Saturday, April 28, 2007
Those afternoons in the air conditioned, dark, smelly, big-screened cinema were my best days of summer where I was safe and entertained beyond Milton Berle or anything me and my best friend could come up with. Wrapped in that immense velvet curtain, films were our hovercraft. Neither of us had to endure our separate family dramas but only eat (and throw) popcorn, rest our heads on the prickly seat backs, squirm and feel the freedom that flying above Birch Street
Posted on Sunday Scribblings; see more Scribblings.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
This comes from The Love of Impermanent Things by Mary Rose O'Reilley from St. Paul, a book I cannot stop reading. . .you know the kind that causes one to lose track of time, stop, ponder and copy the gems to a journal, and rave and recommend to anyone who will listen? In her midlife 'memoir' she says:
'The mystery of what's remembered and what's forgotten seems either portentous or random. Which is it? I turn over a potsherd here, a fragment there--the archaeology of memory--trying to make a single ancient pot that will hold together and tell me who I am, who anyone is.'
Do check out this title.
Do you ever think of writing a memoir? My family is/was very colorful, these hard-headed Calabrians and Alsatians. I've been reluctant to spill the beans until everyone is gone. . .but I'm not getting any younger myself! How about a fictional account -- my mother's family history would certainly make interesting reading; her dad walking off the farm one day never to return. [Sadly she waited seventy-three more years for the mints he said he'd bring her when he left for town.] . . .her mother's depression, struggling to feed her three children from her garden and the weekly free hog's head from the local slaughterhouse. The workers were told to 'cut a little deeper' because the Miller kids were coming for the head that day. The Italian side was from the other side of the tracks due to hard work and planning, and I guess, different tragedies. Their first born of seven died in his first year. My dad's 'seizures' and propensity for angry tirades with knives against his mother made him the least favorite of these chronically sad immigrant children. You can't make this stuff up!
That's for another day.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
So oblivious to the warnings, off I drove to find the perfect pots at a nearby thrift store. Driving through a parking lot I noticed a woman walking behind my car yelling something at me and glaring at me as I passed. Now I hate confrontation probably more than the next person but I really hate not being able to defend myself, not being heard. I went to the aisle where she was shopping and asked her, using my best assertive voice, if anything was wrong. "Yes, you were speeding!" She informed me of the speed limit in a parking lot and that she knew this because she lived in a trailer park that has the same speed limit. Louder she said she could have called the police on me and warned me to slow down next time. I managed to thank her for her concern and wished her a good day but it was obvious she wasn't through. When I was leaving she yelled across the entire store from the checkout line that I better remember to slow down next time. I couldn't help myself when I asked her if I should remember her name (what?) but she fired back with, "I don't have a name but I'll remember your face!"
I was pretty rattled when I got back to my car. Shortly came the tears of embarrassment, shame, anger, criticism for even following her into the store and best of all, heart palpitations. No way was I going to let such a relatively mundane -- and no-win -- situation give me a heart attack.
What I know for sure is: I wasn't speeding, I didn't deserve the to be yelled at but I chose to confront her which always brings consequences, it did reduce me to a fearful, abused 7-year old and
Driving away, I went another two miles when the right front tire blew out. Providentially my little car was only three blocks from a Sinclair station. An hour later I had a new tire, $82 less in my pocketbook and this advice from the motorcycle dude with a big tattoo on his forearm of a Harley Panhead who works the front desk : "Life's just too short to let these little things get to you!"
Saturday, April 21, 2007
My taproot was planted in a small town in Idaho living with my grandmother for those first years when roots are most tender. My life’s experiences since have seen the arterial roots pushing out in the darkness, exploring, gobbling up all the good worms and compost, sometimes sidelined by a nick from a lawn mower or sharp spade, but always moving. My roots were probably shallower than some because I was planted near a river like a poplar or willow, nibbling on wild watercress. These shorter roots were easy for me to transplant to various parts of the country. With little effort I could dig up my roots and stay for a short while in the high-water mark of Virginia, rich Pennsylvania Dutch farmland, potato and sugar beet fields in Idaho, urban potholes in Chicago, or most recently in the sandy, pine strewn lake shores of Minnesota. Throughout, my taproot nurtured these smaller vagabond roots, continually whispering, “You belong.”
Sometimes when the wind blows outside my window here in Minnesota, the trees that have grown up very close to each other squeak when they touch. This thrills me to the roots, reminding me that we all belong here, rooted together.
**See more about Sunday Scribblings.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
This quote reminded me of a co-worker at the University of Chicago named Olga who, with her husband and son, had left Czechoslovakia in the late 60's, moving to Chicago. She had grown up in Bohemia and later lived in Prague. Her memories of the Nazi occupation as well Communist takeover of Czechoslovakia were vivid and penetrating to me, a child of the Cold War. Olga was amazingly athletic -- skiing well into her 70's and chic -- wearing hand tailored suits her mother had made for her. She retained her Slavic accent; for instance, she would say ducks were swimming in the pond and I heard dogs were swimming. No matter, she always had my rapt attention which sometimes got us both some managerial glances. Her experiences were truly a world and lifetime away from mine. I gave Olga my copy of My Antonia which opened up more delicious conversation about her own Bohemian childhood. So, one day Olga saw me knitting during lunch which reminded her of the time she was in a rowboat with her son, Jan, paddling around. She had brought her knitting along with her hoping to finish a sweater she had started for herself. Being a curious child, Jan's enthusiasm eventually tipped the little boat. At that moment, she and Jan watched the yarn and needles float away. She laughingly admitted that's why the stylish sweater she was wearing when she told me this story only had three-quarter length sleeves!
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Monday, April 9, 2007
Antiques Roadshow had a segment on mohair teddy bears and the one stuffed bear a lady presented for inspection was found to be older than anybody imagined. As the expert examined the bear he noted it was in fine condition all except for the bit of mohair missing from its head. There you have it, the real reason this Libra can only tolerate so much idiocy, I'm short some mohair.