Thursday, December 31, 2009

Hard to believe this year is ending in a few hours. It wasn't a bad year - all things considered, the economy (I guess that says it all) the economy with all its concerns and uncertainty. But here are what I myself consider the best things of 2009.

(1) The Wacky Raft Race. When I first told my family this was my favorite thing of the year, they looked at me like I was crazy. But it was wonderful. Being on that little raft, in the middle of the river, just trying to make it to Catskill made for an exciting, amusing, exhausting, exhilerating experience. And we made it - did not even consider quitting. My family at their best. And being on that raft, with just my family, for all those hours, was more time than we have spent together, alone, in a long time. Sabra is already planning our next wacky race.

(2) Maribeth giving me the woodpecker painting. So unexpected, so kind, so touching. God Bless you Maribeth and family. Everytime I look at it, it makes me happy.

(3) Meeting Caleb Potter at the Oysterfest. After all those months, in which he played the invisible but prominent role in our family, in our thoughts, in our prayers, the boy that survived. In some way his recovery, his continued recovery gives hope. And he looked so good, and kissed me, I can still feel the stubble of his beard. God Bless you too Caleb. I continue to read his mother's blog and keep him in my thoughts and his Christmas card to me is placed with honor near Maria's picture.

(4) The week in Wellfleet with my family. The Monkey Party, the snail race, laughing in bed with my sister Maureen, the surprise visit of John O'Leary and family, the mermaid sand lady, all the experience - even being in the same cottage that I had shared with Ria for her last trip to the Cape - like the commercial says "priceless".

(5) Sharing with Margaret her last year with us. Zach's pirate show in Catskill, eating the boxed supper after the show down at the Park, drinking a beer with her on my birthday, walking with her at the Street Painting, and finally speaking and sharing at her memorial. Rest in Peace Margaret.

I probably will think of another hundred or so things that I should have included, but right now I am happy with the above. Happy New Year - bring on 2010. God Bless.

Friday, December 25, 2009

This morning, before eight, I went to watch Sabra's boys open their presents and on the way home I heard the loud rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker, a big woodpecker sound. Could it be the piliated woodpecker? Yes, he flew right over my head and then from the back yard the loud squawk of another woodpecker, and another piliated woodpecker flew over. My heart pounded as I got this rush, this feeling that Maria was saying Merry Christmas Ma. A wonderful gift on this gray but beautiful Christmas morning.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

Today, Christmas Eve, I received a card from Cape Cod, from Caleb. This is what he wrote:

Ho Ho Ho !!!! Merry Christmas to you and your entire family...& I hope you get every gift you wish for.....soooo have a great holiday !! & thank you!!! (Drawn heart) Caleb! (15 little drawn hearts).

And I just want to say Ho Ho Ho Merry Christmas to all. God Bless us all and give us peace and good health in the next year. (Drawn heart)

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Today I was remembering a Christmas six years ago, a hard Christmas for Maria because she had to make life defining decisions for her Godmother and Aunt, Aunt Lillian. Lillian was in the hospital in Poughkeepsie and the staff was adamant that this time she was not going home. She had to go to a Nursing Facility. Although there is usually a long waiting line, and lots of foot work and paper work, Maria managed to get her in Northern Dutchess, close to Maria's home. Lillian was admitted a week before Christmas. Maria followed the ambulance that brought her to Rhinebeck. As they were getting Lillian out of the vehicle, one of the men said to Maria, "Boy, that Aunt of yours is a real pisser" and told her that before they took off, Aunt Lillian said to the two men, "Boys, can you do something for me? Make a stop for me?" The men thinking that she wanted some magazines to read or personal items, said sure, and Aunt Lillian said, "Take me to the Poughkeepsie Bridge. I want to jump off."

Aunt Lillian seemed to adjust well the first day. The dietician came up to ask her what she liked to eat. "Oh, said Aunt Lillian, "I'm a vegetarian. But I would love a lamb chop." Because they rushed her into the Nursing Home, she had to share a room. She didn't like this and neither did the woman with her, who called her a "Princess" and would talk aloud to herself about the "spoiled princess". I let her get settled and went to see her after two days. Maria was in her room with her. Her roommate was wheeled out to see the Christmas Pageant, loudly discussing how the "princess doesn't want to go to the show like everybody else. Trying to make small talk, I told Maria that I had heard the coyotes the night before. Aunt Lillian looked up from the bed. Coyote? Uncle Phil had a coyote during the war. He carried it around with him." Maria and I exchanged looks and then Aunt Lillian asked for a cup of tea. Maria offered to go and get it and said she wanted to see the Christmas pageant anyway. Lillian and I had a nice talk, about family and old times and Maria came back with the tea. Later, going home Maria said the Pageant was beautiful, sad but beautiful, with the players being the patients. The three wise men came in on wheel chairs and Ria had tears in her eyes when she said one old man had a big bandage on his head, but a great big smile.

Maria was called in daily to calm Aunt Lillian down, who was not happy to be there and even managed for her to get a private room. The day before Christmas a nurse told Maria to stay home tomorrow, spend Christmas with your family. Besides, Aunt Lillian might adapt better if not given the chance to lean on Maria all the time. So she did. She called and the staff said she had visitors from Beacon and was talkative and responsive to her guests. But Sunday after Christmas they again called Maria, that things were not going well. Aunt Lillian was going downhill fast. Maria called the priest to come for the last rites, but found Lillian naked, not even a blanket on in her bed. The nurse explained that sometimes near death the human "thermostat" goes crazy and Aunt Lillian could not cool down. "Help me, help me die,"she begged Ria. "I called the priest, he will help you." But the priest seeing she had no clothes on would not go into the room. Get her dressed, he directed and Maria went back into the room. Again Aunt Lillian asked for her help, help me die. The nurse looked at Maria and Maria said sternly, We will help you Aunt Lillian, We will help you die. But first you have to get dressed. " Maria said the nurse laughed right out loud at Maria's words. But Aunt Lillian did get covered up and the priest said his prayers which calmed Lillian right down.

The next morning while Maria and I talked on the phone, Aunt Lillian died. I went with Maria to the funeral home. Lillian had made all the arrangements before, just the obituary had to be written. Where was she born? He asked Maria. "Harlem", she was always proud of that fact. He shook his head, we better just say New York City...people might misunderstand. He asked a few more questions, and then Ria said to him...about her birthplace - I want you to put in Harlem. That's what she wanted, that's what she is going to get" Maria did a great job taking care of Aunt Lillian, right to the end....and more.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

We are having the second snowstorm of the week. I woke up thinking of snowmen. Last year I read The History of the Snowman by Bob Eckstein and was fascinated by the historic facts presented of the snowman. The author really did a good job, searching art museums throughout the world, looking for the first sign of a snowman. Because of the nature of snowmen (they melt) there was little seen of them in art, but then in the 15th century they started to appear in winter scenes.

Their history is a shady one, snowball throwing started the American Revolution with the Boston Massacre...some boys threw snowballs at the British soldiers. Also, a fort in upstate New York was attacked by Indians when the men, during a snowstorm, left the fort guarded by just two snowmen. Early snowmen were both snow men and ladies, and some of them were quite risque. The snowman really became popular in the 19th and 20th century in advertisements. They advertised everything from cars, to candy, to alcohol and not one snowman ever made a penny for representing a product. (Unlike Tiger Woods who up until recently made millions of dollars by endorsing products!) Bob Eckstein called the years from 1975-2000 the "white trash years" of the snowmen, with Hollywood making movies, not only cartoons, but bloody killer Snowman movies and snowmen being exploited all over the place.

The Guiness Book of records lists the people of Bethel Maine as building the largest snowman. They keep breaking their own record, no one challenges them. The latest was a snow lady, 122 feet and 1 inch high. I think they are working on another one right now. Anyway, when I read the book I thought what a wonderful project for Tivoli, not the biggest, but maybe the most snowmen in a Village. Everyone could go to the park, or maybe just make a snowman in their yard, or maybe a whole crowd of snowmen.

Then this morning I had another thought...snowmen in the cemetery. We just finished decorating Maria's grave with a grave blanket, so the cemetery was on my mind. Any what better place to make snowmen? Lots of space, no one would bother them. They would get people to gather in a place that used to be used by families to picnic and spend time with their departed families. And, I bet Guiness doesn't have any record of the largest number of snowmen made in a cemetery. January 18th is World Day of the Snow Man (a fact I stumbled on in the internet) so I think a snowman -at least one - will show up in the cemetery on that day.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

Yesterday I read at Margaret's Memorial. I was not going to read and then I thought well, I wrote it, Margaret would have liked to hear it, so I got up, the next to the last person to speak and read my page and a half on my experiences with Margaret and a few of the times we had shared. People started to laugh as I got into the second paragraph about Margaret and the bread dough and they kept on laughing. It made me feel really good because I love to make people laugh (sometimes I don't even mean to.) I think it started when I was in eighth grade and my father was in the hospital with a heart attack.

In those days they kept you in the hospital for six weeks, flat in the bed, no pillow, nothing. My father had always been a very active man and this, plus the doctor saying he would never ski again, had depressed him deeply and I saw a side of my father that I had never seen before. The hospital was one block from the high school, so everyday I would stop in to visit him on my way home from school. One day I told him what had happened that day. "Bill Eggling made himself faint today in school, " I started. My father looked at me blankly. Why did he do that? he asked, and I said, "Well, Mrs. Collins, our history teacher was late in coming to class, and he just told everybody he was going to make himself faint. He went up to the front of the class and held his breath. First he turned kind of red, then white, then he tumbled over just as Mrs. Collins came into the room. Now the man in the next bed, put down his newspaper and looked at me, like what happened next? "Well', I continued, Mrs. Collins screamed "What's going on?" and someone said Bill wanted to show us how he could faint. Bill already was starting to sit up and Mrs. Collins ordered him to the nurse, assigning another boy to go with him. "What did Mrs. Collins do then?" my father asked and I said she shook her head and said, "And they shot good men like Lincoln." Well, my father smiled at that. The man in the next bed said he knew a guy in the service that could make himself faint...he thought it would get him out of the army, but they didn't care. And he started to tell us his stories of the war. After that everyday I would look for something funny or interesting to tell my father. And there was always plenty of material a lot of it involving the strange Bill. One day he went too far and lit lighter fluid on his desk, so we didn't see him for quite a while after that. Anyway, there were a variety of teenage boys doing weird things to report back to the hospital room, trying to get at least a smile.

Years later I was taking an English class at Bard with Professor Wilson, a well known and respected teacher at Bard for many years. We were the night class, mostly adults, but had a full schedule. We read Moby Dick plus had writing assignments every week. One time he came into class, smiled at us, and said, "Last week after this class, I went home, made a fire in the fireplace, poured myself a glass of scotch and started to go through your papers. I got laughing so hard that Mrs. Wilson (his wife was the Registrar at Bard) came downstairs to ask what was I laughing about and I told her Mrs. Fritz." That's when I knew he was talking about my paper and I blushed red as a beet but was also as proud as I could be. I made Professor Wilson laugh.

It was not easy to get Margaret to laugh. She smiled a lot, but held her laughs mostly in reserve. I remember one time at the Black Swan I was telling her about a Larry David show where he had a particular type of hair caught in his throat, and she got laughing so hard. Margaret was beautiful when she smiled, but when she laughed it was like plugging in the Christmas tree and all the lights and decorations lit up like magic. That was her laugh and I hope I made her laugh yesterday too.

Friday, November 20, 2009

I was looking for something last week in one of my drawers and ran across a file of writings that Maria had given to me. They were written by her for her English class, English 101, when she was a student at Columbia Greene College. Here's a part of what she wrote:

"When I was a child, my mother belonged to the Columbia House Record Club. Once a month, Nick our mailman, would deliver to her a flat, square package. Sometimes it was the selection of the Month, which meant she hadn't mailed in an order. Usually she returned these, although I do remember her keeping a few. Most of the arrivals were long awaited and most desired. James Taylor, Carol King, Simon and Garfunkel, Cat Stevens, and Bob Dylan all came into our lives this way. If we happened to be home from school when the latest album came, we were treated to an impromptu party. She remove it lovingly from its outer wrappings, carefully put it on the old black stereo, and after blowing once or twice on the needle, begin to play it. Just once how I wish I could return, spiritlike, to peer through the window and see the five of us dancing barefoot in that livingroom of my childhood. We were joyous."

I first was introduced to the Columbia Record Club by my sister Barbara. She was working at Texaco at the time, was making "good money" so had enrolled in the club. In 1955 the Club was still in its early stage, but already had more than 128,000 members. Barbara bought Frank Sinatra, Broadway hits - I knew and still remember all the words to Pajama Game and My Pal Joey. One time she got Rimsky Korsakov Scheherazade (probably didn't send back the monthly selection), but I loved the mysterious haunting sound of it. That was what was different about Columbia. They had "Negative option billing practice" where every few weeks you would get a postcard in the mail with the monthly selection. You had to either mark NO and get nothing that month, or pick another selection. It could get ahead of you, if you weren't prompt in mailing back the selection card and usually once you got the package, you opened it, thought what the hell, put it on, and then you were stuck with it. Weird Al Yankovic has a song in which he described the Columbia Record club as a larger commitment than getting married. And it was. It didn't take long for the records to add up both in quantity and in money. In its hey day, which Maria writes about in the 1970's there were more than 3 million members.

Of course there is no such thing (at least I don't think so) of the Record Club today. With the internet music is a completely different animal these days. But there was something, something special about getting the music in the mail, putting it on the record player and hearing Cat Stevens right in your living room.

Monday, November 16, 2009

I've been thinking a lot about memories lately. I guess a class on how our body ages started it. The memory, short term, is the first to go. That's why we can remember who we sat next to in second grade, but can't find where we put a certain letter or bill. And then Margaret's death, following the year after Ria, and all you have left of them is memories.

You don't have any memories before your child is born. Oh, maybe the conception. Timmy was conceived on New Year's Eve and he's told me his father kept the cork from the champagne bottle. I remember about two weeks before Ria was born, I was watching the Memorial Day parade and a drummer banged his drum right in front of me. Ria jumped in my belly about a foot and I recall thinking, "Well, at least she isn't deaf." They say you never can remember the pains of labor, as soon as they hand you that beautiful baby, it is forgotten. I don't know about that...it comes in handy when you are arguing with your kid, and you start in about the delivery and what you went through.

Anyway, last Friday we were all at Margaret's house, looking through pictures, picking out specific ones to display at her Memorial. One was of me and I said, "Oh, yes, that was a Tivoli clean-up day and we were all at the park afterwards for refreshments. Liz was with me and we rode around town picking up bottles and garbage." Now, where the hell did that come from. Margaret had labeled the picture 1993, 16 years ago, and one look at the picture and the whole day comes back.

That's like with Ria. The other day I remember the summer before she died and we were sitting by the pool, watching the kids in the water. Rachael was sitting with us and I turned to Maria and said, "Ginny sent me a joke today. I think it's funny, do you want to hear it?" Ok, Ma she said with a little shrug, like why not? So I started. And the funny thing is I never can remember jokes, I always forget an important line or even the punch line, but this joke sticks in my head like glue, probably because I was with Ria. Well, I started - an old couple were on their first date, and they go out to eat, have a nice meal, nice conversation, lots of wine and they end up in his apartment. Sure enough, a little later they have sex. Afterwards, he is thinking, "If I knew she was a virgin, I would have gone easier on her." And she's thinking, "If I knew he could get it up, I would have taken off my panty hose." Well, Rachael huffed..."That's disgusting," and got up and left. Maria looked at me seriously, and said, "Poor old people, everyone makes fun of them" and then she laughed, her wonderful laugh, that I hope I will always remember. And I laughed too, and we kept laughing thinking about the old lady with her panty hose on. And that's what I mean about memories. We really don't have control of them, they can pop up anytime and just about anything. And I am thankful, oh so thankful that I have them..of Maria, of Margaret, of Bucky and Daddy, Uncle Jack, Grandma and Poppy, on and on. It's like a part of them is still here, stuck somewhere in the cauliflower folds of my brain. Hiding, but ready to come out at any minute.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

My neighbor Mary Alice once said to Maria that "your mother can get along with anyone" a really nice compliment and in most cases true (we won't mention Barry at Kosco). My friends can vary from Ginny that sends me e-mails of internet interest. The last one was "called caterpiller seen in dormitory" and it was a picture of four or five guys on top of each other- , mooning, with their legs sticking out - it did look like a caterpiller. Timmy's sister Meg also is an e-mailer. The last one was Halloween Costumes that are just wrong - and they were so tasteless (and funny) that I can't discuss them. Then I have a friend Crissy with whom I can have a lengthy discussion on how difficult it is for women to pee in the woods, "you always end up wetting your shoes". I know people that you can have a political conversation with, both Democrats and Republicans, but I had a hard time last year with anyone thinking McCain was the choice. And all my neighbors and I can go on about living in Tivoli and how good it used to be.

Then I had Margaret, who was a wonderful combination of all the above. She too could pick out the best internet jokes and send them. One last year was a woman singing about Sarah Palin, with a man playing the piano in back of her wearing a Moose Hat. "Don't speak for me Sarah Palin" in the tune of Evita. I still laugh at that. We too talked about urine, but our conversation was how asparagus affected it and the chemical reasons for the change in its odor. My last long conversation with her included discussion on the movie she had just watched about Frost and Nixon and did Nixon really think that he was above the law as President. And we talked about the book I had just read in Cape Cod "That Old Cape Magic". There was one line that had stood out to me and I repeated it to Margaret "Why does a rich country likes ours blame people who have nothing for its problems?" and we discussed how that line applied now to the health debate and who decides who gets what kind of health care. Pretty heavy stuff for our last conversation.

Picking up the Old Farmer's Almanac this morning, I realized that this varied type of information and interest is exactly what has sold the Almanac since 1792. Last night's moon was called the Full Beaver -no reference to the caterpiller please. November 8 is when black bears head to winter dens and November 20 is when skunks hibernate. Today, Election Day, is when the first dog was launched into space in Sputnik II in 1957. And even a quote from Emerson, "the sky is the daily bread of the eyes". Something for everbody and something to think about this cold autumn day. Weatherman says snow showers on Thursday and the almanac agrees using the rhyme "first its glowing, then its snowing". And hopefully, silly e-mailing is a coming.

Sunday, October 25, 2009

Last week in Cape Cod we spent a lot of time indoors listening to the radio and CD's. Two songs brought me to tears, Eva Cassady singing Autumn Leaves (I dare you to listen to that with a dry eye) and "Has anybody here seen my old friend Bobby?" (I always let out a few tears at that one - the Kennedy's are still like family.) Yesterday my old friend Margaret died and the song that keeps going through my head is "Piano Man".

Margaret and I were carpooling to Dutchess Community College, oh back in the late 70's or early 80's. One night she turned to me and asked if I had heard this song Piano Man? She praised the song, the lyrics, the singer, an unknown to me - Billy Joel. "..when I wore a younger man's clothes", she quoted some of the words. The following days I listened to the radio and finally got to hear the song, a song that was sad, an encompassing all the lonliness of the world, but also the hope that a piano man and his song can bring.."we're in the mood for a melody, and youve got us feeling alright".

In 2001 Margaret and my sisters went on a mini cruise from New York City to Nova Scotia. Margaret was a riot, attending every show, finding every ice cream station, attending yoga classes, my sisters and I were amazed at her sheer energy and ability to stay up late at night. (We all were ready for bed at 8:00.) But Margaret was like the Enigizer Rabbit, on the go, exploring every inch of the boat. She would report back to us her findings and one day she told us about a piano bar and how great the piano man was. It was late at night she advised, knowing of our early to bed, early to rise habit. Maureen and I steered ourselves, made it to ten o'clock and went to the piano bar. Sure enough, there he was - just like Billy Joel sang about him, taking requests, and playing each one. He had a miniature hoop, like a basketball hoop and when people requested a certain song, they would throw a couple of dollars in it. Maureen and I drank Fundador (which was to become my favorite drug of choice) and listened as long as we could keep our eyes open.

Thank you Margaret for Piano man and all the good times we shared. Rest in peace. I love you.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

A few weeks ago, Henry was at my house playing, when he suddenly said, "This day justs keeps getting better and better." I looked at him surprised, and then I realized he was quoting his mother who says this sarcastically as work calls with bad news, tax bill comes in, Solomon's school contacts her, etc. But Henry used it the other way...he meant it.

The week in Wellfleet was like that. Cold weather, rain, wind advisory, no beach days, no walks at Duck Harbor. I was like Sabra, well this vacation just gets better and better. Then it was Saturday, a nor'easter had blown all day Friday, keeping us near the fireplace, and the weather was not forecasted to be much better on Saturday with another nor'easter coming in on Sunday. But I could see the school buses running up to the festival, it was starting and a little after 10 Timmy and I climbed on a crowded school bus to get shuttled up to Main Street. Just getting on that bus, with all those happy, expectant faces, started to cheer me up. Crowding in, knees tucked up to your chin, in seats meant for smaller people, the mood suddenly brightened. (I think they ought to run the school buses on the weekends for adults - it would be a mood booster. Of course they would have to be taking you to a pub or someplace fun but thats another good idea, as they would be the designated drivers.)

Our first stop was at the Catholic Church that is being renovated into the Town Center where we already have signed up for a bench in the garden that will have Ria's name on it. The volunteers recognized me, "how are you doing? so good to see you, we remember you and Maria, all those cards with donations for Maria - I opened the mail and was amazed at the number of people that donated, etc, etc". Then we got to the festival, really good band, 3 guys that had a big sound. Timmy was happy and although he's not drinking (in training for a race next month) he went and got me a Sam Adams and oyster stew....yummy stew, not thick, but thin broth with almost a dozen oysters in it, potatoes and carrots...delicious. Looking around the crowd of strangers, people began looking familiar. "Look at that girl," I pointed out to Timmy, "shes
a cross between Bessina (Tivoli woman) and your sister" and he had to agree.

Then I saw a blond woman, good hairdo, well dressed with boots, and I thought that looks like Sharyn, Caleb's mother and I saw she was with a young man, whose back was to me. He turned and I saw the blind eye...IT WAS THEM. Normally shy, I surprised myself jumping off the seat and chasing them through the crowd. Sharon turned as I waved. I saw her look, like Do I know this woman? But she smiled and I reached her and asked Sharyn? Yes she said, and I introduced myself as Linda, Maria's Mom. She hugged me and introduced me to Caleb who gave me a hug and a kiss too. He looked wonderful, big smile, weaving to the music. He was with three young women who were introduced to me as his nurses from Boston. We exchanged a few words, I think of you often, I think of you often, too. Then she said I need another hug and I hugged her and out of the blue I said she was blessed. She looked surprised and we parted. I didn't get even a glimpse of them again, although I kept looking over the crowd.

The shucking began and we had front row seats. Another Sam Adams, Oysters Ole Cliff (like oysters rockefeller) and my mind shifted to Henry's words, "This day just keeps getting better and better." And I meant it. The sun even came out a few time.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Timmy and I are leaving for Wellfleet tomorrow morning, but since Ria's death I just don't have the enthusiasm I use to feel at packing up beach chairs, looking for the right clothes and books and food to bring. In fact, I didn't shop for my usual goodies - dry roasted nuts, herb teas, good crackers (not just saltines), etc. It's Oysterfest, the ninth festival and I think Timmy and I have been to every one. It started with just a table set up on Main Street across from the Light House Restaurant and the spectators just stood on the hill in front of what was then Aesop's Table Restaurant and watched and cheered the shuckers. Everyone laughed when one of the shuckers' mother reached over to the table to rearrange his freshly opened oysters and the judges moaned. The first festival lasted a few hours. Now it is a weekend long event.

Maria loved the festival. She would get Regina out of school early (like ten minutes after she started) and drive out on Friday. The festival is always the Saturday and Sunday after Columbus day. They would stay at a nearby motel with a heated pool for the kid to swim in and Maria would pack everything, as if going for a week, not a couple of days. One of my best memories of the festival is sitting at a bench in the rain watching the shuck off. The man ahead in the contest was Karl with a K and the little crowd braving the rain were yelling "Karl with a K, Karl with a K" and Regina and I were yelling as loud as we could. Maria said that night, when Regina was taking her swim in the indoor pool, she was so wound up she kept yelling Karl with a K, Karl with a K, the sound echoing throught the pool room.

Another memory is of a hot day, very hot the sun beating down on us, with no shade to hide in - the leaves were off the trees. Timmy was complaining that he had forgotten his hat, didn't have on sunscreen, and Ria said, "I know what to do - I'll make you a hat out of this paper bag" and she rearranged her purchases so a grocery size brown paper bag was available. She started folding it one way, crumpling it another, and before long she had this hat, big, like the Cat in the Hat wears, and Timmy promptly put it on his head. The nearby crowd loved it, more entertainment and cheered him on. "How did you learn to make a hat like that?" I asked Ria, and she smiled and said Mary, Kevin's mother had shown them one night hats they use to make when they were working in the fields. Timmy wore it all day and even on the bus ride home.

They shuttle the crowd in school buses. You park down by the wharf and school buses run back and forth all day taking people to and from the festival. One day we were waiting in line and Ria was arranging Regina's hair. The woman behind her looked at the golden hair, shining in the sun and said to Maria, "that looks just like spun gold" and Maria beamed brightly, so proud she got tears in her eyes.

Ria loved the food at the festival. I remember once she got pizza with clams on it and talked about it for months. Oysters Rockefeller were another favorite but the oyster stew and clam chowder are worth the trip alone.

This year I am going to plant bulbs on Mr. Brown's grave. His grave is the one that Ria traced years back when Rachael was about 3 and Jeremy about 8. We have a picture of her making the rubbing. This is the same rubbing we put on her stone, an angel with an hour glass on her head. His stone is one of the oldest ones, dating back to the 1700's and I think it is fitting for him to have some flowers next spring. A little surprise for anyone who looks and wonders where they came from.

Monday, October 5, 2009

There's a killer on Clay Hill Road. According to Peterson's "A Field Guild to Birds" the identity of the killer is an immature Cooper's Hawk (not to be confused with the Sharp Skinned hawk who has a notched tail). Anyway, about a month ago, I noticed the birds often getting into a tizzy, blue jays screaming, birds frozen in position on the feeders. Then I saw the reason - the above named hawk. At first he would just sit in the apple treee looking at the bird feeder. "He's a young hawk", Timmy explained, "he's just learning to hunt." He boldly set up a surveillance system, one time even calmly sitting on our deck's rail, right outside our window, head turning almost completely around as he watched his prey innocently eating at the feeders.

Then, he put his information to use. He doesn't fly down and grab the victim like most hawks I've seen, he chases them into the window, knocking them to the ground, and then he just picks them up and flys away with the poor stunned creature. Today, he got a mourning dove. She flew into the window, leaving that smudge imprint of herself, a little bird poop, and he picked her up as all the birds screamed in terror. I flung upon the deck door, screaming at the hawk, "Bird Killer, you're a Bird Killer", which jolted a memory of Maria in my head.

Maria was caretaker for Aunt Lillian in her dying months, actual years. Others had gone before, and now it was up to Maria to help Aunt Lillian with her daily living, doctor appointments, various medical procedures, visiting nurses - everything an elderly person that lives alone needs. One day Aunt Lillian was in an especially foul mood. Maria tried to joke her out of it, but there was no chance. Looking out the window, Ria said, "Oh, Aunt Lillian, your mail just came. I'll go get it for you." Getting mail was an event that usually cheered Aunt Lillian up, but today Ria saw that it was going to be a challenge. Ria selected a red envelope from the pile of mail, looked at the Christmas stamp, and said, "Aunt Lillian, I think you just got your first Christmas card." Aunt Lillian just muttered and looked the other way. "Do you want me to open it for you?" Ria cheerfully asked, and Aunt Lillian just waved her hand, like "whatever". Ria opened the envelope.."It IS a Christmas card, a family picture card, with two boys, twins, wearing suits and big owl glasses, with a proud mother in the center." Aunt Lillian snapped to attention. "Let me see that card", she demanded, and when Ria handed it to her she screamed, "Dog Killers. They're the ones that killed Spotty. Damn Dog Killers", and she threw the card down in disgust.

Now Spotty had never been a favorite of mine. When Atticus was not even two, Spotty jumped off of Aunt Lillian's lap, and bit Atticus right under the eye, one of the worse scenes I have ever experienced. We knew Spotty had died, just before Maria became caretaker, but we never knew why, just thought of old age. When Ria told me about Aunt Lillian, and the Christmas card and the twin boys wearing glasses, we tried to figure out how they killed Spotty. "Maybe Spotty had a heart attack thinking about biting TWO boys at once", was one suggestion. "Maybe Spotty had a stoke thinking he was seeing double, looking at the twins", was another. We got laughing at the thought of Spotty getting so excited he just keeled over, and for days, Ria and I only had to say Dog Killer and we would go off laughing.

So now I have to figure a way to get those killer twins up here. Or maybe I could put out a whole bunch of stuffed birds that wouldn't fly into the window at the sight of the hawk. I'll have to come up with something soon because I can't stand the sound of birds slamming into the windows all day.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

We started Our Learning Institute classes and one class that I am taking is on French artists in the 18th and 19th centuries. This week we looked at Jean Baptiste Greuze who was painting at the time that France was becoming emotional and interested in everyday life. His paintings usually depicted several subjects in a way that told the viewer immediately the story of the painting. For example Broken Eggs has this little demon boy holding an egg shell, while the family is scolding the maid for the mishap of eggs on the floor. Anther one, Return of the Prodigal Son, the family surrounds the father's death bed, the mother is pointing accusingly at the son, the people surrounding the bed are wringing their hands, holding their heads and hearts, all melodramatically. The instructor even said that silent films copied these familiar stagings. Then he said something that clicked with me. He likened these paintings to Norman Rockwell, who likewise, used ordinary looking people, in a scene that was instantly recognized by the viewer. Christmas Homecoming has the mother hugging the son, while every one, old and young are smiling around them. Norman Rockwell brings me right back to when I was 12 in the 6th grade with Mrs. Fritz as my teacher.

Mrs. Fritz was a tiny woman, with curly gray hair, that ran a tight ship, mostly keeping us in line with her "credit system". Everytime you did something right, or got a 100, you got a line, 5 lines made a star, or a credit. Likewise, when you did something wrong, or failed, you lost a line, or if really terrible a whole credit. One of her weekly assignments would be a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post Magazine cover. She would set it up on the chalkboard and have us write our own story to go with the picture. I loved this assignment, it was right up my alley and my pencil would fly. Norman Rockwell's picture practically wrote the story themselves.

There was only one problem with Mrs. Fritz's class. My seat was next to Paul Cooper's, a red headed freckled handsome boy that could have modeled for Rockwell. He had a good sense of humor and could make me laugh easier than anyone had ever done. Soon after entering Mrs. Fritz's class Paul and I noticed something strange about her and the Pledge of Allegiance. Instead of putting her hand over her heart, she cupped her left breast, most gently, almost as if she were checking to see if it was still there. I didn't think too much of it, until one day when Paul made a noise and when I looked in his direction he was mimicking her method, had his hand cupped over an imaginary breast. I giggled and looked away, but the damage was done. He knew he had me and every day after that he would do the Pledge the same way as Mrs. Fritz. Now, she never noticed, her eyes intent on the flag, her full attention on her patriotic duty as a citizen and teacher of the young. But, as my giggles got louder, she began to look in our direction. One day it was really bad, and I laughed out loud. Mrs. Fritz stopped the Pledge, stared at me, and said "Linda, I think you better go out into the hall until you can control yourself". Red faced, I did so. After that Paul stopped doing the gesture, I think he knew how embarrassed I was. I don't remember how many credits I lost, but I bet it set me back a bit.

Norman Rockwell could have done a painting of our class, with Paul making me laugh (the evil kid with the broken egg shell) and Mrs. Fritz staring angrily and disappointed at me (the innocent kitchen maid) while I am shaking with laughter. I would like to see that one.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

I can remember as a kid my father would look around the living room at the mass of newspapers, books, reading material that my mother had collected and accuse her of becoming like the Collyer brothers. There's a book about them now, two brothers that were compulsive hoarders, and when one died, after setting off one of his booby traps, the other brother, blind and paralyzed, died of hunger. Pretty grim story, huh? So their claim to fame was their fear to throw anything out. My mother would say, "as soon as you throw something out, you have a need for it" and that has proven true to me many times. A couple of years ago I threw out a pile of maps I had in the desk. You can always look up directions on Map Quest, I reasoned. Since then, I don't know how many times Timmy and I have gone looking for a map to see the general area of cities our guests are from. Map quest can get you there with accurate mileage, twists and turns but it doesn't visually show you the city's location in the state. Plus, to look it up on the computer, you have to go upstairs, turn on the computer, etc, etc. Opening a map was so easy.

There's another reason why people save things - it's just too costly to throw them out. Today, garbage collection is not cheap - so what is there to do but hang on things. When I was a kid, I was always afraid of the garbage men. They were a rough bunch, two or more of them, dirty, with ragged looking clothes, you wouldn't even want to make eye contact them. They rode on the back of the garbage truck, jumping off to pick up a garbage can and throw it into the truck. It seemed like every time they were in front of our house, they had to reposition the garbage, and a big plate of metal would nosily push the garbage to the front of the truck. My fear of garbage men probably goes back to when there was a "junk man". He collected rags and broken appliances and had a row of bells across the back of his truck that jingled when he drove by. A common threat parents used in those days was "be good, or we'll give you to the junk man". Tell that to Child Protective Services.

My mother once thought she killed the garbage man. My family bought wine in big gallon bottles, probably Gallo. (I was surprised when I found out you CAN buy smaller bottles of wine.) Anyway, Bucky had run out just before the garbage truck came, and put an empty big bottle of wine on the top of the pile. When the garbage man raised the can to throw it into the truck, the bottle came crashing down on his head. After falling to his knees, and screaming obscenities, he managed to get back on the truck and ride off. Maybe that's what happened to the Collyer brothers, they had been frightened by the garbage men and gave up putting it on the curb. Well, I have to get back to the Sunday New York Times. My living room is looking like the Collyer brothers are here.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Early this morning, just as it was starting to get light, an owl serenaded me from the pine tree across the street. It is the first full day of fall, and the owl's song was a sad and almost silly one:"Hoot de hoot hoot hoot" over and over. Made me smile but also reminded me of my mother's saying, "If you hear an owl hoot three nights in a row, someone will die." That was Bucky - she wasn't scaring us, she was just giving us her facts of life.

This summer was kind of like that, good and bad. Good in that no one I know, not Timmy, not me, not even the cat had one tick on them. The bad was there were herds of slugs, bad guys coming into town, eating everything, all the beans, all my marigolds, everywhere you looked gooey, disgusting slugs. The rain was good in that we never had to water the garden once. Bad in that all the rain killed most of the garden. Good in that even though there was a recession, business at the Bird's Nest has been busier than in past years. Bad, so busy my knees are killing me, no time to have fun and sheets to be hung up on the line everyday and bed making a back breaking chore. The woman who runs a B&B in Wellfleet said it best: "we are victims of our own success." Our guests this summer also have been the Good, the Bad and the Ugly with more cancellations and "no shows" than in all of the other years. The ones who make the biggest messes write the best things about us in the guest book. Good and Bad everywhere you look. Today we had a cancellation for this Saturday. Bad, because that is a loss of anywhere from $60 to over $100. Good in that now I can do a Street Painting this weekend because we have no guests coming. I guess it all equals out.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

The other morning was a chilly fall-like one so I put on long pants and pulled a pair of my monkey socks out to wear. You can't wear monkey sock with short pants. Monkey socks, one pair of many that I have - black ones, blue ones, even Valentine monkey socks - all from Ria. And started by the Street Painting. Now that's a strange connection. But when I was running the Tivoli Street Painting I called upon Ria to do demos, to show people what street painting really is. She did street paintings at Red Hook School, Rhinebeck School, Bard College, Dutchess County Fair, Rhinebeck Farmer's Market, etc, etc. even one in Wellfleet for the Oyster Festival of Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf, with the variation that Little Red was holding oysters, not goodies in her basket. Anyway, about the third year of the Street Painting, Poughkeepsie Journal called me for an interview of how it started and what we were doing this year for entertainment. Then the reporter asked if she could talk with one of the street painters and I gave her Maria's phone number. That evening I called Ria and asked did the reporter get a hold of you? "Yes, she did, Ma. She asked me why I do street paintings." "What did you tell her?" I asked and she straight faced (for the phone) said, "I do street paintings because my mother asks me to. If she asked me to pull a monkey out of my ass, I would do that too." I gasped, then realized she was kidding me, but that became the monkey gift beginning. I kept thinking of her saying that, and I found a picture of Ria holding a zuccinni up in front of her. It was one of those gone wild in the garden ones, the size of a baseball bat, and she held it up suggestively, but with a big innocent grin on her face. I found a monkey picture in one of the kid's books, cut it out and glued it over the zuccinni. Then I glued the picture onto card paper and wrote "Hey, Ma, looked what I pulled out of my ass." Ria got a big kick out of it and from then on every holiday there was a pair of monkey socks for me. I returned the idea with monkey underwear for her. You would be surprised how many things have monkeys on them once you start looking. Anyway, it's almost street painting time and I will put on my monkey socks in memory of Maria and the girl who would do almost anything for her Mother.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

The other day on TV a woman was interviewed that wrote a one act, one woman play about her hair. Now she did have an interesting hairdo, kind of an afro, but it made me wonder what could I write about my hair. I have very thin hair, the old lady type hair that you can see the scalp through. Not very interesting, and certainly not worth paying to hear anyone talk about. When I was a kid, I had thick hair that my mother would braid into two even braids that were quite long. In some of the pictures there would even be a ribbon braided into the strands, or the braids would be pinned to the top of my head. But that was when I was little, grade school age. When I was older I would go to the same hair dresser as my sister Barbara. Her name was Tillie and she always cut our hair with a razor...the whole thing. No scissors, just a razor. And short, both Barbara and I had it very short. I hoped I looked like Audrey Hepburn with that short hair and her beautiful profile, but I think I just looked like a kid with short hair. So then I had short hair for years, mostly cutting it myself. When I went to work at IBM I stopped cutting my own hair. One night my friend Kathy met me in the mall, after I had had my hair chopped in one of those walk-in places. She took a look at me, I think she even sobbed a bit, then vowed to introduce me to Joe, her hairdresser. Joe was a great addition to my life. He had a salon all to himself (not like the mall) had coffee and a little refrigerator filled with drinks. Soft music was playing and all his magazines were interesting and up-to-date. I loved Joe. I would tell him all about my family, just like he was my therapist. He would tell me about his life, his partner, his dog and we would laugh and laugh. Being cheap, I would let my hair grow quite long in between appointments, but Joe never forgot our last chat and would ask to get up to date on all the family news. He also cut my hair short, but with scissors, just a touch of razor on the back neck at the end. One time I went to work after getting my hair cut, and one of my managers looked at me interestingly and said, "Not many women would dare to cut their hair that short." I never knew if that was a compliment or a put down. About three years ago I decided not to get my hair cut anymore. It grew, little by little, until today when I can make these two braids, that are no thicker than a rat's tail. (Sabra just got a rat, so I know what I am comparing them too.) I guess I get my thin hair from my mother Bucky, who got it from her father Poppy. Poppy went bald at an early age, probably even in his 20's. My mother told a story once of how Grandma found a remedy for bald heads, smearing them nightly with the marrow from a cooked marrow bone. Now marrow, lightly salted and spread on a toasted piece of buttered rye bread is one of my all time favorite things to eat - but it is very greasy, nothing you would want to put on your head. But I guess they tried it and Bucky said even a little fuzz began to show up, when Poppy couldn't take it anymore, resigned himself to baldness and bought a hat. So that's my story about hair, my hair and my family's hair. Nothing worthy of a purchase of a theater ticket and it wouldn't surprise me if not too far off, I have to go hat shopping.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Well, it has been a while...4th of July in fact. Bucky always said "After the Fourth of July the summer is over" and she was right. Here we are past the middle of August. First there was vacation...staying in the cottage Ria and I shared two years ago. The weather could have been better, but all in all, it was good. Then we got back and had to get ready for the Wacky Raft Race, which we did last Sunday. Sunday was hot, and we got there about 8:00 - the earliest time they suggested. There were some concerns with one of the volunteers (not a good start) but then things came together as strangers volunteered to help us. One man who was waiting for a friend helped Tony get the raft out of the truck and helped him assemble it. Then another man who had a trailer helped us get it in the water - a distance of several yards that would have been a hard carry. Then we got in the water and the tide was going the wrong way...north, not south. Almost immediately, we were being carried to Albany. That's when another stranger offered to tow us to the starting line...almost a mile away. Good thing, because the tide didn't turn even after the race started. People were walking faster than four of us could paddle. After 3 hours we arrived at the finish line, coming in 10th. 2 more finished after us, and 6 dropped out and had to be towed. So, I'd say we did pretty good. No permanent injuries from rowing. I was complaining the next day that my left arm hurt "from holding the umbrella all that time" - pretty selfish, huh? Anyway, there were a lot of mistakes in the running of the affair, mostly the timing because once the tide changed, things were 100%, no 200% better. Apparently, Laura was not happy with the way things went. The next day she called the Green County Tourism and gave them her opinion and what it was like -"worse than labor." Sabra called up the Tourism people to get our time, and the woman said to her, "What team were you with?" and when Sabra said TeamRia, the woman declared that she would not talk to anyone from TeamRia that she just had got off the phone with Laura after 45 minutes. Well, this made me laugh and laugh and laugh some more. TeamRia will probably not be allowed on the west side of the River for some time. But that was that. Now I have to finish my embroidery of an apron for the Dutchess County Fair that has to be handed in on Saturday. Dear God, please let this summer end.

Saturday, July 4, 2009

The Fourth of July, and many other fourths flood my memory, Maria as a small child burning her fingers on a sparkler, all of us driving with my brother in law to Carmel to see fireworks. In more recent years when Maria lived in Germantown, she would have a barbeque, invite the whole family and afterwards we would go to the nearby cemetery to view the local fireworks. One time Timmy was a little snuckered and was pointing out in the darkness of the cemetery to the children the planets, Your Anus was one, Penis was another. The kids all laughed and the Kelly's still talk about that night. Four years ago on the Fourth of July we were in Wellfleet and all went to see the parade. There we met Yellowbeard, Caleb, a young pirate marching with mermaids and other pirates. We did not know then that he would have an effect on all of us. Then the last summer of Maria's life, on the fourth of July 2007, a few days before we ventured to Wellfleet for our summer vacation, Caleb was hurt, badly hurt after appearing in the Wellfleet Fourth of July parade. When we entered Wellfleet, a large banner on the overpass, advised "Pray for Caleb" and twice daily the town gathered in the center to have a circle of hope and prayer for him. Maria, I and the whole family were touched. I remember Laura saying she eagerly emptied her whole purse in a jar for Caleb at the local grocery. Pirate flags flew everywhere, he was a shell fisherman and his company flew the pirate flag. The next month for my birthday Maria organized a pirate party - and instead of gifts, donations could be made to Caleb's fund..the party was the best. I have the picture of all us all on my living room wall, Maria and I making the arrrgggg pirate faces. Then in October for the Oysterfest, Maria made 100 pirate cookies for Caleb's friends to sell - wonderful cookies of a pirate with a patch on his eye and a big smile. "Cookies for Caleb" his friend yelled when she delivered them to their booth. When Maria died his mother wrote a wonder piece on Maria in her blog. To this day, I am grateful for the kind words from a stranger, who is not really a stranger, we are connected in our grief and hope and joy. This Fourth of July Caleb's Mom, who keeps a blog, wrote that he again would be in the parade. I smiled at the thought of him once again parading down the streets of Wellfleet and I pictured Maria watching him again, waving and yelling "Go Caleb, Go Yellowbeard".

Monday, June 8, 2009

While driving into Red Hook today, I passed a sign for a new daycare. It was called Wee People. I had to smile because I remembered years back when my sister Maureen and I had a great idea. We were sitting on the beach at Wellfleet, wondering how we could someday afford to spend our whole summer there, just laying in the sun, eating Wellfleet oysters and enjoying the good life. We came up with an idea that we could rent a big house right on the beach for the summer. Now, to pay for this lease, we would run a daycare. People could leave their kid or kids there for an hour, two hours, or even days at a time. We got this idea because all around us on the beach were kids freaking out, screaming for forgotten toys, needing a drink, having to go the bathroom, etc. Hassled parents looked like that wanted to kill themselves, wringing their hands and wondering why this was their vacation, or worse, their life. We figured they would pay big bucks to have an hour or two alone on the beach or go out to eat alone. The kids were really bad in the restaurants. After a day at the beach, they were either overtired and whining, or zapped up from too much candy at the Chocolate Sparrow. And they never liked the food offered on the menu. I remember one boy, about 10, standing up and announcing to his family and the whole restaurant that he couldn't eat Pasta Primivera one more time without throwing up. We knew we had hit about the right idea when we came up with the name: "Dump a Kid". That said it all. Not Funshine Time or Little Darling Place not even Little Rascals...just Dump a Kid, exactly what the parents were thinking. Now, we didn't want to watch these little b*$^%$^% ourselves, so we figured we could hire high school kids, even college kids that would be willing to spend their days at the beach and making some money at the same time. We played around with this idea for hours, it seemed like we had the right idea. But then we saw one kid throwing rocks at his sister in the water (insurance?), another one torturing a turtle he had found on the beach (deranged children?), kids with red faces just screaming for no reason, and we decided to give this daycare thing some more thought. But the Dump a Kid still seems to me to be the best ever name for a daycare.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

I was just ironing the cloth napkins for the Bird's Nest, when I realized the B&B napkins and tablecloths are probably the only ironing I do today. Not so in the 60's when there was actually a day set aside for ironing. I ironed the babys' clothes, my clothes, shirts for my IBM husband, a white shirt fresh for each day. There was no spray starch, so you "sprinkled" the clothes with water first, keeping them in the refrigerator to stay damp in the summer heat. Ironing was a part of life. I learned how to iron by ironing my father's handkerchiefs, first flat, then doubling over, and over until a small white square was done. My father took a clean hankie every day. I remember my sister Maureen telling me that her boyfriend was taught to always carry two handerchiefs (he learned this at dance class) in case a girl ever needed to use one. I guess it was manners to hand her a fresh one! Any way, ironing was, as I said a part of life. My Aunt Muriel knew how to iron. She would set up the ironing board, this was not easy in the old days. They were a wooden contraption, that you had to get just right or it would collapse in the middle of a delicate job. So, she would set up the board, heat up the iron and pour herself a glass of wine. In the 60's drinking was also a part of life. No one thought anything of drinking in the afternoon, or even pouring a little glass while you stuffed the turkey in the early morning hours. My Aunt was from Montreal, spoke French, was very sophisticated, so I too would sometimes pour a glass of wine while I ironed. You be surprised how it helped. Grandma Burky did laundry for people to bring in some money during the Depression. She taught my sister Barbara and me how to iron a man's shirt. Her ironing board was just the board, no legs. She would balance it on the dining room table and a corner shelf. Anyway, she showed us how you do the collar and the cuffs first. Then the arms, then the left side, right side and last the back. She would fold the whole thing up and I swear it looked like it came out of the dry cleaners. My mother did not have my Grandma's skill or the desire. Her way of ironing was unique. She would start by laying a sheet over the board. On top of this she would put other flat items, a tablecloth, pillow cases, a skirt, kitchen towels, etc. She would keep piling on the items and then finally, on the top do a kid's shirt, or a pair of kids' pants. I guess she thought this was efficiency. My father did his own ironing (do you wonder why?) Every night he would iron his pants for the next day's work. He did it completely different than Bucky. He would lay just the pants on the board. Then he would test the iron, over and over again, until it was just the right temperature. Carefully arranging the pants legs to get the seam exactly in the center, he would iron them using a damp cloth and sometimes I remember him laying a newspaper over the seam first. You know, writing this I almost miss ironing. It was a meditation, taking items from the laundry basket, ironing them, folding them, putting them in neat piles to later go in the proper drawers, until the basket was empty, ready for next week. A lost task. A lost art. Like the dinosaur, someday, there won't even be irons.

Sunday, May 17, 2009

I thought of Aunt Lillian yesterday. I was picking wild grape leaves to stuff and I remembered the first time I had them at her house and how she shared her recipe with me. This is the only time of the year when you can use the wild grapes leaves, in a few days they will be too big and too rough to eat. But right now they are perfect. You pick the ones with leaves that are divided into threes, make a filling of rice, fresh mint, scallions, spices and an egg and cook them for a few minutes in chicken broth. Easy, good for you and delicious. I used to have the kids help me pick the leaves. Paul was a worry wart and would say, "Don't touch that - it's poison ivy." No, its not, I would tell him, continuing to pick the leaves. "Leaves of three, let it be," he advised. I would show him how these leaves were growing on the grape vines, therefore they were safe. But he never really believed me. It was this time of the year too when we would go "steal" rhubarb from our neighbor's yard. Actually, Bob Barrett had told me to take all I wanted, they didn't use it. But I liked the story of Rapunzel, where she asks her husband to steal the rhubarb, he gets caught, and the witch gets their baby. Anyway, we would sneak into the Barrett's yard, I would pull out a knife and start cutting the rhubarb, showing the kids how you never, never even take the leaves, they are too poisonous, and I would discard them in to the weeds. "How can the leaves be poison and the stems are ok to eat?" questioned Paul, a look of disbelief on his face. That's just the way the plant is, I would answer and take home the rhubarb to make Strawberry Rhubarb pie. The kids never liked that either, probably thought I was trying to poison them, but in later years it has become the favorite of all my pies to them. Another memory came to me today, as I picked the Lily of the Valley (they are early this year). My grandmother carried that flower as a bride on Memorial Day and there is still the wedding picture of her and Poppy, and the dried flowers are part of the frame. Lilies of the Valley are tricky to pick, you don't pick them, or cut them, you tug on them gently until they are released from the pip. Poppy showed me how to do this when I was a kid. There was a patch of them in their yard, and their scent still is one of my favorite smells. So, spring is here, Aunt Lillian's tradition continues, Poppy's picking lesson is remembered and I need somebody to go with me to steal rhubarb.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Last week we were at a party. It was unusually warm for April, and we were all sitting outside, except for Solomon and Zack, in the house playing with their games. Then from inside someone was playing the piano, a haunting Eastern melody, like a harem dancer would be swaying to. "Who's playing the piano?" I asked, looking around the guests to see who was missing. "It's Jer - Jer is playing the piano." Now I never knew he could play the piano. He's always played a guitar, I think Maria started him on lessons as an early teen and he is usually never seen without the instrument. Hearing Jer play the piano made me recall conversations Ria and I had had many times. Jer was NOT her son, the babies had been mixed up, and she had Todd Rundgren's son. Yes, back in 1980 when Maria had Jer there was one other baby in the Rhinebeck nursery. Maria and I were standing outside the nursery window, looking at Jer when this young, thin woman, wearing a shortie nightgown and holding a radio to her ear, joined us, dancing and moving to the music in her ear. "Look at her, Ma", Ria moaned. "She just gave birth and she looks like she's at a rock concert. Nobody would know she just pushed out a kid, not like me". Maria could have been on a poster for Post Partum Support. Back in her room, Maria explained to me that that was Todd Rundgren's girlfriend. Todd Rundgren of "Hello, It's Me". Oh yeah, I always liked that song. Years went by and I had forgotten Maria's partner in the Maternity Ward. Then when Jer was about 3 and he was dancing crazy to music, Maria brought it up. "Ma, I think I got the wrong baby, I think I got Todd's baby." This was repeated many times over the years, usually when she was having some problems with Jer. "He's going back to his father and that Playboy girlfriend of his." Anyway, after listening to Jer playing the piano, I thought I would look up what had happened to Todd's son who had been born at the same time as Jer. His name is Rex and he is playing baseball for the Dodgers Team A in Vegas. Now, that's a surprise. Last year Regina played softball and she was pretty good at it...and then I read that her real brother Rex is playing ball. Maria you might have been right.

Saturday, April 11, 2009

Two completely unrelated things made me smile today. We have guests in the Bird's Nest from Holland and as I tidied the bathroom, I noticed a shaving brush on the shelf in the shower. A shaving brush, like the one my father had. I remember watching my father shave, it was a morning ritual. He would lather the brush up , working the suds, until he was satisfied with the quantity and quality of the suds. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror he would apply the suds to his cheeks, chin and under neck and then with long deliberate strokes of the razor, remove the suds and the beard, finishing it off by rubbing his hands together with Old Spice, getting just the right amount on his palms, then gently slapping his cheeks with the Aftershave. Just seeing that brush on the shelf brought all those memories back, almost the smell of that Old Spice. The second time was reading today's New York Times and reading an article about a remake of Gray Gardens. Big Edie and Little Edie. That's what Maria and I were named, first by Sabra's husband Tony. Ria and I were sharing that awful last cottage we shared together and Tony and Sabra had the cottage on the hill above us. He would stop by on his way to get the paper, see me having my coffee, Ria with her tea, Ria in her bathrobe, me wearing my Miller Lite pajama pants and Miller Lite shirt. He must have remembered watching Gray Gardens (both Sabra and Maria had loved that documentary) and he thought our outfits worthy of the names of Big Edie and Little Edie. Drew Barrymore is playing Little Edie and Jessica Lange is playing my role. I once had the honor of riding in the truck that Jessica Lange had ridden in the movie "Tootsie". The movie was filmed in Hurley and I worked at IBM with an older gentlemen who drove a beat up truck, that the film company had asked to use in the filming. I can't remember the IBMer's name now, but I recall his face. He took me for lunch at the Bowery Dugout and I had the honor of sitting in the same seat as Jessica. That makes me smile too. Then at the Bowery Dugout I would order soft shell crabs, my favorite - and Adam's is starting to carry them. Well, there you go, from shaving brush, to Big Edie, to Jessica, to soft shell crabs. It's Easter Saturday, the day last year that Maria was buried. This cold, dreary day is perfect for the thoughts that pop into your head. Rest in Peace Little Edie. Love, Big Edie

Monday, March 16, 2009

Tomorrow is Saint Patrick's Day. I have been thinking today of all the good St. Patty's Days I've had. I remember one just before the Iraq War started. Maria, Patty, Margaret and I were sitting with several other people on Bailey's porch - a warm night. The Mayor was there and like a typical politician, was going from table to table. At our table we exchanged Irish jokes and then I said "Let's get Tivoli declared a Peace City" and he moaned and said, "Oh, no Linda, don't start that". Then a year later we celebrated at the Black Swan, sitting around a table in a crowded room, drinking Guiness, Maria, Patty, Me and others I can't remember now. But my favorite St. Patty's Day memory goes back probably 28 years ago when Maria had Jer as a baby and was living with Kevin's mother. I had asked her if she wanted to go to Bailey's with me for St. Patty's Day and she jumped on it, asked Mary to watch Jer for the night --she planned on spending the night at my house. I picked her up after work and we were soon on our way to Bailey's. Now only once a year did they open the back room making Bailey's double in size. The juke box was playing Irish music (nothing special for the occasion, it ONLY had Irish music on it) probably Danny Boy and we ordered beers and tried to find an empty seat. The only seats were at a table filled with young guys - I especially remember Benjie Sosta as being there. He had a Tivoli kid reputation and several years later died in either a car or motorcycle accident. We sat down, Ria grinning broadly at probably her first night out after having the baby and took a sip of her beer. Now, Maria could never drink. A half a glass of beer and she would be silly, so I wondered how this would go. Benjie was making us laugh, calling to Lillian the beer maid, "Take the hill, Lill" because she was wearing a green hat that looked like an army helmet. He leaned in close to me and asked in a low voice"Do you woof?" Ria gasped, choking on her beer. I looked at him and said, "I don't think so." Maria explained that to woof you have to drink the whole glass down at one time. NO, NO, I don't woof. But that did put us all in the right mood. Erin Go Braugh flags were passed around, more green hats, green plastic leis, and the music got louder and louder. A good time was held by all. The next morning I woke up Maria to take her back to Mary's house. She said "I'm not even going to get dressed. I'll give Mary a good show." So I drove her home and she got out of the car, wearing her bath robe, a green hat perched on her head, several leis and waving a green flag. I thought I saw the curtains move as she yelled out to me from the front steps..."Happy St. Patrick's Day Ma". It is my best memory of the day. I bet she and Benjie and Patty are getting ready to woof tomorrow. Happy St. Patrick's Day and God Bless us all.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Boy, it has been a while - I think I was stuck in February doldrums. Now it is March. Timmy has a riddle "What's the only date that is a command?" Answer: March forth. That's what the cold does to you, strange chemical changes to the brain. My mother told me that my first sentence was "GaGa, Nana, brrrrrr" which translated to Grandma, I'm cold. 65 years later, I'm still stuck in the I'm cold mode. Clothes don't seem to make a difference- two, three shirts, two pairs of socks, still cold. When I was little, still living in my Grandmother's house, Barbara and I slept in an attic bedroom, without heat. I remember my mother ironing the sheets before we hopped under the covers. GaGa, Nana, brrrrr. I wasn't kidding. School was cancelled today because of the snow storm. Rarely, do I remember school closing, and if it was closed we were advised by the firehorn going off in three threes, the signal for school closing. Today you look on the internet or tv. Oh, the television weather people love a storm. You would think it was the end of the world coming, their pointing out the approaching low, the expected number of inches, and oh, yes the wind chill which is always near zero in our area. Today is my mother Bucky's birthday. I can remember a warm March 2, taking a walk with the kids down Clay Hill Road in the dark of night, hearing the peepers, feeling Spring, feeling the joy of the damp air with that earthy smell that signals Spring. Last year was cold too. Laura was married on Leap Year Day, a cold day, and Maria drove us to Catskill for the ceremony. It was a wonderful time, an alligator cake made by Maria, with a bride and groom alligator, the bride wearing a veil. We all had good food, laughs at Liz's son Zander eating everything he could get his hands on, and then Laura and Michael left to catch a train before noon to the city and on to Florida. On the way home in the car, Maria looked excited and said, "I got an idea. Let's go wait at the Tivoli Railroad tracks and wave when their train goes by"....she was so pleased with the idea, but we all poopooed it, too tired, why would they look out the window, etc. , etc. So we talked her out of it. But that memory is sticking in my head, why didn't we just go along with her, it would have been fun just to see the train go by anyway, so we could tell people what a crazy thing we did. But we didn't. Yesterday I went to the railroad tracks, driven by that memory. "Maybe I will see an eagle, or even wave to some newly weds going by in a train", but no eagle, no train went by and I drove home. Cold, just cold. Gaga Nana brrrrr.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

A few more thoughts on suffering. As my sisters' comments indicate, Catholics are taught about suffering too, but for them, it is a way to get into Heaven and enjoy eternal life. Of course if Adam and Eve never ate the fruit, there would be no suffering to begin with...God wouldn't have condemmed them and the rest of us to pain, work, labor and toil and all those good things. Anyway, Aunt Lillian's prayerbook says that "out of suffering comes all good" and "suffering was the lot of all saints". (Was it St. Francis who wore a horse hair shirt next to his skin as a penance? ) "Suffering has a refining influence upon our character and tends to free us from selfish motives and purifies our aspirations". "Every sorrow, every trial can be turned into a blessing". Well, I don't think Buddha would say that - he said "Suffering is an illusion." But as Catholics that is how we are taught. "Thanks be to God, my rheumatism is much worse today!" Just another way to look at it. Now Maria thought all our trials, all our suffering and pains in this life were brought on by something we did in another life. Atonement for unknown sins. She often would call me, saying dramatically, "Ma, I don't know what I did in another life, but it must have been terrible." I remember one time she called, after an especially bad day with the kids, motor bureau, bill collectors, etc, and said, "Ma, I think I finally figured out what I did in another life....I was Hitler." We laughed and after that, whenever things were really bad, she would repeat that she must have been Hitler, that was the only explanation for her sufferings. Well, enough on suffering. It's snowing, cold and frigid - the house only 60 degrees. Makes one not mind putting on the horse hair shirt.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

January has been hard on the Learning Institute's classes at Bard. I wanted to take Buddha's Four Noble Truths, but the classes kept being canceled, rescheduled, so I ended up only attending two...I guess I only will find out about the first noble truth, something I already suspected. Our instructor presented us to Buddha in a strong Italian accent. He had a nervous little habit of giggling at what seemed the most inappropriate times, which surprised me but made me smile more than once. The 1st great noble truth to get back to it, is "suffering" and we suffer said Buddha, because we get too attached to life and that is why we suffer. "Greatest pleasure gives you greatest pain" (giggle). I remember Aunt Lillian telling Maria, "I never knew the pleasure of having children," here she looked knowingly, "but I never had the pain that comes with raising a family." Aunt Lillian must have known Buddha. Nietzsche was quoted by the professor more than once...my favorite, the familiar, "that what doesn't kill us, makes us stronger" (giggle). I have thought of that quote many times in the last months. But to get back to suffering, we suffer because of our physical wants, our mental wants, our attachments (greed) and our spiritual suffering, our hunger for eternity (giggle). He continued that our needs have dominated our lives, we need more and more...actually, we really need less and less. Here the professor referred to today's economy, our living beyond our means, and said we may learn the hard way to need less and less (giggle). Made me think of St. Francis and even Cat Stevens in his song "Moonshadow" and if I ever lose my eyes, if my colors all run dry, I won't have to see anymore, or if I ever lose my mouth, all my teeth both north and south, I won't have to talk anymore. Cat Stevens, like Aunt Lillian must have known Buddha. So here I am stuck in the house, the yard an ice skating rink, not able to find out the other noble truths, or how to get out of suffering, other than death (my giggle). Oh, well that what doesn't kill us....we're getting stronger every day in this January of below zero weather, snow, ice and cancelled classes.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

This morning the thermometer in the front window read minus 12. The sun was not yet up, but already the cardinals were searching in the snow for left over seeds from the day before. The red birds are always my first visitors. Soon, the blue jays, sparrows, chickadees and more were arriving and I pulled on my boots, jipped up my coat, wrapped a scarf around my face, put on Aunt Lillian's hat and went out to feed the birds. My glasses actually frosted up, not steamed, but iced and my eyelids stuck together with frost. I filled the feeders, threw corn on the ground and hurried back inside. Sitting in the rocker in the window, thankfully holding my hot cup of coffee, I saw something I had never seen before. The sun was coming up, it lit up the trees, made the cardinals look even redder and the snow turned a golden color. Years back we had a nest of baby blue jays in the front tree and the babies were adorable, fluffy and fat, noisy and bratty, a handful for their poor parents. Anyway, these grown blue jays outside today were all fluffy, like baby blue jays, using this technique to keep warm. The rising sun had a strange affect on the blue jays, I swear they became religious. As the sun rose, they quieted down completely, left the food, found a branch and faced the sun...each of them did this. They were probably just trying to use the first sun for warmth, but I swear to God, it looked like they were praying. And they probably were in their own bird way, saying "look the sun, we survived that long, God awful night. Hallelujia". So I looked at the fluffy, for once quiet blue jays, thanking the sun or maybe just using the sun and I smiled. The news this morning was filled with pictures of the plane down in the Hudson River, people lining the wings, crowded together, having survived the crash while the plane slowly sank. One woman interviewed said it gave her a lot to think about, why did 155 people survive an almost certain death. She was quoted as saying, "There must be a reason we lived, something we must do before we do die". Like the birds, she was just thankful to be here another day. You can learn an awful lot from the birds.