Reunion
This was your school, but today it’s mine
My massive stone structures, my towers, my brick
My gothic archways, my winding slate paths
Mine, the people—the students, the grads
Eighty names they read, eighty souls have passed
Through these doorways, and then through life
Yours was among them, just as you
Were among them then, fifty years ago
So I stood for you, and came in your place
Slipped my name—and yours—around my neck
Shook the hands, returned the smiles
Heard about you from before my time
My feet followed yours down Temple and Elm
Slower and shorter than your purposeful stride
With no less of a mission, but the gift of peace;
I knew what I had to do would be done
I sang in historic Woolsey Hall
With a hundred others, and thousands of pipes
Released the purest organ tones
You might have sat in every chair
I sang the football medley and more
Wished poor Harvard endless ills
My F and G were effortless
In songs of praise for Eli Yale
Who infused me with this spirit?
Spirit for school, for community
Was it channeled—an energy
Left here 50 years ago?
Spirit waited; I waited, too
Always hoping someday I’d find
What I discovered in these few days:
This was your school, but today it’s mine
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
My Gardening Pantoum
What We Have Sown
All those invasive plants
we didn’t think of as terrible,
just beautiful and strong,
seeded in the flower beds.
We didn’t think of it as terribly
pesky, the sweet rocket I started,
seeded in the flower beds
25 years ago. It’s everywhere now.
Pesky, the sweet rocket I started,
and the comfrey—such a benign name—
25 years ago. It’s everywhere now,
still reproducing, even the clumps I dig up.
Yes, the comfrey—such a benign name—
exceeding its bounds in the garden,
still reproduces, even the clumps I dig up
and toss across the road, to take root.
Exceeding its bounds in the garden,
forget-me-not dots the yard with blue,
tossing seeds across the road, to take root,
growing rings around the sweet rocket.
Forget-me-not dots the yard with blue:
my daughter’s gentle admonition
growing rings around the sweet rocket,
whispering, Don’t forget.
My daughter’s gentle admonition
not to forget my love of gardening
whispers, Don’t forget
But how will I be remembered?
I won’t forget my love of gardening,
so beautiful and strong,
but will I be remembered for
all those invasive plants?
All those invasive plants
we didn’t think of as terrible,
just beautiful and strong,
seeded in the flower beds.
We didn’t think of it as terribly
pesky, the sweet rocket I started,
seeded in the flower beds
25 years ago. It’s everywhere now.
Pesky, the sweet rocket I started,
and the comfrey—such a benign name—
25 years ago. It’s everywhere now,
still reproducing, even the clumps I dig up.
Yes, the comfrey—such a benign name—
exceeding its bounds in the garden,
still reproduces, even the clumps I dig up
and toss across the road, to take root.
Exceeding its bounds in the garden,
forget-me-not dots the yard with blue,
tossing seeds across the road, to take root,
growing rings around the sweet rocket.
Forget-me-not dots the yard with blue:
my daughter’s gentle admonition
growing rings around the sweet rocket,
whispering, Don’t forget.
My daughter’s gentle admonition
not to forget my love of gardening
whispers, Don’t forget
But how will I be remembered?
I won’t forget my love of gardening,
so beautiful and strong,
but will I be remembered for
all those invasive plants?
Friday, May 18, 2007
Poem
Onlies
for Joe
I sat in my car this afternoon, eating
popcorn with gasoline-scented fingers
(I had just topped off the lawnmower)
and reading Marie Howe when I put down
the book and thought about you.
Because you used to say things like,
We must be the only people in the county
listening to Mahler’s 8th tonight, or
I’ll bet we’re the only people in the county
who ate scrambled tofu for breakfast, or
…who made their own tempeh this week.
And as I sat there, tinted glass shading
my eyes from the late sun, tiny flies trying
furiously to find a way around the window,
I was sure I was the only person in the county,
maybe even all of Pennsylvania and beyond,
sitting in a car at that moment, eating
popcorn with gasoline-scented fingers,
reading Marie Howe, and wondering
if you knew.
I sat in my car this afternoon, eating
popcorn with gasoline-scented fingers
(I had just topped off the lawnmower)
and reading Marie Howe when I put down
the book and thought about you.
Because you used to say things like,
We must be the only people in the county
listening to Mahler’s 8th tonight, or
I’ll bet we’re the only people in the county
who ate scrambled tofu for breakfast, or
…who made their own tempeh this week.
And as I sat there, tinted glass shading
my eyes from the late sun, tiny flies trying
furiously to find a way around the window,
I was sure I was the only person in the county,
maybe even all of Pennsylvania and beyond,
sitting in a car at that moment, eating
popcorn with gasoline-scented fingers,
reading Marie Howe, and wondering
if you knew.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Poem for my granddaughter
Pantoum for Lizzie
I’ll remember (will you?)
our “ladies lunches,”
neither of us ladylike,
you 16, me….not.
Our “ladies lunches:”
your vegetarian choices,
you 16, me….not
but we notice the same things.
Your vegetarian choices—
I appreciate them, like the way
we notice the same things,
little ones and big ones.
I appreciate the way
you care about serious issues,
little ones and big ones.
Prom dresses and the Holocaust.
You care about serious issues
alternating with the hilarious.
Prom dresses and the Holocaust
give way to mutual glee.
Alternating with the hilarious,
those spiritual discussions
give way to mutual glee
with the one whose laughter I love.
Those spiritual discussions,
neither of us ladylike,
with the one whose laughter I love
I’ll remember (will you?)
I’ll remember (will you?)
our “ladies lunches,”
neither of us ladylike,
you 16, me….not.
Our “ladies lunches:”
your vegetarian choices,
you 16, me….not
but we notice the same things.
Your vegetarian choices—
I appreciate them, like the way
we notice the same things,
little ones and big ones.
I appreciate the way
you care about serious issues,
little ones and big ones.
Prom dresses and the Holocaust.
You care about serious issues
alternating with the hilarious.
Prom dresses and the Holocaust
give way to mutual glee.
Alternating with the hilarious,
those spiritual discussions
give way to mutual glee
with the one whose laughter I love.
Those spiritual discussions,
neither of us ladylike,
with the one whose laughter I love
I’ll remember (will you?)
Friday, April 20, 2007
12-Year-Old Applesauce
The label, a scrap of freezer tape, is written in happy blue ink:
Applesauce 1994. It’s now 2006. Who would eat
12-year-old applesauce? In a can, it would bulge
with bacteria. Under a plastic lid, it has grown a hard layer
of frost and the beige skin known as freezer burn. I chip off
the ice, cut away the burn, and wait impatiently
for the fruit of my long-ago labor to thaw.
In 1994 my husband was alive. A year away from his downward
slide, he understood every growing thing on this property.
Carrying old trusted tools, he planted and pruned
our fruit trees. The cage of his hand-held picker reached
the uppermost Macs, bright in the sun, while I gathered
bruised drops in the grass. He never failed to praise
my pies, cakes, and cobblers. And applesauce, every vintage.
In 1994 my daughter Jill was alive. She was 19, a horsewoman
and clarinetist. An artist in the kitchen. Together we
rolled these red apples around in green buckets of water,
drained them, cut them into crisp pieces, set them to melt
and bubble in a vast pot on the stove, inhaled their goodness,
exhaled our mutual feelings of pleasure and security
in this ritual, touching shoulders, hands, chakras.
In 1994 my mother was only a phone call away. Holly, the gentle
black lab mix, had another two years left. The cats, acquired as a group,
were at mid-life. The horses were here then—Jill’s horses, her father’s
horses, gone now, leaving behind walls of blue ribbons.
With only a few ice crystals remaining, the applesauce receives
my spoon. I hold its pink sweetness in my mouth, trying
to swallow slowly, to keep this bliss on my raw throat
as long as possible before it slips away.
Applesauce 1994. It’s now 2006. Who would eat
12-year-old applesauce? In a can, it would bulge
with bacteria. Under a plastic lid, it has grown a hard layer
of frost and the beige skin known as freezer burn. I chip off
the ice, cut away the burn, and wait impatiently
for the fruit of my long-ago labor to thaw.
In 1994 my husband was alive. A year away from his downward
slide, he understood every growing thing on this property.
Carrying old trusted tools, he planted and pruned
our fruit trees. The cage of his hand-held picker reached
the uppermost Macs, bright in the sun, while I gathered
bruised drops in the grass. He never failed to praise
my pies, cakes, and cobblers. And applesauce, every vintage.
In 1994 my daughter Jill was alive. She was 19, a horsewoman
and clarinetist. An artist in the kitchen. Together we
rolled these red apples around in green buckets of water,
drained them, cut them into crisp pieces, set them to melt
and bubble in a vast pot on the stove, inhaled their goodness,
exhaled our mutual feelings of pleasure and security
in this ritual, touching shoulders, hands, chakras.
In 1994 my mother was only a phone call away. Holly, the gentle
black lab mix, had another two years left. The cats, acquired as a group,
were at mid-life. The horses were here then—Jill’s horses, her father’s
horses, gone now, leaving behind walls of blue ribbons.
With only a few ice crystals remaining, the applesauce receives
my spoon. I hold its pink sweetness in my mouth, trying
to swallow slowly, to keep this bliss on my raw throat
as long as possible before it slips away.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
The Scent of Celery
This afternoon I read in a 1935 diet book that celery makes an excellent substitute for bread. It made me laugh. It also made me think about celery.
When Joe and I were first married we lived in a little apartment way up high in midtown Manhattan. After three years we bought a little weekend house in Pennsylvania. It was mostly his idea; I wasn't sure how often I wanted to come to the country (all those trees!). But it wasn't long before I became caught up in the spell of living close to nature, and I don't think we ever missed a weekend unless he was traveling in Europe.
We would leave after work on Friday. Joe would drive, and if it was still light outside I would read a cookbook, planning the weekend's meals. When we reached Sparta, NJ, we stopped to buy food. The supermarket looked so different from the little grocery stores in Manhattan. It smelled different, too. Today's supermarkets smell like baked goods. I don't know if it's because of their bakeries or because they spray "eau de cinnamon bun" into the vestibules. But all those years ago the Sparta supermarket smelled like celery. At least that's how it seemed to me.
I think of those days sometimes when I pause in the produce department, looking for the freshest, heaviest, cleanest head of celery. Or when I happen upon one of those cookbooks, long unused.
When Joe and I were first married we lived in a little apartment way up high in midtown Manhattan. After three years we bought a little weekend house in Pennsylvania. It was mostly his idea; I wasn't sure how often I wanted to come to the country (all those trees!). But it wasn't long before I became caught up in the spell of living close to nature, and I don't think we ever missed a weekend unless he was traveling in Europe.
We would leave after work on Friday. Joe would drive, and if it was still light outside I would read a cookbook, planning the weekend's meals. When we reached Sparta, NJ, we stopped to buy food. The supermarket looked so different from the little grocery stores in Manhattan. It smelled different, too. Today's supermarkets smell like baked goods. I don't know if it's because of their bakeries or because they spray "eau de cinnamon bun" into the vestibules. But all those years ago the Sparta supermarket smelled like celery. At least that's how it seemed to me.
I think of those days sometimes when I pause in the produce department, looking for the freshest, heaviest, cleanest head of celery. Or when I happen upon one of those cookbooks, long unused.
Friday, April 06, 2007
Poem
March Song
Twenty-something degrees—
I still need gloves to walk the dog.
But the birds know what’s coming.
Their first tentative mating murmurs
edge the property: two notes
from a chickadee, then another,
nameless but familiar.
The angle of the sun sends its own
signal of the changing season,
as does—for reasons I can’t explain—
the long white puff of an old contrail
dividing the suddenly brilliant sky.
My tired winter shoes
are no match for the snow’s icy surface.
Thawed yesterday, it froze overnight
to a glistening slick. The dog pulls me
down the slight grade back to the house.
The ice will melt again,
The hard, cold dirt road
will turn again to mud.
Who knows where the time goes?
My friends and I tuned our first guitars,
debating the key, settling on G.
Across the morning sky
all the birds are leaving,
we sang, thinking more about
the placement of our fingers
than the onslaught of time.
Today a double V of geese glides
overhead, so high they seem silent.
I remember the hollow sound
of the guitars, the chord changes,
our long hair falling over the frets
like the ribbons of years
that stretched before us.
Twenty-something degrees—
I still need gloves to walk the dog.
But the birds know what’s coming.
Their first tentative mating murmurs
edge the property: two notes
from a chickadee, then another,
nameless but familiar.
The angle of the sun sends its own
signal of the changing season,
as does—for reasons I can’t explain—
the long white puff of an old contrail
dividing the suddenly brilliant sky.
My tired winter shoes
are no match for the snow’s icy surface.
Thawed yesterday, it froze overnight
to a glistening slick. The dog pulls me
down the slight grade back to the house.
The ice will melt again,
The hard, cold dirt road
will turn again to mud.
Who knows where the time goes?
My friends and I tuned our first guitars,
debating the key, settling on G.
Across the morning sky
all the birds are leaving,
we sang, thinking more about
the placement of our fingers
than the onslaught of time.
Today a double V of geese glides
overhead, so high they seem silent.
I remember the hollow sound
of the guitars, the chord changes,
our long hair falling over the frets
like the ribbons of years
that stretched before us.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Helpless
I hope 2007 goes down as The Year of the Fall. If it does, that will mean that there were no falls, or certainly fewer of them, in subsequent years.
This year Linda fell on ice and broke her ankle so badly that she was ordered not to drive for six months. Jerry fell down a flight of steps at a theater and separated his shoulder. Jane fell down stairs in her house, breaking her leg in several places. Linda's husband and daughter are helping her, Jane is temporarily living in a rehab facility, and I drove Jerry around. I have to admit I wasn't all that gracious about it. Driving 25 miles on back roads to his house, and then to the city to his appointments (when did he develop such a long To Do list??), and then back to his house, and then back to my house, is tiring at best.
After a 90-minute wait at the orthopedist's one day (followed by the dry cleaners, the bank, his office, and Blockbuster) I got downright testy. Low blood sugar didn't help. But by the time I was fed and back in my coccoon I was ready to apologize. Because the thought had come to me rather emphatically: It could be you. I live out in the country, too, most of the time by myself. In addition, I have animals to care for: dogs in the house, cats in the house and barn. What if I got hurt?
And a few days later I did. I was walking one of the dogs early on St. Patrick's Day, after an 18" snowfall, when I fell twice on the icy plowed road — once on my knee and once on my hip. I thought I was in trouble when I came down hard on the hip in the middle of the road, but the knee turned out to be the bigger problem. I spent the next week mostly in bed watching Grey's Anatomy.
The animals got walked and fed because my son and daughter-in-law are living with me for a while. Otherwise, I don't know how I would have managed. I learned some time ago to say the words, "Can you please help?" But it's been a while and it might take some effort to force them past my throat. Even relying on my family to help me was no fun. Grey's Anatomy is a good show, but I would have been ever so much more excited and happy to be washing dishes, doing laundry, and manning the pooper scooper.
Remember that the next time you're plodding through routine chores. I will.
This year Linda fell on ice and broke her ankle so badly that she was ordered not to drive for six months. Jerry fell down a flight of steps at a theater and separated his shoulder. Jane fell down stairs in her house, breaking her leg in several places. Linda's husband and daughter are helping her, Jane is temporarily living in a rehab facility, and I drove Jerry around. I have to admit I wasn't all that gracious about it. Driving 25 miles on back roads to his house, and then to the city to his appointments (when did he develop such a long To Do list??), and then back to his house, and then back to my house, is tiring at best.
After a 90-minute wait at the orthopedist's one day (followed by the dry cleaners, the bank, his office, and Blockbuster) I got downright testy. Low blood sugar didn't help. But by the time I was fed and back in my coccoon I was ready to apologize. Because the thought had come to me rather emphatically: It could be you. I live out in the country, too, most of the time by myself. In addition, I have animals to care for: dogs in the house, cats in the house and barn. What if I got hurt?
And a few days later I did. I was walking one of the dogs early on St. Patrick's Day, after an 18" snowfall, when I fell twice on the icy plowed road — once on my knee and once on my hip. I thought I was in trouble when I came down hard on the hip in the middle of the road, but the knee turned out to be the bigger problem. I spent the next week mostly in bed watching Grey's Anatomy.
The animals got walked and fed because my son and daughter-in-law are living with me for a while. Otherwise, I don't know how I would have managed. I learned some time ago to say the words, "Can you please help?" But it's been a while and it might take some effort to force them past my throat. Even relying on my family to help me was no fun. Grey's Anatomy is a good show, but I would have been ever so much more excited and happy to be washing dishes, doing laundry, and manning the pooper scooper.
Remember that the next time you're plodding through routine chores. I will.
Friday, March 16, 2007
The Stars of the Snow
Snow again. It always seems unfair to get a snowstorm this close to spring (or thereafter), but what's fair about the weather? Not a thing.
It's piling up outside as I write this, with 12-16" in the forecast. It'll have to be dealt with in various ways, but for now there's nothing to do but look at it. We admire the way it has covered up vast areas of wicked, sucking mud. It can put is in denial about the mud, actually. The same mud that tortured us and our vehicles for the past week is seemingly gone now. As long as we can keep ourselves from anticipating The Big Melt, we don't have to think about the mud.
Along with the disappearance of the mud came the appearance of the birds. We always have birds here, but there's nothing like a foot of snow to turn the front yard into an open-air aviary. The birds are a show all by themselves, and to me and my camera the stars are the cardinals. Beautiful in any season, they take on a special glow against a white background. We never have more than one pair in our yard. Here'sMrs. Ms. Cardinal:
And here's herhusband significant other, puffed up against the wind:
It's piling up outside as I write this, with 12-16" in the forecast. It'll have to be dealt with in various ways, but for now there's nothing to do but look at it. We admire the way it has covered up vast areas of wicked, sucking mud. It can put is in denial about the mud, actually. The same mud that tortured us and our vehicles for the past week is seemingly gone now. As long as we can keep ourselves from anticipating The Big Melt, we don't have to think about the mud.
Along with the disappearance of the mud came the appearance of the birds. We always have birds here, but there's nothing like a foot of snow to turn the front yard into an open-air aviary. The birds are a show all by themselves, and to me and my camera the stars are the cardinals. Beautiful in any season, they take on a special glow against a white background. We never have more than one pair in our yard. Here's
And here's her
Friday, March 09, 2007
Another Time, Another Tune
I was fifteen, and in the happiest place I knew: Sag Harbor, Long Island, where my family spent a long vacation every summer. At Sag Harbor I lived in and on the water, went everywhere in our boat, and slept with sand in my bed every night. My dad and I caught something to eat every day: flounder, blue-claw crabs, clams we dug with our hands.
On this particular day our vacation was about to come to a close. My parents were at the cottage, packing to go home to the city. I was seated on a long white sofa in a spacious, glass-walled beach house, where I had been invited by several rather adorable guys. This was the fifties. I had no fear that the guys had brought me there to drop a date-rape drug into my Pepsi, or involve me in some satanic ritual. And I was right. We were there because they wanted me to hear some music they had recently discovered. The record was by The Kingston Trio, and I was enchanted.
It was my first exposure to what we called folk music. I've always loved harmony, plus the three guys on the album cover were so cute! I don't know what they look like now (hey, I'm not cute either), and I hardly ever hear their songs anymore, but when I do I still appreciate the harmonies. And "Scotch and Soda" always always takes me back to a time when I felt, rightly or wrongly, on the verge of something wonderful every day.
On this particular day our vacation was about to come to a close. My parents were at the cottage, packing to go home to the city. I was seated on a long white sofa in a spacious, glass-walled beach house, where I had been invited by several rather adorable guys. This was the fifties. I had no fear that the guys had brought me there to drop a date-rape drug into my Pepsi, or involve me in some satanic ritual. And I was right. We were there because they wanted me to hear some music they had recently discovered. The record was by The Kingston Trio, and I was enchanted.
It was my first exposure to what we called folk music. I've always loved harmony, plus the three guys on the album cover were so cute! I don't know what they look like now (hey, I'm not cute either), and I hardly ever hear their songs anymore, but when I do I still appreciate the harmonies. And "Scotch and Soda" always always takes me back to a time when I felt, rightly or wrongly, on the verge of something wonderful every day.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Patience is a Virtue
My grandmother always said that: "Patience is a virtue. Catch it if you can."
The plumbing job didn't turn out very well, but it was my brain that was at fault, not the plumber's. I knew what I wanted, but I apparently didn't know how to describe it. It reminded me very much of my trips to the hair salon. As happened with so many hair stylists, the plumber's vision of what I wanted didn't turn out to be mine.
We were supposed to reroute pipes to make it possible for a new floor to be put in so that we could have the new dryer delivered and installed. The pipes got rerouted all right, but in such a way that it's no longer possible for the dryer to fit in that space. It looks like I won't be saying goodbye to the laundromat any time soon.
Hey, the laundromat isn't so bad. It seemed like such a nuisance at first, carting all those wet clothes in and out of the car, slipping around on the ice between the house and the garage and between the car and the side door of the laundromat, finding the change machine broken, trying to read while tuning out the true crime dramatizations always playing on the TV... you know, all that stuff. But now I'm used to it.
I'm writing this in a part of the house that used to be the kitchen. "Kitchen" is a bit of a stretch. It was a dark corner that housed a stove, a sink, and a board between them for the counter. When we first saw the house I took one look at the kitchen area and said, "I can't cook a meal there." Well, I ended up cooking three meals a day there for several years. It's amazing what you can get used to.
I wonder how long I'll be visiting the laundromat? Patience, patience...
The plumbing job didn't turn out very well, but it was my brain that was at fault, not the plumber's. I knew what I wanted, but I apparently didn't know how to describe it. It reminded me very much of my trips to the hair salon. As happened with so many hair stylists, the plumber's vision of what I wanted didn't turn out to be mine.
We were supposed to reroute pipes to make it possible for a new floor to be put in so that we could have the new dryer delivered and installed. The pipes got rerouted all right, but in such a way that it's no longer possible for the dryer to fit in that space. It looks like I won't be saying goodbye to the laundromat any time soon.
Hey, the laundromat isn't so bad. It seemed like such a nuisance at first, carting all those wet clothes in and out of the car, slipping around on the ice between the house and the garage and between the car and the side door of the laundromat, finding the change machine broken, trying to read while tuning out the true crime dramatizations always playing on the TV... you know, all that stuff. But now I'm used to it.
I'm writing this in a part of the house that used to be the kitchen. "Kitchen" is a bit of a stretch. It was a dark corner that housed a stove, a sink, and a board between them for the counter. When we first saw the house I took one look at the kitchen area and said, "I can't cook a meal there." Well, I ended up cooking three meals a day there for several years. It's amazing what you can get used to.
I wonder how long I'll be visiting the laundromat? Patience, patience...
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Precognition
The plumber is here.
I waited three weeks for this day. He's down in the basement, working on a break in the main water line. When he finishes with that, there's a bigger job waiting for him upstairs.
He's whistling a tune.
I just realized what it is. He's whistling "If I Only Had a Brain."
This is not a good sign.
I waited three weeks for this day. He's down in the basement, working on a break in the main water line. When he finishes with that, there's a bigger job waiting for him upstairs.
He's whistling a tune.
I just realized what it is. He's whistling "If I Only Had a Brain."
This is not a good sign.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Strolling Mice
A friend of mine recently moved into a new house--a rental--and within a few days found the kitchen overrun with mice. I commented that a mouse invasion was rather unusual for a new building (it's the sort of thing I'd be more likely to see in my 1850 farmhouse if I didn't have a bunch of cats), and she said the landlord had explained that the mice came in when my friend accidentally left the side door to the garage open.
I laughed at the mental image of a family of mice strolling into the garage...or perhaps marching single-file across the threshold, determined in their mission to invade the premises. And I tried not to laugh at the fact that my friend believed the landlord.
"Did he explain how the mice got from the downstairs garage to the upstairs kitchen?" I asked. He hadn't. But implausible as it is, I still love the image of the strolling mice. It stayed with me all day.
I laughed at the mental image of a family of mice strolling into the garage...or perhaps marching single-file across the threshold, determined in their mission to invade the premises. And I tried not to laugh at the fact that my friend believed the landlord.
"Did he explain how the mice got from the downstairs garage to the upstairs kitchen?" I asked. He hadn't. But implausible as it is, I still love the image of the strolling mice. It stayed with me all day.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Little Miss Sunshine
Have you seen it? I really liked the movie. It didn't make me laugh continuously, but I felt it was layered...comedy on top of a good, thoughtful story with wonderful touches throughout. I found most of the characters to be sympathetic and real. I like a movie where I care about the characters. And I thought the final scenes were terrific — and very funny.
I do have one complaint, though. They have the grandfather snorting heroin. (This is not a spoiler.) I know it's an R rated movie, but a lot of young people will see it. I think it's a mistake to trivialize heroin use like that. They could easily have had the grandfather doing something else. It didn't even have to be related to drugs. The movie doesn't get into his drug use, so there's no mention of how highly addictive heroin is. It's just something funny that Grandpa does. Not a good idea, I would say.
I admit I have a strong anti-heroin bias. The drug has invaded our rural communities and is swallowing up our children. One reason heroin has been so "successful" is that kids are unaware of its wickedly addictive properties. They think it can be used as an occasional recreational drug. And that fallacy is exactly what this movie perpetrates.
When I saw the first drug scene in Little Miss Sunshine I thought Grandpa was snorting cocaine. Cocaine certainly would have fulfilled the intention of showing Grandpa to be inappropriately cool (in the extreme). Of course, to me, pot smoking would have served the same purpose. But maybe I'm unusual.
I do have one complaint, though. They have the grandfather snorting heroin. (This is not a spoiler.) I know it's an R rated movie, but a lot of young people will see it. I think it's a mistake to trivialize heroin use like that. They could easily have had the grandfather doing something else. It didn't even have to be related to drugs. The movie doesn't get into his drug use, so there's no mention of how highly addictive heroin is. It's just something funny that Grandpa does. Not a good idea, I would say.
I admit I have a strong anti-heroin bias. The drug has invaded our rural communities and is swallowing up our children. One reason heroin has been so "successful" is that kids are unaware of its wickedly addictive properties. They think it can be used as an occasional recreational drug. And that fallacy is exactly what this movie perpetrates.
When I saw the first drug scene in Little Miss Sunshine I thought Grandpa was snorting cocaine. Cocaine certainly would have fulfilled the intention of showing Grandpa to be inappropriately cool (in the extreme). Of course, to me, pot smoking would have served the same purpose. But maybe I'm unusual.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Pogo
Pogo is Annie's black kitten. He had two orange siblings, and when we met them all three were terrified of humans. Leanne and I went next door on a regular basis to play with them, justifying it by saying we were socializing the feral kittens. This is true, of course, but we also simply found them irresistible.
They didn't socialize easy, and the process wasn't helped along when a neighborhood boy went after them with a stick. That evening, Annie moved her brood into my garage. They were all still living there when Annie became sick. The vet found several things wrong with her, and said she was in a weakened condition from nursing the kittens too long. This offended my La Leche League Leader sensibilities, but I agreed to facilitate weaning. Annie had to come into my home in order to rest and get her daily meds, and I brought her black kitten with her. I took the oranges (males? females?) to the shelter, something I'd never done before. But the staff said the kittens would probably get adopted quickly because orange kittens were popular and they were the only ones of that color. I want to believe that's what happened.
I hadn't intended to acquire two new cats, but I knew I was fated to hold on to the black kitten. What is it with me and black cats?? (More about that another time.) Annie spent a month in the guest room with her baby. During that time he overcame all his fears and demonstrated a great capacity for affection, a strong purr, and the ability to levitate in all directions. I named him Pogo.
This is Pogo's first winter. He and Annie are indoors most of the time, but he loves to go out to play in the snow if it's not too cold. Unlike his mother, he gets along well with the dogs and the other cats. He loves all the humans. At night he sleeps in Joey and Leanne's room. And sometimes he joins them for breakfast, sitting in a chair at the head of the table and looking hopeful.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Annie
I was sweeping about 10" of snow off my car last winter when I discovered--because the mound of snow at my feet began to move--that I'd been sweeping it onto a calico cat. She was unfazed by the avalanche; she she got out from under, shook herself off, and proceeded to rub around my ankles--or, more accurately, my boots.
She came around a lot after that. I learned that the woman managing the horse farm next door had acquired her, along with several others, to keep the barns free of mice. When this woman quit her job, leaving the cats behind, I decided to adopt my calico friend and get her spayed. A friend suggested that I name her Little Orphan Annie, which suited her perfectly. Those big yellow eyes! I invited her to spend the night in my house, and she readily agreed.
It was a peaceful sleepover, but in the morning I discovered that I was harboring a nursing mother. Back to the barn went Annie. Several days later Leanne and I found the kittens: two orange and one black. Thus began a period of waiting for the kittens to be old enough to be weaned so that Annie could be spayed. It dragged out quite a bit, involving medicating Annie every day for a month after it was discovered that she had elevated liver enzymes and couldn't undergo surgery until she was healthy.
Annie got spayed, moved in, and never looked back at the barn next door. She's a somewhat moody cat, affectionate one day, aloof the next. But one constant is her pleasure at finding warm, soft places to sleep. Annie loves to sleep. She also loves catnip, as you can see from this photo. And she loves her name. That is, she answers to it instantly, as well as to my all-purpose cat call: pssst!
Imagine...an animal story with a happy ending. Little Orphan Annie is an orphan no more.
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