Posts
(Scroll down to the beginning of the September 29th posts, in order read the journals in order. :) )
(my apologies for the weird characters appearing in the text. I cut and paste these entries from my word processor, and apparently Blogger doesn't like that very much. I'll try to edit them.)
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September 3rd, 2005 Balham, London
We visited Cafe Moka again this morning. We’ve nicknamed the young Indian man “Trevor”, because he reminds us so much of our good friend in Wenatchee. We sipped our latte’s and chatted with “Trevor” while we watched people commuting to work through Balham.
‘Trevor’ asked us where we were heading today, and we told him that we were going to check out Portobello Street Market. His eyes widened and he nodded approvingly. “I’ve only been there once, but it was great stuff!!” We couldn’t wait to experience it for ourselves, and so we bid him a good day, and trekked on towards Victoria Station via the train at Balham junction.
I braced Larry for the prospect of riding the Tube today, since we had skirted around doing so for the past two days. But after showing him on the map the distance between Victoria Station, and Notting Hill…he agreed to give it a go. So, purchasing our day Travel Cards, and after sorting out which line we needed to be on… we were off.
Now I can see why everyone grimaces about the Tube during summer. It wasn’t even 9:30, and it was already stifling hot! But, after an achingly long time(and somewhat claustrophic for Larry), we arrived at Notting Hill Gate.
What a great part of the city! We instantly followed the flow of people down to Portobello Road, and were greeted by the sight of a ‘living statue’ on the corner. She was completely dressed in white, draped from head to toe in elegant rags… and was slowly moving in the most graceful poses. We spent awhile snapping pictures of her, before heading down to the stalls set up on either side of Portobello.
Truly the most amazing street market I’ve ever seen! Of course, there was lots of bric-a-brac, and cheap tourists trinkets… but the overwhelming thing was the amount of ancient (to us!) antiques, set out in bargain bins! Hand painted prints from the late 1700’s, on sale for a steal at 20 GBP. Old leather footballs (real American style footballs), baskets of old crooked keys, and rows of first edition books such as Dickens’ “David Copperfield”. Larry drooled over that one for quite a bit, and we struck up a conversation with the old book dealer who was sitting nearby. His eyes lit up as we asked him if we could look at the book, and he told us to help ourselves. Can you imagine?? This book would be under glass, lock and key in America… and here we were, carefully leafing through it’s fragile pages.
Larry and the book dealer talked about Charles Dickens for some time, expounding on his brilliance, and his genius at making money. The book dealer confessed that his ‘second home’ was in New York - and that the moment he hears the taxi drivers honking their horns, he knows he’s home. I had to laugh at this, for that’s exactly how I feel whenever I hear Big Ben chiming the hour in London.
We wandered further down the road, and after a few twists and turns… we realized this market literally went on forever. Since the street was looking like a cattle drive, we decided to call it good, and head out for something to eat… but not before I bought a beautiful scarf, rich in gold and copper threads, with beadwork sewn on in paisleys.
We settled on a noisy café called “Tom’s”, which turned out to be delicious. We both had the “Tom’s Toasty”, which was a toasted panini with ham, cheese, and rocket. We washed that down with iced tea and brewed lemon lime soda, and then we were stuffed, happy, and ready for more exploring. But I had to force myself to bypass the fairy cakes on display up front of the restaurant. Their pink icing was practically screaming my name.
We trudged back towards the Tube station, but were briefly sidetracked by a peculiar yellow car parked in a parking lot. It had one wheel in the front, two in the back, and looked like a hybrid Pinto. Larry snapped pictures of this oddity, and spotted it’s name. “The Super Robin”. Heh! I’d love to see what Ralph Nader would think of one of these.
So, we found our way back to the Tube… this time we boarded the District Line, rather than the Circle Line. Larry decided he preferred the District Line… and the phrase of the day became “Cheer Up, Chicken!” Don’t ask why.
We reached Tower Hill, and were awed by the first views of The Tower of London as we came out of the tunnel from the Tube. We weren’t going to be touring it, as it was in the middle of the afternoon, and the crowds were swarming. But we wanted to just admire it from afar for awhile. The first thing that really caught our attention was the ancient Roman wall that was still preserved out behind the Tower. Originally built around 200 AD, it was astounding to imagine the hands that laid the stones in place to build that wall.
We circled around and ogled the front of the Tower for awhile, taking refuge in the shade. A welcome breeze stirred up, just as we saw an old sailboat heading towards Tower Bridge. It was then that we were treated to the sight of seeing Tower Bridge lifting for the passage of sailboat. Of course, we snapped pictures, and then wandered toward St. Katherine’s Docks afterwards. Yes, we were typical Americans, and went to the Starbucks there… but I have to say, the place was full of people, and they all appeared rather ‘local’.
We rested in front of the Dickens Inn for quite awhile, being amused by the pigeons on the cobblestones, and trying to recover for the trip back home. We walked a little further to the actual locks, full of boats waiting to be let in, and were able to chat with an aged gentlemen who worked as the maintanance manager at the Tower of London. He was very complacent about the fact that he actually lived there, and said he was just waiting for retirement so he could head out of London. I was pretty certain at that point that we weren’t going to score any special passages into the Tower through him!
We finally decided to call it a day, and made our way back to Victoria Station, where we caught our train to Balham. We walked into the courtyard of The Coach House, and found our hosts dining outside with their grown children. Lots of greetings and pleasantries all around, and then we retired to our quarters, where I promptly collapsed on the bed and passed out (cheer up, chicken!). Larry took a shower, and then snoozed awhile, listening to the chatter of our hosts below in the courtyard.
I woke up a couple of hours later, refreshed and ready to head out to dinner. We settled on “Ferarri’s” - an Italian bistro, where I had a penne pasta dish wish savory salami, and a Mandarin Cosmopolatin. Larry had Lasagna Classico, and a ‘Cool Cucumber’, which was a drink that really did have a cucumbery taste.
With a slight buzz going on, and our belly’s full, it was time to head to Sainsbury’s, where we collected our wicked chocolately Mars Delight bars, Sainbury’s miniature lemon pies (YUM!), and other really bad snack food. We certainly have enough to keep us stocked in crap food for the rest of our stay here.
But, I confess I have now developed a nasty addiction to those mini pies. Ohhh yes. Yum.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
Travel Journal 4
(Scroll down to the beginning of the September 29th 2005 post, in order to start at the beginning of these journal entries from England. :) )
9.2.05 8:00 a.m.
Wow, what an awesome night's sleep!! This place is amazingly quiet at night.
We woke to the sound of a pigeon cooing. Glanced out the French doors and saw the fellow perched on the corner of Harley's roof. My word, what kind of pigeon is that? It's huge!! We decided he is a very proper pigeon, who likes reading Charles Dickens. His favorite book is no doubt The Pickwick Papers.
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9:10 p.m.
Started the day off with a long walk around Balham, and Wandsworth Common. Not realizing that we went the opposite direction the train station we were looking for, we ended up seeing lots of quaint neighborhoods. However, we did stop at a place called Cafe' Moka for some lattes, and had fun chatting with the young guy who works there.
Something I noted along the way; nobody has screens in their windows!! With it being 70-80 degrees out, all windows are wide open, but no screens anywhere. Oddly enough, I haven’t seen any flies yet, so maybe it’s not so much of a problem here??
We finally caught the train at Wandsworth Common, and I realized this was the same route Amy and I took from Streatham Hill when we stayed there in 2000. So, lots of flashbacks for me as we clacked our way down the train tracks towards Victoria Station.
Victoria was overwhelming and awesome as I remembered. People going every direction you could possibly imagine, with rail schedules and platform numbers booming from the loudspeakers overhead. We walked outside, and promptly headed in the wrong direction from the main sites…having forgotten our city map back at the B&B. But we didn't worry. It gave us a lot of chances to grin and each other and count back the hours to the time zone at home… and think about how everybody else was getting up and heading to work. And where were we?? Lost in London! How fantastic was that?!!
We finally found our way to the Thames, and followed it up past the Tate Modern, to Parliament. A gorgeous blue sky day, shining down on the gold trimmed glory of Big Ben. It gonged the hour as we crossed the bridge to eat lunch beneath the London Eye. What a view!! Massive summer crowds, but it made for lively people watching. We ate chicken curry rice bowls and drank tart lemonade.
After resting there awhile, we made our way to Buckingham Palace via St. James's Park. The green grass was covered with people seeking shade from the sun. We moved ahead until we reached the Palace, where the flag was flying high - so the Queen was at home! We gawked at the guards in their royal red attire, marching in their stiff legged tradition. Many pictures taken , until the jet lag started to make our feet feel like they’d been placed in cement. So, we found our way back home, got some food to eat, and are now sitting here readying ourselves for another night of coma-deep sleep. I still can't believe we're in ENGLAND!!!
9.2.05 8:00 a.m.
Wow, what an awesome night's sleep!! This place is amazingly quiet at night.
We woke to the sound of a pigeon cooing. Glanced out the French doors and saw the fellow perched on the corner of Harley's roof. My word, what kind of pigeon is that? It's huge!! We decided he is a very proper pigeon, who likes reading Charles Dickens. His favorite book is no doubt The Pickwick Papers.
----------
9:10 p.m.
Started the day off with a long walk around Balham, and Wandsworth Common. Not realizing that we went the opposite direction the train station we were looking for, we ended up seeing lots of quaint neighborhoods. However, we did stop at a place called Cafe' Moka for some lattes, and had fun chatting with the young guy who works there.
Something I noted along the way; nobody has screens in their windows!! With it being 70-80 degrees out, all windows are wide open, but no screens anywhere. Oddly enough, I haven’t seen any flies yet, so maybe it’s not so much of a problem here??
We finally caught the train at Wandsworth Common, and I realized this was the same route Amy and I took from Streatham Hill when we stayed there in 2000. So, lots of flashbacks for me as we clacked our way down the train tracks towards Victoria Station.
Victoria was overwhelming and awesome as I remembered. People going every direction you could possibly imagine, with rail schedules and platform numbers booming from the loudspeakers overhead. We walked outside, and promptly headed in the wrong direction from the main sites…having forgotten our city map back at the B&B. But we didn't worry. It gave us a lot of chances to grin and each other and count back the hours to the time zone at home… and think about how everybody else was getting up and heading to work. And where were we?? Lost in London! How fantastic was that?!!
We finally found our way to the Thames, and followed it up past the Tate Modern, to Parliament. A gorgeous blue sky day, shining down on the gold trimmed glory of Big Ben. It gonged the hour as we crossed the bridge to eat lunch beneath the London Eye. What a view!! Massive summer crowds, but it made for lively people watching. We ate chicken curry rice bowls and drank tart lemonade.
After resting there awhile, we made our way to Buckingham Palace via St. James's Park. The green grass was covered with people seeking shade from the sun. We moved ahead until we reached the Palace, where the flag was flying high - so the Queen was at home! We gawked at the guards in their royal red attire, marching in their stiff legged tradition. Many pictures taken , until the jet lag started to make our feet feel like they’d been placed in cement. So, we found our way back home, got some food to eat, and are now sitting here readying ourselves for another night of coma-deep sleep. I still can't believe we're in ENGLAND!!!
Travel Journal 3
9.1.05 Balham, near London England.
We are currently sitting upstairs at The Coach House, 9:30 p.m.... a beautiful two story cottage that has instantly become 'home' for us.
The flight over was as smooth and uneventful as I could have possibly hoped for - though the last two hours were difficult to have patience for. We landed at 11:15 a.m. sharp.
Our hired driver, Andrew, picked us up at Heathrow at 11:45. He was a young man, probably in his mid 20's, with a shy smile. We all chatted as he drove us through the labyrinth to Balham, laughing over the differences between American and British driving. He navigated us through the streets like a pro, and deposited us outside the gates of The Coach House.
Upon arrival, our host Harley lead us through a small grey wooden door into a pristine English courtyard. He is a greying fox-faced gentleman, with a low posh voice that made me grin.
He led us across the courtyard which adjoins his private home with their rental house, and unlocked the door. We stepped under the draping leaves of a blooming Clematis vine, and into our residence for the next ten days. Once introduced to our quarters, we bid him good evening, and passed out from exhaustion on the fluffy feather comforter of our bed.
I woke up once, completely bleary and travel drunk, to the telephone ringing. I picked it up, and it was a telemarketer looking for what sounded like "Mrs. Mudd". Sorry! I may have felt like mud, but I wasn't the lady he was looking for.
I rolled back over and fell asleep until 7:00 p.m., when I roused myself and called my mom to let her know we had survived. Then we freshened up, and wandered out to explore our neighborhood.
Larry got Indian take-out for dinner, which consisted of Chicken Doner on Naan bread, and rice. We then went to Tesco's, which was the nearest mini-market, though it was nothing at all like an American mini-mart. There were fresh baked goods, fruits and vegetables, and all kinds of easy meals and deserts to be had. We got some blackberry seltzer, Haagan Daaz ice cream, Salt & Vinegar chips... and other assorted things that we would need for the trip. Oddly enough, there was a huge line at the checkout stands. Probably close to twelve or fifteen people all waiting patiently for their turn. It went quickly though, and certainly proved the old adage that British people qeue up like nobody else!
So here I sit, completely stuffed and sooo tired. Took a shower, ate my ice cream, and am now reading The Sun and The Evening Standard while BBC drones away on the T.V. It's a beautifule vening. Strange not to have any wind... since it's always so windy around our house this time of night. It seems oddly still.
A cat meowled just now in the courtyard. Even it seemed to have an accent. Either that, or I think I really need some sleep.
We are currently sitting upstairs at The Coach House, 9:30 p.m.... a beautiful two story cottage that has instantly become 'home' for us.
The flight over was as smooth and uneventful as I could have possibly hoped for - though the last two hours were difficult to have patience for. We landed at 11:15 a.m. sharp.
Our hired driver, Andrew, picked us up at Heathrow at 11:45. He was a young man, probably in his mid 20's, with a shy smile. We all chatted as he drove us through the labyrinth to Balham, laughing over the differences between American and British driving. He navigated us through the streets like a pro, and deposited us outside the gates of The Coach House.
Upon arrival, our host Harley lead us through a small grey wooden door into a pristine English courtyard. He is a greying fox-faced gentleman, with a low posh voice that made me grin.
He led us across the courtyard which adjoins his private home with their rental house, and unlocked the door. We stepped under the draping leaves of a blooming Clematis vine, and into our residence for the next ten days. Once introduced to our quarters, we bid him good evening, and passed out from exhaustion on the fluffy feather comforter of our bed.
I woke up once, completely bleary and travel drunk, to the telephone ringing. I picked it up, and it was a telemarketer looking for what sounded like "Mrs. Mudd". Sorry! I may have felt like mud, but I wasn't the lady he was looking for.
I rolled back over and fell asleep until 7:00 p.m., when I roused myself and called my mom to let her know we had survived. Then we freshened up, and wandered out to explore our neighborhood.
Larry got Indian take-out for dinner, which consisted of Chicken Doner on Naan bread, and rice. We then went to Tesco's, which was the nearest mini-market, though it was nothing at all like an American mini-mart. There were fresh baked goods, fruits and vegetables, and all kinds of easy meals and deserts to be had. We got some blackberry seltzer, Haagan Daaz ice cream, Salt & Vinegar chips... and other assorted things that we would need for the trip. Oddly enough, there was a huge line at the checkout stands. Probably close to twelve or fifteen people all waiting patiently for their turn. It went quickly though, and certainly proved the old adage that British people qeue up like nobody else!
So here I sit, completely stuffed and sooo tired. Took a shower, ate my ice cream, and am now reading The Sun and The Evening Standard while BBC drones away on the T.V. It's a beautifule vening. Strange not to have any wind... since it's always so windy around our house this time of night. It seems oddly still.
A cat meowled just now in the courtyard. Even it seemed to have an accent. Either that, or I think I really need some sleep.
Travel Journal 2 8/31/05
8.31.05 - At SeaTac Airport, Seattle.
We're finally here!! Sitting at the airport, sipping a white chocolate mocha, glancing around at the other passengers. One older couple are pouring over their Rick Steves guide book. A man and his 3 year old daughter are heading home to England after visiting Spokane and Portland. She has the most adorable British accent.
Larry has on his "Flippin' Sweet" Napoleon Dynamite t-shirt, and just came strolling back to our seats in the waiting lounge with a Seattle Times newspaper. The headline is regarding New Orleans and the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.
"Desperation Grows: We've Lost Our City"
Hard to imagine the tragedy of that, as we sit here waiting to go on the trip of a lifetime. My heart goes out to those poor people.
I'm surprisingly calm for being scared of flying. It hink reading up on the facts of air travel on scaredofflying.com has helped alot. Well, time to put this away, and get ready to head out over the clouds. England, here we come!!
We're finally here!! Sitting at the airport, sipping a white chocolate mocha, glancing around at the other passengers. One older couple are pouring over their Rick Steves guide book. A man and his 3 year old daughter are heading home to England after visiting Spokane and Portland. She has the most adorable British accent.
Larry has on his "Flippin' Sweet" Napoleon Dynamite t-shirt, and just came strolling back to our seats in the waiting lounge with a Seattle Times newspaper. The headline is regarding New Orleans and the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.
"Desperation Grows: We've Lost Our City"
Hard to imagine the tragedy of that, as we sit here waiting to go on the trip of a lifetime. My heart goes out to those poor people.
I'm surprisingly calm for being scared of flying. It hink reading up on the facts of air travel on scaredofflying.com has helped alot. Well, time to put this away, and get ready to head out over the clouds. England, here we come!!
Travel Journal 1
Alright, at last - I am posting the first few pages of my travel journal! :: insert the scream and roar of a hungry crowd here::: heheh.
Now - the first two entries are from a hand written journal I took with me. After the first night, I realized that I would end up with curlykew fingers and lost memories if I tried to write everything out. So, after the first two entries... I switched to keeping my journal on my laptop. Things get much more detailed after that. ;)
So, on with the show!!
Now - the first two entries are from a hand written journal I took with me. After the first night, I realized that I would end up with curlykew fingers and lost memories if I tried to write everything out. So, after the first two entries... I switched to keeping my journal on my laptop. Things get much more detailed after that. ;)
So, on with the show!!
Friday, July 22, 2005
So we're sitting at the DMV, waiting to get the husband's license renewed....when the following conversation ensued:
Him: "After it gets dark tonight, I want to light some candles in the kitchen, get out the silverware letters, and experiment with taking some pictures of them in that light."
Me: (Nodding slowly...looking at him, trying to figure out what 'silverware letters' were, and not wanting to admit I had no clue) "Yeahhhhh. Sure....that'd be cool."
---- silence for a few minutes, letting us absorb the smell of Lysol from the plastic seats we were sitting on, along with the dozen other people sitting and staring at the walls with zombie-wide eyes ------
Me: "Um.... what are silverware letters?"
Him: (Turning slowly to me, cracking a big grin) "CI-VIL WARRRRRRRR letters."
Me: OHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. (Lots of stifled laughter, eyes watering, and shoulder shaking).
Him: "Dearest Mother, it sure would be nice to have a fork...."
Him: "After it gets dark tonight, I want to light some candles in the kitchen, get out the silverware letters, and experiment with taking some pictures of them in that light."
Me: (Nodding slowly...looking at him, trying to figure out what 'silverware letters' were, and not wanting to admit I had no clue) "Yeahhhhh. Sure....that'd be cool."
---- silence for a few minutes, letting us absorb the smell of Lysol from the plastic seats we were sitting on, along with the dozen other people sitting and staring at the walls with zombie-wide eyes ------
Me: "Um.... what are silverware letters?"
Him: (Turning slowly to me, cracking a big grin) "CI-VIL WARRRRRRRR letters."
Me: OHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. (Lots of stifled laughter, eyes watering, and shoulder shaking).
Him: "Dearest Mother, it sure would be nice to have a fork...."
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Summer
I was driving into town yesterday, with the air conditioning in the Jeep on so strong my hair was whipping back like a fashion model at a cheesy photo shoot. It had reached 97 degrees in the valley, which meant flipflops would be melting on asphalt between the car and the glorious cool chill of the grocery store.
I contemplated the marvel of being icy cold in my car while in the middle of such blazing heat, when I had a 'eureka' moment. I realized, as I sat in bumper to bumper traffic in my little icebox, that summer whisked by at lightning speed not because of being older, not because of being busy... but because of air conditioning.
Yes. You read it right. Summer has been stolen by the air conditioner.
As a young kid, summer's triple digit temperatures drove us all outdoors. Not only during the day, but when we slept as well. The upstairs of our big two story house became a virtual furnace during the summer months, when only a brave soul would spend more than a few minutes up there in the stale air... grabbing some clean clothes off the pile on the floor before bolting back outside. Downstairs, windows were open wide, jars of sun tea sat on the counter, and screen doors served their purpose of keeping flies out, while providing the squeek-BAM soundtrack to the day.
I lived outside during summer break. I would drag a blanket outside, spread it out on the ground in half sun, shalf shade... and that would be my touchstone for the rest of the day. Whatever book I was reading was always nearby. A radio would be propped in the kitchen window, facing outward so I could hear the music. Sprinklers would be on, so that at any moment I could go racing through the fresh mowed grass and dance in the cold ditch water spray to cool off. If I was thirsty, I'd drink straight from the hose attached to the house well, with mom's words of "make sure you turn the spicket off tight, or the pump will run all day!!" ringing in my head. There has never been water so crisp and cold as the water that poured crystaline clear from that green garden hose.
Impromptu trips to the lake were always a treat. Mom would fill the cooler with a six pack of Tab, slice some cheese to top our Ritz crackers, throw in some Oreo cookies for desert, and we'd be off. Or, if it wasn't the lake, my best friend and I would be dropped off at the city pool, where we would join the rest of the thrashing amoebas in the chlorine rich waters for hours.
Even when Dad got home from work, he would join us outside more often than not, having a cool drink and talking about nothing. I'd do handstands out by the blooming hollyhocks, and catch grasshoppers as they skipped by. Mom would pluck weeds from the garden, and hand water the flowers. Nothing was so pressing that it couldn't wait until we had a leisurely evening.
Drives into town meant being blasted in a wind tunnel of hot air. Every window rolled down, arms hanging out the windows - you could tell which side of the car a person normally sat on because one arm would have a darker tan on it than the other. Car radios would be tuned in to the same local station, and you could hear all the cars in synch when we stopped at red lights.
And the stores were our oasis. The frozen food section was nirvana. That cold tile floor was heaven to my bare feet.
Evenings would be spent outdoors. We would sit back in the rust colored Adirondack chairs, eating popsicles and enjoying the cooling breeze coming down off the mountains. How I wished we could lift the roof off the house, so that breeze would push the stagnate heat out from within... but the rotating fans could only do so much.
Bedtime would find us dragging out the tarp to lay the sleeping bags on. There was no question of whether we were going to sleep indoors or out. Unless we wanted to spend a night sweating off five pounds, we were going to be closing our eyes beneath the stars. Pillows, blankets, dogs, cats.... everything was piled onto the sleeping bags, until finally I would zip myself up inside. Staring at the constellations and orbiting sattelites would lull me to a slow and deep sleep, interrupted only by an occasional peek through slitted eyes to see how far the Big Dipper had travelled since I last looked.
And then we got an air conditioner.
Suddenly, the house wasn't so uncomfortable to be in. The contrast between the chilly cold of the livingroom made the heat outside seem doubly intense. Time spent lounging on lawn chairs was traded for laying on the couch, watching TV. We still went to the lake, but instead of coming home and stretching out on the hot sidewalk to dry... we'd rush inside, shivering in the cold air while we changed into clean clothes.
Dad insisted on keeping every window shut, every door closed, so the air conditioner could do it's thing. He'd come home from work, fall into his Lazy Boy chair, and not budge from in front of the TV until we were all heading to bed. We still slept outside on occasion, but mostly just for amusement. Rides into town were climate controlled, and the grocery store slid back into it's mundane role, because it could never match the cold of the prized air conditioner at home.
So, one degree at a time, the air conditioner sucked the life right out of summer. Iced tea and lemonade didn't taste as refreshing, and I stopped drinking out of the garden hose. Sprinklers ran simply for the sake of watering the lawn. Books were read on the couch, and the blankets stayed folded in the closet. The sound of wind in the trees, and rainbird sprinklers chk-chk-chk-ing on the orchard trees around the house was replaced by the droning hum of the Whirlpool.
Of course, at the time, I didn't realize this transition was taking place. Days went by faster, and I couldn't put my finger on *why*. I sensed something was different, but mostly... I didn't care. I was young, the air conditioner was new, and comfort was key. I just didn't understand that it wasn't a fair exchange... that cold air, for the true essence of summer.
I think I'll slow summer down a bit, now. I'm going to turn the air conditioner off, and throw open the windows. Let the screen door reclaim it's squeeky-hinge glory. And you know what? There's a sprinkler going, and a good book is calling my name. Time to get a blanket from the closet, and work a bit of magic by slowing summer down to a crawl.
I contemplated the marvel of being icy cold in my car while in the middle of such blazing heat, when I had a 'eureka' moment. I realized, as I sat in bumper to bumper traffic in my little icebox, that summer whisked by at lightning speed not because of being older, not because of being busy... but because of air conditioning.
Yes. You read it right. Summer has been stolen by the air conditioner.
As a young kid, summer's triple digit temperatures drove us all outdoors. Not only during the day, but when we slept as well. The upstairs of our big two story house became a virtual furnace during the summer months, when only a brave soul would spend more than a few minutes up there in the stale air... grabbing some clean clothes off the pile on the floor before bolting back outside. Downstairs, windows were open wide, jars of sun tea sat on the counter, and screen doors served their purpose of keeping flies out, while providing the squeek-BAM soundtrack to the day.
I lived outside during summer break. I would drag a blanket outside, spread it out on the ground in half sun, shalf shade... and that would be my touchstone for the rest of the day. Whatever book I was reading was always nearby. A radio would be propped in the kitchen window, facing outward so I could hear the music. Sprinklers would be on, so that at any moment I could go racing through the fresh mowed grass and dance in the cold ditch water spray to cool off. If I was thirsty, I'd drink straight from the hose attached to the house well, with mom's words of "make sure you turn the spicket off tight, or the pump will run all day!!" ringing in my head. There has never been water so crisp and cold as the water that poured crystaline clear from that green garden hose.
Impromptu trips to the lake were always a treat. Mom would fill the cooler with a six pack of Tab, slice some cheese to top our Ritz crackers, throw in some Oreo cookies for desert, and we'd be off. Or, if it wasn't the lake, my best friend and I would be dropped off at the city pool, where we would join the rest of the thrashing amoebas in the chlorine rich waters for hours.
Even when Dad got home from work, he would join us outside more often than not, having a cool drink and talking about nothing. I'd do handstands out by the blooming hollyhocks, and catch grasshoppers as they skipped by. Mom would pluck weeds from the garden, and hand water the flowers. Nothing was so pressing that it couldn't wait until we had a leisurely evening.
Drives into town meant being blasted in a wind tunnel of hot air. Every window rolled down, arms hanging out the windows - you could tell which side of the car a person normally sat on because one arm would have a darker tan on it than the other. Car radios would be tuned in to the same local station, and you could hear all the cars in synch when we stopped at red lights.
And the stores were our oasis. The frozen food section was nirvana. That cold tile floor was heaven to my bare feet.
Evenings would be spent outdoors. We would sit back in the rust colored Adirondack chairs, eating popsicles and enjoying the cooling breeze coming down off the mountains. How I wished we could lift the roof off the house, so that breeze would push the stagnate heat out from within... but the rotating fans could only do so much.
Bedtime would find us dragging out the tarp to lay the sleeping bags on. There was no question of whether we were going to sleep indoors or out. Unless we wanted to spend a night sweating off five pounds, we were going to be closing our eyes beneath the stars. Pillows, blankets, dogs, cats.... everything was piled onto the sleeping bags, until finally I would zip myself up inside. Staring at the constellations and orbiting sattelites would lull me to a slow and deep sleep, interrupted only by an occasional peek through slitted eyes to see how far the Big Dipper had travelled since I last looked.
And then we got an air conditioner.
Suddenly, the house wasn't so uncomfortable to be in. The contrast between the chilly cold of the livingroom made the heat outside seem doubly intense. Time spent lounging on lawn chairs was traded for laying on the couch, watching TV. We still went to the lake, but instead of coming home and stretching out on the hot sidewalk to dry... we'd rush inside, shivering in the cold air while we changed into clean clothes.
Dad insisted on keeping every window shut, every door closed, so the air conditioner could do it's thing. He'd come home from work, fall into his Lazy Boy chair, and not budge from in front of the TV until we were all heading to bed. We still slept outside on occasion, but mostly just for amusement. Rides into town were climate controlled, and the grocery store slid back into it's mundane role, because it could never match the cold of the prized air conditioner at home.
So, one degree at a time, the air conditioner sucked the life right out of summer. Iced tea and lemonade didn't taste as refreshing, and I stopped drinking out of the garden hose. Sprinklers ran simply for the sake of watering the lawn. Books were read on the couch, and the blankets stayed folded in the closet. The sound of wind in the trees, and rainbird sprinklers chk-chk-chk-ing on the orchard trees around the house was replaced by the droning hum of the Whirlpool.
Of course, at the time, I didn't realize this transition was taking place. Days went by faster, and I couldn't put my finger on *why*. I sensed something was different, but mostly... I didn't care. I was young, the air conditioner was new, and comfort was key. I just didn't understand that it wasn't a fair exchange... that cold air, for the true essence of summer.
I think I'll slow summer down a bit, now. I'm going to turn the air conditioner off, and throw open the windows. Let the screen door reclaim it's squeeky-hinge glory. And you know what? There's a sprinkler going, and a good book is calling my name. Time to get a blanket from the closet, and work a bit of magic by slowing summer down to a crawl.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Once more, with feeling!
Schubert's Serenade
Guess what I did this morning?
I played the piano.
That might sound like a simple thing, but... if you peruse back through these archives enough, you will come to realize that it is quite an occasion.
You see, I was rooting through the attic today, digging out some dishes that my older sister had stored here. As I crawled through the darkness, looking for boxes marked "Depression Glass", I found an open box with a blue plastic binder stuffed in the top. I pulled it out, leaned back toward the light filtering in from the attic door, and saw my name written on a file label stuck to the front.
I knew immediately what I had found. My old sheet music binder!
I set it aside, and fished out the rest of the boxes for my sister. Then, just before I closed the small attic door, I grabbed the binder and tucked it under my arm. I could almost hear the melodies drifting out of it already! All the songs I used to play by memory, saved here with all my old handwritten notes and reminders.
I went downstairs and sat at the piano, and opened up the folder. It still has the note in the front from my piano teacher, making note of eight songs which were to be played at my own private senior recital (which never happened).
The first pages of sheet music are actually copies, and for some reason the title is cut off. I believe that this piece is "Invention No. 14 in B-Flat Major" by Johann Sebastian Bach, Allegro... very lovely.
The next is a song by Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, called Solfeggietto. An infamous little piece that I once played at a recital, nearly double the speed it was supposed to be played. My teacher said I nearly set the keyboard on fire with that one.
I flipped to the third piece, and smiled as I remembered the haunting Prelude in E Minor, Opus 28. No. 4 by Chopin. I instantly fell in love with this music when I was selecting a new recital piece all those years ago. Every time I played it, I could imagine Chopin playing the same notes, making them ring through the old monastery in Majorca that he was staying in at the time, in 1839. There was something so meloncholy about this melody... it almost seemed too much for a teenage girl to tackle, with any sense of what it really was trying to convey.
The fourth piece is a light, airy little tune by Homer Nearing, called "Falling Leaves". At the time, this was more of an 'intermission' song than anything. Something to break apart the heavy classical songs I favored, with something a little less demanding on the ears.
There there is the Waltz in A Minor by Chopin. It never struck me as the bright, rousing waltzes that were played at glittering galas. Rather, it too has a bittersweet ring to it... as if this is simply the memory of a grand waltz once danced, being recalled in the grainy light of a fading dream. Another reason I adored it.
Schubert's "Serenade" is the next. I have to say that this is probably one of my favorite songs I have ever learned. It can be played with all sorts of emotions, and the notes seem to form perfectly around whatever I am feeling at the time.
Then there is the fourteen page Sonata by Ludwig van Beethoven, Op. 49, No. 2. The beast of all songs I've ever learned. It took me the better part of a year to learn this song, and although it was never one of my true favorites... once you've played a fourteen page Beethoven song, you feel such an amazing sense of accomplishment. After I memorized this one, my teacher allowed me to leave the basement studio of her house, go upstairs, and play this on her mirror black concert grand piano that she had shipped over from Germany.
At last, another Chopin piece. Valse, Op. 70 No. 2. As I go through my songs, I see how much I leaned toward the languid melodies... always tinged with a bit of dramatic sadness. They were always so much more challenging than the 'tried and trues' of piano lessons, like Fur Elise. Come to think of it, I specifically never wanted to learn Fur Elise, simply because everyone else already had.
There are many other songs, but these... these are *my* songs. I sat down today, and was astonished to find that I remembered far more than I would have wagered on. And for the first time in many, many years... I felt that same excitement at thinking "I might even polish these up to perfection again". I even got a little twinge of anticipation at perhaps playing them for my family after so many years.
So, yes... a dig through the attic gave renewed life to my past as a mistress of the piano. Makes me realize how we can find priceless treasures in the most unexpected places, if we just open our hearts and let it happen.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Robin Redbreast
The past month slid by me in a storm of grief and activity, broken by intervals of emotional voids. Moments of complete blankness, when the calm and denial of losing a loved one sets in... and it enables you to pick up their ashes in a small black box without shedding a tear.
Of course, I knew the tears would come eventually. I waited for it as I was driving down the road, and waiting at stoplights. I anticipated it while I stood in line at the grocery store with a bag of lettuce and a block of cheese. I opened my eyes in the quiet of night and expected a sting of tears down each cheek. But as it turned out, it took days before it struck. Long days of feeling nothing inside but an echo of duties and tasks that needed tending to, while having no set path to follow.
The moment came when I walked down the hall and saw my answering machine blinking. Nearly a dozen phonecalls had flooded in, all demanding my attention in one form or another. The callers had no idea that collectively they had shared in shoving me off the precarious edge I had been perched on. All I could do was sit and shiver in my chair, staring at the blank computer screen for the remainder of the hour until my husband got home. The tears came trailing after.
The weekend brought sunlight and exposed earth from the long winter. I avoided phonecalls, and instead followed the sunlight out onto the desert plateau that frames the river to the east. I let the sadness accompany me, so that perhaps I could diffuse it under the blue sky and receding snow.
This morning the blue skies had gone, and rain drizzled off the eaves of the roof. I drank coffee, nibbled toast, and felt myself drawing inward. I wandered around the house, unable to stay focused on any one task... until I found myself staring out the windows towards the north. I looked out across the slope of an apple orchard, where the limbs were already growing pink from the run of sap towards early Spring warmth. A black dog was roaming between the rows, and suddenly a flurry of birds shot up from the area he intruded. They winged their way past the window... and I saw a flash of ruddy red. The robins were here!
I smiled, and wandered to another window where I saw them land in the neighboring pear trees. Their chirps and chatter filtered through the closed doors and windows, and signaled the coming of warm days...flowers... fat worms being tugged up out of wet dirt. No matter what had happened in the past month, the robins were on time. For whatever reason, this made me very happy.
I pulled on my black sweater, tugged on my shoes, and asked my dog if he wanted to go for a ride. I followed him as he trotted out to the Jeep, laughing at the fact that we might as well be heading into the wild Outback... instead of driving to the local grocer for angel hair pasta and the evening paper.
All the way there I thought of the robins making nests out of twigs and dog hair, readying themselves for sunny days. And I figured it was a good path to follow.
Of course, I knew the tears would come eventually. I waited for it as I was driving down the road, and waiting at stoplights. I anticipated it while I stood in line at the grocery store with a bag of lettuce and a block of cheese. I opened my eyes in the quiet of night and expected a sting of tears down each cheek. But as it turned out, it took days before it struck. Long days of feeling nothing inside but an echo of duties and tasks that needed tending to, while having no set path to follow.
The moment came when I walked down the hall and saw my answering machine blinking. Nearly a dozen phonecalls had flooded in, all demanding my attention in one form or another. The callers had no idea that collectively they had shared in shoving me off the precarious edge I had been perched on. All I could do was sit and shiver in my chair, staring at the blank computer screen for the remainder of the hour until my husband got home. The tears came trailing after.
The weekend brought sunlight and exposed earth from the long winter. I avoided phonecalls, and instead followed the sunlight out onto the desert plateau that frames the river to the east. I let the sadness accompany me, so that perhaps I could diffuse it under the blue sky and receding snow.
This morning the blue skies had gone, and rain drizzled off the eaves of the roof. I drank coffee, nibbled toast, and felt myself drawing inward. I wandered around the house, unable to stay focused on any one task... until I found myself staring out the windows towards the north. I looked out across the slope of an apple orchard, where the limbs were already growing pink from the run of sap towards early Spring warmth. A black dog was roaming between the rows, and suddenly a flurry of birds shot up from the area he intruded. They winged their way past the window... and I saw a flash of ruddy red. The robins were here!
I smiled, and wandered to another window where I saw them land in the neighboring pear trees. Their chirps and chatter filtered through the closed doors and windows, and signaled the coming of warm days...flowers... fat worms being tugged up out of wet dirt. No matter what had happened in the past month, the robins were on time. For whatever reason, this made me very happy.
I pulled on my black sweater, tugged on my shoes, and asked my dog if he wanted to go for a ride. I followed him as he trotted out to the Jeep, laughing at the fact that we might as well be heading into the wild Outback... instead of driving to the local grocer for angel hair pasta and the evening paper.
All the way there I thought of the robins making nests out of twigs and dog hair, readying themselves for sunny days. And I figured it was a good path to follow.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
A bit of writing....
( I just wrote this. Don't know where it came from... but I can see it all clearly. I hope you enjoy.)
Rain soaked the pavement black. Kamion watched lights from passing cars sweep over the asphalt as if being sucked into a void. No reflection, just a river of shadow that swallowed the light. She always noticed times like that, when the streets weren’t just wet… they seemed to disappear into the storm. She tried to describe to her friends how beautiful it was, but none of them really believed her.
Walking through the steam of her own exhale, she tugged her scarf tighter and quickened her pace toward the club. The night smelled like lightning, but if it was out there….the city hid it from view.
‘Or maybe it disappeared beneath the streets, lighting up the sewers and electrifying the rainwater,’ she thought to herself.
‘…or maybe you just have an overactive imagination’, said an echo of her mother’s voice in her mind.
Kamion’s laugh stayed muffled beneath her scarf as she stepped off the curb and crossed the street. Those little barbs of wisdom came at unpredictable times, but what she said was true. Her imagination was off the charts. Then again, it also paid the bills…and then some. The reminder of which was still beneath her fingernails…half moons of indigo blue. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she moved through the glow of neon outside of the club, and passed by the bouncer with a nod and smile.
Lightning flashed high above the city, and glowed in the gutter below... just a step away from Kamion's heels.
Rain soaked the pavement black. Kamion watched lights from passing cars sweep over the asphalt as if being sucked into a void. No reflection, just a river of shadow that swallowed the light. She always noticed times like that, when the streets weren’t just wet… they seemed to disappear into the storm. She tried to describe to her friends how beautiful it was, but none of them really believed her.
Walking through the steam of her own exhale, she tugged her scarf tighter and quickened her pace toward the club. The night smelled like lightning, but if it was out there….the city hid it from view.
‘Or maybe it disappeared beneath the streets, lighting up the sewers and electrifying the rainwater,’ she thought to herself.
‘…or maybe you just have an overactive imagination’, said an echo of her mother’s voice in her mind.
Kamion’s laugh stayed muffled beneath her scarf as she stepped off the curb and crossed the street. Those little barbs of wisdom came at unpredictable times, but what she said was true. Her imagination was off the charts. Then again, it also paid the bills…and then some. The reminder of which was still beneath her fingernails…half moons of indigo blue. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she moved through the glow of neon outside of the club, and passed by the bouncer with a nod and smile.
Lightning flashed high above the city, and glowed in the gutter below... just a step away from Kamion's heels.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Today is my father's memorial...
...this poem will be read at my father's memorial today. I wrote it in the early hours of this morning, remembering him in a gentle way.
Quietlight
-for dad-
There is a time of quiet light
At every morning’s start
That calls upon the silent man
To look upon his heart;
To measure out the sunlight
In increments of gold,
And in the hush of morning
Weave the beauty to his soul.
Without a blink, he watches
This beginning of the day…
As mountains glow in the mist
Showing him the way
To seek out trails of fragrant pine,
Of rock and sage and sky
Where deer and coyote wander free
And eagles take to flight.
A simple pleasure, all his own
This moment of the day
When all the valley belongs to him,
And troubles drift away.
At last he turns to walk the trail,
His heart filled up with gold…
And he disappears into the wilds,
To the beauty that guides his soul.
- Aimee Alison Stewart -
February 2nd, 2005
Quietlight
-for dad-
There is a time of quiet light
At every morning’s start
That calls upon the silent man
To look upon his heart;
To measure out the sunlight
In increments of gold,
And in the hush of morning
Weave the beauty to his soul.
Without a blink, he watches
This beginning of the day…
As mountains glow in the mist
Showing him the way
To seek out trails of fragrant pine,
Of rock and sage and sky
Where deer and coyote wander free
And eagles take to flight.
A simple pleasure, all his own
This moment of the day
When all the valley belongs to him,
And troubles drift away.
At last he turns to walk the trail,
His heart filled up with gold…
And he disappears into the wilds,
To the beauty that guides his soul.
- Aimee Alison Stewart -
February 2nd, 2005
Thursday, January 27, 2005
Sorrow
To all who read my blog... my morning has taken an unexpected, sorrowful turn.
I just recieved word that my father has passed away.
After I take time to deal with the situation, and make sense of everything, I will return. I am certain that writing will be a solace in this, and that if my posts take on a somber tone for awhile, you will know why.
Thank you for coming here, everyone. And thank you for understanding.
I just recieved word that my father has passed away.
After I take time to deal with the situation, and make sense of everything, I will return. I am certain that writing will be a solace in this, and that if my posts take on a somber tone for awhile, you will know why.
Thank you for coming here, everyone. And thank you for understanding.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
The Great Manilow Caper
About eight months ago, my best friend Beth moved into a new townhouse. As I was helping her decorate her new bedroom, she came to me with her head hung low and her arm outstretched, holding out a CD for me.
"Take it," she implored. "I've begun life anew. I now have Bono and the rest of U2 for making my life complete. I want this to be the turning of a new leaf. Please... take this CD. Dispose of it as you will. I will never listen to it again."
I chortled as I took the CD. That large nosed, bad haired image of Barry Manilow smiled at me from the jewel case. He was 'Singin'With The Big Bands'... oh yes he was.
"But BETH! He was your main man for so long! Are you sure? I mean, are you really SURE you are ready to rid yourself of the last morsel of Manilow in your life?"
She glared at me from behind her glasses. "Don't rub it in!! I don't want to admit that I ever listened to him! Just...burn it or something!"
I cackled. I snorted. She biffed me on the arm. I tucked the CD in my purse, knowing I would find a fitting end for this chapter in Beth's life.
Later that night, as I drove to our friend Jeremy's house (which is the hangout for all the Halo addicted guys I know, including my hubby)... an idea flashed into my impish little brain. A few minutes later, the Manilow CD was being nestled under the corner of Jeremy's roommate's bed. Poor Trevor... little did he know we would begin the countdown to when he would find the Manilow CD, and no doubt wonder how in the hell it got there...WHY it got there... and who put it there.
All these months later, and the Manilow CD had been forgotten. Until the phone rang, and the message machine captured the best deadpan voice I've ever heard.
"Hi Larry and Aimee, this is Trevor. I found the gift that you left for me.... between my boxspring and mattress. I'd would like to thank you, but you both suck. So... take care."
BWHAHAH! Ahhhhhhhh.... yes. I can't wait to talk to Jeremy to find out how the Manilow Caper unfolded.
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