The Red Pashmina

I have a red pashmina I bought in Rome. It travels with me where ever I go. It's been to Sweden, Ireland, Canada, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Maryland, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont, Colorado, Washington, California, Oregon, and all over the southeast; Florida, South and North Carolina, Georgia, West Virginia, and Virginia. It's well travelled, and it keeps me warm as a cover on chilly flights. I wear it often as a fashionable neck scarf when not traveling. It's soft and light, and I easily conforms to whatever role is needed.

I searched Rome for it; literally. Pashminas, in Rome, are available everywhere in wide arrays of colors, textures, and lengths. I wanted a particular shade of red, and I found it my very last day there. It was meant for my mother. She loved red. She had a red leather jacket, red leather fringed boots (that I bought for her). She wanted her kitchen to be red; red cabinets, etc. The Pashmina I found was an earthy red, almost brick red. Not too much orange, brightness or dark tones to it. Perfect.

I got home from Italy on a Saturday morning, and I talked to my mother on the phone for two hours on Sunday, sharing so many details of my trip; the food I was going to prepare for her, the sights, the sounds, the smells, the tastes. The feel of the air in Tuscany on a clear, cool, spring night, with a million stars shining down on me, the only sound to be heard, the wind in my ears. I told her of the 1100 year old church I discovered, still in use, on the road from Radda-in-Chianti to Adine-in-Chianti, and how I sat in those beautiful thick stone walls, cool even though the sun made my hike quite hot. I sat, relishing the peace, listening to the wind, with the scent of luscious food cooking and the faint, lovely sounds of Italian radio coming from a nearby kitchen while the woman inside prepared a noon time meal for her family. I told my mother how the Adriatic looked as it lapped the shores of The Lido in Venice; the quiet, calm, serene slippage of Venice; the joy and glory of Venetian children playing gondola tag, or soccer In their local square. How I adored Florence with David, Raphael, Dante....how Artemisia Gentileschi's paintings moved me to tears...the bars on the windows below the street and how I imagined bony fingers reaching for scraps of food. Rome and the ancient glories; how the old merges so very well with the new, about sidling up to the bar in a cafe and ordering une cafe, per favore - non, no - not Americano! Being stopped by men on the street, kissing their fingers my calling me Bella signorine. Stumbling on Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Theresa by accident, and only because another tourist added a euro to her light box. About the tragedy of the beggars on every corner; on every church step, the woman who dressed her child In rags and sent her begging with a crushed McDonalds cup. The Roman forum and how eloquent it still is; the majestic, crumbling colosseum. I was a chatterbox and she was so proud of me and my wonderful adventure alone for 22 days in a very foreign country, not knowing the language, but having absolutely the best time of my life. She  told me her mouth was watering and she could not wait for me to try the new recipes I obtained from my Tuscan cooking class. I told her that I bought her the perfect present; probably the most perfect present I'd ever found for her (besides the red leather fringed boots!). I told her I could not tell her what it was, but I would come visit soon and cook for her and bring it. Three days later I was on my way to her house, unplanned, dreading the drive, dreading being there. My mother died two days after our wonderful, unknown at the time, last conversation. It was sudden, they say painless, but it was such a staggering loss it's indescribable.

She will always be young forever to my sisters and I. She had just turned 63, and the heart attack was so unexpected. I brought those soft red, fringed leather boots home, and they are in my closet, waiting for me to wear them. The pashmina is with me right now as I write, sitting in a plane, an hour or so east of Seattle. My mother is gone, but she lives on through me and my sisters. She was not a brave adventurer. She lived a small life the best way she knew how. She did not travel much. She was happy enough in the world she made. She was not the strongest or the bravest person in the world. She depended on a man to help create her happiness, and on a man to take care of her, and often the men in her life changed her outward appearance - she was a chameleon with the ability to be whoever her man wanted her to be. Still, she was my mother; my beautiful, adoring, caring, kind, quirky, sensitive soul of a mother. She taught my sisters and I to be brave, to take chances, to want more, do more in our lives, but to above all be happy. She loved poetry and reading. She instilled in my sisters and I a sense of wonder and curiosity, and I love her. She did not dole advice, but I can hear her words in my head when I have decisions to make. I  miss her daily, and I still hear her breathy chuckle-laugh in my ear all the time. I carry the pashmina I bought for her in Rome every place I travel to; every adventure I take. It's like having a piece of my mom with me, and it's kind of like giving her adventures she never had. My great-grandmother, grandmother, mother, us; now my nieces. We are all a part of those who came before us, who lived their lives so we could come into being. My great-grandmother was an adult before women could vote. She gave birth to my grandmother and great-aunts right around the time the law passed giving women the right to vote. My grandmother raised my mother in a post -WWII world; a time of subdivisions, women joining the work force, etc. My grandmother stayed home; never drove a car, raised her two daughters in much the same fashion as she was raised. She was a round, warm, affectionate, apron-wearing, cookie-baking grandmother. My mom raised her daughters in the tumultuous 60s and 70s and we are all a part of them. Fate, destiny, chance. I am who I am because of those who came before me, and I am so very grateful. My pashmina keeps me warm now, as the plane begins the descent to Seattle, and my next adventure begins.

I Will Never be a Highly Effective Librarian

In my current position I will never be considered a highly effective educator. I am evaluated by a peer mentor. This mentor observes me in my library setting over the course of about a 30 minute period twice a year. I am observed a few times during the year by school administration. I receive good scores – mostly average, a few exceeds expectations, a few needs improvement (more signage needed; consider letting students do their own check-outs). I can live with that – they are fair and unbiased observations; they are a small snapshot of my “normal” days, but I am okay with that. Those scores are added in to the entire school population reading scores, and I will never be a highly effective educator in the eyes of my school district.

My school ranks in the lowest 300 reading scores in the state. We are a Title 1, Renaissance school. We are given resources that other schools are not, because of these labels. Title 1 means we are given extra state funding to help serve our student population. Renaissance is more extreme. It means that a vast majority (97%) of our students live below poverty level and are eligible for free or reduced lunch. It means us, as educators, receive slightly more pay than those educators at a non-Renaissance/Title 1 school. That does not mean we have sunshine and roses every day. Students often come to us without any basic skills; how to say please or thank you, how to look someone in the eye when speaking; how to greet someone good morning. Anger is their only form of communication; throwing chairs, knocking books off shelves, destroying classrooms. Our students come to us often after rolling out of “bed” in their cars, or a hotel room; a house without running water or electricity; any number of basic needs not being met. School, for them, is a chance for clean air, two meals a day; maybe a little stability. Many of the students do have parents who try their best and just cannot make ends meets. They send their students to this local school and hope that their children can meek out a better life than they have been given.

I don’t teach children to read. I don’t even serve as much of an actual librarian at this school. I don’t have a group of avid readers waiting on the edge of their seats for the next Magic Tree House, Harry Potter, Lightning Thief, or even Wimpy Kid. I have kids who check out books because they are free, and because they can. I have kids who have lost books because they left them in their desk and their 1^st, 2^nd, 3^rd, 4^th, 5^th grade friends stole them because they did not know better. Or they left them at home one day, to never be seen again because their family was evicted and all of their possessions taken as collateral damage. I have had kids check out books but could not bear with parting with a possession so sacred; they could not stand turning it back in. What I can give my students is this. Every single hug they ask for. A smile, each time, no matter how difficult they feel they need to be. I can reassure them, remind them of how to act, how to speak to one another. I can give them so little and just hope that one day they will say, oh, let me smile, or let me hug this person. I remember once someone did that for me and it made a difference in my life. I will never know if I made a difference; I can only hope I can. So, no. In the eyes of my media mentor, my administrators, the county I teach I can never be deemed highly effective and get an annual bonus. I can only hope that despite this fact I can continue to be a smiling, positive presence in the eyes of children who don’t care if the school district calls me highly effective. They just know that I care about them and hug them, and that I am a librarian with heart.

Sleepless in Seattle and Phil Collins

I catch a glimpse of the night sky; trees silhouetted against the darkness, clouds sliding in and out of sight; starlight winking through now and then. Clothes tumbling in the dryer, the warm sweet smell of their freshness filling the air. In the living room the movie Sleepless in Seattle is on – Meg Ryan is sitting on the bench outside her Baltimore apartment building, Tom Hanks is sitting on the bench of the porch of his houseboat in Seattle; each longing across the miles, in the quiet of the night for something yet unknown; yet unnamed or recognized. I love the timelessness, the simplicity of this movie. 1993 – Tom Hanks doesn’t think he can allow a woman to pay for her own dinner; times have changed so much since he last dated in 1978. Before cell phones, before reality television; before bad behavior became the norm and celebrity was still relatively classy. It was based on the movie An Affair to Remember with Carey Grant and Deborah Kerr – and that movie was based on 1930s Love Affair, another old movie with the same theme and main character; totally classy, totally romantic; ultimate in chick flicks. Like Meg Ryan and Rosie O’Donnell said - Men just don’t get it.

When I was in college I remember the first time I heard the song In the Air Tonight by Phil Collins. My memory is kind of like a classic movie scene – maybe over the years I have built it into more than it was, but the clarity of the memory is so crisp, and it never falters and it never changes, through all the years past, so I really think I remember it well. The song came on with its haunting drum and guitar intro, and I remember thinking wow, what a great beat; how dramatic; it instantly became my favorite song. I was standing in this dorm room on the third floor of Stuart Hall, Morrisville College, Morrisville New York. My friends and I were at a room party held by someone – I cannot recall now who it was; someone we had partied with in the past; there was always a party to attend somewhere. I remember standing in front of the window looking out at the darkness. This window faced southwest, and back then the “new” dorms were at the back of the campus, with not much beyond but cornfields. There were lights on, all around Helyar Pond and the paths that led to West and Helyar dorms were lit up, but I remember the darkness, and I remember seeing my own reflection as I looked out the window listening to that song for the first time – January 1981. It was before I met Michael; before he and I were together, and then not, and it was before I left New York for the summer and met Steve. I remember listening to that song thinking somewhere out there someone was waiting for me – someone who would be the one to change my life; I could feel it coming toward me in the night. It was one of the most profound moments of my life, and it has stayed with me all these years later. Through a long, lovely marriage, through the terrible heartbreak and loss of that marriage, through searching for and finding myself again. Often when I look out the window at the night, flashes of those few moments so long ago come back into my mind. I’ve always felt that the night is so full of possibilities. When I see that scene from Sleepless in Seattle; where Meg and Tom are longing  for something unnamed, I think of myself looking out that third floor window longing for something of my own in the night. I have not had that feeling since then, but I know that the possibilities of the night are truly real.

Primary Chalkboard: Link Up With Us

Primary Chalkboard: Link Up With Us

Rainy Sunrise

August 3, 2015

This morning I woke to a flash of lightning. There was no sound of thunder, so the storm I knew was far distant. I walked through the house, the sun rise in progress, but unlike any other I have seen in my lifetime. The wash of the brightening sky was a changing palette of citrus. First, the hue made me think of oranges; fresh, bright, orange, its unusual beauty made me anxious somehow; the color and feel so unlike anything I’ve seen before, but soon the luminosity shifted toward grapefruit. A pale, watery orangey-pink radiating all around, shimmering through windows and surrounding my house and world. Then the color shifted yet again to lemon. The radiance of that lemon sky made my heart long for something, somehow; some forgotten memory. It is the color the sunset can be sometimes, as it creates a warm sweet golden glow across the world, shadows growing longer as the sun reaches the western horizon. This morning as I watched the glowing show from the back porch I could see and hear a light, shimmering rain falling to the ground; the sound almost like the sound on the beach when light waves lap the shores and filter through tiny seas shells – sweet shifting  hush, quiet, soft and soothing. Now the whole sky has shifted back to dark as if it were predawn once again, and I can hear the distant thunder, hear the clatter of rain on the roof, the gutters, splashing on already drenched bushes, trees, bricks, concrete; the sun risen above the dark oppressive cloud cover now, and it is truly the start of another rainy day here in Florida – our 21^st day straight with heavy, constant rain, and extremely high humidity. Summer in Florida is a little like New York winters; there the cold and gray keep people inside to hibernate and dream of sunny warmer days. Here I find myself dreaming of sunshine and cooler, drier days. That just goes to show that where we are is not always where we are happiest.

Life After Life

GoodReads Book Review

I could not put this book down. 529 pages, and I read it in a 24 hour period! Imagine being born time, and time again, into the same life, with the opportunity of improving things each time you were reborn. Ursula dies before she is born, and then is reborn, only to strangle in childbirth. She is born again, and lives until an accident takes her life. Over and over, on the same day of the same year she is born. People, circumstances change, improve, worsen, and still she comes back again and again. What a fascinating concept. What if you had the change to right the wrongs of the world - what would you choose to do?

Ursula's life begins in 1910 in the English countryside not far from London. She lives (repeatedly) through WWl and WWll. Life After Life is a fictionalized look at historical events in England and Germany during the war years; in fact, in one of her lives she become best friends with Hitler's mistress Ava. During her life's struggles, she finds herself wondering how her life became what it was. This is one of the most intriguing books I have read in a very long time.

Dates

July 12, 2015

Dates are funny reminders of the past. Every now and then one becomes significant in our memories; births, deaths, marriages, anniversaries. They are just dates on a calendar, and yet they become so momentous in our minds, and they become placeholders of moments in time. I have my own placeholders of my past. Of course my birth, that of my parents wedding – my mother’s death; the day Steve and I started going together; our marriage. Somehow the date of our divorce escapes my memory, but I think that is more of a lack of desire of celebration than anything. There is a day in February that I remember that goes back to college; a day of remembrance that is important, not in the grand scheme of my life, but just a minor life-changing moment I choose to remember.

I am a keeper of objects. Little things that remind me of important moments. Photos, papers, notes, etc. On the vanity mirror on my dresser there is a ticket stub tucked in the bottom on the right corner. Tab Benoit, Skippers Smoke House, January 17, 2014 – admit one. That was really the day of my own personal independence, or freedom day. Insignificant in the overall picture of my life; just a blip on the radar screen, and yet there it is. It ends up the memory associated brings on mirth, rather than tears, although earlier in the day it could have gone either way. I don’t celebrate the end of my marriage. I just don’t. I am sad it ended, but I also recognize that I have moved on, moved up, that my life has become so much more than it probably ever would have with Steve in my life. That said, I also recognize that I was happy; I was content. I meant to stay married; I meant to have a 30^th or a 50^th anniversary. I meant it when I said for better or worse. So the loss of that in my life was never cause for celebration. 

On January 14, 2014; that was a day that did reduce me to tears. Tears of loss, feelings of inadequacy, rage, frustration, almost a bitterness, and very much a bittersweet look at the past. That was the day that Steve deposited his very last alimony payment. For him I think it was liberating, and I guess, for me, it was too. It had already gone on longer than the court papers specified. He had been sick the year before and was out of a work some, so; we worked out a deal to make the payments last longer for me, and ease his financial burden. We also admitted to each other that we knew once that last payment was made that was officially our last legal tie. It was sad and scary and so final. I did cry. I felt that loss keenly, even though he had been gone officially so very long. I almost did not go to the concert. I was afraid I would bring down the mood of my friends, that I would drink too much and be too sad. I remember sitting outside in my car giving myself a pep talk. I remember thinking, ok, Kim. You can go in and be sad and have a terrible time. Or, you can suck this up like you have every other bad thing. You can take a deep breath, go in, enjoy yourself, let your hair down and show the world that you are ok; that you are a survivor. So that is what I did. I did tell my friends about the day, and I did share my decision to have a good time, regardless. And I had a great time. I was flirty, attractive, cute, fun. I laughed all night, and I did drink too much, but it was all okay. My friend Tammy drove me home – the first time ever that we switched roles, and I laughed and felt good all the way home. I was not hung over the next day, and we still talk about that night and how much fun I had. Even now, the reminder of that date brings a smile to my face. It was an awful time in my life; a sad, momentously sad moment in the history of my life. But I am so proud to say that I overcame that and turned my night into so much more. That January 14, 2014 was truly a day to remember.

Reflections on Black Lake

Early morning, July 2, 2015

Yesterday was rainy mostly all day, and I slept mostly all day – a terrible act of something not good in my stomach. It was a little scary, and I am glad to feel much better today. I’ve always had a stomach that allows me to eat or drink whatever I want, not affected by travel or new experiences. I don’t know what that was, but I am not anxious to have it again!

The rain stopped late in the afternoon yesterday, although the breeze continued – still does; it is pretty much a given here. With the cloudy skies, the sunset was wonderful. People up the road had their jet skis out earlier, then toward sunset when the water calmed, they water skied.  They played music, hooted, hollered, and had a general good time. I told my dad that that was us a long time ago – our favorite time to ski. It was nice to see, and it brought memories of good times back. We sat in the porch, too damp for a fire last night, but I am hopeful for tonight!

This morning porch sitting is cool. The breeze is chilly, but the wind chimes are dancing and singing, and the water is lapping the shore and the dock. My favorite time of day has always been early morning. I love being up before others, observing all things happening, contemplating my thoughts and feelings in the quiet peace of the morning. This morning I am not feeling an overwhelming desire to think too much, but I am enjoying just being here smelling the sweetness of the air, listening to morning sounds and breathing deeply. I wish these feelings of contentment could be bottled or stored and taken out for later use.

Sunset,  July 2

What an interesting day today has been. I’m sitting on the porch, the sun has just set behind the hills to the west – a few long clouds creating a wondrous beauty in the sky. Shades of purple, pink, yellow, red and orange shine back at me. The lake is calm, but a breeze still blows rustling the treetops. The last of the birds are making their way back to their nests, swooping and darting, chittering out calls to each other. It’s peaceful and quiet. The sound of children playing echoes down from the camps up the hill to the right. Earlier the children were out paddling in their paddle boat. Last time out they got stuck in the grass and weeds, and their father came to their rescue in his boat. Their delight at being towed was simple and sweet. I can hear the drone of a television somewhere – either inside behind me, or at the next camp down. All is calm, all is bright. For now I am on the porch, although the temperature is dropping as the night settles in, and the mosquitoes are putting out feelers to see if I am a tasty enough treat. Just now I heard owls calling each other off in the distance. I love the sound of them – they are mournful, yet inquisitive all at the same time.

It was a quiet day. I felt better than yesterday, which was good, but I still felt the need to not move around too much. I had intentions these last few weeks to walk a great deal, and I have, just not quite in the way I imagined. I’ve climbed countless stairs and walked up and down inclines; generally had not much down-sitting-around time. I sat in a chair wrapped in blankets this morning; it was cool and windy. The sun came in and out – one of those clean white puffy cloud days that is super brilliant, crisp, and clear, but also quite chilly when the sun ducks behind a cloud. So I read, I daydreamed, and later in the day I studied for my upcoming test.

The Amish man down the road came to the door earlier, with two of his little ones – a little boy, three, and a little girl, five. He needed a ride to somewhere, and I went with my dad along for the ride. It seems his wife is pregnant, and they felt she might be miscarrying; he needed a ride to pick up the midwife. We chatted as we drove, and it was easy enough to tell he was flummoxed and uncertain what to do with himself. He said you know, as life goes along you know when things are going really well, and then something happens and it sets you back. You know it will be good again, so you just have to wait. He said you know that God has a plan and you just have to wait and see what it is. So very true.

Later he came back down and asked if we could take the midwife home, along with his mother-in-law and the two babies. It looks like the baby in the womb is going to be okay for now, but the twin girls were going to stay with their grandmother. My dad was mowing, but I said yes, I would be glad to take them all home – so I did. Before they left I gave the kids each a package of cookies kept here for them and the little boys down the road – their little faces lit up with happiness! Both have rosy cheeks; the boy has blue eyes and the girl, brown. His hair was blunt cut under a small straw hat. He had on blue coveralls and a blue shirt; her dress was blue, her bonnet black. She was very proud because she just learned how to tie her own bonnet strings and had to show me; she is about the age my students learn to tie their own shoe laces, and that pride is a very real thing. When I got down to their house I waited in the yard. The little girl and boy entertained me, eating their cookies. The little girl gave me her wrapper and was so thrilled when I put it in my pocket – little guy had to finish his so I could put his there too! Then he proceeded to run, roll, jump, play; typically showing-off little guy. The little girl caught sight of my toe rings, and they both had to poke at my toes, with smiles on their faces. Grandma and the Midwife came out with the twins – little girls who have not been away from their mom for any great deal of time. They were unhappily crying. As they loaded into the back of the truck their dad looked at me apologetically and told me they would stop crying – he thought. And they did. After we dropped of the midwife I took Grandma and the babies’ home. We had a great chat – about families and babies and children, grandchildren; how it was to move here from Ohio when she was 14. She showed me her dad’s house, two of her sister’s houses, her oldest daughter’s house. She has 10 children and 19 grandchildren. I so admire their way of life; their steadfast ways, their integrity, their grit and determination. It is not an easy life, but it certainly is filled with rewards of a sort we know nothing about. When we got to her house I carried one of the girls inside, and she peered at me with huge blue eyes, uncertain who I was or where she was. One of the older children was measuring some fabric; another was sitting by the window in a rocking chair. The house was simple and beautiful in its simplicity. Someone had recently done a bunch of canning; there were jars lined up on the floor in one corner – a LOT of jars! Delilah thanked me and told me her son-in-law would do something in return; I told her sometimes no reward is needed – just to be able to help in some small way is enough.

I very much enjoyed the drive home. The sun was beautiful, it was after 5:30 and about the only traffic I passed in those 14 miles was Amish traffic – on foot, in carts, in buggies, wagons, hay wagons, etc. I was remembering learning how to really drive on those back country roads when I was a teenager – my cousins and I were free to travel and roam and explore. I considered how different our lives were compared to those of all the Amish children then, and wondering how their lives have fared since then. Speaking today with Henry really made me stop and think about the fragile nature of life and how quickly things can and do change. You just have to appreciate each and every moment while you can, and be grateful for the things that remind you to do so.

Black Lake, New York

July 1, 2015 Black Lake, NY

Here I am. The summers of my youth spent here – long beautiful sunny, summer days; long rainy damp days spent reading, listening to music, spending time with my sisters or my cousins – my family all around. Sometimes friends would come up here with us, but mostly it was all family. The memories we made are precious, and all of us remember different moments. For so many of us, it is our happy place, and we are so blessed that we can still go “home” to our memories, both physically and mentally.

Today I woke to the rain. A lot of rain. Right now, several hours later, the rain has let up, but a cool, fresh breeze blows. The birds are singing, the crows are cawing out back in the fields. The water, higher right now because of spring thaws and decent amounts of rain, laps against and over the dock and against the shore. Across the lagoon, to the Point, as we always called it, the water level is still below where it was for so many years. Old moss and lichen stretch upward, away from the water, and two old row boats, upside down, are partially submerged, the water causing a popping sound that echoes across the lagoon as it gently knocks underneath the boats. Last year my dad had the Amish build a wonderful porch on the front, or lakeside, of the house. It spans from one end to the other. At first my sisters and I were a little skeptical – it sounded like a monstrosity. I am the first to see it, and I admit, I like it very much. It allows much more outdoor time than ever before. The old deck was not covered, and when it rained, getting outside involved huddling under umbrellas. Now being outside is a luxury I am really liking a lot. There are tons of chairs, hanging chairs, tables, etc. that make it such a wonderful addition.

Earlier I could hear the mournful sound of a barge out on the St. Lawrence River, which is about 10 miles north, and runs parallel to Black Lake. I am hearing, across the lake, the steady clip clop of an Amish horse and buggy on Hwy 37. At this point, the lake is roughly about ¾ of a mile across, my best guess, but sound travels over the water, and the wind almost always blows this way (south). There is some automobile traffic I can also hear, as people travel to and from Hammond to Ogdensburg, or any point in between. We live on the south side of the lake, on the eastern end. Although we are not exactly in the middle, there is a good distance of lake on either end. The eastern end runs toward the Oswegatchie River, although it is pretty tough to travel the distance by boat; the lake becomes shallow and grass takes over. This lake was formed eons ago by the movement of the glaciers. Most of the rocks bear the scars of glacial scratches. As kids that was thrilling, but also commonplace to us. Now I can appreciate the beauty and significance of that. Some people really never have the opportunity to experience such a thing. 

Wonderful Tunbridge

June 25, 2015

My last morning in Tunbridge. It is such a charming place, Vermont. It gets under your skin. It’s odd how places can become that thing you have been missing and not even recognizing you are. There are a few cities and outlying areas I don’t believe I would care to live in, but there is so much appeal statewide. The slower pace of life – one is forced to slow down. Nothing is really in a hurry; time lines become blurred somehow. And yet there is a vibrancy here, too, of lives being truly lived with just enough. The edges of my days are soft and comforting. I know this past week has brought me more pure relaxation than I have felt in many, many years. The happiness inside me fills my stomach with a warmth that just wants to spill outside of me.

It’s hard to not mention the weather. I’ve lived in Florida longer now than I really ever thought I would. As a child I never desired to live there – life just took me that way, and circumstance has kept me there. I can feel in my heart that the time for change is coming, but just not now. Just now I am relishing being north again – my heart and soul are truly northern; I recognize this every time I head this way. Today’s porch morning is a cool 55°. The humidity is high – 90% but it is harder for me to be uncomfortable when the air is so fresh and clean. The sky is blue and cloudless. Right now there is no breeze; the flag hangs limp, quietly waiting for the next breeze to stir it into action.

My brother and sister-in-law live in a 180-year old farm house. It’s in the middle of the little sleepy town of Tunbridge around 45 minutes from Montpelier, the state capital, and roughly 20 miles from the New Hampshire border and Dartmouth. They live on Highway 110, and traffic is steady past their house, yet not brutal. All in all there are around 35 houses in this charming little place. The side yard once was the village green, but the man who lived in this house at the turn of the 20^th century bought the land and incorporated it into the 2 acres the house is situated on. The post office is literally next door – adjoined through the village green. The public library is directly across the street from that, and next to that is a brick building which used to be a creamery. It has this fabulous old, rusty fire whistle on the equally oxidized old tin roof. Two doors down in the other direction is the local country store, which stocks funky little items intermixed with a few absolute basic necessities. Directly across the street from the house is a guard rail which, if one steps over, leads down a steep bank to a branch of the White River. The sound of the river creates a white noise background (in between the cars rushing by) and the trill of birds in all the surrounding trees is so sweet. It’s a peaceful, joyful retreat for me.

A 180-year-old house has some eccentricities and quirks, and requires a lot of maintenance. In this regard it must be a completely overwhelming prospect to both Bobby and Betsy. The plumbing is old and outdated – last done in the 1960s, but all is totally functional.  The house smells wonderfully of dusty, clean old wood, the floors creak, doors have difficulty staying shut. The screen door gives a satisfying creaky groan as it opens and closes with a satisfying “thwack”– a sound that makes me smile each time I hear it. They are long time antique collectors, and their treasures can be found in every crack and crevice imaginable – it is like a treasure trove – every time I turn around I see something new, but old, and wonderful. There are five bedrooms; one room is blocked off, and that in itself is so intriguing! There is a back staircase that leads from the pantry off the kitchen up to this closed off room. The door to that room links through Bobby and Betsy’s room, and on through to the front bedroom closet. It’s very unique and delightful to me. I find myself lost in thought throughout the day – imagining the lives lived here in this house, and all that the house has seen. It’s almost cliché to say “if these walls could talk”, but I cannot help think it! The changes it has been through – the seasons of change weathered on all levels.

Living in Florida I experience lots of blooming things – tropical, sub-tropical lushness. Here in the northeast, the growing season is fast and furious. Vegetables grow quicker and larger; I am convinced the cooler nights and rich soil have so much to do with it. The crops all around are planted, but not a whole lot is flourishing just yet. The corn is still small – the tallest stalks I’ve seen are still not knee-high for me. I am experiencing this wonderful feeling of freshness, of seasons, of time passing. It seems to me that living in Florida somehow dulls all that –time slows, somehow, even though the pace of life is much faster. I feel like I have somehow stepped into a different skin. I know my thoughts are different, that my feelings are not so close to the surface, and that I am just watching the days right now with an eye that is just absorbing it all. I feel almost like I am observing, making mental notes and storing all this loveliness to take out for later days. It’s an odd, disjointed feeling, but I am feeling grateful for it just the same. I know in a few weeks when I go back my life will be there waiting, but I am thoroughly enjoying this respite.

Room for Rent, Tunbridge Vermont

June 21, 2015

Here I sit, in the “Room for Rent” bedroom of my brother and sister-in-law’s 180 year-old Vermont house. It’s a gorgeous, funky old house. There is so much love and so much character in this house, it permeates from every crack and crevice. It’s a treasure trove of their lives, and of the people who owned it before them. When they moved in, they had agreed to keep some of the furnishings and found some extra’s the previous owner left for them. It’s chock full of wonderful things, and it smells like clean, dry wood; as soon as I walked in through the back kitchen door I could smell the wonder of it all. “My” room they call the Window Box Room, and it’s mine should I ever need a Vermont get-away. It’s a lovely room – complete with wonderful window box and antique painted wooden sleigh bed. Yellow daisy wallpaper lines the walls, a beautiful antique dresser with china knobs is against one wall, along with the sweet little antique desk (vanity) I’m writing at now. The windows over the window seat are open wide, letting in the sweet, cool air. Now and then a car passes on the road in front of the house; the town of Tunbridge sleeps as I type. The wonderful white noise of a small fan stirs the air from the other side of the room. For tonight, all is well in the world. I have no cell phone service, no Internet connection, and it’s me doing what I like best – writing in a place that stirs my imagination and makes me feel like writing my thoughts.

This is day three of my grand vacation. Backing up to day two, that funky room in the Comfort Inn & Suites in Queens. In the morning, I walked the neighborhood taking pictures, taking in the sights and smells, noises of New York City. It was h a hot, muggy, overcast day. Bobby and Betsy actually got to the room before noon, so after a proper greeting, we headed to the New York Deli around the corner. A cool store, crammed full with every need a person could possibly have, but also fresh baked goods (delivered from a local bakery from what I gather). A fresh fruit and veggie stand out front, a deli inside that served deli meats or sandwiches. It advertised itself as a 24 hour Italian deli, but as far as we could tell no one there was of Italian descent – Middle Eastern most likely, but not so much Italian. We hung out in the room after that and had the debate of staying one more night in the city, and seeing the sights in Manhattan today (Saturday). After a check on the availability of our room, we opted out of staying. It seems the clerk felt it would be okay if we stayed another night, but for $50 more than we had stayed the previous nights. Hence our drive to Vermont today.

After that quiet afternoon we needed to get ourselves to Forest Hills Stadium. Adventure time! We had to figure out connections via mass transit for a few reasons – first, parking was said to be minimal a few blocks from the stadium, secondly, if we gave up the parking spot we had at the hotel, the odds were we would not get another close by. And third – the cost of the cab the few miles to the stadium was $45 each way. MTA one out! Bobby’s very smart phone told us we needed the Q11 for 14 stops, a few blocks walk, then to pick up the Q23 for 7 stops. Lo and behold, we managed! I had seen a sign where we could purchase metro cards, and I had seen signs for the bus stops. The adventure started when we got off the second bus – which had been detoured because of the concert. We ended up walking ¾ of the way around the stadium and finally ended up where we needed to be. But before we got there we were a little unsure of where we were going. We passed through very upscale houses, which got more and more posh as we walked. It was incredible – a slice of life I don’t know much about for sure. These houses backed up to the stadium, and some bordered the very private country club. Forest Hills used to be where tennis matches were held, and it has recently been re-purposed for special concert venues. As we waited for the gates to open we decided we had earned a really cold beer, and stopped in Dirty Pierre’s at the corner of Burns Street. A fun and quirky place, we were able to stand at a table outdoors and people watch. NYC is fabulous for people watching! More walking led us to the stadium, and up into the stands for bleacher seats. It was a really good concert; Van Morrison’s only North American/US stop this year; next he’s off to Europe somewhere – Norway, I think.

Let me stop in my recounting for a moment. Right now a gentle rain has begun to fall. I can feel the change in the air, both in temperature and in smell – the air smells the way summer grass smells up north when it rains and gets damp and green; mossy smelling. It’s a beautiful, earthy, rich smell. The sound of it is almost hypnotic with its steady, quiet rhythm. It’s fully dark outside the screened windows – as it should be at 12:30 at night, and part of me wants to look out and see it fall; the other part is just comforted by the comfort of being in a warm, dry house.

Now, back to Forest Hills and the concert. It was nice – really special, and my brother was able to check off an item on his bucket list. I am so happy to have been part of that. He told me later, back at the hotel, that it seems wrong that bucket list items should be over so quickly. I told him that really, while he was taking part in the event it was just normal time; it is just because it was so special it seemed so quick. The stadium was pretty packed, the sound was fantastic, and the couple next to us were great – he kept handing over his binoculars for us to see the stage better; what a kind thing for him to do! It was a long, slow walk out of the stadium. There was only one exit for all those thousands of people, which was not a great deal of fun, but it all worked out. I am thinking there is just one exit because of the people in those beautiful houses – they don’t want all those people spilling out into their quiet, peaceful streets.

Personally, I have always had a great respect for people in uniform. I would not be able to do the job they do. I think that maybe it would be really helpful, however, for the police officers manning and blocking barricades and detours surrounding a place like Forest Hills to be told a bit more – such as which direction the entrance is, where one might go for more information, how to get to the bus stops, etc. We were told by more than one officer – sorry, I can only tell you about this barricade, or the Long Island Express. It was a really cool event, not a bad venue, but it was also unorganized chaos for the most part. More help might be nice for future events!

I have dubbed myself the Queen of MTA for getting us back to the hotel after the concert. Bobby said I am the Queen of Queens MTA J. We had to reverse our steps, but because our original bus had been detoured, we really did not know where to get back on the bus! We walked a bit after consulting the very smart phone, and it was directing us to the E-train, then the Q11 bus. As we started walking in what we hoped was the right direction I noticed a bus that said Q23. We decided to get on and see where it went – after I asked the driver its final destination. It turns out it was the same place we had actually caught the bus earlier in the evening. We walked the few blocks to the place we got off the first, original bus, and voila; there it was – the right stop, and eventually the right bus came (last one for the night – wow, was THAT ever timing!), and we got back, safe and sound. Adventures in MTA done.

Today we left Queens and NYC fairly early; to a whole lot of traffic. I would not care to drive there; I would if I had to, but I am not a big, bad, brave, adventurous driver – I am more defensive than offensive! We made it out, and in Connecticut decided to take the scenic route north. We ventured through quaint little towns, past rolling hills, forests, rivers, etc. It is beautiful country, and it made me really happy riding today. We stopped in Connecticut and Massachusetts and gathered a few rocks for a project I am working on. We went for dinner on Killington at a place called Peppino’s Italian Ristorante. Great food, fun atmosphere, wonderful waitress, and all around really happy time. Which leads me to here and now, sitting in this lovely, peaceful room feeling sleepier and sleepier. Tomorrow we have more adventures planned in beautiful Vermont. I am experiencing a great contentment and peace of mind right now. I feel so happy to be here and I am so relaxed. Right now, I have not a care in the world except for ending this post, taking out my contacts, brushing my teeth and crawling into the lovely bed behind me. It is calling my name – Kim, come sleep now. Goodnight from Tunbridge, Vermont.

Open your mind, Travel

June 18, 2015

I traveled today to New York City. I am staying at Comfort Inn & Suites on Redding St. in Ozone Park, (Queens). It was a decision finding a hotel – close enough to where we need to be tomorrow, close enough to the airport, etc. I am so relieved to be out of Florida and the heat we are experiencing, and already so far I’m so much cooler. Tonight is a little drizzly – 60% chance of rain and temperatures in the 60s.

I do not have an agenda today or tomorrow morning. I did not really feel like travelling to Manhattan to see the touristy sights; another trip, maybe, but not just now. My brother and sister-in-law are joining me tomorrow and we are going to see Van Morrison in concert at Forest Hills Stadium just a few miles from here. Such a great opportunity; chance of a lifetime, since this is the only North American concert venue this year! I could have flown in tomorrow, but I am really glad I flew in today. The flight was wonderful, and the hotel sent a free airport shuttle. That was the beginning of the true adventure. First, let me back up just a second and say New York City, to one not in the know of public transportation, or even familiar with a more urban lifestyle, can be a bit intimidating. I was determined not to be subdued; a decision I made consciously about 10 years ago, and I faced today’s adventure willingly. I found my luggage and then was uncertain how to proceed – a very kind woman directed me toward AirTrain – a free train service that circles JFK Airport and adjoins some of the surrounding city train lines for the same kind of fees locals pay to use the Metro system. Super convenient if you are a local traveler, or an employee of the airport. I think none of us ever give much thought to those who do all those jobs at the airport we just sort of take for granted or don't ever see. On the train everyone was on their phone. I remember my friend Helena saying that about subways/trains in Stockholm; there is so little personal contact or eye contact anymore. All that ran through my mind as the train rolled on; the workers and their lives; where they lived, how they lived - how they spent time on these trains daily. Random odd thoughts. Anyway, I ended up where I was supposed to be – at the Shuttle Service which stops for most of the local hotels at the very edge of the airport grounds. ….and I waited….and waited. Eventually the shuttle arrived and the driver loaded up our bags – another couple had joined me in the wait. When Van-man pulled up I noticed a dent in the driver’s front fender – the couple and I exchanged glances, and buckled seat belts. Van-man hopped in and started to take off, only to be flagged down by another driver waving his arms windmill style. It seems Van-man forgot to close the cargo door in the back. Unh oh. Again, the couple and I exchanged glances and we all raised our eyebrows and tightened our seatbelts. And off we went. Van-man thought it would be nice to share that he had done that once about five years ago and the guests bags had fallen out; before he could circle back and get them someone had stolen them. All was fine, though; insurance paid for the woman’s lost articles – a payout of $700, because she claimed she had a very expensive watch in her bags. Alas, we were saved from a similar fate – our doors were closed safely. NYC driving is not for the faint of heart – I was really glad I was not the one driving! Eventually we did make it safely to the hotel – down a one way street, seeming not at all like the picture on the Internet, but ah well. Van-man adventures were not quite complete, however – a cab driver was blocking the entrance to the driveway. Van-man honked his horn. That is a little tame – he repeatedly jammed his hand down on the horn and hollered out the window at the drivers, hollering at us in the back that this was the fourth time today that had happened. The cab driver was in no hurry and proceeded to finish loading the bags of whoever was in the cab. They glared at each other a minute more and Van-man barely missed hitting the back bumper of the cab. He jumped out, hefted our bags out and took off. That was that.

So I check in. And the elevator is broken. Hm. I lug my bags up the stairs; second floor, thankfully. The clerk asked Van-Man, who appeared from nowhere, to help me – he hollered that he had an airport pick-up. I told them it was fine; I got it. I got this NYC attitude down – just sayin’! The room is not The Ritz. It actually smells a little funky – like someone used to smoke in here, more than once, and maybe there were dirty feet involved – still, it’s clean, and the air conditioning works. So I decided I would be a sport, doctored the air with jasmine essential oil, changed my shoes and decided I was going for a walk, but first – food! I ended up at Aldo’s II Pizzeria and Restaurant on Cross Bay Blvd. I started to order NY pizza, but then I saw calzone…and then pepperoni rolls. It was heavenly. I ate it right there at the pizzeria (the restaurant section was closed off; too early, perhaps?) And I ate the whole Pepperoni Roll, and washed it down with a Budweiser; not my typical beer of choice. As I was finishing up, Aldo himself walked by and said “How you doin’” and it was so quintessentially NEW YORK it made me smile! I only knew he was Aldo because one of the guys making dough called him by name. Aldo is a small man, very elderly, apron intact, full head of white hair; one of those people that just is so really real and so stereo-typically everything you imagine of a pizzeria owner it was almost unreal.

Fortified I started walking. The streets around here are hugely busy; the streets are not in a typical grid; they angle off in weird directions. Back in the neighborhoods, though, it’s a little different. Narrow two-story houses, some with a tiny bit of garden, some not, some with minuscule driveways, some not – all with street parking out front. They are not row houses; not linked together as one building, but they are really close together. Some plots of grass are so lushly green and full; I recognized it immediately as grass from my childhood- cool, green thick carpet that would feel so good to bare feet (not like itchy, spiky Florida grass that houses those nasty little uber-viscous red ant creatures, but the real-deal grass!). Hostas are blooming, petunias, impatiens, other beautiful flowers. Rose trees, healthy thick junipers; a few branching larger hardwood trees, but not too many. I fell in love with this spectacular tree – a weeping spruce. The gentleman who lived there happened to be on his porch, and at first he was a little leery, but when I expressed how fabulous I thought his tree was he softened up and told me there are several in the neighborhood, but his is called the “monster”. There were yards that were untended; bare patches of earth, dusty cinder blocks strewn around, broken or rusted iron railings leading up the stoops of some. There were very few people out and about, but it was the middle of the day. I am so intrigued by city life. I am pretty confident I would not like it, but I kept thinking of all the people who live here and all the living going on behind those doors. House after house, and on some streets neighborhood bars or deli’s, then more houses. Some streets have really neat brick patches on the sidewalks, others are broken and dirty. Variety is certainly the spice here!

A light drizzly rain drove me back inside and now I am in for the night. I’m in a strange city and walking around now is probably not in my best interest. Tomorrow I am back out with my camera to record some of the images that catch my eye. It’s amazing to me that birds still go on singing and living in all the trees – I could hear them twittering and chirping to each other, and several fluttered down in front of me, perhaps seeking tidbits, or just wanting me to look at them. Birds are birds; city or country, north or south. Life is a fascinating, beautiful thing. Each day is a grand adventure; we just need to open our eyes, open our minds to possibilities and live.

Book Review - The Dream Lover: A Novel of George Sand by Elizabeth Berg

I was so thrilled to receive an advance copy of Elizabeth Berg's Dream Lover. Berg is one of my favorite authors. Prior to reading this book I never had heard of George Sand or her writings, but I've since been intrigued enough to read some of her works.

This book is vastly different from other works by Berg, and I found it a fascinating look at French history and the lives of so many famous during that time period. George Sand, née Amantine-Lucile-Aurore Dupin was an influential French author during a time when women were not embraced for their intelligence, free-spirited nature, or even independence. George was successful and made her own way in a man's world, even through societal constraints she faced.

If the reader is looking for typical women's fiction with is Elizabeth Berg's normal style this book might be a challenge. It's the story of a strong woman forging a path in a male centric society, and a bit of historical knowledge might be gleamed along the way.


 Goodreads Review

Thoughts on Paul Harding's Tinkers, Life and Living

Book Review - Tinkers, by Paul Harding

Choosing books for a book club can often be a daunting task. It is so difficult to anticipate what members in the group will like or appreciate. I myself often don’t like the choices, but I am always glad to expand my own reading choices.

This month I selected Paul Harding’s Tinkers. The book won the 2010 Pulitzer Prize, so I thought if nothing else at least we could appreciate reading a quality novel. Book group meets this coming Tuesday, and I have already heard grumbles that it is too hard a subject, too meandering, too esoteric for most readers. Even my friend who has read every single book in the nearly four years our group has been meeting has been challenged to finish it. One of the couples in the group could not get past the first page – his father recently having succumbed to a similar death as the main character.

I admit it was a difficult book to start. I started and stopped a few times over the last month, until last week I knew I needed to get serious and get it read, so I began again. This time the book flowed for me. I found myself captivated, enthralled, engrossed by so many of the passages that I actually had to get sticky notes and mark the pages I found truly beautiful.

Tinkers is the story of George Washington Crosby and his descent to death to cancer. The story of his life is intertwined with that of his father, who left the family when George was a young boy, rather than be institutionalized by George’s mother because of his epileptic fits. George became obsessed with clock repair later in life, and the mechanisms and clockworks are woven throughout the story. Howard, George’s father, had a parallel life with his son, and their stories show the fabric of life and how deep inside, all of us are made of the same stuff as nature throughout the history of the world. Inside the red blood of our bodies lies the rust left behind from Roman armor, and our bones contain the same materials as the stars in the heavens. It is the story of life; of consciousness, of moments in life that can stay with us always, of living and of dying, and how none of us can escape no matter how we live our lives; deep inside we are all one in the same. The prose in this book  completely left me breathless on several occasions.

“..and my father’s fading was because he realized this: My goodness, I am made from planets and wood, diamonds and orange peels, now and then, here and there; the iron in my blood was once the blade of a Roman plow; peel back my scalp and you will see my cranium covered in scrimshaw carved by an ancient sailor who never suspected he was whittling at my skull – no, my blood is a Roman plow, my bones are being etched by men with names that mean sea wrestler and ocean rider, and the pictures they are making are pictures of northern stars at different seasons…” p. 136

This is an incredible book. Yes, it is a challenge to read, and the timeline jumps so much it is hard to keep track of who is speaking or when. I read that Harding printed his manuscript, laid it all out, then cut it up and formed it into what it is today by pasting the bits together. Whether or not this is true, I do not know. However, I can believe it is. Despite the challenges, I found this book to be poetic genius. Thank you Paul Harding.

Jerry's Magic

I was offered an advanced copy of a book called Jerry's Magic by W.W. Rowe through Net Galley. I don't think my words will make or break this book, and in fact I always hesitate to review a book I do not care for, yet there might be an older child or person who could benefit from this book, so I decided to share my thoughts.

This is a short read, and I think the intended audience is children around 10 years old, which is Jerry's age in the story. However, I think that Jerry's growth and ability to learn meditation and answer to a higher self might confuse a ten year old audience.

As an adult I can appreciate Jerry's choices, and Jerry's magic. I am not certain that a 10 year old would. The story starts out simply enough, but about halfway through becomes more about the higher power of our souls and our ability to discover the magic within ourselves and about how if we believe in something enough it becomes real. These are deep topics for a young audience. While a child might enjoy Jerry's mishaps as he struggles to make money pedaling magical wares to help his mom and enhance the family income and making a better life for them, Jerry's self-discovery was a little to mature a reaction for a ten-year old boy, in my opinion. It is not a book I cared much for, and I do not plan to recommend it to the children in my library.

https://www.goodreads.com/review/show/1248839156

Falling Together

I just finished reading Falling Together by Marisa de los Santos. This, to me, was one of those stories I just did not want to end. I want to know what happens in the characters’ lives going forward. I want to be their friend; to be entwined in their lives.

This is the story of Will, Pen, and Cat and the friendship they formed early in their college days. They were the Three Musketeers; the St. Elmo’s Fire friends, whose friendship essentially went separate ways until several years after their graduation. Cat has disappeared, and Will and Pen reunite in order to find her and solve the mystery of her life since their split. Pen is heartsick over the death of her father; Will is stoic over the loss (but not to death) of his own father; Cat’s mystery surrounds the death of her father. The path of discovery is through each other.

The tale is told mostly from Pen’s point-of-view, but occasionally shifts to third person Will. Cat’s story is told from their memories of her. I found the characters well rounded and well developed, and their relationships to each other folded almost agonizingly slowly – I wanted to skip ahead to satisfy my curiosity! Their backstories unwind and fill in the blanks, leaving the reader to see that even book characters do have flaws in their personalities, and the road to love is not always paved with gold or is always smooth sailing. Although filled with much banter and humorous moments, to me, the best part was the prose and moments of self-discovery Pen experienced.

 

Falling Together by Marisa de los Santos

Thoughts on Being Busy and Waiting

A reading, quiet morning. I am feeling reflective, yet not. Restless, yet not. Waiting. I feel as if I am waiting for something, but I am unsure of what. Mostly I am feeling at quiet loose ends with myself; like I am in limbo for some reason. Searching? Wondering? Curious? Unsettled or too settled? Still, none of those words really describe how I feel. I think maybe this morning I am more about just being in the moment, and yet, not really. Disconnected? Maybe it is just a morning to purge some thoughts, think them, make them lucid, and then dispose of them. I don’t feel one way or another, passionate about any one topic just now. The birds are singing their morning songs, the sun rises over the pasture in all its silver and gold finery, casting green misty beams through the trees and the moss, sparkling dew drops in the grass. It’s a peaceful, quiet time. I want to say it is a fresh morning – that is what Simonetta called a similar morning in Adine-in-Chianti; that cool time before the sun comes up strong and true; a freshness in the air, a cool, calm that almost seems to exist solely to make a person smile.

To match this odd mood I am in I just read this passage from the book I am currently reading; Falling Together by Marisa de los Santos.

                On an impulse, Will asked, “What have you been waiting for?”
                When Pen answered, her voice was solemn and sheepish, “How did you know? Because you’re right. I am waiting. It hits me now and then: that I’ve been saving myself for something. A sign. A person.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Mostly, though, I’m just busy.”

I understand that. I just said this very thing to a friend yesterday. I feel as if I am waiting. For nothing in particular, but for something, somehow. In the meantime, I just feel like I’m busy. A while back I read an article on the word “busy”. Busy is a catch-all word that can mean most anything. Busy-work is work that just keeps a person occupied, maybe busy work is unfulfilling in ways; something to do in order to fill time. Busy is an excuse we use when we don’t want to really do something – I’m sorry, I’m busy now, that night, whenever. “I’m too busy” is an implication somehow that my life is much more important than you or whatever you want to do. There is a lot of stigma in the word “busy”. And yet we seem to consider it a true, honest word. We, as a society in general are just too busy. We fill our lives with so many things; it is almost a badge of honor to be so busy – to be too busy to go out with friends or to attend that concert, or to even find time for ourselves to breathe. Busy-ness is the norm now, and I am pretty sure it is not healthy in any regard. There is that old proverb that idle hands are the devil’s workshop – but I am pretty sure that does not mean fill every waking moment with something; slothfulness is a sin and all that. I guess I’ll get back to that thought when I am not so busy. J I think busy-ness is an excuse, plain and simple. I have been very aware of the word and how often I hear it over the last few months. I have found myself avoiding using it. It does not stop that fact that I often DO have conflicts in my over-booked schedule sometimes, but it does make me aware that I really do need to change what I try to fit into my life on a daily or weekly basis. I too often fill my days with things that are not fulfilling my soul. So Pen’s statement about waiting; I think that is true in a nutshell. Busy-ness, killing time, waiting. That is what I am aware of this quiet, reflective, yet not, morning. I’m in a waiting mood.

To Read is a voyage

“One glance at a book and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for 1,000 years. To read is to voyage through time.”
― Carl Sagan

Pieces of a memory

March 3, 2015

As I walked to the mailbox tonight I found a piece of ceramic tile. Many, many years ago before this house was built, back when my father-in-law owned this property he collected “stuff”. One man’s junk is another’s treasure, and to him it was all treasure. One of his treasures was a load of broken pieces of tile. I am sure he had a purpose in mind for it one day – in his mind’s eye it was useful. After he died and we eventually built this house, Steve filled in the foot of the driveway with wheelbarrow loads of those tile pieces. We had dump truck loads of gravel put in, too, and all these years later, pieces of tile float to the top surface, especially after heavy rains.

 I’ve always thought of finding those pieces of tile a bit like stumbling on the memories of my life with Steve. Little pieces of the past, in a way. Several years ago I wrote in my blog about that topic. My blog disappeared a few months ago – poof, gone into cyber space, but I had the foresight to save at least some of my entries. So this is a piece of my past writing; past moments, all because just now I found another piece of tile in my driveway.

Dec. 29th, 2007

08:33 am - One Man's Junk

A long time ago my father-in-law was a junk collector. To him it was not junk, but future possibilities. To the neighbors, seeing his various dilapidated barns and piles of pipes, old washing machines, farm equipment, etc.; he collected junk. When I moved in here so many years ago, to me, it was junk. When we bought the place 20 years ago, to us both, Steve and I, it was junk. Steve tried hard to clean it up. He would have a pile sorted out and all ready to go to the dump, but somehow that pile mysteriously dwindled and days later he would find some of what he classified as junk back where it had been. To Mr. Foster it was treasure waiting for it's proper use. He knew most everything he had, too. In his mind there was order in what we perceived as chaos. When he died a few years after we bought the place, it was possible for Steve to finally get some of that stuff out of here. He had a friend who hauled off load after load of steel, metal, pipe, etc and he sold it for all for scrap and ended up making a good bit of money. Steve never regretted the money his friend made; he was just glad to have that stuff out of here! So the land was cleared, and seven years later we built this house To do so, we had to tear down the last barn standing. After the new house was up, the old house had to come down, and that was the end of the era of the junk collection here on this property. It has reverted back to grass and trees and nature, and it is a beautiful place to live. It is funny that now and then I long for those days. Not so much the junk (junk in Florida attracts roaches, snakes, rats, bull ants, etc). I long for the happiness of those days; for the order of my life in all of that chaos. It is as if when the junk left and the new house went up, the order of my life went with it. Did that junk somehow represent as the natural order of my life?

Part of the junk collection was a pile of ceramic tile. There were four inch squares that had been broken and of various colors that were mis-matched, but mostly the pile was tiny one inch square tiles. They were tiles from someone’s bathroom once; imagine the life they had? Lining someone’s bathroom floor, walls, shower stall? Laid ages ago, someone worked to keep them clean; they witnessed lives being lived, and then, poof, one day, they were removed. Maybe the house was removed to make way for a newer house, and somehow those tiles ended up here in the junk collection of an old man who saw their future potential, or maybe he just imagined their past; who can say? Steve used those tiles in the driveway as filler. After he dumped the loads of tile in the driveway, we got in a dump-truck load of fine gravel. It took him days, but he finally got it leveled. However many years ago that was, the fine gravel has basically all dissipated into the ground. Now the tiles pop to the surface of the driveway like memories. I find myself collecting them and saving them in a glass bowl. This morning on my way to the road to retrieve the garbage can, I found two more. I brought them to the house, washed them off, and I will keep them like scraps of my life; scraps of the life I had here, ceramic scraps of the past that remind me of my life and my happiness; of who I was, and who I want to continue to be.

Today is my wedding anniversary. I am divorced, and I hate that word, hate that state of being. I miss being married, I loved being married. I reserve this one day to myself each year. I let myself remember, I cry if I choose, I laugh at some thoughts, and I let myself wallow a bit in how it used to be. I can tell myself I am ok, I will be happy again, I will be loved again, and I mostly believe that. But this one day a year I let myself be alone with my thoughts and my feelings; whichever direction they take, and I give this to myself without judgment or justification, and I think that is fine. Finding two tiles this morning was like finding two memories waiting for me.

Current Location: The back porch

Current Mood: reflective but not sad

Current Music: The chatter of birds

 

At the Water's Edge by Sara Gruen

Before I delved into this book I read some of the reviews; not something I normally do, but I was curious. Some criticized it for not being historically accurate, or in casting an incorrect light on WW2. To me, the books was not about World War 2 or many of the events that lead up or resulted from the war. It was about the lives of people during wartime, yes, and how they coped and lived and how life still went on in spite of it all. In fact, one of the characters observes that very thing - that life continued; girl continued to want to dress up for their men, that parties took place, regardless. Maddie was a rich party girl, living a spoiled elite society life with her husband and their best friend until they take things too far and are banished from their home, cut-off from society and most of their money. They decide, on a whim, to adventure to Scotland to correct the wrong they did by proving the Loch Ness monster really did exist. Once in wartime Scotland Maddie quickly discovers that she had been living a life of illusion. She discovers strength in herself she did not know existed and she discovers unpleasant truths about her life and her past. I like her growth as a character, and I really liked the friendships she formed. As Maddie grew and changed she saw behind the façade of her marriage and her life. Monster's can often hide in plain sight.
https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/584274-kim">View all my reviews.

Peace and Reflection

February 8, 2015 

This morning I am feeling peaceful, yet reflective. Every tiny thing brings a memory – the trill of the morning birds, sweet, singing their songs, seemingly to my human ears, purely for my enjoyment. The fresh, cool air streaming in through the open back door (48 degrees cool). The slant of sunshine pouring in through the glass, sliding across the counter, diving through the bottles of wine stored there; jeweled prisms refracting, casting beautiful glances across the kitchen. The early morning fog floats above the ground; the dewy grass shines diamond rainbows where the sunlight catches dewdrops through the mist. It’s a beautiful, calm start to Sunday. 

                                                                                             

The slant of the sun triggers quick thoughts, memories of moving into the house originally. Steve asleep on the mattress in the bedroom; the bed frame leaning against the wall. A variety of boxes scattered around the house; me, an early riser always, prowling through the newness of the house and familiarizing myself with my settings. One of the first things that caught my attention was the light streaming through the brand new glass on the oversized sliding doors. The moss was not so thick in the trees, a large oak branch flung its arm across the yard and the sun played tag with the extending fingers of the tree. The quiet was beautiful – we were farther off the road, and peace and tranquility were mine in that brief moment in time. 

The cool morning air reminds me of so many summer days at home in New York I cannot name them all – pressing my nose to the dusty metal screen in my grandmothers upstairs bedrooms – breathing in wood dust, morning air, sweet cool air. Of sitting on the back porch at the lake, the sound of frogs chirping, burping, splashing; the cast of a fishing line as someone cast on the lake; the sound of a motor starting, then stopping as the fisherman moved their boats to another sweet spot. The clink of the flagpole as the flag danced and furled in the early morning breeze. Beautiful moments in time fleeting as they pass, yet forever destined to be reminders of the story of my life.