It's a different world. Last year, when I described my first trip to Chautauqua, I talked about Brigadoon. There is still some magic associated with the experience, but this year, it is easier to define. There are things that happen at Chautauqua that CAN happen elsewhere...but it is far easier to let them slide in my daily life. At Chautauqua, you stop long enough to get in touch with yourself and with the world.
At Chautauqua, I look. I look at houses, at gardens, at the lake, at people. I actually see--and speak to--people I see on the street, and they respond with a smile, a pleasantry, sometimes even a conversation. I complimented one lady on her garden (it had to be her own, as she was dead-heading the flowers and sweeping the curb..) and we had a pleasant conversation about her daughter's wedding, the 'flower-towers' that she had planted this year, the mysterious ailment that had plagued impatiens recently, and her assertion that the gardens didn't look quite as good this year as last.
The gardens and the houses are enough to look at, in themselves. Victorian gingerbread and vibrant paint, gardens that subscribe to the Victorian ideal of excess, old-fashioned flowers from your grandmother's garden: hydrangeas and daisies and Queen Anne's lace, begonias and bee balm, coleus and gladioli. Wicker furniture on generous porches with vases of flowers connecting them to their surroundings. And people on those porches, with lemonade or iced tea or something a little stronger, watching the passing parade.
If you are a people-watcher, Chautauqua is heaven. There are people bicycling, jogging, riding scooters, strolling, bench-sitting..There are people with dogs, people in the amphitheater, the Hall of Philosophy, people on their way to class, or enjoying a cup of coffee or an ice cream cone on Bestor Plaza. I saw a man pushing his dog in an umbrella stroller one morning; I took his picture, but didn't ask him why. Though I'm sure he'd have told me. In the middle of the plaza, there was a girl playing the violin--beautifully, I might add. Maybe she had an open violin case inviting tips--I don't know. I was too far away to do anything but hear the music.
Listening is part of the experience too. There's the singsong chanting of the newsboys selling the Chautauquan Daily. "Chautauquan Daily, full of knowledge! Chautauquan Daily, send me to college!"--or whatever rhyme they've devised for the day. Some even wear the knickers and vest and caps of Victorian newsboys. And the carillon marks the hours down by the shore--hymns and popular songs at specific hours, bells for the hours and the half-hours. Early in the morning, the most notable thing is the ABSENCE of sounds. It's quiet. No cars, no airplanes, no hubbub...but birds, and the sound of fountains..
This would be quite enough to make a vacation, but one of the most Chautauquan of experiences is thinking. There is food for thought around every corner: lectures and classes and religious services, an orchestra, a choir, an opera, a dramatic group, art galleries, a library, a bookstore, a Literary Arts Center with brown-bag lunches with resident poets and prose writers. There are authors and diplomats, teachers and musicians, children and adults, ballerinas and artists...whoever and whatever you'd want to see, they are there. And they are there to join the conversation with anyone and everyone who makes Chautauqua their home, whether for a week or for the summer.
I brought home pictures, I brought home ideas, I brought home memories. I stopped, I looked, I listened, I learned. I am far richer for the experience.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Thursday, July 11, 2013
The Single Best Moment of Your Life
Writing a blog means never letting a stray thought go by without evaluating it as a possible topic...and writing and saving at least a subject line for a potential blogpost. And that is why I am here. When Andy Murray got his Wimbledon trophy, the picture prompted some news person to ask his readership to post pictures of the single best moment of their lives.
The request snagged my attention, and, as such things do, forced me to think about what picture I might post. I zipped through the posted pictures and was unsurprised to see wedding and baby and graduation photos, some with annotations of physical and emotional circumstances that raised the ante to 'best' rather than simply momentous occasions. None, however, prompted me to the 'Aha! That's it!' response I was looking for.
Can I pin down the single best moment of my life? There have been many that I remember vividly, so I suspect that they would be in the running, but...'best'??? Hard to categorize all the moments and arrange them from worst to best.
Wedding, yes. The birth of our girls, yes and yes. Our granddaughters, yes and yes, squared. The first smiles, the first recognitions, the first laughs..yes, oh lord, yes. Our first house, and the second, and the third, and the fourth, and..well, you get the idea. The unforgettably happy and momentous teaching moments. Garden moments. The double rainbow moments when Nature overwhelms you: the golden light of a sunset in Venice, Lake Louise, the day it went from frozen green to brilliant blue overnight, glaciers calving on our Alaska cruise, the blue Caribbean..The wonder in our daughters' eyes when they experienced Disneyworld for the first time, being part of one of the famous marches on Washington in the Vietnam era, the awe of being in Westminster Abbey amidst the resting places of the great, or seeing the heavenly colors of Sainte Chappelle; Monet's Waterlilies at l'Orangerie, standing in the silent square before the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg near midnight, or on the field at Gettysburg or Antietam in summer heat, being where history was made in so many places, at so many times..these are all moments worth remembering.
But it is impossible to winnow them down to a handful, far less a single moment. So, if I can't have one, I will take them all. All the moments of my life are singular, are the best, are the most memorable, the most wonderful, whether they be the ones I spend at my laptop or scrubbing floors, or fixing dinner. I wish that I could live that way, celebrating all my moments as if they were the single best moment of my life. A circumstance devoutly to be wished. Carpe diem. Live the moment.
Take the picture, because today's the day, and this, right now, is the moment.
The request snagged my attention, and, as such things do, forced me to think about what picture I might post. I zipped through the posted pictures and was unsurprised to see wedding and baby and graduation photos, some with annotations of physical and emotional circumstances that raised the ante to 'best' rather than simply momentous occasions. None, however, prompted me to the 'Aha! That's it!' response I was looking for.
Can I pin down the single best moment of my life? There have been many that I remember vividly, so I suspect that they would be in the running, but...'best'??? Hard to categorize all the moments and arrange them from worst to best.
Wedding, yes. The birth of our girls, yes and yes. Our granddaughters, yes and yes, squared. The first smiles, the first recognitions, the first laughs..yes, oh lord, yes. Our first house, and the second, and the third, and the fourth, and..well, you get the idea. The unforgettably happy and momentous teaching moments. Garden moments. The double rainbow moments when Nature overwhelms you: the golden light of a sunset in Venice, Lake Louise, the day it went from frozen green to brilliant blue overnight, glaciers calving on our Alaska cruise, the blue Caribbean..The wonder in our daughters' eyes when they experienced Disneyworld for the first time, being part of one of the famous marches on Washington in the Vietnam era, the awe of being in Westminster Abbey amidst the resting places of the great, or seeing the heavenly colors of Sainte Chappelle; Monet's Waterlilies at l'Orangerie, standing in the silent square before the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg near midnight, or on the field at Gettysburg or Antietam in summer heat, being where history was made in so many places, at so many times..these are all moments worth remembering.
But it is impossible to winnow them down to a handful, far less a single moment. So, if I can't have one, I will take them all. All the moments of my life are singular, are the best, are the most memorable, the most wonderful, whether they be the ones I spend at my laptop or scrubbing floors, or fixing dinner. I wish that I could live that way, celebrating all my moments as if they were the single best moment of my life. A circumstance devoutly to be wished. Carpe diem. Live the moment.
Take the picture, because today's the day, and this, right now, is the moment.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Mediocrity
Oh no! In today's newspaper (excuse me, today's FB pronouncements...) I saw that Kroger has purchased Harris-Teeter. Kroger...the store I remember as that none-too-clean grocery store in Charlottesville that was my last choice for grocery-shopping. Kroger...known for maximum coupons and minimum quality. And now, they will own Harris-Teeter, my favorite non-neighborhood shopping destination that does it all: good produce, good meat department, good selection, good house-brands, good prices--and samples! Don't forget the free samples! And above all, purveyors of Mary T's frozen tea biscuits that are good enough to pass for (and perhaps are better than) homemade. I am officially depressed. Particularly since a new Harris-Teeter is on the verge of opening a new store in Old Town this fall. I have been patiently waiting for the grand opening since the first shovelful of dirt was moved. And now...Kroger!!!
Perhaps you think I am making too much of this. Perhaps I am. But I am getting tired of mediocrity in my world. There seems to be a serious dearth of truly GOOD things, and an alarming increase in the mediocre and/or sub par. I find myself latching onto anything that exceeds the (low) bar of acceptability. Why else would I watch endless crime shows if not to avoid the tsunami of 'reality' shows on TV? Detective shows at least employ a modicum of thought and generate interest in the outcome of the story.
This morning's TV page in the Post touted an extreme makeover of a 300+ pound young woman, which entailed a trip to Chile to find her birth mother. What???!!!!???? And a show that falsely contains in its title the word 'entertainment' insists on regaling me with stories and interviews of people who are famous for being famous. My interest in Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, the left-behind family of Michael Jackson (who apparently are all engaged in self-promotion) and the many and varied antics of assorted B (C, D and below)-list celebrities (who could POSSIBLY call them 'personalities'?) fails to meet even my lowest measurable level of brain activity.
Were it just TV that exhibited such a fall from grace (remember The Twilight Zone, Playhouse 90, All in the Family, The Cosby Show...) we could manage. However, movies have adopted another path as well. Spectacle. Apparently, explosions are necessary. Perhaps there is an unemployment issue or an under-representation of special effects artists in Hollywood, and each movie is forced to include at least five technically-demanding explosions in order to provide equal opportunity employment. Or maybe the viewing public is perceived as having the attention span of a gnat, and explosive effects are needed to keep them awake and aware of the screen in front of them.
Restaurants also are getting wilder and wilder, if not necessarily better. For myself, I'd prefer my ice cream without herbs, my food cooked instead of raw, and maybe, less focus on creative mixtures and more on quality ingredients. I enjoy innovative cooking now and then, but I'd like to find something on a menu that is comfortingly familiar.
Stop for a moment and catalogue the mediocrities in your day: the misspelled words, the technological glitches, the potholes you bounce through, the bad service at the department store, the countless mini-annoyances and disappointments of going about your business. It could all be so much better if there were an effort to achieve excellence, rather than a satisfaction with providing the minimum. Where have we lost our aspirations? When did we come to the decision that things were 'good enough'? Why did we all stop trying?
Okay. I am admittedly being a curmudgeon, and am prone to exaggeration. The fact is that we are all party to this trend toward the lowest common denominator in society. We accept it as the norm and are not writing scathing letters to the networks and movie studios and are not raking newspapers over the coals for their inattention to grammar and spelling, their bias, and their extensive coverage of violent events. We are not out campaigning for the few good and true politicians we believe in, nor are we supporting with our efforts the good works of organizations that are struggling mightily to keep their heads above water. Some of us are--but nowhere near enough.
I suppose we are getting what we deserve. Mediocrity. In spades. Goodbye Harris-Teeter. Hello Kroger.
Perhaps you think I am making too much of this. Perhaps I am. But I am getting tired of mediocrity in my world. There seems to be a serious dearth of truly GOOD things, and an alarming increase in the mediocre and/or sub par. I find myself latching onto anything that exceeds the (low) bar of acceptability. Why else would I watch endless crime shows if not to avoid the tsunami of 'reality' shows on TV? Detective shows at least employ a modicum of thought and generate interest in the outcome of the story.
This morning's TV page in the Post touted an extreme makeover of a 300+ pound young woman, which entailed a trip to Chile to find her birth mother. What???!!!!???? And a show that falsely contains in its title the word 'entertainment' insists on regaling me with stories and interviews of people who are famous for being famous. My interest in Paris Hilton, the Kardashians, the left-behind family of Michael Jackson (who apparently are all engaged in self-promotion) and the many and varied antics of assorted B (C, D and below)-list celebrities (who could POSSIBLY call them 'personalities'?) fails to meet even my lowest measurable level of brain activity.
Were it just TV that exhibited such a fall from grace (remember The Twilight Zone, Playhouse 90, All in the Family, The Cosby Show...) we could manage. However, movies have adopted another path as well. Spectacle. Apparently, explosions are necessary. Perhaps there is an unemployment issue or an under-representation of special effects artists in Hollywood, and each movie is forced to include at least five technically-demanding explosions in order to provide equal opportunity employment. Or maybe the viewing public is perceived as having the attention span of a gnat, and explosive effects are needed to keep them awake and aware of the screen in front of them.
Restaurants also are getting wilder and wilder, if not necessarily better. For myself, I'd prefer my ice cream without herbs, my food cooked instead of raw, and maybe, less focus on creative mixtures and more on quality ingredients. I enjoy innovative cooking now and then, but I'd like to find something on a menu that is comfortingly familiar.
Stop for a moment and catalogue the mediocrities in your day: the misspelled words, the technological glitches, the potholes you bounce through, the bad service at the department store, the countless mini-annoyances and disappointments of going about your business. It could all be so much better if there were an effort to achieve excellence, rather than a satisfaction with providing the minimum. Where have we lost our aspirations? When did we come to the decision that things were 'good enough'? Why did we all stop trying?
Okay. I am admittedly being a curmudgeon, and am prone to exaggeration. The fact is that we are all party to this trend toward the lowest common denominator in society. We accept it as the norm and are not writing scathing letters to the networks and movie studios and are not raking newspapers over the coals for their inattention to grammar and spelling, their bias, and their extensive coverage of violent events. We are not out campaigning for the few good and true politicians we believe in, nor are we supporting with our efforts the good works of organizations that are struggling mightily to keep their heads above water. Some of us are--but nowhere near enough.
I suppose we are getting what we deserve. Mediocrity. In spades. Goodbye Harris-Teeter. Hello Kroger.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Can you say "Customer Service"? Nah, I didn't think so.
I like to think I am a pretty level-headed person. I still am fairly sure that the world would be a better place if run by a consortium of room mothers, but I'm aware that that sensible choice is beyond the comprehension of most of the population. We are, in general, victims of the triumphant lowest common denominator. Stupid reigns.
Today I had a problem with my cable TV. While attempting to coordinate a couple functions involving the television, it became clear that our cable box was incapable of working in concert with our TV, our Apple TV receiver, and our brand-new universal remote which is capable of controlling everything in our household save the cat.
One would think that the logical course of action would be to call our cable and internet provider. However, the phone number appears to be a closely-guarded secret; the preferred contact mode is via the internet. And so, the games begin. First, there is the problem of logging in. Three years ago, when we last moved, we were given an email and password when the technician came to install our cable and hook up the box and our phones. I have not used either email or password in that period of time, making it pretty difficult to recall. (There was a helpful note about what to do if you did not recall your username, but that required an account number. Oops. I pay online, and can't imagine where or when the last paper bill I received might be, so that I could find the account number.)
I vaguely remembered a TV ad that recommended calling 1-800-(company name) to get service. So I called. When I explained my problem, I was told that I needed to take my cable box to the nearest service center. Thank you and goodbye. Wait! Wait! Where is that??? Dead air.
We found the service center, thanks to the internet. John and Mary were manning two windows. John was in earnest conversation in Spanish with a young man approximately his age, and I don't think it was about cable service. More like where they planned to go that night. Mary, meanwhile, was working with the office manager of the nearest office building, no doubt arranging cable service for each desk in the complex. Finally, a third person came out of the back to occupy another window, and the line began to move. I was ultimately told that the box with the input/output ports I needed did not exist, but they could give me a newer model of the box I already had. The new black box looked better than the industrial taupe one I'd carried in, so I took it and left. I was given a receipt with what I was told were two important numbers: the serial number of the box, and my account number. All right!
Home again. Hook up the box, then...it had to be activated. Back to the internet. THIS time, I had my account number and could get my password. Yeah, right. Typed in the account number--three groups of numbers, marked on the receipt as 'Account #'--you'd think that would do it. Nope. "That number is not a valid account number." Back to the 800 number, where I finally got some help. It seems that the number on my receipt omitted the leading zeroes in each group of numbers. I did not ask why. I just retyped the account number WITH zeroes, and managed to get the box activated.
This has consumed the greater part of the morning. After lunch, we discovered that, while the cable box seemed to be doing its job, there were certain channels among our 200+ channels that did not appear when selected. Instead, we got a blue box onscreen saying that that channel would be available shortly. We waited shortly and tried again. Same blue box. Then we waited long-ly. Same blue box. Then we entered the 5th circle of hell: the analyst chat online.
I will not attempt to describe in full the conversation, no, dialogue I took part in. Suffice it to say that it lasted about an hour and was punctuated with long silences on the part of the 'analyst'. Perhaps that was due to the long transmission feed time between here and the Indian subcontinent. Additionally, there was more repetition involved than in the singing of a Latin funeral Mass in Gregorian chant. After three repetitions of my problem, three feedback repetitions (from the analyst) of MY repetitions, and innumerable offers to talk to me later about upgrading my cable service, it appeared that finally, the 'Sherilee' designation had been passed to a technician, who then asked me if the power was on to the cable box. (No...you mean I have to plug it IN????) Then, please check all the connections and make sure they are nice and tight. (Really??? I really like to leave them hanging by a thread so that I can jiggle them around for that neat little wave pattern I get onscreen.) Then, do I see any change? (You mean, has my blood pressure reached explosive stage? Yes.) Could I remove the HDMI cable? (I COULD, but why the hell would I want to? But okay, I will play. Yes. I could.) Please remove the HDMI cable. ("Sure, I will." NOT ON YOUR !@#$%&!! LIFE.) Then, reconnect it snugly. (Ha! I knew it!) Do you see any change?
At this point, I idly started to click around the channels again, and my channels had reappeared miraculously. So I said yes, the channels were back, and goodbye. But wait! They hadn't had a chance to tell me how I could enjoy my cable service more! (More than spending a day online with a bunch of idiots???? You're kidding me!) And, they needed to tell me what they had done for me today! (What part of 'absolutely nothing' do you not understand?) Out of curiosity, I waited to read what they thought they had done and it said that they had solved my problem by detaching and reattaching my cable. Yup. The procedure that I HADN'T performed was what had solved the problem, all right. There followed a long paragraph about the general wonderfulness of their customer service and how they are available to fill my every need, 24/7. They may not do anything but read a script and spew pleasantries, but they ARE there, I do not doubt.
Excuse me. I need to lie down for a bit and think of anything but cable TV.
Today I had a problem with my cable TV. While attempting to coordinate a couple functions involving the television, it became clear that our cable box was incapable of working in concert with our TV, our Apple TV receiver, and our brand-new universal remote which is capable of controlling everything in our household save the cat.
One would think that the logical course of action would be to call our cable and internet provider. However, the phone number appears to be a closely-guarded secret; the preferred contact mode is via the internet. And so, the games begin. First, there is the problem of logging in. Three years ago, when we last moved, we were given an email and password when the technician came to install our cable and hook up the box and our phones. I have not used either email or password in that period of time, making it pretty difficult to recall. (There was a helpful note about what to do if you did not recall your username, but that required an account number. Oops. I pay online, and can't imagine where or when the last paper bill I received might be, so that I could find the account number.)
I vaguely remembered a TV ad that recommended calling 1-800-(company name) to get service. So I called. When I explained my problem, I was told that I needed to take my cable box to the nearest service center. Thank you and goodbye. Wait! Wait! Where is that??? Dead air.
We found the service center, thanks to the internet. John and Mary were manning two windows. John was in earnest conversation in Spanish with a young man approximately his age, and I don't think it was about cable service. More like where they planned to go that night. Mary, meanwhile, was working with the office manager of the nearest office building, no doubt arranging cable service for each desk in the complex. Finally, a third person came out of the back to occupy another window, and the line began to move. I was ultimately told that the box with the input/output ports I needed did not exist, but they could give me a newer model of the box I already had. The new black box looked better than the industrial taupe one I'd carried in, so I took it and left. I was given a receipt with what I was told were two important numbers: the serial number of the box, and my account number. All right!
Home again. Hook up the box, then...it had to be activated. Back to the internet. THIS time, I had my account number and could get my password. Yeah, right. Typed in the account number--three groups of numbers, marked on the receipt as 'Account #'--you'd think that would do it. Nope. "That number is not a valid account number." Back to the 800 number, where I finally got some help. It seems that the number on my receipt omitted the leading zeroes in each group of numbers. I did not ask why. I just retyped the account number WITH zeroes, and managed to get the box activated.
This has consumed the greater part of the morning. After lunch, we discovered that, while the cable box seemed to be doing its job, there were certain channels among our 200+ channels that did not appear when selected. Instead, we got a blue box onscreen saying that that channel would be available shortly. We waited shortly and tried again. Same blue box. Then we waited long-ly. Same blue box. Then we entered the 5th circle of hell: the analyst chat online.
I will not attempt to describe in full the conversation, no, dialogue I took part in. Suffice it to say that it lasted about an hour and was punctuated with long silences on the part of the 'analyst'. Perhaps that was due to the long transmission feed time between here and the Indian subcontinent. Additionally, there was more repetition involved than in the singing of a Latin funeral Mass in Gregorian chant. After three repetitions of my problem, three feedback repetitions (from the analyst) of MY repetitions, and innumerable offers to talk to me later about upgrading my cable service, it appeared that finally, the 'Sherilee' designation had been passed to a technician, who then asked me if the power was on to the cable box. (No...you mean I have to plug it IN????) Then, please check all the connections and make sure they are nice and tight. (Really??? I really like to leave them hanging by a thread so that I can jiggle them around for that neat little wave pattern I get onscreen.) Then, do I see any change? (You mean, has my blood pressure reached explosive stage? Yes.) Could I remove the HDMI cable? (I COULD, but why the hell would I want to? But okay, I will play. Yes. I could.) Please remove the HDMI cable. ("Sure, I will." NOT ON YOUR !@#$%&!! LIFE.) Then, reconnect it snugly. (Ha! I knew it!) Do you see any change?
At this point, I idly started to click around the channels again, and my channels had reappeared miraculously. So I said yes, the channels were back, and goodbye. But wait! They hadn't had a chance to tell me how I could enjoy my cable service more! (More than spending a day online with a bunch of idiots???? You're kidding me!) And, they needed to tell me what they had done for me today! (What part of 'absolutely nothing' do you not understand?) Out of curiosity, I waited to read what they thought they had done and it said that they had solved my problem by detaching and reattaching my cable. Yup. The procedure that I HADN'T performed was what had solved the problem, all right. There followed a long paragraph about the general wonderfulness of their customer service and how they are available to fill my every need, 24/7. They may not do anything but read a script and spew pleasantries, but they ARE there, I do not doubt.
Excuse me. I need to lie down for a bit and think of anything but cable TV.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Oklahoma: Tornadoes
Today I am thinking of children.
And parents.
And a myriad of horrific things,
but mostly of parents and children.
I'm thinking of the morning line of cars,
dropping kids off
with brown-bag lunches and backpacks--
and maybe a raincoat or umbrella--
the casual morning "Love you",
the kiss blown to their backs
as they run to catch up with a friend.
I am thinking of
this everyday goodbye,
and the inevitable mind-shift
toward errands and work and deadlines,
toward laundry and groceries and dinner
toward walking the dog,
and wondering how much can be done
before circling back at 3
for pickup and games and lessons,
gymnastics and dance class
and soccer practice.
But at three,
there were shrieking sirens
and freight-train winds
and no time to think
(except of the children,
and where they were;
except of the scary sound
of wind and the horizontal rain,
and the scream of metal
and smell of gas and fire..)
no time to think
of anything but shelter, of dropping down,
and wondering if this would be the end.
And after, after...
too much time to think
of frightened children
clamped together against a wall,
watching their world
sucked skyward in a fountain
of disassembled lifetimes..
exploding without warning,
and ending
for parent and child
with (for memory's sake)
just that last and everyday goodbye.
And parents.
And a myriad of horrific things,
but mostly of parents and children.
I'm thinking of the morning line of cars,
dropping kids off
with brown-bag lunches and backpacks--
and maybe a raincoat or umbrella--
the casual morning "Love you",
the kiss blown to their backs
as they run to catch up with a friend.
I am thinking of
this everyday goodbye,
and the inevitable mind-shift
toward errands and work and deadlines,
toward laundry and groceries and dinner
toward walking the dog,
and wondering how much can be done
before circling back at 3
for pickup and games and lessons,
gymnastics and dance class
and soccer practice.
But at three,
there were shrieking sirens
and freight-train winds
and no time to think
(except of the children,
and where they were;
except of the scary sound
of wind and the horizontal rain,
and the scream of metal
and smell of gas and fire..)
no time to think
of anything but shelter, of dropping down,
and wondering if this would be the end.
And after, after...
too much time to think
of frightened children
clamped together against a wall,
watching their world
sucked skyward in a fountain
of disassembled lifetimes..
exploding without warning,
and ending
for parent and child
with (for memory's sake)
just that last and everyday goodbye.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Two little words
I will admit that I am probably not Miss Manners' favorite person. I tend to let things slide. I will have a great time at a party--and, although I always thank my host/hostess on my departure, I very seldom remember to write and mail a note the next day. Likewise, gifts. I am good at on the spot gratitude, but even being a writer (of sorts) doesn't guarantee that I will dash off the all-important note later. I am most definitely not the poster child for etiquette.
I am mortified by this character failing--particularly when I am brought to my knees by thank-yous I have received. I don't think there is anything that melts my heart more than a little voice on the phone saying "Thank you for my wings, Nana!" --or the same sentiment accompanied by a picture in the mail. Just the mental picture of Audrey wearing her butterfly wings (found in a toyshop in Kingsport, Tennessee) and crouching in the box I sent them in, ready to emerge from her 'cocoon' in all her splendor...well, if that doesn't put a smile on your face, I feel sorry for you. Likewise, the image of Claire, stomping around the house in her new blue rain boots, practicing for puddles...another sweet "thank you, Nana!"
But, while these predictable Nana-moments touch my heart, there are the unpredictable ones that arrive out of the blue and absolutely knock my socks off: the former student (and I mean DECADES in the past) who wrote after seeing me named poet laureate--and said she was now a lawyer, and had given up the music she had pursued in high school (she was in the orchestra)--but when she saw that I had kept up with my writing (I had been her chemistry teacher) had decided that she could do the same with something that gave her pleasure: her music. Thank you.
Or, even more astounding, a friend of mine who wrote to say he'd gone back to school--at least in part due to my taking a chance late in life (over 14 years ago, now!) and changing careers. Me? An inspiration? Come now. But there was his message in my inbox yesterday, and now, permanently in my heart. Thank you.
I am one person, and one could never say that I was ever in any kind of powerful position. I lived my life, did things that were expected of me, and never asked why (though I have been known for the occasional "What the hell..why not?") I am ordinary.
And yet, and yet...now and then, out of the thousands of ordinary contacts and conversations, somebody else finds an extraordinary moment: something that snags their attention, something they act upon that makes a difference to them. It happens all the time, I am sure, for everyone. It's what makes us social beings, what helps us grow. Most times, those moments go unacknowledged. Most times, we just accept the contributions that those around us make to our own evolution. Most times, we continue on our way, richer for the experience, but unaccountably silent, when it might mean so much to someone else to hear the what and how and why. The 'thank you'.
But, sometimes, people say it. And that can make you think again about your place in everyone else's world, and perhaps prompt a few 'thank you's of your own.
I am mortified by this character failing--particularly when I am brought to my knees by thank-yous I have received. I don't think there is anything that melts my heart more than a little voice on the phone saying "Thank you for my wings, Nana!" --or the same sentiment accompanied by a picture in the mail. Just the mental picture of Audrey wearing her butterfly wings (found in a toyshop in Kingsport, Tennessee) and crouching in the box I sent them in, ready to emerge from her 'cocoon' in all her splendor...well, if that doesn't put a smile on your face, I feel sorry for you. Likewise, the image of Claire, stomping around the house in her new blue rain boots, practicing for puddles...another sweet "thank you, Nana!"
But, while these predictable Nana-moments touch my heart, there are the unpredictable ones that arrive out of the blue and absolutely knock my socks off: the former student (and I mean DECADES in the past) who wrote after seeing me named poet laureate--and said she was now a lawyer, and had given up the music she had pursued in high school (she was in the orchestra)--but when she saw that I had kept up with my writing (I had been her chemistry teacher) had decided that she could do the same with something that gave her pleasure: her music. Thank you.
Or, even more astounding, a friend of mine who wrote to say he'd gone back to school--at least in part due to my taking a chance late in life (over 14 years ago, now!) and changing careers. Me? An inspiration? Come now. But there was his message in my inbox yesterday, and now, permanently in my heart. Thank you.
I am one person, and one could never say that I was ever in any kind of powerful position. I lived my life, did things that were expected of me, and never asked why (though I have been known for the occasional "What the hell..why not?") I am ordinary.
And yet, and yet...now and then, out of the thousands of ordinary contacts and conversations, somebody else finds an extraordinary moment: something that snags their attention, something they act upon that makes a difference to them. It happens all the time, I am sure, for everyone. It's what makes us social beings, what helps us grow. Most times, those moments go unacknowledged. Most times, we just accept the contributions that those around us make to our own evolution. Most times, we continue on our way, richer for the experience, but unaccountably silent, when it might mean so much to someone else to hear the what and how and why. The 'thank you'.
But, sometimes, people say it. And that can make you think again about your place in everyone else's world, and perhaps prompt a few 'thank you's of your own.
(Oh, and there's a little coda to this: today, when I was re-filling the fountain and sorting through pots to re-pot my yuccas and my ginger plant, and thinking about where I could park my car so I could retrieve the 25-lb bag of potting soil from the trunk...a couple walked by with their daughter, and the woman asked if this (gesturing at my front walk and pots and bench) was mine. I said yes, and she proceeded to tell me how much they all looked forward to walking by my house because of the flowers and the shrubs and the color..and didn't I have poetry out there once? And they really loved that, and read what people had posted and didn't I think that people really needed poetry? And this was about the poetry I had posted over a year ago!
Which goes to show again that people you don't even know can sometimes be affected by the little things you do..whether it's planting flowers or putting a clothesline out with poetry on it...)
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Two weeks..
It is already two weeks into May--and two weeks since my final Poetry Month post. In the past two weeks, I have witnessed my garden springing to life--counting excitedly the perennials that saw fit to return (despite the name, perennials do not ALWAYS come back in my experience) and planting (hopefully) this year's crop of geraniums and parsley and basil and lavender and mint and thyme. (There's one spot in one pot where lavender stubbornly refuses to take hold, no matter how many times I plant it..)
I've wandered the mulched aisles of nurseries and garden centers and found (and alas, purchased) a variegated ginger plant that I've coveted since I saw a pair, exploding from urns flanking the door of the Craft Shop in Williamsburg. Forget the facts that, first, according to the proprietor, it cannot tolerate afternoon sun, and second, that I don't have a pot large enough to contain it and give it room to grow. I love it and may be moving it around the patio all summer in its yet-to-be-purchased pot. Perhaps a pot on roller-skates. It IS a big plant. But beautiful.
I have also had my beloved fountain dismantled, cleaned and repaired. The first time I started it this year, it immediately exhibited a previously undetected leak. I might as well have poured the water directly from the filling jug onto the brick pavement. Although it took the guy three times the time he'd promised me, we are now back to full-burble. The birds are happy, as am I.
Against my brick wall facing the street, all my large pots are sporting new growth. Last fall's pansies have resurrected, and, even though they are looking a little leggy and will soon need to be replaced, color is color. And my pinks are aggressively pink this year, and threaten to obliterate the centrally-placed junipers in their pots. Never saying die, I also replanted my wall-hung Wooly Pockets from last year. Last year's inaugural plantings withered and died in the blistering afternoon sun, and were replaced with fake plants. This year, I planted trailing sedums, with a few petunias for color. If the sedums don't survive, next year I may have to plant cacti...it's that hot on that wall.
Emerging from the garden, I traveled with JC to his old hometown: Rogersville, Tennessee--to visit relatives and touch base with some old friends of his from high school. We then continued on to Asheville, NC, and the Grove Park Inn and the Biltmore Estate, to play tourist for a while.
And now, we are back. Not to normal (never that!) but back to the Folger and the new tour format, back to doctor's appointments and dinner parties (JC's first last night, for some generous guinea-pig neighbors, with him doing all the cooking!) and maybe, if the weather can finally make up its mind, storing winter clothing and unearthing summer from our closets. Before you know it, we will be traveling again to Shepherdstown and Chautauqua...but those are grist for a future mill.
It is good to be back.
I've wandered the mulched aisles of nurseries and garden centers and found (and alas, purchased) a variegated ginger plant that I've coveted since I saw a pair, exploding from urns flanking the door of the Craft Shop in Williamsburg. Forget the facts that, first, according to the proprietor, it cannot tolerate afternoon sun, and second, that I don't have a pot large enough to contain it and give it room to grow. I love it and may be moving it around the patio all summer in its yet-to-be-purchased pot. Perhaps a pot on roller-skates. It IS a big plant. But beautiful.
I have also had my beloved fountain dismantled, cleaned and repaired. The first time I started it this year, it immediately exhibited a previously undetected leak. I might as well have poured the water directly from the filling jug onto the brick pavement. Although it took the guy three times the time he'd promised me, we are now back to full-burble. The birds are happy, as am I.
Against my brick wall facing the street, all my large pots are sporting new growth. Last fall's pansies have resurrected, and, even though they are looking a little leggy and will soon need to be replaced, color is color. And my pinks are aggressively pink this year, and threaten to obliterate the centrally-placed junipers in their pots. Never saying die, I also replanted my wall-hung Wooly Pockets from last year. Last year's inaugural plantings withered and died in the blistering afternoon sun, and were replaced with fake plants. This year, I planted trailing sedums, with a few petunias for color. If the sedums don't survive, next year I may have to plant cacti...it's that hot on that wall.
Emerging from the garden, I traveled with JC to his old hometown: Rogersville, Tennessee--to visit relatives and touch base with some old friends of his from high school. We then continued on to Asheville, NC, and the Grove Park Inn and the Biltmore Estate, to play tourist for a while.
And now, we are back. Not to normal (never that!) but back to the Folger and the new tour format, back to doctor's appointments and dinner parties (JC's first last night, for some generous guinea-pig neighbors, with him doing all the cooking!) and maybe, if the weather can finally make up its mind, storing winter clothing and unearthing summer from our closets. Before you know it, we will be traveling again to Shepherdstown and Chautauqua...but those are grist for a future mill.
It is good to be back.
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