When I was a little kid -- many years before I started kindergarten (well, it couldn’t be too many years, I guess) -- I had doll I named Johnsie. (The s is pronounced like a z. I was too young to spell, but still . . . .) I remember Johnsie’s weight, the substantial solidity of a rubber doll in the pre-plastic days. I recall dragging him around the house. Most vividly, I remember my rule that only my father and I could hold Johnsie. (I don’t recall anyone else every trying to touch him, but that only shows how powerful I was, right?) Putting Freud and my great affection for my father aside, Johnsie was the only doll I remember being deeply attached to. Sure there was a Besty-Wetsy that I got when I was sick in bed for a week with the flu. I don’t think I ever played with her after. There was the lone Barbie that denoted submission to peer pressure. I must have played with her, but I have no memory of it.
No, Johnsie was the important one, for a few years at least. He was replaced when I was seven by a blue and white elephant my dad got me when I had my tonsils out. I named the elephant Pillow because I buried my nose in him like a pillow to erase the lingering smell of ether. I loved Pillow, and I slept with him every night until I traded him in for my husband.
Now despite the classic book, William’s Doll, it seems to me that it’s little girls that like dollies. (Little boys like stuffed animals and action figures which are NOT dolls, not really.) Girls -- despite my own example -- generally like girl dollies. They like to mother them and feed them, teach them and put them to bed.
So here’s what I don’t understand. Given a choice, a little girl picks a doll in a frilly dress, the pinker, the better. She gets her home, and what’s the first thing she does? The first thing she does is take the clothes off the doll. And does she want you to help her put them back on? No, she does not. What she wants to do is take that naked dolly by one leg and drag it around the house. Why is that? Why? The child may ask you to wrap the dolly up in a blanket, but does she want help dressing her? No. I’ve never seen it, not once. It’s so odd; girls like their dolls naked.
Although, now that I think about it, big girls like naked playmates, too. (Hmm, sometimes these posts don’t end up quite the way I plan.)
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
The Boy Who Got It Right
The neighbors were over visiting when their boy was three or so. Being just a little guy, he REALLY wanted to make friends with our cat, the dearly departed Elaine. Now as you probably know, Elaine was neither the friendliest nor the most tranquil of cats. She hissed and hid under the bed. Rich reached for her just as my husband yelled, “Don’t touch her!” There were two yelps, and Rich came away with a bloody hand. However, he also came away with a determination to be friends with that cat. Thus began the friendly siege.
For the next several years, every time he came over, he would sit near her. Eventually he was able to scritch her on the head. [NB: a scritch is a tiny, light scratch. This is not a typo.] Next came the gentle pets on the head and learning that she didn’t like her haunches touched (even then arthritis was setting in).
During elementary school, Rich came over once a week for help with his Language Arts. Before our lesson, he’d search through the house, find Elaine, say hello and have a little chat. After our lesson, he’d say good-bye to her. When we were out of town, he would come over and feed her.
Rich, now 12, came over the day before I had her put down. We sat near her and talked about her for a while, and then I went into the kitchen and left him to say good-bye. I heard him whisper, “Say hello to God for me, Elaine.”
The next day after school, after I’d buried her furry, little body, Rich came over. It was Halloween afternoon, and he wore the cowboy hat to his costume. We walked out to the garden. He removed the hat and said a few words over her grave.
“Well, Elaine and I were friends. She only liked Mrs. Simon and me. I think she was afraid a lot. She was a good cat. I wish she could have been braver.” We put a couple of (really old and quite dead) roses on her grave. Rich really wanted me to put a tombstone on it, and to forestall his making a wooden one (can you see it now, rotting in the snow and rain?), I moved a plaster cat lawn ornament to the site. He asked for a picture of her, put it in a plastic bag and anchored it under the plaster kitty.
That night, when he came trick-or-treating, he asked me if he could go again to pay his respects to Elaine.
“Any time, Rich. Any time you want.”
He was out there a good five minutes.
All I know is, from the time he was oh so little, this boy got it right. He was patient and tender and loving. Some girl’s gonna get a good deal.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Dad Who Mooed
I have a clear memory from when I was a kid. The family would be on a drive from somewhere to somewhere else. We kids were always antsy, three of us lined up in the back seat (unless my parents forgot and left me somewhere which happened more than once yet never seemed to particularly scar my psyche) (or maybe it did; you tell me). My Dad would point out roadside features of interest to distract us. If we passed a field of cows, he would recite,
I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one!
And
How now, brrrrown cow.
He would recite in large, round tones with rolling r’s, and then he would Moo. It was a loud Moooo with the decibels increasing slowly and then dropping off rapidly just like a real cow. I was awestruck with admiration and wonder. In fact, I can’t recite How Now, Brown Cow in my head without hearing him and feeling a rush of love. And then, like icing on a cake, like a cherry on a Sunday, like a chocolate coin at Hanukkah, came that wonderful moo.
I would demand, “Do it again! Do it again!” He was a sweet and an indulgent father, and he would do it again. I am telling you, that man could Moo.
Then he’d wiggle his ears for us!
I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one,
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one!
And
How now, brrrrown cow.
He would recite in large, round tones with rolling r’s, and then he would Moo. It was a loud Moooo with the decibels increasing slowly and then dropping off rapidly just like a real cow. I was awestruck with admiration and wonder. In fact, I can’t recite How Now, Brown Cow in my head without hearing him and feeling a rush of love. And then, like icing on a cake, like a cherry on a Sunday, like a chocolate coin at Hanukkah, came that wonderful moo.
I would demand, “Do it again! Do it again!” He was a sweet and an indulgent father, and he would do it again. I am telling you, that man could Moo.
Then he’d wiggle his ears for us!
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Hush, Sweet Pussycat
Many (many, many) moons ago, I had two cats, Merlyn and Smedley, the dynamic duo. Merlin was a gray tabby and the smartest cat I’ve ever known. He opened cabinets. He climbed ladders. He attempted to turn doorknobs. Smedley was half Siamese and, well, vocal. He meowed about everything and nothing. He was so vocal that I would sing a lullaby to help him settle down. It was Hush, Hush, Sweet Pussycat, and I filked it to the tune of Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte. I have sung it since to every cat I’ve owned when they’re restive or frightened or in pain. It goes like this:
Hush, hush, Sweet Pussycat,
Smedley(or Baby or Kirkie or Laney) go to sleep.
Hush, hush, Sweet Pussycat,
Smedley, don’t you weep.
You must be a quiet pussycat,
a sleepy, beepy pussycat.
Hush, hush, sweet pussycat,
Smed-ley sleeeep.
I sang it to Elaine (16 1/2 years old) for the last time yesterday on the way to the vet. Hush, hush, Elaine. No more arthritis hurting you as you come up the stairs. No more crying for food that’s already in the bowl. No more litter box accidents. Hush, hush, Elaine. It’s all chasing birds now and stretching in the sun.
I miss my stupid cat.
Hush, hush, Sweet Pussycat,
Smedley(or Baby or Kirkie or Laney) go to sleep.
Hush, hush, Sweet Pussycat,
Smedley, don’t you weep.
You must be a quiet pussycat,
a sleepy, beepy pussycat.
Hush, hush, sweet pussycat,
Smed-ley sleeeep.
I sang it to Elaine (16 1/2 years old) for the last time yesterday on the way to the vet. Hush, hush, Elaine. No more arthritis hurting you as you come up the stairs. No more crying for food that’s already in the bowl. No more litter box accidents. Hush, hush, Elaine. It’s all chasing birds now and stretching in the sun.
I miss my stupid cat.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Squirrel Splat
"When the frost is on the pumpkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock . . . ."
I had to learn this poem by James Whitcomb Riley when I was in elementary school, although even way back then, we weren’t hearing any gobbling turkeys in our neighborhood. (Well, truthfully, every Thanksgiving, a turkey yard opened a few miles away from our home, so when we drove by, we heard lots of kyoucking and gobbling.) ANYWAY, what I’m trying to say is, the poem evokes autumn.
Autumn: the vibrant yellow, orange and red leaves (or, if you live in Virginia, the mostly dull, brown ones). Fall: the crisp air, the Halloween costumes, the suicidal squirrels.
Squirrel suicide seems to be a local phenomenon, one of those things that, no matter how many box stores you put in, will remain unique to an area. In Princeton, it was dogs sleeping on the sun-warmed residential streets (this was waaay before leash laws). I remember my Mom swerving to avoid them because they wouldn’t move for nothin’. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since.
Here in Northern Virginia, it is squirrel suicide. This is the time of year when the squirrels are industrious, finding and hiding nuts for the winter. Even though I took down our bird feeder several years ago (and, yes, I do remember that I promised you the bird feeder/raccoon story. It will come.), we live in a wooded area, and the squirrels proliferate. Their coats grow thick and shiny with the abundance of the oak acorns.
When we first moved here, I’d be driving to and from work in the Fall, taking the kids to their activities and whatnot, and I’d see little dead blobs of squirrel bodies on the roads. I wondered if people were aiming their cars at the squirrels, or if there were perhaps hundreds of careless drivers. I discovered it was neither. No, something seems to happen around here, something in the weird little squirrel brains. You’ll be driving along, careful as pie, and out from a pile of leaves at the side of the road, a squirrel will throw himself under the wheels of your car. Splat.
It’s disheartening, really. I mean, you can’t avoid ‘em; they’re on a little kamikaze run. Splat, there it is again. Splat. You’d think it would decimate the local squirrel population, but it doesn’t. Every year, there are just as many squirrels as the year before.
Last week, I was sitting on my screened-in porch enjoying the last of the year's warm afternoons, and that blasted squirrel, the one I've written about,l was half-way up the side of the the pine tree scolding and screaming at me. Why doesn’t that one throw himself under a bus, huh? Splat.
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock . . . ."
I had to learn this poem by James Whitcomb Riley when I was in elementary school, although even way back then, we weren’t hearing any gobbling turkeys in our neighborhood. (Well, truthfully, every Thanksgiving, a turkey yard opened a few miles away from our home, so when we drove by, we heard lots of kyoucking and gobbling.) ANYWAY, what I’m trying to say is, the poem evokes autumn.
Autumn: the vibrant yellow, orange and red leaves (or, if you live in Virginia, the mostly dull, brown ones). Fall: the crisp air, the Halloween costumes, the suicidal squirrels.
Squirrel suicide seems to be a local phenomenon, one of those things that, no matter how many box stores you put in, will remain unique to an area. In Princeton, it was dogs sleeping on the sun-warmed residential streets (this was waaay before leash laws). I remember my Mom swerving to avoid them because they wouldn’t move for nothin’. I’ve never seen anything like it before or since.
Here in Northern Virginia, it is squirrel suicide. This is the time of year when the squirrels are industrious, finding and hiding nuts for the winter. Even though I took down our bird feeder several years ago (and, yes, I do remember that I promised you the bird feeder/raccoon story. It will come.), we live in a wooded area, and the squirrels proliferate. Their coats grow thick and shiny with the abundance of the oak acorns.
When we first moved here, I’d be driving to and from work in the Fall, taking the kids to their activities and whatnot, and I’d see little dead blobs of squirrel bodies on the roads. I wondered if people were aiming their cars at the squirrels, or if there were perhaps hundreds of careless drivers. I discovered it was neither. No, something seems to happen around here, something in the weird little squirrel brains. You’ll be driving along, careful as pie, and out from a pile of leaves at the side of the road, a squirrel will throw himself under the wheels of your car. Splat.
It’s disheartening, really. I mean, you can’t avoid ‘em; they’re on a little kamikaze run. Splat, there it is again. Splat. You’d think it would decimate the local squirrel population, but it doesn’t. Every year, there are just as many squirrels as the year before.
Last week, I was sitting on my screened-in porch enjoying the last of the year's warm afternoons, and that blasted squirrel, the one I've written about,l was half-way up the side of the the pine tree scolding and screaming at me. Why doesn’t that one throw himself under a bus, huh? Splat.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Zombie Turning
Dear Followers,
I know, I know I promised Squirrel Splat next, and I have it all written, but then I got notification of a scary story contest from Fantasy Island Book Publishing (https://www.facebook.com/quest
Oh, and don't worry: porch season is over.
Zombie Turning
I was reading the newspaper on the quiet of the screened-in porch. The day was calm, the sky that silky blue before the first cold snap of fall. A blur flashed in the corner of my vision, and a something, no, a person darted in through the screen door. I startled up, barely able to take in much of his -- her? -- appearance. Filthy jeans and a blood-stained shirt made me instinctively pull back. Pasty flesh, bruised eyes, a look of incomprehension on a slack mouth. It spring at me, teeth barred, of all things.
Buster, my black lab, ran from the house through the open, sliding glass door, growling and barking. When I came to consciousness, Buster had chased it off, I assume as both were gone. The attack itself was a blank in my mind.
Obviously the creature had knocked me to the ground. I couldn’t collect my thoughts. I put a hand to my head, and it came away bloody. It had either whacked me on the head with a rock or something, or thrown me to the ground because I had a nasty bump. My arm ached, too, and I saw the marks of a good-sized jaw incised on my upper arm. I’d been out long enough for the rivulets of blood down to my hand to have caked. The damned thing bit me! But why? Why, why, why?
I live in a quiet neighborhood. We have manicured yards. We have old trees. What we don’t have is a weird crime problem.
I blanked out again. When my mind cleared, or semi-cleared really, I was still on the floor. I must be concussed. There’d been a lot about concussions in the news lately; all I had to do was stay awake but quiet. Jay would come home from work in a bit, not more than a few hours, whatever time it was now. He would take me to the emergency room if I needed to go.
I pushed myself up cautiously to sit in the Adirondack chair and rested a moment. Buster came back, up to the screen door. My stomach growled. For a bleary second, I thought about taking a bite out of Buster. Okay, my head was worse than I thought; that was just sick. I leaned over to push open the door. Instead of rushing eagerly through, he dropped his to his forepaws, his tail low and still. He growled.
“Good dog,” I croaked, but he yowled and fled. I must really be a mess.
My scratchy throat emphasized that I was thirsty. I thought I could make it inside to the kitchen for some water. I should stave off dehydration no matter how difficult getting to the sink might be. I edged through the sliding glass door and along the wall. I was feeling pretty dizzy, and if I had to, I could simply slide down the wall without risking hitting my head again. I made it all right, though, and turned on the tap, the water streaming. I looked at it puddled in my cupped hand. Then I didn’t feel like drinking after all.
My stomach growled again. I turned slowly, trying to keep the slight equilibrium I had, and opened the refrigerator door to survey the contents. I thought maybe some yogurt, something that would slide down easily. No, that wasn’t appealing. I had some hamburger in there. I pulled the package and stuck a fingernail into the plastic wrapping, poking at it, but it didn’t look very appetizing, either, its snake-like curls red and dead.
My head was worse now, and I felt my concentration zooming in and out of focus. I thought I’d go wash my face and rest until Jay got home.
The head injury must have done something to my coordination. I was having trouble with my balance as I lurched down the hall and into the bathroom. I held myself up by pushing on the counter, and glanced into the mirror.
For the flicker of an eye, I thought it was the creature staring back, the creature that bit me. My eyes were bruised and blank, my skin ashen. My stomach growled again. My head seemed buzzier but my needs clearer. Why was I standing here? I was confused. I was so hungry. Jay would be home soon. I smiled; the image in the mirror grimaced back.
I know, I know I promised Squirrel Splat next, and I have it all written, but then I got notification of a scary story contest from Fantasy Island Book Publishing (https://www.facebook.com/quest
Oh, and don't worry: porch season is over.
Zombie Turning
I was reading the newspaper on the quiet of the screened-in porch. The day was calm, the sky that silky blue before the first cold snap of fall. A blur flashed in the corner of my vision, and a something, no, a person darted in through the screen door. I startled up, barely able to take in much of his -- her? -- appearance. Filthy jeans and a blood-stained shirt made me instinctively pull back. Pasty flesh, bruised eyes, a look of incomprehension on a slack mouth. It spring at me, teeth barred, of all things.
Buster, my black lab, ran from the house through the open, sliding glass door, growling and barking. When I came to consciousness, Buster had chased it off, I assume as both were gone. The attack itself was a blank in my mind.
Obviously the creature had knocked me to the ground. I couldn’t collect my thoughts. I put a hand to my head, and it came away bloody. It had either whacked me on the head with a rock or something, or thrown me to the ground because I had a nasty bump. My arm ached, too, and I saw the marks of a good-sized jaw incised on my upper arm. I’d been out long enough for the rivulets of blood down to my hand to have caked. The damned thing bit me! But why? Why, why, why?
I live in a quiet neighborhood. We have manicured yards. We have old trees. What we don’t have is a weird crime problem.
I blanked out again. When my mind cleared, or semi-cleared really, I was still on the floor. I must be concussed. There’d been a lot about concussions in the news lately; all I had to do was stay awake but quiet. Jay would come home from work in a bit, not more than a few hours, whatever time it was now. He would take me to the emergency room if I needed to go.
I pushed myself up cautiously to sit in the Adirondack chair and rested a moment. Buster came back, up to the screen door. My stomach growled. For a bleary second, I thought about taking a bite out of Buster. Okay, my head was worse than I thought; that was just sick. I leaned over to push open the door. Instead of rushing eagerly through, he dropped his to his forepaws, his tail low and still. He growled.
“Good dog,” I croaked, but he yowled and fled. I must really be a mess.
My scratchy throat emphasized that I was thirsty. I thought I could make it inside to the kitchen for some water. I should stave off dehydration no matter how difficult getting to the sink might be. I edged through the sliding glass door and along the wall. I was feeling pretty dizzy, and if I had to, I could simply slide down the wall without risking hitting my head again. I made it all right, though, and turned on the tap, the water streaming. I looked at it puddled in my cupped hand. Then I didn’t feel like drinking after all.
My stomach growled again. I turned slowly, trying to keep the slight equilibrium I had, and opened the refrigerator door to survey the contents. I thought maybe some yogurt, something that would slide down easily. No, that wasn’t appealing. I had some hamburger in there. I pulled the package and stuck a fingernail into the plastic wrapping, poking at it, but it didn’t look very appetizing, either, its snake-like curls red and dead.
My head was worse now, and I felt my concentration zooming in and out of focus. I thought I’d go wash my face and rest until Jay got home.
The head injury must have done something to my coordination. I was having trouble with my balance as I lurched down the hall and into the bathroom. I held myself up by pushing on the counter, and glanced into the mirror.
For the flicker of an eye, I thought it was the creature staring back, the creature that bit me. My eyes were bruised and blank, my skin ashen. My stomach growled again. My head seemed buzzier but my needs clearer. Why was I standing here? I was confused. I was so hungry. Jay would be home soon. I smiled; the image in the mirror grimaced back.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Golden Apple
Paris gave the golden apple lovliest-goddess-prize to Aphrodite. Why? So he could marry the most beautiful woman in the world. Thus began the heartache of the Trojan war. *sighs deeply* I never understood it. I never understood the big deal of the golden apple until I experienced Pomme d'Or in Grand Pre, Nova Scotia.
We visited the gorgeous Grand Pre National Park which features a museum with mini-videos of various aspects of Acadian life: one of costumed people reaping hay with scythes and building a hay rack; one of women spinning; one of men weaving green branching through saplings to form a fishing weir. In that video, the Bay of Fundy tide floods and recedes (off camera), and you see the people return to the weir to pluck the fish, waist-high, from the woven pockets. We saw the commemorative church that has a series of murals (picture below) telling the story of the Acadian diaspora and where a cat named Evangeline comes in every morning to rest on a blue pillow.
Men are being forced on a boat while the
women and girls (and cat) are left behind.
Outside the church, a path leads you to a reconstruction of an Acadian house, its back windows opening down slope across the salt marshes to the bay. Out front door is a thriving kitchen garden and an apple orchard. It was a drizzly morning, no one was near-by. I know because I glanced around before plucking the low-hanging fruit, a small red apple. I have never tasted such an apple, sweet and tart at once, its sugar calling me back for one more bite.
The Acadians were French settlers, so naturally they brought grape vines with them. The vineyard of Grand Pre takes advantage of all the conditions that allow grapes, apples, all crops to flourish.
Close your eyes. Picture the color gold, real gold. Now infuse it with sunshine, and, at the edges watch the gold fade to pure light. Pour it in a pretty wine glass. (If you really closed your eyes, you can open them now. Hey! OPEN THEM!)
Put your nose in the glass and inhale just the faintest smell of crisp apples, sweet and tart at the same time.
Sip. You’re tasting sweet apples and tart, with an alcohol conveyance, sliding over your tongue to the back of your mouth and down with just a hint of sugar calling you back. That is Grand Pre’s golden dessert wine, Pomme d’Or, the Golden Apple.
Turns out there’s an old law. Don’t you hate those old laws? Canada passed this law in an agreement with the US to protect Americans from the sins of liquor during Prohibition. Now you can’t get a couple of bottles of Pomme d’Or (calling you back, calling you back) shipped to the States. What’s that, you say? Prohibition was done away with almost 100 years ago? And you think a government might have changed the law? *sigh*
On our last night in Nova Scotia, we ate a delectable dinner at Chives in Halifax. I concluded my meal not with chocolate cake, not with pie, but with a glass of Pomme d”Or. It was a perfect dessert all by itself (although it paired deliciously with a bite of Steve’s coffee ice cream with caramel sauce), and I’LL NEVER GET TO TASTE IT AGAIN! Is this the definition of pleasure and pain?
Evangeline on her pillow in the church.
This is how I feel after a glass of Pomme d'Or.
(My sister took this picture. :) )
(This will be my last post about Nova Scotia, cheer or sigh, depending on your reaction to that. Next post will be about Squirrel Splat - and that’s not a pot pie.)
We visited the gorgeous Grand Pre National Park which features a museum with mini-videos of various aspects of Acadian life: one of costumed people reaping hay with scythes and building a hay rack; one of women spinning; one of men weaving green branching through saplings to form a fishing weir. In that video, the Bay of Fundy tide floods and recedes (off camera), and you see the people return to the weir to pluck the fish, waist-high, from the woven pockets. We saw the commemorative church that has a series of murals (picture below) telling the story of the Acadian diaspora and where a cat named Evangeline comes in every morning to rest on a blue pillow.
Men are being forced on a boat while the
women and girls (and cat) are left behind.
The Acadians were French settlers, so naturally they brought grape vines with them. The vineyard of Grand Pre takes advantage of all the conditions that allow grapes, apples, all crops to flourish.
Close your eyes. Picture the color gold, real gold. Now infuse it with sunshine, and, at the edges watch the gold fade to pure light. Pour it in a pretty wine glass. (If you really closed your eyes, you can open them now. Hey! OPEN THEM!)
Put your nose in the glass and inhale just the faintest smell of crisp apples, sweet and tart at the same time.
Sip. You’re tasting sweet apples and tart, with an alcohol conveyance, sliding over your tongue to the back of your mouth and down with just a hint of sugar calling you back. That is Grand Pre’s golden dessert wine, Pomme d’Or, the Golden Apple.
Turns out there’s an old law. Don’t you hate those old laws? Canada passed this law in an agreement with the US to protect Americans from the sins of liquor during Prohibition. Now you can’t get a couple of bottles of Pomme d’Or (calling you back, calling you back) shipped to the States. What’s that, you say? Prohibition was done away with almost 100 years ago? And you think a government might have changed the law? *sigh*
On our last night in Nova Scotia, we ate a delectable dinner at Chives in Halifax. I concluded my meal not with chocolate cake, not with pie, but with a glass of Pomme d”Or. It was a perfect dessert all by itself (although it paired deliciously with a bite of Steve’s coffee ice cream with caramel sauce), and I’LL NEVER GET TO TASTE IT AGAIN! Is this the definition of pleasure and pain?
Evangeline on her pillow in the church.
This is how I feel after a glass of Pomme d'Or.
(This will be my last post about Nova Scotia, cheer or sigh, depending on your reaction to that. Next post will be about Squirrel Splat - and that’s not a pot pie.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)