
Acclimation to the quiet, no electricity, no modern appliances, no water well--as easy as putting on clean socks. We just cleaned out the kitchen and remade the bed and we were ready for several months of wonderful outside living. The weather greeted us with nights of 50-55 degrees, a wonderful relief from the South's 70 degrees night life.
We brought our cat, Bobbisox, who loves the new woods that contain a myriad of bugs, turkeys, deer and a host of other exciting things of nature she has refused to reveal. She's been a great companion. She unfortunately didn't accompany us to Maine where we celebrated our wedding anniversary with our grown kids, as she wouldn't have wanted to travel that far. We've discovered that she hates riding in the car!
For the third time that we've visited Maine from our NY digs, the Delaware River has flooded! I'm afraid to let anyone know the next time we leave. We've always returned when the waters have subsided, so we have no mental picture of water, water, everywhere.
We think we've got this living in the woods down to a fine routine. We use 6 gallons of water every other day, fill our cooler with 3 bags of ice every three days, and enjoy the other times when we don't have to travel 15 miles to the laundrette or 5 miles to the library, or 20 miles to Home Depot! I have a workshop close by and I'm learning to cook something about every three days. The downsize of this life is leaving high-speed internet to dial-up, which can cause consternation waiting for the connection, only to be interrupted numerous times in a short period. Thank goodness for the library's computers! Other than this stab of pain....
....life is beautiful.
We brought our cat, Bobbisox, who loves the new woods that contain a myriad of bugs, turkeys, deer and a host of other exciting things of nature she has refused to reveal. She's been a great companion. She unfortunately didn't accompany us to Maine where we celebrated our wedding anniversary with our grown kids, as she wouldn't have wanted to travel that far. We've discovered that she hates riding in the car!
For the third time that we've visited Maine from our NY digs, the Delaware River has flooded! I'm afraid to let anyone know the next time we leave. We've always returned when the waters have subsided, so we have no mental picture of water, water, everywhere.
We think we've got this living in the woods down to a fine routine. We use 6 gallons of water every other day, fill our cooler with 3 bags of ice every three days, and enjoy the other times when we don't have to travel 15 miles to the laundrette or 5 miles to the library, or 20 miles to Home Depot! I have a workshop close by and I'm learning to cook something about every three days. The downsize of this life is leaving high-speed internet to dial-up, which can cause consternation waiting for the connection, only to be interrupted numerous times in a short period. Thank goodness for the library's computers! Other than this stab of pain....
....life is beautiful.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Joyful Reunion
To anyone passing the room, one glance at the occupants would make one think "two old hens clacking away." In reality, it was two old ladies, former college roommates reuniting after five years.
In order for my Wyoming friend and I from Mississippi to have this short time together, I met her in Harrisburg, PA, a 2 1/2 hour drive where she arrived from the Wild West. She dedicated a day and two nights to our visit before heading out to a wedding in York, PA.
No man would have been able to remain in the room hearing our whirling tongues. But careful attention to the conversation would have revealed two women still feeling like they'd just returned to the dorm after a weekend at home catching up on news. Somehow the years peeled away and we were again the carefree, independent young singles studying with goals in mind and having fun dating the campus guys.
In the span of 27 hours, we rediscovered why our friendship has remained so tight for over 50 years: we still thought alike, had the same beliefs, philosophy, goals and had experienced similar struggles of being wives and mothers. We compared the changes in our health and the new shape of our bodies, all the time being reminded of having been naive young girls of yesteryear.
Untold stories of our rearing and of our parents' desires to see their daughters achieve something better in life than they, as well a remembering lost loves, deceased friends, and endearing teachers.This took time. We both had chosen teaching as a career and wondered aloud if anyone we had taught would remember us and our zeal to impart some knowledge of life to them.
We departed the second morning stronger than ever that our friendship would remain endless. We assured ourselves that we each were a True Friend.
In order for my Wyoming friend and I from Mississippi to have this short time together, I met her in Harrisburg, PA, a 2 1/2 hour drive where she arrived from the Wild West. She dedicated a day and two nights to our visit before heading out to a wedding in York, PA.
No man would have been able to remain in the room hearing our whirling tongues. But careful attention to the conversation would have revealed two women still feeling like they'd just returned to the dorm after a weekend at home catching up on news. Somehow the years peeled away and we were again the carefree, independent young singles studying with goals in mind and having fun dating the campus guys.
In the span of 27 hours, we rediscovered why our friendship has remained so tight for over 50 years: we still thought alike, had the same beliefs, philosophy, goals and had experienced similar struggles of being wives and mothers. We compared the changes in our health and the new shape of our bodies, all the time being reminded of having been naive young girls of yesteryear.
Untold stories of our rearing and of our parents' desires to see their daughters achieve something better in life than they, as well a remembering lost loves, deceased friends, and endearing teachers.This took time. We both had chosen teaching as a career and wondered aloud if anyone we had taught would remember us and our zeal to impart some knowledge of life to them.
We departed the second morning stronger than ever that our friendship would remain endless. We assured ourselves that we each were a True Friend.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Prepping for the Big Move
Time is running out...packing clothes, cleaning house, running those last-minute errands...stress has hog tied my body! One more cousin to visit who won't be around when I return in November...where are my sweaters? rain gear? groceries? Clean out the fridges... Must buy some of those precooked bacon packages...yikes, I don't remember seeing them last time in the grocery store! Income tax forms (now that my jewelry hobby is a bona fide business, I must file quarterly)...back up computer programs, download some music, but, hey, I need to read the directions first...well, figure it out in the car......notify the neighbors... I'm breathless.
The trip is three days and nights from Mississippi to New York. I've memorized every marker, every town, every welcome center. Excitement grows as we enter Pennsylvania, for then it's a few hours from Harrisburg to Barryville. The map above shows the area in relation to other states. We are outside the village of YULAN and nestled inside a 50 acre property. Our second son is anxiously waiting for us to share the summer with him. We are fortunate to have three adult kids (is there another term for them?) who enjoy our presence. This summer will be less construction and more enjoyment of kicking back.....oh, I forgot,there'll be a welcome wagon of no-see-ums and mosquitos. Now, where did we put those mosquito net hats??
Phone calls to friends in NY have started excitement rushing through my body. I'm ready to leave traffic for quiet roads and silence. I no longer worry about our cat Bobbisox adjusting to the wildlife. I read online this morning of a tabby cat scaring a bear up a tree...my tabby should be just as forceful.
The next entry will be after July 1 when we've visited our daughter and with her and the boys we'll celebrate a late 50th wedding anniversary (ours, not theirs, of course). What better company could we have?
By Friday we'll be looking at the scene below in front of our cabin.
Why doncha'cum an' visit awhile, huh? (Just to remind you I'm Southern.)
Friday, June 09, 2006
The Parting
The papers were signed on Wednesday. Four hours to separate belongings. I had dreaded this moment for three years. The inevitable had been too difficult to face. We had to divorce.
Our love affair began ten years ago. This handsome specimen was sleek, fast, comfortable to be with. Together we explored the beauty of the West, the intrigues of big cities of the East. Then our lives changed tracks and my companion and I had to part. Despite my declaration that this would be a life-long love, it couldn't be. I had to touch his body once more, whisper tender phrases in his ear, say farewell.
Our Airstream van motorhome went to live with a couple just starting their lives in travel. I was glad to see my dear companion find someone who'd take utmost care in his behalf. We parted outside town and L and M returned to Louisiana happy with their purchase.
Our love affair began ten years ago. This handsome specimen was sleek, fast, comfortable to be with. Together we explored the beauty of the West, the intrigues of big cities of the East. Then our lives changed tracks and my companion and I had to part. Despite my declaration that this would be a life-long love, it couldn't be. I had to touch his body once more, whisper tender phrases in his ear, say farewell.
Our Airstream van motorhome went to live with a couple just starting their lives in travel. I was glad to see my dear companion find someone who'd take utmost care in his behalf. We parted outside town and L and M returned to Louisiana happy with their purchase.
Friday, June 02, 2006
My Origin
I'm a mix of country girl and telegrapher, Cherokee and British heritage, dusty, gravel roads and boiling city sidewalks, a room here, a duplex there, always transient.
I'm from the wafting fragrance of gardenias, the stalwart gladiola,
rose bushes smiling through the window, lightning bugs in the evening, four-leaf clovers.
I'm from switches on skinny legs, birthday cake on a tiny pedestal plate, swings in Poindexter Park, ice cream cones from Seale-Lily, tiny eyeglasses, porch swing after supper, wartime rations, tin can collections, war bonds.
From pink dresses with pockets, a cherished bike, telegrams on special days, nightly hair rolling, evening strolls after supper, polio scare and shots, tap dance lessons.
I'm from Vacation Bible Schools, Bible-thumping preachers under tents, Sunday funny papers, Hit Parade and radio dramas on Saturday nights, Saturday matinees.
I'm from freshly-baked biscuits smothered with syrup, Blue Ribbon milk, home made cakes and Christmas divinity, summer vegetables, hot corn bread, Sunday morning pancakes, 5 cent Krystals, and hot tamales from the corner vendor.
From Reader's Digest issues, Saturday rides to the public library, games of Monopoly and Go Fishing, walks to and from school, vinyl records.
I'm from Daddy's silly poems, Mother's weekly notes, Sister's dance recitals, summers at Camp Montreat, NC., wonderful times when we loved and shared love.
I'm from the wafting fragrance of gardenias, the stalwart gladiola,
rose bushes smiling through the window, lightning bugs in the evening, four-leaf clovers.
I'm from switches on skinny legs, birthday cake on a tiny pedestal plate, swings in Poindexter Park, ice cream cones from Seale-Lily, tiny eyeglasses, porch swing after supper, wartime rations, tin can collections, war bonds.
From pink dresses with pockets, a cherished bike, telegrams on special days, nightly hair rolling, evening strolls after supper, polio scare and shots, tap dance lessons.
I'm from Vacation Bible Schools, Bible-thumping preachers under tents, Sunday funny papers, Hit Parade and radio dramas on Saturday nights, Saturday matinees.
I'm from freshly-baked biscuits smothered with syrup, Blue Ribbon milk, home made cakes and Christmas divinity, summer vegetables, hot corn bread, Sunday morning pancakes, 5 cent Krystals, and hot tamales from the corner vendor.
From Reader's Digest issues, Saturday rides to the public library, games of Monopoly and Go Fishing, walks to and from school, vinyl records.
I'm from Daddy's silly poems, Mother's weekly notes, Sister's dance recitals, summers at Camp Montreat, NC., wonderful times when we loved and shared love.
Woodstock is Alive Again, Sort of
Bethel, NY, is located about 25 miles from my summer neck of the woods. It may not be a familiar name to those outside the New York area, but once I say it is the town most famous for the Woodstock Festival of the Sixties, you reply, "Ah, yessss". Today it is known as Bethel Woods.
An article from the June 1, 2006 issue of the River Reporter, Narrowsburg, NY, gives the following facts about the new Bethel Woods:
*The original Woodstock field will be a "festival" field that can hold up to 30,000 concertgoers. Pavilions and buildings in stone, wood, and copper have been planned and the performing arts facility, which will house 4800 seats will feature top rated performers and orchestras.
*A parking facility will be available for 10,000 vehicles.
*Next year an outdoor amphitheater,a museum, and an interpretive center will be opened.
*For comfort of the artists a private back-stage outdoor patio will be available. Room for three tractor-trailers will be available at the rear of the stage.
A native of nearby Liberty, NY, Alan Gerry purchased the original Woodstock site and 1700 acres with the plan to transform the site for top-rated performances. The cost of the project is $70 million.
July 1 opened with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra.
Other July performers include Ashlee Simpson and the Veronicas, Phil Lesh and Friends, and Brad Paisley.
July 22-23 will be Jazz Fest Weekend featuring George Benson, Wynton Marsalis, Chris Botti, and John Pizzarelli, among others.
In August Crosby, Stills, and Nash and the Boston Pops will entertain.
How lucky can a Mississippian get, with such outstanding performances available just down the road? That beautiful field mussed up by hippies of Woodstock fame will now be available for those bringing their own lawn chairs and paying a wee bit less for tickets. This area will attract many people from neighboring states.
Visit www.bethelwoodslive.com
An article from the June 1, 2006 issue of the River Reporter, Narrowsburg, NY, gives the following facts about the new Bethel Woods:
*The original Woodstock field will be a "festival" field that can hold up to 30,000 concertgoers. Pavilions and buildings in stone, wood, and copper have been planned and the performing arts facility, which will house 4800 seats will feature top rated performers and orchestras.
*A parking facility will be available for 10,000 vehicles.
*Next year an outdoor amphitheater,a museum, and an interpretive center will be opened.
*For comfort of the artists a private back-stage outdoor patio will be available. Room for three tractor-trailers will be available at the rear of the stage.
A native of nearby Liberty, NY, Alan Gerry purchased the original Woodstock site and 1700 acres with the plan to transform the site for top-rated performances. The cost of the project is $70 million.
July 1 opened with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra.
Other July performers include Ashlee Simpson and the Veronicas, Phil Lesh and Friends, and Brad Paisley.
July 22-23 will be Jazz Fest Weekend featuring George Benson, Wynton Marsalis, Chris Botti, and John Pizzarelli, among others.
In August Crosby, Stills, and Nash and the Boston Pops will entertain.
How lucky can a Mississippian get, with such outstanding performances available just down the road? That beautiful field mussed up by hippies of Woodstock fame will now be available for those bringing their own lawn chairs and paying a wee bit less for tickets. This area will attract many people from neighboring states.
Visit www.bethelwoodslive.com
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Readying for Traveling East
A peek at the calendar tells me how few days are remaining before heading to our cabin in the lower Catskills. I'm nervous. How to finish my jewelry order, make new pieces to replace what has been purchased, decide how much/how little to pack--these questions plague me when I'm unable to sleep nights.
Today we talked with J about how much Madison has grown within its little city limits. She's horrified that her small town has burgeoned into a bedroom community chock full of new restaurants and strip malls. Why we don't object is due to the excellent planning by our mayor and her architectural guidelines. Those strip malls are well-placed, there're no streets with auto sales or fast food services approaching the city; Wal Mart spent four years adjusting building plans to meet the guidelines. I appreciate my little city despite its tremendous growth.
However, life in the quiet mountains is a dessert we seek in the summers. This is a time of reflection, of getting centered and quiet inside. A time to discover what we don't have time to observe during a busy life: the shape of limbs, the color of leaves in the fall, the distant call of turkeys, the sudden appearance of a family of deer grazing in the bit of grass we've planted, the sound of rain on our metal roof or the crunch of hooves at night on our patio or the breeze whistling through the trees.
Life there, too, is a training ground for living simply. If suddenly chaos should hit, at it did on the Gulf Coast, we know how to pick up the pieces and live on emergency status without sweat. In the deep woods our bodies automatically kick the Sandman into action when daylight fades, curl our eyelids open when the early morning light peeks over the mountains. We know the secret of living with only the basics. Time is fast approaching....I've got a lot to do...did I just say that?
Today we talked with J about how much Madison has grown within its little city limits. She's horrified that her small town has burgeoned into a bedroom community chock full of new restaurants and strip malls. Why we don't object is due to the excellent planning by our mayor and her architectural guidelines. Those strip malls are well-placed, there're no streets with auto sales or fast food services approaching the city; Wal Mart spent four years adjusting building plans to meet the guidelines. I appreciate my little city despite its tremendous growth.
However, life in the quiet mountains is a dessert we seek in the summers. This is a time of reflection, of getting centered and quiet inside. A time to discover what we don't have time to observe during a busy life: the shape of limbs, the color of leaves in the fall, the distant call of turkeys, the sudden appearance of a family of deer grazing in the bit of grass we've planted, the sound of rain on our metal roof or the crunch of hooves at night on our patio or the breeze whistling through the trees.
Life there, too, is a training ground for living simply. If suddenly chaos should hit, at it did on the Gulf Coast, we know how to pick up the pieces and live on emergency status without sweat. In the deep woods our bodies automatically kick the Sandman into action when daylight fades, curl our eyelids open when the early morning light peeks over the mountains. We know the secret of living with only the basics. Time is fast approaching....I've got a lot to do...did I just say that?
Friday, May 19, 2006
Another Friend Moves On
I don't like to think of anyone dying, his bones resting in the earth. My myth(not my belief) is that all go to another plane to contemplate their earthly life and decide the importance of advancing to another level. Some early Indians of North America believed in levels of Heaven: the highest was occupied by soldiers, the lowest by slaves. In between were levels for babies who died young, and for mothers. I've lost a childhood friend whose battle with cancer was hard-fought. If he were Aztec, he'd be sitting on the highest plane.
I visited B in San Antonio last November. Our conversations were about high school and college days, forgotten loves, hated routines, teen struggles and inner feelings. I updated him on the who's and where's of our high school friends. B and I recalled our unsuccessful tryout for high school cheerleaders, Civil Air Patrol outings, fellowship at church events, Saturday night Youth for Christ, and finding time to ride around town on Saturday afternoons.
B came into my life when my aunt married a second time and her new husband had a son, a sixth grader at the time. Fate gave us each a sibling. My sister was too young to share my life and B fit the bill exactly. He and I were each other's dates when we wanted to impress or make jealous someone else, companions on air flights with CAP hunting imaginary downed airplanes, or just sitting in the park talking. He confessed he hadn't been the best kid in town in those days and a lousy dad later. I reminded him that parent guides weren't handed out at the hospital; we had to fly by the seat of our pants. He said he flew a plane better than that.
Marriage and family life separated us. For over 30 years we had little connection, his living overseas most of that time. He went on to become a caring chaplain in the U.S. Army and retiring after 27 years. During his time in Vietnam, he was the subject of a Mississippi newspaper article about a local soldier nurturing others on the battlefield. When he retired we began to get news of each other.
After the death of his dad, we exchanged email addresses. I didn't write for several years. When I made the time, his wife D responded. His cancer regime had begun and rocked back and forth over seven years. In the meantime, D, died of cancer. B had support from son R and wife S to ease the numerous low times. He was so proud that he and D had built a Sunday School class in his church from four members to a whopping 200 who supported him throughout. They, in turn, had a magnificent teacher. Perhaps deep down he felt his work for the Lord offset failure as a dad to his other adult children.
May 18 at 5 p.m. B died in his sleep. Goodby for now, B, we had fun times, sad times, loving times. I thank you for being yourself, for staying alive long enough to discover that I loved and appreciated you as a brother. Give a hug to D, you dad, and your stepmom for me.
"Honor your father and your mother,that the days may be long in the land, which the Lord your God gives you." (Exodus 20:12)
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Abiqui, NM and Georgia O'Keeffe
Georgia O'Keeffe is in town. Well, not her exactly, since she's busy painting Heaven with flowers right now.
Our Mississippi Arts Museum has had her works hanging for over a month now. We visited the second week of opening. No crowd, room to stand in front of our favorite scene for as long as we chose, minds wandering to the area of Abiqui we once visited. Understanding in a small way how she could search the dry hills and find beauty in white bones of animals long gone. Yet, the canvasses of these bones and the explanation of the character she found in them, alerted us to the workings of her mind.
O'Keeffe painted the most spectacular flowers--like looking through a magnifying glass examining minute cavities made by the petals. She began her flower painting in New York City because she felt the people there never had time to view flowers: "...they rush around so, they have not time to look...I want them to see whether they want to or not."
She didn't limit herself to flowers. She painted buildings in NYC from her upper floor apartment...tree trunks on Lake George...dry bones found on her property all creating beauty in ways one ordinary person would not view otherwise. Her means of expression enlightens the viewer, how one can observe nature differently.
Abiqui is an interesting town. Perhaps not much larger than in O'Keeffe's day. Magical. Who'd want to live in such a vast desert with scrub trees, dry gullies that could drown a person or animal when the rains poured, and hot, hot sun? My daughter did.
In one of her many journeys to discover what she wanted in life, where she wanted to live, she chose Abiqui. So Dad and I fired up the RV, headed to New Mexico to see the land she'd found. Everything was just as we had expected. Dry dirt everywhere, making it impossible to keep our feet clean. The property she wanted to buy was on a mesa with gulleys dug by previous rains, and an unfinished hay bale house. We shared the experience with our daughter, knowing full well that getting a loan for this property was impossible, but not wanting to tell her ourselves. We hired an appraiser, checked out the possibility of a well, admired the vastness seen from the unfinished house. We coached her on an interview with the banker, with a caution that she may be turned down for several reasons, then let her go alone to the interview.
She was disappointed, her dream shattered. But a lesson learned. You don't try to buy a piece of property without a decent paying job and history of working. We rode around the area, talked to owners of small shops who'd moved to the area. Visited one woman who'd bought a beautiful little adobe home sitting on the crest of a hill, heard her story of movie stars having hidden homes just down the road, how she came to be in the area, how she was making a living. She was happy being in this desert, just as O'Keiffe had been. Yes, it's a magical place.
The magic lies in the way the light sets on the surrounding hills in the early mornings and evenings, creating a potpourri of colors so vivid that one couldn't believe them without actually witnessing them. This play of color is enchanting...why New Mexico is called The Land of Enchantment. Despite the loneliness of the area, something beckons the harried, those living in concrete jungles. The area is peopled with Indians from numerous tribes whose casinos and trading posts lie along the route from Albuquerque to Taos. Abiqui's location along this route is rich in history.
Besides two small restaurants, one motel, two artisan shops, and a gas station, there was a large complex built just outside town which houses a religious sect. Although we saw no representatives of this group during our visit, locals assured us they were present. Mostly they stayed within their campus with all they needed in the enclosure.
One aspect of Abiqui that I didn't like, and I found this on a map in an artisan shop, was the proximity to Los Alamos Proving Grounds. The map, which I studied intently while the family talked to the leather artist, showed the effects of the toxic clouds that formed from bomb testing. Abiqui was right there. I knew our daughter didn't need to live there. As we looked around the store we saw paintings of the hills and desert in different lights by area artists. Each landscape had a black dot on the painting. When we inquired, we were told, unabashedly, "that scene is in a toxic area." I wondered how long these folks would live without cancer attacking them.
A sign along the highway going out of Abiqui pointed the way to Ghost Ranch, O'Keeffe's home. Thinking it was private we didn't inquire whether or not we could drive through. Later I discovered retreats are held there for writers and photographers, as well as varied other activites. If I return to Abiqui, it'll be to Ghost Ranch--mainly for the privilege of walking the hills, seeing the beauty that still remains.
Visit www.georgia-okeefe.com for her bio and photos of her works.
Our Mississippi Arts Museum has had her works hanging for over a month now. We visited the second week of opening. No crowd, room to stand in front of our favorite scene for as long as we chose, minds wandering to the area of Abiqui we once visited. Understanding in a small way how she could search the dry hills and find beauty in white bones of animals long gone. Yet, the canvasses of these bones and the explanation of the character she found in them, alerted us to the workings of her mind.
O'Keeffe painted the most spectacular flowers--like looking through a magnifying glass examining minute cavities made by the petals. She began her flower painting in New York City because she felt the people there never had time to view flowers: "...they rush around so, they have not time to look...I want them to see whether they want to or not."
She didn't limit herself to flowers. She painted buildings in NYC from her upper floor apartment...tree trunks on Lake George...dry bones found on her property all creating beauty in ways one ordinary person would not view otherwise. Her means of expression enlightens the viewer, how one can observe nature differently.
Abiqui is an interesting town. Perhaps not much larger than in O'Keeffe's day. Magical. Who'd want to live in such a vast desert with scrub trees, dry gullies that could drown a person or animal when the rains poured, and hot, hot sun? My daughter did.
In one of her many journeys to discover what she wanted in life, where she wanted to live, she chose Abiqui. So Dad and I fired up the RV, headed to New Mexico to see the land she'd found. Everything was just as we had expected. Dry dirt everywhere, making it impossible to keep our feet clean. The property she wanted to buy was on a mesa with gulleys dug by previous rains, and an unfinished hay bale house. We shared the experience with our daughter, knowing full well that getting a loan for this property was impossible, but not wanting to tell her ourselves. We hired an appraiser, checked out the possibility of a well, admired the vastness seen from the unfinished house. We coached her on an interview with the banker, with a caution that she may be turned down for several reasons, then let her go alone to the interview.
She was disappointed, her dream shattered. But a lesson learned. You don't try to buy a piece of property without a decent paying job and history of working. We rode around the area, talked to owners of small shops who'd moved to the area. Visited one woman who'd bought a beautiful little adobe home sitting on the crest of a hill, heard her story of movie stars having hidden homes just down the road, how she came to be in the area, how she was making a living. She was happy being in this desert, just as O'Keiffe had been. Yes, it's a magical place.
The magic lies in the way the light sets on the surrounding hills in the early mornings and evenings, creating a potpourri of colors so vivid that one couldn't believe them without actually witnessing them. This play of color is enchanting...why New Mexico is called The Land of Enchantment. Despite the loneliness of the area, something beckons the harried, those living in concrete jungles. The area is peopled with Indians from numerous tribes whose casinos and trading posts lie along the route from Albuquerque to Taos. Abiqui's location along this route is rich in history.
Besides two small restaurants, one motel, two artisan shops, and a gas station, there was a large complex built just outside town which houses a religious sect. Although we saw no representatives of this group during our visit, locals assured us they were present. Mostly they stayed within their campus with all they needed in the enclosure.
One aspect of Abiqui that I didn't like, and I found this on a map in an artisan shop, was the proximity to Los Alamos Proving Grounds. The map, which I studied intently while the family talked to the leather artist, showed the effects of the toxic clouds that formed from bomb testing. Abiqui was right there. I knew our daughter didn't need to live there. As we looked around the store we saw paintings of the hills and desert in different lights by area artists. Each landscape had a black dot on the painting. When we inquired, we were told, unabashedly, "that scene is in a toxic area." I wondered how long these folks would live without cancer attacking them.
A sign along the highway going out of Abiqui pointed the way to Ghost Ranch, O'Keeffe's home. Thinking it was private we didn't inquire whether or not we could drive through. Later I discovered retreats are held there for writers and photographers, as well as varied other activites. If I return to Abiqui, it'll be to Ghost Ranch--mainly for the privilege of walking the hills, seeing the beauty that still remains.
Visit www.georgia-okeefe.com for her bio and photos of her works.
Monday, May 08, 2006
Miss Eudora Welty, At Home
Visiting the homes of writers has been a pleasure for me. Although I've only walked through a few, each has been a spiritual journey into the life and times of great imaginations. I've seen where Nathanial Hawthorn looked upon the sea from his writing desk, Mark Twain penned his stories in his spacious attic, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's frequent room at the Wayside Inn, where he wrote his Tales. But the visit to Miss Eudora's home was the one that moved me the most.
Her two-story Tudor home was built in 1925 is now a National Historic Landmark. The garden in the back remains the same as when Miss Eudora lived 76 years of her life. The home has been restored to its mid-1980's appearance, the period in which Miss Eudora was actively writing. Sis and I and friend Sue, all of us connected to writing and reading, waited on an overcast day to be among the first visitors.
The home is fully furnished with its original contents. It is considered one of the most intact literary houses in the nation. Everything we'd ever heard of this demure lady was evident in our passage through the house. We were reminded of the spot in the dinette where Miss Eudora drank her coffee, admiring the garden her mother had laid out in earlier years; we saw her work room, at the front of the house on the second floor, where she could wave at the neighbors (and later the curious)while continuing to peck on her manual typewriter. We were reminded that she laid out her stories, cut into slips of paragraphs, which she rearranged before adjusting placement with the typewriter.
Absence were the most of the 5,000 volumes of books she had accumulated. One guide told us that the rooms were full of books standing in columns along the floor, piled on tables and chairs, in every corner. We saw only a fraction of that number, but got the feeling that books were her companion. Many had been given by other writers, many she'd obtained herself, but nevertheless, she didn't discard any. The secretary holding all of Miss Eudora's first editions which she gave to her mother as each were published, was still in its original place. We saw in the kitchen the old flue where the wood-burning stove once ate up the only copy of Petrified Man . This discard was Miss Eudora's reaction when the book was rejected for publication. However, a short time later, the publisher changed his mind and Miss Eudora sat down at her typewriter and punched out the story from memory--a year later.
Because Miss Eudora was grateful to the editors and writers who helped her in her early career, she always had a genuine interest in helping new and aspiring writers who ask for advice. She had a longtime group of friends who congregated often to discuss books and authors and everyday subjects dear to them.
She lived among her family's furnishings alone after her loving parents died. She was content to wander through the house full of happy memories, with the idea that one day she'd bequeathe this home as a literary house in honor of her parents, who instilled a life-long interest in reading.
Equally interesting was the garden, laid out by her mother and carefully tended by daughter until her death in 2001. As Miss Welty once said of this garden full of original plants, her mother wanted a "learning experience, a living picture, always changing." It was this beautiful space that inspired Miss Eudora to include references to gardening in her writings. The "distinctive characteristics of camellas, dahlias, dafodils, and a host of other flowers and plants provided powerful images and metaphors for her fiction"(from the folder "The Garden of The Eudora Welty House"). We walked past a bed of beautiful roses, Mrs. Welty's favorite; around 30 varieties of camelias, past a perennial border of bearded irises, daylillies, sweetpeas, usually yellow or orange in color;a cutting garden of hollyhocks,larkspur, and ragged robins with changes of blooms each season. This area, too, was spiritual, knowing how often Miss Eudora could sit away from the busy street and enjoy the fragrances that surrounded her. It seemed that life stood still for Miss Eudora to capture the senses that she set on paper.
Miss Eudora, for those who are unfamiliar, received the National Book Award, the Pulitzer Prize, the French Legion of Honor, two Guggenheim Fellowships, the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Fiction, the National Medal of Freedom, the National Medal of Arts, and memberships in the National Institute of Arts and Letters and the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
And she lived a hop and a skip away from my home.
Her two-story Tudor home was built in 1925 is now a National Historic Landmark. The garden in the back remains the same as when Miss Eudora lived 76 years of her life. The home has been restored to its mid-1980's appearance, the period in which Miss Eudora was actively writing. Sis and I and friend Sue, all of us connected to writing and reading, waited on an overcast day to be among the first visitors.
The home is fully furnished with its original contents. It is considered one of the most intact literary houses in the nation. Everything we'd ever heard of this demure lady was evident in our passage through the house. We were reminded of the spot in the dinette where Miss Eudora drank her coffee, admiring the garden her mother had laid out in earlier years; we saw her work room, at the front of the house on the second floor, where she could wave at the neighbors (and later the curious)while continuing to peck on her manual typewriter. We were reminded that she laid out her stories, cut into slips of paragraphs, which she rearranged before adjusting placement with the typewriter.
Absence were the most of the 5,000 volumes of books she had accumulated. One guide told us that the rooms were full of books standing in columns along the floor, piled on tables and chairs, in every corner. We saw only a fraction of that number, but got the feeling that books were her companion. Many had been given by other writers, many she'd obtained herself, but nevertheless, she didn't discard any. The secretary holding all of Miss Eudora's first editions which she gave to her mother as each were published, was still in its original place. We saw in the kitchen the old flue where the wood-burning stove once ate up the only copy of Petrified Man . This discard was Miss Eudora's reaction when the book was rejected for publication. However, a short time later, the publisher changed his mind and Miss Eudora sat down at her typewriter and punched out the story from memory--a year later.
Because Miss Eudora was grateful to the editors and writers who helped her in her early career, she always had a genuine interest in helping new and aspiring writers who ask for advice. She had a longtime group of friends who congregated often to discuss books and authors and everyday subjects dear to them.
She lived among her family's furnishings alone after her loving parents died. She was content to wander through the house full of happy memories, with the idea that one day she'd bequeathe this home as a literary house in honor of her parents, who instilled a life-long interest in reading.
Equally interesting was the garden, laid out by her mother and carefully tended by daughter until her death in 2001. As Miss Welty once said of this garden full of original plants, her mother wanted a "learning experience, a living picture, always changing." It was this beautiful space that inspired Miss Eudora to include references to gardening in her writings. The "distinctive characteristics of camellas, dahlias, dafodils, and a host of other flowers and plants provided powerful images and metaphors for her fiction"(from the folder "The Garden of The Eudora Welty House"). We walked past a bed of beautiful roses, Mrs. Welty's favorite; around 30 varieties of camelias, past a perennial border of bearded irises, daylillies, sweetpeas, usually yellow or orange in color;a cutting garden of hollyhocks,larkspur, and ragged robins with changes of blooms each season. This area, too, was spiritual, knowing how often Miss Eudora could sit away from the busy street and enjoy the fragrances that surrounded her. It seemed that life stood still for Miss Eudora to capture the senses that she set on paper.
Miss Eudora, for those who are unfamiliar, received the National Book Award, the Pulitzer Prize, the French Legion of Honor, two Guggenheim Fellowships, the William Dean Howells Gold Medal for Fiction, the National Medal of Freedom, the National Medal of Arts, and memberships in the National Institute of Arts and Letters and the American Academy of Arts and Letters.
And she lived a hop and a skip away from my home.
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