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Showing posts from 2012

Healing

On Tuesday, the snow turned to rain, and the rain brought fog. The gingerbread boys went back to school. The youngest participated in an Ellis Island immigration simulation. The children dressed up in historical costumes, chose a name and a country, and with a lucky draw ended up in first or second class accommodations. The rest were shuttled like cattle into steerage. The outline of a boat was taped off on the gymnasium floor. The children crowded together into the "ship," and one of the teachers read letters from passengers until they reached Ellis Island, heralded by the principal, who was dressed as Lady Liberty. After eating a snack of bananas, which is what immigrants at Ellis Island were given, they were sent to processing for medical, legal, and psychological questioning. You were assigned to be a Special Inquirer, asking the children questions such as, "Are you married? Do you have any money?" At the end, the children performed choreography to "Com

Haunted

You are haunted by this enormous bad thing. Mercifully, you are given the gift of a snow day, one more day to keep the gingerbread boys home, away from wagging mouths that might take their innocence. You know you can't protect them forever, but from this, you must at least try. It is too horrific for adults to process, let alone the twelve-and-under crowd. Oh, they know something happened, but they are ignorant of the details. You pray they remain so. You yourself have had nightmares about it; your usual nightmares never connect to reality, but spring forth the strange brainchild of a cross between a post-apocolyptic read and a snack that brings on unimaginable weirdness. But this. This is pain. This is grieving. This is scraping the edges of a possibility too awful to contemplate. Even in your deep faith and knowledge of an eternal life and a loving Father in Heaven, you are stunned by this. Caught in the abyss between nightmares and sleeplessness. Caught in the web of soc

Gratitudes

I am thankful for warm slippers, for the feet within them that walk and run and dance. I am thankful for toes that give balance. I am thankful for nail polish, and even more thankful for nail polish remover. I am thankful for knees that bend and for hips that hold me together. I am thankful for bellies and babies and babies' bellies. I am thankful for my gingerbread boys who were once within my belly. I am thankful for lungs that breathe in and out and the air that fills them. I am thankful for a heart that beats, but even more thankful for a heart that feels. I am thankful for my dominant left hand and the wedding ring it wears, and still more thankful for the man who placed the ring there and who reminds me every day how he loves me. I am thankful for a back and shoulders and arms and wrists and fingers. I am thankful for ears that hear and eyes that see. I am thankful for a nose and teeth and taste buds. I am thankful for cinnamon and cilantro and cumin and cayenne and choco

Things I Love About Autumn in New England #4

Sometimes, the best thing about autumn in New England is the promise of what's to come: a roaring fire in the fireplace, a blanket around my shoulders, a good book, and a cup of something warm and sweet. There might be rain outside or grey clouds. The leaves might be falling. But sometime in the future, the world will be covered in white snow and crystal ice, with sledding and ice skating under brilliant blue skies. When the cold has permeated my soul, it'll be time for sugaring, then after that the leaves will unfurl again. They will green and grow providing shade and shelter until the time comes for them to turn yellow and orange and red. And when that time comes, I shall be sitting on the sofa, wrapped in a warm blanket with a good book and a fire roaring in the fireplace.

Things I Love About Autumn in New England #3

#3 Turkeys. On my way to the airport last week, I had to stop my car as a rafter of turkeys crossed the road. Did you know that "rafter" is the correct name for a group of turkeys? They could also be called a gang, but we have no gangs around here. There were at least ten of them. So why did the turkey cross the road? 10 points to whomever gives the correct answer.

Things I Love About Autumn in New England #2

#2 Farm Stands. I have a favorite farm stand that sells corn almost exclusively, and for good reason. It's the best corn around these parts. This farmer knows his corn. But most impressive? He knows how to grow corn in rocky New Hampshire soil. It's the perfect addition to quesadillas, a traditional New England food. Really. Didn't you know the pilgrims ate quesadillas when they left the Mayflower? No? Ok, I'm kidding, but it does go well with lobster rolls, or as we like to call them, "lobstah rolls." It's the perfect base for corn chowder (chowdah), or corn bread, or corn waffles. Just down about a mile from him, is the apple orchard, where a bushel of seconds (good for making apple butter) is only $8. New England thriftiness goes hand in hand with farm stands. Thrifty or not, we eat well.

Things I Love About Autumn in New England #1

Some people send out a daily gratitude in November. I find that life is too harried then. But it's not now. It's autumn in New England, people, and it's glorious, so for the foreseeable future (or until I become buried in downed leaves) here are the things I love about autumn in New England. #1. Yesterday morning, I heard church bells ringing at 8:00 am. Aren't church bells the most wonderful thing? They make me feel like I'm part of a community, being summoned to worship on a Sunday morning. Church bells make me think of best dresses and hat pins and pot roast and apple pie. I imagine some kid pulling the bell rope, flying up and down with the movement of the bell. Voices lifted in hymns. Prayers and praise and pews. Though church bells aren't specifically autumn things, or even New England things, for some reason, autumn is the time when I most often hear these bells, and New England is the place I associate with church bells. Every town around here seems

Hearing Voices

On the way home from the cemetery, I heard your voice in my head, the Brooklyn-made-tangible voice, the one with lots of glottal stops and dropped endings. I tried to listen to that voice, but I couldn't make it say anything--all that I heard was sound and laughter. No meaning, just sound. Still, there you were. Your voice was in my head, and I played it over and over again, so you'd never be gone. Any time I wanted a visit, I'd just have to shuffle through the soundtracks in my mind until I found the Brooklyn-made-tangible one. We walked through the grass to visit other graves, other voices I carry within me. I hit the play button on those soundtracks, and heard other voices, and saw other faces, but your voice is the strongest. Your laughter was always the loudest, your spirit the most present. It'll be some time before we meet again. You knew that though. You'd always say, "See you sooner," then you'd point to the sky, "or later." That

Possibility

Once upon a time, you stood upon an empty stage. Space surrounded you: stage left, stage right, upstage, downstage. Just you and the space and the lights and possibility. You longed to fill the space: the air with music, the stage with dance. The dance was for you and you alone, regardless of who might be there watching. There were no rules, only technique, and the technique had been drilled into you so often that your muscles retained it in their memory. The dance was automatic. Once upon a time, you stood in a wide open piazza, bordered by tall buildings, a fountain, a tower, cafes. People and pigeons traversed the bricks, unchoreographed, uncaring. You longed to join them, to become one with their movement and their language, indistinguishable in the mix. You looked like one of them. People would even ask you for directions. But the words tumbled in your mouth, strange and broken. They were unruly birds, these words, flapping their wings and flying away before anyone could know wh

Summer Vacation

Where I Went on My Summer Vacation Lost River Gorge Polar Caves Fuller Rose Gardens Hampton Beach Sand Sculpture Competition York Beach One Stop Fun Rumble Tumble Galway Lake, NY Charmingfare Farm Freedom Trail, Boston Christa McAuliffe Planetarium Whale watch Fort Foster, ME The Butterfly Place Darien Lake, NY East Aurora, NY Letchworth State Park Genesee Country Museum Jello Museum SEE Science Center Hershey, PA Butternut Farm Things I Did on My Summer Vacation: Spelunking Climbed a rock wall Had my face painted in melted chocolate Rode a Ferris wheel Bought a brain jello mold Jumped waves Saw a sunspot AND a solar flare from a telescope Was a human landing pad for butterflies Climbed 294 steps to the top of the Bunker Hill Monument Finished a manuscript Saw hump-backed whales Ran with zucchinis Fed goats Did a full wheel in yoga Listened to the Battle Hymn of the Republic, The Star-Spangled Banner, and Pomp and Circumstance on the piano

Never Say Never

While watching lithe young bodies dive into pools with barely a splash, whip around uneven bars, and swim lengths of a pool keeping a pace that makes you breathless, you realize that you'll never be an Olympian. That makes you think of all the other things you'll never do, never be.  You'll never be Miss America, dance with the Rockettes, or get a Ph.D at Oxford. You're ok with not being Miss America. Do normal people ever really want to be Miss America anyway? And while you get a twinge about never having danced with the Rockettes, the DNA precluded that avenue. And Oxford? You've spent far too long in college as it is. But the Olympics? The irrepressible, stubborn part of you thinks, "Well, why not?" The pragmatic part of you thinks, "Because you're 40, you're barely 5'3'', and you have chronic shin splints." And the irrepressible, stubborn part of you says, "You might consider it at least." Pragmatic you

Going Home

At 7:30 this morning, I hunkered over my manuscript while you were breathing your last breath. The moment passed too quickly, and then you were gone. Did I know? Did I sit up? Did I feel your absence in that moment? Or did I think how I had a few more minutes until I had to wake the Gingerbread boys, and could I just make it to the end of the chapter? Did I think of breakfast cereal, or clean clothes, or something else? I'm not certain what thoughts were in my mind, though I wish I were. How could I not have known? How could I not have taken note that the world had become just a bit darker without your light to shine? It had been such a long time since I saw you, dear friend, and I wanted to tell you how you influenced me, how I looked to you for guidance at a difficult time. I wanted you to know how I loved you, and how I respected you. You were one of the most gracious women I knew, beautiful inside and out. Now you are even farther away than you were before, and I remain

You Can't Go Back

Last year at this time, you were preparing for this: Two years ago, you were preparing for this: Four years ago, this:  Before that, there were other places that called to you. Places built of stone and wood. Castles and cathedrals, palazzos, museums, chocolate shops, and tiny bakeries. Libraries, town squares, cemeteries--they called to you in almost a sacred way. They still pluck at your imagination and beg you to people them and layer them with stories. Sometimes you have to wander down narrow alleyways until you reach a long band of road stretching out into the distance before you figure out what that story is. Meandering is something you do well. You meander like a champion. But, eventually, you have to get somewhere, so you hitch up your britches and move along.  These days, you've been moving along at quite a pace, though often it feels like a snail's pace. But now your snail's pace has brought you to the end of the road. You're just about

You

Sometimes days come around when you don't like yourself very much. When you see faults written like tattoos all over your soul, and no matter how much you scrub, they never fade, never fall away. Faults like pride and fear and ignorance and jealousy and insensitivity. Things that make you ugly inside. Things that make you want to crawl out of your skin and into someone else's. That desire to be different from who you are, a different person altogether, only comes at you once in a blue moon. You know deep down that you have it pretty good--besides freedom, democracy, and religion, you've got good health, enough intelligence to guide you through three college degrees, a dollop of creativity, a supportive husband, sweet children. What more could you ask for? Still, you wish you were different. You wish you were more. You sometimes look around at the people you come in contact with and wish you could pluck bits and pieces of them and add these things to your personality. If

Sometimes

Sometimes you just need an afternoon spent on the hammock, cocooned together with the gingerbread boys and the gingerbread man, one foot hanging down, pushing at the ground to sway all four of you back and forth. Sometimes you just need the sun shining down in between the unfurling leaves, and the blue, blue sky above you, and the singing of the birds, while simple thoughts flit in and out of your mind. Sometimes nothing is better than something, especially when life has been far too full of many, many somethings and your head has been full of complexities. Sometimes you think that a day of rest is the most compassionate gift God could give you, far better than riches or fame or success or even the ability to type really fast. And the swaying of the hammock, and the feel of the gingerbread man's shoulder under your head and the wisp of one gingerbread boy's hair on your face and the chatter of the other gives you just enough strength to carry on through another week of

Book Recommendations/Lee Library Presentation

From young to old: Elephant and Piggie series, Mo Willem Minnie and Moo  series, Denys Cazet Ling and Ting: Not Exactly the Same,  Grace Lin (series) Anna Hibiscus  series, Atinuke Mercy Watson , Kate DiCamillo (series) Bink and Gollie , Kate DiCamillo and Allison McGhee (series) Half Magic , Edward Eager (series) Dick King-Smith (farmyard fantasy) The Invention of Hugo Cabret , Brian Selznick (heavily illustrated) The Whipping Boy,  Sid Fleischman The Secret Life of Owen Skye , Alan Cumyn (trilogy) The Way Things Work , David Macaulay Where the Mountain Meets the Moon , Grace Lin The Westing Game , Ellen Raskin Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH , Robert C. O'Brien The Penderwicks , Jeanne Birdsall (series) From the Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler , E.L. Konigsburg Bridge to Terabithia , Katherine Paterson Tuck Everlasting, Natalie Babbitt A Wrinkle in Time , Madeleine L'Engle A Long Way from Chicago , Richard Peck (has a sequel) Whales on Sti

Into the Woods

I live in the forest, where the moss bids you to look down, and the trees bid you to look up. The woodpeckers bid you good morning, and the blue jays just want you to shut up and listen, already. At nightfall, the stars lay so dense in the sky, that you can wrap yourself in them, if only the trees wouldn’t get in the way. The hooting of the barred owls lulls you to sleep. In the woods, anything can happen; all you need is a handful of magic beans, a conversation with the infamous  immortal goldfish , a drink from a clear, cold spring, the flash of a fox’s tail. If you’re lucky, you can dance with a lady’s slipper, but only in June. The immortal goldfish It’s the stuff fairy tales are made of. But there’s always room for wishing, even in a fairy tale. There’s no pizza delivery here, nor is there a house built out of candy for those midnight cravings. The trail of crumbs can only lead to one of a handful of places: the river, the cemetery, the library, and town hall–o

Earworms

At the bottom of the pond lay frogs' eggs, a bluish cloud of them attached to a submerged stick. In time, perhaps you'll have a chorus of frogs croaking to add to the hooting of the owl that kept you up last night. They'll be friends for the goldfish, who is growing more mammoth by the hour. Fish is fish, you know, and a fish always needs a friend. It's supposed to be quiet here in the forest. While it's true your thoughts aren't interrupted by sound of siren or horn, it's certainly not quiet. The rat-a-tat of the woodpecker, the hooting of the barred owl, the wind in the trees, the call of the glass bird--they all add up to make the sound of the sea, waves rolling and crashing into the window of your office until you think you'll go mad in this box full of books and staplers and paperclips, computer and keyboard. You think you can even hear the sun as it shines down. Maybe the honey sun will flow into your ears, into deep-down places until it come

Catching Seven

The youngest gingerbread boy is on a quest. A zip-line quest for his Lego mini-figures. He ties a black cord to a bamboo basket and places it atop a very high bookcase on one side of his bedroom. After much deliberation, he stretches the cord to the opposite side of the room and ties it to a castle. The Lego mini-figure crashes. Dissatisfied, he ties the cord to his bedpost. Crashes again. He asks for help. You take the cord, slide it through a hole in the lower shelf of another bookcase, and tie it off. He slings the Lego mini-figure down it via a wheel tinker-toy, and it glides onto the box designated as the landing zone. Sweet success. Days pass, and each time you walk into the room with clean clothes or homework sheets, or even with the innocent intention of pulling down the window shades, the nearly invisible cord garrotes you. While you may be marginally taller than Napoleon, you can’t escape the black cord of death. But you bite your tongue because the gingerbread boy is seven

Anniversaries

It's a sunny day. She sits, laptop on lap, shutters open to the sky. Today is the blog anniversary. Not the anniversary of when she first began blogging, but the day she began THIS blog, this working, writing, personal blog. Three years. A three-year old person, according to most developmental milestone markers, loves words and to experiment with language. They like to make up stories. How appropriate. A three-year old marriage celebrates with leather. Perhaps a leather-bound book? She will be three today. She will celebrate with ice cream instead of leather. And with writing. Though she writes most days, today's words will be special, because she'll make them so. She'll carry the little secret inside that today--today!--she began something that is special to her, if no one else.

Survival of the Fittest

That summer day, the Gingerbread Man came home with a bag full of goldfish. "For the pond," he said. Calling this water hole a pond is a bit generous. But there it is, surrounded by moss and ferns and springs, and you love it. That summer you volunteered to take the compost out to the compost pile, just so you could head to the pond afterward. There was something magical about the sleek, orange bodies sliding in and out among the water plants, and the single frog who kept them company, hiding under fronds of ferns. You would hear the plop  as he leaped into the water if you came too close. By summer's end, only one fish remained. The others were surely victim to fisher cats or raccoons, or maybe even a fox. You named the sole fish Angst, and made a home for him in a goldfish bowl. His fishy antics kept you company all winter. You sat in the armchair on one side of the television, and he swished around in his bowl on the other side. Though you couldn't see him, y

Perfect Days

The groundhog brings you surprise tickets to see an open rehearsal of the Boston Symphony. The Gingerbread Man takes the day off, and the two of you drive into Boston. After a mad dash to Symphony Hall, you sit in the midst of its splendor, amazed at the sound that comes from the stage. Amazed that a conductor can distinguish among so many threads of sound. Amazed that a composer could hear these things in his mind, then write it all down in a code that you can't even begin to understand--writing it down before it flits off and away. The sound is so full and so rich, it is nearly tangible, as if you could slice it like cheesecake and ingest it. You watch the conductor, his movements, the response of the musicians. You look up at the windows, the statues in alcoves, the lighting, the seats--all while the music lifts you and carries you around. The musicians pause several times, as the conductor takes them through a few measures, over and over again, until they're perfect. Th