Minutia

Everything’s coming up ...trees?

Long overdue blog.  Almost entitled "Blogless and Beat".  After the high of my weekend getaway of solitude, silence and renewal I hit the ground running fully prepared to embrace my 40^th birthday and the opening of Amadeus last Wednesday as well as a big family event at my house on Sunday.  By Sunday night around 6pm the crash and burn smacked me in the face not to mention every single cell of my being.  Since then thoughts for blogs and thoughts to blog have been there but for the past couple of days I have only been present in a semi-human form.  Not until today have I shaken off and woken from the accumulated fatigue from the self-imposed break-neck schedule.  Lucky for you.

So now it's me trying to be clever and thoughtful with my frequently connected themes of nature and remembered youth.  Let the rambling begin!

Usually at this time of year I can't help myself from certain reminiscences.  One which I wish I could recreate in its entirety is my teenage afternoon walks home on Grandview Drive from the school bus stop, dizzied by the beauty and heady smell of my neighbor's crabapple tree in full bloom and the cascading blushing petals brushing my face.  Apparently I am not alone in this fantasy, remember that scene in the movie Pleasantville?  Once a hopeless romantic, always a hopeless romantic. 

At this point, some of you may be concerned that I am about to grace all of you with several species of trees and my numerous associated memories.  Not several, just a few and maybe an interesting factoid and/or a coincidence or two, I promise.  Really.

The first time I felt outrage it was because of a tree.  Just outside of my parents' bank when I was a kid was my favorite tree.  I don't even remember what kind it was.  What was significant about it was that you couldn't look at it without thinking of an elephant.  It was the oldest most massive tree I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.  One day it was gone and replaced by pneumatic-tube drive-thru banking.  Complete horror.

My son is reading The Outsiders and I'm really glad that it is still required reading for middle schoolers.  All these many years later the most significant part of the book that has remained with me was when Ponyboy reads to Johnny the poem Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost. 

Nature's first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay

As I look about the budding world I realize Hinton's incorporation of Frost's words and the timeless themes have been indelibly etched in my spring thoughts.

Arbor Day is celebrated on different dates throughout the United States.  Massachusetts recognizes it on the last Friday in April.  I'm glad I wasn't in charge of choosing the date.  How do you choose between early May when Magnolias and Flowering Pears are resplendent in their newness and mid-October when the Maples bid a vibrantly colored farewell before the bareness of winter?

There are more Elm Streets than Main Streets in the USA.  That's the line that snagged me as I scanned the radio stations yesterday.  NPR was doing a story on the comeback of the American Elm tree. I don't remember the last Elm tree I saw.  The Princeton Elm is a hardy, disease-resistant American Elm and being sold at Home Depot.  Perhaps we can all have a hand in relining the streets of our country before they're renamed to something less significant and historical.

Monday, at one of the libraries I work at I had to re-catalog a book titled, A Tree is Nice.  Not fifteen minutes later, one of the other librarians was telling me about her upcoming vacation to the Sequoia National Park.  She told me she made a promise to herself a while back that someday she had to see the big trees.  I think I actually have tree envy.

Someday when I'm very old and eccentric, after I've traveled the world taking pictures and writing about trees, I'll have a yard with all my favorite trees and all my neighbors will think of me as the crazy tree lady.  Not a bad goal to shoot for after all, a tree is nice.

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Mozart I am not

Sunday, April 29, 2007 10:30 pm

The long awaited retreat to contemplate the completion of my 40^th year is not only upon me but is all too quickly coming to a close.  It wasn't long enough.  I have more thoughts to think, beach walks to walk, pictures to take, books to read, music to listen to, pictures to paint, and words to write.  How blissful to not have live by any schedule but my own. To indulge in dark chocolate only minutes after a breakfast of strawberries. The sounds I hear are of my choosing except for the lovely nature talk backdrop of peepers, wind, waves, gulls, and rain.  Maine has been healing, rejuvenating, and addictive.  Life should include more occasions such as this jewel.

This seeker has sought and will not return to her life without some answers.  Since the beginning of humanity, existence has been questioned.  Regular Joes and great philosophers alike have had their profound moments, some recorded will remain eternally it seems.  Others are fleeting, anecdotal and often a reflection of the times.  Where do my thoughts fit into this scheme?  It is not my nature to be boastful.  I'll be happy with some proximity to regular Joe or I guess that would be regular Josephine or Joanne.

Collision of current events and a distant memory can be blamed, I mean credited with the insight I am to impart.  Friday night as I drove home from rehearsal for Amadeus at 11pm, slightly perturbed I wasn't instead already in Maine, for whatever reason I began to sing the song James by Billy Joel.  I haven't thought of that song in years.  In fact, when I was in my Billy Joel stage of life back in middle & high school, it was a barely noticed song compared to I've Loved These Days also on the Turnstiles record.  It was my very good friend who not only brought that song to my attention but also told me that it described me well.  After reading along on the back of the album cover while re-listening to the song over and over I ran the gamut of emotion from hurt, anger to resolve.  Here are a few of the offending lyrics to my then young ears:   (note: lyrics are out of sequence, but it is how they impacted me)

You've been well behaved, you've been working hard
But will you always stay
Someone else's dream of who you are?
Do what's good for you
Or you're not good for anybody.

Do you like your life?
Can you find release?
And will you ever change?
Will you ever write your masterpiece?

Truth can be hurtful, but time, experience and reflection bring alternate perspective.  I have not written the great American novel, or discovered a cure for Alzheimer's or even seen positive numbers in my checkbook for more than two consecutive days in my life.  Loftiness of ambition eludes me.  In the next few weeks as I perform in a theatrical depiction of Mozart, whose masterpieces were many, I realize my life - the people I love and love me in return - is my masterpiece in progress.

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Weather bliss!

It was the weekend of the long-awaited opening outside rituals that truly herald the fact that warmer temperatures are here to stay.  At my house, the garage was opened not to toss another bag into the trash queue awaiting the car ride to the landfill, but to actually release bicycles from their stationary winter prisons.  The shovels that have been guarding and protecting the front step since January were retired and replaced the restless rakes hanging on the garage wall so their fingers could once again eagerly scratch the yawning earth.  For the Cape Cod house the turning on of the outside shower is a true commitment to our silly stretching of summer to the nth degree.  Ours sputtered and spewed, and finally christened in a strong steady stream.  My beagle basked and squinted in the sun with me as we had a picnic lunch in the front yard.  We weren't even bugged by the few bugs buzzing about.  At one point the breezes blew in precisely the right way to carry slightly salted scented lightness and warmth my way.  Prolonged weather-imposed isolation ceased as neighbors spread mulch and cleaned gutters - our neighborhood community at long last is reunited.   At close of day on Sunday we cleared the cobwebs from the gas grill and fired it up for our very first cookout of the season. 

Yet another banner weather day blessed us today.  Chickadee melody drifted through my window at work, inviting me to step out and answer their chatter with my own whistle.  More moons ago than I care to remember, I learned to imitate their call.  Every Spring I look forward to our sing-songey back and forth conversation.  Days like these are intoxicating.  Breathe deeply everyone and get drunk with me.

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Sowing Seeds

Fistfuls of seed packets, slipping and falling from his hands

My son and I went on our annual pilgrimage Friday evening to buy seeds for our small garden.  Wherever they're sold, this time of year the two of us gravitate toward the Burpee sign with dizzied anticipation.  To say my son is like a kid in a candy store while circling the 4 sided seed display is no exaggeration. 

Fistfuls of seed packets, slipping and falling from his hands, grinning, giddy and greedy with the potential he's carrying is infectious.  Moments poignant as these, I receive almost oddly while standing in Ocean State Job Lot.  Amidst pool chemicals, patio furniture, 6-volt batteries with accompanying flashlight and the ever-pervasive smell of dog food, the moment with my son is too precious & intimate to be held in contrast to that backdrop.

Who's teaching who?

Every year the practical mom in me must dissuade him from ½ his cache - our yard is only so big.  (Though we both joked the other day about a yard sale we passed, wondering how much they were asking and how exactly it could be transported!)  Although looming over me at a hair shy of 6 feet and high school beginning at harvest time, I still see that little chubby-cheeked, dimpled face from what simultaneously seems like a minute ago to forever ago and I can't resist his impulsive hopefulness.

Spending $12 for the lot of seeds, I'd say I got the bargain of a lifetime.  Green thumb?  Parents out there - green with envy.  Stormy days and a frigid rain-soaked earth are not ideal conditions for planting seeds. Parenting like planting a garden requires undiminished hope, faith and hard work no matter the circumstance.  Not to mention the ability to step back every now and again to take a breath and enjoy the fullness of your heart when you witness the germinating fruits of your labor.

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Are we there yet?

Over the Easter weekend many long hours were spent in the ricotta pie-packed minivan traversing 3 New England states to spend time overeating with as many relatives as possible.  During my stint at the wheel, my two teens were kibitzing like they used to when they were silly, giggly little kids.  At first when I heard the plea, "Mum can't you go any faster?" I thought the barrage of questions to follow (Isn't there anything to eat?  How much longer ‘til we're there?  I gotta pee, can we stop now?) would create a gust of hot air strong enough to cause a serious back of the head hairdo emergency.  Instead the two of them had developed an intricate points system game based on how many cars I passed and how many passed me.  From what I could gather, bonus points and deductions could happen based on the passengers in the car, what state the car was from, what lane the cars were traveling in and what kind of cars were doing the passing. Yeah, I really didn't get it and I don't think it will ever catch on like the intergenerational universal favorite, Punchbuggy.  But here's the amazing thing(s) they weren't fighting, complaining, whining, texting, watching a DVD or playing games on their cell phones.  When was the last time that happened?  Was this some kind of Easter miracle?  I turned off my Intimate Ella Fitzgerald CD and tuned into them.  The thought - enjoy it now while it lasts because by the time we near home somebody will be on somebody else's side but despite reason, it's his fault... no it's her fault... no wait it's Mum's fault, somehow.

Now if the above doesn't hearken memories of long family car rides and their associated stories for just about everyone then your memory's worse that mine.  I would have to say one of the more vivid recollections I have is a return trip home from Thanksgiving in Cape Hatteras with friends.  I was seven at the time and was still marveling that we drove so far to spend a holiday not with family and that I tried venison for the first time to really notice the foreboding haze of traffic ahead.  We stopped on the George Washington Bridge and the car did not move again for three hours. 

In that span of time I received a kind of education that propelled me from sweet innocent 7 year old to a savvy, street smart 7 year old.  We had been driving our fake wood paneled station wagons (ala Brady Bunch) tag-team-tandem style with our friends and some sort pre-cell phone communication was involved as well.  It must have been a CB, although I don't even remember what CB stands for anymore.  The adults were in a state of disbelief when we came to the stone-still stop.  After some time had passed, the CB jargon of, "That's a big 10-4 Lil' buddy" ceased and other language sullied the airwaves.  Elbow jabs from my Mom sent Dad out of the car with all the other wildly gesturing men who starting milling about this car graveyard trying in vain to figure out how to get out of this jam.  Before long everyone was out of the cars talking and laughing.  I think my sister may have even gotten a pen pal.  When the fascination began to wear, desperation and bargaining stepped in.  Valued personal belongings began to be bandied about in exchange for food and drink.  Eventually accepting the dire circumstances, basic human needs had to be met.  My young eyes witnessed countless men relieving themselves openly.  This truly was a lesson on Thanksgiving - for all the creature comforts we take for granted.

Oh by the way, my kid's game mentioned above, apparently some elderly couple from Maine driving a '91 Chevy Lumina won.  I came in 4^th.

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Traditions

Ricotta pie.  For those in the know, mouths are watering.  Others may be perplexed, wondering, doesn't ricotta go in lasagna, not pies?  Being half Italian I can appreciate this dessert not just for it's exquisite yumminess but mostly for the inherent traditions associated. 

My Nana (correctly spelled Nonna but we used a slang version) was an amazing cook.  Every holiday or family reunion centered on her food.  Sometimes others would maybe contribute a dish, or bring the bread from Pappy's or buy the tonic (yes I mean soda but that's what my grandparents called it) but it was my Nana's food that everyone anxiously awaited.  Not even close to 5 feet tall, this tiny woman was a force to be reckoned with, with her enormous white stove in the kitchen and her tiny gas one in the pantry. For all the cooking she did, she only made a few pastries.  Pizzelles were a staple; she always seemed to have a supply made.  Cannoli and Ossa dei Morti Biscotti came from the bakery only, but never, never the ricotta pie.  That she made herself and only for Easter.

In her declining years, in one of my frequent phone calls to her during my lonely young motherhood phase (specifically naptime - longing for adult conversation) she finally gave me the recipe.  No one else had it.  She chose me to continue the tradition.  Quite a bit of pressure, considering the recipe was given to me from her memory and of course it did not include one exact measurement.  It took years before I got it right and she never did get to taste mine perfected.

Easter like other holidays, has become rich with memories and traditions as years pass and families grow and ebb.  The busyness of life often prevents the preservation of some customs but as long as I am able, there will be ricotta pie for Easter.  That first bite transports me to a time and place filled with smells and sounds, being simultaneously surrounded by many from then and now.

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Apprehensively Aging

Today officially marks one month from my 40th birthday. Fitting that it should be drizzly & dreary.  I don't feel I'm handling it well. It's been building, the obsession of that number 40, and getting progressively worse. Lately no matter the conversation or the conversant, either I feel caught in the Charlie Brown world of muffled trumpeting adults that I'm really not listening to or I completely change and dominate the topic to my current mid-life preoccupation. I'm a boor; I know it and I can't help myself.

Many have offered levity to lighten my heart, others advice.  It's all appreciated but nothing seems to quell the rising panic I feel.  By choice, I've decided to replace and hopefully not increase the panic by playing a small role in a local production of Amadeus that opens on that dreaded day I complete my fourth decade and enter my fifth.  A recipe for disaster, I hope not.  Fear of complacency, the need to step out of my comfort zone and test the limits is more like it.

I have forbidden my family and friends from giving me any surprise celebration.  Instead I shall take a short two-day sabbatical from life alone in Maine the weekend prior to my natal day.  I long for quiet, a retreat from distraction.  What it will accomplish I don't know, since I cannot even define what it is that troubles me about this milestone age. 

Perhaps it will be a time to illustrate to myself my dreams for the next phase of me.  Recently it has struck me that as a young person I didn't really form an idea of what would happen beyond what I have already attained, that is the basic American Dream of a happy family, a good home and sufficient employment to sustain that. 

Who knows, maybe the mystery of life will reveal its secrets on that weekend, igniting the renaissance of me and I will contribute something worthwhile to the world.

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Squelched sneezes and decongestant inquest

Spring.   The heaviness of winter is finally lifting, days are brighter and birdsong fills the air. The sap is running and so are our noses.  Truly, the change is welcome as long as pollen protection is handy.  Stopped into CVS the other day to pick up the latest juicy Skittles flavored Lip Smackers for the nieces Easter baskets and realized the tissue supply at home was low and the last Sudafed was swallowed by some sniffling schnozola a few hours previous. 

Now I will never claim to be on the cusp of latest trends or even to follow local, national or world news, but when exactly did it become a federal law/requirement to hand over your driver's license, credit history, blood type, religious affiliation, first boyfriend's eye color and dog's name just to buy some pseudoephedrine?

Once upon a time only liquor stores had signs warning, "We Require ID".  Some years ago a similar sign was added to many other storefronts warning any potential customers of tobacco products.  I don't want to speak for the majority, but on the whole I think most were ok with both of these.  Now on the coldfront (get it?), frequently I'll ask my daughter to pop into a store and grab a few needed items while I run a quick errand.  I know she's purchased OTC cold remedies before, now that's all changed. 

Where's the sign warning me that I have to sign my life away so my family can breathe easily?  As I entered the store, there were door front signs indicating which credit cards were accepted, that shoes and shirts were required, that there's an ATM machine inside, ID required for tobacco, no pets allowed, employment applications were now being accepted, one-hour digital photo processing available and that oxcontin was sold on the premises.  Maybe the door space was too littered with everything else that I walked right passed the caution.  Perhaps they should just have a big picture of a red, swollen irritated nose with a red line through it.

Now my poor daughter who has inherited my powerful sneeze-so-hard-you-might-fall-and-injure-yourself legacy will have to wait until she's got a driver's license to buy cold relief.  My advice to her in the meantime is to do what I do when stuffed up since cold meds make me loopy.  I just pop an atomic fireball into my mouth; I think they're still legal. 

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Got some ‘splainin' to do

 The deafening clamors of her adoring fans ring across Cape Cod.

"Writer's block, perhaps?"

 "Is the honeymoon over already?" 

"Why isn't Minutia writing as often as she once did?"

Rather somber my last blog, only to be followed by a distinctly lengthy silence.  (Or would that be blankness since you read and not hear my words?)  Anyway, I am not stuck in an unimaginable sinkhole of sadness and by the way, thanks for the innumerable comments of concern. (sarcasm)  Regardless of the absence of necessary empathy I'll still unabashedly bare my soul because this blog writing is a relentless, unforgiving, monkey-on-my-back addiction.

This just in..........WORLDWIDE MEDICAL NEWS BRIEF

Under brief scrutiny and presently in the limelight is a rare illness in which the afflicted silently (and obliviously) suffer through.  Its cause is unknown.  Despite the severity of symptoms there is no cure for it, a foundation does not exist nor any research.  And to add insult to injury, to this day it remains nameless.

Its victims are acute sufferers of over-scheduling and excessive volunteerism.  Tremendous pangs of guilt are felt should a stray moment of relaxation wander their way.  Loved ones are also often affected with symptoms of second hand dizziness and tinnitus with prolonged exposure to the diseased family member.

If you know of an individual or family who may be at risk there is no help to seek.  There is a website that suggests apathy has been thought of as a potential treatment but the site is incomplete without any contact information, links, FAQs or comment space. 

Apparently the afflicted are completely unaware of the malady and no one could be bothered to try to get them to stay still long enough to examine or discuss the problem.  It's almost as if there's a conspiracy to let these over-doers continue to over do.

Oops! Apologies!  I miscalculated my schedule, no time to regale all with intimate juicy details of the fascinating life that has been taking me from writing. So, gotta dash to job #2, home to make supper, then off to teach my 6^th grade religious ed. class, play rehearsal and home again.  I resolve to be lighter of mood, and more fruitful and frequent of words in all subsequent blogs.  No need to worry anyone...anyone?

NOTE:  This blog entry was meant to be submitted Monday morning.  Because my son's oversized school project couldn't possibly fit through the bus doors, I was cramming it in my car and being taximom instead of deciphering my late night scribbles and ramblings from last night and tapping it away on my laptop over breakfast.

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Floundering on Cape Cod

Life is full of contrasts. 

The celestial heavens dictate that Spring has officially arrived.  Last evening at a tad after 8 pm Mother Nature welcomed it with a chilly 20-degree embrace.  Instead of peering out the windows to see the world, undaunted winter wearied souls lured by brighter days are stepping out of their doors to feel the world.  They wander their yards to pick up twigs and armed with hopeful glances are determined to discover a bit of green budding or shooting through the tired, seemingly unyielding grays and browns.  The signs of new life should comfort me but winter still seems to clutch my heart as I pick up the paper or tune into the news.  How can I delight in seasonal moments of sweetness when bitterness surrounds – lives tragically lost far from home? 

Today I will clip some bare forsythia branches, put them in water and bring them inside to hurry Mother Nature along.  My world at least needs a splash of yellow and thoughts of peace.

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