Category Archives: Remembering

From the classroom, Remembering, Whatever

Let it be

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Is it possible to will away poison ivy, do you think? Ignore it away, maybe? I’ve been trying to not see the funny little blisters that are replacing the sunburn on my arms and shoulders from a morning at the beach last weekend. First I thought they were blisters from too much sun on my winter-white skin. Then they started to itch a bit and I decided them bug bites. But I know better, I think.

I forget that I can’t be so cavalier in my approach to poison ivy anymore. Getting it once should have been a good lesson, but the sun and a warmish breeze off the bay at Sandy Hook conspired to make me absentminded. I was more concerned with scratching up my bare legs among the beach plums, apparently, than minding what the rest of me touched. Foolish with spring-fever, I’ll pay the price by itching until Memorial Day.

I got poison ivy for the first time only about five years ago. It was the end of the school year and I was teaching high school at the time. My classroom that year was a *modular* one (makeshift would be a better word) – school construction had a number of classrooms relocated to the gym. There were walls to separate each classroom from the next, but no doors and no proper ceilings. You can imagine the fun a group of freshman boys might have with that set-up. I always knew if there was a substitute teacher in one of the adjoining classrooms because all manner of things would come flying over the walls, hitting my angelic students on the head while they toiled over their Spanish textbooks. Great fun. At any rate, there was no air conditioning in the gym, of course, and poor poison-ivy covered me couldn’t hide my calamine-lotioned skin under long sleeves or pants for fear of fainting in the heat at the end of June. School ended and I went off to celebrate in the Adirondacks and was eaten alive by black flies on top of my poison ivy. Talk about misery!

Poison ivy is impossible to avoid at Sandy Hook – it grows in great impenetrable thickets – and this time of year it’s not looking nearly so pretty or obvious as in this pic from May of last year. There was nothing but branches with just a hint of leaves… how dangerous is that?

😉

Don’t tell me. I’m pretending not to notice, remember?

Remembering, Small truths, Whatever

Scents and memories

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My mother had one of those mirrored trays with crystal perfume bottles that she kept on her dresser… very shiny and fancy and exactly the type of thing we kids were never supposed to touch. After she passed away my dad tried giving it to me, to put on my little girl’s dresser, and I remember throwing a crying fit because I was so afraid to have it for myself. Imagine if I ever dropped one of those gorgeous bottles of perfume!

Eventually I convinced myself to take it from my mom’s dresser and put it in my own room. It never quite fit with the pink canopy bed and I still haven’t gotten over the ambivalence I felt about that damn perfume tray. It’s probably in storage somewhere or up in the attic. I don’t dare throw it away, but I don’t want to have to look at it everyday, either. Silly how an object can be tied up with so much emotional baggage more than 25 years later. I guess maybe I feel like I still haven’t grown up enough to use anything so… elegant, so classy, so like my mom.

Part of my ambivalence might also be associated with the particular perfume my mom liked. I don’t necessarily remember her wearing it – I can’t remember the sound of her voice, never mind what she smelled like – but I do remember the scent in those bottles.. Chanel No. 5. Overbearing, flowery, full of vanilla … ick. The perfume itself had probably gone over years before and that made it even more awful-smelling and heady.

I’ve never been one for perfume anyway (any wonder why?!) but many years ago I was given the tiniest bottle of the most perfect scent – bergamot and jonquil, jasmine and mandarin… in an understated black rectangular bottle. Perfect. That little bottle went quickly and I spent years trying to find more of it. Turns out it was discontinued. It reappeared a couple years ago at a ridiculous price and I’d refused to buy it. Until today. Today I spoiled myself and bought the big bottle.

I don’t do it often, but it feels nice to be spoiled once in a while! And having that scent on my wrist again makes me smile and feel happy. Happy except that it reminded me of my mom’s perfume tray collecting dust somewhere.

😉

So… any favorite perfumes out there? Any that you love to hate? I’m hoping none of you are big Chanel No. 5 fans.

Please note: Someday this will return to something resembling a nature blog. I feel like I’ve been “off-topic” a lot lately!

Remembering, Whatever

Comfort foods

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When I was a kid, one of my most favorite things to eat was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese in the dark blue box. You cooked the macaroni, added some milk and margarine and the little packet of powdered ‘cheese’and voila! Add a little salt and lots of pepper and it was delicious. (Still is, if I’m being honest.) My dad never wanted to believe that I loved the stuff so much, I mean… it only cost 49 cents for the whole box! He tried to convince me that the more expensive box, the ‘creamier’ version with the little package of cheez-whiz-like-stuff, must be better. I’d have none of it.

There’s probably nothing better than homemade mac and cheese, and the way my mom made it was delicicous, but dad could never quite master the recipe, for whatever reason. So I guess that’s partly why I liked the stuff in the box so well. Dad would try to dress it up with hot dogs or canned tomatoes, to make it seem more like something ‘worth’ eating, but no amount of improvisation beat the stuff straight out of the box for me.

Well! I found a recipe that I love. It’s simple enough, but grown up with Gruyere cheese and extra-sharp cheddar, nearly a pound of cheese, and a quart of whole milk. Yummy! I add some vine-ripened tomatoes on top with fresh bread crumbs and it’s sinfully delicious, but certainly not low-fat. But, who cares, right? Comfort food, pure and simple. Plus, the recipe makes enough for a week’s worth of lunches.

Any favorites from your childhood? SpaghettiOs? Cinnamon toast? Hamburger Helper? Have you managed to improve upon them as a grown-up?

😉

Growing up, Remembering, Small truths

Yeah.. we’ve always been a little off

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I wasted a few perfectly good hours this morning (and enlisted my husband in the project, too) looking for the grown-up version of this pic – I know it’s around here somewhere; can see it even in my mind – but I’ll be damned if I can put my fingers on it. It’s Kevin and I at the beach, me in a bikini looking amused, he up to his knees in the sand, building something to keep that amused grin on my face. I was twenty or so. He thirty or so. Grown-ups. Building sandcastles.

What’s the matter with us?

I heard from him the other day, for the first time since.. oh Christmas, and what did he do? He complimented me on my snowman. The one I built with the five-year-olds from the neighborhood. He told me about the snowman/igloo combination he built; you got to crawl into the snowman’s belly and hide out. Maybe have a nap there. Or a cup of cocoa.

What’s the matter with us?

My brothers and I… we’re a little off. But then, isn’t everyone, in one way or another? Of course I know there’s nothing wrong with us, at least nothing seriously wrong, but I wonder where this sense of whimsy comes from. Why do some of us still have it long past the time when others have grown up?

Not everyone sees the value in our foolishness either. Certain relatives just roll their eyes at us when we get laughing together and planning our next bit of imaginary mischief. Clearly, we are not to be trusted with the trappings of adulthood: the car keys, the checkbook, the children.

Sitting down to write this today, I thought of so many stories that point to our immaturity, but really I’m hoping some of you might share some stories of your own with me, from your families. Are you as *off* as we are?

Bunnies, Remembering

Mr. Bean

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Mr. Bean ATB 2/21/04

Yes–thou mayst eat thy bread, and lick the hand
That feeds thee; thou mayst frolic on the floor
At evening, and at night retire secure
To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarm’d;
For I have gain’d thy confidence, have pledged
All that is human in me, to protect
Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.
If I survive thee, I will dig thy grave;
And, when I place thee in it, sighing say,
I knew at least one hare that had a friend.

–William Cowper

From the field, Remembering, Small truths

The older we get…

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“Seek out old people. When you find some, give them joy. Listen closely. Remember that each old person is a library. Listen closely. Be useful. Bring the gift of yourself. Be voluntary. Visit with magic. Try playing their game. Let wisdom seep in. Cradle your own future old person. Be gentle. Listen closely. Pay attention to an old person. The treasures will be revealed.” –Sark, A Creative Companion

I had a second visit with an eighty-something-year old client today; quite the character this man is! Today’s visit was a bit more enjoyable than our last in early January; he’s since been fitted for a hearing aid and we didn’t need to shout at one another this time. He’s almost practically blind with glaucoma so couldn’t read the letter I’d sent to let him know I’d be stopping by. I stood in the pouring rain for the ten minutes it took him to get to the door with his walker to let me in and then he couldn’t see me to remember who I was.

😉

The real purpose of my visit was to make sure that his landlord had done some necessary repairs that I’d required, but I could have just as easily done that over the phone – but for all that shouting! – the fact is that I love to visit my elderly clients in person when possible. They’re often grumpy, but I love them anyway and usually end up feeling like I want to bring them home with me or at least adopt them for the holidays.

We had a nice visit and chatted about all his health issues and the problems he’s been having adjusting to the hearing aid. Then the stories started – that’s what I look forward to the most, you know! He told me about the jazz band he played horn in for many years – dixieland – and the time his band was asked to play at a funeral and had all the mourners up and dancing in the back of the funeral chapel. He also told about a half dozen bad jokes, but I laughed and he laughed and that’s what matters, I guess.

Most of the seniors I visit live alone and are too far from family to have any sort of support network in place. Plus, I imagine they’re really lonely and like the chance to talk with someone who’s kind enough to listen.

I know it was that way with my dad. I used to pity the poor telemarketer or grocery store clerk who met him when he was in a talkative mood – which was practically always! – he could go on and on for hours and mostly my brothers and I had already heard all of his stories at least a thousand times so had stopped listening, really. I regret that now, of course, and sometimes feel like I would give almost anything to hear my dad tell the story of breaking my mother’s Christmas angel or any of the hundreds of others he had saved up, just one more time.

I think the lesson for me in this is that it’s too easy to take your own family for granted; the old guy I saw this morning has a few sons around, but I wonder if they are able to delight in him the way I found myself doing today. It’s not easy to do, I guess, when other issues or emotions get in the way of just enjoying one another’s company, but I think courtesy, a lot of patience and some extra attention can go a long way in making the elderly feel like they have something to offer the rest of us. It doesn’t take much to be kind, does it? And they see far and know so much; we need only really listen.

Birds, Remembering

Fire-fire, where-where, here-here…

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I’m thinking today about the first time I saw an indigo bunting – on my first *real* bird walk – and the naturalist who was responsible for my seeing it and many other firsts that day. During the ten years or so since, I’ve thought back to how fortunate I was to have met Don and the rest of that little group of old folks that day when I was feeling so new to birds and, quite honestly, clueless.

I had this new pair of cheap binoculars that I hardly knew how to use and all the enthusiasm in the world. But I didn’t know anyone to teach me about birds, so I signed myself up for a walk around the nature center where I had also just recently agreed to volunteer once a month. I recall being embarassed with myself for knowing nothing and not seeing a familiar face amongst the group. But Don was leading and there were other friendly faces that I soon learned belonged to more volunteers at the nature center. We saw all the birds that were common to the neighborhood around the center (set in the middle of a cornfield, basically) and they were all wonderful and new to me then. The indigo bunting was the first bird I saw, and I mean really saw, and wow – I was just bewildered with its beauty and the seeming magic of the gentle man who pulled it out of the treeline, by its song alone, for me to see.

I remember his patience with me, the new kid, repeating the words to the song over and over, patience with me while I struggled to find that little blue bird singing from the treetops; “Fire-fire, where-where, here-here, see it-see it, put it out-put it out…”

As it turned out, Don was a neighbor, and I’d run into him on my walks in the woods near home, or in the grocery store, or in Cape May, or at the local Audubon meetings and we’d talk birds and share our latest good finds from the neighborhood. He often suggested that I call his wife and invite her along when I went looking for birds because he didn’t have the time to do as much birding as either of them might have liked.

The last time I saw Don was a few months back at the memorial service for another local birding buddy. Don wasn’t himself then; he’d been sick for a while, with something the doctors hadn’t been able to figure out. I read today that Don died this week from ALS that had only recently been diagnosed. What a terrible shock.

Do me a kindness and take a minute to read his obit and think a kind thought or say a prayer for his family. I’ll think of him and remember the bunting’s song and be glad to have known this quiet man who shared his love of nature so willingly with others.

Bunnies, Remembering

My first love

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A bunny from memory… my sweet Mr. Bean! He was my first flemish giant and I didn’t have anything big enough to keep him in, so his litterbox and other stuff ended up in the bathroom and he had run of the house. Mostly he liked to hang out behind a chair in the living room or here in the office with me. I never knew where I’d find him… under the spare bed, curled up under the little wicker coffee table like in this pic, on top of a pile of school papers. He was such a gentle bunny and made me a lover of flemmies for life, I think. Can’t imagine not having a few of them around the place, in fact. Giant bunnies are so very different than other bunnies… so laid back and affectionate. Lots of people are afraid of adopting a giant rabbit – imagine a rabbit the size of a small dog – but they are just the sweetest of the lot. And just look at the size of those back feet! Lots of luck there.

😉

Growing up, Remembering, Seasons, Snapshots

One last quirky bit

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So the mayhem of Christmas Day is done and I can sit in my barefeet in my peaceful house and be glad for the quiet again.

It was a day full of relatives and food and I’ve had my fill of both for a while, I think. I spent the morning at Christmas breakfast with my brothers and then had the in-laws and their babies and family friends and strangers they brought in off the street for the afternoon and into the night. I never would have thought my little house could hold so many! But there was one point during the night when I stood in my kitchen and looked out at the room full of laughing faces and was glad (mostly) for their company; glad at least that they were all together for the first time in a long while. I smiled at that.

I want to share two last things before wandering away for a few days: first a final example of quirkiness found at my brother’s. Do any of you remember those old-fashioned tinsel trees? Well, Brian bought this one and has it decorated with bubble lights and antique Shiny-Bright ornaments he’s bought off eBay or pilfered from my dad’s garage and we all think it’s the most beautiful thing.

Growing up, we had two xmas trees. The real one in the basement was for us kids; the one upstairs was for show and was a tinsel tree like this, but full size and with one of those color-wheel projection thingies that must have been all the rage at some point in history. God awful at the time, probably, but memory and nostalgia make my brothers and I yearn to find one like it again.

Lastly, a poem of sorts, sent by my brother Kevin. He had meant for me to include it here somehow, but it almost feels too personal to do so. I’ll post it anyway, with the idea that most of the meaning I read into it may well go right over your heads. I’m counting on that anyway.

😉

“First Christmas”

Early morning quiet
Lighted tree
Waits, anticipates, overcompensates

Sound,
Little girls feet
Cold crisp floor

Too young
To grow up
To do without

Lights not right
Don’t hide
Tears at night

The garland
On top or underneath?
Mom knew

The tinsel last
One at a time
Mom knew

The wrapping
Ends folded wrong
Mom knew

Blue winter jacket
Too tight
Mom knew

Holly hobby house
Bad words
Stamping feet

Stockings to brim
With girly things
An orange way down

No coal this year

One day, I’ll be up to telling that story, maybe.

Hope it was happy for everyone and that Santa brought all that you’d hoped for.

Remembering, Seasons, Small truths

Waiting

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Christmas Eve is my most favorite day of the holiday season and I try to reserve it for simple joys: watching the sun rise at a decent hour and then seeing a dusk come that is like no other time of the year, filling the daylight hours in between with cooking and preparing for tomorrow’s gathering with family, visiting with friends and calling on neighbors with homemade cookies, seeing the college kids from the neighborhood at home and so grown and changed from their short time away, the long afternoon church service with candles and bell-ringers.

Once it was dark today I took a break from the kitchen and drove through the downtown to admire the glittery lights and be glad that I wasn’t one of those people still out shopping for last-minute gifts. There’s been very little in the way of that this year, for whatever reason. Not in the mood mostly, but there’s a part of me that feels empty in buying gifts when so many need something that can’t be tightly bound with a red or green bow.

I was home in time to hear the sirens far enough away in the distance to know that I hadn’t missed Santa on his firetruck prowl through the neighborhood. Funny that I should look forward to that each year like I do, but there’s a certain childish eagerness on my part for seeing him arrive with gifts for the kids who live behind us; I can’t help but wave as he goes by and remember the sound of sleigh bells from my own childhood. Someone, most probably my brothers, made a point of my hearing them from the front yard bushes before bed on Christmas Eve. Brothers, I think, are one of those gifts that takes years to appreciate or find a use for.

So now I look forward to that particular quiet that comes only after midnight this day, after the preparations are done and there’s no traffic on the road, the house dark and quiet but for the lights of the Christmas tree and rivaled only by the shimmer of winter’s brightest stars.

– – – – – – – – – – –

“Prayer
is the pathway

Stillness
is the temple

Love
is the offering we bring

Peace
is the gift we are given.”

-Joan Walsh Anglund

I wish for you peace and the simple joys that only this day can bring.