all in the family

Some of you asked about the family project that was driving me to distraction in November and  December, and I kind of dropped the ball in responding. I’m now ready to reveal this unwieldy project for whatever it’s worth. It’s a four-generation “tree” of family members of the Indian side of our family. Beginning in the middle, there’s Hubby’s father and mother (with a larger photo just above), then fanning out on both sides with each of his siblings, and their children and grandchildren, all surrounded by candid photographs from each family. Thumb sized pictures are also shown in each box, along with the birth-marriage-death dates, so that future generations can easily pair the person with the name. My daughters have commented on how many facial characteristics–head shape, lips, etc.,  they share with some of their aunts, uncles and cousins in India. It was done using Microsoft Word 2010 in a word document with all the complications encountered in producing a poster sized document on a much-smaller scaled computer monitor, drawing the text boxes within text boxes with Word’s “paint” program in the manner of “eyeballing to make everything fit. Miraculously, everything did!

Some of you may remember our planned 2010 Indian family reunion in Goa where we planned a weekend to reacquaint our daughters and their families with Hubby’s side of the family. Unfortunately, my health concerns precluded my participation, but we urged the family to proceed without us. Our daughters, not having been to India in about 25 years, asked their father for a crash course of sorts–who was married to whom, who were their children, their father or mother and so on. That may have been when the initial seed was sown to develop a patriarchal family tree for everyone’s benefit. This idea was further reinforced when we had most of Hubby’s relatives  based in the US visit us during the summer. Family genealogies were typically passed along orally, or hand-written by elders to be passed down, so somebody knew some family specifics, but despite the effort so much family history seems to get lost. I, for one, am a strong believer is preserving and strengthening family links. So for my own sake and that of our small family, I decided to undertake the task of setting down–as officially as possible within my own limitations–a family register for the current four generations, to coexist with that of my own family origins. With the current trend of geologically scattering of families, for ours it would be a beginning family connection all-around.

This undertaking was by no means a simple task. As in the case of hubby’s family in South India, complications such as there being no family surname such as Smiths or Browns as we have in the West. Instead, a child with a given name such as Fred will often be identified as Fred, son of so and so. In addition, the families often use  “clan” names which may indicate the ancestral village of their origin and the sub caste the family belongs to, although not routinely used as an official or daily use name. To complicate the matter further, the child “naming” ceremony occurs about 10 days after the birth of the child and so the hospital birth records do not identify the child with any name except as son or daughter of the father so and so. Thus, use of birth records to construct a family tree is out of the question.   The way the children in the Tamil Brahmin families are named also adds another layer of confusion. Depending on the sex of the child the given name  may be a god’s name, or a deceased grandfather or grandmother’s name.  Very often the grandparents and other close relatives weigh in on the names and the parents try to accommodate everyone’s wishes.  So, the children end up with official name (for school records) and several other names given by the relatives.  Most of the time, as in this country, the long names are shortened with nicknames for daily use.  That explains why so many of Hubby’s family are known by different names within the family. I think you can see how, for anyone born in the West, it makes for much confusion about who’s who in the family. The project was duly completed and mailed to each family a week or more before Christmas.

I believe it quite appropriate to end this posting with the same quote by Rabindranath Tagore printed on the poster itself (just above the bottom picture border). “The tapestry of life’s story is woven with the threads of life’s ties, ever joining and breaking.” Ever joining indeed! As with these kinds of charts, ours has already become obsolete, but in a good way. One of Hubby’s nephew’s wife in India just gave birth to their second daughter few days ago. As per the custom, we are waiting to learn her name.

family get-togethers to remember old times … by one o’the nine

Well it’s 2012 already but it feels about the same as the old one what with the Republicans still campaigning since they started around the end of 2008. I don’t make resolutions for the new years. Don’t believe in them. Like dieting, they don’t last long, so I don’t even bother. I did decide to work on a list of things that need doing soon. Like cleaning my half of the office. I’m prompted to do so because I can’t find my plugin for my (old-fashioned, outdated) Ipod. It took me two weeks to remember what the container I hid it in looks like. Now, with any luck, I’ll round it up in a few weeks so I can update and charge it and take it to the gym with me–I NEED the distraction! No matter what they tell me, exercising does NOT make me happy. No resolutions there–just a sincere effort to change lifestyle. That does work. I can tell already. The other big item on my list is to clean up my Wintersong archives–I’m sure there’s a lot in there that would embarrass me now. In fact, I’ve already been rewarded! Back in ’09, before the big C days of 2010, I put in drafts of many one o’the nine posts from my story-telling uncles (now deceased) down in Florida. Lots of people seem to like them, and I thought I’d used them all up and forgot they were there in the drafts. There are very few left now–here’s one I hope you like. With the holidays just past us, I expect some of you have your own stories to tell from your family gatherings. I’d enjoy them if you care to leave a comment.

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Last week I ate supper with all of my brothers who are still living except one. While we were eating, one of them–named “Speckle”–told me he wanted me to write a retraction on something I had written about him. About three weeks ago, I wrote about Speckle sitting in church winding his 75¢ pocket watch. Now the reason he was winding it was so people would know he had a watch. He wanted me to correct a big mistake about him and watch. He informed me that it cost 79¢ and he didn’t want people to get the idea that he was some kind of cheapskate that would buy a 75¢ watch. Well, here is the retraction, Speckle, but it sure looked and sounded just like a 75¢ watch to me. We had a wonderful time together at supper talking about the good old days when we were children growing up on the farm. We only have a chance to get together once in a great while, and when we do you can bet we always have to talk about the good old days.

There were nine of us boys and one girl. The dining room table was a long, homemade table with benches that sat on each side, also homemade. I well remember the good food my mama used to put on that old table for us younguns to eat. There were peas, potatoes, lima beans, cornbread and raw onions. There was all kinds of greens with pot likker. In case you don’t know what pot likker is, it was the juice or liquor that the vegetables cooked in. There is nothing better than a bowl of pot likker and a big chunk of Mama’s cornbread. We also had a big glass or fruit jar full of buttermilk or clabber to go with our meal.

While my brothers and I were together that evening, my brother we call “Goat” asked me to write a story about the times we went chinquapin hunting and also tell about the sassafras tea we used to drink. Well, I would mention it now, but I can’t spell chinquapin or sassafras. I will assure you when I learn to spell them I will tell you all about it.

We had a wonderful time together talking about good times, and may I suggest that you call all of your brothers and sisters and get together again and talk about the good old days. It doesn’t matter if you were raised on the farm or in the city, I’m sure you can find something worthwhile to talk and laugh about. A good laugh will do you more good than a dose of Castor oil.

Postscript: Speckle was my father, although I was not aware at the time that he carried that particular nickname. The reference to “cheapness” is right on. He bought everything according to price tag. My poor mother was never able to just buy something because she liked it even if she could afford it. That explains the plastic panels with garish flowers printed all over that we used on all the windows and called curtains. And the mohair couch we sat on to watch the wonder of the technological age of the times–television! When it was new it scratched your legs (girls were only allowed to wear dresses then) something awful! Does anyone know what Chinquapins are? They seem to grow all over the states, and even in Japan. Some species grow into large trees, but around the swamp land we lived on, they were more like large shrubs and the “fruit” looked very much like chestnuts covered with a protective, prickly bark. I never ate any that I remember because you need special expertise getting them out of the covering. However it’s spelled (Chinquapin seems to be preferred), Chinkapin is the English name. I’ve indulged in a lot of Sassafras tea since it’s something Mama would brew when we were sick and you could still find it in the woods for free, and of course I drank a lot of pot likker in my time. Now if you’re one of the few left who know what clabber is, you get an A and moved to the front of the history class! Cornbread was also legendary in our southern country home. My son-in-law, who grew up in Germany, thinks corn is for pigs, but I don’t care. I’m glad he refuses to touch my melt-in-your-mouth creamed corn, since it leaves more for me to enjoy. But the world, she does keep a-changing, doesn’t she! Don’t forget the family stories!  

is it my hearing or am i being geezerly?

I’m sure that if you’re over 50, you understand what I mean when I complain about the changing speech patterns in today’s pop culture. Where are all the teachers like Miss Lamb, my music teacher in elementary school, who still teach the importance of enunciating so that people don’t misunderstand what you’re trying to say?

Like, the song in the Citi Bank commercial where the young man and woman flit about town with their Citi Bank card buying up stuff for a weekend adventure? A little romance is thrown in to grab attention by mentioning buying diamonds or something, and then the song voice-over begins. By that time the young woman has begun climbing up this impossible looking crook-nose rock formation with the young man somewhere below. (It’s an arch in the famous Arches National park in Moab, UT by the way.) Was it something about somebody mashing potatoes? Around Thanksgiving, I thought maybe she was out climbing while the cook was stuck at home cooking and telling somebody to mash the potatoes. But what did mashing potatoes have to do with climbing?

Last week I solved the mystery by googling Citi Bank tv commercials. It’s a New York musician who goes by the name of L.P. (for Laura Pergolizzi) singing Into the Wild and it is a catchy tune. The beginning lyrics that sound like mashing potatoes is really “Somebody Left The Gate Open,” and according to this website Girl on the Rocks was designed to inspire women intrigued by the sport, but intimidated by its male dominance and stereotype as “extreme;” to instruct women on technique, strength, and mental agility from a woman’s perspective; to empower women to climb harder and with more courage. Okay, I forgive Citi Bank, but couldn’t there be subtitles? So people won’t think their ears are clogged with wax?

Just for the record, I began a draft of this post a couple of days back. This morning I noticed that other, more prominent people have taken notice of the Girl on the Rocks ad. You might enjoy Jeanne Moos amusing report (click here) from this morning on CNN. You may have to endure a short commercial from esurance before the report, but it’s worth the wait. It’s gratifying to know I’m not the only one with problems hearing.

While we’re on the subject of commercials, have you seen the Nelson Mandela public service announcement airing in various incarnations over the years? I have the utmost respect for Mr. Mandela and what he stands for, but after numerous times straining to understand the message I still didn’t know what he was saying other than something about color and tolerance. Yesterday, thanks again to Google, I learned that what he is saying is this: “No one is born hating another person because of the color of his skin, or his background, or his religion. People must learn to hate, and if they can learn to hate, they can be taught to love, for love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.” It’s a very important message but I doubt everybody who sees it understands it. Again, aren’t subtitles in order? Even in the Survivor series, subtitles are often used for speech patterns that may be difficult for some to decipher. I don’t take it personally that so often it’s that of southerners.

Last but not least, Hubby and I and our inquiring minds want to know this. Those video diaries Jamie Curtiss refer to in the Activia commercials! What are they? I shudder considering the possibilities. Some things are just better left unsung.

a jaunting car ride in killarney

I so wanted to get this post in before or during the holidays so as to capture the full effect of the over the river, into the woods, to grandma’s house…with gently falling snow, but I didn’t make it. With any luck there’ll be one more day of snow courtesy of WordPress. I hope you enjoy this nostalgic ride with me in Bourne-Vincent Memorial Park, which forms the core of the Killarney National Park in Ireland.  Our ride combines the special serenity of mountains, lakes, woods, and waterfalls, most of which you won’t see due to the limits of my camera prowess. Suffice it to say you just have to have been there! The air is crisp and clean, only a few short hours until dusk. Because it’s what travelers do when they on tour, we have nothing to do but sit back and relax to the clip-clop trot of the horse–for the life of me I cannot remember her name, perhaps Sally (?). It seems to me that one of the reasons we like to get away from our own homes is that it’s so refreshing to be somewhere else where we don’t have to be concerned with the problems that plague the locals in any country. There’s plenty of chance–as you’ll see–to get into that later.

A jaunting car isn’t really a car at all. It’s a light, open-air, four-wheeled (sometimes just two) carriage drawn by a single horse. Once upon a time, it was the typical mode of travel for people in Ireland. Today jaunting cars remain, but mostly catering to tourists in some parts of the country. Their drivers are referred to as Jarveys, and they’ve been around since the Victorian age.  Always one to wonder what it’s like for the animal in service, I mentally add up a rounded-off figure of 450-500 pounds (I’m being modest here) this one horse was carting about. While these buggies seem ideally designed for four, there are six in our carriage, plus the driver.

Here we are about to enter the Park itself after a quick jaunt through the streets of picturesque Killarney. Hubby and I are sitting just behind the red-plaid blanket thrown over the driver’s box seat. By the end of the ride, that blanket will be cradling the two of us.

This is our Jarvey, as they’ve been called since the Victorian age. As I mentioned, it’s close to the end of the day as our tour bus arrived rather late to the hotel. We had only time to check into our rooms before hurrying back out where our jarveys and their horses were waiting, first come-first served. I guess I’ll always wonder how our ride would have been different–more stories, more wit?–had we been a tad faster on our feet. We had been promised witty and well informed jarveys–they were authentically Irish after all. What we got was mumbling and what I noted to be a general lack of enthusiasm, although it could have been language barriers as we soon learned spoken Irish is mostly what we’re used to, but sometimes can sound like another language (more on that in future posts). It could also have been the lateness of the day or plain boredom. I’ve been a docent and I know how boring it can be to tell the same story over and over and over. He certainly looked like he came from central casting, no?

Hydrangeas! I simply cannot resist photographing them since I feel such a strong connection, having grown up with women who tried growing them (myself included) with marked lack of success despite all their efforts. Now I understand why. They need a richer soil than Florida’s shifting sand can offer. Ireland offers so many colors, from blues to pinks, purple, at times almost fiery reds! I think it must be easy when you get a lot of rain as Ireland does.

Land for this park was presented to the Irish State in 1932 by Senator Arthur Vincent and his parents-in-law, Mr and Mrs William Bowers Bourn, in memory of his wife–their daughter–Maud. This expanse of land covers about 26,000 acres of mountainous country that includes the highest mountain range in Ireland, the Mcgillycuddy’s Reeks. Here we’ll have glimpses of the three major lakes (Leane, Muchross or Middle, and Upper) of Killarney. Passing by waters like this always takes me back to cane pole fishing taught me by my grandparents, all of whom had connections with Ireland, Scotland or England. They would have loved fishing here, and it isn’t difficult at all to imagine them here. Can’t you  just sense a school of trout just waiting patiently in the water here?

Below is a distant look at one of the three lakes, the Lough Leane, (or the Lower Lake, Lough is Irish for Lake). That structure to the right is the Ross Castle, which I learned not from our unenthusiastic jarvey but from Wikipedia. According to them, the castle is typical of strongholds of Irish chieftains built during the Middle Ages. The tower house had square bartizans on diagonally opposite corners and a thick end wall, and was originally surrounded by a square defending wall with towers on each end. Historically this castle was a stronghold in defense against Cromwellian forces and even though the owners lost it for a period, they were able to retain rights to it until 1620 by showing that their heir was too young to have taken part in the rebellion.  They erected a mansion house near the castle, and eventually their adherence to James II of England caused them to be exiled. The castle then became a military barracks, and remained as such until early in the 19th century.

We pass many animals along the way, including herds of native red deer, unique in Ireland, present in the country since the last Ice Age. While I was able to capture some quick snaps, none were of sufficient quality to post. Somewhere near the end of our jaunting experience, a member of our group inquired about the lack of horse dung on the roads around the trails. The air was surprisingly pristine, not at all what you’d expect with 66 horse-drawn jaunting cars, according to Ireland’s National Park & Wildlife Service. Except for an occasional fart or two from our horse I’ll call Sally, the air and the streets were sweet and clean. It seems the NPWS has jurisdiction over the internal roadway within the National Park and as of have now introduced regulations that an equine sanitary device has to be fitted to use these routes and keep the park free of manure. You might think of them as horse nappies–or as we say in the U.S.–diapers.

It’s a long story, really, beginning in 2009. It was a long arduous argument between the jaunting services and the NPWS, something akin to the ongoing diatribe between the U.S. Republicans and Democrats, divided somewhere along the middle if you were to read the online diatribes between the locals. As an outsider, I have to say I can appreciate how disgusting 66 horses trotting about day in and day out, added to any animal’s tendency to poop where and whenever they feel the urge, combined with day in day out drizzling rain drizzle could put a downside to a tourist industry, let alone the locals who use the park for walking, bike riding, picnicking, etc. In July 2009, jaunting cars were banned from entering the park. Finally the jaunting services relented, agreeing to try the dung catching devices they had insisted would spook and cause havoc for the horses on a trial basis. Apparently things went smoothly as they were allowed to re-enter the park in May 2010 after nine months!

I just know that, like me, my readers would be curious as to what a dung catcher would look like, so there it is–you can see the basket like contraption there just below the horse’s tail about mid-leg, ending just above the wheel. The weather gods are with us this day. As we are delivered to our hotel with just enough time to shower and change for a dining in the round experience, the sky is overcast and there’s a drizzle in the chilly air. In spite of the jarvey’s seeming lack of interest in doing more than answering specific questions, he responds to our more personal queries. Have you ever visited the U.S.? (Yes, Massachusets, last fall. He’ll be returning there later in the year.) Charming is still the best way to sum up our jaunt in the park, since I’ve forgiven the jarvey his lack of enthusiasm, and I wouldn’t change a thing.

 

 

time for counting blessings

No, the deer and cat in the picture aren’t ours; that’s a photo a friend sent in an email a few years ago. But “our deer” have begun to appear from the tops of the mountains along the Wasatch to stimulate and annoy the dogs next door. Hubby saw some last week outside the fence surrounding our back yard. We expect to see the coyotes anyday now. We’ve yet to see the little weasel that likes to winter over under our deck, but every now and then a flock of birds stop by to have breakfast as they pass by on the way to someplace warmer.

Every year around this time I’m reminded how hard it’s getting to keep the holidays simple. In spite of what TV commercials imply, the holiday really isn’t about the “gimmies.” It’s my fault. I’m watching too much TV and subjecting myself to too many confounded commercials. There’s so much pressure to “give that perfect gift”. When I was one, kids waited for Christmas to come because that’s when Santa might visit–if you were good–and leave you something really special that you knew your parents could never afford. And whatever you did wake up to Christmas morning–even if it wasn’t exactly what you’d had in mind–was something you probably wouldn’t get any other time of the year. You learned to like it and use it even if you never did exactly love it. There was always hope for next year.

These days, most people have the wherewithal to buy for themselves whatever they need and lots of stuff they don’t. They don’t have to ask Santa or anyone else to get it for them. It make giving gifts a bit difficult to say the least. I decided to make my gift buying simpler by attaching either the receipts or gift receipt to the package, so the burden is on the recipient if the choice is neither needed nor the right one. Of course some families don’t have it so good…and every year the numbers seem to grow. I wish Santa could do something about that but I guess the world doesn’t work like that.

I hope no one will mind another re-run from One o’the Nine during these busy days. I originally called it “When is Enough Enough?” I admit to slight editing in order to tone down the didactic tone my uncles favored in their depression memories, but I think the essential message in this particular piece is timeless. It was written by my Uncle and published in that small Florida press in the mid-1980s. I’m struck by how much worse conditions seem this year than they did two years ago when it first appeared here. Some things never seem to change do they? I thought it especially appropriate at this time of year, since so many families are having or facing some of the hardest times of their lives, losing jobs and homes, sometimes not having enough to eat. I don’t regret being brought up without the focus on materialism that most American children–in fact most of us–fall victim to today, because I know that the best things in life don’t come with price tags.

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Back during the depression (of the ’30s) when no one had any money, and many didn’t have enough to eat and wore patched britches–because that was all they had–we learned to make-do with what we had and appreciate anything we got. We never threw away much because we didn’t have anything to throw away except maybe a spool when Mama had used the thread from it. Back then spools were made of wood and very seldom thrown away. Spools had several uses other than holding thread.Two of those uses that come to mind are handles for doors that had no knobs, and as toys for us to play with.

A piece of string was threaded through the hole in the spool, tied together and the toddlers pulled it around the house. If we were lucky enough to get someone with a sharp knife to whittle the spool in two pieces, we would put a stick through the hole and sharpen it down, making a top (or spinner) out of it.

Other toys I remember making and enjoying as a depression child was a button with a string strung though two holes, tied together, then pulled back and forth making the button spin back and forth to make a buzzing sound.

Another was just a plain piece of twine tied to make a loop, then through manipulation of the thumb and fingers, making a “Jacob’s Ladder.” With that same piece of string and a different manipulation of the thumb and fingers we would make a see-saw–sometimes called a sawmill. I still remember how to make a Jacob’s Ladder and a see-saw. In fact I just recently made a string see-saw with the help of one of my grandsons, and I believe he enjoyed see-sawing almost as much as I did when I was his age.

I find that in this throwaway–discard– computer age, that children can still be amused by simple things. All they need is someone who will take the time to show them how to make the simple toys, and they will thoroughly enjoy them, sometimes more than some expensive technical toys.

It is too bad, I believe, that fathers and mothers can’t take the time to spend with their children teaching them how to enjoy the simple things of life. It is much too easy to buy some expensive toys, give them to the children, then leave them alone so that mother and daddy can do other stuff without being bothered by them.

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Postscript: Back when I was  a kid, around this time of year, I was so mindful of Santa’s elves sneaking around unseen and making notes on how I was behaving, I was a veritable angel, ‘though I’m sure my parents would tell you the opposite if they were here. Christmases were lean enough as they were–in the ’40s and ’50s when the Depression was supposed to be over–that I couldn’t afford more than one or two transgressions between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Kids aren’t cowed by elves anymore, at least not my grandchildren. One day last weekend, our 7-year-old Grandson had at least two tantrums in one single afternoon–one of which resulted in his first–and hopefully last–running away from home caper. His mother, who–as a psychologist–has studied enough child psychology that she was prepared enough to wish him good luck and tell him goodbye, was confident enough to wait it out. He left–only to circle around and come back home long enough to get his shoes which he couldn’t find of course, so he left again, barefoot. This time he was gone a bit longer, and it wasn’t easy to resume the wait–this time closer to half an hour before he got too cold and came home.At least part of the reason he felt compelled to run away was that his parents were awful people who never bought him anything. Never mind all the expensive Lego toy sets or the expensive electronic gadgets and almost any kids’ DVDs you can think of including Starwars, it’s just never enough. I have no answer when his mother asks “how do you deal with a problem like this?” I wish I had a magic formula–if I did I wouldn’t sell it, I’d GIVE it away. Because I know our grandson isn’t the only child out there who has never gone without his needs being met who still expects more. His parents are looking into some way to make him understand that there are children all over the world who have real needs, who have no toys and not enough to eat. I hope Santa has some ideas.

Stealing Christmas Trees

Deck the halls with boughs of holly! And don’t forget the re-runs! Hope you enjoy this one of Christmas in a simpler time. Hope you’re having a magical season!

This is about the time of year that, for many years, my sister and I would take off for our long, once a year walk through the piney woods of the neighboring farm where we grew up in north Florida. Since I was six years younger and “the puny one”, my job would be to ”lookout” for people–more specifically interfering grownups–while my sister scouted around looking for the perfectly shaped eastern red cedar to grace our living room for Christmas.

It wasn’t often that she included me in her adventures–that privilege was usually reserved for my brothers, nearer her age and older–so for several years it was one of the rare times I felt connected as a sibling. Most of the time, she had little use for a snot-nosed little sister who had come along and snatched away her notoriety as the only girl in the family. Naturally it was a highlight of my year, and even though there was a sense of urgency that kept my stomach in knots during those quick and yearly excursions, I didn’t call it stealing. I guess that’s exactly what it was.

Prior to these years, neither set of grandparents nor my family ever had Christmas trees as far as I can remember. And it wasn’t until my sister was old enough to take care of the details herself that we enjoyed one in our house. Even though my father was tight fisted with his money, if anyone could make him relent, it was me and she knew it.

So she would whisper to me what to beg him to buy the next time we were in our Uncle’s general store in Providence. That’s how we came to own one strand of exactly seven lights, and one box each of silver icicles and angel hair that we re-boxed and re-used every year. Our other decorations we made ourselves–from yarn-wrapped dried hickory pods or pinecones–and colored glass balls salvaged from used Christmas corsage available in McCrory’s dime store for around 50 cents.

Our neighbor planted white slash pines. They take about 30 years to reach saw-timber size, but trees should ideally be thinned out at an earlier stage and sold for use as pulpwood. On a good site, a well-stocked stand of slash pine can also produce about two cords of wood per acre per year. It was a good investment if you had a lot of land or didn’t like to do a lot of work, so there were acres of it growing in the two to three miles distance along a country road between our home and his.

There were also several big NO TRESPASSING signs posted along the way, but for some reason this was where all the best red cedar trees grew wild, scattered in an around the growing pines.

On the appointed day my big sister would take my hand in one hand and a handsaw held close to her front thigh in the other, and we’d sett off together on foot. To casual passers-by, we were just two sisters out for a walk on a Saturday afternoon. After we’d walked a distance where the trees began to grow thicker, we’d climb over a barbed wire fence, and disappear among the trees and begin to breathe a bit easier in our cover of foliage.

“There,” I’d say when I spotted my first cedar tree. Then, seeing another possibility, “No, there!” But my sister had her own idea of what constituted the perfect tree. When she found it, even if it was five- or six-feet tall or more–as it usually was–she would select the top 24 inches or so to saw off, leaving behind the carcass of a headless tree. She knew we couldn’t have managed getting a larger one back home. Even if we could have, we neither had lights, or icicles, nor angel hair enough to decorate it. She always had a penchant for insisting the smaller the tree, the prettier and more magical it looked.

Passing cars or trucks were usually few, and always far between along that country road, so we’d stand the tree upright against the barbed wire fence if we saw any coming into our view. We’d wave at whoever was driving by, and continue down the road after they were gone.

Once we were safely back home, we’d ”root” the tree in wet sand in a small tub we used for washing feet. Then we’d set it on a small table in the middle of the living room window. Then we’d go to the barn and dig out the small but growing collection of Christmas decorations we hoarded from year to year to see what the rats had left intact. Being the oldest, of course my sister took control of the decorating. She put the lights on first, then she’d point to where I could hang each of the ornaments, and together we’d carefully drape the silver icicles evenly over the tree–until the very ends that were too short to drape. I’d fling those on and let them fall where they may. Decorations were far too sparse to leave any off.  When everything else was done to perfection, my sister would pull the angel hair from its box, and stretch it very carefully so that it enshrouded the entire tree.

When she finished, we’d plug the lights into the wall socket, then wait for darkness to fall so we could go outside and see how it looked to anyone driving by. From outside, the lights were enveloped with tiny halos–very like those around the virgin Mary’s and Christ child’s head in nativity scenes. Every year for what seemed like my whole childhood, though on reflection I know it couldn’t have been so, she and I created this magic again and again.

Naturally, then, my sister is on my mind every year around this time, especially since she died of breast cancer in March of 1995. She was only 59 years old. For many years since then, I’ve tried to scheduled my yearly mammogram during the month of December. I like to think it’s what she would want me to do now that I have a tall plastic tree to decorate each year now that it’s practically impossible to steal trees anymore. And while it’s beautiful with the fancier decorations I’ve collected between the years passed and now, a part of me has to admit it that plastic Christmas tree doesn’t hold nearly as much magic as those tiny little trees of long ago.

weekend wrap session

It’s been a very busy couple of weeks around here. Hubby and I have almost finished a very challenging Christmas project for the family that at times became overwhelming. It feels good to see the results finally emerging. Now I can begin tomorrow to get caught up with housework, laundry, cooking and other nonsensical things of that sort.

It’s also been a very expensive month, Christmas gifts notwithstanding–haven’t even started shopping! First the music system we purchased more than 25 years ago blew up. No CD player meant no seasonal music this year, and that was serious as I’m a little superstitious about playing Christmas songs even a single day before the day after Thanksgiving. We just had to have Christmas music, right? By the 25th, I’ll be so saturated I’ll gladly give Bing and Frank, and all my favorite Jazz and Blues artists–(yes there are bluezy Christmas songs)–a whole year to rest up. Then, after the idea for a special family project came up, Hubby finally broke down and purchased Microsoft Word 2010 so I’d have the latest desktop publishing system available. The pressure was on! No half-a**ing allowed! Then came the inevitable headaches! It took several days for me to remember how to do things I used to think I could do in my sleep. They’d improved Word so much that I kept losing my files. I’m sure I re-started–from the beginning–at least four times, and that after two or three practice sessions.

As if all that wasn’t enough, I’ve been struggling in between to keep up with my “wellness after chemo” physical program at the Huntsman. Twice a week I’ve been doing hard one-hour workouts with a physical trainer. Then I’m trying to do  four days a week of cardiovascular workouts of 30 minutes workout with my heart rate between 120/130. For a long time I’d nearly kill myself and barely make 119. I was ready to give up until Monday last week. Than all of a sudden my heart monitor began to climb to 129 and upward. One day I even had to slow down because I was pushing 139!

During rest periods, I’ve been keeping my ear tuned to world news. Boy is that a mistake. Every day things seem more bleak than the day before. Just as I begin to think it can’t get any worse, it does! But tonight, with the help of the video below, I’ve finally found the answer–for me anyhow–so things are definitely looking up! If you’re fed up with the election, world economy, and Republican presidential antics, do yourself a favor and check out what Rashida Jones and Natalie Portman have to say–in less than a minute. I think you’ll feel better too.

public art tour of England and Ireland continued

Picking up our informal tour of public art in England and Ireland, I’d like to begin with an introduction to our Irish blogger friend, Grannymar, who was so gracious as to meet us at our hotel in Dublin. Here she’s standing with a mannequin dressed as James Joyce in front of a tiny little bookstore filled with all kinds of used books and Joyce paraphernalia, the kind of place you can lose yourself for hours if you’re a bibliophile like me. There’s just a little glimpse of the inside there in the thumbnail below. For a larger view, click on the photograph. Now I know that technically a James Joyce mannequin probably doesn’t qualify as a real art piece. The problem is that during the short time I was in the city, the rain, and my first 1/2 pint of Guiness, plus the sad fact that I lost a few pictures “accidentally”, suffice it to say I didn’t get many. I did get this shot, however. Grannymar has the distinction of being one of the pioneers of blogging in Northern Ireland. She’s the winner of numerous Irish Blogger Awards and I’ve been following her since she began blogging around the same time I did. We were charmed by her generosity of time and spirit, plus she paid our cab tab due to monetary exchange problems! We found her delightful, and hope to continue our friendship online and personally for a very long time. In fact Hubby thinks we should retire to Ireland (the sunnier part) due to the Irish respect for those in its population who are aging!

This is probably the most famous goat in County Kerry in Killorglin, Ireland. According to an online history along with our tour guide’s story accounting for the origin of King Puck, we know he’s associated with Oliver Cromwell’s conquest of Ireland in 1649-53. While the Roundheads (English soldiers, so-called because of their short-cut hair) were pillaging the surrounding countryside, they tried to herd grazing goats. Nothing like roasted goat meat for hungry soldiers. Naturally the animals scattered in fright, and the he-goat or “Puck” broke away on his own, losing all contact with rest of the herd. While the others headed for the mountains, Puck went towards Killorglin on the banks of the Laune River. His arrival–in a state of semi exhaustion–alerted the inhabitants of the approaching danger and they immediately set about protecting themselves and their stock. In recognition of the goat’s roundabout service protecting them, the people began a special festival in his honor. And I’ll bet you never before thought of a goat as a hero, huh?

Now we move along to Waterville, a seaside village along the Ring of Kerry where I enjoyed a wonderful seafood chowders, where we found this bronze statue of the beloved little tramp of silent films, Charlie Chaplin. Most Wintersong readers are close enough to the ages that remember the plight of Charlie Chaplin during the McCarthy Era in the 1950s. He and his family spent many summers at the Butler Arms Hotel. The family enjoyed being here because the people always respected their privacy. It is said that many locals still remember seeing him strolling along the seafront promenade that runs along the center of the village. The Chaplin estate granted the city permission to hold the Charlie Chaplin Comedy Film Festival in the spirit of Charlie Chaplin. Looks like we only missed it by a little more than a month.

Remember the cow parade, the international art exhibit  that took place in major cities of the world in the late nineties? Whether we were a “major” city or not, I remember the cows in Las Vegas fondly. But who knew about the pigs? It was a surprise to me–since I feel a special affinity for pigs due to my pet pig Buster from childhood–to find this amazing pig in Bath? This one stood just outside the front of the Roman Baths built by the Romans during their English occupation. The pigs that still remain here were made for the King Bladud Pigs in Bath auction of 2008. There’s the legend as told to us by our tour director, David, to explain King Bladud’s connection to Bath.

In Celtic times, a British prince (Baldud) contracted leprosy. If you’ve read many Bible stories, you know how anybody unlucky enough to contract leprosy was shunned and banished, because the disease was easily spread. Banished from the court by his father the king, his mother tearfully kissed him goodbye and gave him a golden ring as a farewell gift. She hoped he would find a way to rid himself of the disease, but until that happened he was forced to make a living living as a swine herder living among the pigs. You know the old bad news, good news adage: after awhile a few of the pigs he herded caught the disease. Once again he was forced to flee, taking his leprosied pigs with him.  They swam across the river at Avon into the city of what is now Bath, wandered around aimlessly until one day one of the pigs seemed to go crazy, propelling itself headlong into a black bog in the marshy ground. Bladud, who had no one other than his diseased pigs, wrestled his pig out of the bog, becoming covered with the foul smelling mud. Now the good news: After the rescue, he noticed the pig’s skin lesions had disappeared. Also, wherever the mud had touched his own bare skin, the lesions were also gone. So he jumped back into the bog, immeersing himself fully in the warm mud, and became fully cured. Cautiously he made his way back home, not knowing how he would be perceived. Of course his mother recognized him by the golden ring she’d given him years before and welcomed him with open arms. Long story short, he went on to become the King and founded the city of Bath.

That’s why Bath chose pigs as art for an auction in 2008 to raise money for  a direct, traffic-free thoroughfare for walking and bicycling travelers  between Bath’s city center and the Midford Valley 2 1/2 miles south of the city. Over a hundred decorative pig sculptures were designed and auctioned, and apparently some–like Waterloo pictured here, by Bath artist Natasha Rampley–still stand in tribute to Bath.

 English sculptor Nic Fiddian Green, who is known for his equestrian sculptures, works primarily in bronze and in beaten lead. He grew up with horses and “sees them as a spiritual entity, not just a living thing with a beauty and energy particular to itself but a universal vessel for a whole breadth of emotions.” There was certainly something that drew me to take several pictures of this piece from different angles, giving the sense of movement in the ears and jaw line. However, I confess, most of the time I look at this picture, I think of the “long face” joke. A horse walks into a bar and sits down at the bar. The bartender looks up and says, Why the long face? 

I must plead innocent as it was not my intention to show irreverence to Art (notice the captial A), the reason being the piece we’d seen just minutes before by Italian pop artist Mauro Perucchetti. Hubby and I both loved the playful nature of the Jelly Belly Family of Marble Arch, he just couldn’t resist his usual mugging in front of the camera. Originally this sculpture was intended for display only until the end of April. Happily for us, it was still there mid-October when we were. It’s created of resin, and if memory serves me, it depicts the unity of family and the multicultural aspect so prevalent in most of modern society, particularly in London–a nice sentiment don’t you think?

Finally, as I promised in the last post, here’s a favorite of mine from Chicago. Who doesn’t recognize Marilyn Monroe standing above the subway as depicted in the movie “The Seven-Year Itch,” all 26 feet of her. While Marilyn wasn’t really that tall in stature, one might argue that in reel stature she seemed to surpass that. Nearly 50 years after her death, she continues to draw attention–most recently with the release of the movie My Week With Marilyn based on the book by a young Englishman, Colin Clark. Many Chicagoans consider the piece vulgar and offensive, especially to women. Whatever happens to this giant Marilyn, she’s planning to be around until some time next year. I feel somewhat nostalgic by pop-art such as this, though it certainly doesn’t match something like the horse head. What do you think?

[Marilyn photo courtesy:  John & Pam Sanders]