I can’t help but wonder what life would have been like if social media was in full force back in the 1960s. More specifically, if The Beatles could have used the internet as they released each new album. Just the thought gives me a bit of a shiver … But that was then and this is now. And every time I hear or see the name of Taylor Swift’s new album: The Tortured Poets Department, I think about my poet…
Now that we have a sunroom, Farmer Gary and I notice daily we have several new patches of disturbed earth outside. It’s time to decide what to plant there. We brought up the topic while visiting with John, Aubrie, and Cameron last week. Aubrie loves to garden and is always great with gentle advice – be it regarding fruit, vegetables, or flowers. It’s always fun for John and me to observe our spouses dig in and discuss fertilizer, alkaline levels…
Books make wonderful presents. Books for birthdays. More books for Christmas. Mother’s Day. Father’s Day. Farmer Gary and I take it to the extreme, with books for Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Easter … you get the picture. Around our house, most books are one-and-done. Upon completion, the volume goes back on the shelf or, occasionally, into the donation basket. But once in a while, there’s something about a book that is almost haunting. A single reading is not enough….
There is something about the English language that is so delightful, yet infuriating. In particular, I mean the sometimes opposite definitions we Americans place on a British word. (One example, which I won’t detail completely, involved me complimenting a TV producer’s fanny pack. Well, she and the executive producer were fresh off the plane from England. They enjoyed a fine giggle at my stunned expense.) Here’s another example: Scheme. Scheme is a perfectly fine word in England, and presumably the…
It was close to midnight the other evening when I heard it. A train whistle. In the far-off distance. I love the sound of a train, especially at night. It’s so comforting. I asked my musical brother Dave if he knew exactly what chord the whistle plays. Here’s his reply: I’ve heard a lot of different chords from train whistles, but my favorite (which I’ve heard quite a bit) is a major chord with an added 6th, like F-A-C-D. The add-6 chord…
How far back can you remember? My earliest memories (as told here) involve brother Dave dropping eggs on the floor, and the arrival of my first feather pillow. As of a few weeks ago, I can piece together a third: My first taste of maple sugar candy. This memory’s missing piece surfaced in December, as an early gift, when I found this: Oh, boy! Dad and Mom were planning a getaway to Vermont! Back in 1961, there were no websites…
The latest batch of memories from Mom and Dad‘s house includes an armful of folders with brochures from a series of vacations they took. Once-in-a-lifetime trips to Ireland, Nova Scotia, England, an Alaskan cruise … One destination, though, was a repeat. When youngest son Bill, a Marine, was stationed in Hawaii, they decided to visit him. For the next decade or so, they returned each winter – even after Bill had completed his time in the military. After many winters…
I’ll say it before anyone else brings it up: Why would a couple of Empty Nesters add on to their home now that there are only two occupants? Actually, I didn’t happen upon the real reason until after we’d “moved in” following a long summer of loud construction. Why? Because the view is glorious! The east side of our house faces the forest, yet our house’s windows on that side just didn’t do the trick. We needed more windows. Lots…
As I finished up each book this month, I’d tell Farmer Gary: Time for a lighter book. But it wasn’t the weight of the volume that needed changing. With horrifying acts of terrorism around the world and crazed gunmen here in the U.S., it was time for an escape. Somehow, though, each new book was also filled with sorrow. Book 1: All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque The title was so familiar, but I’d never before…
One of my favorite childhood stories was Mom‘s tale of her violin lessons as a teen. She’d make us giggle when she told us her practice time would set their dog to howling. But when she shared that her violin teacher scolded, “Please! I have ears!” it made me sad. Now that I’ve come upon this autobiographical poem she wrote decades later, I’m sadder still to know more details about her violin lessons. After All In the beginning I knew…