Egg

This post inspired by Ragtag Daily Prompt

A timely prompt…egg…as it is almost Easter.

In our house, while raising our children, coloring hard boiled eggs was an Easter tradition.

As it was when I was growing up…

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At the kitchen table.
The smell of vinegar in the air.

Easter as a child: the anticipation…first the eggs. Then the wait for Easter morning and the hunt for hidden baskets. Chocolate bunnies! Jelly beans! Marshmallow Peeps!

The same wire holders. Newspapers spread out to catch the inevitable drips.

Tiny color pellets – one for each custard cup (in my childhood) – teacup (for my kids). Dissolving into what seemed like magical colors. Dip the egg in quick or let it soak. Or maybe dip in halfway. Turn it over and try a different color for the other half. This took practice.

Mastering the balancing act…without dropping the egg on the floor…an Easter rite of passage…

My daughter and son…each at 3 years old…experts!

 

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Ages 10 and 4 – Go Team!

 

Last year around this time, I wrote a post about Easter.
I described my favorite book from childhood…featuring Easter eggs and the Easter bunny…who overslept.
The sweetest story…
And the illustrations…sigh.
Well worth mentioning again.
If you want to check it out…Almost Easter 2018

 

 

Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge – Color of Your Choice

Cee’s Challenge topic this week is Color of your Choice

This time of year I am more than ready for bright colors…
Reddish orange
Bright blue
With just a touch of black and white…

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“Origins”  by Mark di Suvero

 

This majestic sculpture, created by Mark di Suvero, greets visitors at the entrance to the Currier Museum of Art in Manchester, NH.

This view – from the ground looking up – captures just a portion of its 36 foot height…

On a perfect summer day.

 

RDP – COLOR

Love and Hearts and Grandparents

If we have someone who loves us — I don’t mean who indulges us, but who loves us enough to be on our side — then it’s easier to grow resilience, to grow belief in self, to grow self-esteem. And it’s self-esteem that allows a person to stand up.

Maya Angelou

 

 

from Grammy 1966

 

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from Great Grandma 1967

 

I have much to be grateful for in my life. The love of family is at the top of the list. As a child…and then as an adult…I was well loved by my grandparents. Held up. Cherished. Accepted.

All four of my grandparents – and my one living great grandparent – took the time to write to me. Personal letters. Postcards. Valentines. Birthday cards….
I heard from them on a regular basis…knowing I was important in their lives. And not forgotten, even though we lived miles apart.

Treasured pages of handwritten news, stories, questions about my life and plans for the future….
Offering encouragement and understanding
And unconditional love.

 

Photo a day challenge – Hearts

RDP – Intimate

 

Pass That Note

This post inspired by Ragtag Daily Prompt: Note

 

I saw a note that Gail wrote
& it says she hates me…

I don’t know if you’re mad at Gail but I am…

 

Notes.
When did I first run headlong into notes?
At that awkward will-I-fit-in-say-the-right-thing-avoid-exclusion-at-all-cost stage that characterized my middle school years in the 1960’s.

When successfully passing notes was a prized achievement. A right of passage. If you didn’t get caught.

Notes directed the intense undercurrent of a girl’s ever shifting social hierarchy. They could make or break your day at school.

Scrawled on lined notebook paper. Ripped out of 3-ring binders. Torn into halves. Or quarters. Hastily folded as small as possible. Then..slipped to a friend. Or potential friend. Or some kid sitting at a desk on the way to the note’s intended recipient.

With one eye on the teacher, who with chalk in hand might not turn towards the blackboard as quickly as you think. Who might snatch the wrinkled piece of paper. Which held the potential key to your social future. And then, horror of horrors, read it out loud. So everyone would hear…

Are you mad at me?
Write down yes or no.
Check next to these names…
Do you like them or not?

Or worse, if the note was for you…
From the girlfriends you just had a sleepover with…

We have decided that you are not our type.
Please don’t hang around with us that much. 
You can if you want….Every time
we look at you you are reading. I know you
like to but not every second. Don’t hang around
that much anymore.

 

Elaborate codes were devised. note029
I’ve always wondered…why? Why did girls jostle for position in such cut throat ways? Which is probably why I saved a few notes for 50 years. Thinking I’d figure it out. I have not. I still have no clue.

Except I am grateful there was no Facebook when I was struggling to fit in. No Instagram. No social media.
Notes would have followed me everywhere.
Day and night.
I can’t imagine.

Notes on wrinkled paper were thrown away. Or stuffed in a drawer.
Only public for an agonizing minute if the teacher recited them in front of snickering classmates.

Then the bell would ring.
And out the door I’d go.

swing

 

 

Collection

This post inspired by Ragtag Daily Prompt: Collection

Even though I was a saver, I was not a big collector of stuff when I was a child. I imagine I was far too practical for that. One more thing to find a place for. And my logic may have been…why?

Except for my trolls. When I was 9 or 10, I was given a small rubber troll with bright orange hair. I don’t remember who gave it to me. I was intrigued by its simplicity and ease of transport. Its lack of pretense. Friendly face. Easily styled hair.

And troll (as I simply called it) was supposed to bring me luck. I really liked that part.

Over the next few years, my collection grew. By saving my allowance or from birthday gifts…until I had a semblance of a troll family.

They came without clothing, so my rudimentary attempts at making outfits was confined to cutting up rags and scraps of fabric samples. Using the basting stitch I must have learned in Scouts, I fastened together my idea of troll fashion. And borrowed clothes from the heap of dolls I didn’t play with.

I recently found this vintage(!) collection stashed away in a shoe box. Along with an old Gimbels jewelry box full of accessories I can’t identify anymore.

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Troll Patrol

(this photo taken on the cobbler’s bench from my childhood…which my trolls most likely recognized)

Quote of the Day….

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick.

Susan Sontag

 
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Check one:
Is your health: excellent ___ good ___ fair___ poor___

And so begins the lengthy registration page at the doctor’s office.
Held tight on a clipboard. Which is attached to a pen via a piece of string.
Or choose a pen with a huge plastic flower glued to the top. Ostensibly so you won’t walk off with it. Pens must be expensive. And how sanitary is that?
I really wonder about the fingerprint smeared iPad I am often asked to register on. Taken from a rack. Unsanitized. If I wasn’t sick walking in, chances just increased I’d be sick a few days later.

Anyway…
Back to the health question…why would I be at the doctor’s office, ID and insurance card in hand, ready to pledge my first born for payment if need be…if I was in excellent health?  Or even in good health….

I used to take my health for granted.
Doctor’s visits were annual physicals for the most part.
As a child and young adult, I could leap out of bed, get dressed and be ready for the day in minutes.
Young and vital.
I ate well. Exercised. Took the stairs. Did sit-ups.
No special soaps, creams, drops, pills, patches.

I had no idea my health was time sensitive.

Years passed without a major illness.
Hospitalized briefly for birthing 2 babies. Totally worth it.
But then my 40’s hit and body parts started complaining.
And doing new things that I didn’t like.
Odd symptoms popped up. Baffled the docs.
And then my 50’s…more of the same.
But who has time. I sure didn’t.
A career. House. Marriage. Two kids. Parents.
My activities. Everyone else’s activities.

Health – and wellness – became elusive.
And so started the grieving process.
For what I used to be able to do…
…including the ability to check off “excellent” or “good” on those registration forms.

This post inspired by Ragtag Daily Prompt: Vital

Lumber Slices

This post inspired by Ragtag Daily Prompt: Lumber

Five years ago this month, our two prized birch tree clumps had to be taken down from the front yard. They were almost 30 years old…but getting too large to be safe. Especially during high winds. Or bending with the weight of ice and snow in the winter. Branches dying off one by one.

It was time.

We hired a local tree service, who arrived one morning to remove the trees.
It took a while, but down they went.

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I asked for some slices to keep

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One of which was treated and preserved.
And now sits in the living room of our new home.

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