tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21236812835860501012024-02-07T18:05:52.468-08:00woman on the sidelinesThis one, over here. Because she has something to tell you.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-2030335747658904482010-03-04T06:26:00.000-08:002010-03-04T06:39:31.990-08:00Set the grey hair freeThis morning my daughter found a receipt for $197 from the salon where I got my hair cut, colored in two shades, blown dry, and two hours of therapy from the adorable Charlotte (who also got a forty dollar tip). I was embarressed. Two visits to the salon could buy me a major appliance, a mini vacation, four weeks of groceries or a reallly nice dinner out for the family. Instead I spent it on my head, both inside and out.<br /><br />I want to set my grey hair free. I get the itch every year or so and then it turns into a drive and then I'm ready to do it and then someone says to me: it's necessary for your job. You want to go grey when you're working on your organic farm (how did she know about that secret dream) fine, but for now, dye your hair!<br /><br />I should mention that the woman who said that to me sports a very odd color of red. <br /><br />I find grey hair beautiful. It's silver, it's white, it's shimmery sometimes. Yesterday I saw a woman walking down Walnut Street and she was obviously growing her hair out: she had a pageboy that was white above her ears and the rest was brown. I wanted to say, you go girl! <br /><br />If I admire that bravery so much in others why can't I be brave too?<br /><br />Because then the gig will be up. No longer will people say, really, you're past 40? I thought you were in your early 30's. (Yes, I still believe this bullshit.) If I'm grey will it be that I have given up, gotten out of the race, surrendered to the thunder of the high heeled boots I can hear behind me?Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-87805299560281523702010-01-31T04:55:00.000-08:002010-01-31T05:10:48.947-08:00Naming the New DogPepper?<br />Peck?<br />Picka?<br />Piper!<br />Pickles!<br /><br />Toto?<br />Everybody names their dog Toto.<br />No, no one does anymore because they think everyone does.<br />Dorothy!<br />Judy?<br />Lorna!<br />Luft?<br />Vinelli?<br />Vanilla?<br />Rainbow?<br /><br />I know: MarciaMarciaMarcia! and we call her Marcia.<br />No, we call her MarciaMarciaMarcia. Imagine how fun it will be when you go to the vet's and they call out, MarciaMarciaMarcia.<br />I like it<br /><br />We'll have to meet her first to decide.<br /><br />Brady?<br />Bunchie?<br /><br />Barbie?<br />Midge?<br />Skipper?<br />Skippy!<br />Kippy?<br />That was my dog's name when I was a kid.<br />Ken?<br /><br />How about old girlfriend names!<br />Oh yeah, I'll sign up for THAT one.<br />Martha?<br />Shedevil!<br />Marty?<br />Paaaaaaam!<br />Pammy?<br />Louise?<br />LouLou!<br />Louie?<br />Frankie...I love the name Frankie.<br />No.<br /><br />Family names:<br />Adler?<br />Addie?<br />Karsten?<br />Carson?<br />I keep thinking of Carson Kressley, just doesn't match the dog.<br />Kit?<br />Kitten?<br />I like Kit! Kit Karsten.<br />But it's my cousin's name!<br />Who cares, you never see your cousin.<br />She's on Facebook.<br />I'm calling her Kit! Here Kit!<br />Please don't call her Kit!<br /><br />Nancy!<br />That's my mother's name.<br />But it's my favorite name.<br />And it's your cousin's name...two cousins' name!<br />They won't care.<br />I think they'd care. I care.<br /><br />I think it's Pepper or Kit.<br /><br />Meet Polly!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8q0XXcWCIvVFkpPqiuHJSgr-gZbKsiYP0sJoxC4C-a0hTBGFIcjFUQD-VMkZo-qyUxIfbE6bF_Yp1vY0O9Da9qE1yavoW2CJRa4EJ7JTbXB7nSbEaSAAlN5gWYs1tn8kJ0VWqhzwE7yL/s1600-h/Polly+005.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8q0XXcWCIvVFkpPqiuHJSgr-gZbKsiYP0sJoxC4C-a0hTBGFIcjFUQD-VMkZo-qyUxIfbE6bF_Yp1vY0O9Da9qE1yavoW2CJRa4EJ7JTbXB7nSbEaSAAlN5gWYs1tn8kJ0VWqhzwE7yL/s320/Polly+005.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432890498065407746" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-18562218248878599492009-08-19T03:40:00.000-07:002009-08-19T03:51:59.537-07:00BooksPut down: End of Story<br /><br />Finished: High Season, Jon Loomis<br /><br />Reading Now: Unhappy Returns, Elizabeth Lemarchand<br />My Summer in a Garden, Charles Dudley Warner<br />The Line of Beauty, Alan HollinghurstAnnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-65845411596779864562009-07-16T04:07:00.000-07:002009-07-16T04:11:00.353-07:00Reading NowReading<br />Netherland, Joseph O'Neil<br />End of Story, Peter Abraham<br /><br />Finished<br />A Far Cry from Kensington, Muriel Spark<br />The Girls of Slender Means, Muriel SparkAnnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-16354981548993279552009-02-25T09:39:00.001-08:002009-02-26T08:05:14.545-08:00How will I know?I have an old dog. A really old dog. She's 96 in dog years, you do the math.<br /><br />We used to spell out w-a-l-k because she knew what the sound walk meant and if we weren't going to do it, why get her all dancey and tappy?<br /><br />Now we can spell all we want, d-r-a-g, p-u-l-l, take her for a c-r-a-p and it doesn't matter because she's deaf. She's so sweetly deaf that we can walk by dogs across the street who are flipping out and barking at her and she just keeps her head down, staggering slowly and sniffing. When I come home most times she's curled in her bed and after checking to make sure she's still alive I just let her sleep on. Her sense of smell still works because as soon as I start cooking I hear the slow click click of her walk across the floor. And there she is: Winnie! Oh you're a good girl! Yes you are, you are!<br /><br />She was four months old when my daughters and I picked her out at the SPCA. She had to stay there for another day to see if an owner showed up. My boss at the time, a dog lover, ordered me to leave work early to make sure that we got her, a story that always makes my mother laugh. "As if someone else would want that dog!"<br /><br />That first day I took Winnie with me to pick up my daughters from daycare and I can remember so clearly turning around and seeing the two girls in the backseat of the car with Winnie between them, each holding a paw. I knew that I had completed one photo for my mental family album. Then a motorcycle drove past and she climbed on Alice's lap scratching her and the girls started screaming and Winnie was barking, climbing further over Alice who started to cry which started Elizabeth crying and that's pretty much a good illustration of the next 12 years: screaming, barking, crying, misbehaving.<br /><br />I read Good Owners Great Dogs and took obedience classes with Winnie. It actually seemed possible to have a trained dog, we had a certificate after all, but then I got distracted in ten minutes with the kids and the house falling down and the job and Winnie ended up not being very well behaved, because, well she had an okay owner, maybe even a bad one.<br /><br />At family gatherings Winnie was the loser cousin to my brother's well-behaved chocolate lab. Winnie would be barking, trying to chase motor boats and Bosco would lift his noble head and just stare at her as she drove herself nuts. Then she would trot up to Bosco like, don't worry, I took care of THAT one. Oh Winnie. At Thanksgiving the relatives would shake their heads when she jumped up on people, begged, barked, stole food or ran away and turn to Bosco and say, What a GOOD boy!<br /><br />Another stupid idea that I felt I had to adhere to was that having a dog would teach the kids responsibility. Elizabeth's task was to walk Winnie to the stop sign and back. I would peek out the window before hopping in the shower (my only free three minutes) and see Elizabeth running down the street with Winnie biting her ankles. What it taught Elizabeth is to hate dogs.<br /><br />I dated this woman who had two dogs, one blind and diabetic, the other a little circusy dog with a serious gas problem. Silly me, after a year of dating I brought Winnie over to meet the fam. I'll never forget seeing Martha trying to pull her dogs away from Winnie, yelling at me, "You said she wasn't an alpha dog! You said she was a beta dog!" I felt a little bad but hey, if she couldn't dominate these two, what kind of dog was she? Even Bosco might have nodded slightly in approval.<br /><br />The crazy, jumpy dog has slowed way down. For the past few years she's been a model dog, quiet, sweet, sleeping most of the day. Her world has become narrower. First we blocked off the stairs because she just couldn't make it up there and she sleeps downstairs in her bed. It's hard to look at her and say good night buddy before I climb the stairs she used to climb with me. She falls down a lot. Her back legs just give out. Avert your eyes I say to myself, so I don't see her flounder. I also avert my eyes when she goes down the stairs to the back yard. Trying to help her only makes it worse because when I bend down she freaks and hurtles away from me. Just, don't, look.<br /><br />She still gets excited about food and taking a walk and she does bark at the cat for about one minute every night.<br /><br />The cat. Did I mention that we got the cat the same year as Winnie?<br /><br />I used to think that when Winnie started pooping in the house that would be it. Guess what, it's not. Then I thought if she bit me. Not then either it appears. When she can't walk at all? Two nights ago when I was putting Neosporin on my finger I thought, please Winnie, don't make me decide. Help me out here sweetie because I'm going to find it very hard to let you go.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-40489377228272572682009-01-23T03:21:00.000-08:002012-01-19T18:26:59.858-08:00Something About Bob<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPVCm2L6SBc1P_qUZipOs8LATOHAzT5qZ6UDdcGjW2TSTNO4IS2WLSjYmzk7Wcd11-PEVAfa09JZ1E3GcKV7LSnHzwxTG8vDbQKXDU41OeuSq5O_fJYWBgkAgCNBCub7Pm-3A6_ev1z1W/s1600-h/Scan7.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 229px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggPVCm2L6SBc1P_qUZipOs8LATOHAzT5qZ6UDdcGjW2TSTNO4IS2WLSjYmzk7Wcd11-PEVAfa09JZ1E3GcKV7LSnHzwxTG8vDbQKXDU41OeuSq5O_fJYWBgkAgCNBCub7Pm-3A6_ev1z1W/s320/Scan7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294455469238674242" border="0" /></a><br />I heard the water dripping somewhere, realized it was the faucet in the bathroom and went to turn it off. Bob had made the cabinet that holds the marble top. He has left his mark all over this house. He made the wooden frame that holds the house numbers. When I took apart the piano in a day long seige he came over later and put the putty in the gouge in the floor. He planted a Rose of Sharon in my back yard. He helped Jeff re-finish all the windows and install storms, redo the front porch, put wallboard over the worst peeling surfaces, and hang wallpaper. He refinished two desks, a bureau, a children's table, and my favorite, the dining room table. Those are just the surfaces of things.<br /><br />He helped raise my daughters. Drove them everywhere, picked them up at friends houses, after school, took them to ballet, and doctors' appointments. When they were sick he made them grilled cheese and rented movies. He took care of Winnie when I went away. If I asked my mother for help she said yes but it was Bob who actually did the task.<br /><br />And for all that, I did not give my love easily. He had to stand next to the ghost of Joe Iredale, the brilliant, charming raconteur who died young but still showed up regularly at family gatherings. We spent hours trying to figure out the father who was gone while the man who faithfully filled the role sat quietly with us at the table.<br /><br />Okay, this guy wasn't a saint either. He always seemed just a beat behind what was going on. He could be a little inappropriate. When the moment was just right to say, I wish you were my daughter instead he would say I wish I were ten years younger. And he was angry, too. Like my dad all he wanted was my mother's undivided attention and when we showed up he would say, "what are you doing here?" It made me wonder what was below the surface but I was a little scared to plunge those depths.<br /><br />He was born in New York City, graduated from Frankford High School in Philadephia, went to Franklin and Marshall but left and joined the Marines. He worked in public relations at one point for the Franklin Institute. He was married for years to a woman named Connie. They didn't have any children and she made his life a living hell. I always thought he won the lottery when he met my mother 30 years ago but now I realize that we were the ones who won something.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-77287360347388452132009-01-15T08:00:00.001-08:002009-01-15T08:06:09.529-08:00What's importantA heater that works<br /><br />The daughter asleep upstairs<br /><br />Another awake in Georgia<br /><br />The garden frozen until spring<br /><br />Ham hocks<br /><br />Hot soup<br /><br />Making my mother laugh<br /><br />Talk before sleep<br /><br />SleepAnnahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-88122547307470601552009-01-05T07:13:00.000-08:002009-01-05T07:30:43.327-08:00Walk through Purgatory starting at Suburban StationStep off the train and see people slumped on the benches, waiting. Put today's news in the recycling bin. Take the escalator and see the homeless people gathering on the benches here too, greeting each other after a long night. First pass the blind woman with the dog, singing spirituals and holding a plastic jug for the money. Then see the man who strums his guitar and sings in a sweet tenor but stops and curses you when you don't put money in his guitar case. Next there's a woman who's well dressed in full make-up with an oxygen tank who asks you to share some change, not spare some. There's the lanky man who plays the accordian. Step on the escalator and listen to the woman who's laughing and coughing and talking all at once. To no one. Keep walking, keep walking and you'll see a man who sits against the wall with no legs. A woman who starts the week looking almost normal but who slides down by the end of the week, the dirt deep in her skin, her hair wild, her lips slack. At 15th and Sansom there are two people asleep, spooning surrounded by piles of bags, looking like angels. Turn left on Walnut and pass the Rite Aid. There's a man in a wheelchair with no legs who still looks surprised that his limbs are gone. One more man staggers around the front of Williams Sonoma asking for change. They'll all be there tomorrow and so will you.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-22906569756989061702009-01-01T17:26:00.000-08:002009-01-02T04:02:17.775-08:00I've decidedPequea Valley is the yogurt version of crack<br /><br />Fage Greek is the cocaine<br /><br />Seven Stars Farm, the artisan beer version<br /><br />Stoneyfield = marijuana<br /><br />Dannon, lite beer<br /><br />Let's just say I've eaten a lot of yogurt lately.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-20102442429037771692008-12-31T08:37:00.000-08:002009-01-01T17:26:16.414-08:00Sidewalks of the CityThis song by Lucinda Williams describes my life, 8:45 to 9 and 5:35 to 5:50, Monday through Friday in 2008<br /><br />As you walk along the sidewalks of the city<br />You see a man with hunger in his face<br />And all around you crumbling buildings and graffiti<br />As you bend down to tie your shoelace<br />Sirens scream but you don't listen<br />You have to reach home before night<br />But now the sun beats down it makes the sidewalks glisten<br />And somehow you just don't feel right<br /><br />Hold me, baby, give me some faith<br />Let me know you're there<br />let me touch your face<br />Give me love<br />give me grace<br />Tell me good things<br />tell me that my world is safe<br /><br />You pass by bars with empty stages<br />Three o'clock drinkers fall by<br />Chairs are placed on top of tables<br />As you brush the hair out of your eyes<br />A woman stops you with a question<br />So you drop some money in her hand<br />She sleeps in doorways and bus stations<br />And you'll never understand<br /><br />Hold me, baby, give me some faith<br />Give me love<br />give me grace<br />Tell me good things<br />tell me that my world is safe<br /><br /><em><br /></em>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-77374956869071268082008-12-27T10:59:00.000-08:002009-01-01T17:31:53.126-08:00Christmas, 1966That was our first year in the Victorian rectory next to the church in Jenkintown.<br /><br />My grandparents lived in Maine and probably thought they were getting away from snow when they headed south to Philadelphia to stay with us. Unfortunately, a huge snowstorm followed close behind and blew in early on the morning of Christmas Eve.<br /><br />When it snowed there was a mad scramble for boots in our house, is it possible that we only had two pairs? Both were what we called army boots: calf high, olive green rubber with yellow laces that criss-crossed at the top. (Describing them I think, why they sound quite fashionable. Maybe I should resurrect that design and make a fortune.)<br /><br />Anyway, I had worn them to school one day and the kids made fun of me...so the next time it snowed I wore my lime green plastic patent leather loafers thinking at least they were waterproof. I remember finding those shoes in the bin at E.J. Korvette's; the pair was held together by a plastic loop and they weren't easy to try on. Taking them to my mother I first experienced that momentary pause when a voice in your head tells you that you are about to make a serious fashion mistake.<br /><br />Another day walking through the slush in my bright green loafers on the way to school the policeman at the corner of York and West said to me, "hey, where are your boots? You ought to have your boots on!" I just walked on, head down, creating the child's version of "fuck you officer" imagining the sort of future hell that a nine year old can create for a man in uniform: He has to direct traffic naked, wear high heels with his uniform, or carry me to school, walking in bright green patent leather loafers himself.<br /><br />We were always allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve. My parents probably started this tradition to shut us up ("Will you kids Just Stop Bugging Me? All right, open one present, just one present, that's it!")<br /><br />Could it be that all I asked for that year was a pair of boots? I knew it would be my biggest present. We had lots of little presents but there was always "the one" which was the most expensive thing we had asked for. And when my parents said we could open one present on Christmas Eve, they meant a small one because the big one had to have an impact on Christmas morning.<br /><br />The snow outside was deep and we were going to the midnight service. I pictured myself first fighting for, then winning the right to wear a pair of the green army boots. I know that I cried and begged my mother to let me open the box that I knew held the boots. And she let me. Thank you Mom. One more humiliation, narrowly averted. In my mind's eye I see me helping my grandparents through the deep snow to the church next door looking down at the wakes made with my new boots, brown pleather with faux shearling, designed for a girl, my brothers romping in the snow happy in their own green army boots.<br /><br />And that my dears is why I'm probably so twisted about Christmas.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-89045996597517144662008-12-23T08:17:00.001-08:002008-12-23T08:22:49.025-08:00Driving through snow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiII7xR1BF3epaSFSOg2yvwNLVLCYxr_LFKbzN_JwLmxJ4oFR7e3-cHeCb_Sx7G1iFFkatu661ETXRY56rEcqSJtQNLJOg9urM2Rt7pr54vvIyPXMOhrHa9PNpz89tYBQX6VcK3BYKuCeRu/s1600-h/632+505.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283021758883977714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiII7xR1BF3epaSFSOg2yvwNLVLCYxr_LFKbzN_JwLmxJ4oFR7e3-cHeCb_Sx7G1iFFkatu661ETXRY56rEcqSJtQNLJOg9urM2Rt7pr54vvIyPXMOhrHa9PNpz89tYBQX6VcK3BYKuCeRu/s320/632+505.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-85373827890223219612008-12-12T09:14:00.000-08:002008-12-13T09:58:55.944-08:00Cabin in the woods<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKP2id6zXtmGMBD4vKo_igOOlIqgJ-1HSOvejSyYheUR1FnQ1g7MLvD2VMCyvka3-XAguEDebVdLxs8Gk_iFTJ7hrw97FwWlugW7f1vKYzVTSYOVGZPuyQ8C_34r6QYcZJJhHV8eFjKzri/s1600-h/cabin.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278953697336421618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 238px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKP2id6zXtmGMBD4vKo_igOOlIqgJ-1HSOvejSyYheUR1FnQ1g7MLvD2VMCyvka3-XAguEDebVdLxs8Gk_iFTJ7hrw97FwWlugW7f1vKYzVTSYOVGZPuyQ8C_34r6QYcZJJhHV8eFjKzri/s320/cabin.bmp" border="0" /></a> Reading Lou Ureneck's story in Thursday's NYTimes made me revisit a dream that I had about building a cabin in the woods. It will probably be constructed shortly after I finish the shed in the backyard, another structure that exists only in my mind.<br /><br />My mother has a house on an island in Maine. Ooooh, an island you say! Well, it's just far enough from the mainland to be a pain in the ass. It was a farmhouse until the land was flooded and it was made into an island in the 1920's. There's an outhouse which makes you size up invited guests on a totally different level than you'd ever done before. My brother invited a friend up last year and when I saw them crossing the lake, my skinny brother straining to row the 200 pounds-plus guest across, I seriously considered leaving early. My entire family shared a stricken look when he reached for another ear of corn.<br /><br />The island was part of a boys camp that closed in the 1950's. And there are two sunken boat houses that I dream of resurrecting into simple cabins. I sketched the one above on the way home to Pennsylvania one year. It would be different from the main house that my mother occupies in that it wouldn't have satellite television (it's hard to break an addiction to Turner Classic Movies) and all the stuff that arrives weekly from her forays to yard sales and auctions.<br /><br />I know, I am a wholly ungrateful wretch. There are two sides to every story. And the better side to this one is that my 77-year-old mother is able to cross that lake daily, sometimes twice a day from late June to late September. This past summer she was bound and determined to make the journey even though her 86-year-old partner is in the early stages of Alzheimer's. She's happiest there, her voice is light when we talk on the phone. Very different than the calls in winter when she tells me she was up at 4 a.m. wondering if she should sell the place.<br /><br />Hold on Mom, help is coming. My daughters will be finished college in a few years and if I can hold onto my job I'll join my brothers and we'll take turns rowing you across.<br /><br />Which is why I imagine building my own cabin. It's crowded in that main house. We all have families and when we're together my brothers and I turn into people who are emotionally 12, 11 and 9 years of age. Throw in some children who actually are 11 and 9, spouses, and college students and their friends and it all goes south pretty quickly.<br /><br />So my cabin would be a stone's throw away from the throbbing noise of the main house. It would be simple and small, a dock for two kayaks, and an outside shower.<br /><br />It would most definitely have a fire burning toilet. Make that two.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-68605391490404443712008-12-07T05:19:00.000-08:002008-12-07T07:31:10.227-08:00In my dreamsLast night I dreamt that Jeffrey Blank wanted to marry me. He's been dead for probably five years now.<br /><br />I babysat for the Blanks when I was a teen-ager. I had a babysitting monopoly going in my neighborhood because a) I loved little kids and b) I had no other life. It didn't bother me, it just seemed to be what I was about at the time.<br /><br />When I first started to work for them they had a great house, smaller than most in our neighborhood of old stone center hall Colonials built around 1920, but to me it was the perfect size. Their family was fun too, Jill was around 3 and Philip was a newborn. They moved towards the end of my tenure as their steady Saturday night sitter to a huge house on several acres and had added a daughter named Sally. They had definitely moved up in the world but I always thought their cozy Colonial was the better house.<br /><br />Are you with me so far? I'm feeling a little lost myself here.<br /><br />Anyway, in the dream Mr. Blank was short and thin (in reality not words I would use to describe him) and he had a soft high voice (which is how I would describe it in reality). Somehow I met up with him and he told me that he loved me and wanted to marry me. I was a little confused in the dream: wasn't he married to Mrs. Blank and wasn't I gay?<br /><br />We went to a holiday dinner at his friends' house. He held my hand in a very sweet way. He told me that it had been his life's ambition to have four children. I knew that he had three. Uh oh, did that mean that if we married I would have to have more children because I am clear that I am done with that, whether I am awake or asleep. I asked him about this. He said oh, no he had four children already. The last had been the result of an affair with a woman at his fitness club. He said the child was now 20 and I was trying to figure out where that child fit in in the birth order of the other Blank children. I wondered if he was a cheater.<br /><br />Was I in or was I out in this dream/relationship? I couldn't tell. Then an intercom came on in the house of his friends. It said that the R2 was leaving shortly and all those who planned to board this train should get to the station. I got on the train.<br /><br />I was happily reading when Jeffrey Blank came up to me and said very sweetly he had enjoyed holding my hand and was disappointed that there weren't two seats together where we could continue to do so. He started this whole schtick about it and people started paying attention and this woman in the seat ahead of me told him to shut up and got up and moved to another seat, but others were laughing and when he finally reached the climax of the schtick people applauded. I thought, I could hitch myself to his wagon after all.<br /><br />The train emptied out around the Temple station as I knew that it would and I said, hey, let's find a seat together. He had a very thick book with him that he was reading and I said, what are you reading and it was a political book and I thought, uh oh, I am going to have to challenge myself to read difficult books if I get involved with him. We went into a special section of the train which doesn't exist in real life and found two chaise lounge looking seats. I thought I hope he doesn't think there's going to be hanky panky here. There wasn't any, just a sweet feeling of holding hands with someone who was kind to me in life and who now is very dead.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-51339335260432844852008-12-02T04:15:00.001-08:002008-12-02T04:22:39.988-08:00TanksgivingLike Humans Do: the theme song for this year's Thanksgiving.<br /><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">I'm breathing in, I'm breathing out.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> So step inside this funky house.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Dishes in the sink, TV in repair</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> Don't look at the floor, don't go up the stairs.<br /> I'm aching, I'm breaking, I'm shaking like humans do.<br /></span><br /> The earlier post describes a scene so lovely and calm. It tanked soon after.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-20382698320039183752008-11-27T04:30:00.000-08:002008-12-13T08:10:25.726-08:00ThanksgivingIt's early, my brother is asleep on the third floor which finally has heat. Alice is in her bed. My nephew has moved from the sofa to my room so I can bang around downstairs, starting the green beans, and pie crusts.<br /><br />Now Pickie has climbed onto my lap. She's become quite an affectionate cat as she's gotten older. For her first 12 years she ignored us. Now she's become almost doglike, greeting me, following me, finding my lap, checking in on me.<br /><br />I am thankful for this quiet warm house and the people and animals in it. For the loved ones near and further away.<br /><br />For all the people who have shared Thanksgiving with us in the past and have passed: my father, grandmother, grandfather, Uncle Bev, Aunt Elllie, Aunt Margaret, her husband Dick. For everyone who's shared it with us in the past and will gather around other tables: my cousins Liz, Freida and Valerie, their children; the Wolperts and their children; Mr. Davidson and his son John and his family, who else, Tina, my sister-in-law. One year I went to the Violas for dinner and it remains one of my favorite Thanksgiving memories. Each year Carol shares it with her family and that feels fine.<br /><br />In a little while I'll shower, run out and purchase bacon, eggs and English muffos. I'll come back and start frying it up, hoping it wakes some helpers to get started on pie crusts (they have to chill) and snapping the green beans.<br /><br />We'll get into cars and travel to my brother Tom's in Paoli and here's who'll be there: Tom, Kim, their children Daniel and Rachel; Kim's sister Kelly, her husband I hope I remember his name before we get there, their children Matthew and Carly; Aunt Ellie, my mother and Bob; John, Chris, my daughters Elizabeth and Alice. There will be laughter and a few jibes, maybe some hurt feelings, maybe not. But we'll gather and give thanks and once again that mix of feelings will fill me: love and gratitude and the hope that we'll all be together next year.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-26086281984857684542008-11-21T06:59:00.001-08:002008-11-21T07:00:27.200-08:00First Snow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRsnhllpWtxZ0bTKxo9p4tQLXk8QymcUBk05Bgv__HJ_-8PlIcqocuXF4EvbkTlUprEgNTpBo5_4bV7eyx3sBbSawqZmoP2KCFN2VyzYz8DyUlL9m-OrNhb4Ce-ZxmtVzclPNmf20vNkar/s1600-h/Snow.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271125786923451666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRsnhllpWtxZ0bTKxo9p4tQLXk8QymcUBk05Bgv__HJ_-8PlIcqocuXF4EvbkTlUprEgNTpBo5_4bV7eyx3sBbSawqZmoP2KCFN2VyzYz8DyUlL9m-OrNhb4Ce-ZxmtVzclPNmf20vNkar/s320/Snow.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-74110886522039425772008-11-20T13:37:00.000-08:002008-11-22T12:28:24.979-08:00My mother remembers Rusty, the dog who wasn't Lassie<div>Well. I was crazy about Lassie when I was a child and determined to get a collie. In those days the SPCA went door to door and one day a man brought two dogs to the rectory in Dobbs Ferry. He said one was a purebred Belgian Shepherd and the other was a mutt. I said, which one has more collie? The man said the mutt and that's how we got Rusty. </div><div> </div><br /><div>I took a long lead and put Rusty on one end and walked along the main street of Dobbs Ferry to show off my new dog. The first shopkeeper who saw me said, so you're the one who ended up with that one! Evidently Rusty was well known in Dobbs Ferry.<br /></div><div> </div><br /><div>I told my mother and she said, "From the bottom of Dobbs Ferry to the heights of Zion Church, that dog has traveled far!"<br /></div><div> </div><br /><div>I took Rusty to the golf course and tried to train him to be as courageous as Lassie. That lasted about a day.<br /></div><div> </div><br /><div>Collies were so popular and then they overbred them and they got silly. It's a shame.</div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-72972512620190106592008-11-20T04:09:00.000-08:002008-12-03T17:05:01.117-08:00My Mother Said (It helps to read Dog Story first)It wasn't MacGregor who drowned, it was Rebel.<br /><br /><em>Rebel? There was another dog? God, are there any other dogs I don't know about?</em><br /><em></em><br />MacGregor was a Sheltie that I had before I married your father. He was the one who ate everything, and one Saturday night he ate one of your father's clerical collars. And he had services the next day so you can imagine the panic we were in.<br /><br /><em>So what really happened to MacGregor?<br /></em><br />He loved to chase cars. The last time the car chased him.<br /><br /><em>And Rebel?<br /></em><br />Rebel was a beautiful collie. Joy Wheatley gave him to us. I think she never liked me after he drowned because she blamed me. It was a Sunday morning and I was getting you kids ready for church. He bolted out the door and I had to choose between going to church and going after him. We looked for him for days. The fireman didn't come to the door, I had gone to the firehouse. And the fireman who told me was terribly upset.<br /><br /><em>So you had to choose between being a good clergy wife and getting the dog. I remember Joy Wheatley having like a hundred cats.<br /></em><br />She had a lot of cats, yes, but she bred dogs too.<br /><br /><em>Is it true that you don't believe in training dogs?<br /></em><br />Oh absolutely, we always believed dogs should be free, live their lives.<br /><br /><em>And what about Jock, Mom, was that pretty much how it happened?<br /><br /></em>Scotties were so popular then, everyone had to have a Scottie. I can't remember where we got him, but he wasn't a puppy. But he did get in the car with the kids and the woman didn't realize it until she was across the Tappan Zee Bridge.<br /><br /><em>Mom, there are holes in that story a mile wide.</em><br /><br />I'm sorry dear, that's what happened. It was your father who took the phone call and I remember saying: do her kids love him? and your father asked her and she said yes. So I said, keep him!<br /><br /><em>But what about us? Did you gather us together to break it to us that our dog wouldn't be coming home? Didn't we love him?</em><br /><br />I don't remember getting you all together. But you didn't love him that much.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-42860108205887520542008-11-19T03:51:00.000-08:002008-11-21T09:09:21.076-08:00Dog Story<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgThsDc_cs5qpGfmkPwTKWvmRRlcV3hRDafBYk5oueqovYaas_bcMxPseMIHH2SUAQMtTeA8hh2f22lES-Z4EGWVeAnGITxweYbdR7pFImno5Rwll5AUWJtmoYzSdX1L6rTIWXf2Qc0XPo8/s1600-h/scottie+magnet.jpg"></a><br /><div>Yesterday on the train I was reading a book by Dorothy Sayers set in Scotland and realized that a dog we'd had when I was a child was named Jock, not Jacques as I had thought for more than 40 years.<br /><br />I always wondered why my parents had given a French name to a Scottie. Now I know they hadn't. They had given him a traditional Scots name: Jock. And I had thought that he looked pissed at our attempt to Frenchify him. Now I wonder what exactly Jock was pissed about.<br /><br />He was one in a series of pets that we had in Port Chester. They all met curious ends. There was MacGregor, a collie who drowned in the Byrum River. My mother said the fireman who had jumped in the ice cold river to try and save MacGregor was sobbing when he came to 535 King Street and apologized over and over again about his inability to save him. Somehow I picture my mother exhaling smoke from her Kent cigarette and saying, tap tap ash drop: don't worry about it. She was probably relieved to have one less thing to look after, one less animate object out of her control, running away. </div><div><br />I always loved the Scottie magnets sold in the restrooms of the Howard Johnson's on the turnpike to Maine. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271158327086044962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 73px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcv7JKu4aQeLyoRo02nmbOywyDG_XZGKLtx1krqp7v_b1ywTHYt-Cd5MGRzY3CCKkfmjQR3eA4O4oMDHBXR9ED4iaBFvgfCZO-ErfIqA_spf_eJu2fq8eBhLLDFkEuI3A6LX8DevAsCdEs/s320/scottie+magnet.jpg" border="0" /><br />I can remember sitting in the car for what seems like hours and was probably 15 minutes, holding the white Terrier in one hand and the black Scottie in the other and clicking them together over and over again. I like to think that my parents noticed my obsession with the magnets and thought a live one would be just the thing for their precious princess.<br /><br />So Jock was "my" dog inasmuch as a Terrier can be anyone's dog. And like all our dogs, he ran away a lot. We were taught that it was the dog's fault, like running away was a bad trait that some dogs had and others didn't. It probably never occurred to my mother that the dog needed to be fenced in, walked or taught to sit stay and hang around the house. I imagine her opening the back door, out he goes and oops! doesn't come back. Bad dog Jacques, I mean Jock.<br /><br />Here's how it ended for Jock:<br /><br />My mother gets a phone call from a woman in New Jersey. Evidently the woman was driving with her kids in a station wagon with the back down. (That's how we rolled back then, no seat belts and the chance that we would tumble out the back on a steep incline.) Anyway, the woman's children had seen Jock trotting along behind and encouraged him to jump in the car and join them! And miracle of miracles, his stubby little Scottie legs were able to propel him two feet in the air to jump into a moving car! They were across the Tappan Zee Bridge before the woman even realized there was a yippy purebred Scottie in her car! The children loved the dog!<br /><br />My mom said keep him.<br /><br />My mom said keep our dog! New Jersey was too far to go to pick him up. The other family loved him. He was always running away. It was turned into a dog fairy tale of how he had run to his true family, a miracle story, jumping into that car, the children there happy and laughing, loving Jock.<br /><br />But I thought we loved him. Sure we kept opening the door but we always hoped he would come back.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-20873351158655689812008-10-29T06:42:00.000-07:002008-10-29T06:48:28.028-07:00Doing a double dareI spend a lot of time in elevators. Taking the stairs is not an option in our historic building. Something to do with fire towers and heavy doors and interior offices.<br /><br />Anyway, this morning I got on the elevator with three other people and as is usually the case, one of them had his i-pod cranked up. The four of us stood there silently riding to a sweet piano trill followed by a heavy metal blast. It hurt. Should I say something? Say something! The doors opened to the fifth floor, my floor and I turned to him and said, that was beautiful and got off.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-88601192221269073752008-10-28T03:01:00.000-07:002008-10-28T03:02:31.817-07:00I love Barack ObamaEspecially after looking at this gallery.<br /><br />http://digitaljournalist.org/issue0810/callie-bp.html<br /><br />I hope that I can live through the next week without exploding.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-58718049595969683372008-10-27T10:30:00.001-07:002008-10-27T17:22:05.620-07:00File under: OMGOMGOMG!!!!Yesterday we harvested potatoes.<br /><div><br /></div><div></div><div>But let me start this tale by recounting last year's potato misadventure:</div><br /><div>My beloved gave me ten potato plants for my garden in the Summer of 2007. They grew and grew until one day I came outside and discovered that rabbits or squirrels had mowed down every last one. Once the process of photosynthesis had been properly explained to me, I stopped watering the stumps.</div><br /><div>This year my beloved tossed two plants to me. She'd given up. They were an afterthought.</div><br /><div>I planted them and surrounded them with barbed wire and look-out posts complete with alarms, kleig lights and miniature German soldiers that screamed "Halt!" at the slightest movement.<br /><br />Thus they grew uninterrupted.</div><br /><div>Yesterday she convinced me that it was time to start digging. I was afraid. Very afraid. I could only remember last year's Potato Famine and the specter of my hungry, howling children rose before my eyes.<br /><br /></div><div> </div><div>But she was insistent and so she started gathering the vines: </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261891018941318050" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM9TkW33Ym7fPiIFyd8XODw05_3bVJ-a8Yz2YjwWoQIHR0lXr1oGoLOlN_sv1tAuLv5b78uItcS3yX0QyK2YaOi80Nh7Xcz4yrUOOmH7T5cLF8azJ1l3ehLAFTWpe2f_zJyPAwIisDkOFa/s320/Potatoes+002.jpg" border="0" /> <div></div><div>And this is what we found:</div><div></div><div></div><br /><p><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5261889086742762066" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 320px; height: 240px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBALgGCKdFmBUNUcmgfViCYGuz-1pDmTcML8FNN_sm7jmp1U12Yq3ctHa69eTxRT0ltYXAXRPN9SHdeQVLsFzBS-PoWWf630juQWFA6af7tozP566jNcNjCM2CqGq6qgNk1ejgbQY_-xT/s320/Potatoes+003.jpg" border="0" /></p><p>We started screaming and saying, Oh My God! Oh My God! Oh My God! </p><p>I still can't believe how very big they are. I don't know what the neighbors thought, they probably heard us, looked out the window, lit another cigarette and returned to watching Paris Hilton's New Best Friend.</p><p>Digging those potatoes was very similar to giving birth although there was a lot less pain and a lot more dirt. But a very similar feeling.<br /></p><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p></p><br /><p><br /></p><br /><div></div>Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-59134649054290126412008-10-21T03:54:00.000-07:002008-10-22T04:28:18.631-07:00Roasting ChickenChoose one that's plump.<br /><br />Leave it on the counter because you read somewhere that it should be at room temperature. Risk your friends' health by doing so.<br /><br />Turn the oven on to 375 degrees.<br /><br />Wash your hands.<br /><br />When you remember it, take the plastic off the chicken, remove the giblet package and rinse the chicken under cold water, inside and out. Think funny thoughts when you see the water come out the other side. Wonder how you can think funny thoughts at a time like this.<br /><br />Look frantically around the kitchen for the paper towels, trying to remember where you last saw them. Give up and use a paper napkin and pat the bird dry.<br /><br />Take out a frozen stick of butter. Melt it in the microwave. Yelp when you pull the bowl out of the microwave because even though you have done this 435 times you still like to take a chance that it won't be hot.<br /><br />If you're feeling fancy, get some sage out of the garden. Rinse it off and wonder if it's really getting clean as the water doesn't seem to be penetrating the leaves.<br /><br />Add salt and pepper to the melted butter.<br /><br />Wash your hands.<br /><br />Loosen the skin on the breast meat and insert the sage leaves on the breast. Only push them so far because you're grossed out by what you're doing. Brush the melted butter all over the chicken. When you flip it over notice that it looks like the back of your infant daughter in her first bath.<br /><br />Wash your hands again. They're very greasy.<br /><br />Find the string. Pull off a couple yards of it. Cut it.<br /><br />Criss-cross the legs and wrap the string around the chicken's ankles. Wonder if that's the right word. Continue to wrap up the chicken with the string, making sure the wings are close to the body. Admire how well you truss a chicken.<br /><br />Set the chicken aside while you chop carrots.<br /><br />Lay the carrots side by side across the bottom of the roasting pan, creating a rack.<br /><br />Place the chicken face down on top of the carrots. Put it in oven and roast for 20 minutes.<br /><br />When the alarm goes off, don't hear it because you are reading an article on Huffington Post about Sarah Palin. Realize you haven't heard the alarm when you head back to Yahoo to check your mail and go into the kitchen to turn the bird.<br /><br />Notice that the breast bears the imprint of carrots and wonder if that will change as it cooks.<br /><br />Reset the timer and forget to check at half hour intervals. Know that it really doesn't matter.<br /><br />Baste it when you do remember.<br /><br />Revel in the beauty of the browning bird every time you check it.<br /><br />Go outside to look for the dog who has escaped the yard. When you bring her in enjoy the smell of the roasting chicken.<br /><br />Overcook the chicken because that is how your beloved likes it.<br /><br />Take it out and let it rest. Wonder if it hasn't been resting the whole time anyway.<br /><br />Cut off the string and if alone, suck on it briefly and then discard.<br /><br />Remove the chicken from the pan and place on a small platter known only to you as the Chicken Platter.<br /><br />Wrap it in aluminum foil.<br /><br />Drive while your beloved holds it on her lap.<br /><br />Realize that you are one pair in the history of the human family that is traveling some distance to comfort someone with the gift of food. Imagine sorrowful couples coming on foot, by camel, trains, coaches, cars and horseback to visit grieving friends.<br /><br />After her husband opens the front door and you see your friend who has lost her son hold her for a long long time. Offer her the roasted chicken.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2123681283586050101.post-28153897607341286142008-10-18T09:10:00.000-07:002008-11-21T08:04:42.191-08:00Beautiful BoySpencer Barnett was the kind of kid that you knew would go on to do interesting things.<br /><br />He paid me the highest compliment by once calling me cool.<br /><br />He used words like haberdasher.<br /><br />I knew him because his mom and I are friends.<br /><br />We saw the Gates in Central Park on its last weekend. It was cold and he stopped on the street when we were almost there because he was out of breath.<br /><br />We bought hats for a dollar each from a street vendor because we were so cold. His looked jaunty, mine looked dumb.<br /><br />I thought he was brave when he wore a throw-back flowery shirt in high school.<br /><br />He made me laugh.<br /><br />When you made him laugh it felt like you had achieved something.<br /><br />We had a dance off at a party at his house.<br /><br />He liked to play games that require paper plates and pencils.<br /><br />He patiently explained to my family how to draw five squares across and four squares down without acting like we were stupid.<br /><br />He was handsome.<br /><br />He loved the Phillies, Project Runway and Barack Obama, maybe not in that order.<br /><br />He knew a lot about music.<br /><br />He was a theater kid in high school.<br /><br />He was into Queer Theory in college.<br /><br />He played Helen Keller's father in The Miracle Worker.<br /><br />He had a big imperfect heart.Annahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01199861600698751943noreply@blogger.com1