There was no urgency except my body's craving for the kind of endorphins made possible by physical exertion. So I shoveled the back steps, front steps, sidewalk, and a walkway from the back door to my mother's car. The wind blew a shovelful of snow back into my face. It's a good thing my ego can handle such insults.
I took a break and headed down to Adams Street for coffee, not as easy this morning as it had been all summer, but that was the point. Navigating the snow banks was fun for a change. More people have snow blowers in this neighborhood than in my own, and I felt some envy today. But, mostly I enjoyed the clean of it, the peace of it, in spite of the machinery.
I don't think my friends at P&O or G&B were even open today. Good for them. Sadly, the tidy little neighborhood corner grocery store has been replaced by a purveyor of junk food, cigarettes, lottery tickets and beer. The possibilities for self-destruction just might be endless. Just for today, I stuck to a small sugar free gingerbread flavored coffee with light cream, and nearly finished it by the time I got home to more shoveling, and then lunch with Nana.
Later in the afternoon, the real shovel team showed up, and even cleaned off both cars. Time for another walk, just as a streak of sunlight leaked through the cloud ceiling. Welcome. This walk was longer, more roundabout and nostalgic, past the house my father's parents built in 1950. Then, past the house next door, the one they moved into in 1960. Then, back to the house my mother grew up in.
There are plenty of ways to be home.
Monday, December 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
The Cruelest Month
I love what I do, some days more than others, of course, but even after a decade, I bounce into work in the morning. I hope I have another 15 years of this left in me. It’s gratifying work, and I know I’m fortunate to have it.
No one appreciates it when someone in my profession whines. (I don’t appreciate whining period.) That said, when we let out so much as a job-related sigh within earshot of most people, three things get held against us: June, July, and August.
I've figured this much out in my ten years in this field: T. S. Eliot was off by 5 months. September, not April, is in fact the cruelest month.
Plans for Labor Day weekend? Sorry, I can't make it. Labor Day is Christmas Eve; I’m Santa Claus, and the rest of the month is a prolonged Christmas morning. Sexy problem in this economy, I know. Sorry.
Where I live, summer weather stretches well into October – minus the humidity. September in the DC metro area is my idea of heaven – shorts, sandals, sunshine, temps in the 70s and low 80s. What’s not to like? In my profession, though, September taunts. I used to love September – I was born in the middle if it, after all. And when I catch glimmers of it, I love it still. September shines in the window all cloudless and blue. But the avalanche of immediate responsibilities yanks down the room darkening shades without mercy.
Contact the parents before the darlings lose their focus. Get to know them, what they know, and how they learn best. Keep them engaged and meeting benchmarks. Build a database of new names, contact information, birthdays, and when possible, back stories. In September, I may talk to the darlings’ parents more than I talk to my own. And all Sandy and Wally want to do is wish their firstborn a happy birthday. Well, had I been born three weeks earlier, they could call with birthday wishes and maybe even see me in person on the day. As it is, I could call them back in the wee hours when I’m puzzling over a darling or a lesson. Ooh, I’ll save that idea for next year and hope it helps me then. Hang in there Mum and Dad. Know that I love you and I’ll call as soon as I turn that Columbus Day corner and catch my breath.
That Green Day song got it wrong, too. Don’t let me fall sleep until September ends; I've got too much to do.
One birthday gift from my doctor was a painful conversation about cholesterol. I can't afford to be sedentary – even though I had planned to spend September harnessed to my chair, which is tethered to my desk, which is ensconced in the windowless cinderblock microcosm known as my classroom. At least in there I’m protected from hurricane season. Still, this is the year I lower my cholesterol, so I’ve decided to read EJ and Classroom Notes Plus while a spin bike and I torture each other. (Working my behind off on a couple of levels).
Seriously, though, life is good. With most of June, and July and August to spend at my discretion, it's just time to get back to work. And September will go on without me. When you see it, please give it my love. I’ll take my glimmers of its beauty when I can. Who knows, maybe my next classroom will have a window.
No one appreciates it when someone in my profession whines. (I don’t appreciate whining period.) That said, when we let out so much as a job-related sigh within earshot of most people, three things get held against us: June, July, and August.
I've figured this much out in my ten years in this field: T. S. Eliot was off by 5 months. September, not April, is in fact the cruelest month.
Plans for Labor Day weekend? Sorry, I can't make it. Labor Day is Christmas Eve; I’m Santa Claus, and the rest of the month is a prolonged Christmas morning. Sexy problem in this economy, I know. Sorry.
Where I live, summer weather stretches well into October – minus the humidity. September in the DC metro area is my idea of heaven – shorts, sandals, sunshine, temps in the 70s and low 80s. What’s not to like? In my profession, though, September taunts. I used to love September – I was born in the middle if it, after all. And when I catch glimmers of it, I love it still. September shines in the window all cloudless and blue. But the avalanche of immediate responsibilities yanks down the room darkening shades without mercy.
Contact the parents before the darlings lose their focus. Get to know them, what they know, and how they learn best. Keep them engaged and meeting benchmarks. Build a database of new names, contact information, birthdays, and when possible, back stories. In September, I may talk to the darlings’ parents more than I talk to my own. And all Sandy and Wally want to do is wish their firstborn a happy birthday. Well, had I been born three weeks earlier, they could call with birthday wishes and maybe even see me in person on the day. As it is, I could call them back in the wee hours when I’m puzzling over a darling or a lesson. Ooh, I’ll save that idea for next year and hope it helps me then. Hang in there Mum and Dad. Know that I love you and I’ll call as soon as I turn that Columbus Day corner and catch my breath.
That Green Day song got it wrong, too. Don’t let me fall sleep until September ends; I've got too much to do.
One birthday gift from my doctor was a painful conversation about cholesterol. I can't afford to be sedentary – even though I had planned to spend September harnessed to my chair, which is tethered to my desk, which is ensconced in the windowless cinderblock microcosm known as my classroom. At least in there I’m protected from hurricane season. Still, this is the year I lower my cholesterol, so I’ve decided to read EJ and Classroom Notes Plus while a spin bike and I torture each other. (Working my behind off on a couple of levels).
Seriously, though, life is good. With most of June, and July and August to spend at my discretion, it's just time to get back to work. And September will go on without me. When you see it, please give it my love. I’ll take my glimmers of its beauty when I can. Who knows, maybe my next classroom will have a window.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Summer in the Bag
Know how I first knew the summer was over? The inside of my purse got wet from the rain, and a summer’s worth of wear had frayed the straps. I want to grieve a little bit. For me, this pocketbook represents the summer of 2010. Check out my pictures; you can see it.
At some point in the spring, I paid $12.50 plus tax for this in-your-face girly-girl vinyl hobo catch-all. Hubsy calls it my carry-on bag. He’s right; I wanted a bag big enough to hold my planner book and kindle. This one even has room for a Just-in-case ankle brace. (Long story and I promised I wouldn’t whine in this blog, but my ankles and I have a love/hate thing going on.) Anyway, I’ve done a bi-weekly bounce up and down the Northeast corridor all summer long, and this girl needs to be prepared.
My Dad teased me about the bag, but my 17 year-old sister totally gets it. This is the first conversation-starting pocketbook I’ve ever owned, and it’s hard to miss. Total strangers would stop me and compliment me on how cool it is. I would describe the color as Eighties-Bridesmaid- Blue, lined with a silky print of discreetly feminine accessories and toiletries. I can’t look at this color without smiling, and I don’t think I can completely trust anyone who can.
In early June, I made a wish list of I times I’d hoped to experience in the time I would have off. In the writing of them, the list of wishes became a list of challenges, then a series of plans. And most of those plans actually got executed.
One plan was to begin a writing project. Well, I have this blog to show for that. Two other items on the mini bucket list: cruising Narragansett Bay with Nana and kayaking with Chica. Check and check. I have three wonderful girlfriends in other states whom I never see enough of, which translated to three outings of great food, catching up, and laughing so hard I nearly shot ice tea through my nose. Clean a lot of stuff out of my mother’s basement – I’ll check that one too. Time with each of my parents – well, it wasn’t enough, but again, my disrespect for the time-space continuum gets me every summer. Some quality time with Hubsy, Sonny and Chica. Short, but sweet.
One thing that was different this summer – a tan – I actually let myself tan for the first time in decades. Just SPF 15 and dock time – Chardonnay with Hubsy and his parents – passively soaking in sunshine and browning up.
I had good times with my local girls too – an outing to the Norman Rockwell collections. I got to grill steaks with my brother, eat fish tacos with my sister, girls’ night with Faye and Chica, have lunch at Linda Greenlaw’s table, connect with my sisters-in-law, visit with my older aunts and uncles, walk along Wellfleet with Hubsy.
And I dragged that big blue carry-on to everyone one of those outings, even up Rattlesnake Trail. It’s at my feet even now (at BOS to DCA cruising altitude) as I draft this and soak in the last Chardonnay of the summer.
It was a blessed summer – a summer of wellness, family, friends, great food, art, books, writing and garden tomatoes. A summer when the nest is empty, but the baby birds are flying with humility, skill, and optimism. A summer of challenge and comfort. A summer of gratitude.
A summer of my Eighties-Bridesmaid-Blue purse. I might need to grieve a little now that it’s over.
At some point in the spring, I paid $12.50 plus tax for this in-your-face girly-girl vinyl hobo catch-all. Hubsy calls it my carry-on bag. He’s right; I wanted a bag big enough to hold my planner book and kindle. This one even has room for a Just-in-case ankle brace. (Long story and I promised I wouldn’t whine in this blog, but my ankles and I have a love/hate thing going on.) Anyway, I’ve done a bi-weekly bounce up and down the Northeast corridor all summer long, and this girl needs to be prepared.
My Dad teased me about the bag, but my 17 year-old sister totally gets it. This is the first conversation-starting pocketbook I’ve ever owned, and it’s hard to miss. Total strangers would stop me and compliment me on how cool it is. I would describe the color as Eighties-Bridesmaid- Blue, lined with a silky print of discreetly feminine accessories and toiletries. I can’t look at this color without smiling, and I don’t think I can completely trust anyone who can.
In early June, I made a wish list of I times I’d hoped to experience in the time I would have off. In the writing of them, the list of wishes became a list of challenges, then a series of plans. And most of those plans actually got executed.
One plan was to begin a writing project. Well, I have this blog to show for that. Two other items on the mini bucket list: cruising Narragansett Bay with Nana and kayaking with Chica. Check and check. I have three wonderful girlfriends in other states whom I never see enough of, which translated to three outings of great food, catching up, and laughing so hard I nearly shot ice tea through my nose. Clean a lot of stuff out of my mother’s basement – I’ll check that one too. Time with each of my parents – well, it wasn’t enough, but again, my disrespect for the time-space continuum gets me every summer. Some quality time with Hubsy, Sonny and Chica. Short, but sweet.
One thing that was different this summer – a tan – I actually let myself tan for the first time in decades. Just SPF 15 and dock time – Chardonnay with Hubsy and his parents – passively soaking in sunshine and browning up.
I had good times with my local girls too – an outing to the Norman Rockwell collections. I got to grill steaks with my brother, eat fish tacos with my sister, girls’ night with Faye and Chica, have lunch at Linda Greenlaw’s table, connect with my sisters-in-law, visit with my older aunts and uncles, walk along Wellfleet with Hubsy.
And I dragged that big blue carry-on to everyone one of those outings, even up Rattlesnake Trail. It’s at my feet even now (at BOS to DCA cruising altitude) as I draft this and soak in the last Chardonnay of the summer.
It was a blessed summer – a summer of wellness, family, friends, great food, art, books, writing and garden tomatoes. A summer when the nest is empty, but the baby birds are flying with humility, skill, and optimism. A summer of challenge and comfort. A summer of gratitude.
A summer of my Eighties-Bridesmaid-Blue purse. I might need to grieve a little now that it’s over.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Breakers Walk Is Hard To Do
This year my Nana, a fireball of a woman, had a birthday that ends with a ZERO. I’m almost 48, so please do the math; she doesn’t like it when relatives blab her age. Anyway, right around the birthday, she invited me to go on a senior bus trip to Newport, including a luncheon cruise, a mansion tour and shopping. She had to send in the check and it wasn’t cheap, so if I wasn’t going to make it, Nana needed to know now.
She had me at hello; I couldn’t have turned her down if I’d wanted to. Good thing I didn’t want to. So, I planned my summer around the early August date. In the three months between the birthday celebration and the Newport trip, the accumulation of her birthdays became increasingly impossible to ignore.
Even though she has kept earning her fireball reputation a long time, the past few years I’ve had to let go of my denial that she can go on like this forever. In addition to a gradual overall processing and memory slowdown. The signs of aging glare at us. The TV blasts at high volume, and she’s watching more Mayberry and Bonanza and less Rachel Ray and Emeril. See, she used to cook along with Rachel and Emeril. Now, she’d rather go out and let waiters flirt with her. That’s when she’s taking a break from QT in the recliner.
After the bus ride, we were dropped off about a block from the marina. From there, we walked to the dock. No problem for me, but a bit of a hike for these seniors. I slowed down for Nana, and she kept up with me, no complaints, but she was ready for a chair when she got to one. Nana didn’t know many of the people there, but we were lucky enough to sit at a table with six very kind women, two retired nurses, one with a friend, the other with her sister, as well as a mother and daughter. I was easily the youngest person on this trip, and I guess Nana was the oldest, making her a “Senior Senior”.
The great thing about traveling with someone with hearing loss is they don’t readily pick up on other people’s complaints. Nana just smiled and took in the whole boat ride. And other than snow, we had just about every type of weather on the three hour tour. I heard moaning, whining and complaining from so many other passengers. “The bathroom is too small; why is that other table going up to the buffet next? when are we going to get our turn? the drinks from the bar are HOW much? Do we have to tip these people? I want a comment card!”
Twenty years ago, Nana probably would have found some fault, but this day, everything was just beautiful as far as she was concerned. The food was great; there was plenty of it (she didn’t hear the mad scramble to refill the trays just before our table - the last one - was invited to the line). After lunch, she zigzagged around a tight dining cabin out to the open bow to just watch and soak in the air and sunshine. “This is such a good day, Lissa.” I agree, but I couldn't talk her into buying the cruise photo. Ah well, we stayed together on the bow until we docked, and I will take that memory with me forever. That was what she really came for. Just a boat ride, some sunshine, and a little breeze.
The walk back to the bus tested her stamina, but there was a Newport Mansion on the itinerary, and off we went. This time, the buses had to park even further away, and Nana decided “if you’ve seen one Newport Mansion……….” Well, ok, but the bus had to shut down, meaning no air conditioning, and really, no air!
“You go. I’ll be fine”
“No way, I’m not leaving you. And we have to get off this bus.”
“Whatever. Why did we have to park so far away?”
Cathy, one of the very kind women at our table let us borrow a walker she brought for her mother “just in case”. Thank you, Cathy! It was slow going, but we found a few nice places to sit, some shady, some sunny. The weather cooperated with us, all day – we were never out in the rain or thunder, and there were quite enough of both.
Apparently, the indoor mansion tour requires audio equipment, and the ability to respond quickly to directions. Missing a step can get a tourist confused, lost, off-balance. Nana wasn’t having any of it “Let's just find me a nice place to sit”. Another one of the kind ladies at our lunch table made sure Nana had some room on a bench in the shade of a European Beech. No complaining, just smiles. “Go, you go in.”
I did leave Nana just long enough to use the restroom in the mansion. During the long walk from Nana’s bench, I prepared myself to be dazzled by gold and crystal faucets, marble countertops, whatever else rich people install in their bathrooms. I definitely anticipated palatial facilities.
Turns out, Nana was right. If you’ve seen one…………..
She had me at hello; I couldn’t have turned her down if I’d wanted to. Good thing I didn’t want to. So, I planned my summer around the early August date. In the three months between the birthday celebration and the Newport trip, the accumulation of her birthdays became increasingly impossible to ignore.
Even though she has kept earning her fireball reputation a long time, the past few years I’ve had to let go of my denial that she can go on like this forever. In addition to a gradual overall processing and memory slowdown. The signs of aging glare at us. The TV blasts at high volume, and she’s watching more Mayberry and Bonanza and less Rachel Ray and Emeril. See, she used to cook along with Rachel and Emeril. Now, she’d rather go out and let waiters flirt with her. That’s when she’s taking a break from QT in the recliner.
After the bus ride, we were dropped off about a block from the marina. From there, we walked to the dock. No problem for me, but a bit of a hike for these seniors. I slowed down for Nana, and she kept up with me, no complaints, but she was ready for a chair when she got to one. Nana didn’t know many of the people there, but we were lucky enough to sit at a table with six very kind women, two retired nurses, one with a friend, the other with her sister, as well as a mother and daughter. I was easily the youngest person on this trip, and I guess Nana was the oldest, making her a “Senior Senior”.
The great thing about traveling with someone with hearing loss is they don’t readily pick up on other people’s complaints. Nana just smiled and took in the whole boat ride. And other than snow, we had just about every type of weather on the three hour tour. I heard moaning, whining and complaining from so many other passengers. “The bathroom is too small; why is that other table going up to the buffet next? when are we going to get our turn? the drinks from the bar are HOW much? Do we have to tip these people? I want a comment card!”
Twenty years ago, Nana probably would have found some fault, but this day, everything was just beautiful as far as she was concerned. The food was great; there was plenty of it (she didn’t hear the mad scramble to refill the trays just before our table - the last one - was invited to the line). After lunch, she zigzagged around a tight dining cabin out to the open bow to just watch and soak in the air and sunshine. “This is such a good day, Lissa.” I agree, but I couldn't talk her into buying the cruise photo. Ah well, we stayed together on the bow until we docked, and I will take that memory with me forever. That was what she really came for. Just a boat ride, some sunshine, and a little breeze.
The walk back to the bus tested her stamina, but there was a Newport Mansion on the itinerary, and off we went. This time, the buses had to park even further away, and Nana decided “if you’ve seen one Newport Mansion……….” Well, ok, but the bus had to shut down, meaning no air conditioning, and really, no air!
“You go. I’ll be fine”
“No way, I’m not leaving you. And we have to get off this bus.”
“Whatever. Why did we have to park so far away?”
Cathy, one of the very kind women at our table let us borrow a walker she brought for her mother “just in case”. Thank you, Cathy! It was slow going, but we found a few nice places to sit, some shady, some sunny. The weather cooperated with us, all day – we were never out in the rain or thunder, and there were quite enough of both.
Apparently, the indoor mansion tour requires audio equipment, and the ability to respond quickly to directions. Missing a step can get a tourist confused, lost, off-balance. Nana wasn’t having any of it “Let's just find me a nice place to sit”. Another one of the kind ladies at our lunch table made sure Nana had some room on a bench in the shade of a European Beech. No complaining, just smiles. “Go, you go in.”
I did leave Nana just long enough to use the restroom in the mansion. During the long walk from Nana’s bench, I prepared myself to be dazzled by gold and crystal faucets, marble countertops, whatever else rich people install in their bathrooms. I definitely anticipated palatial facilities.
Turns out, Nana was right. If you’ve seen one…………..
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Diamonds and Loons
We got up this morning, the best way possible – no alarm clock, but still early enough to “eat up, suit up, and hit the water,” as Chica put it. My aspirations for the day were all over the place: kayak across the bay and back, take Chica tubing, and then the three of us, Chica, Hubsy and I would climb Mt. Major – all before lunch. Two out of three Hansons told me I was crazy. As the third Hanson, and one with a propensity for talking to herself, I was in denial about the gross mismatch between ambitions and abilities. That, and I don't remember to respect the time-space continuum when I'm on vacation.
Just to set up: most of the athletic ability and coordination in our family is intractably invested in Chica. From golf, to tennis, to soft ball, to – well, think of a game where you swing a stick at something round, and she’s a natural at it. She did not inherit this agility from me. She did, however, hone it at a summer camp I helped pay for. As a generous daughter, she’ll be a star if she ever decides to go into the family business, and she was quite game to help me achieve my kayaking goal.
I have kayaked before, but only as far as a stick a little ways out from the family dock. The town docks seemed like a good enough destination, but Chica suggested “Indian Island” which would be safer and more interesting, in terms of immediate scenery. So, right after breakfast, we were on the dock in our suits, getting the kayaks into position. Just getting in without tipping over and getting mud pie hair is a win for me. Quick victory! Yay!
Apparently the Camp kayaking teachers recommend that as you stroke your paddle through the water, you swivel your hips. “Imagine that your body is spring loaded, Mom.” I tried hard to swivel, I really did, but my right hip immediately brought this important fact to my attention: I need more spring and less load. Did I mention that Chica did not inherit her athletic skills from me?
“Mom, aim! Aim!” I must have been too focused on the angle of the paddle, rather than the direction of the vessel, because my kayak stubbornly pointed about 15 degrees to the right of where I wanted it. “Mom, look at the target, not at the paddle. You don’t stare at the steering wheel when you drive, right?”
Turns out, Chica was right about all of it. As soon as the hips and paddle coordinated, I felt the kayak propel twice as far. Pretty soon, the stick was way behind us, and I no longer considered it an accomplishment to get only that far. Eventually, she asked me where I had my feet (on the bottom of the kayak, where else would they be?). Oh, those things by my shins are foot rests? And having my feet on them will further increase my propulsion? Got it, Chica. And thanks.
I continue to struggle with the aim, though, but mostly because this lake, on a perfectly clear August morning – well, I run out of words quickly, but I am in heaven here. There is just no bad place to look. The sunshine hits the water in a scatter of diamonds. In the distance, the mountains layer, sculpted by cloud shadows.
And then, just bobbing on the barely discernible ripples, a loon.
“Oh, Mom, look! A loon!” Chica whispered. It rested fairly close to us, close enough to see the red of its eyes and each distinctive white speckle on black feathers. We paused and floated there, very quietly, just watching it. What is it about a solitary loon that projects an air of nobility, and evokes protectiveness? It was simply understood between Chica and me: DO NOT DISTURB! Look, certainly. Marvel if you’re moved to, but don’t get any closer. Let it be. And he dove, and we paddled on. After a few minutes, he appeared again. Again, we paused just to enjoy him, and this time, he stretched his wings and aimed his pointy beak high over the water, then back down, and another dive.
Yes, this lake takes my words away. So on we paddled, chatted, rested, listened to the surface water brush along the hull.
I don’t know if “Indian Island” is the official name, or if it’s just what the kids call it, but, the only human form inhabiting the place is a slightly larger than life-size statue of a Native American man. At night, it’s lit from below, and we’ve grown accustomed to looking for him whenever we arrive into town in the wee hours. He greets, intimidates and inspires.
Just as we decided to start back for home, there was our loon again, just for a few seconds this time before diving and resurfacing. I don’t know if he was comfortable enough around a pair of fresh water mermaids, or just inviting us to get on with it and leave, but we’ll take his time and attention as a compliment.
The wind behind us on the trip back hurried us along, even though there was certainly no hurry. The only eye-rolling moment was when Chica had to steer out of the way of a water skier whose boat captain got too close to two kayaks. He didn’t even look. Ah well.
We put off climbing and tubing for another day – no sense over-crowding a morning like that, even if I had had the energy. Thank you, Chica; I couldn’t have done it without you.
Just to set up: most of the athletic ability and coordination in our family is intractably invested in Chica. From golf, to tennis, to soft ball, to – well, think of a game where you swing a stick at something round, and she’s a natural at it. She did not inherit this agility from me. She did, however, hone it at a summer camp I helped pay for. As a generous daughter, she’ll be a star if she ever decides to go into the family business, and she was quite game to help me achieve my kayaking goal.
I have kayaked before, but only as far as a stick a little ways out from the family dock. The town docks seemed like a good enough destination, but Chica suggested “Indian Island” which would be safer and more interesting, in terms of immediate scenery. So, right after breakfast, we were on the dock in our suits, getting the kayaks into position. Just getting in without tipping over and getting mud pie hair is a win for me. Quick victory! Yay!
Apparently the Camp kayaking teachers recommend that as you stroke your paddle through the water, you swivel your hips. “Imagine that your body is spring loaded, Mom.” I tried hard to swivel, I really did, but my right hip immediately brought this important fact to my attention: I need more spring and less load. Did I mention that Chica did not inherit her athletic skills from me?
“Mom, aim! Aim!” I must have been too focused on the angle of the paddle, rather than the direction of the vessel, because my kayak stubbornly pointed about 15 degrees to the right of where I wanted it. “Mom, look at the target, not at the paddle. You don’t stare at the steering wheel when you drive, right?”
Turns out, Chica was right about all of it. As soon as the hips and paddle coordinated, I felt the kayak propel twice as far. Pretty soon, the stick was way behind us, and I no longer considered it an accomplishment to get only that far. Eventually, she asked me where I had my feet (on the bottom of the kayak, where else would they be?). Oh, those things by my shins are foot rests? And having my feet on them will further increase my propulsion? Got it, Chica. And thanks.
I continue to struggle with the aim, though, but mostly because this lake, on a perfectly clear August morning – well, I run out of words quickly, but I am in heaven here. There is just no bad place to look. The sunshine hits the water in a scatter of diamonds. In the distance, the mountains layer, sculpted by cloud shadows.
And then, just bobbing on the barely discernible ripples, a loon.
“Oh, Mom, look! A loon!” Chica whispered. It rested fairly close to us, close enough to see the red of its eyes and each distinctive white speckle on black feathers. We paused and floated there, very quietly, just watching it. What is it about a solitary loon that projects an air of nobility, and evokes protectiveness? It was simply understood between Chica and me: DO NOT DISTURB! Look, certainly. Marvel if you’re moved to, but don’t get any closer. Let it be. And he dove, and we paddled on. After a few minutes, he appeared again. Again, we paused just to enjoy him, and this time, he stretched his wings and aimed his pointy beak high over the water, then back down, and another dive.
Yes, this lake takes my words away. So on we paddled, chatted, rested, listened to the surface water brush along the hull.
I don’t know if “Indian Island” is the official name, or if it’s just what the kids call it, but, the only human form inhabiting the place is a slightly larger than life-size statue of a Native American man. At night, it’s lit from below, and we’ve grown accustomed to looking for him whenever we arrive into town in the wee hours. He greets, intimidates and inspires.
Just as we decided to start back for home, there was our loon again, just for a few seconds this time before diving and resurfacing. I don’t know if he was comfortable enough around a pair of fresh water mermaids, or just inviting us to get on with it and leave, but we’ll take his time and attention as a compliment.
The wind behind us on the trip back hurried us along, even though there was certainly no hurry. The only eye-rolling moment was when Chica had to steer out of the way of a water skier whose boat captain got too close to two kayaks. He didn’t even look. Ah well.
We put off climbing and tubing for another day – no sense over-crowding a morning like that, even if I had had the energy. Thank you, Chica; I couldn’t have done it without you.
Monday, August 2, 2010
As Structured as Spatters Can Get
So, what will this blog be about? A young friend put it succinctly in the following text message: Random topics? Since the subtitle mentions brain spatters, I guess randomly chosen topics would cover it, thematically speaking. Focus has never been my strong suit.
One friend of mine blogs about menopause, and another blogs about food. Still another claims her postings are “rambling thoughts.” Yet her writing, like that of most of my friends, tends to be far more thoughtful than rambling, which is definitely a compliment. These ladies set the blogging bar pretty high. I’m thinking it would be wise for me to set some parameters of my own.
1. Stay positive: My topics might vary, but I will do everything within the confines of my writing skills and emotional maturity to avoid whining or disparaging anyone. I might ramble, though, and I will probably require some patience. If I can’t think of a way to end a post on a neutral to positive note, I won’t put it out there.
2. Stay Private: Unless I have express permission, the only name I mention will be my own. My immediate family members will be referred to as Hubsy, Sonny, and Chica. I’ll devise appropriate pseudonyms for others as needed. It’s a golden rule thing.
3. Stay Polite: No dirty language. Not only is it vulgar; it’s also just lazy writing. Besides, vulgarity already pervades our culture to a jarring degree. I hope my blog can be a little safe haven from the baser things of life – maybe a cyber-sanctuary – at the risk of being too grandiose. I want readers to come away feeling laughter, or warmth, or both. So, even if I am being grandiose, whatever; it’s my blog. That said, I think I’ll reserve the right to apply a certain noun to myself, but only when it’s the best option. Sometimes, there’s just no substitute for a Babe In Total Control of Herself.
4. Stay Prudent: I will refrain from writing anything specific or current about my day job, which, by the way, is a fountain of stories I just couldn’t make up. If I ever share an anecdote from that part of my life, I’ll make sure it’s a very old one, with a few sides of embellishment. I enjoy and appreciate my day job, and I definitely want to keep it.
That’s probably enough for the time being. I don’t know how often I’ll be writing, but I will try to Stay Productive.
Hang in there with me?
One friend of mine blogs about menopause, and another blogs about food. Still another claims her postings are “rambling thoughts.” Yet her writing, like that of most of my friends, tends to be far more thoughtful than rambling, which is definitely a compliment. These ladies set the blogging bar pretty high. I’m thinking it would be wise for me to set some parameters of my own.
1. Stay positive: My topics might vary, but I will do everything within the confines of my writing skills and emotional maturity to avoid whining or disparaging anyone. I might ramble, though, and I will probably require some patience. If I can’t think of a way to end a post on a neutral to positive note, I won’t put it out there.
2. Stay Private: Unless I have express permission, the only name I mention will be my own. My immediate family members will be referred to as Hubsy, Sonny, and Chica. I’ll devise appropriate pseudonyms for others as needed. It’s a golden rule thing.
3. Stay Polite: No dirty language. Not only is it vulgar; it’s also just lazy writing. Besides, vulgarity already pervades our culture to a jarring degree. I hope my blog can be a little safe haven from the baser things of life – maybe a cyber-sanctuary – at the risk of being too grandiose. I want readers to come away feeling laughter, or warmth, or both. So, even if I am being grandiose, whatever; it’s my blog. That said, I think I’ll reserve the right to apply a certain noun to myself, but only when it’s the best option. Sometimes, there’s just no substitute for a Babe In Total Control of Herself.
4. Stay Prudent: I will refrain from writing anything specific or current about my day job, which, by the way, is a fountain of stories I just couldn’t make up. If I ever share an anecdote from that part of my life, I’ll make sure it’s a very old one, with a few sides of embellishment. I enjoy and appreciate my day job, and I definitely want to keep it.
That’s probably enough for the time being. I don’t know how often I’ll be writing, but I will try to Stay Productive.
Hang in there with me?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
A Girl Likes Feeling Special
Pink & Orange vs. Green & Brown
In East Milton square, two competing caffeine establishments coexist directly across the street from one another. Whether they know it, or like it, or not, they share parking spaces. I’ve been in the neighborhood visiting my family intermittently this summer, and I’ve worked out a nice routine. I walk early in the day, then get a cup of something and about half an hour of alone time for journaling.
Anyway, I’m caffeine clean these days, so I lean toward the herbal tea options at Green and Brown (G&B). On the other hand, when I’m on the buzz, I prefer the taste of Pink and Orange (P&O). Especially iced, with cream and excess artificial sugar.
But just for today, I’m caffeine free. One day at a time.
I haven’t been in this particular P&O yet, but I’ve frequented their twin brother a few blocks away in West Quincy. I’m quite familiar with the chain, so I know the drill:
Walk in; get a nose full of hot grease and powdered sugar.
Wait in the rat maze line and look at all the pretty sprinkly things (coated in aforementioned powdered sugar).
Try to make sense of the news channel, the one with four increasingly unsettling crawls on the lower third of the screen.
Funny, a sprinkly thing got ordered and I only came in for the caffeine.
Pay; grab the stuff, leave.
By the way, pick up a straw and a napkin on the way out the door.
Yeah, thanks, NEXT!
Because “thank you” has too many syllables, and there’s an even longer line now than the one I waited in. Besides, with the pink, the orange, the powdered sugar in the nostrils, and the four crawls on the TV, and the carbs I didn’t mean to order, I’m too distracted to recognize perfunctory treatment right away.
This isn’t a relationship; it’s a one-morning stand. The whole atmosphere is set up to get us in and out quickly, leaving a little more money behind than originally intended, about a buck and a half at a time. It’s just capitalism, and it works; I get the buzz and the carbs, they get the cash. Effective, but by the time I’m taking the first sip, I’m feeling a little dirty and vaguely roughed up.
I’m gonna hate myself for this in the afternoon.
Across the street, it’s a whole different vibe. When time and space for journaling are scarce, G&B is far more subtle about seducing me to spend more. For one thing, G&B has the real estate: tables, chairs, newspapers, Wi-Fi, non-verbal invitations to hang out and write for as long as I want. With the music and dim lighting, I feel like the prettiest girl at the prom, even in my gym clothes.
G&B: Psssst, hey, Blondie! How you doing?
LMH: (looking around to make sure this graying, but still dark-haired girl is the Blondie in question. I am!)
G&B: Yeah, you, Blondie. Wanna be my mermaid?
LMH: (blushing, yet articulate, because I can’t resist a sense of irony.) Huh? (Noticing the logo on my cup) Oh…..OH! …………………. (inhaling deeply) Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Is that coffee bean aroma you’re wearing?
G&B: Of course, I knew you’d be here, and I know what you like. By the way, how about this song?
LMH: George Harrison? A cover, though. Sounds good. Really, sounds good. I like this. But you knew that.
G&B: Get comfortable, Blondie. You can sit in this nice warm brown chair. Or, maybe a table is better for writing. You’re in for a treat; wait till you hear the rest of the CD. How’s the drink? I’ll be right here if you need anything else. Anything, Blondie.
Ah, the green, the shades of brown. Earth tones. So inviting, so back to nature. So cavernous, quiet, serene, even with the caffeinated clientele. Anyway, they’re way over in that other part of G&B; I’m over here, all cozy with my tea and my notebook. I can’t even hear what they’re ordering – I’m writing, smiling, nodding my head, and just loving this music.
So, several songs (and a few pages) later, I must have this CD, available right here in G&B, who happily accepts Blondie’s credit card.
LMH: Oh, and won’t my Nana love it if I bring her one of those nice muffins?
G&B: Coming right up. That’s $14.95. Thank you. You come back, Blondie. I’ll keep your chair warm.
LMH: Of course. You know I’ll be back, and you know what I like.
I won’t regret it until the bill comes. Maybe not even then.
In East Milton square, two competing caffeine establishments coexist directly across the street from one another. Whether they know it, or like it, or not, they share parking spaces. I’ve been in the neighborhood visiting my family intermittently this summer, and I’ve worked out a nice routine. I walk early in the day, then get a cup of something and about half an hour of alone time for journaling.
Anyway, I’m caffeine clean these days, so I lean toward the herbal tea options at Green and Brown (G&B). On the other hand, when I’m on the buzz, I prefer the taste of Pink and Orange (P&O). Especially iced, with cream and excess artificial sugar.
But just for today, I’m caffeine free. One day at a time.
I haven’t been in this particular P&O yet, but I’ve frequented their twin brother a few blocks away in West Quincy. I’m quite familiar with the chain, so I know the drill:
Walk in; get a nose full of hot grease and powdered sugar.
Wait in the rat maze line and look at all the pretty sprinkly things (coated in aforementioned powdered sugar).
Try to make sense of the news channel, the one with four increasingly unsettling crawls on the lower third of the screen.
Funny, a sprinkly thing got ordered and I only came in for the caffeine.
Pay; grab the stuff, leave.
By the way, pick up a straw and a napkin on the way out the door.
Yeah, thanks, NEXT!
Because “thank you” has too many syllables, and there’s an even longer line now than the one I waited in. Besides, with the pink, the orange, the powdered sugar in the nostrils, and the four crawls on the TV, and the carbs I didn’t mean to order, I’m too distracted to recognize perfunctory treatment right away.
This isn’t a relationship; it’s a one-morning stand. The whole atmosphere is set up to get us in and out quickly, leaving a little more money behind than originally intended, about a buck and a half at a time. It’s just capitalism, and it works; I get the buzz and the carbs, they get the cash. Effective, but by the time I’m taking the first sip, I’m feeling a little dirty and vaguely roughed up.
I’m gonna hate myself for this in the afternoon.
Across the street, it’s a whole different vibe. When time and space for journaling are scarce, G&B is far more subtle about seducing me to spend more. For one thing, G&B has the real estate: tables, chairs, newspapers, Wi-Fi, non-verbal invitations to hang out and write for as long as I want. With the music and dim lighting, I feel like the prettiest girl at the prom, even in my gym clothes.
G&B: Psssst, hey, Blondie! How you doing?
LMH: (looking around to make sure this graying, but still dark-haired girl is the Blondie in question. I am!)
G&B: Yeah, you, Blondie. Wanna be my mermaid?
LMH: (blushing, yet articulate, because I can’t resist a sense of irony.) Huh? (Noticing the logo on my cup) Oh…..OH! …………………. (inhaling deeply) Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Is that coffee bean aroma you’re wearing?
G&B: Of course, I knew you’d be here, and I know what you like. By the way, how about this song?
LMH: George Harrison? A cover, though. Sounds good. Really, sounds good. I like this. But you knew that.
G&B: Get comfortable, Blondie. You can sit in this nice warm brown chair. Or, maybe a table is better for writing. You’re in for a treat; wait till you hear the rest of the CD. How’s the drink? I’ll be right here if you need anything else. Anything, Blondie.
Ah, the green, the shades of brown. Earth tones. So inviting, so back to nature. So cavernous, quiet, serene, even with the caffeinated clientele. Anyway, they’re way over in that other part of G&B; I’m over here, all cozy with my tea and my notebook. I can’t even hear what they’re ordering – I’m writing, smiling, nodding my head, and just loving this music.
So, several songs (and a few pages) later, I must have this CD, available right here in G&B, who happily accepts Blondie’s credit card.
LMH: Oh, and won’t my Nana love it if I bring her one of those nice muffins?
G&B: Coming right up. That’s $14.95. Thank you. You come back, Blondie. I’ll keep your chair warm.
LMH: Of course. You know I’ll be back, and you know what I like.
I won’t regret it until the bill comes. Maybe not even then.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Word Geek
About 6 months ago, as I was surfing around the classifieds in Poets & Writers, I found a poetry challenge. Use the following 6 words in up to 3 poems: anteros, crippled, spindle, staircase, threshold, and whirligig. The deadline was firmer than my will to submit anything, so it came and went, but not before I scratched out an attempt.
As a word geek, I don’t allow myself to use a word until I’ve done my homework, so that meant some quality time with Merriam Webster to look up anteros. Well, in case anyone was wondering, anteros means anterior. Okay, not being one to put a dictionary down prematurely, I proceeded to look up the other five words too, just to make sure I had a handle on all of them. Good thing, too, because whirligig’s definition painted a picture in my mind. That’s just good writing, and not just for a dictionary, either.
“Spindle” really got to me, too. Aside from the meaning, it’s just fun to say. Go ahead, pronounce it a few times. Spindle, spindle, spindle. Admit it, you enjoyed that. It’s an underused word, so it was generous of the poetry challenge people to include it.
Anyway, here goes.
Best Man
By Lissa M. Hanson
“No Anteros! Dammit, anteros!”
The first crippled words Daddy whines
After the stroke spindled his brain.
But Anteros? Might he mean Auntie Rose?
For decades, I eavesdropped to catch the whispers, and
Studied the curling snapshots;
As a young bride, she seized
His teenaged heart.
He blushed and turned his face away
As she descended his grandmother’s staircase
Carnations and babies’ breath in hand,
To join him, no, her groom,
His spike-haired uncle.
On the threshold of the makeshift altar,
Her dress – the palest pink – a
Floating whirligig
About her hips, around her belly.
And he, with the ring in
His borrowed breast pocket
Wordlessly carried out his duty.
As a word geek, I don’t allow myself to use a word until I’ve done my homework, so that meant some quality time with Merriam Webster to look up anteros. Well, in case anyone was wondering, anteros means anterior. Okay, not being one to put a dictionary down prematurely, I proceeded to look up the other five words too, just to make sure I had a handle on all of them. Good thing, too, because whirligig’s definition painted a picture in my mind. That’s just good writing, and not just for a dictionary, either.
“Spindle” really got to me, too. Aside from the meaning, it’s just fun to say. Go ahead, pronounce it a few times. Spindle, spindle, spindle. Admit it, you enjoyed that. It’s an underused word, so it was generous of the poetry challenge people to include it.
Anyway, here goes.
Best Man
By Lissa M. Hanson
“No Anteros! Dammit, anteros!”
The first crippled words Daddy whines
After the stroke spindled his brain.
But Anteros? Might he mean Auntie Rose?
For decades, I eavesdropped to catch the whispers, and
Studied the curling snapshots;
As a young bride, she seized
His teenaged heart.
He blushed and turned his face away
As she descended his grandmother’s staircase
Carnations and babies’ breath in hand,
To join him, no, her groom,
His spike-haired uncle.
On the threshold of the makeshift altar,
Her dress – the palest pink – a
Floating whirligig
About her hips, around her belly.
And he, with the ring in
His borrowed breast pocket
Wordlessly carried out his duty.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Beginning
I’m tired of playing hide and seek with the writer I’m supposed to be. Ever since my parents taught me the alphabet, I’ve wanted to write. But like everyone with “real world” responsibilities, I frequently get distracted from the projects I start. Then, when I carve out time for writing, well, I don’t know where to begin. Focus tends to expand a subject, so today I’ll focus on the upside.
So far today, here’s my gratitude list: My husband made it safely to work; my kids are doing what they need to be doing, where they need to be doing it; the car dealership under-promised and over-delivered, which meant only a 45 minute wait to get my mom-mobile back. Then, on the way home, I heard one of my favorite songs, “Unwritten,” immediately followed by another one that’s crept into my heart, “Collide.” As I pulled into our driveway, a butterfly visited me. Maybe it was the same one that flirted with my shoulder a few minutes later when I was watering the tomato plants. Finally, the ache in my posterior reminds me of yesterday’s highly effective workout.
As a pathological optimist, I don’t measure a glass half full or half empty. A glass with anything in it is still something, which is better than nothing. And an empty glass is ready to use. Besides, we’ve got to start somewhere.
And here is the first post to my blog. Let the crickets begin….
So far today, here’s my gratitude list: My husband made it safely to work; my kids are doing what they need to be doing, where they need to be doing it; the car dealership under-promised and over-delivered, which meant only a 45 minute wait to get my mom-mobile back. Then, on the way home, I heard one of my favorite songs, “Unwritten,” immediately followed by another one that’s crept into my heart, “Collide.” As I pulled into our driveway, a butterfly visited me. Maybe it was the same one that flirted with my shoulder a few minutes later when I was watering the tomato plants. Finally, the ache in my posterior reminds me of yesterday’s highly effective workout.
As a pathological optimist, I don’t measure a glass half full or half empty. A glass with anything in it is still something, which is better than nothing. And an empty glass is ready to use. Besides, we’ve got to start somewhere.
And here is the first post to my blog. Let the crickets begin….
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