I thought at the very least I could take a year off from acquiring any more roses. I need to take better care of some of the ones I already have. I need to win a few wars with the weeds. I need to improve the soil. I need to work on the inside of my house!
But Saturday afternoon I opened up a thread on the Rose Forum about a Chamblee's order. And I read the stellar comments about Chamblee's. And I read someone's request for their website. So I gave her a link. And then I went to the website myself. And I saw all those wonderful Buck roses. And I remembered that last year I wanted to get more Bucks. And I thought about things like age and arthritis, and how it would be smart to put more roses in while I am still able to dig big holes (at least I hope I can still dig them), and how I want to plant as much as possible now so I can enjoy them sooner rather than later. And I thought about the fact that the next day was Mother's Day.
So I bought myself a Mother's Day gift: Quietness, Earth Song, and Aunt Honey.
Chamblee's prices were good, but the shipping cost more than the roses. That wasn't the case, however, with the Home Depot Website Sale, which I heard about on Tuesday. A selection of roses were half-price with FREE shipping! I ask you, how could I possibly resist??
I ordered two yellow roses: Sunsprite, a very fragrant floribunda everyone RAVES about, even gardeners in northern zones, and Strike It Rich, a new (2007) grandiflora, also very fragrant. This one grows tall and looks super vigorous. Whether it will look that way in my garden is anybody's guess, but at that price I'm more than willing to give it a shot.
I figure I deserve them because I've been a good mother. Most of the time. I think. At least my intentions were the best.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
Look what my closeup lens spied!
He measured about 1.25" including his tail. So sweet! I love the skinny little "arms." These guys start out as tadpoles (aquatic), then grow to this Red Eft stage, living on land for two to three years before turning into a brownish aquatic form again. They live a long life—12 to 15 years. Jill and I always loved to see their soft little orange forms appear at the roadside in spring.
Again, click on the photo to see the larger size.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Thursday, May 08, 2008
Don't Quote Me
The other day I read a newspaper article that quoted a friend of mine. The quote made it sound as though he didn't know where he lived. I couldn't believe my friend could have said something so stupid, so I asked him about it. No, he hadn't said anything even remotely like that. But there it was, between a pair of solid, reassuring quotation marks.
I used to see this all the time when I covered meetings alongside a reporter who was making a lot more money than I. She would sit there, playing solitaire on her laptop, and the next day file a story with quotes that bore no relationship to reality. As a reporter, it pissed me off. As a reader (and occasional reporter), it still does.
Back in the 1970s my husband's chemical company had an explosion. The press descended upon us. One article had me pointing to some white stuff on the ground and announcing it was hydrogen. Huh? Never happened. Never came close to happening.
Can we assume that the Big Guns of journalism don't do this? Can we trust the major newspapers (and, of course, the gazillion websites that are hustling to get the news to us instantly) to print accurate quotes and accurate everything else? Or should we question everything we read . . . even this?
I used to see this all the time when I covered meetings alongside a reporter who was making a lot more money than I. She would sit there, playing solitaire on her laptop, and the next day file a story with quotes that bore no relationship to reality. As a reporter, it pissed me off. As a reader (and occasional reporter), it still does.
Back in the 1970s my husband's chemical company had an explosion. The press descended upon us. One article had me pointing to some white stuff on the ground and announcing it was hydrogen. Huh? Never happened. Never came close to happening.
Can we assume that the Big Guns of journalism don't do this? Can we trust the major newspapers (and, of course, the gazillion websites that are hustling to get the news to us instantly) to print accurate quotes and accurate everything else? Or should we question everything we read . . . even this?
Friday, May 02, 2008
For Rose People Only
Anyone else would be bored silly.
It wasn't a good winter for roses. I knew this (ice, thaw, ice, thaw, ice, more ice), but still I was unprepared for the number of dead canes I had to prune away. Some of the roses have very little left to them, and trying to create some shape isn't even a possibility. (Well, it isn't helped by the fact that I'm a rather unskilled pruner.)
For those concerned with hardiness, here's the rundown. Bear in mind that winter protection is a four-letter word at my house.
Scarlet Meidiland
They look good, actually, except for the one I planted last year, which has disappeared entirely.
Robusta
I thought Robusta would live up to its name again this year, but I had to cut away about half the bush. What remains looks a tad spidery at the moment, but I expect that will change as it leafs out more.
Knock Out
Or is it Knockout? In either case, it always looks weird to me, as though it isn't sure whether to thrive or migrate south. No change from last year. Or the years before.
Roseraie de l'Hay
Sadly, this huge, indestructible rugosa was no match for the snowplow a few years ago, and will probably never fully recover. This spring I had to cut away about a third of what was left, which doesn't leave much.
The Rock Garden Roses
The fact that I've forgotten their names should tell you something about their performance. Let me think . . . oh, yeah, White Meidiland (the oldest and most reliable of the bunch), Baby Blanket (a shade of pink the exact color of a baby's blanket, when they appear, which isn't often), and Carefree Marvel, which is neither. In fairness, I don't think their lack of vigor is their fault. I blame the chipmunks, which dig tunnels under the rock garden, and I blame the weeds, which rock gardens specialize in, and I blame me. In the garden, it always comes down to the gardener.
The Rose Below the Rock Garden
This one has always been nameless. I acquired it 30 years ago from an old woman who grew up with it. She didn't know the name either. It's not a bush; it's a mass of skinny canes about 2-3 feet tall, blooming once a year with vivid red buds and loose semi-double dark pink blooms. I'm fond of it. The canes appear to propagate underground, with runners. I don't think the winter bothered it at all.
The Walmart Mistake
It wasn't a good winter for roses. I knew this (ice, thaw, ice, thaw, ice, more ice), but still I was unprepared for the number of dead canes I had to prune away. Some of the roses have very little left to them, and trying to create some shape isn't even a possibility. (Well, it isn't helped by the fact that I'm a rather unskilled pruner.)
For those concerned with hardiness, here's the rundown. Bear in mind that winter protection is a four-letter word at my house.
Scarlet Meidiland
They look good, actually, except for the one I planted last year, which has disappeared entirely.
Robusta
I thought Robusta would live up to its name again this year, but I had to cut away about half the bush. What remains looks a tad spidery at the moment, but I expect that will change as it leafs out more.
Knock Out
Or is it Knockout? In either case, it always looks weird to me, as though it isn't sure whether to thrive or migrate south. No change from last year. Or the years before.
Roseraie de l'Hay
Sadly, this huge, indestructible rugosa was no match for the snowplow a few years ago, and will probably never fully recover. This spring I had to cut away about a third of what was left, which doesn't leave much.
The Rock Garden Roses
The fact that I've forgotten their names should tell you something about their performance. Let me think . . . oh, yeah, White Meidiland (the oldest and most reliable of the bunch), Baby Blanket (a shade of pink the exact color of a baby's blanket, when they appear, which isn't often), and Carefree Marvel, which is neither. In fairness, I don't think their lack of vigor is their fault. I blame the chipmunks, which dig tunnels under the rock garden, and I blame the weeds, which rock gardens specialize in, and I blame me. In the garden, it always comes down to the gardener.
The Rose Below the Rock Garden
This one has always been nameless. I acquired it 30 years ago from an old woman who grew up with it. She didn't know the name either. It's not a bush; it's a mass of skinny canes about 2-3 feet tall, blooming once a year with vivid red buds and loose semi-double dark pink blooms. I'm fond of it. The canes appear to propagate underground, with runners. I don't think the winter bothered it at all.
The Walmart Mistake
I have no idea what this is. It was supposed to be Sir Thomas Lipton, to replace the one I lost after many years. But it most definitely is not. It looks like a rose cane. Its leaves look like rose leaves. But so far, after three years, it still has not produced a rose. Maybe its out-of-the-way spot is to blame. On the other hand, its out-of-the-way spot is probably the reason why I haven't tossed it. People have this experience with Walmart (and other big stores) all the time. They aren't exactly my main rose supplier, but sometimes you can find great deals there (see Wildberry Breeze and Lady Elsie May, below) and sometimes I'm tempted by the adventure of the unknown.
Crimson Sky
This was new to me last year. In fact, it was new to everybody last year, having been introduced in 2007. I got it on sale at the end of the season, paying $3.99 or some other ridiculous amount. Good thing, too, because I'm not at all sure it's going to survive in my climate. The canes died back all the way. Two thick red shoots are showing from the base, and I just hope they're from Crimson Sky and not the rootstock. One good thing is that it's a climber. It may never get to climbing height in my zone, but if it grows well enough to produce some of its lush red blooms every year I'll be happy.
Gertrude Jekyll
I was shocked to see how much damage this rose suffered this year. My Gertie is well over 20 years old, and has survived the rollercoaster of my gardening life, waiting patiently for me in the weeds during the years when I could do nothing for her or any other plant. But she was hit hard this winter. Lot of plant left, though, so I'm not too worried.
Gertrude Jekyll No. 2
I think of this one as a male, though I have no idea why. I liked Gertie No. 1 so much that I acquired a second one a few years ago. No. 2 is a great deal shorter, at least so far, but equally good at producing pink roses in a form that's perfection and a scent that's beyond perfection. It suffered some winter kill, but not too much.
Champlain
A stronger rosearian would have "shovel pruned" this Canadian Explorer rose years ago. "Puny" is a good word for its performance in my garden. But then in fall, when everything is long finished, it produces a second flush of startlingly red roses, and I know I'll never dig up the plant. Right now it's so small that it's hard to tell if it has any winter damage.
Dart's Dash
Not my favorite name for a rose, but what a wonderful shrub! A small rugosa with heavenly-scented blooms, it came through the winter with no damage whatsoever.
Blanc Double de Coubert
Planted last year, and apparently unfazed by northern winters.
Prairie Princess
A Griffith Buck rose that went crazy last year, producing one gangly way-too-long cane. Most of the cane seems to have survived winter, but it didn't survive my pruning shears, which cut it by more than half.
Cherries 'n' Cream
Another rose that should have been shovel pruned. The flowers are pretty, but their much-touted scent is nonexistent in my garden. And the plant is so spidery and unattractive. But it's the most expensive rose I ever bought (how dumb is that?). I don't know how well it survived the winter because I haven't looked yet.
Henry Nevard
Completely gone. Again, I blame the gardener, who dug it up by mistake last year.
Lady Elsie May
I was tempted to buy this floribunda a few years ago because my Aunt Elsie was the best gardener I've ever known, even if her middle name wasn't May. It was a good purchase. Love the color! Her original site proved to be too shady, so I moved it last year. It seems to be okay. Not too many dead canes.
Carefree Beauty
Another Buck rose. This one stunned me last year with its vigor and gorgeous blooms, and all indications are that it will do the same this year.
Distant Drums
Yet another Buck. Died to the ground this winter. A shoot or two is emerging, so we'll see. Its blooms are so extraordinary; I hope it survives, but I'm not overly optimistic.
The Nameless Buck Roses
Well, they do have names; I just don't remember what they are. They seem to be doing so-so in my garden.
Belinda's Dream
Died over the winter after being moved last year. :-(
Angel Face
Also gone. This was probably my fourth or fifth attempt to grow this gorgeous lavender rose that smells like raspberries. I'm not tempted to try again.
Betty Prior
Gone as well. My second attempt on this one, mostly because I can hear my late mother-in-law's voice saying, "Nothing outblooms a Betty Prior!"
Sharifa Asma
Barely surviving. I probably should give up on David Austin roses, but the pictures on his website and in his catalogs are soooo seductive! Plus Gertie is an Austin, and look how well she's done.
Wildberry Breeze
Can you think of a worse name for a rose? Maybe "Bat Droppings." Wildberry Breeze sounds like a wine cooler or a room deodorizer. But what a lovely little rugosa it is! No winter damage at all, and a mass of wonderfully scented, single blooms to look forward to. Maybe I should stick to rugosas.
William Baffin
I'm in love. I planted this guy last year, too late to see any blooms, but I have the feeling I'll be in for a treat this year. No winter damage at all.
John Cabot
I was pleasantly surprised to find this Canadian Explorer climber at the Farmer's Market last year. I didn't think I had a place for it, but of course I bought it anyway. Then I thought of the tall garden gate that Joe made many years ago. It's still in place, though no longer serving as a gate to anything. It will be beautiful covered in roses. And, from the looks of the plant after its first winter here, that may well happen.
Crimson Sky
This was new to me last year. In fact, it was new to everybody last year, having been introduced in 2007. I got it on sale at the end of the season, paying $3.99 or some other ridiculous amount. Good thing, too, because I'm not at all sure it's going to survive in my climate. The canes died back all the way. Two thick red shoots are showing from the base, and I just hope they're from Crimson Sky and not the rootstock. One good thing is that it's a climber. It may never get to climbing height in my zone, but if it grows well enough to produce some of its lush red blooms every year I'll be happy.
Gertrude Jekyll
I was shocked to see how much damage this rose suffered this year. My Gertie is well over 20 years old, and has survived the rollercoaster of my gardening life, waiting patiently for me in the weeds during the years when I could do nothing for her or any other plant. But she was hit hard this winter. Lot of plant left, though, so I'm not too worried.
Gertrude Jekyll No. 2
I think of this one as a male, though I have no idea why. I liked Gertie No. 1 so much that I acquired a second one a few years ago. No. 2 is a great deal shorter, at least so far, but equally good at producing pink roses in a form that's perfection and a scent that's beyond perfection. It suffered some winter kill, but not too much.
Champlain
A stronger rosearian would have "shovel pruned" this Canadian Explorer rose years ago. "Puny" is a good word for its performance in my garden. But then in fall, when everything is long finished, it produces a second flush of startlingly red roses, and I know I'll never dig up the plant. Right now it's so small that it's hard to tell if it has any winter damage.
Dart's Dash
Not my favorite name for a rose, but what a wonderful shrub! A small rugosa with heavenly-scented blooms, it came through the winter with no damage whatsoever.
Blanc Double de Coubert
Planted last year, and apparently unfazed by northern winters.
Prairie Princess
A Griffith Buck rose that went crazy last year, producing one gangly way-too-long cane. Most of the cane seems to have survived winter, but it didn't survive my pruning shears, which cut it by more than half.
Cherries 'n' Cream
Another rose that should have been shovel pruned. The flowers are pretty, but their much-touted scent is nonexistent in my garden. And the plant is so spidery and unattractive. But it's the most expensive rose I ever bought (how dumb is that?). I don't know how well it survived the winter because I haven't looked yet.
Henry Nevard
Completely gone. Again, I blame the gardener, who dug it up by mistake last year.
Lady Elsie May
I was tempted to buy this floribunda a few years ago because my Aunt Elsie was the best gardener I've ever known, even if her middle name wasn't May. It was a good purchase. Love the color! Her original site proved to be too shady, so I moved it last year. It seems to be okay. Not too many dead canes.
Carefree Beauty
Another Buck rose. This one stunned me last year with its vigor and gorgeous blooms, and all indications are that it will do the same this year.
Distant Drums
Yet another Buck. Died to the ground this winter. A shoot or two is emerging, so we'll see. Its blooms are so extraordinary; I hope it survives, but I'm not overly optimistic.
The Nameless Buck Roses
Well, they do have names; I just don't remember what they are. They seem to be doing so-so in my garden.
Belinda's Dream
Died over the winter after being moved last year. :-(
Angel Face
Also gone. This was probably my fourth or fifth attempt to grow this gorgeous lavender rose that smells like raspberries. I'm not tempted to try again.
Betty Prior
Gone as well. My second attempt on this one, mostly because I can hear my late mother-in-law's voice saying, "Nothing outblooms a Betty Prior!"
Sharifa Asma
Barely surviving. I probably should give up on David Austin roses, but the pictures on his website and in his catalogs are soooo seductive! Plus Gertie is an Austin, and look how well she's done.
Wildberry Breeze
Can you think of a worse name for a rose? Maybe "Bat Droppings." Wildberry Breeze sounds like a wine cooler or a room deodorizer. But what a lovely little rugosa it is! No winter damage at all, and a mass of wonderfully scented, single blooms to look forward to. Maybe I should stick to rugosas.
William Baffin
I'm in love. I planted this guy last year, too late to see any blooms, but I have the feeling I'll be in for a treat this year. No winter damage at all.
John Cabot
I was pleasantly surprised to find this Canadian Explorer climber at the Farmer's Market last year. I didn't think I had a place for it, but of course I bought it anyway. Then I thought of the tall garden gate that Joe made many years ago. It's still in place, though no longer serving as a gate to anything. It will be beautiful covered in roses. And, from the looks of the plant after its first winter here, that may well happen.
Abraham Darby
Another Austin. Growing nicely for me (although not as large as I'd like) until this year, when it took quite a winter hit. I'm prepared to give Abe some TLC as he's one beautiful rose.
Abbaye de Cluny (pictured above)
This was a pure impulse buy, and not cheap. I think divine intervention was involved. I don't know if it was all that divine a decision for Abbaye, as she lost all her canes over the winter. I actually dug the plant up last week, but replanted when I saw shoots emerging. It seems to be doing okay. Again, TLC more than worth it. Can you imagine that this rose smells as good as it looks?
If you'd like to see or read about any of these roses, Rose HelpMeFind is a great resource.
If you'd like to see or read about any of these roses, Rose HelpMeFind is a great resource.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Female Troubles
No, I don't have any. At least not at the moment. But it struck me as odd this morning that the term "female troubles" is still in use. I thought we had progressed past vague euphamisms for bodily functions. Practically everyone I know will tell you about their colonoscopy, or the ten reasons why they refuse to get one. You can't turn on the news without learning about a new study that links breast cancer or testicular cancer or ovarian cancer to something or other (hopefully not to each other). Everything is out there. Everything.
And yet, in some circles women are said to have female troubles. This phrase encompasses a lot of stuff: irregular periods, endometriosis, fibroids, a difficult menopause, a falling uterus, you name it. Doesn't it sound a tad sexist? To have "female troubles" is almost to be troublesome ourselves.
"Eh, she's on the warpath again. Female troubles, ya know."
I find it rather significant that men don't have "male troubles." Why don't they? Is it because men are never troublesome? Is it because in a man, nothing falls, bulges, migrates, or fails to be on time? Um . . . I'm not going to answer either of those.
And yet, in some circles women are said to have female troubles. This phrase encompasses a lot of stuff: irregular periods, endometriosis, fibroids, a difficult menopause, a falling uterus, you name it. Doesn't it sound a tad sexist? To have "female troubles" is almost to be troublesome ourselves.
"Eh, she's on the warpath again. Female troubles, ya know."
I find it rather significant that men don't have "male troubles." Why don't they? Is it because men are never troublesome? Is it because in a man, nothing falls, bulges, migrates, or fails to be on time? Um . . . I'm not going to answer either of those.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Rose Gardeners Beware (serious!)
On Saturday a rose thorn stuck me hard in the back of my hand. It really hurt going in, so I went inside and made it bleed, then washed it. My hand ached that night, and yesterday morning I could see a red streak going into the knuckle at the base of my ring finger. As the day went on, most of my hand hurt more and more. I went to see Suzanne's new house-in-progress in the afternoon (gorgeous), and then I went food shopping, and my hand was pretty useless at the supermarket as I couldn't hold onto much of anything with it.
When I got home I noticed the red streak had gotten longer, now heading for my wrist. I know that roses are associated with a couple of kinds of dangerous bacteria and a fungus, and I know of two people who ended up having surgery after being pricked by a rose thorn. One lost part of a finger. So although I really really hated to do it (the loss of time . . . the cost . . . the gas . . . I was tired!), after I put my groceries away I got back in the car and drove to the Emergency Room. Both the triage nurse and the doctor said rose thorns can be quite dangerous, and nothing to fool around with. He (the doctor) didn't think any part of the thorn remained in my hand, but he said it looked like I had a bacterial infection. The area was red, swollen, and hot. He prescribed ten days worth of antibiotics, gave me one to take immediately and one for this morning, and also gave me a tetanus shot.
It's not like me to run off to the ER. Had I not known about the evil side of roses, and had some online rosarians not pushed me—hard—out the door, I would have blown this off. That might have been a bad mistake.
This has been a public service announcement.
When I got home I noticed the red streak had gotten longer, now heading for my wrist. I know that roses are associated with a couple of kinds of dangerous bacteria and a fungus, and I know of two people who ended up having surgery after being pricked by a rose thorn. One lost part of a finger. So although I really really hated to do it (the loss of time . . . the cost . . . the gas . . . I was tired!), after I put my groceries away I got back in the car and drove to the Emergency Room. Both the triage nurse and the doctor said rose thorns can be quite dangerous, and nothing to fool around with. He (the doctor) didn't think any part of the thorn remained in my hand, but he said it looked like I had a bacterial infection. The area was red, swollen, and hot. He prescribed ten days worth of antibiotics, gave me one to take immediately and one for this morning, and also gave me a tetanus shot.
It's not like me to run off to the ER. Had I not known about the evil side of roses, and had some online rosarians not pushed me—hard—out the door, I would have blown this off. That might have been a bad mistake.
This has been a public service announcement.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Short Story: Casual Friends
How about a little light fiction for a change? This is one of my rejected (by Woman's World) romances.
Casual Friends
I think there should be a word to describe someone who’s more than an acquaintance but not quite a friend.
Friends are the people you talk to on the phone, and invite into your home. Friends have you over for dinner. Or lunch. Or no reason. Friends send you emails. They might even remember your birthday.
Acquaintances have names and faces that you recognize, but the only things you know about them are what other people have told you. Most of the time they don’t even rate a Christmas card.
I’m not sure what’s in between. “Friendly acquaintance” doesn’t quite do it for me. Maybe “casual friend”? Whatever the word or phrase should be, Will Shaw was it.
I’d never invited Will to my house, and I had no clue about his birthday. But I could make a pretty good guess what year he was born because we graduated high school together. And I knew quite a bit about him—stuff he told me himself. Because we did talk. But we only talked on the road in front of his house, when I happened to be driving past.
After high school, Will had studied photography in New York, while I got my teaching degree at a state college. He eventually came back home, moving into his parents’ old farmhouse after they retired to Florida. Will didn’t talk much about his photography, but the word around town was that he did quite well with it, selling his prints through a major gallery, wherever that was. We didn’t have a “major” anything in our little neck of the woods.
I never saw Will in his studio, although he sometimes had a camera or two slung around his neck when I’d see him outside his house. Now and then I’d take the back way home from school to buy eggs down the road from Will’s place, and if I saw him outside I’d stop to say hi.
“How’s life in second grade, Molly?” he often asked.
“Noisy,” I sometimes replied. Or “Sweet,” if we had celebrated a holiday involving candy. (When you teach second grade you learn that almost all holidays involve candy.)
On this particular day, I answered, “Chaotic.” School was one day away from breaking for summer vacation, and second-graders weren’t noted for their patience.
“What do you have going on this summer?” Will asked, leaning on the shovel he’d been using to dig a hole.
“Nothing much, really,” I said. “I need to work on my house . . . get rid of some clutter . . . paint the shed . . . tend to the garden. Grow more flowers. The usual.”
“And then there’s your annual stack of summer reading,” he said.
I laughed. “Yes, there’s always that.” I wasn’t sure why, but I was pleased that he remembered.
“How about you?” I asked.
“Nothing too exciting,” he said. “Except for the new lens I got this week—I’m excited about that. I’ve been out every morning photographing dewdrops.” He grinned.
“Dewdrops?”
“Yup, dewdrops. You’d be amazed at how they look close up. Perfectly round and sparkling. Like tiny crystal balls. Except when I blow up the prints to 11x14 or so, they’re not so tiny anymore.”
He added, “You should see them.”
“I’d love to.”
It was true. I’d often thought about asking to see his work, but I didn’t want him to think I was inviting something more. I remembered those old stories where lecherous men invited young women to “come up and see my etchings.”
I thought Will might take the opportunity to invite me in, but he didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject.
“Did you hear George Kinkade got married?”
I remembered George from high school: A tall, thin geek, intense about his schoolwork. “No, I didn’t hear that. Who’d he marry?”
“No one we know,” Will said. “He imported her from Rhode Island. Probably someone he met in college.”
“I did hear that Joanie Klein and Bruce Altman got married, though. And Denise and Ray.”
“Denise and Ray, who need no last names,” he said, smiling.
“I know. It’s been Denise-and-Ray ever since 8th grade.”
I remembered someone else. “Oh, and just the other day I heard Cheryl Matthews got engaged to Ted McAllister. I wonder if some of our classmates are rushing to get married before they turn 30.”
“How about you?” Will asked. He had dropped the shovel and was leaning against my car.
“Me? I have a good eight months to go before I turn 30.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Do you have any marriage plans?
“Marriage plans?” I asked, startled. “Who would I marry.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what I thought you’d tell me.”
I laughed, a little nervously. “Nope,” I said. “No plans and no guy.”
I tried to turn the conversation back to him. “What about you? Are you planning a trip down the aisle?”
But he ignored my attempt, and said, “I seem to remember that you’ve been courted.”
“Courted? That’s a rather old-fashioned word. I wouldn’t say the guys I’ve dated were courting. ‘Storming the gates’ was more like it.”
Will grinned at me. “That sounds subtle.”
“And accurate,” I said, “which probably explains why I haven’t dated anyone for quite a while.”
I turned the key in the ignition, and the engine started up. “Gotta go home and get started on my end-of-the-year paperwork,” I said. He stepped back from the car and gave me a short wave.
The following Monday I indulged myself by sleeping in until 8:00 a.m. I came downstairs, made myself a cup of tea, and brought it out to the front porch, where I found a large flat object wrapped in brown paper leaning against a chair. I put down my tea and removed the paper. It was a framed print of a stunning photograph: dewdrops—perfectly round and glittering in the sun—resting on the edge of a leaf.
Later that morning, a floral delivery van pulled into my driveway. The driver came to the house and handed me a huge bouquet covered in crisp white tissue. In the kitchen, I carefully unwrapped it. Roses—white and peach and apricot—mixed with lilies, daisies, and wildflowers. It was enchanting.
I removed the small envelope, almost afraid to open it. I didn’t want to be disappointed. Only one word was written on the card, and it wasn’t signed. But I wasn’t disappointed at all. The card read, Courting.
I think there should be a word to describe someone who’s more than an acquaintance but not quite a friend.
Friends are the people you talk to on the phone, and invite into your home. Friends have you over for dinner. Or lunch. Or no reason. Friends send you emails. They might even remember your birthday.
Acquaintances have names and faces that you recognize, but the only things you know about them are what other people have told you. Most of the time they don’t even rate a Christmas card.
I’m not sure what’s in between. “Friendly acquaintance” doesn’t quite do it for me. Maybe “casual friend”? Whatever the word or phrase should be, Will Shaw was it.
I’d never invited Will to my house, and I had no clue about his birthday. But I could make a pretty good guess what year he was born because we graduated high school together. And I knew quite a bit about him—stuff he told me himself. Because we did talk. But we only talked on the road in front of his house, when I happened to be driving past.
After high school, Will had studied photography in New York, while I got my teaching degree at a state college. He eventually came back home, moving into his parents’ old farmhouse after they retired to Florida. Will didn’t talk much about his photography, but the word around town was that he did quite well with it, selling his prints through a major gallery, wherever that was. We didn’t have a “major” anything in our little neck of the woods.
I never saw Will in his studio, although he sometimes had a camera or two slung around his neck when I’d see him outside his house. Now and then I’d take the back way home from school to buy eggs down the road from Will’s place, and if I saw him outside I’d stop to say hi.
“How’s life in second grade, Molly?” he often asked.
“Noisy,” I sometimes replied. Or “Sweet,” if we had celebrated a holiday involving candy. (When you teach second grade you learn that almost all holidays involve candy.)
On this particular day, I answered, “Chaotic.” School was one day away from breaking for summer vacation, and second-graders weren’t noted for their patience.
“What do you have going on this summer?” Will asked, leaning on the shovel he’d been using to dig a hole.
“Nothing much, really,” I said. “I need to work on my house . . . get rid of some clutter . . . paint the shed . . . tend to the garden. Grow more flowers. The usual.”
“And then there’s your annual stack of summer reading,” he said.
I laughed. “Yes, there’s always that.” I wasn’t sure why, but I was pleased that he remembered.
“How about you?” I asked.
“Nothing too exciting,” he said. “Except for the new lens I got this week—I’m excited about that. I’ve been out every morning photographing dewdrops.” He grinned.
“Dewdrops?”
“Yup, dewdrops. You’d be amazed at how they look close up. Perfectly round and sparkling. Like tiny crystal balls. Except when I blow up the prints to 11x14 or so, they’re not so tiny anymore.”
He added, “You should see them.”
“I’d love to.”
It was true. I’d often thought about asking to see his work, but I didn’t want him to think I was inviting something more. I remembered those old stories where lecherous men invited young women to “come up and see my etchings.”
I thought Will might take the opportunity to invite me in, but he didn’t. Instead, he changed the subject.
“Did you hear George Kinkade got married?”
I remembered George from high school: A tall, thin geek, intense about his schoolwork. “No, I didn’t hear that. Who’d he marry?”
“No one we know,” Will said. “He imported her from Rhode Island. Probably someone he met in college.”
“I did hear that Joanie Klein and Bruce Altman got married, though. And Denise and Ray.”
“Denise and Ray, who need no last names,” he said, smiling.
“I know. It’s been Denise-and-Ray ever since 8th grade.”
I remembered someone else. “Oh, and just the other day I heard Cheryl Matthews got engaged to Ted McAllister. I wonder if some of our classmates are rushing to get married before they turn 30.”
“How about you?” Will asked. He had dropped the shovel and was leaning against my car.
“Me? I have a good eight months to go before I turn 30.”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Do you have any marriage plans?
“Marriage plans?” I asked, startled. “Who would I marry.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s what I thought you’d tell me.”
I laughed, a little nervously. “Nope,” I said. “No plans and no guy.”
I tried to turn the conversation back to him. “What about you? Are you planning a trip down the aisle?”
But he ignored my attempt, and said, “I seem to remember that you’ve been courted.”
“Courted? That’s a rather old-fashioned word. I wouldn’t say the guys I’ve dated were courting. ‘Storming the gates’ was more like it.”
Will grinned at me. “That sounds subtle.”
“And accurate,” I said, “which probably explains why I haven’t dated anyone for quite a while.”
I turned the key in the ignition, and the engine started up. “Gotta go home and get started on my end-of-the-year paperwork,” I said. He stepped back from the car and gave me a short wave.
The following Monday I indulged myself by sleeping in until 8:00 a.m. I came downstairs, made myself a cup of tea, and brought it out to the front porch, where I found a large flat object wrapped in brown paper leaning against a chair. I put down my tea and removed the paper. It was a framed print of a stunning photograph: dewdrops—perfectly round and glittering in the sun—resting on the edge of a leaf.
Later that morning, a floral delivery van pulled into my driveway. The driver came to the house and handed me a huge bouquet covered in crisp white tissue. In the kitchen, I carefully unwrapped it. Roses—white and peach and apricot—mixed with lilies, daisies, and wildflowers. It was enchanting.
I removed the small envelope, almost afraid to open it. I didn’t want to be disappointed. Only one word was written on the card, and it wasn’t signed. But I wasn’t disappointed at all. The card read, Courting.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
My Iris Addiction is Alive and Well
After accepting my own determined rule that I would not buy any new roses this year (see below), I rewarded myself for this stellar bit of self-discipline by ordering 15 new irises. Furthermore, I am actually going to plant them on time this year.
Last year I ordered around the same number, and set them out on newspapers on the butcher block because they arrived during a rainy spell. I got surprisingly used to seeing them there (well, actually that's no surprise, considering my housekeeping habits or lack thereof), and as a result the sun came out but the irises didn't. They got planted eventually, but in some cases too late to establish good root systems before the cold set in. I will do better this year. I will.
As usual, I chose most of them on the basis of appearance, with many of those picked because they are fragrant as well as beautiful. And then there were, as always, some that I included because their names triggered meaninigful memories.
Dear Dorothy, light purple and yellow, ruffled . . . that's easy. Dorothy was my mother's name.
Orinoco Flow, white stitched with purple . . . an Enya song, yes? Jill gave me that CD.
Carriwitched, fabulous dark purple . . . this is a bit of a stretch. Jill had a close friend name Ceri once, pronounced Carri.
Ascent of Angels, two lovely shades of blue . . . I have a dog named Angel. She's 15.
High Point . . . a mistake actually. I was thinking of a place in the Catskills where my dad spent a lot of time when he was young. But I realized later that he used to talk about High Mount. Oh, well, High Point is a very pretty bi-color, with pink-tinted white standards and plum purple/violet falls.
Rinky Dink, gorgeous, described as "greyed orchid and vanilla". . . don't ask me why, but this name reminds me of Mama. Something she used to say, no doubt. It makes me smile and remember the fun we used to have.
Dream of You, pastel blue, white on top edged in pale yellow . . . yes, I do. Please keep those dreams coming forever.
Last year I ordered around the same number, and set them out on newspapers on the butcher block because they arrived during a rainy spell. I got surprisingly used to seeing them there (well, actually that's no surprise, considering my housekeeping habits or lack thereof), and as a result the sun came out but the irises didn't. They got planted eventually, but in some cases too late to establish good root systems before the cold set in. I will do better this year. I will.
As usual, I chose most of them on the basis of appearance, with many of those picked because they are fragrant as well as beautiful. And then there were, as always, some that I included because their names triggered meaninigful memories.
Dear Dorothy, light purple and yellow, ruffled . . . that's easy. Dorothy was my mother's name.
Orinoco Flow, white stitched with purple . . . an Enya song, yes? Jill gave me that CD.
Carriwitched, fabulous dark purple . . . this is a bit of a stretch. Jill had a close friend name Ceri once, pronounced Carri.
Ascent of Angels, two lovely shades of blue . . . I have a dog named Angel. She's 15.
High Point . . . a mistake actually. I was thinking of a place in the Catskills where my dad spent a lot of time when he was young. But I realized later that he used to talk about High Mount. Oh, well, High Point is a very pretty bi-color, with pink-tinted white standards and plum purple/violet falls.
Rinky Dink, gorgeous, described as "greyed orchid and vanilla". . . don't ask me why, but this name reminds me of Mama. Something she used to say, no doubt. It makes me smile and remember the fun we used to have.
Dream of You, pastel blue, white on top edged in pale yellow . . . yes, I do. Please keep those dreams coming forever.
Saturday, April 19, 2008
I'm Quitting My Rose Addiction!
I'm determined to go cold turkey this year. Clearly, I'm not the rose gardener I thought I was, and that's okay. There's a few things I do well in the garden, like sunflowers. Sunflowers are good. If I can stay ahead of the slugs, rabbits, and deer, my sunflowers come out on top. Literally.
But too many things conspire against me with roses. Big things like winter. I always do my homework and plant hardy varieties (I would never choose a hybrid tea, for instance, and I've learned to avoid floribundas). But even so, most of my roses stay small while I, thrilled that they even survived, ooh and aah over every blossom. All three of them.
This year we had a lot of ice and a lot of freezing and thawing. I looked at the plants that didn't make it, and for the first time didn't feel inspired to replace them with more roses. However, all it took was one visit to a rose website to rekindle my desire to pick out new ones.
I don't think that's the best idea. Maybe we can blame it on my two elderly dogs, who interrupt my sleep a lot, but I'm tired! Tired of digging big holes, tired of wondering if I'm giving the roses proper care (I'm probably not), and most of all tired of trying to reconcile the glorioius images in my mind of large, healthy, blooming roses with the reality in my yard.
So.....this year I will enjoy the rugosas, which are popping out leaves all over the place as I write this, and the Bucks, and my intrepid Gertrude Jekyll, and the William Baffin, and the vigorous Robusta, and the Scarlet Meidilands, and (what's left of) the Abraham Darby, and the few unnamed antiques, and when I feel a craving coming on I'll prowl a iris website.
Sounds like a plan.
But too many things conspire against me with roses. Big things like winter. I always do my homework and plant hardy varieties (I would never choose a hybrid tea, for instance, and I've learned to avoid floribundas). But even so, most of my roses stay small while I, thrilled that they even survived, ooh and aah over every blossom. All three of them.
This year we had a lot of ice and a lot of freezing and thawing. I looked at the plants that didn't make it, and for the first time didn't feel inspired to replace them with more roses. However, all it took was one visit to a rose website to rekindle my desire to pick out new ones.
I don't think that's the best idea. Maybe we can blame it on my two elderly dogs, who interrupt my sleep a lot, but I'm tired! Tired of digging big holes, tired of wondering if I'm giving the roses proper care (I'm probably not), and most of all tired of trying to reconcile the glorioius images in my mind of large, healthy, blooming roses with the reality in my yard.
So.....this year I will enjoy the rugosas, which are popping out leaves all over the place as I write this, and the Bucks, and my intrepid Gertrude Jekyll, and the William Baffin, and the vigorous Robusta, and the Scarlet Meidilands, and (what's left of) the Abraham Darby, and the few unnamed antiques, and when I feel a craving coming on I'll prowl a iris website.
Sounds like a plan.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
What are you known as?
I never knew the names of the two female gym teachers who used to live a couple of miles down the road; they were always referred to as "the lesbian couple." (Actually, my neighbors didn't use the term lesbian, but we won't go into that.) Other nameless people live on the road as well. For example, we have "the retired teacher," "the artist," and "the woman who has peacocks." And how could I forget "the family with the pool"?
When we first moved here we were known as "the New Yorkers." I would hope at this point I've been given credit for my 32 years in this house, but you never know. I do know some people who used to think of me as "the flower gardener," but I doubt that applies anymore. I hope some still think of me as "the blonde," although these days that does seem doubtful. But some labels stick . . . and stick and stick. "The guy with the limp" will probably still be known that way long after he's had his knee replaced.
Labeling doesn't just happen in rural areas, of course. At a certain age, most of us are thought of, at least by strangers and casual acquaintenances, as "old woman" or "old man." Children are children. Teenagers are teenagers. Gays are gays, unless you live in a more evolved community than mine. As for colorblindness, I hope it will happen in my lifetime but I'm not counting on it.
Getting back to my dirt road, I've heard mention of "those people from Maryland," "the old man with the buckets" (he feeds his horses), and "Edna's sister's kid." As for me, I'm probably known as "that city woman who always has a camera around her neck" or "the one who lives in the Indian's house" (people from India lived here in the 1950s, but my neighbors have long memories) or "the one who doesn't go to our church." I don't know any of this for sure, but I know I'll never ask.
Oh, wait! I just remembered that our veterinarian calls me The Big Boob . . . because I founded the county's first La Leche League group. :-)
When we first moved here we were known as "the New Yorkers." I would hope at this point I've been given credit for my 32 years in this house, but you never know. I do know some people who used to think of me as "the flower gardener," but I doubt that applies anymore. I hope some still think of me as "the blonde," although these days that does seem doubtful. But some labels stick . . . and stick and stick. "The guy with the limp" will probably still be known that way long after he's had his knee replaced.
Labeling doesn't just happen in rural areas, of course. At a certain age, most of us are thought of, at least by strangers and casual acquaintenances, as "old woman" or "old man." Children are children. Teenagers are teenagers. Gays are gays, unless you live in a more evolved community than mine. As for colorblindness, I hope it will happen in my lifetime but I'm not counting on it.
Getting back to my dirt road, I've heard mention of "those people from Maryland," "the old man with the buckets" (he feeds his horses), and "Edna's sister's kid." As for me, I'm probably known as "that city woman who always has a camera around her neck" or "the one who lives in the Indian's house" (people from India lived here in the 1950s, but my neighbors have long memories) or "the one who doesn't go to our church." I don't know any of this for sure, but I know I'll never ask.
Oh, wait! I just remembered that our veterinarian calls me The Big Boob . . . because I founded the county's first La Leche League group. :-)
Friday, April 04, 2008
"Do you have a difficult Pit Bull?"
I had the TV on in the kitchen the other day, not paying much attention to it, when I heard someone say, "Do you have a diffcult Pit Bull?"
Oh, I thought, I wonder what they'll recommend? I don't have a Pit Bull, but the breed is controversial and I was curious. So I left the bathroom sink I was cleaning and went into the kitchen to look at the screen. I saw a woman rubbing something on her face. Pit Bull repellant, perhaps?
No, acne medication. It was a commercial, and the announcer had said, "Do you have a difficult pimple?"
Oh, I thought, I wonder what they'll recommend? I don't have a Pit Bull, but the breed is controversial and I was curious. So I left the bathroom sink I was cleaning and went into the kitchen to look at the screen. I saw a woman rubbing something on her face. Pit Bull repellant, perhaps?
No, acne medication. It was a commercial, and the announcer had said, "Do you have a difficult pimple?"
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Grey Flannel Fleece
I realized the other day that I spent the entire winter in grey fleece, at least when I was home. There were the two pairs of Danskin yoga pants (and a navy blue pair as well, but I'm talking grey here), a Champion v-neck pullover (courtesy of my daughter), another pullover from the Gap (courtesy of the Salvation Army), and another SA find—an oh-so-useful longish grey fleece cardigan by Tapemeasure. I wore that cardigan over everything . . . on and off throughout the day, depending on the temperature. Big buttons, so I suppose it was made for old hands. Mine are getting there.
I have mixed feelings about putting away the grey fleece if and when the season changes (it's 18º as I write this). I suppose it will be nice to see lighter, brighter colors. But fleece is soft. I like soft. And I like the fact that my winter wardrobe covered everything. Everything. And required no effort on my part. Like holding in my stomach.
Spring means work.
I have mixed feelings about putting away the grey fleece if and when the season changes (it's 18º as I write this). I suppose it will be nice to see lighter, brighter colors. But fleece is soft. I like soft. And I like the fact that my winter wardrobe covered everything. Everything. And required no effort on my part. Like holding in my stomach.
Spring means work.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
The Flu Review(s)
I spent a week in bed with the flu this month. Although it was my first flu experience in 15 years, I keep a collection of DVDs for just this purpose. I normally require at least a month to watch an entire movie (who wants to sit quietly for two hours?), but being sick is another story entirely. I went through several, little bits at a time. Unless you've been quite sick recently, you'd be surprised how much energy it takes to watch a movie, even a fluffy one.
I tried to watch The X Files Movie, but it stimulated my already overstimulated adrenals and I gave up after 10 or 15 minutes. Here's what I did watch:
To Catch a Thief. Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. God, they were gorgeous. Cary had such enormous appeal, and to think he did it without abs. That is, he probably had abs somewhere, but they were secondary to his voice, his manner, and that wonderful face. Who needs biceps when you have a chin like that? I saw this movie for the first time as a teenager, and understood it a lot better this time around. I also noticed Cary's butt this time. Nice.
Shall We Dance? This is the American version, starring Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, and Jennifer Lopez. I'd forgotten that Lopez was a dancer before she became ThePhenomenonKnownAsJLo, but this movie reminded me. I'd like to see the Japanese original, too, which I heard was very good. I'd also like to look like that other Susan, Sarandon, once in a while. And to dance. To dance.
Maid in Manhattan. Another JLo movie. Cute, as was the kid who played her little boy. But it made me think, in a way the creators of the movie probably didn't have in mind. Two characters were attracted to the male star, whose name escapes me. (I wasn't attracted, can you tell?) One was a rich and jaded Brit; the other was JLo, a hotel maid living in humble, hard-working circumstances. In one scene, Lopez accompanies Male Star to the zoo, where they are entranced with the antics of the seals. It's clear that the rich and jadedbitch Brit could never be delighted with such simple entertainment. Watching it, I thought about people and money and stimulation and overstimulation, how quickly some people lose their ability to be delighted. Can't wear the $20 t-shirt anymore (not to mention the $7 one); gotta pay at least $300. Nice quality, plain leather purse? Hell, no! Gotta have the $6,000 designer model, the bigger the better. Everything big, everything fancy. Simple pleasures are for the simple-minded. That mindset is soooo repugnant to me. So as I watched the movie I hoped "Jennie from the block" was still able to enjoy the small things in life and find joy in nature. And then I remembered what I'd read a week or so earlier, about JLo's incredibly expensive nursery for her new twins, and the fact that the cost of their delivery (when you factor in her designer hospital gowns) broke all records. Ugh.
Prelude to a Kiss. This was the original version with Meg Ryan and Alec Baldwin. Boy, does Baldwin look young in this film! Meg never seems to change. She's always adorable, always wonderfully coiffed and dressed, and always seems like she has the potential to be a real pain in the ass. At least that's how she comes across to me. I liked this movie, which addresses fear—a constant in my life. Apparently (according to the movie) the way to rid yourself of fear is to have your body taken over by an elderly, terminally ill man. I don't think I'd attempt this cure without some sort of guarantee.
In Good Company. I loved this movie, despite the fact that Scarlett Johannsen's charactor showed all the personality of an eraser. It's about meaningful work. And thinking you know what you want, and trying to fit that mold. And ethics and morals. And overcoming hurt. If you don't think you could possibly care what happens to a Carrera 911 and its driver, give this movie a try. (I myself care what happens to all cars.)
Now I'm watching Season One of Hill Street Blues. My crush on Captain Furillo is alive and well. And I'm feeling a little better every day.
I tried to watch The X Files Movie, but it stimulated my already overstimulated adrenals and I gave up after 10 or 15 minutes. Here's what I did watch:
To Catch a Thief. Cary Grant and Grace Kelly. God, they were gorgeous. Cary had such enormous appeal, and to think he did it without abs. That is, he probably had abs somewhere, but they were secondary to his voice, his manner, and that wonderful face. Who needs biceps when you have a chin like that? I saw this movie for the first time as a teenager, and understood it a lot better this time around. I also noticed Cary's butt this time. Nice.
Shall We Dance? This is the American version, starring Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, and Jennifer Lopez. I'd forgotten that Lopez was a dancer before she became ThePhenomenonKnownAsJLo, but this movie reminded me. I'd like to see the Japanese original, too, which I heard was very good. I'd also like to look like that other Susan, Sarandon, once in a while. And to dance. To dance.
Maid in Manhattan. Another JLo movie. Cute, as was the kid who played her little boy. But it made me think, in a way the creators of the movie probably didn't have in mind. Two characters were attracted to the male star, whose name escapes me. (I wasn't attracted, can you tell?) One was a rich and jaded Brit; the other was JLo, a hotel maid living in humble, hard-working circumstances. In one scene, Lopez accompanies Male Star to the zoo, where they are entranced with the antics of the seals. It's clear that the rich and jaded
Prelude to a Kiss. This was the original version with Meg Ryan and Alec Baldwin. Boy, does Baldwin look young in this film! Meg never seems to change. She's always adorable, always wonderfully coiffed and dressed, and always seems like she has the potential to be a real pain in the ass. At least that's how she comes across to me. I liked this movie, which addresses fear—a constant in my life. Apparently (according to the movie) the way to rid yourself of fear is to have your body taken over by an elderly, terminally ill man. I don't think I'd attempt this cure without some sort of guarantee.
In Good Company. I loved this movie, despite the fact that Scarlett Johannsen's charactor showed all the personality of an eraser. It's about meaningful work. And thinking you know what you want, and trying to fit that mold. And ethics and morals. And overcoming hurt. If you don't think you could possibly care what happens to a Carrera 911 and its driver, give this movie a try. (I myself care what happens to all cars.)
Now I'm watching Season One of Hill Street Blues. My crush on Captain Furillo is alive and well. And I'm feeling a little better every day.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I used to be a hooker (of rugs)
I used to do old-fashioned rug hooking, using strips cut from discarded wool clothes and hooking them into burlap. It was my winter hobby, and I loved it. I stopped a number of years ago when things got difficult at home, and I left a couple of projects unfinished. I got one of them out recently, a table runner I designed ten years ago. The seven cats we had at the time are pictured: Puma, Eve, Nocci, Grimmy, Houdini, Buddy, and Princeton. Today only Princeton is left.
I found evidence that moths have visited it, but I don't see any obvious damage. I hope they haven't weakened it badly. I'm thinking I should finish it. I know my daughter Jill would want me to. She enjoyed hooking, too, as well as the cats (and all animals!) and really liked this design. We thought it was fitting that the cats should be on a table runner because we were always chasing them off the table.
I found evidence that moths have visited it, but I don't see any obvious damage. I hope they haven't weakened it badly. I'm thinking I should finish it. I know my daughter Jill would want me to. She enjoyed hooking, too, as well as the cats (and all animals!) and really liked this design. We thought it was fitting that the cats should be on a table runner because we were always chasing them off the table.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
Rihanna ______ ______?
It's possible, maybe even likely, that my granddaughter might want to take up crossword puzzles at some point. Maybe she won't. But if her generation starts sharpening their pencils when they see the New York Times, Will Shortz and his disciples are going to have to get out their erasers and delete many of the old clues. They'll also have to add a bunch that reflect the current . . . um . . . culture.
I was working a puzzle last night, and thought about how, if I were doing the puzzle with Liz, she wouldn't, well, have a clue. At least for these:
Pearl _______ Bailey
Pinza and Chaliapin
Al Hirschfeld's daughter
"Knute Rockne, All American" star
Succotash bean (does anyone eat succotash any more?)
Bandleader Winding
"_________ Romantic?"
Maybe I should invite Liz to do a puzzle with me. She'll think I'm smart, whereas in fact I'm only old.
She'll be sitting there, awestruck, while I zip through these:
"The Caine Mutiny" captain
Peter Weiss drama, "________/Sade"
Skater Midori
"Picnic" playwright
"The Magus" setting
No, wait. She'll be sitting there with her laptop, Googling. Feeding me the answers faster than I can write them in. Laughing triumphantly. Not to worry, Will Shortz.
I was working a puzzle last night, and thought about how, if I were doing the puzzle with Liz, she wouldn't, well, have a clue. At least for these:
Pearl _______ Bailey
Pinza and Chaliapin
Al Hirschfeld's daughter
"Knute Rockne, All American" star
Succotash bean (does anyone eat succotash any more?)
Bandleader Winding
"_________ Romantic?"
Maybe I should invite Liz to do a puzzle with me. She'll think I'm smart, whereas in fact I'm only old.
She'll be sitting there, awestruck, while I zip through these:
"The Caine Mutiny" captain
Peter Weiss drama, "________/Sade"
Skater Midori
"Picnic" playwright
"The Magus" setting
No, wait. She'll be sitting there with her laptop, Googling. Feeding me the answers faster than I can write them in. Laughing triumphantly. Not to worry, Will Shortz.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Seductive Genealogy
For about a week this month I was bitten hard by the genealogy bug. It's seductive—so much information on the Internet! In just a few days I traced one line back to 1790 in Germany. I was able to see (online) actual photographs of two of my great-great grandparents' gravestones, one written in Hebrew. I've stopped for now. To go any further would involve paying to join one of the genealogy websites, which I'm not ready to do at this point. I also don't want to spend a lot of time on it right now. But it's so much fun........kind of like a mystery you solve bit by bit.
I discovered that my great-great-grandfather is the great-great-great-grandfather of Nigella Lawson, the famous (and very beautiful) British chef. And I was very excited to find this photograph of my grandfather the opera singer in the New York Public Library's Performing Arts collection online. I sprung for a $50 enlargement, which I'll frame myself. I have other pictures of him in costume, but I'm sure the quality of this print will be excellent.
I discovered that my great-great-grandfather is the great-great-great-grandfather of Nigella Lawson, the famous (and very beautiful) British chef. And I was very excited to find this photograph of my grandfather the opera singer in the New York Public Library's Performing Arts collection online. I sprung for a $50 enlargement, which I'll frame myself. I have other pictures of him in costume, but I'm sure the quality of this print will be excellent.
After doing this, for the first time I fully appreciate how large a pyramid of ancestors stands behind each of us. The numbers double with every generation . . . two sets of grandparents . . . four sets of greats . . . eight sets of great-greats . . . 16 sets of great x 3, etc. When you follow one line, as I've been doing, it's easy to say, "He was my great-great grandfather" and see the direct connection between us. But then I remember that I have seven other great-great-grandfathers that I never heard of.
PS: If you're wondering how we got from my grandfather's black hair to Jill's (and my) blonde, it's like this: The handsome Jewish baritone married the lovely blonde Scottish Presbyterian soprano. (They met on stage.) They had two children, a gorgeous daughter with his hair and a handsome son with hers. The handsome son was my dad.
Friday, February 01, 2008
The Boss of Bossa Nova
From my old 40x365 blog:
A diabetic octogenarian, Ira is in and out of the hospital. He insists his girlfriend dumped him because he asked the wrong question. Slim, barrel-chested, elegant in rolled-up sleeves and pleated pants, he says I’m his favorite bossa nova partner.
I found out last night that Ira died last week. I only knew him in one capacity--as my bossa nova dance partner of several years. I started going to the jazz club some years ago.......maybe 2002. Ira was one of the regulars. He was about 80 then, a handsome Jew who wore Italian clothes and danced beautifully. He always danced with his much-younger girlfriend. After a while my friends and I became regulars, too. Got to know the band very well and a bunch of the others. Ira's girlfriend was in a terrible car crash, and she moved away. It was a hard time for him.
I don't remember when I started dancing with Ira, but I became his favorite partner. He was a nice person, had a good heart and a sense of humor, and he was fun to dance with.
About a year ago he developed complications from diabetes and was hospitalized. I brought flowers, but didn't go up to see him. I just wanted him to know his friends from the jazz club were thinking of him. After the hospital. he went into a nursing home. It was posh, more like a resort. He called and invited me to come dance with him one day when a band was playing, and so I drove up with a friend. He was so proud to dance in front of all his new friends. I took pictures that evening and sent them to him.
Amazingly, a couple of the nurses drove Ira to the jazz club on ocasional Wednesdays. By then I had stopped going so regularly, so I didn't see him very much. He would call once in a while to see if I was going to be there. The answer was usually no. He told me he hoped I'd come even though the nurses had gotten angry with him for dancing with me! Weird. What was their agenda?
I was at the jazz club the week before this past Christmas when Ira showed up without the nurses, having gotten a ride from someone else. The band played his favorite "Girl From Ipanema" in his honor. He tried twice to dance with me, but couldn't stand up that long. He said he felt sick. Less than a month later, he was gone.
I had to read his obituary to find out if he had children. He didn't. It said he had once owned a nightclub. I could easily envision him there, working the room and dancing with all the ladies. It said he served in WWII and lost his brother in that war. It said over the years he lost two sisters. It left me wanting to know more.
Odd to have such limited knowledge of someone who was rather a fixture in my life for several years. Still, I miss him no less than I would if I'd known everything.
A diabetic octogenarian, Ira is in and out of the hospital. He insists his girlfriend dumped him because he asked the wrong question. Slim, barrel-chested, elegant in rolled-up sleeves and pleated pants, he says I’m his favorite bossa nova partner.
I found out last night that Ira died last week. I only knew him in one capacity--as my bossa nova dance partner of several years. I started going to the jazz club some years ago.......maybe 2002. Ira was one of the regulars. He was about 80 then, a handsome Jew who wore Italian clothes and danced beautifully. He always danced with his much-younger girlfriend. After a while my friends and I became regulars, too. Got to know the band very well and a bunch of the others. Ira's girlfriend was in a terrible car crash, and she moved away. It was a hard time for him.
I don't remember when I started dancing with Ira, but I became his favorite partner. He was a nice person, had a good heart and a sense of humor, and he was fun to dance with.
About a year ago he developed complications from diabetes and was hospitalized. I brought flowers, but didn't go up to see him. I just wanted him to know his friends from the jazz club were thinking of him. After the hospital. he went into a nursing home. It was posh, more like a resort. He called and invited me to come dance with him one day when a band was playing, and so I drove up with a friend. He was so proud to dance in front of all his new friends. I took pictures that evening and sent them to him.
Amazingly, a couple of the nurses drove Ira to the jazz club on ocasional Wednesdays. By then I had stopped going so regularly, so I didn't see him very much. He would call once in a while to see if I was going to be there. The answer was usually no. He told me he hoped I'd come even though the nurses had gotten angry with him for dancing with me! Weird. What was their agenda?
I was at the jazz club the week before this past Christmas when Ira showed up without the nurses, having gotten a ride from someone else. The band played his favorite "Girl From Ipanema" in his honor. He tried twice to dance with me, but couldn't stand up that long. He said he felt sick. Less than a month later, he was gone.
I had to read his obituary to find out if he had children. He didn't. It said he had once owned a nightclub. I could easily envision him there, working the room and dancing with all the ladies. It said he served in WWII and lost his brother in that war. It said over the years he lost two sisters. It left me wanting to know more.
Odd to have such limited knowledge of someone who was rather a fixture in my life for several years. Still, I miss him no less than I would if I'd known everything.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Oops, where did the poem go?
It went to enter a contest. Assuming it doesn't win (a reasonable assumption), it will be back.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Junk: It's All in the Perception
I've been posting photos of old silver on a message board where the members have been generously identifying them for me. The pieces were getting oohs and aahs until I posted the picture of this berry spoon.
I posted it rather proudly. The spoon is large and heavy, and has an almost soft feel to it. It has been special to me ever since I received it as a wedding gift over 40 years ago from a special woman.
"Junk!" the silver mavens declared when they saw it. Junk? How could a heavy piece of sterling silver be junk? Easy, apparently. They explained that the person who bought it probably thought it was a good piece, and it was indeed sterling. But it was mass produced, the pattern of the bowl stolen from another, and the handle lacking detail. When I received that spoon I wondered why it had so little detail. I thought maybe I'd been given an antique. Shows you how much I know.
Good thing it has lots of sentimental value. The special woman's name was Margaret Cobb, and she was a geologist long before women were geologists. My dad worked for an oil company, and after my mother died when I was nine he took me to work with him on occasion. I realize now that those were probably the days he didn't have someone to watch me at home, but at the time I thought he just liked to take me along. He was that kind of father.
I usually spent a good part of each day with Miss Cobb. She was in charge of the corporate library. She was a soft-spoken southern woman, to all appearances rather fragile, but she knew a ton about a lot of things, and the rocks and minerals in her office could keep me fascinated for hours. She took me for a walk in downtown New York and told me how garnets could still be found in the streets.
My memories of Miss Cobb are among the most vivid and the most comforting from a terribly difficult time. I found her much later—when I was 30—but I don't remember how. She was quite elderly by that time, and living in Norfolk, Virginia. We exchanged some letters, and she still had the marvelous spidery handwriting I remembered from my childhood. Her brother notified me when she died.
I'll be selling some silver this winter, pieces that have sat in drawers or cupboards or boxes for too long. But I'm not selling everything. One piece, at least, will get polished and used. Quite proudly.
I posted it rather proudly. The spoon is large and heavy, and has an almost soft feel to it. It has been special to me ever since I received it as a wedding gift over 40 years ago from a special woman.
"Junk!" the silver mavens declared when they saw it. Junk? How could a heavy piece of sterling silver be junk? Easy, apparently. They explained that the person who bought it probably thought it was a good piece, and it was indeed sterling. But it was mass produced, the pattern of the bowl stolen from another, and the handle lacking detail. When I received that spoon I wondered why it had so little detail. I thought maybe I'd been given an antique. Shows you how much I know.
Good thing it has lots of sentimental value. The special woman's name was Margaret Cobb, and she was a geologist long before women were geologists. My dad worked for an oil company, and after my mother died when I was nine he took me to work with him on occasion. I realize now that those were probably the days he didn't have someone to watch me at home, but at the time I thought he just liked to take me along. He was that kind of father.
I usually spent a good part of each day with Miss Cobb. She was in charge of the corporate library. She was a soft-spoken southern woman, to all appearances rather fragile, but she knew a ton about a lot of things, and the rocks and minerals in her office could keep me fascinated for hours. She took me for a walk in downtown New York and told me how garnets could still be found in the streets.
My memories of Miss Cobb are among the most vivid and the most comforting from a terribly difficult time. I found her much later—when I was 30—but I don't remember how. She was quite elderly by that time, and living in Norfolk, Virginia. We exchanged some letters, and she still had the marvelous spidery handwriting I remembered from my childhood. Her brother notified me when she died.
I'll be selling some silver this winter, pieces that have sat in drawers or cupboards or boxes for too long. But I'm not selling everything. One piece, at least, will get polished and used. Quite proudly.
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