Thoughts About My Dad ...

The upcoming Father's Day weekend lends itself well to memories; my father passed away in 1996.  I think about him often ... Daddy was, in many ways, unique. While I was growing up, most of my time was spent away from home with my mother, who took me hither and yon to do music performances.  So I  had a kind of "double life" :)  An interesting couple, my mother and my father were from different worlds ... she was a city girl and he was a country boy. In those days "country" meant where there were few vehicles and mostly woods and ponds and swamps (real swamps with skunk cabbages growing).    

Every day when Daddy would get home from work he would go outdoors and busy himself with his garden, which was more like a mini farm.  He loved trees and could identify every tree; he spent many hours building and remodeling bird houses to hang in some of the trees.  In wintertime, he would be shoveling snow, putting down ashes or sand to make the walkways safe. When he did get to spend time with me, he would tell me about Nature and things like putting mud on insect bites and bee stings so they would stop hurting. He delighted in making little jokes about some of my mother's visiting relatives; the jokes would be little rhymes usually. He was not the warm and fuzzy type of father (no hugs) but he put much effort into teaching me ... conveying Native American lore and he knew a lot about animals, both wild and domestic. He would go out of his way to help an injured or lost dog or cat. We went hiking often. There were, at that time, ponds and creeks that lent themselves to his obvious respect and reverence. He could predict the weather with uncanny accuracy.

A few years ago while going through some very old photographs, I came across one of him, sitting on the back steps of what was then his parents' house (ours was next door and the properties were connected into one huge area of land).  In the photograph, he was carefully holding a baby on his lap. The baby, who was dressed in a knitted outfit complete with ruffled cap, was about seven or eight months. On the back of the picture he had written "This is me holding MY baby -- this is the only baby I've ever held". When I read that I felt very touched by the image of this young man with his thick, unruly hair, holding what was, perhaps in his mind, the most fragile thing he had ever held.

He was a very talented hockey player and could ice skate so swiftly and well, it was fascinating to me. He had also been a softball player and a saxophone player before getting married. Active always, he could run up the hill leading to our house in the middle of winter when it was slick with ice; his philosophy was that if he kept running, his pace would propel him too fast to slip and fall. I remember hearing him say that many times to people who would be struggling up the hill (either on foot or with their cars). "Just run" he would sometimes call out to them. They would be in disbelief seeing him glide by :) To me it seemed to be a lesson in perseverance and rising to the challenge.
    
These are nice memories to recall. Thank you, Daddy.
And happy Father's Day to all dads.  

Two And A Half Days Of Bliss ...

Picture escaping land-locked Knoxville and spending time with the exhilarating, exciting, mesmerizing and revitalizing ocean ... then add to that scene your best friend who also is exhilarating, exciting, mesmerizing and revitalizing :)  I'm describing Folly Beach and my best friend, William (Sandy).  So that's why I'm using the word "bliss" in this post's title.  We had a memorable and wonderful time and I've put up several Folly pictures (please scroll all the way down).  

We are pictured at Loggerheads Beach Grill, a great place to dine, hear awesome music, and enjoy the comfortable and friendly (even dog-friendly) atmosphere.  

Ralph (Sandy named him) is a friendly fellow (or maybe even a lady bird), and a member of one of the local and as yet unidentified bird species there. Very vocal and friendly, these birds seemed somewhat like crows, ravens, and starlings, and yet a breed apart. 

The picture of the sunset shows, in the lower left-hand corner, a surfer who was there the entire day.

It was very hard to leave that wonderful place (the Tides Hotel is very accommodating, comfortable, and nice and all rooms are oceanfront). Sweet memories, very sweet memories.  

   

Memories Of Santa ...

Christmastime, for me, brings many memories of  childhood Christmases.   It was celebrated in our  home in a cultural, rather than religious way, although I was always asked by neighborhood churches to play piano at their holiday programs.  At our house -- full of hustle and bustle -- there were family members from both my parents' families, who would come by to visit and bring me gifts.  My mother, always the gracious hostess, would manage to serve a bountiful dinner to any and all who showed up.  I remember my great-aunts; they were ladies on my father's side who were elegantly dressed and coiffed; they almost always brought me coloring books.  My great uncles were scarcer and, when they were in attendance, were on the quiet side. My "regular" aunts and uncles, though, were quite lively and interesting ... they were from my mother's side. One such uncle, I clearly recall, was the bad boy of the family and brought with him an air of scary excitement when he appeared at the door.  Sometimes I would hide when he visited.  

As I grew up and into my teens, my own friends and their families became most of my Christmas and holidays weren't celebrated much anymore in my own home, due to family problems.  Later, I was married and holidays revolved around children.  So the essence of my own, personal Christmastime nostalgia centers on the magical years during which I was from about age seven through nine.  And the "event" that stands out in my memory and makes me smile was brought about by my father.

Daddy, though very personable and well-liked, was not a warm and fuzzy person; my relationship with him was one I'd describe as an aloof friendship; he would occasionally buy me a treat or spend a few minutes talking with me.  So I was greatly surprised and touched by the playfulness of his Christmas spirit, which appeared two Christmases in a row back then.  

Lying in my bed on Christmas Eve, I wanted to believe Santa Claus was coming, even though the logistics didn't make sense to me.  My mother would tell me to go to bed because she thought she had heard Santa's bells and she didn't want him to skip our house.  I would lie there with my own version of sugar plums dancing in my head :)  And this I was doing.  I had heard my parents' voices talking in muted tones in the kitchen.  All at once, I heard the sound of bells jingling outside.  They sounded very clear and sharp in the cold New England night air, especially as there was snow on the ground.  I listened --  the bells paused -- and then began jingling again, this time under my window and then moving toward our backyard.  How exciting! Could it be Santa?  But I resisted the urge to sit up in my bed, let alone look out the window.  I didn't want to break the spell!  I realized in those moments, that my serious, aloof father was playing Santa because his own inner child wanted to bring me Christmas delight :)  I was thrilled and so happy.  He repeated the performance the following year, running (my father was athletic) across our land jingling the bells  :)         

Now, many years later, the family scene has completely changed, and with it Christmas.   Now it's mostly a quiet time.  My dog, in her twelfth year, prances in her red sweater.  I dress Fiona, my ficus tree, in colored lights. We play some holiday music.  I make a quiche that has become traditional for me over the last 20 or more years.  I enjoy exchanging holiday greetings with friends and strangers.  But in the distant past lies that spark ... my memories of Santa, that warms the magic of Christmas Eve for me.    

Blue Sweater & The Surprise Box --

Recent cool weather brought out the smoky blue heavy-knit cardigan sweater that I’ve had and loved for many years. Its long sleeves have ample material that can be rolled up at the cuffs; its overall length is long enough to skim over and cover the hips and its waist is sort of fitted and nipped in. I don’t think a sweater like this could be found in stores today. Whenever I wear it or even look at it, I remember the "surprise boxes" my mother used to have shipped to me when I lived in Connecticut and she lived in southern California. A box would arrive periodically ... maybe averaging six or seven boxes per year, over a span of about four or five years. In each of these boxes would be an assortment of items, some new, many used ... from clothing and handbags to home decor items and novelties. Opening the box would feel like beginning a treasure hunt.

My mother was a generous soul and she was well-liked by everyone who knew her. She lived in humble fashion and that is probably why people tended to give her things, thinking she could use them. And she did. But more often, she shared them and gave them away. This sweater brings back all of those memories, so it feels warm and friendly and is a favorite piece of clothing.

Days Of Innocence –

Occasionally my mind opens up its picture album and diary and I get to re-experience some long-ago scenes. Mid-summer, during my childhood, was a time that I savored. I would say that I was what was known then as a "tom-boy", climbing trees where I’d hang by my knees or sit nestled where a comfy limb joined the tree’s main trunk, and read a book or eat berries. I vividly remember, though, that when I occasionally wore pants instead of a dress (little girls mostly wore dresses when I was a child), I’d always make sure I had a ribbon in my hair or laced into my shoes, to indicate to people that I was a girl (in case they failed to notice my long, braided hair, which boys of that time did not wear).

Many a summer evening, my mother would send me out into the yard to pick dandelion greens for salad. I think my father tried his hand at making dandelion wine. I recall that, at that time and place, dandelions were not disdained or poisoned – they were eaten and made into wine; sometimes they were just welcomed as part of the lawn, for their cheerful flowers and the fuzzy seed heads that we children loved to play with. I still like dandelions.

Often my father would enlist my help with his huge garden and he would teach me about plants and their care. My mother had been a "city girl", but she had adapted to life in the country. From mid-July on through September, she would spend days at a time in the kitchen, canning vegetables and fruit that would be stored in a special room in our basement. The basement was old-style, as the house had been built in 1938. It had places where coal chutes had been, before the heating system had been converted from coal to oil. The basement was spooky, even after I’d become an adult. My mother loved to make things out of cement. Making her own wooden forms, she fashioned many little "steps" and garden edgings, and even dug and cemented (sides and bottom) of a children’s pool, which I’d say was about 8'x10' and perhaps almost (an uneven) 3' in depth.

Lest this all appear to be a picture-book scene, I need to add that we always seemed to have an over-abundance of visitors – my parents’ friends, relatives, acquaintances – sometimes the house was like a train station; it also had its share of quarrels and the air was always blue with cigarette smoke. I didn’t mind the visitors much, except for when my cousins would be there for a day or several days. They were fun for the first hour or so, but would interfere with my treasured hours at the piano. Sometimes I would find my solitude and escape by getting "lost" on the property, usually in a tree.

Twice per summer, my mother would take me to the beach, which I loved. It was only about 25 or 30 minutes away by car, but that was before she got her driver’s license, so we had to travel by bus. When you travel by bus, it seems like a long journey.

Of course, there was always the possibility of one of the year-round music performances that my mother had me booked for. Some of them involved real travel; some of them were back-to-back. They were kind of the reassuring bits of punctuation, sprinkled across the scenes I’ve just described, sort of a reaffirmation – of what, I’m not sure. It sometimes felt like I was living two lives.

Funny how each season has memories that can tiptoe across that threshold; how all those threads are firmly woven together.



　

Damn Those Musicians –

Who knows why memories of certain experiences drift back into our minds at times that don’t seem to make any sense in terms of connection? I guess I’m assuming this happens to other people, besides me. My mind is a veritable well with an accompanying apparatus that often vigorously dips down into it ... drawing up, from various levels ... happenings and feelings from my lifescape.

This morning, while driving down North Broadway here in Knoxville, I could hear the words of a job interviewer (I don’t know what her real title was) from eight or nine years ago. At the time, I was still the roving, roaming, itinerant humane education director for a local non-profit organization, visiting schools and organizations in Knox and contiguous counties with my program. The "EF" employee (initials of recruiter organization), who later served as interviewer, contacted me and asked if I would please consider coming in and applying for a part-time job with her organization – a job that would involve my working with inner-city youth. I loved that prospect, so I figured why not complete the application? Soon I had my initial meeting with her. Her eagerness for me to be a serious job candidate was evident and a bit disconcerting, as she later phoned me to ask me to please remain interested in the position.

At last, the day of my defining interview arrived and I sweetly and sincerely accepted the invitation into her office. A few moments into our talk, she said "I know, and you admit here (on my paperwork), that you’re a musician!". Then, without stopping, she went on: "Don’t you think you would be a bad influence on children?" Well, it was really, what would be referred to in the vernacular, a "sucker shot" -- one that definitely caught me unprepared.

In that moment, I realized she’d never intended to consider me for the job and had, in fact, put a lot of effort into bringing me to that place and time. Possibly so that she could say that to me? Who knows? Maybe I fulfilled some obscure category on her EOE documentation; is there one for "musician"?. Anyway, I remember looking at her and managing to say "I consider music a positive thing", then getting up and leaving ... bewildered on my drive home.

I don’t know who was hired for that job, but odds are that he or she boasted of having a tin ear.

　

Kids & Obesity --

I’ve been reading magazine articles lately and saw the introduction of a television report this evening about overweight U.S. kids and their health problems.

I know there are no simple answers to remedy the dangerous trend of children who weigh way too much; in fact, I think to find answers, quite a few of today’s ways of living would need to be adjusted or overhauled. I may be dating myself with what I’m about to say ... but I clearly remember that there was only one overweight child in my entire elementary school ... and I think her weight was due to family genetics. Sitting here recounting memories of my childhood, I realize the myriad of things that are missing, different, or negative in the lives of today's children in our country.

There are now too many cars in the streets. Years ago, kids were relatively safe in most streets and car drivers knew that kids had the right-of-way. We used to bike ride for miles all day, literally all day.

The girls had two time and energy-consuming outdoor activities that we did almost daily: hop scotch (hopping, tossing a small stone, bending to pick it up, and balancing on one foot on squares we would draw on the sidewalk, street, or in the dirt) and jump-rope (a twirler on each end while we’d each take turns jumping in, jumping in time to one of several chants until we’d miss a step or jump out ... or maybe ‘double-dutch’, with two ropes going at the same time in opposite directions).

Tag – We enjoyed this running, hiding, and chasing game for girls and boys that we did constantly in our neighborhood yards.

Red Light, Giant Steps, and Red Rover were three more outdoor yard games.

Climbing Trees – Yes, I did that and a few other girls did, too, although it was an activity mostly enjoyed by boys. I did much of my childhood reading while sitting in a favorite tree. What a great feeling of connection to Nature, too!

Boys had their own games: the concentration skills of Marbles, played in the dirt or on the sidewalk almost anyplace and Fist-Fighting. I’m serious ... they worked off a lot of energy in playground fisticuffs, boxing-style.

We expended a lot of energy in walking and running, just as a way of getting from one place to another.

I’ve noticed that there are many, many organized athletic, competitive activities for kids; but, that’s just the rub – they are very organized and competitive and, therefore, stressful – and only attempted by kids who don’t mind dealing with stress (or whose parents enjoy cheering on their child’s team). Children's physical games, in the past, were done in situations where the kids were able to create their own "stakes" (of win/lose) among friends; that was very different than competing successfully in front of the general public.

Another factor that is glaring is the lack of open, uncultivated places where kids can play anything freestyle. Except for the few parks (which also, necessarily and properly, serve as a mini-habitat for dwindling wildlife fauna and flora) where such activities are possible, everyone everywhere is concerned with liability. Liability has become big business, so it definitely is a concern if kids are playing or skateboarding on business property (and, let’s face it – almost everything’s paved over as business property or roadway). Schools now are monitored like fortresses, with video cameras and rules galore. When I was a child, you could tell if it was OK to use the playground during non-school hours, by observing whether the swings were attached to the swing frame. And years ago, when we fell or a big kid beat us up, another kid would rush to our home and alert our mother so that she could come to our aid ... nobody got sued. So the issue of liability has changed a lot of things for kids.

There was an "ole swimming hole" at Nesbitt’s in the town where I grew up. It was frequented by many of the boys in town; I think I was the only girl who went there and, when I did, I was escorted by my father and his fishing pole. The swimming hole had a jagged-shaped dirt bank around it; I would say the circumference of the swimming area was about equivalent to a 30-foot pool, by today’s standards. The water was untreated and totally natural, with a few fish swimming in it; it was fed by a large creek surrounded by skunk cabbages. It was very picturesque. Can you imagine such a place existing now ... unfenced, unpatrolled? It was owned property. My guess is that was owned by someone named Nesbitt. The mindset of that day and time was different.

Another large factor that influences the many things that have changed for children (and everybody) is population growth. There were way fewer people a few short years ago ... and there was way more space in any given town.

Too, now there is fast-food. Fast, fat-laden, easily accessible food; kids' school lunches are loaded with unhealthy, processed foods (some of which were unrecognizable last time I looked).

Kids’ recreational choices currently are organized sports, television, video games and (thankfully still existing) reading. I think a lot of kids choose video games. I can sit here today and remember all the things I’ve just written about. The memories are vivid -- some good, some bad. Will today’s kids, many years from now as they think back, remember fondly their activities? Maybe, will they say "yeah and I used to play such and such video game...it was great!" How can we be puzzled about today’s childhood obesity? To me, it’s easy to understand the dilemma kids are in.

Gramma's Garden

A couple of times lately, I’ve noticed the pretty peonies in full bloom a few blocks down the street from where I live. Those flowers take me back, as if it were yesterday, to what I will call Gramma’s Garden. Anyone who’s read my memoirs knows my paternal grandmother was a bright light in my childhood and I spent every moment I could with her. Gramma had a huge yard full of flowers, fruit trees, and berry bushes.

Of all those plants, the three peony bushes are most vivid in my mind. They were planted in a row, set apart from everything else. They were the garden highlights! One was white; one was rose pink; the third one was deep maroon. When I was a very young child, I would eagerly await the opening of their petals each Spring (once I had realized that it was at this time of year that they did appear and open). One year when I was about five or six years old, the day came when I found I could not wait for them to open. I’d looked at their buds for several days in a row. Each firm bud was round, with neatly and tightly folded petals ... petals that revealed a bit of their color. I remember manually trying to open many of the buds with my fingers, especially on the maroon bush, which was my favorite. It didn’t work and I remember my disappointment, followed by the fearful realization that I’d done something I shouldn’t have done. Later that week, Gramma went out to check her peony bushes, probably wondering why there were so few fully open flowers visible from her kitchen window! She went out and inspected them and then asked me if I knew anything about it. I confessed. She said something about the maroon peonies being the most expensive and hard color to find and I could see how sad she was, but then she let it go, because she knew how guilty I felt. I never went near the peonies again, but always admired them from a distance.

Of course, Grampa was the one who did most of the manual labor in the huge yard and mini farm. He did this evenings and weekends, because during the week, he worked a regular work day schedule as the manager of a big factory in New Haven. Nonetheless, I always thought of the vegetation as "Gramma’s Garden".

Nostalgia

This past Sunday I had to drive across town to meet with a friend. I allowed a bit of extra time so I could stop in the Hallmark store there (where I often shopped when I lived in that area). With about 20 minutes to spare after Hallmark, I drove past my former house and property to view "my" (they’ll always be mine) trees. With about two acres of what was partially wooded when I lived there (the new people are cutting things down), I’d planted many additional trees, mostly ornamentals, and named each of them. So I had to drive around the block three times so I could cruise by from different angles and check on Brenda, Maggie, Gerald, Clara, Harry, Marc, and all the others. Sadly, one of them (none of the above-named) had died, probably from last summer’s drought. It was still a young tree and would have needed some watering to survive the severity of the drought. Nostalgia is such a bitter-sweet thing, isn’t it?