1 day ago
Friday, April 15, 2005
An Ocean tip: where to find the free stuff
A conversation with a chatty barista:
Everyone is in such a good mood! Beautiful outside, isn’t it? [leans out of drive-up window, inhales with pleasure – I wish my car fumes weren’t so in his face…]
Don’t you have people grumbling about taxes?
Took forever this year! I couldn’t believe it! Last year it was so easy!
You’re telling me…
You know, I don’t know if you remember about the Boston Tea Party? [how old do I look anyway??] Well, we’re offering tea free today – our calming brew. You know – taxes, tea, get it?
I get it.
But no one has taken us up on it yet. All day! Free calming tea!
I’ll spread the word. I still need to stay tense, however. A few more forms to go over…
Here’s your latte! I hope you have a splendid week-end!
Yes, well, sure, me too. I mean you too.
Everyone is in such a good mood! Beautiful outside, isn’t it? [leans out of drive-up window, inhales with pleasure – I wish my car fumes weren’t so in his face…]
Don’t you have people grumbling about taxes?
Took forever this year! I couldn’t believe it! Last year it was so easy!
You’re telling me…
You know, I don’t know if you remember about the Boston Tea Party? [how old do I look anyway??] Well, we’re offering tea free today – our calming brew. You know – taxes, tea, get it?
I get it.
But no one has taken us up on it yet. All day! Free calming tea!
I’ll spread the word. I still need to stay tense, however. A few more forms to go over…
Here’s your latte! I hope you have a splendid week-end!
Yes, well, sure, me too. I mean you too.
A dinner of bloggers and various and sundry others
You just never know what people are thinking sometimes. You have an image. You think to yourself – this guy’s funny, she’s witty, he’s clever, etc. Good thoughts, kind thoughts.
But is it always thus? Do our minds sometimes spin in directions that are imperceptible to the others? Studying some of my photos from last night’s delicious dinner (prepared by the author of Marginal Utility and his wife), I got to thinking – man, I’d give a lot to know what was going through these heads. Consider just a handful of random shots:
Author of JFW: he’s plotting something, isn’t he? Pensive, but you can almost see the train of thought spinning in some unknown to the rest of us direction.
But is it always thus? Do our minds sometimes spin in directions that are imperceptible to the others? Studying some of my photos from last night’s delicious dinner (prepared by the author of Marginal Utility and his wife), I got to thinking – man, I’d give a lot to know what was going through these heads. Consider just a handful of random shots:
Author of JFW: he’s plotting something, isn’t he? Pensive, but you can almost see the train of thought spinning in some unknown to the rest of us direction.
Wife of Marginal Utility: maybe she’s wondering: should I open all three and let them get drunk as hell, or should I hide these and pour grape juice? And will they even notice?
Author of Marginal Utility: [thinking] See this pie? It is indeed a yummy pie. What if I just raised my pitching arm, reached back and let it fly right into the face of [insert name of person who is secretly irritating the hell out of him– perhaps the person with the camera?]
To the author of JFW: No, Jeremy, no! You’ve made your point about feral cats! We know – they kill baby lambs and birds too! Down with feral cats! Only – this isn’t a feral cat! [BTW, are we all clear on the definition of a feral cat? Do they have to be ratty and bony and menacing, or is it enough that they are just out there on the loose? Does a feral cat do more damage than a regular “I belong to someone” cat?]
Author of the Tonya Show: She must be thinking – they are all so hopeless! I can’t think why I hang out with them…
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Arboretum revisited. By me and only me.
I have tried so hard to get friends and family members excited about walks in the Arboretum. They say they like it. They agree it’s beautiful. They gush. Next time I ask, they say no, maybe not.
Maybe it does not catch Madison’s hip crowd. Today, for example, the few people that were strolling among blooming trees all had those plastic glasses you wear just after you have cataract surgery. Some used binoculars to look at buds.
But there are paths that really probe the wilderness (okay, the guy I passed in the woods was creepy, but I could outrun him!). And there are seasonal changes to observe. The place rocks!
I went there today to celebrate the end of tax computations and to do a little trot of appreciation for a good day. [My class this morning caught me up so completely, that I can honestly say it was one of my favorite teaching moments ever.]
The crowds don’t come to the Arboretum on weekdays. And few people know that the third week of April is magnolia season. By contrast, the place is packed in May, during peak lilac blooming days. But today it was (with rare exceptions) only me, and of course, this:
Maybe it does not catch Madison’s hip crowd. Today, for example, the few people that were strolling among blooming trees all had those plastic glasses you wear just after you have cataract surgery. Some used binoculars to look at buds.
But there are paths that really probe the wilderness (okay, the guy I passed in the woods was creepy, but I could outrun him!). And there are seasonal changes to observe. The place rocks!
I went there today to celebrate the end of tax computations and to do a little trot of appreciation for a good day. [My class this morning caught me up so completely, that I can honestly say it was one of my favorite teaching moments ever.]
The crowds don’t come to the Arboretum on weekdays. And few people know that the third week of April is magnolia season. By contrast, the place is packed in May, during peak lilac blooming days. But today it was (with rare exceptions) only me, and of course, this:
Forgiveness
I look up from my usual Thursday morning lecture work and see this perfect dapple of morning light on the rabbit as he rests, loving (I can tell) the needle bed under the white pine that I planted, basking, this time, in the first warmth of the sun -- and I melt. Good morning, rabbit. Have a nice breakfast. Go ahead, choose your flower.
Do you ever find yourself sitting across the dinner table from someone and staring at their hands?
Is it just me? I notice hands. I remember so well my high school boyfriend’s long fingers, the shape of the nail – everything. My grandmother’s hands were thick. How else to describe them? Her skin was coarse – dry from years of washing, cleaning, scrubbing with her own hands. Brutal stuff. But they were nimble, too. I kid you not, this image is real: I see her all the time pinching the dough of pierogi, quickly, adeptly with her fingers: pinch, flick, pinch, flick... My father’s fingers are stocky, but I remember admiring his nails as a kid. Many men, I used to think, had very unattractive, grimy nails. Not my dad, I noted with girlish pride.
My own hands are peasant stuff: they're small but tough. I should think a child (anyone perhaps) would feel proptected by them: I wont let go, I'll clear the bushes and bramble and make the road safer... They have burns from restaurant work, scars from an indelicate childhood followed by a period of obsessive gardening. They are darkened by the sun, and the nails could never have the shape that a manicurist would aim for. Not that they’ve ever seen a manicurist. They are fearless hands, “we’ll try anything” hands. There’s no timidity to them. They mask the inevitable weakness that lurks within. Only an obsessive hand watcher would notice, as I would notice in another, their unstillness: the paper napkin rolling, the straw paper folding, the uncertaintly in moments of repose.
It’s not that hands set a standard, that they classify people for me, that they repel or draw me to someone. But I always notice them.
My own hands are peasant stuff: they're small but tough. I should think a child (anyone perhaps) would feel proptected by them: I wont let go, I'll clear the bushes and bramble and make the road safer... They have burns from restaurant work, scars from an indelicate childhood followed by a period of obsessive gardening. They are darkened by the sun, and the nails could never have the shape that a manicurist would aim for. Not that they’ve ever seen a manicurist. They are fearless hands, “we’ll try anything” hands. There’s no timidity to them. They mask the inevitable weakness that lurks within. Only an obsessive hand watcher would notice, as I would notice in another, their unstillness: the paper napkin rolling, the straw paper folding, the uncertaintly in moments of repose.
It’s not that hands set a standard, that they classify people for me, that they repel or draw me to someone. But I always notice them.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
More about death and taxes, with a note on sainthood
If last night was a 1040 hellhole, today, New York tax law proved to be the hatchet that came crashing down on my withered and shriveled form, hunched over papers and open applications, screaming to no one in particular that it was just not fair to expose one suffering soul to the atrocities written by vermin parading as tax code experts. May rodents gnaw at their heels and vultures swoop down and peck off their slimy typing fingers. May they squirm in helplessness, may they feel the trauma of having absolutely no control over what happens next.
I admit, these were not kind words.
For reasons known only to divine beings, none of them friends of mine, I am sitting filling out not only Wisconsin tax forms (easy!) but also New York ones. Even as a scrawny little non-resident, I have had to wade through oceans of papers worksheets and forms. I am spent.
And I also had a seminar to teach.
I am back from class now, and I have gained some perspective. True, the work for tonight is elephantine indeed and there may not be the hours to accommodate it all, but still, there were positive aspects to this day:
What brilliantly glorious weather (can we notch up the thermometer a bit tomorrow?)! I cannot believe how beautiful it is. Drop-dead gorgeous!
Then there was Jessica (her real name, though hereafter you may refer to her as Ste. Jessica). My note to you:
Dear Jessica,
Was it the uncontrollable pain in my voice over the phone that tipped you off? Was it the spiritual decline that you sensed was taking place in my home over the past 24 hours? Whatever made you do it, know that I am grateful. That you should fly down in the middle of the day from campus, deliver into my hands a calculator AND a hot cup of skim latte is beyond-words wonderful. Thank you. I will recover and someday repay this kindness.
May I also offer a piece of advice? If H&R Block ever calls and asks to have your business, give it to them.
xxNina
I admit, these were not kind words.
For reasons known only to divine beings, none of them friends of mine, I am sitting filling out not only Wisconsin tax forms (easy!) but also New York ones. Even as a scrawny little non-resident, I have had to wade through oceans of papers worksheets and forms. I am spent.
And I also had a seminar to teach.
I am back from class now, and I have gained some perspective. True, the work for tonight is elephantine indeed and there may not be the hours to accommodate it all, but still, there were positive aspects to this day:
What brilliantly glorious weather (can we notch up the thermometer a bit tomorrow?)! I cannot believe how beautiful it is. Drop-dead gorgeous!
Then there was Jessica (her real name, though hereafter you may refer to her as Ste. Jessica). My note to you:
Dear Jessica,
Was it the uncontrollable pain in my voice over the phone that tipped you off? Was it the spiritual decline that you sensed was taking place in my home over the past 24 hours? Whatever made you do it, know that I am grateful. That you should fly down in the middle of the day from campus, deliver into my hands a calculator AND a hot cup of skim latte is beyond-words wonderful. Thank you. I will recover and someday repay this kindness.
May I also offer a piece of advice? If H&R Block ever calls and asks to have your business, give it to them.
xxNina
Grumblings about death and taxes
When the pope dies, the news cameras head for Rome to take in all the chanting and grieving. When April 15th approaches, the cameras focus on us and our hatred of the 1040.
It’s all sadly inevitable. For more than a week we watched and read about the v e r y s l o w process of moving the pope from the state of being freshly deceased to being placed in his “eternal” “resting” spot at St. Peter’s (both words are of dubious validity here, but it is what one says, out of respect I suppose). That took more than a week. As of yesterday, the rituals were still paraded before us as I watched the Cardinals file past to say their final goodbye and then hang a red ribbon on the door of his chambers – another ancient ritual for a deceased pope, though I have to believe that the ribbon will someday be removed and the chambers made fresh for the new pope and oh by the way, no I do not think it will be the cardinal from Milan nor any other of the Italians. No bird told me, I have no inside track, but as long as everyone else is speculating, why can’t I?
With the 1040, it’s more complicated. I have been struggling with figuring out the tax system here since I landed on the paved-with-gold soil in 1972. My parents never paid American taxes when I was a kid – a privilege for those affiliated with the diplomatic corps. When your own government pays you your salary, you fill out their 1040, not the American one. Of course, Poland in the 60s scoffed at such concepts as taxation and I no longer remember from my days of reading Lenin if there was a reason for it, but in any event, under communism there was, therefore, no April 15th nightmare for Poles.
But once here on my own, I began the struggle. No one ever explained anything to me – I did not get a little note as I crossed through passport control in New York – no one said: from this day forth, you will be made to feel small and worthless because you will make repeated mistakes throughout your life as a taxpayer.
Mistakes I made aplenty, even after I was licenced to practice law, which in itself is sadder than sad, since I received a rather excellent grade in Tax while in Law School. This tells you something about the 1040. And predictably, as I noticed last year, the IRS only tells you about the mistakes that are not in their favor.
Yesterday, I finished my 2004 1040. And I am proud to say that it only took me about 10 hours and 40 minutes to do, as opposed to the national average which is more than twice that amount. Moreover, since my calculator broke and I only at midnight found out that every computer has a built in counter, I added and multiplied the old fashioned way – carrying the ones and twos and mumbling my times tables as I went along.
But halfway through, I realized that somewhere in the year there must have been some dreadful mistake whereby the wrong formula was used to withhold because in spite of only a two digit figure in the 9a line, this year, I was going to owe owe owe.
That, perhaps, was the wrong time to open a bottle of wine and yet I felt I owed owed owed myself at least that. What with the long day, the muted TV throwing images of Jon Stewart making grotesque faces, stacks of penciled-in papers, the decreasing level of liquid in the green bottle next to me, I would say it was one rough set of hours and at the close of the day, my inner peace, insofar as I had any to begin with, was shattered. I apologize to everyone I talked to or wrote emails to between 8 pm and midnight. I do not really hate life, the IRS, the Vatican, you, none of the above. But I’m not too crazy about the April 15th ritual. There must be a better way.
It’s all sadly inevitable. For more than a week we watched and read about the v e r y s l o w process of moving the pope from the state of being freshly deceased to being placed in his “eternal” “resting” spot at St. Peter’s (both words are of dubious validity here, but it is what one says, out of respect I suppose). That took more than a week. As of yesterday, the rituals were still paraded before us as I watched the Cardinals file past to say their final goodbye and then hang a red ribbon on the door of his chambers – another ancient ritual for a deceased pope, though I have to believe that the ribbon will someday be removed and the chambers made fresh for the new pope and oh by the way, no I do not think it will be the cardinal from Milan nor any other of the Italians. No bird told me, I have no inside track, but as long as everyone else is speculating, why can’t I?
With the 1040, it’s more complicated. I have been struggling with figuring out the tax system here since I landed on the paved-with-gold soil in 1972. My parents never paid American taxes when I was a kid – a privilege for those affiliated with the diplomatic corps. When your own government pays you your salary, you fill out their 1040, not the American one. Of course, Poland in the 60s scoffed at such concepts as taxation and I no longer remember from my days of reading Lenin if there was a reason for it, but in any event, under communism there was, therefore, no April 15th nightmare for Poles.
But once here on my own, I began the struggle. No one ever explained anything to me – I did not get a little note as I crossed through passport control in New York – no one said: from this day forth, you will be made to feel small and worthless because you will make repeated mistakes throughout your life as a taxpayer.
Mistakes I made aplenty, even after I was licenced to practice law, which in itself is sadder than sad, since I received a rather excellent grade in Tax while in Law School. This tells you something about the 1040. And predictably, as I noticed last year, the IRS only tells you about the mistakes that are not in their favor.
Yesterday, I finished my 2004 1040. And I am proud to say that it only took me about 10 hours and 40 minutes to do, as opposed to the national average which is more than twice that amount. Moreover, since my calculator broke and I only at midnight found out that every computer has a built in counter, I added and multiplied the old fashioned way – carrying the ones and twos and mumbling my times tables as I went along.
But halfway through, I realized that somewhere in the year there must have been some dreadful mistake whereby the wrong formula was used to withhold because in spite of only a two digit figure in the 9a line, this year, I was going to owe owe owe.
That, perhaps, was the wrong time to open a bottle of wine and yet I felt I owed owed owed myself at least that. What with the long day, the muted TV throwing images of Jon Stewart making grotesque faces, stacks of penciled-in papers, the decreasing level of liquid in the green bottle next to me, I would say it was one rough set of hours and at the close of the day, my inner peace, insofar as I had any to begin with, was shattered. I apologize to everyone I talked to or wrote emails to between 8 pm and midnight. I do not really hate life, the IRS, the Vatican, you, none of the above. But I’m not too crazy about the April 15th ritual. There must be a better way.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
The ruling party, part 2
I cannot believe I just missed an opportunity to pick up $50,000. Five minutes of work, fifty grand richer.
No, it’s nothing illegal, cruel, risky, untoward. All I would have had to have done* was write a different kind of post for my rabbit story (see Ruling Party post below, from earlier in the day).
Of course, it would have been parroting someone else’s gimmick, but so what. It’s not as if he’s got a patent pending on it.
A reader clued me in on my folly by providing the following link. For those who do not click, it’s quite simple:
A man rescued a cute bunny rabbit. Called him Toby. Nursed him, fed him, took many beautiful pictures of him. And now he says he will eat him by June 30th (recipe provided at the bottom of his page) unless, through donations and otherwise, he will raise $50,000. As of yesterday, horrified readers sent in to PayPal close to $25,000. With the publicity the story is generating, it is expected that he will exceed the targeted sum.
It could have been me, sharing my instant wealth with family and friends, building a beautiful little home for the bunny who brought me this bounty. But no. I had to let every Ocean reader know: I am a mere peon in the rabbit’s life – he is the one in control. Sigh.
[Having written this post I am actually quite shocked that I would even suggest in jest taking my backyard rabbit to the butcher. So sorry, bunny rabbit. Blogging drove me to this. I hate your eating habits, but you're safe.]
* see, this is exactly the kind of verb tense construction that drives Poles, with their three tenses only absolutely insane when they study English.
No, it’s nothing illegal, cruel, risky, untoward. All I would have had to have done* was write a different kind of post for my rabbit story (see Ruling Party post below, from earlier in the day).
Of course, it would have been parroting someone else’s gimmick, but so what. It’s not as if he’s got a patent pending on it.
A reader clued me in on my folly by providing the following link. For those who do not click, it’s quite simple:
A man rescued a cute bunny rabbit. Called him Toby. Nursed him, fed him, took many beautiful pictures of him. And now he says he will eat him by June 30th (recipe provided at the bottom of his page) unless, through donations and otherwise, he will raise $50,000. As of yesterday, horrified readers sent in to PayPal close to $25,000. With the publicity the story is generating, it is expected that he will exceed the targeted sum.
It could have been me, sharing my instant wealth with family and friends, building a beautiful little home for the bunny who brought me this bounty. But no. I had to let every Ocean reader know: I am a mere peon in the rabbit’s life – he is the one in control. Sigh.
[Having written this post I am actually quite shocked that I would even suggest in jest taking my backyard rabbit to the butcher. So sorry, bunny rabbit. Blogging drove me to this. I hate your eating habits, but you're safe.]
* see, this is exactly the kind of verb tense construction that drives Poles, with their three tenses only absolutely insane when they study English.
True Story, part 2
So, you’re off and running again…
I have to Get Stuff Done! Taxes, lecture tomorrow, that sort of thing. But how are you?
In one word or less? Fine.
Oh! I’m so sorry! I swore I would not become like one of those who comes across as Too Busy for Words! I’m the one who always sighs and rolls her eyes when friends say they can’t pause because they are So Behind!
It’s okay…
No, I’m really so sorry (I am: you know who you are!!). I’m the one who suggestively passed on the cartoon from the New Yorker some while back where a guy says to his preoccupied professor friend: “you know what you are not going to say on your deathbed? 'I wish I had worked harder to get another article published'…”
Nor will they carve it onto the tombstone: here lies Martha Miserable*, who contributed so much, though we can't remember what exactly where or why…
Or: here lies Morris Murdock*, unavailable in life, unavailable in death. Did I say this already: I'm very sorry... And btw, I’ve always thought that each of us will be remembered for the small things we did that we had no idea meant a lot to someone at the time.
You know, I already decided what my tombstone inscription is going to be:
Anna Wanna* up and died
Will you miss her?
You decide.
I’m going to post that right now!
* Of course these are made up names. Of course. But the story (with some wording adjustments) is true. It happened just minutes ago.
I have to Get Stuff Done! Taxes, lecture tomorrow, that sort of thing. But how are you?
In one word or less? Fine.
Oh! I’m so sorry! I swore I would not become like one of those who comes across as Too Busy for Words! I’m the one who always sighs and rolls her eyes when friends say they can’t pause because they are So Behind!
It’s okay…
No, I’m really so sorry (I am: you know who you are!!). I’m the one who suggestively passed on the cartoon from the New Yorker some while back where a guy says to his preoccupied professor friend: “you know what you are not going to say on your deathbed? 'I wish I had worked harder to get another article published'…”
Nor will they carve it onto the tombstone: here lies Martha Miserable*, who contributed so much, though we can't remember what exactly where or why…
Or: here lies Morris Murdock*, unavailable in life, unavailable in death. Did I say this already: I'm very sorry... And btw, I’ve always thought that each of us will be remembered for the small things we did that we had no idea meant a lot to someone at the time.
You know, I already decided what my tombstone inscription is going to be:
Anna Wanna* up and died
Will you miss her?
You decide.
I’m going to post that right now!
* Of course these are made up names. Of course. But the story (with some wording adjustments) is true. It happened just minutes ago.
True story
Professor: Well, you could not counsel her to do that now, could you? She would be, what’s the American expression? About a foot or something?
[Several very helpful students shout out correct expression said foreign-born professor was searching for.]
Professor: Yes, sounds right – she would be chewing herself in the foot. I mean, think about it: she is arguing that her ex is incompetent to meet the legal standard set forth in the joint custody statute at the same time that she wants to portray herself as a cooperative player under the physical placement statute… nibbling right there at her own heel, or, as you say, chewing her feet.
[Lecture continues, professor wonders why student in front row is holding hand out in the shape of a gun and shooting at her. Professor decides to tolerate weird student behavior as it is early in the morning and he may not have had his cup of coffee yet.]
Class ends, student with weird hand gestures approaches professor and says: I was trying to tell you: not chewing. It’s shooting yourself in the foot.
[Several very helpful students shout out correct expression said foreign-born professor was searching for.]
Professor: Yes, sounds right – she would be chewing herself in the foot. I mean, think about it: she is arguing that her ex is incompetent to meet the legal standard set forth in the joint custody statute at the same time that she wants to portray herself as a cooperative player under the physical placement statute… nibbling right there at her own heel, or, as you say, chewing her feet.
[Lecture continues, professor wonders why student in front row is holding hand out in the shape of a gun and shooting at her. Professor decides to tolerate weird student behavior as it is early in the morning and he may not have had his cup of coffee yet.]
Class ends, student with weird hand gestures approaches professor and says: I was trying to tell you: not chewing. It’s shooting yourself in the foot.
The ruling party
I want to ask this: who’s in control of my yard, him or me? Sure, I’m still holding on to the house, but he’s certainly ahead in two branches: the front and the back yards. He’s taking it easy, waiting for the right moment before he and his pack start hackin’ away at all that I hold dear out there. It’s no use fighting him. He’s got numbers on his side. And teeth. Past terms have shown me that he moves quickly and decisively. He gets things done.
Damn rabbits. What I wouldn’t do for a couple of jackasses or a herd of elephants to chase him out. Though I’m betting he’d get the support of the Green Party and make things really difficult for me here in Madison. Basically I’m about as effective as the slow-moving lame duck that occasionally crosses my yard. The whole thing is one big farce. It’s his show and he knows it. I just wish he wouldn’t be so in-my-face obvious about it. Just look at him:
Damn rabbits. What I wouldn’t do for a couple of jackasses or a herd of elephants to chase him out. Though I’m betting he’d get the support of the Green Party and make things really difficult for me here in Madison. Basically I’m about as effective as the slow-moving lame duck that occasionally crosses my yard. The whole thing is one big farce. It’s his show and he knows it. I just wish he wouldn’t be so in-my-face obvious about it. Just look at him:
Monday, April 11, 2005
Step aside, sakura swooners
There is no need to parade this week-end as the time to be in D.C. for the cherry blossom display, when here, in Madison, we have Magnolia blooms doing their own great imitation of a water lily:
Babciu, babciu, dziura w kapciu!
So goes the little Polish ditty, rhyming „grandma” with „slipper” and coming up with nonsense.
April is such a “grandma” month for me! My grandmother’s birthday came now (had she lived, she’d be 104) though it is one of these unfortunate things that in all the years and summers I spent with her, I had never seen her eat a piece of cake baked in her honor.
Much can be written about my grandmother. Really, tons and gobs. And I am sure I will come back to her in this blog, as I tend to, when I get in one of those pensive-about-my-childhood moods. But today I had a bit of an epiphany about my life and times in her home and I just want to note it here, while the thought is fresh.
People in this country give greeting/parting hugs; in Europe they kiss each other’s faces. But my grandmother really did neither. Instead, at least to me, her youngest grandchild (and I dare say to my sister as well) she was available with her giant bear embrace that literally enveloped me in her body – which was ample and warm.
That embrace was so comforting that I still regard that as one of the greatest gifts anyone can give to another. I would give a lot to lose myself in ampleness* in the way I did then.
It was not unusual for me to get scared in the middle of the night. The Polish village where she lived was so quiet that you could hear the wind mess with the branches and the power of that breeze often sent my running to her room. She’d make room in her huge bed and I’d stay there for the night, wanting nothing more than to be by her, protected and safe.
There was force in her arms. She was used to shoveling coal daily into the kitchen stove. Holding on to a little girl must have been easier than easy for her.
Petite Anglaise wrote a beautiful post about her elderly neighbor in Paris, who had problems turning on the TV and had to (laboriously) come down to ask for help. It made me wonder about whether the neighbor has grandchildren and whether they ever had the benefit of their grandmother’s wrap-around arms.
Octopus arms, open arms. I wonder if their usefulness is still there. Must be. I noticed One Child uses the term to invite comments. I wonder if he had a grandmother who taught him how to use arms to comfort another.
April is such a “grandma” month for me! My grandmother’s birthday came now (had she lived, she’d be 104) though it is one of these unfortunate things that in all the years and summers I spent with her, I had never seen her eat a piece of cake baked in her honor.
Much can be written about my grandmother. Really, tons and gobs. And I am sure I will come back to her in this blog, as I tend to, when I get in one of those pensive-about-my-childhood moods. But today I had a bit of an epiphany about my life and times in her home and I just want to note it here, while the thought is fresh.
People in this country give greeting/parting hugs; in Europe they kiss each other’s faces. But my grandmother really did neither. Instead, at least to me, her youngest grandchild (and I dare say to my sister as well) she was available with her giant bear embrace that literally enveloped me in her body – which was ample and warm.
That embrace was so comforting that I still regard that as one of the greatest gifts anyone can give to another. I would give a lot to lose myself in ampleness* in the way I did then.
It was not unusual for me to get scared in the middle of the night. The Polish village where she lived was so quiet that you could hear the wind mess with the branches and the power of that breeze often sent my running to her room. She’d make room in her huge bed and I’d stay there for the night, wanting nothing more than to be by her, protected and safe.
There was force in her arms. She was used to shoveling coal daily into the kitchen stove. Holding on to a little girl must have been easier than easy for her.
Petite Anglaise wrote a beautiful post about her elderly neighbor in Paris, who had problems turning on the TV and had to (laboriously) come down to ask for help. It made me wonder about whether the neighbor has grandchildren and whether they ever had the benefit of their grandmother’s wrap-around arms.
Octopus arms, open arms. I wonder if their usefulness is still there. Must be. I noticed One Child uses the term to invite comments. I wonder if he had a grandmother who taught him how to use arms to comfort another.
* Ampleness is a state of the mind as much as the contour of a body. Sure, my grandmother had an ample chest and eiderdown pillow shape. But she was very short and grew down almost as rapidly as I grew up. Nevertheless, I always found myself enveloped by her. It was in the way she took me into her fold.
When a fellow blogger pal asks a favor, Ocean delivers!
Who am I to question why a certain Michelle wants to be a storm chaser or if her credentials are legit? I read that this is her dream on JFW, I like JFW, I trust the author of JFW knows what he is doing and so I support Michelle with my vote, pushing her that much closer to a life as a cloud chaser.
More: I am going to direct you all to the voting place here and urge you to do the same! Why should Howard Dean capitalize on the community of bloggers’ willingness to band together in support of his candidacy way back when, while poor Michelle struggles alone to realize her own stormy dream?
Wouldn’t it be fantastic if votes came pouring in from Japan (cashing in: remember when I wrote out the recipe you wanted so badly last year?), from Poland (bribery: I’ll buy you a round of drinks when I’m there in May), from France, Washington, Arizona, Florida? Yes! All for the good of Michelle so that she can rise to new weathering heights.
I say when a woman feels passionate about clouds, we stand behind her. Got a blog? Create a link and get others to jump on board the Michelle weather wagon.
Voting ends on 4/14 so get to it.
More: I am going to direct you all to the voting place here and urge you to do the same! Why should Howard Dean capitalize on the community of bloggers’ willingness to band together in support of his candidacy way back when, while poor Michelle struggles alone to realize her own stormy dream?
Wouldn’t it be fantastic if votes came pouring in from Japan (cashing in: remember when I wrote out the recipe you wanted so badly last year?), from Poland (bribery: I’ll buy you a round of drinks when I’m there in May), from France, Washington, Arizona, Florida? Yes! All for the good of Michelle so that she can rise to new weathering heights.
I say when a woman feels passionate about clouds, we stand behind her. Got a blog? Create a link and get others to jump on board the Michelle weather wagon.
Voting ends on 4/14 so get to it.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Spring is soon over, it will not stay; Let us be up and on our way; Sunshine to greet us, come out and meet us, All the world’s joyful this April day*
Perhaps to compensate for my wayward driving yesterday (see posts below about detours to Chicago), today I walked. To food stores, bookstores, woods and beyond, I walked, like a woman possessed, clearing my mind of “yes but what ifs” and “I don’t know how evers,” I paced the streets of this town for hours, until the clock forced me to retreat.
I took with me a $5 bill, a credit card (hey, Linus had his blanket, I have mine) and a camera.
What do I have to show for it? Well, a friend asked me tonight to swear on my life that I did not go to a tanning salon (easy: I swear). And I did put the $5 to good use: one pear at Whole Foods, and a latte with biscotti from Borders. But the camera? That is one sad story: in the miles and miles of terrain that I covered, I remained photographically uninspired.
“This town defeats me” – a friend once said to me in a somewhat different context. Well it defeats me too. For one thing, behind its slightly unphotogenic façade lies this truth: there is a certain predictability to it (at so many levels) that can be really exasperating.
But in spring, everything is beautiful in spite of any harshly suppressed reality. Here, I have three photos that speak to this:
* Czech folk song
I took with me a $5 bill, a credit card (hey, Linus had his blanket, I have mine) and a camera.
What do I have to show for it? Well, a friend asked me tonight to swear on my life that I did not go to a tanning salon (easy: I swear). And I did put the $5 to good use: one pear at Whole Foods, and a latte with biscotti from Borders. But the camera? That is one sad story: in the miles and miles of terrain that I covered, I remained photographically uninspired.
“This town defeats me” – a friend once said to me in a somewhat different context. Well it defeats me too. For one thing, behind its slightly unphotogenic façade lies this truth: there is a certain predictability to it (at so many levels) that can be really exasperating.
But in spring, everything is beautiful in spite of any harshly suppressed reality. Here, I have three photos that speak to this:
* Czech folk song
Say, I can see, I just don’t understand how it all works
There has been a lot of discussion about how wrong/right it is to have American flags at half mast to honor John Paul II. I haven’t been following any of it. My position on this became quickly and rigidly fixed with the reading of this post and I have been repeating it rather indifferently since. It’s a symbol and though I recognize all sorts of slippery slope issues in our dealings with symbols, I am just not that bothered about this one.
But I noticed today on my walk that the flags were still at the half point even though the pontiff has been deceased for more than a week and so I wondered how the rules are set on American flag displays and if everyone who has a flag is obliged to follow them. I could have googled in search of an answer, but not owning a flag made this less of a burning project (and yes, I do know you’re not supposed to burn the r,w&b).
Thoughts of flags pushed aside, I was almost home and then I reached my neighbor’s house and I couldn’t help noting that their flag was fully hoisted to the tip. My neighbor is not one to make a counter-federal government statement, especially when the elected leader of the country is one of his choosing, so I wondered what instruction pamphlet he was following in his own flag-hoisting machinations.
And just one more thought: if one doesn’t have google to assist one in the pursuit of knowledge, how does one find out flag rules? Do flags come with instructions? Don’t let it touch the ground, don’t let it get rained on, don’t burn it, lower it at sundown – I remember these well from New Jersey Y camp days where I was terrified that I, the sole communist-land camp attendee would be the one to break The Rules on flag handling. (And have these changed? What gives? If one can’t allow the rain to drip on a flag, how is it that we can run flag-designed shorts through the wash cycle?)
In Poland we do not have rules that I am aware of concerning flags. Which should not be regarded as a statement of that country’s laid back and toned-down attitude toward nationalism because, due to our skirmishes with invading neighbors, we have, unfortunately, rampant and fierce national pride, far in excess of what any healthy nation needs.
But I noticed today on my walk that the flags were still at the half point even though the pontiff has been deceased for more than a week and so I wondered how the rules are set on American flag displays and if everyone who has a flag is obliged to follow them. I could have googled in search of an answer, but not owning a flag made this less of a burning project (and yes, I do know you’re not supposed to burn the r,w&b).
Thoughts of flags pushed aside, I was almost home and then I reached my neighbor’s house and I couldn’t help noting that their flag was fully hoisted to the tip. My neighbor is not one to make a counter-federal government statement, especially when the elected leader of the country is one of his choosing, so I wondered what instruction pamphlet he was following in his own flag-hoisting machinations.
And just one more thought: if one doesn’t have google to assist one in the pursuit of knowledge, how does one find out flag rules? Do flags come with instructions? Don’t let it touch the ground, don’t let it get rained on, don’t burn it, lower it at sundown – I remember these well from New Jersey Y camp days where I was terrified that I, the sole communist-land camp attendee would be the one to break The Rules on flag handling. (And have these changed? What gives? If one can’t allow the rain to drip on a flag, how is it that we can run flag-designed shorts through the wash cycle?)
In Poland we do not have rules that I am aware of concerning flags. Which should not be regarded as a statement of that country’s laid back and toned-down attitude toward nationalism because, due to our skirmishes with invading neighbors, we have, unfortunately, rampant and fierce national pride, far in excess of what any healthy nation needs.
A post on what I have in common with the writer Ha Jin
An interview with Ha Jin in today’s NYT Magazine ends with this exchange:
Q: What is your idea of perfect happiness?
A: I often tell my wife and son that the best life for me would be to get up in the morning and go to a café and have coffee and meet friends and read the newspaper. [He then goes on to say: But you can’t do it every day, because if you did, your life would be effortless. And an effortless life is a meaningless life.]
For me as well! That, or to sit back over a café latte and listen to others exchange a quick story or a comment on some event or other.
I am precluded from doing this because no one here pauses in the morning. The café baristas are busy then, but they are for the most part filling endless take-out cups. The few people who pause, do so to read. The American café in the morning is one dull place.
I have said this before – perhaps my very favorite part of a vacation on the other side of the ocean is the fifteen morning minutes spent over a coffee and roll at a café, especially on a weekday. No kidding. Watching people come in, banter for a few minutes, then move on with a handshake or a kiss and a swipe at the last crumb of croissant or other carb-loaded piece of bread is bliss. It adds spring to my step for the rest of the day.
Q: What is your idea of perfect happiness?
A: I often tell my wife and son that the best life for me would be to get up in the morning and go to a café and have coffee and meet friends and read the newspaper. [He then goes on to say: But you can’t do it every day, because if you did, your life would be effortless. And an effortless life is a meaningless life.]
For me as well! That, or to sit back over a café latte and listen to others exchange a quick story or a comment on some event or other.
I am precluded from doing this because no one here pauses in the morning. The café baristas are busy then, but they are for the most part filling endless take-out cups. The few people who pause, do so to read. The American café in the morning is one dull place.
I have said this before – perhaps my very favorite part of a vacation on the other side of the ocean is the fifteen morning minutes spent over a coffee and roll at a café, especially on a weekday. No kidding. Watching people come in, banter for a few minutes, then move on with a handshake or a kiss and a swipe at the last crumb of croissant or other carb-loaded piece of bread is bliss. It adds spring to my step for the rest of the day.
A P.S. to this day:
It’s rare that I get to drive from Chicago on a highway empty enough for me to be able to photograph it without risking my life and the life of the ancient van.
Just one photo and then I’ll sign off for the night:
Just one photo and then I’ll sign off for the night:
Saturday, April 09, 2005
New Ocean game revisited
Remember the rules: I post a photo of a dish I had for dinner and you guess the place, or if you are not a Midwesterner -- mull over what the dish may be. Today I'll give the answer right away -- it's only fair.
So, where am I and what am I eating?
So, where am I and what am I eating?
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