Somewhere between 11am yesterday and Noon today, eggs were laid in the nest.
At least two - I was so stunned when I saw them, I quickly shut the box. There could be more. She will apparently deliver one egg a day until she's finished (probably not more than 4) and will then begin incubation.
Incubation takes about two weeks. Then its about three weeks before the little ones make their way into the world.
Thankfully, I will be back from vacation before they leave the nest. Mom and dad continue feeding for 30 days, so we will have many bluebirds for the month of July.
So, my glory for July is guaranteed.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Still here - a month+ into my 70s ......
Watched a wonderful 1 hour monologue, a "teaching" hour, by Maya Angelou last night.
I have adored that woman for decades. Her magic, her words, her growth, her pain - everything about her. But what I have longed for over the years is a chance to put my head in her lap and sob while her words soothed me.
Last night she went throught the stages of her life, the stages that shaped her, the horrors that never brought her to her knees, but made her stand taller and stronger.
She did not like her 60s, she said, but found her 70s to be glorious. I thought, sure, Maya Angelou would have a glorious 7th decade, but how did that translate to me? I have no answer to that, but I will search for one.
She is now 82 and told the audience that they should strive for their 80s. That I know I can, and will do ... but first I have to find ways to make my 70s glorious.
It is, after all, probably all (or the vast majority) of what I have left. Not to at least make an attempt to make them glorious would be giving up at the end, and while I've done nothing to match what Maya has done for us all, I have never been one to give up.
Oh, sure - I've slacked off on more than one occasion, I've been less than a "go gettem" person .. but I've never really ever given up.
I haven't really thought about it until right this moment, but I have had a glorious moment (moments) within the first 30 days of my 7th decade.
(I've got to learn how to attach pictures - I have some wonderful ones to illustrate and have tried for about 15 minutes to upload them. Didn't work, so think small, compact and blue, using your imagination.)
About two weeks ago, Jessica and I set up everything perfectly to attract blue birds outside of our office.
We bought the right house, sank got a 6 foot steel pole (to make it hard for racoons, cats and other predators), affixed the bird house. The spot was perfect. Situated centrally between two large trees, about 40 feet away from each. (The trees need to be nearby for the parents to stand guard and for the fleglings to have a safe place to fly to the first time). Totally open where the house stands. Right up against a dirt road. All the directions found on Google told us we had done it perfectly.
Then, just to make it better, we bought a blue bird feeder made specifically for meal worms, a treat they especially like. We didn't like it too much. They are not live worms, but as the can stated, they "remain soft and life like."
We put up and filled the feeder, and for good measure put some on top of the house.
Oh, yes - one final detail. Instructions found on the web indicated that something blue should be affixed to the outside of the bird house to attract their attention. Jess cut out two wing shaped pieces of wood and painted them a perfect bluebird blue. We attached them to the sides of the house and began to wait.
Patience not being one of my virtues, by the second day I was convinced it wasn't going to work.
By the end of the first week, we said "well, we didn't do this until March, too late for this year, but maybe next year ........."
By the 2nd week, I had settled down to being satisfied with the more "ordinary" birds that come by the swarm to the two feeders at my office window.
End of 2nd week, I look out my window and think I'm hallucinating. "Jess," I yelled out of my office, not taking my eyes off the bird house.
The blue was actually shimmering in the sunlight. There, as plain as could be, atop the bird house stood the male. We stared and wondered. Another male came by. Later that day we spotted a female in the trees.
We held our breath for two days.
Then ---- with a mouth full of twigs that had to weigh almost as much as she did, the female entered the bird house.
For the past four days she has been building and he has been guarding. And occasionally when she is inside working, he'll fly in with a worm for her.
When last checked (two days ago) the next looked pretty complete.
Further googling had us learn that bluebirds often build two or three nests and then decide which one to use.
More meal worms went into the feeder and on top of the birdhouse.
Now we wait. The worst case scenario is that we've had up close and personal looks into the lives of bluebirds. Best case? We find tiny blue eggs in the nest soon, and within two weeks (WHEN I WILL BE IN ALASKA!!!!) we will have baby blue birds flying about.
Jess takes excellent pictures. She will be moving into my office while I'm gone to keep track of what's going on and will film what she can.. Hopefully, after that I will have learned to upload pictures to this blog.
So, how'm I doing so far, Maya? First month, bluebirds. Second month, Alasks. I've just got to make sure that I have something glorious in July.
I have adored that woman for decades. Her magic, her words, her growth, her pain - everything about her. But what I have longed for over the years is a chance to put my head in her lap and sob while her words soothed me.
Last night she went throught the stages of her life, the stages that shaped her, the horrors that never brought her to her knees, but made her stand taller and stronger.
She did not like her 60s, she said, but found her 70s to be glorious. I thought, sure, Maya Angelou would have a glorious 7th decade, but how did that translate to me? I have no answer to that, but I will search for one.
She is now 82 and told the audience that they should strive for their 80s. That I know I can, and will do ... but first I have to find ways to make my 70s glorious.
It is, after all, probably all (or the vast majority) of what I have left. Not to at least make an attempt to make them glorious would be giving up at the end, and while I've done nothing to match what Maya has done for us all, I have never been one to give up.
Oh, sure - I've slacked off on more than one occasion, I've been less than a "go gettem" person .. but I've never really ever given up.
I haven't really thought about it until right this moment, but I have had a glorious moment (moments) within the first 30 days of my 7th decade.
(I've got to learn how to attach pictures - I have some wonderful ones to illustrate and have tried for about 15 minutes to upload them. Didn't work, so think small, compact and blue, using your imagination.)
About two weeks ago, Jessica and I set up everything perfectly to attract blue birds outside of our office.
We bought the right house, sank got a 6 foot steel pole (to make it hard for racoons, cats and other predators), affixed the bird house. The spot was perfect. Situated centrally between two large trees, about 40 feet away from each. (The trees need to be nearby for the parents to stand guard and for the fleglings to have a safe place to fly to the first time). Totally open where the house stands. Right up against a dirt road. All the directions found on Google told us we had done it perfectly.
Then, just to make it better, we bought a blue bird feeder made specifically for meal worms, a treat they especially like. We didn't like it too much. They are not live worms, but as the can stated, they "remain soft and life like."
We put up and filled the feeder, and for good measure put some on top of the house.
Oh, yes - one final detail. Instructions found on the web indicated that something blue should be affixed to the outside of the bird house to attract their attention. Jess cut out two wing shaped pieces of wood and painted them a perfect bluebird blue. We attached them to the sides of the house and began to wait.
Patience not being one of my virtues, by the second day I was convinced it wasn't going to work.
By the end of the first week, we said "well, we didn't do this until March, too late for this year, but maybe next year ........."
By the 2nd week, I had settled down to being satisfied with the more "ordinary" birds that come by the swarm to the two feeders at my office window.
End of 2nd week, I look out my window and think I'm hallucinating. "Jess," I yelled out of my office, not taking my eyes off the bird house.
The blue was actually shimmering in the sunlight. There, as plain as could be, atop the bird house stood the male. We stared and wondered. Another male came by. Later that day we spotted a female in the trees.
We held our breath for two days.
Then ---- with a mouth full of twigs that had to weigh almost as much as she did, the female entered the bird house.
For the past four days she has been building and he has been guarding. And occasionally when she is inside working, he'll fly in with a worm for her.
When last checked (two days ago) the next looked pretty complete.
Further googling had us learn that bluebirds often build two or three nests and then decide which one to use.
More meal worms went into the feeder and on top of the birdhouse.
Now we wait. The worst case scenario is that we've had up close and personal looks into the lives of bluebirds. Best case? We find tiny blue eggs in the nest soon, and within two weeks (WHEN I WILL BE IN ALASKA!!!!) we will have baby blue birds flying about.
Jess takes excellent pictures. She will be moving into my office while I'm gone to keep track of what's going on and will film what she can.. Hopefully, after that I will have learned to upload pictures to this blog.
So, how'm I doing so far, Maya? First month, bluebirds. Second month, Alasks. I've just got to make sure that I have something glorious in July.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
There, I've said it .....
I'm back - not sure why I've been "away" or sure why it's important to be back.
I do know that it has nott been easy turning 70. There, I've said it. Don't know yet if I'll hit the "submit" button which would make it public knowledge, but at least I've gone so far as to put it into writing. It's enough, maybe, that I see it.
What I don't understand is that I know why 70 terrifies me, but I don't for the life of me know why I am ashamed to say it. Why I will go to any lengths to hide my age, and why I get personally insulted and even outraged at the bad manners of anyone who brings it up.
When someone tells me they think I'm 50 or 60, or whatever age I'm not, I find no joy or pride in that. One is what one is. I've never understood plastic surgery. If someone is 70, they can spend unearthly amounts of money to end up looking 40 .... are they then 40? No, they remain 70. So, what's the point.
Is the person themselves being fooled? I don't see how, but perhaps.
Is the grim reaper being fooled? I think not.
When time runs out, it runs out, regardless of how old friends or strangers might think someone is. It runs out no matter how much it can be proved one doesn't look or act the age the grim reaper knows them to be.
My fear comes from the most certain knowledge that I have just entered the decade which will see my end.
I've already passed the age where most of my family met with death. And the most long-lived of anyone was 77. And she, my mother, lived a much healthier life than I.
For someone who was certain she'd never see 40, and was amazed to enter into her 50s, shocked to realize one day she has actually turned 60, it isn't any stretch to know that things are working on coming to a close at 70.
And that, to put it mildly, freaks me out. It's not death itself that I am scared of. It's the fact of not being. Simply ceasing to exist. No longer knowing things around me. To be moved by the sight of a whale, the flight of a bluebird, the serenity of waving sunflowers. To put down a great book with a satisfied thump on the table. To not know who got voted off of Survivor, who won Dancing With The Stars, to learn if anyone ever outdid Ken Jennings on Jeopardy. I wan t to know that I'll be around when the METS finally have another winning season - and that could take most of a decade. Will Carly Simon ever disclose who "You're So Vain" was written about. How will history treat Obama? Do I have enough time to lose the 100 pounds and enjoy the loss, or will it just benefit possible pall bearers?
Who will keep the memories of things that I alone hold? My beloved grandmother, my long-gone brother, my father? Who will remember the days in NYC, Los Angeles, Lakeville and Germany? Who will know the peace I found in Paris? My mother will be rememberd by some for several decads to come, but not the mother I knew. She, too, will cease to exist when I do.
Words of comfort say that so long as we are remembered, we do not die. If, true, then when I go, I take many with me - those who have no memory keepers but me.
I know there are those who will mourn my passing and remember me as they go forward. Not a large group, but decent-sized and each one treasured. But I don't want to be just a memory. I want to continue to feel hugs and kisses. To hear words of love and kindness. To offer the same.
I do not want to simply cease to exist. It's as simple as that.
But none of that explains my shame in revealing the fact that, yes, I am 70. Have been for two days now.
Does the fear somehow bring one to shame? I don't know - going to have to ponder that. And I can only hope it takes me a long, long time to think about it.
I do know that it has nott been easy turning 70. There, I've said it. Don't know yet if I'll hit the "submit" button which would make it public knowledge, but at least I've gone so far as to put it into writing. It's enough, maybe, that I see it.
What I don't understand is that I know why 70 terrifies me, but I don't for the life of me know why I am ashamed to say it. Why I will go to any lengths to hide my age, and why I get personally insulted and even outraged at the bad manners of anyone who brings it up.
When someone tells me they think I'm 50 or 60, or whatever age I'm not, I find no joy or pride in that. One is what one is. I've never understood plastic surgery. If someone is 70, they can spend unearthly amounts of money to end up looking 40 .... are they then 40? No, they remain 70. So, what's the point.
Is the person themselves being fooled? I don't see how, but perhaps.
Is the grim reaper being fooled? I think not.
When time runs out, it runs out, regardless of how old friends or strangers might think someone is. It runs out no matter how much it can be proved one doesn't look or act the age the grim reaper knows them to be.
My fear comes from the most certain knowledge that I have just entered the decade which will see my end.
I've already passed the age where most of my family met with death. And the most long-lived of anyone was 77. And she, my mother, lived a much healthier life than I.
For someone who was certain she'd never see 40, and was amazed to enter into her 50s, shocked to realize one day she has actually turned 60, it isn't any stretch to know that things are working on coming to a close at 70.
And that, to put it mildly, freaks me out. It's not death itself that I am scared of. It's the fact of not being. Simply ceasing to exist. No longer knowing things around me. To be moved by the sight of a whale, the flight of a bluebird, the serenity of waving sunflowers. To put down a great book with a satisfied thump on the table. To not know who got voted off of Survivor, who won Dancing With The Stars, to learn if anyone ever outdid Ken Jennings on Jeopardy. I wan t to know that I'll be around when the METS finally have another winning season - and that could take most of a decade. Will Carly Simon ever disclose who "You're So Vain" was written about. How will history treat Obama? Do I have enough time to lose the 100 pounds and enjoy the loss, or will it just benefit possible pall bearers?
Who will keep the memories of things that I alone hold? My beloved grandmother, my long-gone brother, my father? Who will remember the days in NYC, Los Angeles, Lakeville and Germany? Who will know the peace I found in Paris? My mother will be rememberd by some for several decads to come, but not the mother I knew. She, too, will cease to exist when I do.
Words of comfort say that so long as we are remembered, we do not die. If, true, then when I go, I take many with me - those who have no memory keepers but me.
I know there are those who will mourn my passing and remember me as they go forward. Not a large group, but decent-sized and each one treasured. But I don't want to be just a memory. I want to continue to feel hugs and kisses. To hear words of love and kindness. To offer the same.
I do not want to simply cease to exist. It's as simple as that.
But none of that explains my shame in revealing the fact that, yes, I am 70. Have been for two days now.
Does the fear somehow bring one to shame? I don't know - going to have to ponder that. And I can only hope it takes me a long, long time to think about it.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
You can't get there from here - TRULY!
I had to drive to a client's yesterday - Suffern, NY - MapQuest indicated it was 91.4 miles and estimated 1 hours and 40 minutes drive time. Not easy to turn that into a 5 hour drive, but I managed!
All went well until at a certain point I glanced down at the written directions (hard to do when cars are pushing you to go 70 mph) and saw this I-875 towards NYC/Albany.
So I followed the sign that said NYC/Albany and all of a sudden was faced with “North” or “South.” (Not until about 20 minutes later did I realize that my directions said I-87S not I-875. I chose “north” simply because I didn’t think I wanted to head into the City.
As I said, about 20 minutes later I realized the folly of my decision but thought “no big deal,” I’ll get off at the next exit and get myself headed south. No real harm done.
Well, the next exit was about 30 miles away. So, when I finally got there, I went through the toll heading in one direction, did a U-turn and went back through the toll heading the other way. Shoulda been easy, right? Well, after a few minutes I realized I was going NORTH again.
Next exit was Kingston
So far, not a real crisis. So I lose an hour, big deal. Hannity was off the air and I could get some of Mark Levin’s harangue for a while (but unfortunately there was a guest host.)
Anyway, I’m traveling south and all directions are being followed to a tee – I get to exit 14B, Suffern,
Airmont Road and happily get off the highway. My hotel is on Airmont Road.
Airmont Road and happily get off the highway. My hotel is on Airmont Road.
I see the huge diner that is a landmark for me as it is what I use as a landmark to get from the hotel to the client's office. I know the hotel is only about three blocks from the diner, so I’m home free.
Not quite ……………
I continue on Airmont Road and I realize I’ve gone too far, so I take the first left in order to simply turn around and backtrack. Nope. I'ts just turned onto a HIGHWAY. And off I go to the first possible exit which is about 15 miles away. I take that first exit, still thinking “this still isn’t too bad,” just get yourself turned around and go back and get back on Airmont Road
.
.
Well, the first exit I take gets me onto ANOTHER HIGHWAY. Take first exist off that and now I am in NJ in a residential area with no people, no stores, no gas stations.
At that point, the tears have begun. I pull into a driveway and try to get the GPS working. It’s clear I need help, even tho I have no real expectations that a GPS will give it to me. Doesn’t matter what I think, however, because I can’t get it to show me any directions that relate in any way to where I am and where I’m going.
I sob for a few minutes – give my self a “stiff upper lip” lecture and step into the street to stop a car – nice man tells me to go straight and at the bottom of the hill turn left on to 202.
I go straight and there is the first bottom of a hill and nowhere to turn – so I keep going. There is after a few miles another bottom of the hill which has what looks to be a decent enough road to be called 202, so I turn left. Go a few blocks and see nothing but homes and start to think this might not be 202.
I stop and ask someone. I turned off one bottom of the hill too soon.
Go back and finally get myself onto something I can confirm is 202.
After a few miles I pull into a gas station to make sure I’m on the right track.
Woman says “Stay on 202 until you can’t go any further. Then take a left and an immediate right. That’s 59 and will take you right into Airmont.” (Interesting that the first man who told me to take 202 said nothing about finding 59, but I digress).
For 10 miles I’m chanting “When you can’t go any further take a left, then an immediate right.”
Abruptly, the road ends – but not because the road doesn’t go any further and I should be taking a left, followed by an immediate right.
It ends because it’s been shut down due to flooding.
So I’m forced to take a right (the only choice) which is again totally residential.
I wander for a while trying to make educated guesses about which way I should turn.
Finally – A GAS STATION.
Turn around – go back one light – turn onto Airmont Avenue – when Airmont Avenue ends take a left onto
Airmont Road
Airmont Road
I do as I’m told and in about 20 minutes I see the DINER. Home free again, right? WRONG.
Due to the fact that's where all the trouble began the last time, I ask someone how to get to the Howard Johnson motel. Not taking any chances.
“Go over the highway, go through three lights, after the third light take a left.”
I’m so happy – I do what he says but exactly where he told me he wanted me to take a left is where this all went horribly wrong about an hour and a half ago (when all I wanted to do was turn around)..
Hah, says I. I’m not falling for that.
So I do another illegal U-turn (at this point hoping a cop will appear).
At a light I get out of my car and go to the car behind me. Light is still red, but cars are already beginning to honk at me. I don’t care.
Man says go back over highway and at the first light make a left. (Just about opposite of what the first guy said.)
But I’m told to look for a Baskin Robbins as you can’t see the motel from Airmont Road , it’s right behind the Baskin Robbins.
At this point I’m thinking the hell with the motel I’m going to Baskin Robbins and eat everything I can pay for.
But I don’t and lo and behold behind all those forbidden calories is the HoJo motel. Pretty much a dump – but it looked like the Taj Mahal to me.
And, that, my friends is how a 9l.3 mile trip turns into a nightmare.
The only true blessing about the whole thing is that I didn't run out of gas somewhere in the middle of this hell. Had that happened I don't think the people guarding the little rubber room would let me be making this post.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Still trying to remember me ....
OK, so I left off at about age 12. I don't even know if the aging process I'm depicting is right, but I think it's close enough.
What I remember from my 12th year is the death of my grandmother - which I covered in my January 22nd "Big Girls Don't Cry" post, so I don't need to go through that again.
Other than that, from 10 to 14 or so, nothing much stands out except Mudgekeewis. Wonderful Mucgekeewis. A camp somewhere in Maine, on a huge lake, where I was sent for several summers in a row for a two-month period.
My mother spent a good deal of effort on finding ways and places to get me out of the way, but I have to hand it to her that she generally found great places, and didn't spare the expense.
I adored camp. I adored the counselors, the campers, the activities. Somewhere around 10 I began packing on the pounds and I always came home from camp having lost a substantial amount of weight. I rode, swam, played tennis, climbed Mt. Washington (honestly). Three summers in a row we all scaled the highest peak in the Northeastern United States.
It was a three-day trip - half way up the first day to a place where we stopped to spend the night. Up the next morning to get to the summit and then half way back down again to spend the night before descending the next morning and then getting driven back to camp.
I only have clear recollections of one climb. We always had two or three guides with us and this particular climb there was one that I was totally enamored with. He took pity on me and let me climb with him whenever possible, and I remember he carried my backpack the morning we climbed to the top because I was having enough trouble getting just me up the mountain.
We also climbed Mt. Baldface (Mr. Baldy to us). This was a great event. Half the camp walked to the base of Baldy and the other half rode a horse-drawn wagon. Going home those who walked rode and those who rode walked. I don't recall for sure, but I don't think Baldy was an overnight climb. (I just googled it and can't tell if it could have been done up and down in a day - but I don't recall spending a night on Baldy.)
Other great things at Mudjie were canoe trips. We would head out with about 6 canoes, three to a canoe, one in front, one in the back and one in the center, comfortably resting on all the gear. Everybody would change up so that equal just sitting time was matched by work time, maneuvering the canoe. These trips consisted of two night of camping and each canoe trip had to result in a trip song created around the campfires and performed for everyone at dinner the day we returned to camp. I recall one line of one of those songs (sung to the tune of Oklahoma) ..
"And when we say jay*, we're talking to Carlene**
Her answer's toughie bean,
Stay in the middle of the river,
And don't go astray."
*This refers to the jay stroke which is used to keep a canoe going straight, with which I had great difficulty.
"*In the song my last name was used which rhymes with "bean." For this post I've changed it to "Carlene."
Then there was the summer I was 14 (I think - at least that's how the chronology of this blog seems to indicate) I was sent to the most wonderful place in the world. I think it was a place for "troubled teens" but that's not how I remember it.
It was high in the Colorado mountains. I don't recall how many kids there were, but I don't think there were more than 20. I only vaguely remember one or two.
What I remember was my Morgan. The most beautiful horse (a Morgan, of course). This was run as a ranch. There were lots of horse, but I latched on to Morgan the very fist day. The camp had a great deal of land and each night the horses were set loose to roam. Anyone wanting to ride needed to get a bridle and walk (sometimes for not too long, sometimes for miles) to find the horse she wanted, bring it back to the corral, put on all the tack .... and then we were free to ride until lunch and then all afternoon after lunch. Except for some time spent in the pool (I loved to swim as much as I loved horses), I was on Morgan's back.
She had been trained to rear (a really safe trick to sit to even though it looks exciting and sort of dangerous). I would ride her up to the lower mountains and on a hilll I would put her into a rear and transport myself into the Lone Ranger and Morgan into Silver.
The other high spot of that summer was being part of the Little Britches Rodeo which was part of Cheyenne, Wyoming's Frontier Days. I barrel raced! And to this day I remember that the name of the Cowboy of the Year was Jim Shoulders. And Casey Tibbs was also named something special. Amazing what I can remember and what I can't.
Other than Morgan and the Rodeo and the Wrangler at the ranch (on whom I had an enormous crush), I recall very little about my Colorado summer. But I do know it was glorious (and once again I dropped quite a bit of weight). Funny how no adult in my life ever put two and two together to realize that when I was happy (and out of the conflict with my mother) I lost weight. Seems it would have become obvious to someone over time.
Well, that's it for now. I think the next order of things will be my mother's marriage (which she didn't tell me about until I came home from school for a weekend several weeks after the event - which was also the weekend I learned that we didn't live where we used to, where all my friends were, but had moved to a 400 acre farm which may have been beautiful but which to me was nothing other than a prison and a banishment).
Talk to you later.
What I remember from my 12th year is the death of my grandmother - which I covered in my January 22nd "Big Girls Don't Cry" post, so I don't need to go through that again.
Other than that, from 10 to 14 or so, nothing much stands out except Mudgekeewis. Wonderful Mucgekeewis. A camp somewhere in Maine, on a huge lake, where I was sent for several summers in a row for a two-month period.
My mother spent a good deal of effort on finding ways and places to get me out of the way, but I have to hand it to her that she generally found great places, and didn't spare the expense.
I adored camp. I adored the counselors, the campers, the activities. Somewhere around 10 I began packing on the pounds and I always came home from camp having lost a substantial amount of weight. I rode, swam, played tennis, climbed Mt. Washington (honestly). Three summers in a row we all scaled the highest peak in the Northeastern United States.
It was a three-day trip - half way up the first day to a place where we stopped to spend the night. Up the next morning to get to the summit and then half way back down again to spend the night before descending the next morning and then getting driven back to camp.
I only have clear recollections of one climb. We always had two or three guides with us and this particular climb there was one that I was totally enamored with. He took pity on me and let me climb with him whenever possible, and I remember he carried my backpack the morning we climbed to the top because I was having enough trouble getting just me up the mountain.
We also climbed Mt. Baldface (Mr. Baldy to us). This was a great event. Half the camp walked to the base of Baldy and the other half rode a horse-drawn wagon. Going home those who walked rode and those who rode walked. I don't recall for sure, but I don't think Baldy was an overnight climb. (I just googled it and can't tell if it could have been done up and down in a day - but I don't recall spending a night on Baldy.)
Other great things at Mudjie were canoe trips. We would head out with about 6 canoes, three to a canoe, one in front, one in the back and one in the center, comfortably resting on all the gear. Everybody would change up so that equal just sitting time was matched by work time, maneuvering the canoe. These trips consisted of two night of camping and each canoe trip had to result in a trip song created around the campfires and performed for everyone at dinner the day we returned to camp. I recall one line of one of those songs (sung to the tune of Oklahoma) ..
"And when we say jay*, we're talking to Carlene**
Her answer's toughie bean,
Stay in the middle of the river,
And don't go astray."
*This refers to the jay stroke which is used to keep a canoe going straight, with which I had great difficulty.
"*In the song my last name was used which rhymes with "bean." For this post I've changed it to "Carlene."
Then there was the summer I was 14 (I think - at least that's how the chronology of this blog seems to indicate) I was sent to the most wonderful place in the world. I think it was a place for "troubled teens" but that's not how I remember it.
It was high in the Colorado mountains. I don't recall how many kids there were, but I don't think there were more than 20. I only vaguely remember one or two.
What I remember was my Morgan. The most beautiful horse (a Morgan, of course). This was run as a ranch. There were lots of horse, but I latched on to Morgan the very fist day. The camp had a great deal of land and each night the horses were set loose to roam. Anyone wanting to ride needed to get a bridle and walk (sometimes for not too long, sometimes for miles) to find the horse she wanted, bring it back to the corral, put on all the tack .... and then we were free to ride until lunch and then all afternoon after lunch. Except for some time spent in the pool (I loved to swim as much as I loved horses), I was on Morgan's back.
She had been trained to rear (a really safe trick to sit to even though it looks exciting and sort of dangerous). I would ride her up to the lower mountains and on a hilll I would put her into a rear and transport myself into the Lone Ranger and Morgan into Silver.
The other high spot of that summer was being part of the Little Britches Rodeo which was part of Cheyenne, Wyoming's Frontier Days. I barrel raced! And to this day I remember that the name of the Cowboy of the Year was Jim Shoulders. And Casey Tibbs was also named something special. Amazing what I can remember and what I can't.
Other than Morgan and the Rodeo and the Wrangler at the ranch (on whom I had an enormous crush), I recall very little about my Colorado summer. But I do know it was glorious (and once again I dropped quite a bit of weight). Funny how no adult in my life ever put two and two together to realize that when I was happy (and out of the conflict with my mother) I lost weight. Seems it would have become obvious to someone over time.
Well, that's it for now. I think the next order of things will be my mother's marriage (which she didn't tell me about until I came home from school for a weekend several weeks after the event - which was also the weekend I learned that we didn't live where we used to, where all my friends were, but had moved to a 400 acre farm which may have been beautiful but which to me was nothing other than a prison and a banishment).
Talk to you later.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
hoping something will come to me .....
I was in a wonderful writing workshop several years ago where we were often given three or four words to begin a writing exercise with. I found that it was often pretty amazing what I would write, having no idea immediately where I was going. I find myself in need of such a tool right now. Going to go to a magazine, flip through the pages, stop and point. Here goes........
OK, so I cheated a bit. I let my fingers rest on a several word groupings before I found one I thought would get something started for me: total recall.
Instantly I went to one of my biggest frustrations, and loss. I do not have total recall. I barely have any recall at all.
My shrink used to tell me over and over and over - BE IN THE MOMENT. I never have been and I find it almost impossible. I am either looking back, looking ahead or just not looking at all.
I feel like I've only been a part-time participant in my life.
So many years, so many different adventures, so many losses, so much ... and I remember so little.
Going way back, I have only one recollection of the apartment I lived in with my brother, mother and father, and dog Bunchi. I see the kitchen table and the hallway. That's it. Long ago one of the many self-help books which don't seem to have helped much told me to "find the little girl I had been" in order to comfort her.
I tried and tried and tried - I could not find her anywhere. I searched places I could remember (the apartment on 81st Street, my grandmother's apartment on 79th, Sacred Heart School where I went for the 1st and 2nd grades --- i couldn't find (see) myself in any of those places. It actually became quite scary. Did I exist? Had I existed? Was I already at that age, from newborn to 7 or 8, blocking out my senses?
From there I went to the house in Connecticut to which my brother, mother and I moved - without my father. I can conjur up some images of me in the big house but they get jumbled up. In some I am in a certain room that is my bedroom, and in others I'm in another room that is my bedroom. I know that at some point each room was my bedroom but I don't know which came first and can't place my mother's or brother's bedroom in correct corresponding order either. I see the house without my grandparents living in it and while I know they did live with us for a time I can't place which room they were in. I do see myself sitting with my grandmother in the living room.
I remember the attic = first it was both a place where my brother and I held shows with these amazing puppets that came from somewhere. A king, a prince, a princess, a horse, a jester - probably about two feet high - very realistic. There were props and a huge theatrical stage. Don't know where it all came from and don't know where it all went. But at least I remember them.
4th and 5th Grades - public school - can't find myself there at all. But strangely I remember the name of my 3rd grade teacher - Mrs. Lemoyne.
I have one image in my mind of a stepfather - last name Hydenau. I don't know his first name, don't know if I ever did. It was, I was told in later years, a very short marriage.
But the image I have of him is in what appears to be the living room (upstairs instead of downstairs for some reason at this point), but which room I also have a clear memory of being my brother's bedroom. I can see him so clearly, in a cast from the top of his head to his hips, face, ears and arms the only parts of him showing - recovering from a broken neck. (The broken neck which, my mother many years later said upon hearing of his death on the Autobahn in Cologne. had "used up all his luck.")
This "total recall" brings me to around 13 or 14, I think. Maybe 12.
I'll continue this in a day or so Going to try to see what I can recall from the next 10 years or so. I already know it's not going to be much.
...
OK, so I cheated a bit. I let my fingers rest on a several word groupings before I found one I thought would get something started for me: total recall.
Instantly I went to one of my biggest frustrations, and loss. I do not have total recall. I barely have any recall at all.
My shrink used to tell me over and over and over - BE IN THE MOMENT. I never have been and I find it almost impossible. I am either looking back, looking ahead or just not looking at all.
I feel like I've only been a part-time participant in my life.
So many years, so many different adventures, so many losses, so much ... and I remember so little.
Going way back, I have only one recollection of the apartment I lived in with my brother, mother and father, and dog Bunchi. I see the kitchen table and the hallway. That's it. Long ago one of the many self-help books which don't seem to have helped much told me to "find the little girl I had been" in order to comfort her.
I tried and tried and tried - I could not find her anywhere. I searched places I could remember (the apartment on 81st Street, my grandmother's apartment on 79th, Sacred Heart School where I went for the 1st and 2nd grades --- i couldn't find (see) myself in any of those places. It actually became quite scary. Did I exist? Had I existed? Was I already at that age, from newborn to 7 or 8, blocking out my senses?
From there I went to the house in Connecticut to which my brother, mother and I moved - without my father. I can conjur up some images of me in the big house but they get jumbled up. In some I am in a certain room that is my bedroom, and in others I'm in another room that is my bedroom. I know that at some point each room was my bedroom but I don't know which came first and can't place my mother's or brother's bedroom in correct corresponding order either. I see the house without my grandparents living in it and while I know they did live with us for a time I can't place which room they were in. I do see myself sitting with my grandmother in the living room.
I remember the attic = first it was both a place where my brother and I held shows with these amazing puppets that came from somewhere. A king, a prince, a princess, a horse, a jester - probably about two feet high - very realistic. There were props and a huge theatrical stage. Don't know where it all came from and don't know where it all went. But at least I remember them.
4th and 5th Grades - public school - can't find myself there at all. But strangely I remember the name of my 3rd grade teacher - Mrs. Lemoyne.
I have one image in my mind of a stepfather - last name Hydenau. I don't know his first name, don't know if I ever did. It was, I was told in later years, a very short marriage.
But the image I have of him is in what appears to be the living room (upstairs instead of downstairs for some reason at this point), but which room I also have a clear memory of being my brother's bedroom. I can see him so clearly, in a cast from the top of his head to his hips, face, ears and arms the only parts of him showing - recovering from a broken neck. (The broken neck which, my mother many years later said upon hearing of his death on the Autobahn in Cologne. had "used up all his luck.")
This "total recall" brings me to around 13 or 14, I think. Maybe 12.
I'll continue this in a day or so Going to try to see what I can recall from the next 10 years or so. I already know it's not going to be much.
...
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Should'a, could'a, would'a .....
Depression: a mental state characterized by a pessimistic sense of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity
Pessimism? Check.
Sense of inadequacy? Check
Lack of activity? Check
I wrote the above about four days ago - and found I had absolutely nothing to add to it, nothing to say, no desire to say anything, so I just left it and went away.
Yes, I'm a pessimist. Definitely a glass-is-half-empty kind'a ga;/
Yes, I feel inadequate. But, I imagine, who doesn't. Perhaps not about everything combined, but I'm sure almost everyone feels inadequate about something.
Lack of activity? Yes, but that's a self-imposed thing, isn't it? It's my decision to not have "activities," not anyone else's.
On Sunday I could have gone to a "winter hibernation" gathering, doing artistic things, but I didn't. Why? Who knows? Probably a sense of inadequacy!
So, instead I spent Sunday with the New York Times, most particularly the Puzzle, the Book Review and the Travel Section, and "The Godfather, Part I," 3 episodes of "Top Chef," "60 Minutes" and "The Shawshank Redemption." I was perfectly content to spend the day that way, but inside I was beating myself up the entire time. Telling myself that this is not what I "SHOULD" be doing. I SHOULD be productive. I SHOULD go somewhere. I SHOULD do something/
Why? What if what I was doing was what I wanted to do? Why should I be forced to believe it's not what i SHOULD do?
I think I go into a depression when I don't do what I "SHOULD" do, simply because it implies that I'm not doing it "RIGHT."
Monday to Friday, averaging 11 hours a day, and often parts of the weekend, I'm doing what I SHOULD. Actually, that's not right. I'm not doing what I should, but what I MUST ... I'm working. I'm always plugged in - always answering emails, finishing up some client work, meeting some deadline, solving some problem.
And it leaves me drained. I know there are people who do what I do, work just as hard, AND have children, spouses, dogs, parents, in-laws, and all that that is required to maintain those "appendages" before, during and after work.
I have none of those things (for better or worse, depending upon your view point of each), so I have nothing that takes "my" time away from me. Not saying I wouldn't want some of those things, but the fact of the matter is that I don't.
So I CAN spend weekends holed up with newspapers, books and TV. Even my pets, Cats, don't require much - a can of food every day, a filled dish of dry food, fresh cool water, relatively clean litter and an occasional scratch on the belly. All that can easily be squeezed ("squozen?") into the most couch-potato-ish of days.
When I complain about going a whole weekend without any human contact (except perhaps with the clerk at the grocery store), I'm usually met with envious comments like "I wish I had all that time by myself," or simply "Boy, that sounds wonderful."
The grass is always greener ...................????
My shrink once told me, at the end of a session where I was more than usually concerned with the fact that I was worthless, crazy and too much into my own thoughts and brain. She replied that I had sufficient time to consider my worthlessness and insanity and that everyone else was just to busy to pay attention to theirs, but that had they the time, they'd be feeling just like me.
To this day I'm still not sure if that made any sense or if it made me feel any better. But I know there are times when I wish my life was so hectic and frenetic and people-related crisis filled that I would have no time to question me, my motives, my losses, my purpose, my direction, my lost chances, my sense that there is something so much more that I SHOULD be doing.
Sometimes it just seems absurd and that nothing should be taken so seriously.
One thing I AM doing - thanks to Patti and Robert - is expanding my reading list and my interests. Patti was on a Rimbaud quest for much of her youth and I had to admit during the reading of the book that while I knew the name, I knew nothing about Rimbaud. Well, my old friend Google helped me out and now I know something and have purchased "A Season in Hell." (Hopefully, I'll be able to get through it.)
Also, continue to do research on Robert and purchased "Mapplethorpe: A Biography" by Patricia Morrisroe, reviewed as the best and most authoritative work on Mapplethorpe.
This is a quote from one of the reviews on Amazon, which I just love. - "In Civilization and Its Discontents, Freud talks about artists who descend into what he calls the maelstrom, meaning the unconscious, and they come back and tell us what was there. Robert went into the maelstrom, no question about it, but he came back with an elegant picture postcard --'Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Love Robert'"
Isn't that wonderful?
I wonder if Patti saw the resemblance between Rimbaud (below) and Robert.
Realized one important thing - this blog is important to me, and for me. It gets me out of myself. It loosens some creative juices. It connects me to others, but also, more importantly, connects me to myself.
Pessimism? Check.
Sense of inadequacy? Check
Lack of activity? Check
I wrote the above about four days ago - and found I had absolutely nothing to add to it, nothing to say, no desire to say anything, so I just left it and went away.
Yes, I'm a pessimist. Definitely a glass-is-half-empty kind'a ga;/
Yes, I feel inadequate. But, I imagine, who doesn't. Perhaps not about everything combined, but I'm sure almost everyone feels inadequate about something.
Lack of activity? Yes, but that's a self-imposed thing, isn't it? It's my decision to not have "activities," not anyone else's.
On Sunday I could have gone to a "winter hibernation" gathering, doing artistic things, but I didn't. Why? Who knows? Probably a sense of inadequacy!
So, instead I spent Sunday with the New York Times, most particularly the Puzzle, the Book Review and the Travel Section, and "The Godfather, Part I," 3 episodes of "Top Chef," "60 Minutes" and "The Shawshank Redemption." I was perfectly content to spend the day that way, but inside I was beating myself up the entire time. Telling myself that this is not what I "SHOULD" be doing. I SHOULD be productive. I SHOULD go somewhere. I SHOULD do something/
Why? What if what I was doing was what I wanted to do? Why should I be forced to believe it's not what i SHOULD do?
I think I go into a depression when I don't do what I "SHOULD" do, simply because it implies that I'm not doing it "RIGHT."
Monday to Friday, averaging 11 hours a day, and often parts of the weekend, I'm doing what I SHOULD. Actually, that's not right. I'm not doing what I should, but what I MUST ... I'm working. I'm always plugged in - always answering emails, finishing up some client work, meeting some deadline, solving some problem.
And it leaves me drained. I know there are people who do what I do, work just as hard, AND have children, spouses, dogs, parents, in-laws, and all that that is required to maintain those "appendages" before, during and after work.
I have none of those things (for better or worse, depending upon your view point of each), so I have nothing that takes "my" time away from me. Not saying I wouldn't want some of those things, but the fact of the matter is that I don't.
So I CAN spend weekends holed up with newspapers, books and TV. Even my pets, Cats, don't require much - a can of food every day, a filled dish of dry food, fresh cool water, relatively clean litter and an occasional scratch on the belly. All that can easily be squeezed ("squozen?") into the most couch-potato-ish of days.
When I complain about going a whole weekend without any human contact (except perhaps with the clerk at the grocery store), I'm usually met with envious comments like "I wish I had all that time by myself," or simply "Boy, that sounds wonderful."
The grass is always greener ...................????
My shrink once told me, at the end of a session where I was more than usually concerned with the fact that I was worthless, crazy and too much into my own thoughts and brain. She replied that I had sufficient time to consider my worthlessness and insanity and that everyone else was just to busy to pay attention to theirs, but that had they the time, they'd be feeling just like me.
To this day I'm still not sure if that made any sense or if it made me feel any better. But I know there are times when I wish my life was so hectic and frenetic and people-related crisis filled that I would have no time to question me, my motives, my losses, my purpose, my direction, my lost chances, my sense that there is something so much more that I SHOULD be doing.
Sometimes it just seems absurd and that nothing should be taken so seriously.
One thing I AM doing - thanks to Patti and Robert - is expanding my reading list and my interests. Patti was on a Rimbaud quest for much of her youth and I had to admit during the reading of the book that while I knew the name, I knew nothing about Rimbaud. Well, my old friend Google helped me out and now I know something and have purchased "A Season in Hell." (Hopefully, I'll be able to get through it.)
Also, continue to do research on Robert and purchased "Mapplethorpe: A Biography" by Patricia Morrisroe, reviewed as the best and most authoritative work on Mapplethorpe.
This is a quote from one of the reviews on Amazon, which I just love. - "In Civilization and Its Discontents, Freud talks about artists who descend into what he calls the maelstrom, meaning the unconscious, and they come back and tell us what was there. Robert went into the maelstrom, no question about it, but he came back with an elegant picture postcard --'Having a wonderful time, wish you were here. Love Robert'"
Isn't that wonderful?
I wonder if Patti saw the resemblance between Rimbaud (below) and Robert.
Realized one important thing - this blog is important to me, and for me. It gets me out of myself. It loosens some creative juices. It connects me to others, but also, more importantly, connects me to myself.
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