Today is my older brother's 40th birthday. I won't mention more about the idea that it is a shock to me that all the old gang that I started hanging out with when I was in my 20s are now crossing that 40 year threshold. I am at the younger end of the group of friends, so I have a little time left, but not a lot. I have been told by family members the next generation up that the 40 decade is wonderful. I hope so, since I am staring down the barrel of the "40 age shotgun!"
Okay. In honor of my big brother passing this milestone, I would like to share a little family story concerning him.
My brother has an unusual name. In the interest of anonymity, I will simply call him G. G's name caused him a fair amount of grief growing up, all the way through elementary, junior and senior high school. Now, members of my family are blessed with a certain degree of oddness--shall I say nerdiness. There are a few who escaped that gene, but only a very few. So, here you have an odd boy with and odd name. On top of all that, he is a red-head. Kiss your social life good-bye, especially for a boy!!!
Now, the story goes, my parents had made an agreement when they were expecting their firstborn. If the child was born a boy, my mom would name him. If it was a girl, my dad would have the honors. Then whoever didn't "win" the contest the first time would name the second child. Also, they agreed that the names would be kept secret from each other until the baby came.
So the time came, and behold! a child was born--a boy. Some time after the delivery, my dad went in to my mom's room to find out what his son's name was. My mom, in delirious exhaustion mumbled out "Horace." Whenever my dad repeats this story, he flinches at this part. All he could think was "oh no! The poor child!"
So he leaves for a little while and returns when my mom is more awake and alert. He asks her at this point, "so, what is his middle name?" I'm sure he was thinking, maybe we can call the boy by his middle name. My mom answers "Paul." So my dad tries out the full name "Horace Paul."
And now, this is the point where my mom yells out incredulously "Horace?! Who's Horace?!" . . .
So the moral of the story: if you're a geeky, gawky, red-haired kid with a funny, at times embarrassing name, take heart! It could be worse! Your name could be Horace!
Happy Birthday, G!
Peace
C
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
My roots--the treasure
My mom left this week for a trip out west to North Dakota, where she grew up. I have been thinking about my roots since before I posted last. I wrote previously about where I came from on my dad's side--rural Connecticut. My paternal grandfather was the quintessential New Englander. He was the do-it-yourself farmer, with tendencies toward intellectual elitism. He was uncomfortable with emotion and did not show affection well. I think he did not know what to do with his grandchildren, who in many ways displayed artistic "bents." I still have unresolved feelings about him. I never felt close to him. He frightened me in some ways, disappointed me in other ways. but I do have some pride in his strength and fortitude. I am his progeny, so some of his strength (as well as his disdain) is mine. He is my backbone.
My heart is another story.
My mother's father was a child of the prairie. He and his brother were the younger set of half siblings. During WWII, he moved his family to California to the San Diego area. There he worked in a factory which made airplanes for the war. He took a lot of pride in his work there, but he missed home. So after the war he brought his family back to the open skies of North Dakota. When I knew him, he was newly widowed from my grandma (I have only vague memories of her). He was retiring from his work as a diesel mechanic. And he had taken up a new hobby--beekeeping.
It's kind of funny. I saw my CT Grampa several times a year while I was growing up, but the feelings that I have for him are at best undefined. I could probably count on two hands the number of times that I actually saw my ND Grampa, but I can honestly say that I adored that man (I still do). I know I was cherished by him whenever I saw him. I remember him getting on his hands and knees and playing with me. He visited my family in NH when I was in elementary school. I remember him walking with me to school and listening to me. He would hug me freely. He would spend time with me.
The last time I saw him was when I had gone to ND after my step-grandma had died. By then he was suffering the affects of Alzheimer's. The morning that I left, I was hugging him good-bye. He looked intently into my eyes and told me most assuredly "I will never forget you."
He passed away one year later. All his grandchildren were his pallbearers.
I treasure the memories that I have of my Grampa. The only regret that I have is that there are not more of them.
My heart is another story.
My mother's father was a child of the prairie. He and his brother were the younger set of half siblings. During WWII, he moved his family to California to the San Diego area. There he worked in a factory which made airplanes for the war. He took a lot of pride in his work there, but he missed home. So after the war he brought his family back to the open skies of North Dakota. When I knew him, he was newly widowed from my grandma (I have only vague memories of her). He was retiring from his work as a diesel mechanic. And he had taken up a new hobby--beekeeping.
It's kind of funny. I saw my CT Grampa several times a year while I was growing up, but the feelings that I have for him are at best undefined. I could probably count on two hands the number of times that I actually saw my ND Grampa, but I can honestly say that I adored that man (I still do). I know I was cherished by him whenever I saw him. I remember him getting on his hands and knees and playing with me. He visited my family in NH when I was in elementary school. I remember him walking with me to school and listening to me. He would hug me freely. He would spend time with me.
The last time I saw him was when I had gone to ND after my step-grandma had died. By then he was suffering the affects of Alzheimer's. The morning that I left, I was hugging him good-bye. He looked intently into my eyes and told me most assuredly "I will never forget you."
He passed away one year later. All his grandchildren were his pallbearers.
I treasure the memories that I have of my Grampa. The only regret that I have is that there are not more of them.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
My Roots--the tether
I've been feeling a little nostalgic of late.
I grew up in New England--Nashua, NH specifically. I was born there and, except for a couple years in very early childhood, lived in the same house until I was married and moved to NY state. I know all the streets of my old neighborhood like the back of my hand. I still refer to houses as the family homes of people who have not lived there for decades. I remember the dog on the corner who would wait for us every day to toss a dirty tennis ball for him to catch and bring back. My friends and I would grow tired of this game long before he would. And the bike riding. The corner food market--Jean's Foodland--was always a favorite destination of mine for buying candy bars and birthday cards. Later on I worked my first job at that store. It still is sometimes a surprise to me that it has been replaced by a Rite Aid--has been for 20 years or so.
Yeah, Nashua is my hometown, but my roots are planted somewhere else.
I am the granddaughter of a Connecticut dairy farmer and his wife. The farm that Reuben S. worked was in the family for at least 2 generations before him (I know I will be corrected soon on this). He was literally born in the house in which he lived his entire life.
I remember going to the farm as a kid and walking out to the cow pasture. My brother and I were each given the honor of naming one of the cows. I can't remember the name I gave my cow (I'm sure it was something sensible like Bessie or Blue Bonnet). My brother, being such a boy, named his Cow Flop. Yup. That poor creature is immortalised in my memory for that unfortunate name bestowed on her.
It was always a treat going to Grandma's and Grampa's. In the summer Grandma would give us an empty coffee can with a shoe lace handle to pick berries. Those were that best blackberries! And the thunk! sound they would make when they would hit the bottom of the coffee can. Of course, they would always make that sound. I don't think there would ever be more that a single layer of berries--I would always eats too many for that to happen!
But the best was the house itself. It is an old farmhouse. I to this day love the smell of wood smoke--it smells like Grandma and Grampa's. Our coats would be hung up behind the wood stove in the kitchen upon arrival. That provided the added benefit of saturating our coats in wood smoke, to bring the memories home with us. The adults would talk around the wood stove, my brothers and I would spread throughout the rest of the house. It's funny, the rest of the house has kind of an echo quality to it. There is no carpeting, the floors are bare except for some throw rugs. Despite the echo, it is not an empty house. It is full of memories of generations of my family. I suppose that a large part of the reason that I love old things now is because of that house. It is a sort of tether for me. It is my roots.
Peace
C
PS It is a recurring dream of mine that somewhere in that house there is a secret passageway to a hidden room. It gets more and more real every time I dream it!
I grew up in New England--Nashua, NH specifically. I was born there and, except for a couple years in very early childhood, lived in the same house until I was married and moved to NY state. I know all the streets of my old neighborhood like the back of my hand. I still refer to houses as the family homes of people who have not lived there for decades. I remember the dog on the corner who would wait for us every day to toss a dirty tennis ball for him to catch and bring back. My friends and I would grow tired of this game long before he would. And the bike riding. The corner food market--Jean's Foodland--was always a favorite destination of mine for buying candy bars and birthday cards. Later on I worked my first job at that store. It still is sometimes a surprise to me that it has been replaced by a Rite Aid--has been for 20 years or so.
Yeah, Nashua is my hometown, but my roots are planted somewhere else.
I am the granddaughter of a Connecticut dairy farmer and his wife. The farm that Reuben S. worked was in the family for at least 2 generations before him (I know I will be corrected soon on this). He was literally born in the house in which he lived his entire life.
I remember going to the farm as a kid and walking out to the cow pasture. My brother and I were each given the honor of naming one of the cows. I can't remember the name I gave my cow (I'm sure it was something sensible like Bessie or Blue Bonnet). My brother, being such a boy, named his Cow Flop. Yup. That poor creature is immortalised in my memory for that unfortunate name bestowed on her.
It was always a treat going to Grandma's and Grampa's. In the summer Grandma would give us an empty coffee can with a shoe lace handle to pick berries. Those were that best blackberries! And the thunk! sound they would make when they would hit the bottom of the coffee can. Of course, they would always make that sound. I don't think there would ever be more that a single layer of berries--I would always eats too many for that to happen!
But the best was the house itself. It is an old farmhouse. I to this day love the smell of wood smoke--it smells like Grandma and Grampa's. Our coats would be hung up behind the wood stove in the kitchen upon arrival. That provided the added benefit of saturating our coats in wood smoke, to bring the memories home with us. The adults would talk around the wood stove, my brothers and I would spread throughout the rest of the house. It's funny, the rest of the house has kind of an echo quality to it. There is no carpeting, the floors are bare except for some throw rugs. Despite the echo, it is not an empty house. It is full of memories of generations of my family. I suppose that a large part of the reason that I love old things now is because of that house. It is a sort of tether for me. It is my roots.
Peace
C
PS It is a recurring dream of mine that somewhere in that house there is a secret passageway to a hidden room. It gets more and more real every time I dream it!
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Introducing . . . Freddie the Freeloader
R and I have been having an interesting problem of late.
Three weeks ago, I woke up to a tremendous squeaking and chirping going on downstairs. Usually that means one of our cats have brought in and are dispatching with some critter. I got up and went downstairs to survey the damage. Well, one of our cats (I think it was Felix) was standing in front of the microwave cart, looking all hunterish. I peaked behind it and was instantly assaulted by the most virulent stream of curses ever uttered by a chipmunk. I made some attempts to sweep the critter out with a broom, but only succeeded in getting a new strain of chipmunk obscenities rained upon my head. After some time, I had to leave to go to work. I figured I would just shoo him out that evening, when both R and I were home. I just hoped that I would not return home to find a corpsified critter in pieces on the floor.
As I said, that was 3 weeks ago. For those of you who don't know, R and I are blessed with nine cats--NINE CATS! Do you think that with NINE CATS in the house, a rodent would dare to draw breath? Well, Freddie the Freeloader--as he is now referred to--has apparently found our home a good land, flowing with Milk and Honey. Every once in a while we will hear him chirp away. The sound is at such a pitch that it is difficult to hone in on where it is coming from. And he will only call out a couple times, then he will fall silent. I look for help from the cats, sure that at least one will show interest. The most I will get is a yawn or a stretch, followed by the hopeful looking of the cat begging for a treat.
We have bird feeders, so we have a stash of birdseed in the house. We also have a perpetual cat food feeder, so I'm sure he feels he has never had it so good. When R and I are home for any amount of time, all doors stay open, hoping he will make like a tree and scram. All for naught. Maybe we have to stop feeding our cats regularly, so they will show some interest in Freddie. The irony is that our cats are still hunting outside. The other day, Nugget brought in and dropped a mole on our living room floor. Within 5 minutes, Freddie just happened to chirp out his presence. Actually, I think I detected a distinct sound of laughter in his voice.
Well, at least he's not a skunk!!!
Peace
C
Three weeks ago, I woke up to a tremendous squeaking and chirping going on downstairs. Usually that means one of our cats have brought in and are dispatching with some critter. I got up and went downstairs to survey the damage. Well, one of our cats (I think it was Felix) was standing in front of the microwave cart, looking all hunterish. I peaked behind it and was instantly assaulted by the most virulent stream of curses ever uttered by a chipmunk. I made some attempts to sweep the critter out with a broom, but only succeeded in getting a new strain of chipmunk obscenities rained upon my head. After some time, I had to leave to go to work. I figured I would just shoo him out that evening, when both R and I were home. I just hoped that I would not return home to find a corpsified critter in pieces on the floor.
As I said, that was 3 weeks ago. For those of you who don't know, R and I are blessed with nine cats--NINE CATS! Do you think that with NINE CATS in the house, a rodent would dare to draw breath? Well, Freddie the Freeloader--as he is now referred to--has apparently found our home a good land, flowing with Milk and Honey. Every once in a while we will hear him chirp away. The sound is at such a pitch that it is difficult to hone in on where it is coming from. And he will only call out a couple times, then he will fall silent. I look for help from the cats, sure that at least one will show interest. The most I will get is a yawn or a stretch, followed by the hopeful looking of the cat begging for a treat.
We have bird feeders, so we have a stash of birdseed in the house. We also have a perpetual cat food feeder, so I'm sure he feels he has never had it so good. When R and I are home for any amount of time, all doors stay open, hoping he will make like a tree and scram. All for naught. Maybe we have to stop feeding our cats regularly, so they will show some interest in Freddie. The irony is that our cats are still hunting outside. The other day, Nugget brought in and dropped a mole on our living room floor. Within 5 minutes, Freddie just happened to chirp out his presence. Actually, I think I detected a distinct sound of laughter in his voice.
Well, at least he's not a skunk!!!
Peace
C
Monday, June 23, 2008
Summer's finally here
It finally felt warm today, two days after the summer solstice. I always go into a sort of mourning at this time of the year. After June 21st, the days begin getting shorter. It doesn't seem right, somehow. Of course, on Dec 21st, I begin celebrating, because I know that the days from then on are longer. It somehow takes a little bite out of the frozen season.
I spent sometime last night cleaning out messages from our "sent" folder. We had ones going back to when R went through the GVH setback, starting November of 2005. It was really interesting reading all those old messages. Most of them were to Dr S in Boston, composed by me, since R was too sick or weak to sit at the computer. Just reading them, I could sense that tone of desperation. I really was on the edge. And of course the brunt of it happened in the dead of Winter, my worst time of year under normal circumstances. It's funny, as the time stretched on into Spring, there is a definite change in the tone of the emails. Of course, Rich was getting better by then. But I was relaxing with the warmer temps as well. And to have his 40th birthday party that Spring was really special. It was a real milestone to celebrate. Not just because he was turning 40, but also because we were on the recovery end of that brutal fight. I know that it was really something special for him to see so many of his friends, many of whom traveled from a far way off.
I guess it is good every once in a while to go back and see from where you have traveled. Boy was last night a big dose of perspective!!
Peace
C
I spent sometime last night cleaning out messages from our "sent" folder. We had ones going back to when R went through the GVH setback, starting November of 2005. It was really interesting reading all those old messages. Most of them were to Dr S in Boston, composed by me, since R was too sick or weak to sit at the computer. Just reading them, I could sense that tone of desperation. I really was on the edge. And of course the brunt of it happened in the dead of Winter, my worst time of year under normal circumstances. It's funny, as the time stretched on into Spring, there is a definite change in the tone of the emails. Of course, Rich was getting better by then. But I was relaxing with the warmer temps as well. And to have his 40th birthday party that Spring was really special. It was a real milestone to celebrate. Not just because he was turning 40, but also because we were on the recovery end of that brutal fight. I know that it was really something special for him to see so many of his friends, many of whom traveled from a far way off.
I guess it is good every once in a while to go back and see from where you have traveled. Boy was last night a big dose of perspective!!
Peace
C
Friday, June 20, 2008
The maiden voyage
So this is my foray into the blogging universe.
I have always felt that blogging was catering to a person's self-important tendencies. But I am coming to think that is a good way of keeping up with people in your life. I have a friend with whom I rarely get to spend time with anymore. She keeps a regular blog going, so I am able to keep up with what is going on in her life. Of course, it does not replace picking up the phone and calling her, but we both lead busy lives and it is difficult to carve out time.
An explanation on the name of my blog. It comes from a song by John Mellencamp, "Between a Laugh and a Tear." The line goes "I know there's a balance, I see it when I swing past." I often feel like that, like I am swinging between extremes. One moment life makes sense and I am on my game, in a zone. The next moment I am spinning plates, waiting for them to come crashing down. I know this is a common experience for a lot of people, so maybe you know what I'm saying.
And a word to anyone who may stumble upon this, I many times feel I am perhaps the most uninteresting person that I know, so don't expect high art here. Don't even expect proper grammer, though I will try my hardest.
Peace.
C
I have always felt that blogging was catering to a person's self-important tendencies. But I am coming to think that is a good way of keeping up with people in your life. I have a friend with whom I rarely get to spend time with anymore. She keeps a regular blog going, so I am able to keep up with what is going on in her life. Of course, it does not replace picking up the phone and calling her, but we both lead busy lives and it is difficult to carve out time.
An explanation on the name of my blog. It comes from a song by John Mellencamp, "Between a Laugh and a Tear." The line goes "I know there's a balance, I see it when I swing past." I often feel like that, like I am swinging between extremes. One moment life makes sense and I am on my game, in a zone. The next moment I am spinning plates, waiting for them to come crashing down. I know this is a common experience for a lot of people, so maybe you know what I'm saying.
And a word to anyone who may stumble upon this, I many times feel I am perhaps the most uninteresting person that I know, so don't expect high art here. Don't even expect proper grammer, though I will try my hardest.
Peace.
C
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)