Less sunlight means catch it when I can.
Which I did this morning.
My Bougainvillea plant (thanks to blogger AYR for helping identify it from a previous post) plays dead for weeks at a time.
Flowerless for the past month or so.
Despite sitting right next to a window.
No matter what I did.
I fed it some fertilizer a week or so ago and just let it be.
This past week, it surprised me once again by bursting into bloom. Just when I needed some color…
to filter and bounce shadows in the morning sun.
It can often be a mystery to figure out a 2 ½ year old. Who has a limited vocabulary which does not include “I am sad” or “I don’t understand” or “I need to calm down” or even…”I am lonely.”
But who still needs to feel a bit more relaxed or cheered or settled. I had a little boy like that a few decades ago. A comforting big hug would make all the difference most of the time. Or some grown up attempts at bridging the language divide…”it’s okay”…”you’ll feel better soon”…”let’s read a story together”…”I love you!”
However…
there was something about Pluto Dog – that special stuffed animal buddy that soothed like nothing else did. Held against bare skin, the comfort radiated to where it needed to go. The amazing power of touch.
Many such buddies lined his bedroom shelf and a few were snuggled with every night. When he reached for comfort, they were right there. No need to explain.
It is no surprise to me that this little boy grew up to be a fine young man…with a smile and a fond eye for every pup he passes on the street. And a special connection to his sister’s sweet dog who jumps & barks with excitement when hearing him at the door.
(And it also just happens to be his birthday today)
As I drove towards the polling location this morning, I was thrilled to wait in a long line of cars to turn in to the parking lot.
Up and down the packed rows of cars I went, looking for an open parking space. Unlike the usual me, I felt no aggravation or need to complain under my breath.
The clouds and misty drizzle didn’t dampen my spirits as I parked. And walked by crowds of supporters holding campaign signs. Peacefully. Democrats on one side of the walkway. Republicans on the other side.
I was smiling as I waited in line behind other voters once I got inside the building…the town’s former high school. Tables side by side divided up voters via the alphabet — first letters of last names.
There were men, women, children, babies – all patiently waiting. Rows of red, white and blue curtained voting booths also waiting throughout the old gymnasium. I made it to the check-in person, showed my driver’s license and received my ballot – yes, here we have paper ballots as long as your arm. A black sharpie also waited inside each booth. To fill in the empty circles beside all the hopeful candidates’ names.
I am always filled with a sense of awe at this moment. At the privilege – and the right – of having my voice actually count. It is only one voice, but it is as important as that guy in front of me in line. And as important as the young mom holding the curly headed baby in the line to my left. The perfect equalizer. That not everyone in this world has.
Just before I turned 18, the voting age was changed from 21 to 18, courtesy of the 26th Amendment to the United States Constitution (which followed the crucial 19th Amendment 51 years earlier…also making my vote possible). When I actually turned 18, I registered to vote at my high school. We had passionately discussed the significance of this change in History class and amongst ourselves. After all, there were 18, 19 & 20 year olds headed to Vietnam who should at least be able to vote.
I haven’t missed an election since.
When my two children turned 18, I took them soon after to our city hall to register. My son registered on his actual birthday – the next day was election day. And we both went together. “Did you get your absentee ballot?” I’d ask each of them every year when they were in college. We are lucky in this country, I tell them. We have a voice.
The idea of perfection always gives one a chance to talk without knowing the facts.
Agnes Sligh Turnbull
The pursuit of perfection.
A perfect plot for the impossible.
As the first few words
Slip out flawlessly.
A fateful pause. Phrase suspended.
Cloudy with doubt.
Rewind.
Breathe.
Begin again.
New words form.
Slightly bent.
Frayed. Rough.
Slowly emerge
One by one
Scraping. Sweating.
Squeezing their way out.
And stick this time.
Flying together.
IN A NEW POST CREATED FOR THIS CHALLENGE, SHARE A PHOTO OR TWO (OR THREE…) OF BRIDGES.
I inherited hundreds of my grandfather’s color slides.
Many of the slides were taken at family events, but many were from his trips to Europe, India and throughout the USA. He documented everything. Business trips. Personal adventures. With 8mm home movies as well. He was an ultra tourist. And thoroughly enjoyed travel. By air. By train. By car.
A few years ago I looked through all of his slides, but was dismayed that most were not labeled.
These are “Mystery Bridges” from the 1940’s (or very early 1950’s) Europe.
If anyone out there in blogging land knows where these photos were taken, please feel free to comment! I am very curious.
Veils deceive.
Camouflage. Conceal.
Disguise. Hide.
Cover up.
But not forever.
Cloaked in flimsy sheerness
Secrets slither from splits.
Haunting. Horrific. Hazy.
If you dare to peer inside
For a brief moment.
Which you rarely do.
For close to a lifetime.
Family behind a curtain.
Membrane wrapped tight
Barely concealing fear.
Hiding guilt.
And shame.
Perpetuating the as if. As if there is kindness. As if there is love. As if there is trust. As if this is real.
When I think slippery, I think “slip and fall” and…snowstorms.
When I was a kid, a snowstorm was exciting and often meant a day off from school. Making snow forts. Snowball fights. Snowmen.
Slipping and falling were part of the fun.
Not fun any more…
As a (former) homeowner, winter storms also meant:
First: Admiring the pretty snow.
Second: Taking photographs.
Third: Removing the snow from the front walk & driveway…with a shovel..or a snowblower…or both.
Fourth: Taking more photographs.
Below is a photo from February 2014 after a major snowfall.
I had just finished clearing the front walkway.
I would hear their voices…while they walked up the driveway. Waiting by the side door, I watched through the glass. Little witches, clowns, princesses, ghosts, pumpkins, monsters, ballerinas….about to ring the doorbell.
They remembered my house.
And they were excited about pencils.
It was October 30th. The night before Halloween.
Trick or treat night where we lived for 37 years.
I wasn’t always the pencil lady. I handed out fun size Snickers and M&M’s like everybody else that first Halloween in our new neighborhood. It was 1980. But my conscience won out a few years later.
I worked as a dietitian at the local hospital. Cautioning my patients to avoid sweets and eat a balanced diet. Somehow giving out those exact items to young children seemed…well hypocritical. And I was young and very idealistic at the time.
Hence the pencils…
…which I ordered from a catalogue. A box of 12 dozen Halloween Pencils.
In 1985 I started using the lid to record how many we gave out every year. Including how many went to school Halloween parties. I didn’t know it at the time, but 2015 would be my final year as the Pencil Lady. I had already refilled the box before we moved.
As Halloweens went by, I discovered that decorative pencils were not popular with every trick or treater. Especially the older ones. For example:
A group of large size, teenage-looking ghastly creatures came by one year. Fake blood. A few in their football uniforms. Rubber monster masks. Practiced nonchalance. All holding out pillowcases filling up with candy.
“Happy Halloween!!” I greeted them.
“Trick or Treat” they monotoned.
I held out the pencils, ready to drop one in each pillowcase.
One creature looked at me with alarm: “Pencils?”
“Yes! Pencils! They are great for school. You don’t have to take one if you don’t want to!”
The next morning I looked for and usually found a few broken pencils in the front yard.
Kid Carved – lighting the way for trick or treaters 1997
When I was growing up, our dentist lived at the end of our street. As I trudged to his house dressed in my hippie/flower girl/hobo costume, I knew I could count on Trident sugarless gum. Which was fine with me. Another neighbor handed out homemade popcorn balls. Another one gave us apples. My favorite: Mounds bars and peanut M&M’s. The trading back at the house with my brother and sister was intense. Almost as fierce as swapping houses and hotels in Monopoly. My brother often had an unfair advantage as he would trick or treat twice – changing costumes in between. I personally wished I’d thought of it first, although he only got away with it once. That I know of.
When my children reached trick or treat age, we celebrated with costumes and pumpkin carving. Candy trading. Traditions evolved.
Chili became Trick or Treat night supper since it was a fast one pot meal. My son and daughter trick or treated together in our family friendly neighborhood until she left for college. Either my husband or I usually tagged along. Not because they needed us, but because it was fun.
After they were both grown and out on their own, it was trick or treat from my viewpoint as the Pencil Lady. Those little faces so bright and expectant. Carefully climbing the 3 stairs to our side door; the light left on to welcome them.
From 5 – 8 pm every Oct. 30th, the doorbell rang and rang.
Costumes of all shapes and sizes – from lions and tigers to Sesame Street and Disney movie characters to robots made out of cardboard boxes – they were so proud.
The littlest ones trying their best to say Trick or Treat.
And, as they turned to leave, say Thank You.
I wonder if they miss the Pencil Lady.
She misses them.
Trick or Treat does not happen here in our over-55 condo community.
Although I suppose I could still hand out pencils in the lobby.
Last night was the Fifth and potentially Deciding game of the World Series. The Boston Red Sox vs. The L.A. Dodgers.
Hence the text messages…
Before going to sleep at around 10pm last night, I was in a frantic texting chain with my husband (here), our son (in MA) and daughter (in DC) – starting at 8pm Eastern Time.
Major League Baseball drama in overdrive. As is often the case, it was a family long distance affair.
At 8:00, there was checking in to see if everyone was wearing their gear. Yes for the guys. No for the gals. Uh oh.
And then the play by play got under way (condensed version)…
8:19: Benny!!!!
8:20:29: Pearce!!!!
8:20:40: Pearce!!!
8:25:15: Ok, David. Your turn.
8:25:45: Big chance for him.
8:26:32 Oh yeah.
and Fast forward….
9:36:11: Good stuff, Price! 9:36:29: He has settled down nicely
and…
9:56:19: Mookie!!!!!
9:56:36: He was so overdue.
9:56:45: He sure was
10:05:06: nice catch! FF…
11:10:26: Sale?
11:10:50: JBJ!
11:11:03: I love having Sale here to close it out.
11:11:07: He can just let loose
11:11:34: True
11:12:40: 2
11:15:47: Yes!!!
FF…
11:18:02: We won!!!!!
11:18:24: We did!!!!!! About 2 dozen texts later… 11:36:13: I’m gonna miss baseball 11:38:21:Me too …father and son wound down at 11:43 pm.
This morning, my daughter and I were greeted by over 70 texts that arrived while we slept. 🙂
Another season over. The Red Sox won another World Series!
Still hard to believe.
Growing up in New Hampshire, my husband has the Sox in his blood. He can’t help it. His tattered falling-apart scrapbook commemorating the almost-made-it 1967 season survived downsizing. And now lives on in the storage unit.
I grew up in NJ and neither of my parents followed professional sports. My grandfather was a passionate baseball fan and rooted for whoever he was betting on; but was forever loyal to the Cincinnati Reds – the team of his childhood. As an adult he lived in NY, near our home. He took his grandchildren (including me) to Yankee stadium a few times in the 1960’s. I don’t think we truly appreciated it like he expected. My little brother was more interested in eating hot dogs and visiting the men’s room.
Once our kids were old enough to sit in front of the TV and whoop and holler along with their dad, they got Sox hats and shirts. Red Sox baseball cards. Off they went into Sox fan-land; as was their birthright.
In 1996, the 4 of us went to our first Red Sox game together. Bad news was brewing: Fenway Park might be torn down! (it wasn’t)
“Save Fenway Park” appeared on bumper stickers. We had to get down there before it was too late…despite the fact that the Sox perpetually lost game after game. Or only made it to the first round. Or almost did….
This was before the Big Win in 2004; the end of the Curse Of The Bambino, the dawn of now-anything-is-possible.
Oct. 27, 2004 – Celebrating Red Sox World Series Win
Now it’s 2018. My kids are grown and have moved away. But devotion to their hometown team remains strong. And still connects us. Modern technology definitely helps. I’ve got over 150 text messages of loyalty to Red Sox Nation. Including coaching commentary.
My daughter did, however, marry a Yankees fan. How will they raise my now 2 year old grandson…as a Sox fan…or a Yankees fan…? Who knows?
Perhaps he’ll be won over by a Fenway Frank.
Time will tell.
IN A NEW POST CREATED FOR THIS CHALLENGE, SHARE A PHOTO OR TWO (OR MORE) OF REFLECTIONS.
Two years ago my husband and I rented a small condo across the street from a short stretch of the Atlantic Ocean. It was only for 3 months while waiting. Waiting to sell our house. Waiting for our new condo to be finished. So we could move on to the next phase of our lives.
My favorite part of that hectic time was walking up and down the beach in the late afternoon. Especially at low tide. It was off season (October through December) and I often had that stretch of beach to myself. It was glorious.
Peaceful alone time.
At 3:58 pm – on December 1st – I caught these moments.
The setting sun reflecting off sand…sky…clouds and surf.
Here are three photos in sequence – taken within 2 minutes…
(with my iPhone)