Unfortunately, I've not finished any books this week. Several factors have conspired to keep me from reading. First, I had to spend an evening at school trying to convince 8th graders and their parents to choose my "house" at the high school. Second, I spent two evenings watching Lost, mostly old but one new episode. Finally, I found myself succumbing to the nasty illness Geof had spent two days in bed with and so spent Saturday in bed myself fighting achiness and intense headache. I'm much better today and might be able to read a bit more of 1776. We'll see.
When I was little, and sick, I never stayed in bed. Instead I would lie on the pull-out couch in the sunporch and draw. Usually I would have nothing at all to eat or drink, but occasionally, orange juice was the only palatable thing. Yesterday, alternating between chills and fever, I could not get myself out of bed, but for much of the day the only thing I wanted was orange juice. And then one dry frozen waffle. And then some ice-cream. Okay. Perhaps I've overestimated the power of orange juice, but nevertheless, I credit it for unparching my throat, rehydrating my wizened body and awakening my appetite, even if only slightly.
And I'll have to look for sweater buttons next weekend.
03 February 2008
30 January 2008
Aunt Ethel's Sweater, Mary Poppins and the Gold Fish Scale Purse
Tonight I find myself dressed in my favorite winter wear as a child: stretchy long underwear-type pants, a long underwear top and ski socks. Because I'm a grown up and my sensible self knows the thermostat should not be set above 66, I have added a big Irish knit sweater, one my great aunt Ethel ("Aunt") knit for my mother when I was eight or nine, and which I took over during my college years. Aunt was funny, a wonderful pianist and knitter, and the woman who patiently allowed me to throw up on her kitchen carpet during Easter vacation when I was seven and my parents were running errands, and then helped me to the bathroom.
Slightly pilly and missing two buttons, this sweater has survived various moves, formula stains, the 'late 80's and early '90's when I insisted on wearing it three seasons a year as my all-purpose outerwear, and most recently charcoal, chimney flue dirt and my dog's antiobiotic residue. It is a beautiful sweater, probably my most important piece of clothing ever. I should replace the missing buttons.
My Mary Poppins spoon (circa 1964) sits on a shelf in my dining room where I can always see it. The one time I lost sight of it, she (of course it's a she) disappeared for 15 years until I finally found it at my parents' house, in, of all places, a silverware drawer. Since then, I've kept her in plain sight in case I need her. My mother ordered her for me when I was four with cereal box tops I think because I used to sing all the songs from the movie, loudly and badly, on my swing set. Plus Dick VanDyke always reminded me of my father.
When I was in college, my grandmother, Aunt Ethel's sister, started giving me my "inheritance" while she was still alive. I acquired salt cellars, a pair of little opal earrings, a mother-of-pearl manicure set, a tiny clasp for attaching my bra and slip straps together so as not to embarrass myself with visible straps and my favorite, a little gold purse, like a change purse, covered in what looks like gold, hexagonal fish scales. It is surprisingly cold and heavy. Inside is salmon-colored cloth and a tiny oval metal box. Inside the box is an even tinier plastic key. I picture Gram getting the little plastic key at an arcade and storing it carefully inside the gold purse that is not even as big as a deck of cards.
In lieu of a cheesy conclusion, I will end by resolving to look for replacement sweater buttons this weekend.
Slightly pilly and missing two buttons, this sweater has survived various moves, formula stains, the 'late 80's and early '90's when I insisted on wearing it three seasons a year as my all-purpose outerwear, and most recently charcoal, chimney flue dirt and my dog's antiobiotic residue. It is a beautiful sweater, probably my most important piece of clothing ever. I should replace the missing buttons.
My Mary Poppins spoon (circa 1964) sits on a shelf in my dining room where I can always see it. The one time I lost sight of it, she (of course it's a she) disappeared for 15 years until I finally found it at my parents' house, in, of all places, a silverware drawer. Since then, I've kept her in plain sight in case I need her. My mother ordered her for me when I was four with cereal box tops I think because I used to sing all the songs from the movie, loudly and badly, on my swing set. Plus Dick VanDyke always reminded me of my father.
When I was in college, my grandmother, Aunt Ethel's sister, started giving me my "inheritance" while she was still alive. I acquired salt cellars, a pair of little opal earrings, a mother-of-pearl manicure set, a tiny clasp for attaching my bra and slip straps together so as not to embarrass myself with visible straps and my favorite, a little gold purse, like a change purse, covered in what looks like gold, hexagonal fish scales. It is surprisingly cold and heavy. Inside is salmon-colored cloth and a tiny oval metal box. Inside the box is an even tinier plastic key. I picture Gram getting the little plastic key at an arcade and storing it carefully inside the gold purse that is not even as big as a deck of cards.
In lieu of a cheesy conclusion, I will end by resolving to look for replacement sweater buttons this weekend.
29 January 2008
Random thoughts from my seniors
I expected today to be quiet and peaceful. My students were to be writing persuasive arguments about Things Fall Apart. Instead, in between fielding questions about concession paragraphs and whether Okonkwo is really a tragic hero, I found myself quietly addressing the following:
1. Whether I use a lot of hand lotion because my skin looks so soft.
2. Whether I agreed that the best part of the cereal is the last little powdery bits in the bottom.
3. Why I need to have permission slips for them to see R-rated movies even though they are 17 and 18.
4. Whether I thought Quintel had skin cancer on his wrist where his skin was slightly darker and slightly less sensitive (he told me) than on the other part of his wrist.
5. Whether I thought Eric had skin cancer on his arm by his tattoo.
6. Why SUNY Oswego would send Roger a letter complimenting him on his essay without sending him an acceptance letter.
7. How Ramon liked reading Walden (his own choice) when he was in the hospital during Regents week.
8. How silly it is for anyone to lease a car instead of buying one.
9. That the general consensus of the class was that I did NOT need botox even though they make me squint my face in funny ways when they ask bizarre questions, which causes a frown line on the right side of my forehead.
10. Why they were not going to collect money in order to fund my botox injections.
11. Why there are so many American Pie and Bring It On movies.
12. Katie's announcement that she has a very short attention span.
13. Whether it would be better for my husband to come in to visit or whether I should tape record them secretly so he could see first-hand what they were like.
14. Why my mouth twitches when I try not to laugh.
1. Whether I use a lot of hand lotion because my skin looks so soft.
2. Whether I agreed that the best part of the cereal is the last little powdery bits in the bottom.
3. Why I need to have permission slips for them to see R-rated movies even though they are 17 and 18.
4. Whether I thought Quintel had skin cancer on his wrist where his skin was slightly darker and slightly less sensitive (he told me) than on the other part of his wrist.
5. Whether I thought Eric had skin cancer on his arm by his tattoo.
6. Why SUNY Oswego would send Roger a letter complimenting him on his essay without sending him an acceptance letter.
7. How Ramon liked reading Walden (his own choice) when he was in the hospital during Regents week.
8. How silly it is for anyone to lease a car instead of buying one.
9. That the general consensus of the class was that I did NOT need botox even though they make me squint my face in funny ways when they ask bizarre questions, which causes a frown line on the right side of my forehead.
10. Why they were not going to collect money in order to fund my botox injections.
11. Why there are so many American Pie and Bring It On movies.
12. Katie's announcement that she has a very short attention span.
13. Whether it would be better for my husband to come in to visit or whether I should tape record them secretly so he could see first-hand what they were like.
14. Why my mouth twitches when I try not to laugh.
28 January 2008
3 minutes as the world passes my door
Slam, thunk, dull metallic thud, shit! no way! what? naw, he did not say that! I've heard of him, whisper whisper whistle he was in the hospital bang slam shriek hall sweep! what? AB2? hell no! electronic walkie-talkie voice all right! she don't know what she's gonna do today blah blah for next week blah blah voice from the ceiling today's inspiration choir meeting is canceled let's go man get movin' it don't mean shit metallic slam drone drone drone solid wooden slam see my girl? that study hall is whack scuffle rattle static-y buzz all right scholars drone drone blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah drone drone blah blah blah blah blah drone
27 January 2008
Backyard Rink
Mmmm . . . skating . . . it's exercise AND fun. As a kid, I spent more time skating in my backyard rink than doing anything else. At least this is how I choose to remember my childhood in snowy Rochester, New York. I probably spent at least as much time fighting with my sister and reading (both non-seasonal activities).
I had an invisible friend, Clare, who would skate with me, and I particularly remember convincing a neighbor (pretty easily, I might add--more a reflection of the age of the neighbor rather than of my talent) that I was training for the 1972 Olympics. I have no idea why I needed an invisible friend to skate with, especially since I reveled in skating alone, the entire rink (such as it was) to myself. Nevertheless, I had Clare and I guess she became my audience.
It was about this time that I wrote a poem that received much acclaim in my 5th grade classroom. Go figure. It is, as I remember it, as follows:
The sun peeks through a sky of gray
a sliver sending rays
to unlock us from a world of gloom
and make it a happier day.
I probably called it "Untitled." Oy.
Today Geof and I went skating for the first time (in my estimation) in ten years. For about 45 minutes we skated on the pond in our little Central Park, down the street from our house. It was amazingly fun, particularly when we spun each other around corners trying to keep holding hands. Clare was not with us.
I had an invisible friend, Clare, who would skate with me, and I particularly remember convincing a neighbor (pretty easily, I might add--more a reflection of the age of the neighbor rather than of my talent) that I was training for the 1972 Olympics. I have no idea why I needed an invisible friend to skate with, especially since I reveled in skating alone, the entire rink (such as it was) to myself. Nevertheless, I had Clare and I guess she became my audience.
It was about this time that I wrote a poem that received much acclaim in my 5th grade classroom. Go figure. It is, as I remember it, as follows:
The sun peeks through a sky of gray
a sliver sending rays
to unlock us from a world of gloom
and make it a happier day.
I probably called it "Untitled." Oy.
Today Geof and I went skating for the first time (in my estimation) in ten years. For about 45 minutes we skated on the pond in our little Central Park, down the street from our house. It was amazingly fun, particularly when we spun each other around corners trying to keep holding hands. Clare was not with us.
26 January 2008
Books so far
Rotten: No Irish-No Blacks-No Dogs, by John Lydon with Keith and Kent Zimmerman
An interesting if disjointed look at the life of John Lydon and the rise and demise of the Sex Pistols.
Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991, by Michael Azerrad
Began this book about a year ago. This is no comment on the book's quality or my appreciation of it, however. I've read this book in pieces, trying slowly to absorb the many levels of detail that chronicle the history of bands from Black Flag to Beat Happening. It is funny, depressing, fascinating, dense and, as Chuck Klosterman tells us at the end of Fargo Rock City, "serves as the perfect antithesis" for his own book. Yup. Definitely.
Currently reading David McCullough's 1776. It's about time I got to this one, but I was too tired the night I began it this week, so "currently reading" is probably a too-optimistic designation; I should begin it anew.
An interesting if disjointed look at the life of John Lydon and the rise and demise of the Sex Pistols.
Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991, by Michael Azerrad
Began this book about a year ago. This is no comment on the book's quality or my appreciation of it, however. I've read this book in pieces, trying slowly to absorb the many levels of detail that chronicle the history of bands from Black Flag to Beat Happening. It is funny, depressing, fascinating, dense and, as Chuck Klosterman tells us at the end of Fargo Rock City, "serves as the perfect antithesis" for his own book. Yup. Definitely.
Currently reading David McCullough's 1776. It's about time I got to this one, but I was too tired the night I began it this week, so "currently reading" is probably a too-optimistic designation; I should begin it anew.
23 January 2008
Lately, my poems are like an old picture of me at age 12, when I was homesick and hadn't eaten much of anything for about 10 days . . .
I'm wondering about my non-prose writing lately. It's become quite skinny and broken, hunching along, jerky and painful. When I was young and feeling a similar inclination to write, my lines were Whitmanesque; my poems usually tripartite. Oy. Nevertheless, I'm embracing this strange ride for a while. Perhaps what is on my mind deserves to be presented in skinny, broken, hunching, jerky, painful lines.
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