Stickings and Huggings & Rememberings

I went to see Aunt B earlier this month (she's actually my great-aunt) as part of a recent trip to the southern portion of the motherland. (see picture). She truly is GREAT! She is amazing, and definitely qualifies as a Top Tier Auntie. I've written about her before, I think...but with such great people, it never hurts to talk about them again.

Isn't she beautiful?

Her husband's pretty great, too. He used to be a weather guy for the Army, and did air gliding as a hobby. (At least, I think that's what it's called.)

They told me the story of how they met. Aunt B was just 17 and Uncle D wasn't much older - maybe 20 or so. Aunt B went to a fireside with her friend, who knew Uncle D, so they all sat together, but the friend had to get up to play the piano. Aunt B says that she was sharing a hymnal with Uncle D, and he stuck her finger with a straight pin to get her attention as a flirty measure. Aunt B didn't like that very much, so she took the pin and stuck him right back. And, as she laughingly says, they've been stuck together ever since. She did say that the older folks used to grumble and scratch their heads a bit at the young folks' behavior, because her friend, who lived close to Uncle D, soon began "going with" a boy who lived near her. As there was a ten mile difference between B and D, and consequently between B's friend and D's friend, it baffled the elders why the youngsters insisted on trotting back and forth so many miles, when they could just switch the couples and eliminate all that fuel use, instead. But none of the four parties thought that was a good idea. They were practicing "cleaving unto" each other even though they hadn't gotten married yet. (Aunt B's friend did marry the neighbor boy, though, and they've all been happy ever since.) 

Aunt B is the kind of person I want to be. She's open and loving, and will hug me as many times as I want. All I have to do is ask. (Sometimes, she even asks me for a hug. :) Uncle D has assured me many times that his wife's life-force fuel is hugs. Forget food. She just wants as many huggles as she can get! So I try to provide her with a lot when I see her.) She's always interested in what I'm doing, and she always tells me I'm pretty, and she always tells me something new. She has many treasures (old, really cool things) and lots of stories to go with them, and will freely share.

She doesn't remember things quite like she used to -- when we went to visit, it was clear she knew who I was, and who I belonged to, but she didn't remember my name. She was really cute about it, though, and asked me, "And what do your friends call you when you're not at home?" I was thinking how getting older is harder, in so many ways...and how shocking it would be to not remember things. For example, what if a child of yours passed away, and you couldn't remember? Anytime anybody brought it up, it would be impossible to not feel a pang of heartwrench at the thought as a wave of fresh pain occupied your mind. And then you wouldn't remember, again, and so you'd have to feel the pain over and over.

Maybe I'm wrong, and there's a mercy in the forgetfulness -- that you don't have to carry the grief, but the emotion of the loss (or, I guess, the happiness) doesn't carry as much weight because you're not as connected to it. I can't decide which is worse -- to not be able to feel the loss of things you miss, or to not have the burden of re-living the pain of loss with every mention of it. I wonder if your brain gets dulled to it in time. Someone else will have to tell me that.

In the meantime, I'm remembering the hope of sticking together and the hugging, and that will have to be enough til I find my sticker and get another hug from Aunt B.

First Day of School

Mom used to take us shopping downtown at the zicmee. We were lucky girls; we went to Nordstrom to get our shoes, GAP to get our jeans, and to the food court for lunch in between. There was just one shopping day a year. Of course, that doesn't count all the time we spent looking at catalogs from Lands' End and LLBean. But in terms of physical shopping, Mom took us a few weeks before and we had our shopping day and bought our new school shoes, and pants, and that was it. There was usually a separate trip for school supplies - we had a $5 budget, and after that, anything else we wanted, we had to pay for out of our allowances. (Back then, $5 went a bit further than it does now.)

If I were still in public school, today would be my first day back.

If I were Kathleen Kelly, I would make Joe Fox deliver on his promise to buy me a "bouquet of freshly sharpened pencils."

Somehow, today I am remembering something that happened more than twenty years ago. (!)

Mom bought me a big pink/magenta tote bag. It was huge. It was supposed to be my school bag. I have no idea what in the world I could possibly have put in there to fill it up. Heck, you could have put ME in there and still been able to zip it up. I don't know what possessed me to ask for it. It was made of nylon and had black handles.

This year, I was to start Kindergarten, so I wanted to be extra super specially prepared. I had been waiting for this moment - the moment where I could be like everybody else in their school-going glory - for so long! (I used to invent "homework" for myself so I wouldn't be left out when my older sibs were doing theirs. Yep. I was one of those kids.)  Mom had taken me shopping and I had bought new shoes. I wanted to keep them pristine for the beginning of school, so I elected not to wear them. But then I had some wavering thoughts, and I wanted to wear them beforehand, and I couldn't find them. It wasn't long before the week before school approached and we were doing our back-to-school breakfast routine...but still, no K-shoes were to be found.

These shoes were black canvas Keds and had polka dots of color on them. It was the late 80s gone bad: purple, yellow, orange, green, turquoise dots spotted the landscape. I couldn't find them, and I couldn't find them, and I couldn't find them...and then, the Saturday before school started, I had gotten desperate, and I was beginning to wonder where those shoes could have gone. By this time, it wasn't just that I wanted to wear the shoes, I was beginning to worry about the Wrath of Mom, as well, if I couldn't come up with them.

As soon as the pink monstrosity of a bag -- also the only pink accessory I have ever owned -- had been procured, I had carefully filled it with my school supplies long ago and hung it up on my hook in the closet, mostly to keep it from being poached by other family members. Now, as I was preparing to add the finishing touches of School Supplydom, I took the bag off the peg, because I'd organized my pencil box and wanted to put it in, so I would be ready, steady for the big day.

The bag wasn't empty though. Nope. I had, in my infinite planning mode, picked out exactly what I was going to wear to school on my first day, probably the very day that my new shoes were purchased, and had, in my squirreliness, stowed it carefully away in order to "reserve" the outfit for the monumental occasion. (Not being in charge of the laundry schedule, I probably had concluded that it would be best to be on the safe side and just not try to put it through any cycles until the Big Day had arrived.) I'm sure I pretended I was Anne of Green Gables and laid out  every combination of clothing I owned on my bed, and likely had my sisters help me pick what to wear.

I had rolled each piece of my outfit up carefully into little tubes, and shoved my socks inside my shoes. Why rolling, you ask? We had been instructed by Aunt E that the *only* way to pack things was to roll them up, because it preserved space and kept things from getting too wrinkly. She was sage (she had been to London!!), and besides, she was part of the Best Auntie duo, and so her word was practically gospel truth, bordering on law. There were my favorite pants! I rejoiced. I had completely forgotten that I had "reserved" the outfit, and I practically wept for relief, knowing that I had a good outfit and that I wouldn't have to go tell Mom I had lost my shoes.

I immediately put the outfit on, to try it on one last time, to make sure it had the magic a first day would need; but it will be completely unsurprising to more than a few of you to learn that, upon being tried on, my brand new shoes fit just a little too tight for comfort.

Of course, I wore them anyway! After all, a girl must have new shoes for the first day of school.

Berry Casual Analogy

I was blackberrying with some girl friends on Sunday. We were talking about dating. Apparently dating is a big thing, since it occupies much of the mindspace of many I know.

These girls, I should say, are beautiful. Strong. Good-natured. Intelligent. Opinionated!! Self-assured. I was pondering matchmaking for some people I know and as I was picking berries (which are really weeds here) I was thinking, gosh, why haven't they been "picked" yet?!?

So. Here goes. But instead of telling you the analogy, I'm just going to tell you that it is an analogy, and then tell you about blackberry bushes, and let the brambles speak for me. 


Plant Blackground
Blackberry plants are thorny. It's very easy to get snagged and snared and ripped and cut and punctured and slivered and get hung up on a thorn when you're trying to escape.

Maturity Cycle
Blackberry bushes have fruit at all stages on one branch. It's not impossible or improbable for there to be a blossom, a little nub where the fruit is just starting to grow, a little green berry, a greenish reddish berry, a red berry, a reddish purplish berry, a purple berry, a blackberry not quite ripe enough to pick, a blackberry ready to be plucked, berries that are mush, and berries that have simply come to maturity and then shriveled up from all the attention of the sun. (It should be noted that shriveled blackberries are not as in high demand as shriveled grapes.)

Determining Ripeness
Sometimes, a picker might think that a blackberry is ready at the almost-ripe stage. After all, then the berry is black. But the berry is still a little tart. So you need to decide: is it better to have a tart berry or a berry that is maybe just a tad bit past the primo stage of ripeness -- a little messy, but with flavor that bursts in your mouth?

Harvest
After all, once you pick a berry, it's picked. So:
Is your basket full of tart berries?
Ripe ones?
Maybe you  accidentally dropped  a few of them on the ground while making the transfer to your basket, and it's regrettable?
Past-ripes?

Harvesting Purpose
I suppose what type of berry you're looking for depends on the purpose of your picking:
Are you picking for jam?
Pie?
Do you only want the biggest berries, for re-sale value?
Do you pluck the shriveled ones hoping that the plant will regenerate and bear berries again so you'll get a more bountiful harvest?
Or do you just watch other blackberry pickers as they wander up and down the side of the road, partaking of nature's delights?

Post-Harvest
Are you ever in search of the biggest, most flavorful, most attractive berry, so you eat them until you're sick to your stomach and swear off blackberries for awhile?
Or do you know when to stop eating/picking, and savor the sweet flavor of the last berry?

More Cowbell (and cows)

COWBELL:  I was 23 the first time I heard of Saturday Night Live. Yes, I just admitted that. The first short I ever watched had Will Ferrell in it. Maybe some of you have seen it. It's about the band Blue Oyster Cult. They were a one-hit wonder. and Ttheir song: "Don't Fear the Reaper."* The clip has Jimmy Fallon, Will Farrell, Christopher Walken, and some other guy in it. JF is terrible, by the way - can't keep a straight face at all. In the scene, BOC is in studio, and a famous producer, Bruce Dickinson, is telling them how he thinks they can improve the record. Basically, Bruce is a fan of cow bells. He just thinks there needs to be more cow bell!

Off the top of my head, I can't actually think of another song that has any cow bell in it at all. But it made me think: if Bruce Dickinson (Christopher Walken) was right, then more cowbell is the prescription for every song ill. (Maybe if the Black Eyed Peas had put that in their Dysphemism song, it would have made it slightly more palatable to the oral auditory ear?**) Maybe if BOC had put more cow bell into their subsequent songs, they wouldn't have been a one three-hit* wonder. We'll never know.

The point is, it made me think about other things that make songs and life better.

WHISTLING: Except for one glaring exception I can think of (that I've already written about on this blog), I defy you to name a song where whistling in a song detracts from the song value.

Instead of listing all my favorite songs, I will instead post a link that will let you hear some of them.  I admit I didn't know all of the songs he put on here, but I know most of them. I think it missed "New Day in the Morning" and "Clancy's Theme" from the Man From Snowy River, but it hit a lot of other ones. yay!

BANJO: I'm convinced half the reason Mumford & Sons has made it so big is because they have a banjo player. No lie. Banjo makes everything better...more soulful, more homey, more comfy. I love everything banjo. Even those two guys in the Geico commercials they show on hulu are less annoying because one of them plays the banjo in the little tag theme thing at the end.

ANVIL: The first time I saw The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (which I wrote about on this blog already), I didn't like the version at the end of the dwarf theme...the mountain song. Then I heard it again the second time I watched it and I was hooked. I was too cheap to download it but I listened to it (legally!) over and over again, and read an article in Rolling Stone about the guy who wrote it and how his sons collaborated on it with him, and he said, "It needs more anvil. What song doesn't need more anvil?" In this case, hammering against anvils was used to great effect and I daresay I could use a bit more of it. Maybe I'll go take another listen right now.

COWS: You can't see a landscape that's green and obviously not growing crops without thinking pastoral, and you can't utter pastoral without thinking of cows.

I even go so far as to claim that every landscape painting that has a field of any sort in it -- that evokes the "pastoral" feeling at all - is more appealing - and dare I say  it? Better! than a similar scene without bovine life in it. Cows in pictures are calming. What's more homey and hum-drummy than a cow staring off into space chewing her cud? Of course since the cow is in the picture, and we do not have Harry Potter style pictures, we do not know if she is chewing her cud or not, but the calm nature of the beast seems to add a level of peace to a painting that is unmatched.

If you can't have a cow, then a sheep will substitute, but it's like eating tub margarine when you could eat butter. If a cow isn't available and a sheep isn't, either, a goat will do. This is the hierarchy.

May all your landscapes have cows in them, and may your life be full of whistling banjo songs. (Cowbell and anvil are optional.)

* I have definitely, most emphatically, been reprimanded about my lack of research for this post in the comments. I am rectifying the situation by retracting my statement that BOC was a one-hit wonder. It appears they actually had three hits. See comments for more details.

**This is It reference