A rose by any other name ???
October 14, 2010
… would, in my case, not be the same. If you ever happen to become my suitor, take note. Roses will not impress me. They smell good, sure, but I love carnations and marigolds best. Of course, marigolds don’t get cut for bouquets, but carnations do. Bring me mini-carnations.
I suppose my love of marigolds goes back to childhood. My mom always planted petunias in the planter around our streetlight at the front of the yard. And I got to sow marigold seeds in the planter between the front porch and yard. That planter is also where we buried our first rabbit, Rabbit C (whose security question answer name I still won’t reveal). I remember my excitement when the first sprouts would appear. They were completely my responsibility. The marigolds and mowing the grass.
Carnations I came to love later. Though I haven’t done for a few years, I went through a phase of grabbing a bouquet of flowers during my visit to the grocery store. I learned that the mini-carnations were among the longest lasting, and then I realized that I just plain liked them. I like the big ones, too.
As far as fragrance goes, I think it would be hard to argue against lilacs. Before I moved into my current place, my old bike commute took me past a half block of old, giant lilac bushes. It was such a delight to pass by them in the spring. Refreshing in the morning, and stress-releasing in the evening. Then, when I bought my condo, I inherited a Japanese lilac bush right outside my front window. It is just unbelievably wonderful to have the scent of lilac wafting into your home. Lilacs, why do you not bloom forever?
But I also like the milky, mild smell of carnations. And call me odd (here’s another reason) but I also truly like the pungent odor of marigolds.
As for other flowers, some of you will remember that just twenty-four hours ago, I was coveting Lacey Schwimmer’s (what I called) pink peony dress. I love Dancing with the Stars and I think that dress is in at least my top five favorites (I’ve been watching since the beginning, ten seasons ago). I happen to have pink peonies in my little condo garden, though two have never quite recovered from being transplanted and not enough sun hits any of the three of them, so they’re not very big.
Musically, who doesn’t love Tschaikovky’s Nutcracker Suite? Well, I do. So I’ll leave you with the “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies.”
Buy the Nutcracker Suite here.
Playing with food
August 22, 2010
I never had my own Mr. Potato Head when I was a kid. My one clear memory of it at somebody else’s house was during a babysitting event. My parents had dropped me off at the house of some people with kids my age. I can’t remember who they were, but I do remember that they had a Mr. Potato Head, and also that we spent quite a bit of time sliding down the stairs on our bellies causing me to be covered in rug burns by the time my parents picked me up.
Today when I went to the store, I forgot to get a potato to make a real Mr. Potato Head, so instead I introduce you his cousin, Mr. Pepper Head.
Head: red bell pepper.
Hair: cilantro.
Ears: tomatillo halves.
Eyes: fresh mozzarella balls and whole peppercorns.
Nose: jalepeño pepper tip.
Mouth: yellow bell pepper slice.
Items held in place with toothpick pieces.
Lilacs in the house
May 19, 2010
I was about five or six in my earliest memory of lilacs. We still lived on Main Street across from the library and had some large lilac bushes in the back yard along the alley. My mom cut some sprigs and brought them inside. The instant the stems hit the water in the vase, a multitude of tiny white mites abandoned blossom like it was the Titanic and scattered out across the brown kitchen table like dandruff on a black turtleneck.
Of course there are many things that I love the smell of, but here in Minneapolis, lilacs are exactly in bloom at the moment and I have one right outside my front window that makes my home smell heavenly.
I think you???d be hard pressed to find someone who found the scent of a lilac to be offensive???a natural lilac, the plant. I completely agree that soaps and lotions?? go overboard on the amount of fragrance. The smell of a plant in the wild is rarely too much. The delicate rose. The mild-mannered carnation. The industrial marigold. My love for the scent of a marigold also goes back to childhood. The house that we moved to after Main Street had a planter in front of the porch, and each summer I got to tend my marigolds, grown from seed. Pleasant memory.
So in my current place, this lilac grows in the corner between my front window and the steps up to my neighbor???s unit. Now that I???ve finally taken the winter-insulating plastic off my windows, I can once again invite in the smell of the outside world; it took about forty-five minutes for the glorious scent of lilac to permeate my entire residence. I am lucky.
This year in particular I have been infatuated with my lilac. Just Saturday, I sat outside reading for three hours in large part because the lilac smelled so good. The other large part was that it was the first day in two weeks to reach into the 70s and forsake 50 and rainy. Plus, this spring (unlike last year) has been wet enough so that all plants are happy. I???ve cut the grass twice already.
I must enjoy this opportunity that Mother Nature has given me while it lasts. I snipped a sprig to have on my desk to inspire me while I was writing. I held my breath as I immersed the end of the stem in the vase. I???m happy to report that the only mass exodus was of divine lilac scent to my nose.
Childhood food memories, part 2: family routine
May 5, 2010
When you were a kid, was there something that your family always did on a particular day of the week? The one I remember was grilled cheese sandwiches and sardines in front of the tv on Sunday nights.
I have doublechecked with my parents who are visiting this week and according to their accounts, I am actually merging two memories.
Usually we ate in the kitchen, at the table. And as I believe I have previously recounted, I often had the unpleasant experience of remaining at said table until I had eaten the last bite of food on my plate. When this involved liver, particularly chicken liver, a large part of my evening was wasted.
But on two nights of the week, I knew I would be safe. On those nights, we ate fun stuff in the living room in front of the tv while we watched my parents’ favorite shows.??
The appointment viewing that I remember was for Mary Tyler Moore and All in the Family, and Lawrence Welk and Andy Williams. But I got my meals mixed up.
Those shows must have been for pizza night on Saturdays. On parent or the other would run downtown to pick up a pie from John & Toni???s, and then we???d sit on the living room floor and dine while viewing.
The routine I remember more vividly was Sundays, when we???d have grilled cheese sandwiches and sardines. My dad says the show we watched was Ed Sullivan, of which I have no recollection. But I do remember that minding the sandwiches in the oven was one of my early cooking responsibilities. My mom would prepare the sandwiches and pop them in to brown, and I was in charge of telling her when they were toasted and ready to be flipped. I took this duty very seriously.??
When the sandwiches were served, the plate was garnished with sardines. I thought it was just something we did; my dad said it was a tradition in his family. This weekend I enjoyed the combination for the first time in thrity years and it was delicious.
Childhood food memories, part 1: bowl licking
May 5, 2010
This is a tale of two eaties???one depravation and one satisfaction. We are American. In the big scheme of things, my family and I didn???t (and don???t) want for things. My 10-year-old self would both beg to differ and look forward to next week.
In the context of this conversation, one of the best times I had as a kid was helping my friend Denise make a cake. She was a year older than I, and I???m going to guess we were about nine and ten. I come up with this estimation because at the time, Denise???s next door neighbor was Tracy and a strong memory I have about Tracy is that Melanie???s song ???Brand New Key??? was popular. Maybe we we were more like ten and eleven and by that time Denise had become my flute mentor in band.
But there are two things that I most remember about Denise. Her dog Tippy, a yappy Pomeranian, chewed up the pink car in my Game of Life that I???d take over to her house because we loved playing. Denise was the one who first told me that fuck meant ???to get married in a not nice way.??? Denise???s chemist dad brought home for me the substances needed to make my own super-bounce ball for a science project. I accidentally wiped out on Denise???s brand new banana seat bike while she was inside eating supper and I never fessed up. And when Denise made that cake in my presence, I got to lick out the bowl.
That was an incredibly big deal to me because not only was I not given autonomy in making a cake in the first place???though I often got to hold the hand mixer and lick off the beaters???but my mom was a firm believer in every drop of batter going into the pan. When Denise made the cake from beginning to end, I was aghast when she seemed to leave half of the mix in the bowl, certain that she???d get in trouble, and then overjoyed when she asked if I wanted to lick out the bowl. I was absolutely gobsmacked that she didn???t want to herself, but I guess that???s the blas?? attitude you develop when you get to do something all the time.
As an adult, I leave a satisfactory amount of batter in the bowl every time. And you know what, Mom? It turns out just fine.
Favorite childhood book
April 28, 2010
For my first several years, we lived right across the street from the library (pictured below). At first, of course, my mom would check the books out for me. But then came the magical day when I was old enough to have my own library card. Boy, did I put it to use. In the summer, if I wasn???t at the swimming pool, I was reading. You could only check out six books at a time, for two weeks. I never needed the full two weeks, especially when I was was burning through the Nancy Drew books. And when I had finished with Nancy Drew, I took up with the Hardy Boys. I don???t really remember anything about any of the plots, only that I read them all.
(Just today there was an article about the 80th anniversary of Nancy Drew.)
I always liked to read, and right through high school, I continued to read quite a bit. In junior high, I made it through most of Robert A. Heinlein???s books. In high school, I tried to get into Kurt Vonnegut to impress a boy I liked, but I just couldn???t (on either count).??
When I was very young, I remember summer vacations at my grandparents??? and reading every book from my mom???s bookcase. A lot of those World War II era stories, I didn???t get. But I remember loving The Little Engine that Could. Back at our own house, I remember being vaguely scared of Where the Wild Things Are.
What is your favorite book from childhood?
photo of library by Google Street View
book photos from here
March 17, 2010
Favorite TV character from childhood
April 18, 2010
I suppose there can be little discussion about this. It was the Bear from the Andy Williams Show.
I???m not saying I didn???t watch other shows. I can remember quite a few that I always tuned into, either on my own or as part of regular family viewing. But I didn???t have the same emotional connection as I had with the Bear. To be truthful, I don???t remember many details.??
There was Andy Williams himself, and I was just old enough to be grooving on his greatest hits record album that my mom had (???It???s my happy heart you hear, Singing loud and singing clear ??????). And there was the Bear. The Bear who was eternally optimistic despite Andy always slamming door in his face.
I loved the Bear. The Bear was a little bit goofy, but more importantly, he was always denied the cookie he so desperately desired. As I???ve thought about it in the last few days, I wonder if deep down I wasn???t, as an only child, secretly identifying with the Bear. I didn???t want for any things, but I wasn???t spoiled either. But I didn???t get my Lite Brite until I was 35.
How much did I love the Bear?
In my early childness, my dad was a university music professor (101, theory, composition), so my mom, dad, and I often attended recitals of one kind or another. The recitals were held in Lehr Auditorium and there were always refreshments served afterwards. After one recital, I remember working my parents hard to be allowed to take home an extra chocolate chip cookie because I was determined to mail it to the Bear. Now, I don???t know if the cookie ever actually was deposited into a USPS mailbox. What I do know is that I dutifully sealed it in an addressed envelope and my parents patronizingly assured me that it had been mailed. Forty years later, I think I can be pretty certain that my parents were just humoring me when they nodded and said yes, they had indeed sent the cookie off to the Bear.
Aren???t parents wonderful?
Irrational fears
March 25, 2010
Oh, don’t worry, I’m not going to be all controversial and rail against the people who think that President Obama is turning America into a socialist or communist state (he isn’t), or that he’s *gasp” Muslim (he isn’t) or wasn’t actually born in the U.S. (he was). It would probably make for more interesting reading, but no, I’m talking about irrational fears such as stepping on a crack and breaking your mama’s back.
I have two irrational fears that easily come to mind. The one that pushes to the forefront of my thoughts about ninety-five percent of the time when I’m in a situation where it could happen is getting my foot stuck in railroad tracks.
I grew up in a small town in Ohio that was bisected by the Pennsylvania Railroad. Historically it was the Pennsylvania Railroad; what it is known as today, I don’t know. The former depot is in the U.S. National Register of Historic Places.
What I do know is that when I was a child, my mother warned me never to step directly on the rail when I was crossing, lest my foot become inextricably lodged and I’d be trapped there, only to be made into mincemeat by the next passing train. Our town was a speck on the map. Trains didn’t slow down as they passed through. They blasted their horns and the crossing gates lowered, but the trains did not slow down.
This was back in the day when parents didn’t mollycoddle and overmanage their children. Comparatively speaking, I ran wild as a child. I walked or bicycled to my friends houses. I informed my mom that I was spending the day in the library or swimming pool. I went to play in the woods at the end of the street. No one saw me for hours. Nobody panicked. Eventually I showed up.
But I digress, because I’m having fond memories of the first thirteen years of my life. Why do I, thirty-three years later, still wax so nostalgic about this basically nondescript place? Okay, it’s not completely nondescript. It has the only Wilson football factory in the country. The balls you see being thrown and kicked around in the Superbowl are made in my hometown.
But I digress.
Nervousness about the consequences of stepping on steel at an unfortunate angle still haunts me. I ride a train to work every morning. The rail is at street level and I must cross it to get to and from both platforms. I am always very careful to extend or contract my stride by ten inches in order to avoid disaster. I always take extra looks both left and right to ensure that the beast is not going to hurtle down on me mid-stride.
Wow. Thanks, Mom.
The other irrational fear? That, when I come back after having had to get up in the middle of the night, some under-bed gargoyle is going to grab my ankle and pull me under, and I will never be seen again. I don’t know where this one came from. As I’ve tried to remember today, I’m guessing that it was what my parents told me when I was a youngster so that I wouldn’t dawdle in said middle of the night.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
Mom’s coming for a visit tomorrow. I could confirm these things with her. It’s her birthday today. Happy birthday, Mom!
Street View © Google Maps
I have two mottos
March 8, 2010
I don’t hold myself to very strict standards in most areas of my life, but I do seem to embrace two credos. From my parents, I get “it doesn’t hurt to ask.” From bowling, I get “it’s only fun if you make it fun.”
It doesn’t hurt to ask
This is a philosophy that was instilled in me by my parents from an early age. In my young life, I was made to practice this by having to make my own requests about things. When I was eight or nine, I had come across a science activity to make my own bouncy ball by mixing certain chemicals together. I don’t remember what the substances were, but I do remember that it was very convenient that one of my best friends’ dad was, in fact, a chemist. As much as I wanted my mom to make the phone call for me, I had to do it. He was more than willing to bring me a little of what I needed. What still stands out in my memory though, is that, having never really directly addressed the dad before, I just went ahead and called him by his first name. Nowadays it’s common for kids to call adults by their first names, but back then, there was a brief hesitation from Mrs. H on the other end of the line as well as the suggestion from my mom to call him Mr. H in the future. I also remember that the ball did not turn out very round.
More recently, just asking is how I got Lagunitas Brewing to sponsor one of my bowling teams, even though they’re in California and I’m in Minnesota. I had the opportunity to meet the owner and brewer toward the end of last summer, and the idea hit me like a lightning bolt. So when it was my turn for a few minutes of conversation with him and I had finished gushing about how I absolutely love his beer, especially the India Pale Ale, I said, “Hey, I’ve got a promotional opportunity for you!” And his answer was, “Sure, we love doing things like that.”
It doesn’t hurt to ask.
It’s only fun if you make it fun
This one has developed in the last few years as a result of bowling with better bowlers in better leagues. Everybody wants to be good, including me, and there are some really intense people in these leagues. I always try to do my best and even when I’m having a game like the one pictured above, I try not to give up or get crabby. Being upset doesn’t benefit me or my game. But a lot of people don’t see it that way. They throw their towels or smack the scoring console or swear loudly at the foul line. I don’t believe that those things make them feel any better or help them figure out how they could adjust to improve their shot. It probably only raises their blood pressure a little. If we were that good, we’d be out on the PBA tour with a sponsor. We are good, but it’s still just a game and not a matter of life and death. We should enjoy ourselves while we’re out recreating.
It’s only fun if you make it fun.
And now I will refill my glass, even though it’s still half full.
Rabbits and Pooh: it started when I was a baby
February 22, 2010
Well, of course it did, because I get it from my mother. She claims to have wheeled a bottle of Brer Rabbit Molasses around in a baby buggy when she was a girl. And she began indoctrinating me when I was just a baby. This is the earliest photo of myself that I have seen with regularity. It wasn’t enough for her to have her cute, happy baby in the middle of a giant bed. No, she posed a rabbit toy alongside. The osmosing of rabbit love began.
As I have gotten these photos together this week, I have remembered that when I was photographed as a child, these “candid” shots always included some prop to make the picture “more interesting.” If you think that stuffed rabbit just happens to be peeking out from behind the ottoman, you are mistaken.
I was just the right age to get in at the beginning of Winnie-the-Pooh’s popularity. So there was often a Pooh in the photo. This is Rubber Pooh that you’ll see in a few shots. He was—wait for it—rubber and jointed. He was a friend for a long time. He would wave to my mom while she was snapping the photo or just generally be a bystander in the shot. We really liked those big boxes.
Rabbits were never out of it for long. I can remember riding that rabbit-horse around the house. I sort of remember that I wasn’t allowed to take it outside so as not to “ruin” it. I may be wrong, but that’s how I think it was.
We have the quintuple bonus picture for my sixth birthday—Poohs and a rabbit, and opening a Winnie-the-Pooh stencil kit. That was back in the day when things didn’t have to have a screen and beep and vibrate for a kid to be entertained. I wore out my Spirograph. I can’t quite tell from the photo if I had melted Rubber Pooh’s nose just a little yet or not. I was playing with matches.
When I was a youngster, we summered at Indiana University while my dad worked summers only on his PhD. The campus featured a cute little stream where my mom and I spent a lot of time playing Poohsticks.
The rabbit thing came to fruition with the first live rabbit that either my mom or I had lived with. I’d tell you her name, but then you’d be able to steal my identity. We came to have this rabbit, Rabbit C, because the neighborhood papergirl, Penny W, brought along a box of baby bunnies one day when she was delivering the news. My mom got suckered in.
I was eight in that picture. I’m trying to remember if Rabbit C made the cross-state move with us when I was almost fifteen. I know a couple of years after the move, we had a different rabbit. I’m kind of thinking—yes, now I remember. She did not make the move with us and was interred in the front flower bed where I always used to plant marigold seeds. Maybe that’s part of the reason why I still love marigolds.
But within a couple of years after we moved, there was a new rabbit, and there has been one in my life ever since, whether successors to Rabbit C with my mom or, beginning when I was, I’m going to say, about 25, a rabbit of my very own.
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