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Thursday, October 21, 2010
Debt as a keyword
And by the way, my previous post generated the following sidebar ads by Google. And no, none of these answers my concerns:
The cost of our highways
My alphabet soup of New York subway commuting (F to A or Q) has been replaced by a barrage of numbers: 23 to 14 to 96 to 75. On the subway, an occasional mysterious line closure reminded you of casualties on the tracks, but these tended to be human and voluntary. The numbered highways wear their casualties like trophies, and they are four-footed and without choice. On one morning I pass three raccoons, a deer, a coyote, several squirrels, and a mouse. I owe them each a tribute, I think, as they lie there, bloody and exposed. How can we ever repay the debt we owe the animal kingdom?
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Neighborly visits, Whitmore Lake style
I have received three unexpected visits in recent weeks. Combined, I believe they paint a fairly comprehensive portrait of current semi-rural Michigan life. Two of my visitors left with the answers they sought, but the third was disappointed.
Yesterday afternoon two burly (or, perhaps more accurately, bulky) men knocked on the door. The dog went crazy, causing one of the tough guys to back up to a safe distance in the middle of the front yard. When I removed the stroller and other obstacles to clear a path to our rarely-used front door, the brave representative said,
I apparently provided a similarly acceptable response to the mother-and-daughter Jehovah's Witness team. The mother asked if I agreed that the Florida preacher intent on Koran burning was similar to the kind of craziness predicted by passages in the Bible. Craziness is craziness. Absolutely. I accepted the related pamphlet, and they left content.
Alas, I was not able to my third visitors with the same level of satisfaction. The apparently licensed pot growers from down the street arrived looking harried. They wanted to know if I had seen anyone unusual drive by. I explained that I do not know all the cars that drive down the street (nor do I spend my days watching the traffic). They wanted to know if anyone had gone by who looked like someone who might have stolen their plants. Had the foreclosers come by first, I could have had an answer for them. I didn't think I should throw the Jehovah's Witnesses under the bus like that--after all, we agreed about the preacher in Florida.
Yesterday afternoon two burly (or, perhaps more accurately, bulky) men knocked on the door. The dog went crazy, causing one of the tough guys to back up to a safe distance in the middle of the front yard. When I removed the stroller and other obstacles to clear a path to our rarely-used front door, the brave representative said,
"Do you know your neighbors across the street?"
Not sure what the correct answer was, I hedged: "Not well," which happens to be true.I discovered that these gentlemen were wanting to change the locks on my neighbors' house since it has gone into foreclosure. (That makes it the fourth house on our block.) They were hesitant to do so because the barking dog inside indicated residents who would be returning. They wanted my confirmation that people lived there. Thinking I might at least be doing the dog a favor, I assented. "Occupied," Burly #1 wrote on his form. Mission accomplished, they left.
I apparently provided a similarly acceptable response to the mother-and-daughter Jehovah's Witness team. The mother asked if I agreed that the Florida preacher intent on Koran burning was similar to the kind of craziness predicted by passages in the Bible. Craziness is craziness. Absolutely. I accepted the related pamphlet, and they left content.
Alas, I was not able to my third visitors with the same level of satisfaction. The apparently licensed pot growers from down the street arrived looking harried. They wanted to know if I had seen anyone unusual drive by. I explained that I do not know all the cars that drive down the street (nor do I spend my days watching the traffic). They wanted to know if anyone had gone by who looked like someone who might have stolen their plants. Had the foreclosers come by first, I could have had an answer for them. I didn't think I should throw the Jehovah's Witnesses under the bus like that--after all, we agreed about the preacher in Florida.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
in honor of Gradene
My Aunt Gradene, my mother's only sister, passed away on Monday morning, October 11, in Fort Worth, Texas. I saw her three times in my life, and yet her passing leaves a large hole in the family. She was a cat lover, a former breeder of grey Persians, whom she would line up in a row at their feed dishes for Christmas card photographs. The feline occupancy in her home at one time was 25.
Gradene was famous for quirky and belated presents. She continued this tradition with my daughter. In February, after O.'s first Christmas, we received a box containing a stuffed lion, with a monkey and hippopotamus in its arms. By pressing the lion's paw, the whole trio sang, "In the jungle, the mighty jungle..." At first, O was terrified, but she warmed up to the gift in later months. As had been true with Gradene's gifts throughout my childhood, our cat and the dog were fascinated by the smells accompanying the present.
The first time I met my aunt, she came to visit us in Washington D.C. when I was 2 years old. There is a photograph of me doing a half-headstand position on the lawn of Monticello, where we went for an afternoon picnic. My tall, sunglass-wearing aunt looks on, her legs elegantly folded to the side as if riding the lawn side saddle.
She visited again at least 25 years later, in the Pacific Northwest, where my parents retired. At that point she had already survived reconstructive tongue surgery, treating cancer of the mouth. She was even harder to understand than she had been with her deep Texas drawl.
A few years later, I drove to Texas with my two dogs on a pilgrimage to my mother's roots. I visited with Gradene and her late husband Lester during hot spring evenings in their backyard (my dogs were not allowed in the house in deference to the last remaining Persians). Gradene could only eat through a straw, but Lester took me out to all-you-can-eat buffets around Dallas. He told stories of my mother's family, knowing that I was there in part to understand the painful experiences that led to my mother's self-imposed exile from Texas.
I wanted Gradene to meet my daughter, her only great niece, but it was not to be. I will tell O. my stories, and my mother's stories, and try to pass on what I can of Gradene's survival skills.
Gradene was famous for quirky and belated presents. She continued this tradition with my daughter. In February, after O.'s first Christmas, we received a box containing a stuffed lion, with a monkey and hippopotamus in its arms. By pressing the lion's paw, the whole trio sang, "In the jungle, the mighty jungle..." At first, O was terrified, but she warmed up to the gift in later months. As had been true with Gradene's gifts throughout my childhood, our cat and the dog were fascinated by the smells accompanying the present.
The first time I met my aunt, she came to visit us in Washington D.C. when I was 2 years old. There is a photograph of me doing a half-headstand position on the lawn of Monticello, where we went for an afternoon picnic. My tall, sunglass-wearing aunt looks on, her legs elegantly folded to the side as if riding the lawn side saddle.
She visited again at least 25 years later, in the Pacific Northwest, where my parents retired. At that point she had already survived reconstructive tongue surgery, treating cancer of the mouth. She was even harder to understand than she had been with her deep Texas drawl.
A few years later, I drove to Texas with my two dogs on a pilgrimage to my mother's roots. I visited with Gradene and her late husband Lester during hot spring evenings in their backyard (my dogs were not allowed in the house in deference to the last remaining Persians). Gradene could only eat through a straw, but Lester took me out to all-you-can-eat buffets around Dallas. He told stories of my mother's family, knowing that I was there in part to understand the painful experiences that led to my mother's self-imposed exile from Texas.
I wanted Gradene to meet my daughter, her only great niece, but it was not to be. I will tell O. my stories, and my mother's stories, and try to pass on what I can of Gradene's survival skills.
Friday, October 8, 2010
First birthday past
Since I wrote last, my baby has turned one year old. She is walking, and has a gait rather like a trot when she is in a hurry to get somewhere. She has seven teeth, four on top and three on the bottom.
Just last night she started scooping up water in the bath with her little plastic cups. I always scoop water over her to rinse her and wash her hair. I had never seen her imitating that gesture with such intention.
I bought a baby brush and comb for her birthday, which I forgot in the flurry of party and other presents. I thought of it as something more utilitarian than entertaining, really, but to my surprise she enjoys the brush very much. She smiles when I brush her hair, and immediately began reaching for the brush to try it herself.
She also enjoys having her teeth brushed, with the little plastic finger brush and her strawberry-banana toothpaste (which I still can't quite imagine is good for her--but it is Earth's Best). My finger is in constant danger of being chomped, but as long as she seems to think it is such fun, Mama will put up with a sore finger.
Just last night she started scooping up water in the bath with her little plastic cups. I always scoop water over her to rinse her and wash her hair. I had never seen her imitating that gesture with such intention.
I bought a baby brush and comb for her birthday, which I forgot in the flurry of party and other presents. I thought of it as something more utilitarian than entertaining, really, but to my surprise she enjoys the brush very much. She smiles when I brush her hair, and immediately began reaching for the brush to try it herself.
She also enjoys having her teeth brushed, with the little plastic finger brush and her strawberry-banana toothpaste (which I still can't quite imagine is good for her--but it is Earth's Best). My finger is in constant danger of being chomped, but as long as she seems to think it is such fun, Mama will put up with a sore finger.
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