Outisde the touch of time

To the outside world, we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time. 
~Clara Ortega

This is one of those magical photos that I took almost by accident, but that manages to capture some of the truest parts of my brother Brian. We'd just come back from visiting a local auction, one of his favorite places, and he was pouring over the treasures that he brought home with him. In this case it was a box of old records. The look on his face, his posture and the lighting all contribute to a scene I think I've been witnessing my whole life as his kid sister... his total enchantment with anything related to music and with old, discarded things.

Violets: my nemesis

I've been trying to grow them for years; this is my latest victim picked up at the local hardware store. We only have north and south facing windows, so it sits on my south-facing desk, soaking up the winter sunshine.

Growing up, my mother had her beloved collection of violets displayed on the dining room windowsill.

Anyone have tips to share to prevent the untimely demise of yet another African violet?

Mmm...

All the chatter at work the last few days has been about the upcoming holiday meal and who's going where and cooking what.

It's a pretty diverse crowd and I've enjoyed hearing about everyone's plans for Thanksgiving as well as their family traditions. My own family is pretty typical, I'd guess... a huge meal on the fancy china, but the star of the show is always the variety of vegetables we prepare; we always go a little overboard in that way. It's hard for me to settle on a favorite, but Brussels Sprouts certainly top my list.

Is that weird?

(It seems like most everyone I talk to hates Brussels Sprouts!)

My answer is that if you don't like 'em, you must not be cooking them properly.

; )

So tell me... what's your favorite thing to eat on Turkey Day? Mashed potatoes piled high with butter? Or mixed with whipped turnips? Creamed (yuck!) onions? Lasagna? Arroz con gandules?

We are from

A couple years ago now (!) I invited my brothers to write a "Where I'm From" essay as a way to explore the story of our growing up together...

I'd treasured what they'd written and held the essays close to my heart, but never felt quite satisfied enough with my own version of our story to publish it here. I'm still not, really, but thought I'd share anyway; mostly because their stories make me smile today...

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

From Kevin, the eldest:

I am from Mexican dinners, from Cadillac and Lucky Strike.

I am from the typical 1950's urban sprawl home on a postage stamp property, cut from the fabric of a long gone family farm.

I am from the fuzz of a dandelion, the wind; not always litely blowing me through life.

I am from sauerkraut and pork chops and stomping feet, from Neil and Claire and VonOesen and Whary.

I am from the "last to arrive" and "last to leave" family.

I am from "be careful crossing Middle Road" and "Don't let a stranger buy you a Coke".

I am from a Protestant upbringing, but with keeping an open mind and finding my own way to the truth in life.

I'm from Jersey City, Mom's Lasagna on Christmas Day and Dad's antipasto on Christmas Eve.

From brother Neil opening ALL the presents on Christmas morning before everybody woke up, the other brother who broke everybody's toys on Christmas and the Holly Hobby House debacle.

I am from family albums filled with pictures of days gone by, faces almost forgotten, slices of memories, stored in boxes, waiting to be divided on some future free weekend.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

From Brian, the middle child and family poet:

I am from the dirt field where we grew up as kids, from Band-Aids on so many skinned knees with wet shoes and soiled socks so often left in the downstairs foyer.

I am from that big house facing the field, where from our picture window you would show us the seasons as they changed from brown to green to gold to white, never far from its delights, if only to pick flowers next spring so as to surprise you.

I am from the Black-Eyed Susan daisies that grew so wonderfully there, unbothered by the wind, and that sturdy mulberry tree by the jumping fence behind Wolfkind’s, whose fruits always littered the ground with their sweet exhuberance and so stained our hands and lips with their purple goodness.

I am from Friday night fish stick dinners and the strength that was brought to bear in the face of incredible sadness, from Dad, from Grandma VonOesen, from Old Man Wheary.

I am from the solid determination of good Pennsylvania stock and from the hardiness of the anthracite coal our family toiled for so long to bring to light.

I’m that child you told to “sit up straight at the table and mind your manners,” so that Mom and Dad could brag to us and the rest of the family at holidays that they were never embarrassed to take us kids out to a fancy restaurant for dinner.

I am from that busy corner’s stick-built church where Dad was an elder on Sundays and us kids the freest of spirits along for the joyous ride to the corner sweet shop after Sunday School to pick out our favorite chocolate-covered treats. “Remember not to eat it before breakfast,” Mom always said. I am the one who usually could never quite wait.

I'm from a family from Shamokin Pennsylvania and from those Jersey City ballfields we mused about as kids from the raised highway as we passed by them on our way to Aunt Letha and Uncle Doc’s apartment in New York City for Thanksgiving, or Easter, and from Mom’s special lasagna and tomato sauce on Christmas Day and that chilled chocolate pudding we so loved from the icebox in those fancy crystal cups.

I am from the son of a son of an adopted boy who grew up strong and proud as the result of a shared love and kindness the Whary family gave, and from a man whose only son would attend school only to the second grade, but who would grow up to be a power engineer, role model and generous friend to so many people.

I’m from that white-haired Shamokin man whose youngest grandson’s persistence and drive for the better things in life would finally allow him to announce the coveted role of senior electrical engineer to his congratulatory wife at home.

I am the one you see in those black and white pictures from Gerald Square and Washington Park at Easter… the one in that fancy blue baby carriage that carried all us kids just the same, so snug and warm in our new outfits that Mom picked out with so much love and faith for our family’s bright future together.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

From me, the baby girl:

I am from paper-bag lunches, Scooter Pies and tea with Grandma.

I’m from the house on the corner with the weedy front lawn, a parade of Cadillacs in the driveway and pots banging from the stoop at midnight on New Year’s Eve.

I am from firethorn, spirea and quack grass. A neighborhood creek to play in, lounge chair forts at the pool club and ice-cold plums at the beach. A lonely dog staked out back and the shadow of a tall weeping willow.

I’m all legs, blue eyes and skin that freckles in the sun. From the radioman and the roof-model, Neil and Claire and others a part of the past now, too.

I am from late nights at the kitchen table, the coffee always on, talking long into the night. A daydreamer and a dawdler.

From the family that eats together stays together. From little pots that have big ears. From God’s eyes and the healing power of pyramid water. The temple on Osborne and Vacation Bible School at the church on the corner. From children are to be seen and not heard.

I am from the water’s edge and the dour faces of Pennsylvania coal mine country. I’ve never stopped looking back. Forever landlocked within my own body, I lose myself when far from the coast for too long.

From Uncle Doc who peppered his beer and ground his teeth and never spoke Spanish after Franco. From Grandpa with his cigars and baseball games on the radio in the parlor.

From a battered box of costume jewelry and a closet full of my mother's clothes that I’ll never grow into. The baby girl, the tattletale, the spoiled one. I'm from the stories I heard, but never loved until they stopped being told.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

What's most interesting to me, I think, are the things we each choose to claim...

Anyway... the template is here... give it a try, share your story.

Is there a badge for this?

Were I still a girl scout, these are the badges I might've earned so far in life...

;-)

Books

Family living skills

Cyber-girl

Write all about it

Dollars and sense

High on life

Camp together

Working it out

Plants and animals

Listening to the past

Camera shots

Pet care

The lure of language

From shore to sea

Music fan

Wildlife

Collecting

Your outdoor surroundings

Traveler

All about birds

Let's pretend

Car sense

And some I haven't quite met the requirements for yet...

Do-it-yourself

Ready for tomorrow

Stress less

Creative solutions

Finding your way

Making it matter

Sky search

Math, maps and more

Art in the home

Let's get cooking

Healthy relationships

Ms. Fix-it

Globe trotting

Writing for real

I quit going to girl scouts about the time I started being embarrassed to wear the uniform to school... besides softball was more fun anyway. My big brothers were scouts and got to do the cool stuff, like real camping and hiking and getting dirty... not sissy sewing and camping in a *lodge* around the lake. Lucky for me, I got to go along on a few of those neat trips my brothers participated in... tho I was sorta left out for being the kid sister and all.

;-)

What about you?

Father's Day

I create my father each time I think of him.

I mix mud with straw, invent a life of woven twigs, plaster it all together with fragments of memory; their edges sharp, the colors vivid.

This night, I assembled him from fractured recollections of years spent in the company of a brotherhood; this ritual that represented so much of what he used to be.

The white apron bordered in blue and the hollow sound of a gavel calling me to my feet, the mere mention of his name in this room bringing surprised tears to my eyes; the imagined pride in his sons on this special night as biting as the dawn on the November day that he died five years ago.

Sometimes I conjure him from thin air and a whiff of cigarette smoke, summon his memory from the sound of hard-soled footsteps on a wooden floor, see him in the glance of other men looking long over their noses and eyeglasses.

This is the gift in his death.

I have to try hard to remember him as he was in those last couple months before he died. Grown old and frail and vulnerable, he weighed nothing, asked for nothing, his face like an owl relief carved in worn rock.

I watch his head drop, his arm slide off the arm of the couch, a book slip from his lap. I wonder at this man who once held me aloft, in sky and sun, to look down on him. I feel sorrow and fear.

He was a changed man by that point. A flimsy quiet shell of himself.

I can not remember a time when he said that he loved me.

There's an odd comfort in knowing my brother wanted for those words, too.

In my father's world, the edges of things were hard and straight. His way was to focus on the small things, the details. My way is different; I loved always to explore the sharp edges of his world with the soft fingertips of mine.

My brothers didn't understand that about me, about us, I don't think.

I carry this part of him with me: whole parts of myself locked away for safekeeping; an emotional reticence that I like to think hard to see, but which others sometimes catch glimpses of. Stoicism disguised as strength. Nothing but space and sharp light, the sound of footsteps echoing off hard surfaces, endless empty corridors lined with locked doors.

I see him alive in my brothers now, alive in his hopes for them.

This is the gift in his death.

"It is the same for all men. None of us can escape this shadow of the father, even if that shadow fills us with fear, even if it has no name or face. To be worthy of that man, to prove something to that man, to exorcise the memory of that man from every corner of our life - however it affects us, the shadow of that man cannot be denied." --Kent Nerburn

The pic is of my two brothers... Brian in the funny hat on the left... Kevin on the right... on the occasion of Brian's installation as Master of Philo Lodge #243... the first time in Philo's history that a father and his sons all served in that capacity. Congrats Bri!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

If this reads as disjointed... well, I've been playing with it for months, since Father's Day actually, and was finally moved to finish it, almost, by my brother's post on the 5th anniversary of my dad's death.

Days at the beach

The people along the sand
All turn and look one way.
They turn their back on the land.
They look at the sea all day.
--Robert Frost

I grew up with a mother that loved the beach... whole afternoons were spent baking under the summer sun, a cooler filled with sandwiches and ice-cold plums. Childhood photo albums are proof that many of our vacations centered around a visit to the shore, as if living within a couple minutes drive didn't already offer us enough of the ocean's delights.

My father is mostly absent from these memories... his fair and freckled skin kept him under the beach umbrella or back at home when he wasn't rescuing me from the breaking waves or my brother's torments. I don't remember much beyond the shock of seeing him in shorts, his legs whiter than white, some goofy looking never-worn sneakers, his trademark black dress socks and the huge mole that grew near his left knee. He used to tease that the little fish liked to nibble on it...

;-)

Someone, maybe him, or one of my big brothers used to let me ride on their shoulders in the water, out of reach of the sharks and jellyfish that I was so sure would devour me whole.

I spent a couple hours yesterday watching the same stories unfolding for any number of beachgoers... building sandcastles... bodysurfing... eating tuna sandwiches with a fine dusting of beach sand... the heady scent of Coppertone... all reminding me that this love affair with the sun and the water and the sand is in my blood, even though I burn just like my dad always did.

Any beachy memories to share from your own growing up?

Letter to me

Brad Paisley   More CMT Music   More CMT Music Videos

Country music is a guilty pleasure I'll admit to. The sappier the better.

Throw your rotten tomatoes at me now... get that out of the way, first.

OK... so.

I had this great creative writing teacher in the eighth grade and then again as a junior in high school. Mrs. Cella had us write daily journal entries which she would comment on once a week when she collected our journals for grading.

It occurs to me now that Mrs. Cella would've loved blogging and the interaction between writers and their audience.

Most often she wanted us to *free write* about whatever came to mind, in whatever format we chose. Those were painful, difficult entries for me to make, faced with a blank sheet of paper.

Kind of like blogging sometimes.

;-)

In her comments in our journals she was a writing coach, but as is often the case when working with adolescents, it gave her the opportunity, I suspected at least, to get into our heads and act as social worker and therapist; an adult we could be honest with in a *safe* non-judgmental arena.

Every so often she'd give us an actual topic for our journal entries and usually I enjoyed those; enjoyed a guide with which to focus my thoughts.

I remember one of the topics she gave us was the opposite of Brad Paisley's idea with this song of his; rather than writing as an adult to our 17 year-old selves, she had us write a letter to our grown-up selves.

I'd love to be able to put my hands on that old journal of mine. Buried in the closet in my childhood home, one of my brothers probably found it when we sold the place and is holding onto it to embarrass me with someday.

Anyway...

(Ramble, ramble.)

Mrs. Cella often criticized my rambling away from the point at hand.

I like the spirit of this song, for all its hokeyness and thought I'd have a go at a similar letter.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Dear Laura,

For Godsakes stop being so shy!

Stop thinking you're too skinny!

Go with the curls; one day you'll laugh that you ever wasted so much time trying to have hair like every other girl.

That guy: dump him. Quick! Don't wait till just before the Senior Prom. That'll feel sweet, of course, but...

The quarterback of the football team wants to ask you out... and a couple baseball players too, but instead you're wasting your time with that jerk.

Those other quiet girls in your classes that you won't give the time of day to even... take the time to make friends with them!  They'll write the sweetest things about you in your yearbook and you'll wonder how you never even noticed them.

Dad will not be heartbroken if you drop Calculus. Honest.

Speaking of Dad... give him a break. Enough of your moodiness. Enough of the silent loathing. You'll regret it sooner than you expect to.

Mrs. Martin... tell her what a great teacher she is. Tell her even though you're sure she must know. You'll understand one day how nice those words sound coming from a student.

Smile in your graduation photo... you'll be looking at that sad face years from now wondering why it looked like the whole darn world was on your shoulders.

Love,
Me

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Add something, if you would, of what you'd include in a letter written now to your teenage-self. Maybe just that one big thing.

;-)

I promise not to take points off for rambling, either.

Reveille

We've always done a funny thing in my family at midnight on New Year's Eve. Some people shoot off fireworks; we go out on the stoop and bang pots!

Anyone else do that?

I wonder if it isn't a city thing that my parents brought with them when they moved down here to the shore. Growing up, I remember a few other families in the neighborhood that did it, but I've not met anyone since that looks for the biggest pot and the klankiest utensil as midnight approaches.

;-)

I think if I were to do it in the neighborhood where I live now, there'd be police at my doorstep within minutes. But if I get together with my brothers on New Year's Eve, there's sure to be pots.

And Brian playing the trumpet to add to the racket out there on the stoop.

Listening to him tonight, playing first Auld Lang Syne and then Reveille, I felt that sense of melancholy that seems almost inevitable on this night; another year done. Reveille tends to turn that around pretty quick tho.

;-)

I wonder Kev... did Dad play his horn on New Year's Eve too, or am I imagining that memory?

Hope it was a happy and safe night for all.

Tickling the ivories

So far as I know, my mom's piano - my piano, still sits in the garage of the house I grew up in. Something else we didn't have the heart to throw away after my dad died and we sold the place.

It was a battered old upright even when I first began tinkering at it. The paint was chipped and fading, keys stuck and it was perpetually out of tune, most probably because it sat in the damp basement.

The basement was a good place for a piano student though, as it had a door that kept anyone unstairs from hearing me practice. My brother's drum set was down there too, but the door did nothing to muffle the sound of his banging. I don't guess piano practice is painful to listen to, except for the constant repetition, compared with say, the clarinet, which I gave up in favor of the piano. I was pretty bad on the clarinet; good at making those awful squeaky sounds, but not much else.

I took lessons for a number of years; I already knew how to read music fairly well, but then had to learn to read two clefs at once and cooordinate my eyes and hands to play both parts at the same time. It amazes me that anyone ever learns to do it; it's that hard. I never could seem to practice enough to satisfy my very strict teacher and never did learn to play much beyond a simple version of Beethoven's Moonlight Serenade. Eventually I stopped going to lessons, probably because of some boy...

My brother Brian seems to have the most musical talent of the bunch of us; if you think of drumming as requiring musical talent, that is. He plays the trumpet like my dad did, and the guitar some and thinks he can sing, too. What always got me though, was the way he could sit down in front of that piano and play songs just by ear. His fingers were in all the wrong places and he mostly jabbed at the keys, but he could play real music as opposed to those silly songs I had to practice or those awful scale exercises meant to improve my technique.

What about you - did your parents send you for instrument lessons? Do you still play? Like me, maybe you wish you'd stuck with it?

I'm still determined to teach myself the tinwhistle. Though it does sort of remind me of the squeakiness of a clarinet. Worse, so far.

;-)

When my hair was straight and white

This post is not at all about my hair, I promise. Except to say that I can remember my mom curling it with rags and an iron for holidays. She did this to me; trained it to misbehave like it does now, passed down this curse of curliness.

;-)

I've been looking through old photos the past couple days and, as often happens, I'm moved to write by something I find among them. My memory was tickled by images of platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, the cheesy baby-teeth grins, sun-touched skin, one of my brothers often with his hand in mine, a mind and body always moving and full of ideas; the daydreamer I am so obvious then.

I search in the mirror for that little girl now. I want to tell her that she has many gifts to offer and that fine things will unfold for her. She'll need reminding one day that she's a treasure, that she's loved and cherised beyond words, that she's smart and capable and that it'll all be ok, no matter what happens.

Somewhere along our journey in life, many of us lose our resilience or forget that we are loved, that we're not too much, that the world will carry and hold us and keep our hearts safe.

I don't know what there is to bring back the feeling of being held in the most generous, open-handed of care as when we were children, but I believe that a part of our hearts spends a lifetime trying to get back to that beginning, back to that feeling of self-worth and total acceptance. And that joy; simple and uncomplicated.

Momma told me so

I've been playing with this forever; trying to get an essay written that I can share with my family and that feels true and right. I even went so far as to make both of my brothers write one, with the idea that their memories might inspire some of my own. Theirs are great and touching, but they didn't have the desired effect on my own writing... I'm still struggling along with it. One of these days, whenever mine is finished, I'll share them all here.

Anyway... part of what that template causes you to reflect on are some of the stories that make up the history of your family. That started me thinking along the lines of the crazy things we were led to believe as kids. Those little lies our parents or older siblings told us to fuel our imaginations or to make us behave or to frighten us or even, maybe, to make the everyday seem magical.

The lies parents tell is a popular blog subject, apparently, but this post was a favorite among the many I came across.

I made a list of the things I could remember being told and would imagine that many of you will share a similar list if you were to think of it. Maybe you find yourself repeating the same lies to your own kids for the sake of convenience or whimsy.

- "If you don't eat something, you'll blow away in the wind!" (A favorite of my Grandpa's.)

- "I promise I won't let go." - when the training wheels first came off.

- "Of course we leave the hall light on for you all night." (I was especially scared of the monsters that lived under the bed.)

- "Your teeth will be ruined if you keep sucking your thumb." (My oldest brother was probably in braces at that point and all those wires and rubber bands looked really scary to 7 year old me.)

- "Your face will freeze that way."

- Sitting too close to the TV will ruin your eyes.

- "You'll catch a cold if you go out like that!"

- "You're too young for coffee... it puts hair on your chest."

- Fibbing makes your nose grow.

Mostly harmless, right? Little lies. Have any to add?

And then, of course, there were the real lies we grew up believing:

- "If you tell the truth you won't get in trouble."

- "You'll understand when you're older."

- "It'll only hurt for a second."

- "I'll be right here when you come back."

Twirling memories

Blame it on Mary, but I'm here with no clue what to write tonight and she wondered if we knew any majorettes and, well... I thought of this pic from a million years ago of my mom on a rooftop in Jersey City. She's holding a baton, but in the funny way that my mind and eyes play tricks on me, I see a little falcon on her fist if I look too quickly. Do you see that?

;-)

Anyway... my mom was a twirler and my dad played the trumpet. Both of my brothers tried to play the trumpet growing up. Brian was pretty good, I think, but then I remember a story about Kevin smashing his trumpet on the dresser at some point in frustration at the klunkers. German temper, you know.

Me, being the only girl and having the responsibility to take after my mom... I tried to be a twirler. I was little and uncoordinated. The farthest that went was the Halloween costume my mom sewed for me one year - rust colored velvety stuff with the golden braids across the chest and the little skirt - just like in this pic - only my legs weren't nearly as nice then. And there was no hat or cool boots. I remember practices in the school gym - trying to twirl, dropping the darn thing over and over, banging myself in the head with it - you get the idea. Not good! There was also a stint in marching band in high school that found me as uncoordinated with a clarinet as I was with a baton.

Clearly, I missed out on the coordinated and musical genes.

;-)

Yikes!

Oh... to be 17 again and a couple months away from graduation! I pulled the yearbook off the shelf today while cleaning and realized it's (yikes!) twenty years since I finished high school... where's the time gone? What happened to that girl with the open, easy smile? What ever happened to the two hoodlums that were in that art class with me?

;-)

I don't think you could pay me enough to go back to high school or to see most of the people I graduated with. I'd bet it's that way for most of us. College was a much happier time, I think. I wasn't nearly as awkward or as shy and I was able to enjoy the beginnings of adult freedom without any of its responsibilities. I'd always had a job or two, but no bills to pay; lots of schoolwork, but plenty of time to pay attention to it; my choice of fun diversions - days at the beach, concerts in the city, a summer in Spain - all that freedom and all along I was in such a hurry to be grown. Seems silly now that I didn't realize how good I had it then.

Truth be told... it's pretty good now. Funny, though, to look at that old pic of me (having one almost-good-hair-day in my 37 years!) and see how clueless I was. That, somehow, is the biggest benefit of youth... being oblivious.

Yeah.. we've always been a little off

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?

One last quirky bit

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.

Nameless things

As children, we were unaware of so many things that we lived in a strange paradise of invented names and things that, in our eyes, were full of mystery. Birds, insects and flowers that had no names other than those we chose to give them. In this way, each of us possessed our own beautiful and magical kingdom made up things as ephemeral as the baptism of a tree, or a creek, or a particular path through the woods. We used to say, "I swam in your creek"; "Look at your birds"; "This is my flower."

I had a special love for certain animals that in the opinion of many were quite disgusting. I remember a toad. It lived under the rocks near a little creek that was close to where I grew up. I called him Sam the Mindreader, and although I can't seem to remember why, the reasons behind any of these names for plants and animals were vague and intangible to begin with. And if we loved some of these, we also hated others, such as the thistles, pastel purple flowers born among the weedy fields that signaled the coming end of our summer vacation. When the purple flowers appeared we would squash them furiously with our heels or cut them from their roots.

One day someone killed Sam the Mindreader. I found him squashed and dried up. I stayed there for a long time just looking and listening to the creek running across the rocks. Suddenly I was left with a name in the emptiness, a name I didn't know what to do with. A strange feeling came over me then. I remember that I went away slowly; it wasn't sadness that I felt, but the emptiness of something that had fled, like a bird or a memory. I felt this loss to the point that for days I went around repeating to myself now and again "Sam the Mindreader" without understanding it well any longer.

Many times since I have felt the hollowness of a word that, in reality, never existed. But then, for the first time, I became aware of certain words or echoes that leave a hollow in our thoughts that neither hope nor memory can overcome.

That girl thing

Despite what I love to tell people to the contrary, I do sometimes wish I had a mother to tell me what to do.

I lost my mom when I was just 11, so it was up to my dad and big brothers to look after my growing up. I've had to make do with snippets of female wisdom garnered wherever possible, be it from a neighbor or one of my brother's girlfriends, for most of my life. A lot of the people I might have expected to be there for me as a kid without a mother never were. I like to think of that as a testament to their confidence in my father, rather than proof of their indifference to me.

I figure I turned out to be a pretty good person, but wish someone had taught me to cook and iron and manage laundry properly. My mom must have done those things for my dad, so he had to fend for himself, too, when she passed away. He did his best to learn quickly and even managed to cook for us and was quite inventive in the kitchen. I remember just one occasion that might be considered a *cooking lesson* and it involved pie dough and a rolling pin, and a lot of yelling and cursing. Can anyone make a pie crust without cursing? Anyway, I sometimes feel that I lack a certain finesse for things feminine as a result. Shopping, decorating, hair and makeup - I'm clueless.

The older I get, the more I see the influence of my father in my personality and way of being. I blame him for my obstinacy and tetchiness. These I consider good, strong traits in myself, but I never thought of them that way in my dad. Oh he was stubborn and could hold a grudge for ages! I may be the picture of my mother, but underneath I am all my father, like it or not.

I've been blessed since adulthood by a few older women friends who've taken me under their wing when I needed help or guidance, or just needed help in learning how to do something that comes *naturally* to other women. Carol who taught me to tie pretty ribbons on packages and how to crochet, Joan who listened to me bawl and complain as a first-year teacher, Merry who modeled a life of quiet wisdom and acceptance, Kathy with her urgings to be independent and carefree in my love for the outdoors, Linda who shares recipes and beauty tips.

These may be little things in the making of a woman, but are important to the sense of self and to fitting in among other women. That's not ever been easy for me and for the most part, I won't be bothered with it. (There's that obstinacy, again!) I often wonder though what women cherish about their relationships with other women and with their mothers. I wonder if it's the same things that the tomboy in me as a child saw with such wonder.

I'm sharing another of what my brother calls *cheesecake* shots of my mom. Looking at her there, I'm reminded of something else I never learned: confidence in a bathing suit!

The world is an orange

A visit to the beach at any time should be restful, but at sunset, for me, it's often a time of rest without rest. I'm inclined to lie down in the dunes and read or to watch the sun go down between sleepy eyelids. But my thoughts are soon invaded by memories, by tiny moving clouds, by a trifling and dry rain - a shower of sand that itches behind my eyes. It's a restless, poorly delineated time. I can't concentrate on what I've read, the mosquitoes buzz, the sun is half friend, half foe. And if it rains, the water has an odd murmur that makes me uneasy because I can't understand it. And a fog at the ocean brings the ghost of melancholy.

As kids, a day at the beach meant simply, radiantly, freedom. The adults napped or chatted in their beach chairs high above the tideline. It was our time and kids aren't afraid of the sun. Half-naked, free, oblivious we ran beneath the sun and in and out of the waves like sea creatures. We carried on, stepping on broken seashells, the evil shards waiting among innocent clam shells to pierce our bare feet. The distant dunes full of beach plum and the marsh behind, always the marsh and the bay. Something was always lost in our flight there: a sandal or some small toy. Something that we couldn't go back to look for because we were afraid of repeating the adventure to get there. The marsh grasses were crushed underfoot because the dog was following us, panting with his tongue hanging out and his eyes full of tiny sparks of gold. The neighborhood boys with their jars filled with jellyfish, bottlecaps, found treasures.

Friendship is a great discovery at eight, at nine, at eleven. Larry, the one with the gaps in his teeth. Will and his copper hair sticking up over his ears. Maria with her big round eyes. Lisa, Toni, Greg, John. So many names, the bay behind the marsh, and the sea:

"What is the sea like?"

And we would spread open our arms:

"The sea is..."

The sudden laughter, the punches and jabs. Something pulled from the muck slipped in our unskilled hands, the shirt was lost.

"What is the world like?"

"The world is like an orange..."

The afternoon was coming to an end and the fear was beginning: the lost sandals, the drenched clothes, the scratched knees.

Now, at the beach, I almost don't even think. Voices come to my ears, and even on a fall afternoon there is a distant warmth on my skin, a strong and fresh fragrance on the wind:

"The world is an orange..."

Blog Action Day

Today is Blog Action Day when bloggers are writing about one important issue - the environment. All our blogs have different agendas and readerships, but the idea is to write a post which pertains to some environmental issue. To learn more or read other Blog Action Day posts, just click on the image to the left. Some friends from the blogroll who are also participating include Pure Florida, Hawk Owl's Nest, and Dharma Bums.

Seeing as I'm not much in the mood for preaching at you about something you hopefully already feel is important, I thought I would instead reminisce a bit about one of the ways that, as a kid, I was introduced to the great outdoors. I grew up in the 70's and most years we took family vacations that revolved around the water - either the ocean or a lake up north, often in Maine or upstate New York. There were no fancy hotels that I remember, just a cabin in the woods or, most often, our pop-up camper. Just looking at these pics brings back happy memories. I loved that camper! The drive to wherever we were going seemed to last forever, as did the anticipation for the trip. The morning of leaving, my dad always seemed to leave all the details of getting the camper ready to the very last minute - hitching that thing up to his beautiful shiny Cadillac was quite a feat and never seemed to go right. He was always very grumpy starting out on vacation.

I don't remember very many specific details about any of these trips - only the feel of the sun, the sand that was always in my kid-sized bed in the camper, the year we drove to Florida in the rain with the leaky window in the Cadillac and those huge bugs! My mom loved to sunbathe and spent days by the water slathered in oil, while dad with his freckled-skin had to be careful. I tagged along with my big brothers, building sandcastles or tooling around in this big orange boat. Fun times!

When I was older I went camping with the girl scouts or later with friends. I haven't been camping in years, but have all the gear in the attic, purchased years ago in hopes of getting the DH to give it a try. I love camping and think it's a great way to spend time together as a family and enjoy the outdoors. There's something about sleeping outdoors with all the sounds and smells of nature that is a great learning tool, I think, in that it replaces fear for the outdoors with comfort and curiosity. A good thing for kids today who spend so much time indoors or glued to some electronic gadget. Leave all the stuff behind and sit around a campfire and tell stories instead!

The NWF sponsors the Great American Backyard Campout each year in June. Pitch a tent or set up that old pop-up in your driveway and get a kid playing outside for a change.