Here is a swapbot journal for a swap called "Eat Food," suggested by Michael Pollan's line "Eat food, not too much, mostly plants."
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
I decided to start this project with my pets. For almost all their lives my cats and dog have eaten commercial pet food. Now I can do differently, and sustainably, because our farm produces protein that we do not eat, in the form of pork liver, hearts, tongues & other organ meat. Instead of composting that meat, I am slow-cooking some of it with macaroni and oatmeal. In the morning when it is cooled I will chop some up and feed the animals with that. Not the pigs or chickens but the cats & dog.
The liver smells surprisingly delicious. I was afraid it would stink, but it is very nice. One of our cats snuggles on my lap as I type here, not knowing that the delicious smell will be in her belly at breakfast.
Why are you doing this challenge?
Because I live on a farm that my spouse and I started and we grow a lot of our own food. I feel like I am one of the good-guys and yet I still crave processed food and unwittingly consume stuff that I know must harm the earth. This is just a way to measure how I really eat.
Wednesday, June 4
Slow-cooked some dried beans with a handful of bacon ends from our hogs. I plan to make refried beans that I can freeze in small packets to be vegetarian protein for my meals. I can cook meat for John and we can share the vegetables and whatever else – pilaf, pasta, salad. We pretty much only buy meat from fellow small farmers in the Adirondacks. By now we are so used to the natural stuff that supermarket meat has little appeal.
What was it like to shop for food? Did it increase or decrease your food spending?
Earlier today I did a big shop and spent far more than I wish I needed to. Our most costly items are not even edible: laundry detergent, cat litter. I bought salad in a bag because I cannot resist it, although I have read Barbara Kingsolver’s book and I understand that I don’t have a right to salad that is not blooming in my own yard. I bought lots of fresh fruit and vegetables because I love them, but I feel guilty about it for the same reason – nothing like that is blooming in the Adirondacks now. Citrus and bananas certainly don’t even grow here at any time of year. I bought chocolate because there is no need to explain why.
Thursday, June 5 -- For dinner tonight I ate at a girlfriends’ potluck. I brought food that I had made from scratch: bacon-wrapped water chestnuts with peanut butter, apple hash with potatoes, and shredded pork. The pork was my own, naturally. The hash had organic apple, local asparagus & squash, imported rice and west coast organic blue potatoes. The water chestnuts came out of a can and I have no idea where they came from other than the grocery store. Girlfriends brought 1980s salad (spinach and strawberries,) store-bought turkey and quinoa with oranges, and various dips, nibbles & treats. Good wines that crossed an ocean. Chocolate cake made from scratch. Coffee from who knows where.
I cleaned out the leftovers making apple hash so tomorrow will be new cooking.
Friday, June 6
Processed food report: this morning since we were out of half-and-half I consumed some artificial flavored coffee creamer that is based on a corn by-product. It was delicious and guilt-inducing. I can’t believe I like this stuff.
In this summer heat I have been drinking lots of ice tea and juice. Although I do make my juice from frozen concentrate, it is just store brand and probably is not organic. Lunch was cherries & banana salad sweetened with refined sugar. I think the fruit must be imported, but no artificial ingredients in this meal.
Saturday, June 7
This morning for breakfast I will eat yogurt (store bought) with flax seeds, wheat germ & home-canned fruit, maybe marmalade made by my friend Nancy or grape jelly made by me. The oranges were not local but the grapes are.
How did "eating food" make you feel; did you notice any changes in your digestion, your skin, your mood?
Actually I feel like I haven’t really changed how I eat this week! I did intend to make my own yogurt and eat that for breakfast rather than the store-bought kind, and I haven’t yet. We ate some refried beans that I made from scratch and you can guess how that affected my digestion. My skin has been clearer than usual but that is most likely due to where I am in my cycle and the fact that I am getting more sun now that the days are warmer. My mood is happy, but things are generally going very well in our lives right now, so happy makes sense.
Sunday, June 8
Today was the first farmer’s market of the summer season. Last year we were the only regular meat vendor; this year there are four! We think we started a trend, or maybe we just got in on the ground floor. At any rate, we already have lots of regular customers, so the other meat vendors just watched as we sold our wares. Everyone was very cordial. I hope that they build up their clientele soon. We only sell at the one market and there are perhaps a dozen more at different locations, so we certainly do not have a monopoly.
Monday, June 9
We have very little box food left. I have not been replenishing those formerly-staples as we use them. Today I went grocery shopping and bought a gallon of whole milk to make my own yogurt with. Also a lot of fruit. The line, “eat food, not too much, mostly plants” rings in my head, but I must have my dairy.
Got bitten badly by the evil little North Country blackflies and I have huge sore red bumps on my neck and scalp. So much for clear skin.
Tuesday, June 10
Ate yogurt with blueberries and grains this morning. The blueberries came from Florida. I am ashamed to say that for lunch-on-the-go I succumbed to an old favorite and got a baloney sandwich from a deli, with chips on the side. It was so yummy… Ate tuna salad later, recognizing that this stuff from a can probably harms the environment. I did not make the pickles that flavored the salad, but I did make the bread.
Wednesday, June 11
Feeling very pressured with work today. Couldn’t eat breakfast; felt too stressed. Around eleven I got massively hungry and ate a whole bag of red seedless grapes. (Forgive me, Cesar Chavez. Oh wait, that strife is over with now, isn’t it?) Then ate great swathes of St André cheese on my homemade (slightly stale) bread later in the afternoon. Took my hubbin out for dinner and ate a lovely Ceasar salad and an even lovelier burger. I am not doing so well with this “mostly plants” idea, even though I think of myself as a mostly a veg and fruit-eater. Isn’t it odd that I haven’t eaten any eggs during the time of this swap? Every day twice a day I collect eggs from under the warm hens, and wash the eggs in well water, and store them in recycled cartons in the fridge. Must eat some of my own delicious free range eggs! Good thing this swap is not about eating local or I would have only eggs, maple syrup and meat for every meal!
Thursday, June 12
Well, here is the end of my swap journey. I realized that I eat a lot more junk and processed food than I think I do. My kitchen triumphs were the pet food and refried beans. I ate way too much junk food. My husband eats what I put in front of him, so yes, he did participate. He said YUM.
Friday, July 04, 2008
Thursday, June 05, 2008
tilling
This morning, unusually, I was up before John, awakened by the rooster crowing forlornly if not irritably in the locked-up-tight chicken coop. I kissed him (John, not the rooster), set an alarm for him, and went out in the mist to the animals. The birdies were very pleased to be let out into the fresh green mountain morning. I will just keep every sense attuned to the sound of that fox.
Then as I was about to take off my clogs and go inside for coffee, I heard the distinctive highway sound of an approaching small tractor. Yes, it was Ralphie, our friend who will plow for us for an hourly fee that must barely cover his gas. I was delighted to see him coming--he had said he would but not when--I turned around and ran out to the garden where I had left last year's soaker hose & plastic mulch to moulder under dried plant wreckage & dirt. I hauled that stuff out of the earth and shoved it under the unused pig shed, which took a good fifteen minutes of heavy muddy work. Ralph mutely began to move the enormous compost piles that we have been collecting. I greeted a surprised and nervous little brown garden snake, glared at the chickens who were thinking about flying out of their relatively safe yard to investigate. I hope no birds get preyed upon today and the garden snake doesn't get chopped up.
The garden will look like a perfectly frosted chocolate crumb sheet cake when Ralph is done with it. I must get in there, mark rows, plant & then begin the drudgery of weeding. We will grow such good stuff! Next winter we will eat garden produce all year long, thanks to my newfound skills as a home canner.
Meanwhile in our bedroom in the yellow house, John still slept. I hoped he would wake up curious about the tractor sound but it could just as easily be our neighbors (& Ralphie's ex-in-laws) doing something with one of their machines. So when I was done with the procrastinated plastic-removal I went inside the quiet house, stripped off my filthy muddy clothes & went to check on my beloved. He is so very tired at the end of the school year. He wants to nap when he can. Outside we hear a steady passage of drivers on the way to work; let him sleep in for once. I dress, pet John and reset his alarm clock.
All this before I have my coffee!
Now I'm snug on the couch with laptop, cat & dog. There is a pleasant hum & rattle of Ralph at work. John still sleeps -- oh, there was the rim shot of a toilet seat being opened. Sound waves of songbirds are vying with chickens for territorial rights. The river is high from a week of good rain, the trees are dark with foliage. Everything is damp and lush and ready to grow. Outside for the first time in days, the rooster now crows with brio on behalf of his flock of hens. The sounds float into the misty mountain air. I don't know about other roosters, but ours crow any time they are awake and feeling big.
Then as I was about to take off my clogs and go inside for coffee, I heard the distinctive highway sound of an approaching small tractor. Yes, it was Ralphie, our friend who will plow for us for an hourly fee that must barely cover his gas. I was delighted to see him coming--he had said he would but not when--I turned around and ran out to the garden where I had left last year's soaker hose & plastic mulch to moulder under dried plant wreckage & dirt. I hauled that stuff out of the earth and shoved it under the unused pig shed, which took a good fifteen minutes of heavy muddy work. Ralph mutely began to move the enormous compost piles that we have been collecting. I greeted a surprised and nervous little brown garden snake, glared at the chickens who were thinking about flying out of their relatively safe yard to investigate. I hope no birds get preyed upon today and the garden snake doesn't get chopped up.
The garden will look like a perfectly frosted chocolate crumb sheet cake when Ralph is done with it. I must get in there, mark rows, plant & then begin the drudgery of weeding. We will grow such good stuff! Next winter we will eat garden produce all year long, thanks to my newfound skills as a home canner.
Meanwhile in our bedroom in the yellow house, John still slept. I hoped he would wake up curious about the tractor sound but it could just as easily be our neighbors (& Ralphie's ex-in-laws) doing something with one of their machines. So when I was done with the procrastinated plastic-removal I went inside the quiet house, stripped off my filthy muddy clothes & went to check on my beloved. He is so very tired at the end of the school year. He wants to nap when he can. Outside we hear a steady passage of drivers on the way to work; let him sleep in for once. I dress, pet John and reset his alarm clock.
All this before I have my coffee!
Now I'm snug on the couch with laptop, cat & dog. There is a pleasant hum & rattle of Ralph at work. John still sleeps -- oh, there was the rim shot of a toilet seat being opened. Sound waves of songbirds are vying with chickens for territorial rights. The river is high from a week of good rain, the trees are dark with foliage. Everything is damp and lush and ready to grow. Outside for the first time in days, the rooster now crows with brio on behalf of his flock of hens. The sounds float into the misty mountain air. I don't know about other roosters, but ours crow any time they are awake and feeling big.
Monday, June 02, 2008
fox + hens
Now that I am working from home I keep my ears tuned to the sounds of farm animals. Chickens have a particular distress sound, and--rarely--a pain sound. Or at least I construe it that way... Those distress and pain sounds launch me into the air and out the door as fast as my feet will take me.
Yesterday at dusk I was in my studio tinkering and heard the distress and pain sounds, and the rooster's alarm. I ran outside to find one bird down and the fox sliding away with another in its mouth. I shouted, waved, the piles of snow white feathers in the grass making me feel sad and guilty for exposing these birds to my learn-by-doing experiment in farming. There by a clump of irises was the white bird we call Ed Koch, crumpled and heaving. I ran to her, and she lurched toward me on the grass, perhaps her legs were broken -- suffering. My thoughtless innocent dependable hen was suffering. Her beady eye was intent, probably seeing me as another predator or maybe as her deliverer. I said, "Here, let me help you!" and I picked her up by her tender slim neck and swung her sharply. The neck bones crunkled like loose knuckles, and she was dead. I laid her down by the hen coop, loose flesh and white feathers and very little blood. But blood = suffering.
Why couldn't the fox just kill and take? Why does the fox leave a woeful dying mess behind? At least the birds of prey pounce and depart with no waste left behind. I was washing dishes the evening before last, again at dusk, and gazing out the window into the garden where a lone hen poked and scratched. Suddenly a bird shot out of the sky, hit the ground with a burst of feathers, one moment of scuffle, and the hen and bird were gone. I cried out for my husband: "John! Something's at the hens!" We ran to the garden together and examined the feathers that remained. A barred owl, he thought.
Yesterday evening's fox had run around the corner of the house with the second bird in its mouth, crying feebly. I chased, and we came to a standoff by the road. I thought the fox had succeeded in killing this bird and I was prepared to let it take the meal away to its kits, but the fox was more cautious than I and dropped the bird, tufts of feathers loose in the grass, and ran across the highway into the bushes alongside the river.
The second bird was more dead, perhaps dead and just twitching, but I couldn't be passive in that moment and I wrung her neck, too, just to be sure. Once again that narrow, liquidy tube of warm bones in my hands like prayer beads and cooked pasta in a velvet sock. Ahhh... when did I become capable of this?
I realized that I was shocked when I found myself carrying the second dead bird by its broken neck instead of upside down by its sturdy feet. I took the carcass across the road to the river verge, crying, "Here fox!" and threw the bird into the weeds where I thought the fox would find it. its dead wings fluttered in the air as if it were alive. One bird to compost, one bird to feed foxes.
That fox is honey-colored, fat and fluffy, not at all cute, very quick and shy yet bold. It knows our farm is a dependable source of fresh chicken. I have imagined shooting it. Our neighbors say, "If you're going to have a farm, you have to have a gun." And they are right -- there have been a handful of times when a sick or injured animal must be put down and those neighbors' .22 followed by a knife in the throat is the only merciful, ethical set of tools to address the needs of that moment.
If I get a gun I will have to practice and become very good. I have no anger toward the predators. I don't want to punish them, only stop them from owning my farm as their hunting grounds.
Yesterday at dusk I was in my studio tinkering and heard the distress and pain sounds, and the rooster's alarm. I ran outside to find one bird down and the fox sliding away with another in its mouth. I shouted, waved, the piles of snow white feathers in the grass making me feel sad and guilty for exposing these birds to my learn-by-doing experiment in farming. There by a clump of irises was the white bird we call Ed Koch, crumpled and heaving. I ran to her, and she lurched toward me on the grass, perhaps her legs were broken -- suffering. My thoughtless innocent dependable hen was suffering. Her beady eye was intent, probably seeing me as another predator or maybe as her deliverer. I said, "Here, let me help you!" and I picked her up by her tender slim neck and swung her sharply. The neck bones crunkled like loose knuckles, and she was dead. I laid her down by the hen coop, loose flesh and white feathers and very little blood. But blood = suffering.
Why couldn't the fox just kill and take? Why does the fox leave a woeful dying mess behind? At least the birds of prey pounce and depart with no waste left behind. I was washing dishes the evening before last, again at dusk, and gazing out the window into the garden where a lone hen poked and scratched. Suddenly a bird shot out of the sky, hit the ground with a burst of feathers, one moment of scuffle, and the hen and bird were gone. I cried out for my husband: "John! Something's at the hens!" We ran to the garden together and examined the feathers that remained. A barred owl, he thought.
Yesterday evening's fox had run around the corner of the house with the second bird in its mouth, crying feebly. I chased, and we came to a standoff by the road. I thought the fox had succeeded in killing this bird and I was prepared to let it take the meal away to its kits, but the fox was more cautious than I and dropped the bird, tufts of feathers loose in the grass, and ran across the highway into the bushes alongside the river.
The second bird was more dead, perhaps dead and just twitching, but I couldn't be passive in that moment and I wrung her neck, too, just to be sure. Once again that narrow, liquidy tube of warm bones in my hands like prayer beads and cooked pasta in a velvet sock. Ahhh... when did I become capable of this?
I realized that I was shocked when I found myself carrying the second dead bird by its broken neck instead of upside down by its sturdy feet. I took the carcass across the road to the river verge, crying, "Here fox!" and threw the bird into the weeds where I thought the fox would find it. its dead wings fluttered in the air as if it were alive. One bird to compost, one bird to feed foxes.
That fox is honey-colored, fat and fluffy, not at all cute, very quick and shy yet bold. It knows our farm is a dependable source of fresh chicken. I have imagined shooting it. Our neighbors say, "If you're going to have a farm, you have to have a gun." And they are right -- there have been a handful of times when a sick or injured animal must be put down and those neighbors' .22 followed by a knife in the throat is the only merciful, ethical set of tools to address the needs of that moment.
If I get a gun I will have to practice and become very good. I have no anger toward the predators. I don't want to punish them, only stop them from owning my farm as their hunting grounds.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
plein air blog post
Greetings from Upper Jay. I will be your farmer today. Please consider the animals in our story today: fox, hen, bluebird, pig. I am trying to decide how I feel about one of us killing the fox. Today we lost two chickens to a fox.
This is a truly remarkable day, one that ought to be recorded. So a snapshot: at the moment my sturdy beloved is strolling in from afternoon chores. Rain is steady and light, the good soaking we have needed and the Rockwell Kent light we have craved. Last night there was a light frost.
Just after dawn we were awoken by a chicken protesting. I am glad she alerted us before she painlessly died from a broken neck in the fox's jaws. We leaped out of bed, looked out the window. There was a fox, beige and honey colored, smaller then our yellow Lab, a rusty hen limp in its jaws. John & I ran outside, we faced down the fox with our red hen in its face. I figured out later when I cleaned up the bird bodies & feathers that the hens must not have felt a thing. There was no blood, just a very floppy neck and a spew of feathers here & there. I was sure my favorite barred rock, our only one of that breed, was gone due to feather fluff, but John found her later in the day, so she survived the attack. At least two dead birds, if not more. Initially we thought it had been four birds. I am glad it is fewer; there is such a high demand for our eggs.
Beloved walks in from among the fruit trees, under pouffs of golden, pinkish, lilac buds. He hefts his empty pitchfork into its slot on the barn wall. He is aggrieved, under seige. We found our best sow dead this afternoon, no reason why, no blood, no thrashing or extruded body parts. Perhaps she ate a bit of glass from the old midden the pigs are excavating in the pasture. Perhaps she had a heart attack.
So today has been quite an animal day. One healthy, productive, sociable sow dead, the first time something like this has happened to us. She's just laid out there in the straw, facing the wall, as if in a deep comfortable sleep. The carcass will become bear bait in exchange for use of the hunter's large equipment to remove her. I feel sad.
The same-day fox should be shot, said our friend and my beloved agreed. I protested with crossed arms. Beloved glanced at my posture and changed tack, from hellyeah to considering. Hunter told us of another friend and farm-ish competition who had killed a looting fox, had the thing taxidermied in a pose, with a wad of chicken feathers in its mouth, put on display in his living room. These are men I admire greatly. I have a lot to learn and they have a lot to teach.
We are living in the Adirondack State Park, which is maintained by somewhat artificial means. There are very few bears, moose or foxes. Few porcupines, pheasants, wild turkeys, deer, wild birds of prey. Each animal has evolved in relation to certain prey and that prey's food chain. The damage that humans have done to the East coast in a geologic instant has wrecked so much. Old people here recall colder, fiercer times when there were far more animals.
Romantic idealistic farmer, I. How can I justify killing a predator animal? We live in a gigantic, forested state park and a big healthy fox doing its foxy thing can only be a good thing for our ecosystem. More foxes and other predators could be delicately influencing the balance toward more moose, bluebirds, trout and other wildlife. Why should we just just shoot the fox -- surely we can spare a few hens and I would like to think that the fox does not hurt them!
***
Mid-July update -- the fox and its buddies have killed more than half our flock and prowls fearlessly through the barnyard at all hours of day. Beloved has tried to shoot it dozens of times but as this is the first time Beloved has hunted anything and he has no inborn sniper talent, he has not hit the fox yet. The borrowed .22 rests in the barn, ready.
This is a truly remarkable day, one that ought to be recorded. So a snapshot: at the moment my sturdy beloved is strolling in from afternoon chores. Rain is steady and light, the good soaking we have needed and the Rockwell Kent light we have craved. Last night there was a light frost.
Just after dawn we were awoken by a chicken protesting. I am glad she alerted us before she painlessly died from a broken neck in the fox's jaws. We leaped out of bed, looked out the window. There was a fox, beige and honey colored, smaller then our yellow Lab, a rusty hen limp in its jaws. John & I ran outside, we faced down the fox with our red hen in its face. I figured out later when I cleaned up the bird bodies & feathers that the hens must not have felt a thing. There was no blood, just a very floppy neck and a spew of feathers here & there. I was sure my favorite barred rock, our only one of that breed, was gone due to feather fluff, but John found her later in the day, so she survived the attack. At least two dead birds, if not more. Initially we thought it had been four birds. I am glad it is fewer; there is such a high demand for our eggs.
Beloved walks in from among the fruit trees, under pouffs of golden, pinkish, lilac buds. He hefts his empty pitchfork into its slot on the barn wall. He is aggrieved, under seige. We found our best sow dead this afternoon, no reason why, no blood, no thrashing or extruded body parts. Perhaps she ate a bit of glass from the old midden the pigs are excavating in the pasture. Perhaps she had a heart attack.
So today has been quite an animal day. One healthy, productive, sociable sow dead, the first time something like this has happened to us. She's just laid out there in the straw, facing the wall, as if in a deep comfortable sleep. The carcass will become bear bait in exchange for use of the hunter's large equipment to remove her. I feel sad.
The same-day fox should be shot, said our friend and my beloved agreed. I protested with crossed arms. Beloved glanced at my posture and changed tack, from hellyeah to considering. Hunter told us of another friend and farm-ish competition who had killed a looting fox, had the thing taxidermied in a pose, with a wad of chicken feathers in its mouth, put on display in his living room. These are men I admire greatly. I have a lot to learn and they have a lot to teach.
We are living in the Adirondack State Park, which is maintained by somewhat artificial means. There are very few bears, moose or foxes. Few porcupines, pheasants, wild turkeys, deer, wild birds of prey. Each animal has evolved in relation to certain prey and that prey's food chain. The damage that humans have done to the East coast in a geologic instant has wrecked so much. Old people here recall colder, fiercer times when there were far more animals.
Romantic idealistic farmer, I. How can I justify killing a predator animal? We live in a gigantic, forested state park and a big healthy fox doing its foxy thing can only be a good thing for our ecosystem. More foxes and other predators could be delicately influencing the balance toward more moose, bluebirds, trout and other wildlife. Why should we just just shoot the fox -- surely we can spare a few hens and I would like to think that the fox does not hurt them!
***
Mid-July update -- the fox and its buddies have killed more than half our flock and prowls fearlessly through the barnyard at all hours of day. Beloved has tried to shoot it dozens of times but as this is the first time Beloved has hunted anything and he has no inborn sniper talent, he has not hit the fox yet. The borrowed .22 rests in the barn, ready.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
recent American military history food fight
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e-yldqNkGfo
This video is just splendid. I contemplated, cackled and sat somberly, all within the span of a few minutes. Here's hoping you enjoy it too. Via Neatorama.
This video is just splendid. I contemplated, cackled and sat somberly, all within the span of a few minutes. Here's hoping you enjoy it too. Via Neatorama.
Friday, February 29, 2008
natural organic eggs
Today, Leap Day 2008, we have an abundance of eggs at Yellow House Farm in Upper Jay, New York. The eggs are sorted into four groups: brown, leghorn white, auracana cream and blue/green. I could also separate them by size. The variation is part of their charm. Totally natural organic chicken eggs. We have a flock of about 28 hens and one rooster named Teach. We get 12-24 eggs per day this time of year. Our birdies do right by us and we do right by them.
Here is a link to a photo of our egg makers.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Kiehl's
Kiehl's is a brand of lip balm and lotion (and many other cosmetics,) that I adore. I'm as loyal to their brand as I am to L.L.Bean and Scott's tissue. Good value, good quality. Only Kiehl's has changed since being bought by Loreal. The customer service is not as personal. I have been
ordering the same lip balm for five years and recently called to order some more, and the person sent me a size smaller than I usually bought. I hadn't even thought to confirm the size.
I used to go into the Kiehl's original store when I worked on the Lower East Side around the millenium. I loved the history of the building and its neighborhood, Peter Stuyvesant's pear tree & all that. So enjoyed browsing with others in the homespun rarified atmosphere, always good music, beautiful people, staff in white coats. Samples galore, generous and satisfying. No matter how expensive the unguent, a handful of scented glycerine soaps, and a few tubes of this & that took the edge off the price. But online one only gets thin plastic envelopes of creams and such. No more soaps or vials or little bottles.
That's my consumer report for the day.
ordering the same lip balm for five years and recently called to order some more, and the person sent me a size smaller than I usually bought. I hadn't even thought to confirm the size.
I used to go into the Kiehl's original store when I worked on the Lower East Side around the millenium. I loved the history of the building and its neighborhood, Peter Stuyvesant's pear tree & all that. So enjoyed browsing with others in the homespun rarified atmosphere, always good music, beautiful people, staff in white coats. Samples galore, generous and satisfying. No matter how expensive the unguent, a handful of scented glycerine soaps, and a few tubes of this & that took the edge off the price. But online one only gets thin plastic envelopes of creams and such. No more soaps or vials or little bottles.
That's my consumer report for the day.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Cascade Pass Rt 73 Lake Placid
I've posted some photos from this morning's drive to work. Quite safe at 25 mph. The photos do not capture the deep silence, the fresh still air, the creaking trees and little wind devils.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
listening to Phish
I woke this morning from a dream where I finally had the baby, and was just getting used to her/it with my beloved, and the baby dream was snatched away, and I awoke crying into another dream, still dreaming. I truly awoke dry-eyed and pondering. My beloved & I made love twice today.
The moon is waning at about 97%, the hens are laying fruitfully, and we're sex monsters. My beloved says the moon has nothing to do with it, well, with female body tides, yes. And that's what farm life is all about: female body tides.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
a bonanza swapbot day
Here is an official photo of the great generous pile of swapbot packages that arrived in today's mail. Thank you to all! I have opened the swaps and I am in bliss with folded maps, doodads, trinkets, pigs & chickens, homemade luxuries... Wow. Some days swapbot makes one's day.
Friday, February 15, 2008
SWAPBOT rhyme, rune + riddance
Cruiser, the aging yellow lab, sniffs the riddance prepared & sealed by Colorfizz. In moments the riddance is among those glowing coals, burned up to black ash.
Friday, February 08, 2008
hockey giggles
As the wife of an ice hockey rock star & sister-in-law of a Bruins maniac, I have developed a keen appreciation for hockey humor.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Rosie the Riveter
Operating a hand drill at Vultee-Nashville, woman is working on a "Vengeance" dive bomber, Tennessee (LOC), originally uploaded by The Library of Congress.
Boing Boing posted this photograph today, making my day. I always enjoy iconic images of people of color, particularly women.
Today I shoveled out the chicken coop. This is the sort of chore my hubbin does daily without breaking a sweat or making comment, but I am not as brawny as he is.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Crested Hens
Here in Upper Jay resides a group of silly, artistic, flamboyant, oenophile women called the Crested Hens, of whom I am one. We have lunch together about once a month and give each other gifts for birthdays or no reason at all. Here are scans of my gifts to the Hens this month. The chicken images are from a book called "Extraordinary Chickens" by S. Green-Armytage.
Monday, January 07, 2008
splendid absurdity!
From Neatorama, a musician of the body. And French, too ( I think.) Reminds me somehow of that strange, glorious movie, the Triplets of Belleville, which my husband slept through.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
M-m-m-m-Martha! Marvelous Martha!
Sesame Street classic that naturally appealed to me then as well as now. Hoppy New Year.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
a sad day -- Benazir Bhutto
Today human history took a turn toward evil. Benazir Bhutto is no more. Her good works will live on. I wonder if she would have died had she not popped out of the vehicle's hatch to wave. In such a chaotic fraught environment as that rally must have been, they will likely not catch the assassin, if there is one alive. I am truly sad.
Monday, December 10, 2007
SWAP-BOT - Words of Encouragement
I really enjoyed sitting with this project for a few days. My swap partners are in my thoughts & prayers. I, too, am in need ot words of encouragement. This project bouyed me a bit.
Best regards,
Martha
Sunday, December 09, 2007
a favorite hymn
This morning in church I was fidgety and distracted. I was sitting the pew next to my beloved, worrying, unable to clear my mind of chattering thoughts. Within minutes of the service starting I felt like it was mystically geared to help me today. That's a good feeling.
The responsive reading rang a bell in my agitated head; the reader was an elderly woman who spoke slowly and rhythmically. The congregation murmured aloud, "Let us quiet down and listen; listen to the words, listen to the music, listen to the silence." Then we sang this hymn, "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent." The words & music really struck home.
I don't feel particularly holier or calmer now at home, but I do feel blessed.
The responsive reading rang a bell in my agitated head; the reader was an elderly woman who spoke slowly and rhythmically. The congregation murmured aloud, "Let us quiet down and listen; listen to the words, listen to the music, listen to the silence." Then we sang this hymn, "Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silent." The words & music really struck home.
I don't feel particularly holier or calmer now at home, but I do feel blessed.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
annual newsletter 2007
December 2007
Dear Family & Friends,
Happy holidays, warm wishes and friendly greetings from our cozy living room in the Adirondacks, where the woodstove is glowing rosy with wood we hove, and the holiday cards are stacked up like cedar shakes. As we write each card & address each envelope we think of you, and thinking of you brings back happy memories. Please enjoy this holiday newsletter from John & Martha, and stay in touch.
FARM – the literally biggest news is that John and friends built a 30 by 60 foot log barn by hand with local wood. The new barn is home to a 600-pound heritage breed boar, five sows, and assorted younger pigs, around 40 right now. In another outbuilding we have 40 egg-laying hens and one rooster named Teach after the David Mamet character. I have dusted off the gardening skills my parents taught me and learned how to can from my sister Liza. Yellow House Farm sells and barters pork, chicken & eggs. You can look us up on the internet. Our little cold-climate farm is growing. Next year we hope to – gasp – turn a profit of at least $1.
JOBS – we are both employed at the Lake Placid boarding schools that hired us from NYC. John is Assistant Head of School at National Sports Academy where he teaches English, does college counseling, and leads the faculty & administration. He is helping the organization go through a strategic planning process. I am director of development at North Country School & Camp Treetops where I am helping that institution get on a firm financial footing in its 80-somethingth year. We very much like our niche in independent schools.
HOUSE & HOME – We painted our big old farmhouse house yellow, to the disapproval of some old timers who said, “It’s been white for near on 200 years.” We have also been told our house has never flooded, which is believable as it is the oldest structure in our town and sits just 50 feet from the Ausable River, which does flood in a most terrifying way in the spring thaws. We love our house and enjoy it being a local landmark. In this part of the Adirondacks there are always athletes on the road bicycling, roller-skiing, running, and we have heard them say, “Here we are at the yellow house.” We have also heard passersby say, “Holy crap, that’s a real pig pen!”
On another note, much to our mutual surprise, John and I have tumbled into a protestant church community, and we like it a lot. John has been appointed to the board and I have started playing with the hand bell choir. We are still dyed-in-the-wool liberals, and, providentially, so is this faith community that decries homophobia, racism, sexism, classism and other forms of oppression. That said, we love to go to church on Sundays. Afterwards John likes to socialize and network, while I prefer to go right home and have a Sunday snooze…we are different that way.
VOLUNTEERING – John is a firefighter and treasurer of our hamlet’s fire department. I am trustee and secretary to the town library and volunteer for two local arts groups. This year I started a writers’ collective (a la Takoma Park, Northampton, Williamsburg Bklyn & other groups) in our town. I will have mailed your holiday card by the time our group has its culminating performance on December 15th at the Upper Jay Recovery Lounge.
FUN – We have a big elderly yellow lab named Cruiser and three adopted stray cats who keep the house mouse-free. John has developed a passion for crossword puzzles. I am still a voracious reader. We both devour the weekly New Yorker magazine. We have made many good friends up here in the wilderness and are never lonely. The scenery is always gorgeous and ever-changing and keeps us enthralled.
And yes, the pigs consume our attention.
Best wishes for you & yours in 2008 and beyond.
Warm regards from Martha, John & many animals!
a favorite restaurant
Diner under the Williamsburg
Bridge in Brooklyn.
When my beloved & I first moved in together we had a loft apartment 1/2 block from this restaurant. The view to the southwest from our windows included the majestic World Trade Center. I hand-wrote many a blog entry while eating & drinking at Diner, often outside and gazing at the WTC.
Bridge in Brooklyn.
When my beloved & I first moved in together we had a loft apartment 1/2 block from this restaurant. The view to the southwest from our windows included the majestic World Trade Center. I hand-wrote many a blog entry while eating & drinking at Diner, often outside and gazing at the WTC.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Monday, April 09, 2007
What a special early Christmas weekend. John's family came to visit us from the Boston area and we had Christmas and my birthday, complete with turkey dinner that they provided and John cooked, tree-trimming, a cake with candles and some anemic caroling for the benefit of Nana on the phone. It was all memorable and wonderful, although we were disappointed that Nana couldn't come.
This morning someone came by and offered to buy Rhonda the plow truck. John asked them to come back later, which they did, and negotiated a fair price. I am sad to see her go, especially with another nor'easter dropping a ton of snow. Uncle Frank has given us his old snow blower, which John will drive to Massachusetts to pick up, and will see Nana at the same time. And I have another cold. This one's in my chest as well as head.
It will all work out.
This morning someone came by and offered to buy Rhonda the plow truck. John asked them to come back later, which they did, and negotiated a fair price. I am sad to see her go, especially with another nor'easter dropping a ton of snow. Uncle Frank has given us his old snow blower, which John will drive to Massachusetts to pick up, and will see Nana at the same time. And I have another cold. This one's in my chest as well as head.
It will all work out.
from a note to my oldest friend
Dear Friend,
Here in the Adirondacks we got a little snowstorm overnight, and the spring birds that have migrated this far are making all their normal noises even though the ground is white. Our chickens are pecking around outside looking for bugs and other tasty bits. Last week one of the chickens pecked a baby mouse to death and ate it. The pigs are all comfortable in their sweet hay beds, and they don’t mind the cold — to them 32 degrees Fahrenheit is sixty degrees warmer than winter, and they’re content. The piglets are romping around in their yard digging up old horseshoes and bits of metal, glass and ceramic mysteries. It is so interesting to live on an ancient farmstead. John’s tromping in from chores now, so I will sign off.
Love, M
Here in the Adirondacks we got a little snowstorm overnight, and the spring birds that have migrated this far are making all their normal noises even though the ground is white. Our chickens are pecking around outside looking for bugs and other tasty bits. Last week one of the chickens pecked a baby mouse to death and ate it. The pigs are all comfortable in their sweet hay beds, and they don’t mind the cold — to them 32 degrees Fahrenheit is sixty degrees warmer than winter, and they’re content. The piglets are romping around in their yard digging up old horseshoes and bits of metal, glass and ceramic mysteries. It is so interesting to live on an ancient farmstead. John’s tromping in from chores now, so I will sign off.
Love, M
Thursday, March 29, 2007
observation - the tits test
On days like today when I wear something that [does not conceal / shows off] my bosom, I am very conscious of men’s glances. It is amazing how many men who usually are fine can’t help themselves. A tit glance before their eyes meet mine, and then no shame at all in their faces.
Friday, March 16, 2007
NCPR News Archive
NCPR News Archive
What a day. It started earlier than usual for me, as I have to do chores myself now that John’s back is injured. Poor man, he is in so much pain he finally decided to go to the hospital where our doctor has an office. More on that later. So I did chores, and he went and got wood shavings to put down over the areas where the animals to the bathroom. I scraped and shoveled and mucked, hardest work of my life, and I am getting stronger every day. My stamina is growing, too. It’s not so bad after the work is done but it sure sucks while doing it. I know I ought to be grateful to John for doing all the barn chores for weeks at a time. Now that 100% of the job is mine, for however short a time, I am amazed and overwhelmed and secretly very proud.
Came indoors to have a cup of coffee and cool off before showering & heading to work, and saw the river had turned into a bucking bronco of racing rapids, ice cakes & logs. Quite dramatic. I did shower and while I was in the water I heard the fire department pager go off and the word “jam”. Ice jam! I hadn’t seen one of those yet. The river was absolutely rolling and heaving, the ice cakes as big as a car or truck. It was terribly exciting. Very little traffic except for emergency vehicles and cops moving slowly by with their lights on, everyone watching the water and the ice. It was raining lightly. (Now at 4:30 in the afternoon the sun is out.) John couldn’t help the fire department because he was on his way to the hospital to deal with his excruciating back pain, so I (perhaps) over-dramatically decided to stay home from work in case the flood rose to the house or the barn. I was imagining shooting the pigs and then there would be no
more barn chores. Our back field did flood, right up to the bonfire mound, which is at the edge of the pigs’ paddock. The river did rise to nearly road-level, but only stayed that high for half an hour or so before some ice jam broke somewhere, and it left ice cakes behind. Today I learned that ice jams grow and crack up, they form on the river here and there, and in between are long stretches of normal-looking water.
What a day. It started earlier than usual for me, as I have to do chores myself now that John’s back is injured. Poor man, he is in so much pain he finally decided to go to the hospital where our doctor has an office. More on that later. So I did chores, and he went and got wood shavings to put down over the areas where the animals to the bathroom. I scraped and shoveled and mucked, hardest work of my life, and I am getting stronger every day. My stamina is growing, too. It’s not so bad after the work is done but it sure sucks while doing it. I know I ought to be grateful to John for doing all the barn chores for weeks at a time. Now that 100% of the job is mine, for however short a time, I am amazed and overwhelmed and secretly very proud.
Came indoors to have a cup of coffee and cool off before showering & heading to work, and saw the river had turned into a bucking bronco of racing rapids, ice cakes & logs. Quite dramatic. I did shower and while I was in the water I heard the fire department pager go off and the word “jam”. Ice jam! I hadn’t seen one of those yet. The river was absolutely rolling and heaving, the ice cakes as big as a car or truck. It was terribly exciting. Very little traffic except for emergency vehicles and cops moving slowly by with their lights on, everyone watching the water and the ice. It was raining lightly. (Now at 4:30 in the afternoon the sun is out.) John couldn’t help the fire department because he was on his way to the hospital to deal with his excruciating back pain, so I (perhaps) over-dramatically decided to stay home from work in case the flood rose to the house or the barn. I was imagining shooting the pigs and then there would be no
more barn chores. Our back field did flood, right up to the bonfire mound, which is at the edge of the pigs’ paddock. The river did rise to nearly road-level, but only stayed that high for half an hour or so before some ice jam broke somewhere, and it left ice cakes behind. Today I learned that ice jams grow and crack up, they form on the river here and there, and in between are long stretches of normal-looking water.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
beloved neighbors & heroic problem-solver
What a Tuesday. John hurt his back and was out of commission for a third day, in worse pain than the other two days combined. The temperature remained above freezing and the “deep pack” in the barn was very thawed, stenchy and dangerous. This condition has been bothering me and when it was clear John would be doing no shoveling today, much less go to work, I panicked. I called beloved neighbors and received reassurances that they would be over soon with big machine + big muscles. I convinced John to let himself stay home from work, got him a chiropractor and massage appointment, set him up with his favorite beverage (Diet cola), food (chips & salsa,) music (Monsterbuck) + NYT Sunday paper bits, and went out to do the hardest physical labor I think I have ever done in my life. With hours of heroic help from neighbors and two men from my school, we got the barn clean. The animals seem so much happier. It’s hard to know if they are or not. John called me his heroic problem-solver.
It is daylight savings time, so still bright dusk at almost 6:30. I hear John moving about upstairs. He’s got to do the fire department treasurer’s report, and then go to a meeting. I will continue to sit here in my quiet exhausted state. Aching back, sense of major accomplishment. I went out to the barn just a while ago to check on them, and all remains well. The animals truly seem happier. I can only imagine what it was like for them living on top of their own suddenly melted mess, eating from a trough while their feet were in their mess.
John shuffles by and reminds me that I still need to water the pigs. Now that he’s accepted his limitations he’s a model patient + happy delegator. We’ll see how long I remain a model wife.
I did not go tot work today; took a sick day sort of, to deal with this all. Feeling somewhat guilty about that: should I have been traditionally responsible and gone to the office, or should I have done what I did: stayed home and gotten help to solve what I perceived as a terrible crisis? Woulda coulda shoulda. What’s done is done.
Pig water. Dinner for self & hubbin. Bring in firewood. Wash dishes. Move laundry through cycle. Straighten up from the day. Triage tomorrow’s tasks. This reminds me of what I imagine child-rearing will be like. Always some demand.
Water done. nearly seven and still light, hallelujah. When did I turn into this rough and strong farm person? (Grin.) When did I turn into a person who is happy to go to church? I am so far from perfect—am a deeply flawed person—but I have moments of joy just from living my life. My ridiculous, unexpected life.
It is daylight savings time, so still bright dusk at almost 6:30. I hear John moving about upstairs. He’s got to do the fire department treasurer’s report, and then go to a meeting. I will continue to sit here in my quiet exhausted state. Aching back, sense of major accomplishment. I went out to the barn just a while ago to check on them, and all remains well. The animals truly seem happier. I can only imagine what it was like for them living on top of their own suddenly melted mess, eating from a trough while their feet were in their mess.
John shuffles by and reminds me that I still need to water the pigs. Now that he’s accepted his limitations he’s a model patient + happy delegator. We’ll see how long I remain a model wife.
I did not go tot work today; took a sick day sort of, to deal with this all. Feeling somewhat guilty about that: should I have been traditionally responsible and gone to the office, or should I have done what I did: stayed home and gotten help to solve what I perceived as a terrible crisis? Woulda coulda shoulda. What’s done is done.
Pig water. Dinner for self & hubbin. Bring in firewood. Wash dishes. Move laundry through cycle. Straighten up from the day. Triage tomorrow’s tasks. This reminds me of what I imagine child-rearing will be like. Always some demand.
Water done. nearly seven and still light, hallelujah. When did I turn into this rough and strong farm person? (Grin.) When did I turn into a person who is happy to go to church? I am so far from perfect—am a deeply flawed person—but I have moments of joy just from living my life. My ridiculous, unexpected life.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
pig cannibalism
It is minus eleven degrees at dusk, nearly six o'clock. I just came in from chores. When I entered the barn all seemed calm. I had already fed the big pigs and the hens and was pouring the sows' grain when I noticed a bloody mess in the deep straw in the back of their stall. It was a half-eaten piglet, the black-and-white banded one. I couldn't believe it. I shouted in horror, then climbed over the fence and gently nudged Gal, the mama, so I could go into the stall and get the carcass. The piglet's front half was entirely gone, and when I picked it up (little legs not much thicker than my gloved fingers, little feet between my fingers) I saw bits of bone & offal in the straw. The others had emptied out the body. There was no skull or front legs or feet. The dead pig's black and white mid-section was deflated, like a scooped-out piece of fruit. The animals did not bother me as I took the carcass out, and when I left the piglets scampered in and started rooting in the straw for any remaining bits of their sibling's corpse. Ugh. Ick. I laid the body and bits on top of a pile of manure in a blue bucket. The sows kept on munching their grain.
Just the other day I read in a pamphlet about slaughtering pigs that they don't care if you kill their pig-friend right next to them--they just go for the warm tasty blood.
That's at least $60 down the drain, or more precisely, into the compost. Gal had eleven or twelve babies and three remain. It is so very cold, and we are so very new to pig-farming. We've probably made 100 mistakes. I blame myself for not helping enough in the barn. Although of course the pig was probably crushed and then eaten; Ham and Gal are by choice sharing that space meant for one sow and her litter.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
cold
Note to beloved siblings...
It’s booger-freezin’ cold here today! The river is frozen solid and is utterly quiet, not even creaking. There are miniature glaciers forming along the roadside cliffs where in the warm weather there are damp mossy springs. In the winter that dampness grows & grows, like frozen billowing smoke, and gets to be all sorts of colors from the minerals in the rock. More notably, the growing pillows of ice flow into the road and have to be scraped away by big machines. I would love to catch this on slow motion film. I wish you could see it. Anyway, big storm coming our way. Enjoy your weather-channel view of it. Love, M
It’s booger-freezin’ cold here today! The river is frozen solid and is utterly quiet, not even creaking. There are miniature glaciers forming along the roadside cliffs where in the warm weather there are damp mossy springs. In the winter that dampness grows & grows, like frozen billowing smoke, and gets to be all sorts of colors from the minerals in the rock. More notably, the growing pillows of ice flow into the road and have to be scraped away by big machines. I would love to catch this on slow motion film. I wish you could see it. Anyway, big storm coming our way. Enjoy your weather-channel view of it. Love, M
Monday, November 27, 2006
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Five years ago this was my daily view: the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn, New York. We lived on the Brooklyn side. That's my fire escape in the upper left hand corner, and a great pale dilapidated opera house on the right. Here is a poem I sketched out during those years.
Urban Soundscapes
1.
That first day in the city
Me fresh from forest living
A tired and lonely night
July, no air conditioning
The tuneful humming bridge and parties,
Traffic, commerce
Did marry into jazz.
And later to learn Ornette Coleman hung
His hat here, composed and played.
In my panic, culture shock I did hear that jazz
If only for a hyper monkey typewriter moment
2.
Flat on my back on the silver roof
Six stories up, level of bridge roadway
Higher still, beyond bridge elbows, Chrysler and Empire State
Clouds ride against the plastic bubble surface
Covering our spiky city sky
They make no sound, but like a calliope
They are ornate decoration, the carousel horses
3.
I notice that jackhammers
on the bridge do sound
like wailing cicadas
locusts in reflective orange and gold
hard hat highway persons
six stories up in traffic.
4.
A camp wedding memory: Loons on our lake before dawn
concert of humanlike voices, echoes
notes of dog and splashing bonfire.
In Brooklyn, Williamsburg, this is sirens
Back and forth across the bridge
European bing-bong siren
Up and down Broadway.
5.
The museum of dead police cars and taxicabs
Has no known translation into music.
The lumberyard forklift back up beep
Insane, monotonous, ignorable.
The garage specializes in fancy car alarms,
Puerto Rican and Dominican flags.
They test alarms and horns in permutation,
Flexing their muscles, roaring their engines
Day and night, territorial,
Like the lake joke, what is the plume
behind a fast-moving speedboat—
Testosterone.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
my grandma when she was happy
Here are some scanned photos of my grandmother, Janet McCormack Williams, from the late 1920s and/or early 1930s. The pictures may have been taken in Great Britain, where she lived as a young adult until my American grandfather, Kenneth Richard Williams sept her off her feet and away from the Blitz to Alexandria, Virginia.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Boing Boing
Boing Boing: I am in thy library, executing a grammatical procedure of great destructive force against thy lexicon.
This cat-themed joke series makes me snort with laughter. It also affirms my deep belief that cats are representatives of an alien life force outside our galaxy.
This cat-themed joke series makes me snort with laughter. It also affirms my deep belief that cats are representatives of an alien life force outside our galaxy.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Monday, November 06, 2006
Saddam Hussein Sentenced to Death by Hanging - New York Times
Hussein Is Sentenced to Death by Hanging - New York Times
I find this very saddening. Yet another death.
I find this very saddening. Yet another death.
Friday, November 03, 2006
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Blogger Help : How do I post pictures?
Blogger Help : How do I post pictures?
I am trying to post a photograph or two here, but am too deeply conflicted between Gen X and Boomer instincts to understand the "help" page.
I am trying to post a photograph or two here, but am too deeply conflicted between Gen X and Boomer instincts to understand the "help" page.
Friday, June 23, 2006
American Buffalo at Upper Jay Upholstery
Adirondack Theater
REVIEWS
Thrillingly good. I’m so proud and excited that local folks have produced a show so professional, raw and strong. The actors, (my neighbors), are transformed within their seedy, intriguing set. The audience becomes the walls and roof of the rickety junk shop setting as we respond to the emotional storms of the play. Leave kids at home, don’t be late, and bring a few extra bucks or a bottle to donate to Recovery Lounge, c/o any staff or the bartender who gives you a free drink.
REVIEWS
Thrillingly good. I’m so proud and excited that local folks have produced a show so professional, raw and strong. The actors, (my neighbors), are transformed within their seedy, intriguing set. The audience becomes the walls and roof of the rickety junk shop setting as we respond to the emotional storms of the play. Leave kids at home, don’t be late, and bring a few extra bucks or a bottle to donate to Recovery Lounge, c/o any staff or the bartender who gives you a free drink.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Two Together: Gay Marriage
Article submission for Press Republican’s JILL Magazine
500 words
April 15, 2006
Today at breakfast at the local bakery I asked one couple, “Why did you get married?” Their grown children, who became a family when the couple fell in love, urged them to. I asked another couple, whose teenage son was with them, “Why did you get married?” They didn’t see why they shouldn’t: they loved each other, owned property together, were planning to start a family and be together for the rest of their lives, and there was family health insurance available to them only if they were married. Both couples have been together for many years and are happy as can be. They’re also different than you might be imagining: the couple whose grown children urged them to marry are lesbians, and the couple with the teenage son and family health insurance are gay men.
I think it is perfectly fine for people to be gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered, or any variation thereof. But there is more to this than “it’s ok to be gay.” Why would two people of the same gender want to get married? First, because they love each other and want to commit to each other for life. On another level, gay people might want to get married as a step toward civil rights and equality. Yet another reason is that there are financial and legal benefits to getting married, as my husband and I learned as soon as we signed that license and started building equity. Being married makes lots of things easier for loving—or not so loving—partners. As one friend put it, “Marriages have been arranged to prevent war, accumulate wealth, unite families, get a green card, etc.”
Some people contemplate gay marriage and get stuck on the first word, “gay”. Some of my queer friends were irked when I asked them to think about marriage in the context of their own lives. One person asked why they would want to subject themselves to the likelihood of a painful and expensive divorce, since so many marriages end that way. Another said that their church is fine with them being gay as long as they don’t act on it and don’t have a partner; if they showed up in church with a beloved of the same sex, they would not be welcome any more. Sometimes things change: it used to be illegal for people of different races to marry, but those laws were changed as society evolved. Other social differences remain an obstacle to people marrying, like religious faith or economic position.
Some people think that the idea of gay marriage threatens the institution of marriage. This seems rather like pointing the finger away from the guilty party. In most places only heterosexual people can get married, and the divorce rate is terribly high, so aren’t straight people already doing a good enough job of ruining marriage? What difference would another 10% of the population make to an already wobbly institution?
Being married, to me, means making a lifelong commitment of love, partnership, and sexual monogamy. I chose to make this commitment with a person of the opposite gender. But what if the person I grew to love and cherish was another woman, and we decided to make this traditional commitment to each other? Why would that be so wrong?
500 words
April 15, 2006
Today at breakfast at the local bakery I asked one couple, “Why did you get married?” Their grown children, who became a family when the couple fell in love, urged them to. I asked another couple, whose teenage son was with them, “Why did you get married?” They didn’t see why they shouldn’t: they loved each other, owned property together, were planning to start a family and be together for the rest of their lives, and there was family health insurance available to them only if they were married. Both couples have been together for many years and are happy as can be. They’re also different than you might be imagining: the couple whose grown children urged them to marry are lesbians, and the couple with the teenage son and family health insurance are gay men.
I think it is perfectly fine for people to be gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered, or any variation thereof. But there is more to this than “it’s ok to be gay.” Why would two people of the same gender want to get married? First, because they love each other and want to commit to each other for life. On another level, gay people might want to get married as a step toward civil rights and equality. Yet another reason is that there are financial and legal benefits to getting married, as my husband and I learned as soon as we signed that license and started building equity. Being married makes lots of things easier for loving—or not so loving—partners. As one friend put it, “Marriages have been arranged to prevent war, accumulate wealth, unite families, get a green card, etc.”
Some people contemplate gay marriage and get stuck on the first word, “gay”. Some of my queer friends were irked when I asked them to think about marriage in the context of their own lives. One person asked why they would want to subject themselves to the likelihood of a painful and expensive divorce, since so many marriages end that way. Another said that their church is fine with them being gay as long as they don’t act on it and don’t have a partner; if they showed up in church with a beloved of the same sex, they would not be welcome any more. Sometimes things change: it used to be illegal for people of different races to marry, but those laws were changed as society evolved. Other social differences remain an obstacle to people marrying, like religious faith or economic position.
Some people think that the idea of gay marriage threatens the institution of marriage. This seems rather like pointing the finger away from the guilty party. In most places only heterosexual people can get married, and the divorce rate is terribly high, so aren’t straight people already doing a good enough job of ruining marriage? What difference would another 10% of the population make to an already wobbly institution?
Being married, to me, means making a lifelong commitment of love, partnership, and sexual monogamy. I chose to make this commitment with a person of the opposite gender. But what if the person I grew to love and cherish was another woman, and we decided to make this traditional commitment to each other? Why would that be so wrong?
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Thank You: By A Fire Department Auxiliary Member
Thank You: By A Fire Department Auxiliary Member
For Plattsburgh Press Republican JILL Magazine
March 2006
Within a year of our moving to the Adirondacks, our new next-door-neighbors convinced my spouse to join the volunteer fire department. After several fires and emergencies, I volunteered for the Auxiliary, which is mostly female family members and friends of fire fighters.
Our firefighters put their lives at risk for the people in the community. They leap out of bed as faithfully as dogs whether snow, sleet or dark of night. They help people when conditions are worst. Our town’s firefighters are heroes. The auxiliary helps run the services and social side of the fire department. When there’s a disaster, the auxiliary provides hot meals and a warm smile at the fire house. We show up at fires with cold drinks for workers and a kind helping hand where needed. We host a holiday party where every town child receives a gift and gets a photo with special guest Santa Claus. It’s a family and community institution, and I love being a part of it.
Sunday in February, just after dawn the pager went off: structure fire. My spouse kissed me and launched out of bed. I moved more slowly. On my bleary way to the fire I stopped at the firehouse to prepare drinks for the firefighters. At Stewart’s I requested and received an immediate donation of coffee supplies. (Thanks.) When I arrived at the firehouse I identified myself and showed my membership pin, offered drinks,. Then my next-door neighbor’s oldest son appeared and was delighted to get a cup of hot coffee and a pat on the back. This was one of his first fires.
At the top of the steep dirt mountain road was the cluster of flashing machinery and lights and hoses snaking along the frozen ground. Another neighbor approached to wave me off, and broke into a grin when he saw it was me. I wandered through the hectic, noisy scene. The closer I got to the actual fire, as I met gazes and shook hands, the faces changed from my neighbors’ friendly mugs to stern and serious strangers…who are by and large SO handsome! And I am married to the finest one.
I left the heavy thermoses of hot coffee and cold water on the broad metal step of an idling fire truck. The commander accepted my offering graciously and I felt I had done a good job. As soon as I could I left. Didn’t want to see the fire or know too much about it. Someone else’s pain.
Now I've draped my beloved husband’s filthy fire gear near the woodstove to dry. His heavy tan and fluorescent jacket was encrusted with snow crystals when he took it off. His pants, of equally heavy fabric with reflective stripes, are drier but slick with soot. The big rubber boots will air out. His ominous helmet I've got resting prone on the fireproof platform surrounding our stove. A facemask and netting to cover the hair are hanging over the top of the black iron fireplace tools. Ice crystals are heavy there, too. Sweat and water and maybe tears.
For Plattsburgh Press Republican JILL Magazine
March 2006
Within a year of our moving to the Adirondacks, our new next-door-neighbors convinced my spouse to join the volunteer fire department. After several fires and emergencies, I volunteered for the Auxiliary, which is mostly female family members and friends of fire fighters.
Our firefighters put their lives at risk for the people in the community. They leap out of bed as faithfully as dogs whether snow, sleet or dark of night. They help people when conditions are worst. Our town’s firefighters are heroes. The auxiliary helps run the services and social side of the fire department. When there’s a disaster, the auxiliary provides hot meals and a warm smile at the fire house. We show up at fires with cold drinks for workers and a kind helping hand where needed. We host a holiday party where every town child receives a gift and gets a photo with special guest Santa Claus. It’s a family and community institution, and I love being a part of it.
Sunday in February, just after dawn the pager went off: structure fire. My spouse kissed me and launched out of bed. I moved more slowly. On my bleary way to the fire I stopped at the firehouse to prepare drinks for the firefighters. At Stewart’s I requested and received an immediate donation of coffee supplies. (Thanks.) When I arrived at the firehouse I identified myself and showed my membership pin, offered drinks,. Then my next-door neighbor’s oldest son appeared and was delighted to get a cup of hot coffee and a pat on the back. This was one of his first fires.
At the top of the steep dirt mountain road was the cluster of flashing machinery and lights and hoses snaking along the frozen ground. Another neighbor approached to wave me off, and broke into a grin when he saw it was me. I wandered through the hectic, noisy scene. The closer I got to the actual fire, as I met gazes and shook hands, the faces changed from my neighbors’ friendly mugs to stern and serious strangers…who are by and large SO handsome! And I am married to the finest one.
I left the heavy thermoses of hot coffee and cold water on the broad metal step of an idling fire truck. The commander accepted my offering graciously and I felt I had done a good job. As soon as I could I left. Didn’t want to see the fire or know too much about it. Someone else’s pain.
Now I've draped my beloved husband’s filthy fire gear near the woodstove to dry. His heavy tan and fluorescent jacket was encrusted with snow crystals when he took it off. His pants, of equally heavy fabric with reflective stripes, are drier but slick with soot. The big rubber boots will air out. His ominous helmet I've got resting prone on the fireproof platform surrounding our stove. A facemask and netting to cover the hair are hanging over the top of the black iron fireplace tools. Ice crystals are heavy there, too. Sweat and water and maybe tears.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
seven things meme
seven things meme
1. seven things to do before I die
- climb as many mountains as I can, starting in the Adirondacks of New York State
- visit my parents' tombstones
- tell my husband and loved ones that I love them
- publish more
- make more art
- forgive those who trespass against me
- be a good partner to John
2. seven things I can't do
- anything requiring that a real live penis be part of my body
- undo mistakes
- kiss my parents on the cheek
- be sure that I haven't commited mortal sins and am thus doomed to hell for eternity
- get pregnant
- be as thin and fit as I would like
- be perfect
3. seven things that attract me to blogging
- I'm a compulsive writer.
- I don't really blog that much,
- I like to look at junkfood websites like boingboing and perezhilton,
- and otherwise I work a lot.
...and as Janine wrote,
- people reading/liking my writing/ideas/voice
- reading interesting people
- exposure to myriad ideas/information
4. seven things I say most often
- thank you
- is this a good time?
- I love you
- [deep sigh]
- hello
- good bye
- yes
5. seven books that I love
- Roman Fever by Edith Wharton
- Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
- 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
- A Garden Primer by Barbara Damrosch
- Dorothy Parker collected essays
- anything by John McPhee, Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Ogden Nash, John Irving (until that last one)
- Persistent Desire
6. seven movies I watched again and again
- All About Eve
- Animal House
- Fame
- An Officer and A Gentleman
- Phliadelphia Story
- Little Darlings
- Princess Bride
7. seven people I am tagging to do this meme
- Lisa Poo
- Liza
- Tom P
- Bev
- Marti
- John Beloved
- Harri Ann
1. seven things to do before I die
- climb as many mountains as I can, starting in the Adirondacks of New York State
- visit my parents' tombstones
- tell my husband and loved ones that I love them
- publish more
- make more art
- forgive those who trespass against me
- be a good partner to John
2. seven things I can't do
- anything requiring that a real live penis be part of my body
- undo mistakes
- kiss my parents on the cheek
- be sure that I haven't commited mortal sins and am thus doomed to hell for eternity
- get pregnant
- be as thin and fit as I would like
- be perfect
3. seven things that attract me to blogging
- I'm a compulsive writer.
- I don't really blog that much,
- I like to look at junkfood websites like boingboing and perezhilton,
- and otherwise I work a lot.
...and as Janine wrote,
- people reading/liking my writing/ideas/voice
- reading interesting people
- exposure to myriad ideas/information
4. seven things I say most often
- thank you
- is this a good time?
- I love you
- [deep sigh]
- hello
- good bye
- yes
5. seven books that I love
- Roman Fever by Edith Wharton
- Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood
- 100 Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
- A Garden Primer by Barbara Damrosch
- Dorothy Parker collected essays
- anything by John McPhee, Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Ogden Nash, John Irving (until that last one)
- Persistent Desire
6. seven movies I watched again and again
- All About Eve
- Animal House
- Fame
- An Officer and A Gentleman
- Phliadelphia Story
- Little Darlings
- Princess Bride
7. seven people I am tagging to do this meme
- Lisa Poo
- Liza
- Tom P
- Bev
- Marti
- John Beloved
- Harri Ann
Saturday, January 14, 2006
Adirondack Writers Dec 05 essay context memoir
God, how I love hanging laundry outside in the Adirondacks, with the mountains framing the view of golden meadows, green trees, blue sky and rolling river. Tonight it may freeze and maple sap may run, but right now is balmy, sunny bliss. After hanging laundry the chuckling frogs out back seem to beckon me. I summon the dog and we set out along the thorny edge of the field toward the wetland at the back of our property.
Spring at our place means the AuSable River roaring out front, the low parts of the meadow flooded out back. The reeds and grasses are still dead and dry from winter and they shush against my denim legs as I stride eastward. When I reach the water’s edge I sit on a hummock and listen to the frogs croak and cluck, thriving in their rich ecosystem. I can’t see any froggies, just the placid swollen water and its world of grasses submerged in sapphire light. Just a few weeks ago this was all frozen, flat and white. We walked along, admiring the stillness and the hardy shrubs. Now it is a maze of tussocks, spiky plants and ripples as invisible things touch the surface of the water. I glance upstream, into the sun, as my dog huffs and chuffs in the grasses behind me. There is a small thing floating in the water, a shape like this: So small and yet it gives the glassy surface movement. It drifts ever so slowly toward me, and I realize that it is a frog. Then I see others in the distance, aligned toward me, it seems, but of course they are facing the precious sun.
I think of my family: my beloved, taking a nap in the house. My sister and her husband and children, enjoying their own southern, earlier springtime in the country. My brother and wife and their soon-to-be firstborn, cozy in a suburban townhouse even farther south. My mother, whose lifetime of springs is now ended. In heaven are there flooded creeks and chirruping frogs?
I yearn to see a frog up close in the water and so steel myself for an icy cold immersion. I am clumsy and squeamish in the way that city-bred folks can be, but I have a stout heart and a yen for adventure. In I wade, and find the water velvety cool. My skin is protected from mud and ticklish mysteries by thick socks, jeans and sneakers. I laugh for joy: spring! Some day soon my beloved’s and my children will wade in this very swamp, will know it far more intimately that I in this still, sweet afternoon.
The floating frogs vanish when I approached. I am aware of not only my body but also my cold shadow, the ripples my steps cause as I walk deeper, and the cluttered sounds of my playing dog. Across the meadow floats the sound of chickens calling to each other and my neighbors’ children playing tag.
My beloved and I hope to adopt a baby soon. Most everyone asks if we’re going overseas. No, we say, there are enough kids in this country needing families—and there are, but few newborns, and that’s what I want: an infant to start with. I want to wander my land with my own child and discover life again.
I grieve that I will never be able to share this and so many other joys with my Mom. She had been so brutally ill for years that I yearned for her passing even while I knew that it would cause a sadness unrivalled in me since my Dad died. That was when I was 20, Mom 45 and Dad 54. Dad was out for a mid-summer bike ride and a drunk driver ran him down. With Dad there was no time for last words. I think I progressed very far in granting Mom the forgiveness any child owes its parent. I hope she forgave me as much as she could.
When my Dad died I experienced the typical stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, with shock being the pungent soup in which everything swam. The flavor of my mother’s death is relief. During the last 17 years, she was suffering and dying. Last year when she gave up living independently I helped my sister and brother pack up her house, where we had grown up. I chose to pack up her bedroom. She was nearly bed-ridden and as the range of her physical body shrank she drew close to her all her most precious totems: journals she wrote after Dad died, Bibles of various translations embroidered with her hand-written annotations, animal bones, seed pods, art and needlework of a size and heft she could hold in her frail, curled hand. Now I, who lived farthest away, decided what intimate things she would keep with her in her new room at my sister’s house.
I wanted to retrieve a pink jade necklace that I had given Mom right after I graduated from college. She had long since ceased wearing jewelry. She had rarely if ever worn this necklace and instead had draped it upon a small Henry-Mooreish-ish sculpture on her bureau, like a lei on a Buddha. As time passed and I moved farther into my adulthood, Mom acquired other necklaces and layered them on top of the pink one, decorated the treasures with doodads and trinkets, until the thing was a mound of glistening snaky intrigue. Now I took that assemblage apart and reclaimed my old necklace, then examined the handsfuls of strung beads and gewgaws that my mother had gathered together. I took what I wanted and left the rest for others to discover.
In her top dresser drawer I found an envelope addressed in her hand to me. Business-sized, white, plain, with printed info and my Mom’s handwriting when it was vigorous. I looked inside and recoiled from it. I never chose to discuss that envelope with Mom in the year that remained to her. I guess the subject remained in the taboo area like so many things we couldn’t talk about: Race, specifically African American. Anyone of whom she had a bad opinion and no respect. She forgot things. She said one thing and did another.
I understand it is important to forgive and say all that needs saying, so nothing is left undone or unsaid when the person finally passes away. I tried very hard to forgive her and said the words out loud to her many times. She many times replied that she forgave me, too. There was a time years ago when I churlishly thought, “What has she to forgive me for?” But that was before I began to understand how strongly she felt about the abortion I chose to have when I was twenty.
Safe in the north woods I see a frog, one who has seemingly decided to let me approach. Maybe it is a sentry or sacrifice. Or maybe it is a female wanting fertilization, as our chickens will squat submissively before us thinking we’re her rooster. I stop and rest my hand on my damp thighs. Delicate little grey thing, with golden eyes above the waterline. The frog could easily sit in a teaspoon. I coo to it, praise its little beauty. I am awed by its sturdiness and delicacy there in the water, this creature of season. No matter the snow and ice of the last month or the parched whistle of summer to come—this frog floats in a perfect hour.
Out in the swollen wetland I lean closer ever-so-slowly until I can reach out a trembling pale finger and touch its tiny webbed foot. The frog lets me stroke it, and I gently tug the underwater grass it clutches so its body angles to me. With one outstretched fingertip I stroke the tiny frog’s silky green-mottled skin. The frog darts away, legs scissoring into complete concealment inside the submerged grass thicket.
Farther downstream more frogs are making a racket, clucking and splashing. I don’t hear the frogs we call spring peepers; perhaps they are for nighttime only. I wade easily through the slow stream toward dozens of frogs on the surface, bobbing and skimming. The dog canters alongside on the dry field edge. Ahead at a wide bend in the placid water one small clutch of frogs is thrashing and splashing. I near them cautiously, as bodies, shadow and ripples send little beasts into camouflage. The knot of struggling frogs stays flopping in the same spot on the pond surface. They must be mating and I must see! But the tangle of rubbery legs and jaws sinks and flits away before I can get close enough to decipher their activity.
Much of my mom’s last year was spent at various medical facilities. The rest of the time she lived at my sister and brother-in-law’s home in a rural mid-Atlantic town. My sister and her large young family were well intentioned but had no idea what a demand that caring for such an ill person would be on their time. The new situation was an appalling culture shock to my mother, who was used to being Queen Bee of her dim, brocaded urban bungalow and its dusty silences. They did the best they could, but it was not easy for anyone. Mom even spent a few days in a municipal nursing home. I tracked her down there by phone maybe six weeks ago. She was hard to reach—it takes persistence in those places, and politeness and a respect for the busy routine of nursing home staff. After three or so calls a staffer said, “Here she is,” and put the phone to Mom’s ear.
“Hi, Mom, it’s Martha,” I said in a cheery, warm voice as usual.
“Uh-huh!” she said faintly.
Mom was usually so articulate and keenly verbal.
“Hi, Mom, it’s Martha. Are you ok?”
“Uh-huh, unh-unh.”
“Are you ok, Mom?”
“Unh-unh.”
“Can you ask for help, Mom? Do you need my help?”
“Uh-uh, uh-uh!”
“Do you need me to help you get help?”
“Uh-huh! Uh-huh!”
I promised to stay on the phone with her and took my cell phone in hand, hoping for service in the remote Adirondack hamlet where I live. Glory be, yes.
“Mom, I’m going to call the nurse’s station now and I’ll stay on the phone with you until you get help. I love you.”
“Uh-huh.” I could sense relief from her, and relaxation as she rested from her exhausting effort to communicate. She had been out of it before but never this badly. At least she was in a wheelchair right at the station, rather than in her room, where her condition might have gone unobserved. On the cell phone I told the receptionist and then nursing station staff, “my mother is having a stroke or something right there in front of you and she can’t get your attention. I’m on the phone with her on the other line. Please help.” Finally someone spoke to me and her voice changed from my left to my right ear. The nurse hung up and I called back to confirm, and knew all was well. Later my sister asked if I thought our mother might have been faking it. In fact, I believed Mom but I wouldn’t have put it past her to induce feeling that badly so she could go back to the familiar and safe hospital and its 24-hour a day care and not so many people of a certain lesser class.
Complicated person, my mother. Her death has not brought any clarity to my spouse’s and my adoption process, the certification perhaps here-ever-after stalled pending a fire safety inspection of our 170-year-old farmhouse and its twenty-first century woodstove. Another procrastination, that envelope from Mom’s bureau with its official seal, my mother’s curly handwriting and a scribbled splotch of yellow highlighter.
Later in the days of packing Mom’s personal things I found a card in her Rolodex with the same odd yellow highlighter splotch, although this time the neon and ballpoint drawing of a smiling face were clearly the work of a small child. The address was to a memorial plot in the heartland where she bought a remembrance for my unborn child. Maybe if I could have children now she would have let this slide, or if we had adopted before she died.
It was my decision and I regret it only minimally. My life would have been so much different. I chose a life I could foresee happily, without a child at twenty. Now I am approaching 40, want a child so badly and cannot now have one of my own because my body won’t allow it. I cannot say what would have been had I chosen differently.
Thigh deep in meltwater I feel no sadness at the painful past and unknown future, only wonder and joy in the present. The chattering frogs have given me all the forgiveness I need at this moment. In the net of sunken reeds are cloudy blue blooms—frogs’ eggs in giant clusters like dotted thunderheads in the stream, hanging of the edges of submerged reeds like underwater hydrangeas. I gaze in delight at this final show, which I never would have seen if I hadn’t risked venturing out into the flooded channel. Each egg cluster is the size of a grapefruit, pale grey-blue, made up of thousands of black seeds embedded in flowerheads of clear shining protective globules, the black nuclei of which become visible when I gently lift their stalks to the surface. Here are the frogs’ progeny, unguarded and incubating in the sun-warmed water.
My own children are somewhere now, too, eggs and sperm in two people, and we live our lives until the moment we join and become a family. Living up here on our wee farm in the wilderness soothes a torn soul like mine. I have prayed and sworn to forgive my mother, but maybe I didn’t try hard enough to earn her forgiveness. I have hidden her envelope from myself, but I can see it—pale rectangular wing on the tablecloth near a basket of brown eggs.
Spring at our place means the AuSable River roaring out front, the low parts of the meadow flooded out back. The reeds and grasses are still dead and dry from winter and they shush against my denim legs as I stride eastward. When I reach the water’s edge I sit on a hummock and listen to the frogs croak and cluck, thriving in their rich ecosystem. I can’t see any froggies, just the placid swollen water and its world of grasses submerged in sapphire light. Just a few weeks ago this was all frozen, flat and white. We walked along, admiring the stillness and the hardy shrubs. Now it is a maze of tussocks, spiky plants and ripples as invisible things touch the surface of the water. I glance upstream, into the sun, as my dog huffs and chuffs in the grasses behind me. There is a small thing floating in the water, a shape like this: So small and yet it gives the glassy surface movement. It drifts ever so slowly toward me, and I realize that it is a frog. Then I see others in the distance, aligned toward me, it seems, but of course they are facing the precious sun.
I think of my family: my beloved, taking a nap in the house. My sister and her husband and children, enjoying their own southern, earlier springtime in the country. My brother and wife and their soon-to-be firstborn, cozy in a suburban townhouse even farther south. My mother, whose lifetime of springs is now ended. In heaven are there flooded creeks and chirruping frogs?
I yearn to see a frog up close in the water and so steel myself for an icy cold immersion. I am clumsy and squeamish in the way that city-bred folks can be, but I have a stout heart and a yen for adventure. In I wade, and find the water velvety cool. My skin is protected from mud and ticklish mysteries by thick socks, jeans and sneakers. I laugh for joy: spring! Some day soon my beloved’s and my children will wade in this very swamp, will know it far more intimately that I in this still, sweet afternoon.
The floating frogs vanish when I approached. I am aware of not only my body but also my cold shadow, the ripples my steps cause as I walk deeper, and the cluttered sounds of my playing dog. Across the meadow floats the sound of chickens calling to each other and my neighbors’ children playing tag.
My beloved and I hope to adopt a baby soon. Most everyone asks if we’re going overseas. No, we say, there are enough kids in this country needing families—and there are, but few newborns, and that’s what I want: an infant to start with. I want to wander my land with my own child and discover life again.
I grieve that I will never be able to share this and so many other joys with my Mom. She had been so brutally ill for years that I yearned for her passing even while I knew that it would cause a sadness unrivalled in me since my Dad died. That was when I was 20, Mom 45 and Dad 54. Dad was out for a mid-summer bike ride and a drunk driver ran him down. With Dad there was no time for last words. I think I progressed very far in granting Mom the forgiveness any child owes its parent. I hope she forgave me as much as she could.
When my Dad died I experienced the typical stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance, with shock being the pungent soup in which everything swam. The flavor of my mother’s death is relief. During the last 17 years, she was suffering and dying. Last year when she gave up living independently I helped my sister and brother pack up her house, where we had grown up. I chose to pack up her bedroom. She was nearly bed-ridden and as the range of her physical body shrank she drew close to her all her most precious totems: journals she wrote after Dad died, Bibles of various translations embroidered with her hand-written annotations, animal bones, seed pods, art and needlework of a size and heft she could hold in her frail, curled hand. Now I, who lived farthest away, decided what intimate things she would keep with her in her new room at my sister’s house.
I wanted to retrieve a pink jade necklace that I had given Mom right after I graduated from college. She had long since ceased wearing jewelry. She had rarely if ever worn this necklace and instead had draped it upon a small Henry-Mooreish-ish sculpture on her bureau, like a lei on a Buddha. As time passed and I moved farther into my adulthood, Mom acquired other necklaces and layered them on top of the pink one, decorated the treasures with doodads and trinkets, until the thing was a mound of glistening snaky intrigue. Now I took that assemblage apart and reclaimed my old necklace, then examined the handsfuls of strung beads and gewgaws that my mother had gathered together. I took what I wanted and left the rest for others to discover.
In her top dresser drawer I found an envelope addressed in her hand to me. Business-sized, white, plain, with printed info and my Mom’s handwriting when it was vigorous. I looked inside and recoiled from it. I never chose to discuss that envelope with Mom in the year that remained to her. I guess the subject remained in the taboo area like so many things we couldn’t talk about: Race, specifically African American. Anyone of whom she had a bad opinion and no respect. She forgot things. She said one thing and did another.
I understand it is important to forgive and say all that needs saying, so nothing is left undone or unsaid when the person finally passes away. I tried very hard to forgive her and said the words out loud to her many times. She many times replied that she forgave me, too. There was a time years ago when I churlishly thought, “What has she to forgive me for?” But that was before I began to understand how strongly she felt about the abortion I chose to have when I was twenty.
Safe in the north woods I see a frog, one who has seemingly decided to let me approach. Maybe it is a sentry or sacrifice. Or maybe it is a female wanting fertilization, as our chickens will squat submissively before us thinking we’re her rooster. I stop and rest my hand on my damp thighs. Delicate little grey thing, with golden eyes above the waterline. The frog could easily sit in a teaspoon. I coo to it, praise its little beauty. I am awed by its sturdiness and delicacy there in the water, this creature of season. No matter the snow and ice of the last month or the parched whistle of summer to come—this frog floats in a perfect hour.
Out in the swollen wetland I lean closer ever-so-slowly until I can reach out a trembling pale finger and touch its tiny webbed foot. The frog lets me stroke it, and I gently tug the underwater grass it clutches so its body angles to me. With one outstretched fingertip I stroke the tiny frog’s silky green-mottled skin. The frog darts away, legs scissoring into complete concealment inside the submerged grass thicket.
Farther downstream more frogs are making a racket, clucking and splashing. I don’t hear the frogs we call spring peepers; perhaps they are for nighttime only. I wade easily through the slow stream toward dozens of frogs on the surface, bobbing and skimming. The dog canters alongside on the dry field edge. Ahead at a wide bend in the placid water one small clutch of frogs is thrashing and splashing. I near them cautiously, as bodies, shadow and ripples send little beasts into camouflage. The knot of struggling frogs stays flopping in the same spot on the pond surface. They must be mating and I must see! But the tangle of rubbery legs and jaws sinks and flits away before I can get close enough to decipher their activity.
Much of my mom’s last year was spent at various medical facilities. The rest of the time she lived at my sister and brother-in-law’s home in a rural mid-Atlantic town. My sister and her large young family were well intentioned but had no idea what a demand that caring for such an ill person would be on their time. The new situation was an appalling culture shock to my mother, who was used to being Queen Bee of her dim, brocaded urban bungalow and its dusty silences. They did the best they could, but it was not easy for anyone. Mom even spent a few days in a municipal nursing home. I tracked her down there by phone maybe six weeks ago. She was hard to reach—it takes persistence in those places, and politeness and a respect for the busy routine of nursing home staff. After three or so calls a staffer said, “Here she is,” and put the phone to Mom’s ear.
“Hi, Mom, it’s Martha,” I said in a cheery, warm voice as usual.
“Uh-huh!” she said faintly.
Mom was usually so articulate and keenly verbal.
“Hi, Mom, it’s Martha. Are you ok?”
“Uh-huh, unh-unh.”
“Are you ok, Mom?”
“Unh-unh.”
“Can you ask for help, Mom? Do you need my help?”
“Uh-uh, uh-uh!”
“Do you need me to help you get help?”
“Uh-huh! Uh-huh!”
I promised to stay on the phone with her and took my cell phone in hand, hoping for service in the remote Adirondack hamlet where I live. Glory be, yes.
“Mom, I’m going to call the nurse’s station now and I’ll stay on the phone with you until you get help. I love you.”
“Uh-huh.” I could sense relief from her, and relaxation as she rested from her exhausting effort to communicate. She had been out of it before but never this badly. At least she was in a wheelchair right at the station, rather than in her room, where her condition might have gone unobserved. On the cell phone I told the receptionist and then nursing station staff, “my mother is having a stroke or something right there in front of you and she can’t get your attention. I’m on the phone with her on the other line. Please help.” Finally someone spoke to me and her voice changed from my left to my right ear. The nurse hung up and I called back to confirm, and knew all was well. Later my sister asked if I thought our mother might have been faking it. In fact, I believed Mom but I wouldn’t have put it past her to induce feeling that badly so she could go back to the familiar and safe hospital and its 24-hour a day care and not so many people of a certain lesser class.
Complicated person, my mother. Her death has not brought any clarity to my spouse’s and my adoption process, the certification perhaps here-ever-after stalled pending a fire safety inspection of our 170-year-old farmhouse and its twenty-first century woodstove. Another procrastination, that envelope from Mom’s bureau with its official seal, my mother’s curly handwriting and a scribbled splotch of yellow highlighter.
Later in the days of packing Mom’s personal things I found a card in her Rolodex with the same odd yellow highlighter splotch, although this time the neon and ballpoint drawing of a smiling face were clearly the work of a small child. The address was to a memorial plot in the heartland where she bought a remembrance for my unborn child. Maybe if I could have children now she would have let this slide, or if we had adopted before she died.
It was my decision and I regret it only minimally. My life would have been so much different. I chose a life I could foresee happily, without a child at twenty. Now I am approaching 40, want a child so badly and cannot now have one of my own because my body won’t allow it. I cannot say what would have been had I chosen differently.
Thigh deep in meltwater I feel no sadness at the painful past and unknown future, only wonder and joy in the present. The chattering frogs have given me all the forgiveness I need at this moment. In the net of sunken reeds are cloudy blue blooms—frogs’ eggs in giant clusters like dotted thunderheads in the stream, hanging of the edges of submerged reeds like underwater hydrangeas. I gaze in delight at this final show, which I never would have seen if I hadn’t risked venturing out into the flooded channel. Each egg cluster is the size of a grapefruit, pale grey-blue, made up of thousands of black seeds embedded in flowerheads of clear shining protective globules, the black nuclei of which become visible when I gently lift their stalks to the surface. Here are the frogs’ progeny, unguarded and incubating in the sun-warmed water.
My own children are somewhere now, too, eggs and sperm in two people, and we live our lives until the moment we join and become a family. Living up here on our wee farm in the wilderness soothes a torn soul like mine. I have prayed and sworn to forgive my mother, but maybe I didn’t try hard enough to earn her forgiveness. I have hidden her envelope from myself, but I can see it—pale rectangular wing on the tablecloth near a basket of brown eggs.
Thursday, December 22, 2005
plumbing
Last night after John washed Cruiser in the bathtub upstairs, our kitchen ceiling started dripping (under the bathtub, naturally.) We’ve had that tub worked on before, so we figured maybe the plumber would guarantee his work and it won’t cost so much this time. John drilled a few holes in the ceiling to let the water out and eventually it stopped. “Don’t use the tub,” he commanded. Duh. Then this morning—AFTER John went to work—I was using the upstairs sink and heard a growling noise, and then when I went down to the kitchen for coffee, lo and behold there is a full on shower happening in the kitchen. I called the plumber who was out of course, I called our excellent neighbors who came right over and spent an hour helping me arrange garbage cans and towels and figuring out where to shut off which water. Jeez Louise. Now the ceiling is sagging, the drywall is like pudding and who knows what John will find when he gets home from work. I left for work when the water finally slowed to a drip. #&@*%! At least Cruiser is clean. Merry Christmas! Last year you may remember that the day before Christmas Eve our septic system backed up. Strange sort of karmic gift this house gives us. I am starting to have a regular feeling that I wish we had a newly-built house. I don’t want to move because I love our neighbors and community, but the house, as gorgeous as it is...we don’t earn enough money to keep that house in the style to which it is accustomed!
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Death Lessons
Two years ago my beloved and I and our cats moved to the North Country from a big city so we could live simply and learn how to raise some of our own food. We bought an ancient farm and have been slowly reviving it, with a lusty garden in our first year and “chigs and pickens” in this, our second year of country life. We plan to fence in our modest acreage and raise beef cattle next year.
I work at a farm-school and so receive lots of thoughtful guidance about what to do as we start our small farm. Plus we get helpful commentary from neighbors: the lady selling fire department raffle tickets at the hardware store, the man on a bicycle who stops at our flat section of Route 9N to fix a tire. The books our town librarian checks out for us give her plenty of knowledge about this couple of newcomers: “Raising Poultry for Food” and “Everything You Need To Know About Pigs” and “Build It Yourself”.
Today we slaughtered our first chickens. They were genetically selected for meat production, with enormous breasts and chunky wings and thighs, and soft white feathers easily plucked, supported on sturdy ungraceful yellow legs. They waddled like heavy toddlers. The birds spent their days outdoors in spring and summer weather, slept in a hand-made coop, enjoyed limitless corn and bug-snatching and playing in the grass during their brief lives. We wanted them to live well, be happy and have painless deaths before we ate them.
My husband laid each uncomplaining chicken’s slender white neck on the smooth cut surface of a log and beheaded it in one clean stroke of a sharp axe. Immediately pressing the neckstump against the grass to absorb the briefly pumping blood, he held the heavy jerking body as the last electrical impulses of life churned through it—no undignified running around with heads cut off. When each warm feathered body was motionless, my husband took the animal by its legs and dunked it in a vat of steaming water to loosen the feathers. The work of plucking, gutting, cleaning and packing the meat went quickly. I wrinkled my nose at the stink of hot wet feathers, murmured thanks to the birds who were next to die, snoozing inside cat carriers under a blanket in the back of our truck.
The heritage breed egg-laying birds who remain in our hen yard are maturing into soft, multicolored, clucking creatures. When they are “spent”, as my farming friend calls it, we will kill them, too, and take meat from their bodies. Soon we will butcher our pigs, playful buddies full of life who come running when I approach, who sink to their knees in grunting ecstasy when I scratch their flanks and who gleefully recycle all our food waste.
This afternoon my dear cat died and I miss her very much. She lived by the sword, a vigorous killer of birds, mice and moles, full of zest for climbing trees and love for her human companions. We knew that by letting her run free outside we were exposing her to risks like cars and coyotes, but we chose to accept those risks in order to give her the fierce pleasures of country life. She was happy until the instant she ceased to exist. My husband dug a deep hole in the center of our garden and, sobbing, I laid my cat to rest next to her favorite toy, a coyote foot discarded from the taxidermist. Why today was her day to die I cannot say. I think of the white chickens to whom I murmured thanks for their lives this morning, and the purring cat into whose warm black fur I murmured sweet nothings every day I knew her, and I feel grief and ambivalence and a sense of mystery.
Here in the North Country I am learning about death, life and love.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Mother's Day
Fifteen minutes ago, thigh deep in meltwater, I felt a kinship with frogs. I’d spent a couple hours at my friend Lauren’s house with her family celebrating Owen’s third birthday. Sunshine, mountain vistas, early spring earth unbound. As always the topic of my spouse and our adoption process came up, and I felt wonder at the sunlit children in Lauren’s kitchen, the small sugary hands and faces absorbing candy after the piñata broke in the field. When I talk about adoption with folks, most everyone asks if we’re going overseas. No, we say, there are enough kids in this country needing families—and there are, but few newborns, and that’s what I want: an infant. I can’t have a baby of my own and I want to have that experience. Then in the future maybe we could adopt a sibling group, older kid with their baggage; but for now, an infant. We’ve been going through the home study process for about nine months now, and hope to be certified by this summer. Then, we’ll see how it goes. I have faith that all will work out somehow.
I left Lauren’s before the birthday cupcakes were served because I wanted a little time in the warm sun on my small front porch. This is the first afternoon warm enough for sitting outside. Each time I sit and read or write I know my days doing this are numbered. As a new mom I won’t be able to relax and read a novel for hours, or obsess over a poem while consuming a cocktail. I know this all will change and so I appreciate it consciously. Lauren’s husband brought out the cupcakes so I could bring a couple home for my spouse and me. The children had selected five colors of icing for the chocolate cupcakes: red, orange, yellow, green, purple. The cupcakes were arranged on a tray with their colors forming diagonal stripes.
I came home and hung up some laundry outside, another first-time-this-year seasonal pleasure. Tonight it may freeze and the maple sap may run, but right now is balmy, sunny bliss. After hanging laundry I intended to come sit on the porch to write this essay about Mothers’ Day, but the chuckling frogs out back seemed to beckon me. I summoned the dog and we set out along the thorny edge of the field toward the wetland at the back of our property.
My beloved and I bought this large old farmstead two years ago knowing that I would never be able to get pregnant and knowing that we planned to fill the place with our children and family. My sister—who is also my best friend—has four kids and lives in a happy mayhem in rural PA with her husband and our mother, who is too sick to live alone any more. Our family will be different than theirs in some ways—we love books and don’t watch TV, while they hunt and have three TVs. If only Pennsylvania and the Adirondacks were connected by a short street. We would create our own town of love.
Spring at our place means the AuSable River roaring out front, the low parts of the meadow flooded out back. The grass is still dead and dry from winter and it shushed as I strode eastward toward the wet area. I sat on a hummock at the water’s edge and listened to the frogs croaking, clucking, thriving. I couldn’t see any. Just the placid water and its world of grasses submerged. Just a few weeks ago this was all frozen, flat and white. We walked along, admiring the stillness and the hardy shrubs. Now it is a maze of tussocks, spiky plants and ripples as invisible things touch the surface of the water. I glanced upstream, into the sun, as my dog huffed and chuffed in the grasses behind me. There was a small thing floating in the water, a shape like this: So small and yet it gave the glassy surface movement. It drifted ever so slowly toward me, and I realized that it was a frog. Then I could see others in the distance, aligned toward me, it seemed, but of course they were facing the precious sun.
I yearned to see a frog up close in the water and so steeled myself for icy cold. I am clumsy and squeamish in the way that city-bred folks can be, but I have a stout heart and a yen for adventure. In I waded, and found the water velvety cool. My skin was protected from mud and ticklish mysteries by thick socks, jeans and sneakers. I laughed for joy: spring! My new home in the country! Some day soon my children will wade in this very swamp, will know it far more intimately that I in this still, sweet afternoon.
The floating frogs vanished when I approached. I was aware of not only my body but also my cold shadow, the ripples my steps caused as I walked deeper, and the cluttered sounds of my playing dog. He is a yellow lab and one would think he’d leap into water, but he’s fussy and not brave. He is also devoted to me, and as the psychic apron string that binds us stretched further he finally plunged in after me.
Soon I saw a frog, one who had seemingly decided to let me approach. Maybe it was a sentry or sacrifice. I stopped and rested my hand on my damp thighs so I could see it better. Delicate little grey thing, with golden eyes above the waterline. The frog could easily have sat in a teaspoon. I cooed to it, praised its little beauty. I was awed by its sturdiness and delicacy there in the water, this creature of season. No matter the snow and ice of the last month or the parched whistle of summer to come—this frog floated in a perfect hour.
I leaned closer ever-so-slowly until I could reach out a trembling pale finger and touch its tiny webbed foot. The frog let me stroke it, and I gently tugged the underwater grass it clutched so its body angled toward me. It was relaxed and aware of me. I stroked its silky skin. But then the frog darted away, legs scissoring into the submerged grass blades. It was gone.
Farther downstream more frogs were making a racket, clucking and splashing. I didn’t hear the frogs we call peepers; perhaps they are for nighttime only. Dozens of frogs on the surface, bobbing and skimming, and one small clutch of them thrashing and splashing. I approached cautiously—body, shadow and ripples sending little frogs into hiding. The knot of struggling frogs remained. I thought they must be mating and wanted to see. Perhaps they were, but the tangle of legs and jaws sank and flitted away before I could get close enough to decipher their activity.
The dog paddled in a long snuffly arc from the grassy bank to my soaked legs, touched his nose to my hand, and swam back to shore. He clambered out and floofed face-first into the dry grass, pushing his snout through the reeds and propelling himself by his hind legs. Drying himself off or scratching, I guess. I made for the bank, knowing that soon I would be too cold to enjoy myself. Behind me the cagey frogs began to cackle.
Then in the net of sunken reeds I saw cloudy blue blooms—frogs’ eggs in giant clusters like dotted thunderheads in the stream. I gazed in delight at this final show, which I never would have seen if I hadn’t ventured out into the flooded channel. Each egg cluster was the size of an orange, pale grey-blue, made up of thousands of black seeds embedded in clear shining protective globules that became visible when I gently lifted them to the surface. I had seen perhaps a hundred celebrating frogs, and here were their progeny, unguarded and incubating in the sun-warmed water.
My own children are somewhere now, too, eggs and sperm in two people, and I play gleefully while they live their lives until the moment we join and become a family.
I left Lauren’s before the birthday cupcakes were served because I wanted a little time in the warm sun on my small front porch. This is the first afternoon warm enough for sitting outside. Each time I sit and read or write I know my days doing this are numbered. As a new mom I won’t be able to relax and read a novel for hours, or obsess over a poem while consuming a cocktail. I know this all will change and so I appreciate it consciously. Lauren’s husband brought out the cupcakes so I could bring a couple home for my spouse and me. The children had selected five colors of icing for the chocolate cupcakes: red, orange, yellow, green, purple. The cupcakes were arranged on a tray with their colors forming diagonal stripes.
I came home and hung up some laundry outside, another first-time-this-year seasonal pleasure. Tonight it may freeze and the maple sap may run, but right now is balmy, sunny bliss. After hanging laundry I intended to come sit on the porch to write this essay about Mothers’ Day, but the chuckling frogs out back seemed to beckon me. I summoned the dog and we set out along the thorny edge of the field toward the wetland at the back of our property.
My beloved and I bought this large old farmstead two years ago knowing that I would never be able to get pregnant and knowing that we planned to fill the place with our children and family. My sister—who is also my best friend—has four kids and lives in a happy mayhem in rural PA with her husband and our mother, who is too sick to live alone any more. Our family will be different than theirs in some ways—we love books and don’t watch TV, while they hunt and have three TVs. If only Pennsylvania and the Adirondacks were connected by a short street. We would create our own town of love.
Spring at our place means the AuSable River roaring out front, the low parts of the meadow flooded out back. The grass is still dead and dry from winter and it shushed as I strode eastward toward the wet area. I sat on a hummock at the water’s edge and listened to the frogs croaking, clucking, thriving. I couldn’t see any. Just the placid water and its world of grasses submerged. Just a few weeks ago this was all frozen, flat and white. We walked along, admiring the stillness and the hardy shrubs. Now it is a maze of tussocks, spiky plants and ripples as invisible things touch the surface of the water. I glanced upstream, into the sun, as my dog huffed and chuffed in the grasses behind me. There was a small thing floating in the water, a shape like this: So small and yet it gave the glassy surface movement. It drifted ever so slowly toward me, and I realized that it was a frog. Then I could see others in the distance, aligned toward me, it seemed, but of course they were facing the precious sun.
I yearned to see a frog up close in the water and so steeled myself for icy cold. I am clumsy and squeamish in the way that city-bred folks can be, but I have a stout heart and a yen for adventure. In I waded, and found the water velvety cool. My skin was protected from mud and ticklish mysteries by thick socks, jeans and sneakers. I laughed for joy: spring! My new home in the country! Some day soon my children will wade in this very swamp, will know it far more intimately that I in this still, sweet afternoon.
The floating frogs vanished when I approached. I was aware of not only my body but also my cold shadow, the ripples my steps caused as I walked deeper, and the cluttered sounds of my playing dog. He is a yellow lab and one would think he’d leap into water, but he’s fussy and not brave. He is also devoted to me, and as the psychic apron string that binds us stretched further he finally plunged in after me.
Soon I saw a frog, one who had seemingly decided to let me approach. Maybe it was a sentry or sacrifice. I stopped and rested my hand on my damp thighs so I could see it better. Delicate little grey thing, with golden eyes above the waterline. The frog could easily have sat in a teaspoon. I cooed to it, praised its little beauty. I was awed by its sturdiness and delicacy there in the water, this creature of season. No matter the snow and ice of the last month or the parched whistle of summer to come—this frog floated in a perfect hour.
I leaned closer ever-so-slowly until I could reach out a trembling pale finger and touch its tiny webbed foot. The frog let me stroke it, and I gently tugged the underwater grass it clutched so its body angled toward me. It was relaxed and aware of me. I stroked its silky skin. But then the frog darted away, legs scissoring into the submerged grass blades. It was gone.
Farther downstream more frogs were making a racket, clucking and splashing. I didn’t hear the frogs we call peepers; perhaps they are for nighttime only. Dozens of frogs on the surface, bobbing and skimming, and one small clutch of them thrashing and splashing. I approached cautiously—body, shadow and ripples sending little frogs into hiding. The knot of struggling frogs remained. I thought they must be mating and wanted to see. Perhaps they were, but the tangle of legs and jaws sank and flitted away before I could get close enough to decipher their activity.
The dog paddled in a long snuffly arc from the grassy bank to my soaked legs, touched his nose to my hand, and swam back to shore. He clambered out and floofed face-first into the dry grass, pushing his snout through the reeds and propelling himself by his hind legs. Drying himself off or scratching, I guess. I made for the bank, knowing that soon I would be too cold to enjoy myself. Behind me the cagey frogs began to cackle.
Then in the net of sunken reeds I saw cloudy blue blooms—frogs’ eggs in giant clusters like dotted thunderheads in the stream. I gazed in delight at this final show, which I never would have seen if I hadn’t ventured out into the flooded channel. Each egg cluster was the size of an orange, pale grey-blue, made up of thousands of black seeds embedded in clear shining protective globules that became visible when I gently lifted them to the surface. I had seen perhaps a hundred celebrating frogs, and here were their progeny, unguarded and incubating in the sun-warmed water.
My own children are somewhere now, too, eggs and sperm in two people, and I play gleefully while they live their lives until the moment we join and become a family.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
Iranian funk music
Google Search: "Iranian funk music"
Lately I have been finding new music to listen to by going to Google and typing in "countryname funk band." In this way I've found Ten Mile Tide, an Irish funk band, and Amp Fiddler, admired by a Japanese funk band. This morning I felt like listening to Iranian music, but Google gets no results from either that or "Iranian funk music," nor "Iranian funk."
Community Radio Licence Application Form
File Format: PDF/Adobe Acrobat - View as HTML
Page 1. Community Radio Licence Application Form Page 2. Public Version 1.0 30th July 2004. - 2 - A. Please read the Notes of Guidance ...
The above is Google's one result from the search term, "Iranian funk." There used to be a pretty hip, Westernizing youth culture there, around the time of the last Shah and shortly thereafter. I was friends with a brother and sister who emigrated from post-Ayatollah Khomeini Iran to the U.S. They lived with us for a short time. The girl and I exchanged small gifts, and I still have hers today, a tiny cherished heirloom. With her brother we played endless games of volleyball. This we all knew, and through it came American English for them and a little Persian sensibility for me.
We lost touch as young adults. I gravely offended them the day of my father's funeral. The Iranian family assumed they were going to stay with us and help and have a joint grieving session, but instead I told them coldly to leave. I always feel pained that our relationship ended on such a note. My mother didn't want to see them, wasn't even in the same room. I was twenty. In my family's grief we briefly considered that the CIA might have had something to do with my father's death, punishment for helping Iranians or maybe he knew too much.
Living in today's world is so changed in many ways toward the visions of 1984 and Brave New World. We are getting increasingly Bladerunner-ish. So I will go back to the computer and type into Goggle "Persian funk." Since I use Mozilla Firefox for most of my web-related stuff, it has these handy tabs so I can open in succession webpages with the search term. In this way I find an album called "Invisible Borders," which I call up on my Dell Musicmatch Jukebox and listen to while I search for and find nearly no Iraqi funk music. And then I try Arabic funk. Bonanza! Try it yourself by searching for "COUNTRYNAME music." See what you find.
Lately I have been finding new music to listen to by going to Google and typing in "countryname funk band." In this way I've found Ten Mile Tide, an Irish funk band, and Amp Fiddler, admired by a Japanese funk band. This morning I felt like listening to Iranian music, but Google gets no results from either that or "Iranian funk music," nor "Iranian funk."
Community Radio Licence Application Form
File Format: PDF/Adobe Acrobat - View as HTML
Page 1. Community Radio Licence Application Form Page 2. Public Version 1.0 30th July 2004. - 2 - A. Please read the Notes of Guidance ...
The above is Google's one result from the search term, "Iranian funk." There used to be a pretty hip, Westernizing youth culture there, around the time of the last Shah and shortly thereafter. I was friends with a brother and sister who emigrated from post-Ayatollah Khomeini Iran to the U.S. They lived with us for a short time. The girl and I exchanged small gifts, and I still have hers today, a tiny cherished heirloom. With her brother we played endless games of volleyball. This we all knew, and through it came American English for them and a little Persian sensibility for me.
We lost touch as young adults. I gravely offended them the day of my father's funeral. The Iranian family assumed they were going to stay with us and help and have a joint grieving session, but instead I told them coldly to leave. I always feel pained that our relationship ended on such a note. My mother didn't want to see them, wasn't even in the same room. I was twenty. In my family's grief we briefly considered that the CIA might have had something to do with my father's death, punishment for helping Iranians or maybe he knew too much.
Living in today's world is so changed in many ways toward the visions of 1984 and Brave New World. We are getting increasingly Bladerunner-ish. So I will go back to the computer and type into Goggle "Persian funk." Since I use Mozilla Firefox for most of my web-related stuff, it has these handy tabs so I can open in succession webpages with the search term. In this way I find an album called "Invisible Borders," which I call up on my Dell Musicmatch Jukebox and listen to while I search for and find nearly no Iraqi funk music. And then I try Arabic funk. Bonanza! Try it yourself by searching for "COUNTRYNAME music." See what you find.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Black Paper Silver Ink
Discovering that completing a 50,000 word novel in 30 days meant writing 1,666 words per day only added to the hair-tearing. It's not that I've never written 1,666 words in a day before, but it's a question of whether I can keep it up everyday for a whole month. However, since I'm in this already, I'll wing it. I believe I can write that much if I don't stop to consider how bad the dialogue sounds or how the story just plain doesn't make sense.
I am in writing mode.
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