Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts

Friday, January 25, 2013

I Think I'm Turning Japanese

I really think so.

(Okay, it's an old song by the group The Vapors, but for me it's for realsies.)

I've had a love affair with all things Japanese since I visited there back in 2004. We were there because Joe had been made president of the local Rotary chapter that year and one of his "duties" was to attend the world conference. Duty? Hell yeah! The club picked up his tab so our only expense (besides meals and incidentals) was my plane ticket and a big boost to our hotel allowance. (I've got a "good hotel" thing and I'm willing to pay for it, dammit.)

The trip was epic - Rotary gave all attendees a beautiful tote bag filled with rail passes, bus passes and all kinds of maps and information.  We traveled all over by ourselves, got lost a few times, ate all kinds of food we had NO idea about but loved every bite.  The temples in Nara were breathtaking.  Our suitcases came back jammed with elegant, diminutive Japanese sake flasks, kitchen utensils, and FABRIC.

Bag FrontI've hoarded the fabric, doling it out in bits and pieces for worthy things. I added to the stash when I worked at The New England Quilt Museum. I was fortunate enough to enjoy an employee discount on the uber-gorgeous Japanese taupes and imports - resistance was futile. My Japanese stash occupies its own very select storage box.

[caption id="attachment_2816" align="alignright" width="300"]Oh SNAP-in pocket with an exterior pocket. Oh SNAP-in pocket with dragonfly snap closure & an exterior pocket[/caption]

Just after Christmas I started looking at my very tired purse and decided it was TIME to bust out some really good fabric and treat myself for a change.  Since reading bag patterns is my kryptonite I decided to just take what I know and sew. It hasn't been pretty.  I've added at least 3 new variations on old swear phrases to my vocabulary. I'm not finished yet but I kind of like where it is going, even though the finished height was supposed to be the width and the finished width...well, you get it.  I started paper piecing the hexagons just after Christmas - I love hand sewing and I love how Japanese fabrics go together.  I'm working on making

[caption id="attachment_2799" align="alignright" width="300"]Bag interior with oh SNAPS! Bag interior with oh SNAPS![/caption]

different snap-in attachments that can vary  with # of pockets and depth. Sometimes I like to tote my iPad places and it will fit very comfortably in the finished purse.  I still need to finish a few things, cover a thin slice of foam core with fabric so it has a nice, flat bottom, and make the straps.  I'm enjoying this enormously, even thought it has meant a lot of re-doing and re-engineering things as I go along.  Why not?  There is no deadline and it's just for me.  For ME.

PS - Happy New Year - I can't believe it's been so long! I noticed that the powers-that-be are sticking ads on my blog posts. GAAUGH.  I am not responsible for their appearance or their content. Turn your nose up disdainfully at them.

PPSS - I feel like a drug dealer but....want to (beautifully) burn a few hours of your life? Love trees? Love all things Japanese?  Click here.  You're welcome.

Friday, March 23, 2012

Do-Over

ImageWe leave Sunday for a trip to Florida to stay with our friend John. This is a "do-over" trip.   Last year Joe and I made our first ever trip to Florida (we live on the ocean here.....why bother, right?) and about 3 days in to our inaugural experience we got a phone call letting us know my Dad had passed away. John felt terrible and as a special act-of-love-I'm-so-sorry gift he promised us a "do over"  trip this year.

I'm not sure how I feel about going. The specter of last year's trip is kind of lurking out there... but the actual anniversary (thankfully) is a few weeks off.  Don't get me wrong -  I'm thrilled to get out of Dodge, pleased for Joe (who REEEALLLYY needs a break) and I'm even OK with ironing a pile of linen shirts to pack.  I've always found ironing to be very relaxing and therapeutic. What's the problem, then?   I just feel kind of sideways inside.

Physically, I'm ready to go. I splurged on a haircut and matching (we don't call it "coloring") and even managed to get my esthetician  to melt a metric ton of wax and do my eyebrows.  I look positively GIRLY.  Luckily, John is an expert at relaxing and entertaining.  I'll have a really good bloody Mary in my hand within moments of our arrival.  That should help with the mental part, right?

I'm sure it will all come together and be a great week.  Right? Right.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Autumn, 2001

Watching the coverage of the 10th anniversary of 9/11 has derailed me.  I felt something coming on all week but today the whole thing crystallized for me. Everything in our lives changed that day, but what went on to happen in the next two months almost crushed me.

The September 11th attacks were surreal. I kept thinking we'd find it was just a few rogue idiots - wishful thinking, it turned out.  When in the following days it became clear the scope and source of the attacks amounted to an act of war  I was bewildered. This was something that happened to other generations (WW II, etc.). I did not think I would live to see something of that scope happen in my lifetime. Throw in the weeks of coverage and struggling to get a grip on it all, I needed to go away and regroup.

Luckily, I was booked to fly out of Boston to Jackson Hole just a few weeks later to spend a week with my sister and her twins in Yellowstone.  It was an annual trip and I always loved going out there, but when I woke up the morning of my departure I had such a knot in my stomach I was almost physically sick.  Flying out of the Boston airport was suddenly very scary.  I had no idea how the security and processing methods had changed, or even if it was safe.  Copycat hijackings were on my mind as Joe dropped me off at Logan Airport. We have not before or since had such a tender farewell.

Just after I returned from Yellowstone we got word (on October 23, 2001) that my 69-year-old mother had pancreatic cancer.  I remember the date because it was my wedding anniversary and Joe had given me a necklace with a gold heart and a little ruby (my birthstone) in the crest.  I made him take it back because when I looked at it all I could see was a broken, bleeding heart.  My mother, diagnosed with cancer?  She was the healthiest person I knew. Three weeks later she was dead.

Ten years later I feel it all very keenly.  Calling 9/11 it a "life changing" event is an understatement of epic proportions.  Watching the coverage this morning, I kept thinking, "10 years ago right now, everything was fine.....10 years ago right now, everything was fine." Then 8:45AM came, the time the first plane hit, and I felt like I had stepped over a line.  Everything  was no longer fine.  Ten years later our country struggles with the far-reaching impacts of that day, including our current economic storm.  I struggle to find  the "new normal" but nothing seems stable. We live on the shifting sands of economic threats, challenges of aging and everyday unknowns.  Maybe it's because I'm 10 years older and see things differently from the perspective of my fifties. Maybe it's because I lost my much-loved dad just 5 months ago and now I feel both their absences so intensely.



Maybe there is no "new normal" because there is no "normal".  This could all just be a rite of passage into becoming a wise elder, but I don't feel grown up enough to be a wise elder. I remember with great nostalgia being able to effortlessly jump on a plane and fly home by myself to visit my mom and dad.  Dad was usually watching golf, football or baseball. I'd be stretched out on the couch watching the game, reading or (usually) snoozing. I did not have to make a decision or be responsible for anything.  Mom would bustle around and inevitably say, "Did you fly halfway across the country just to sleep?" and I would always smile and say, "Yes, Mom, I did."

I liked that era of my life, of America's life.  I will never stop missing that "normal", nor stop wishing to find a new one for myself and for all of us.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Why Quilts Matter - to Me

As a museum (and quilt museum) professional, I have a major chip on my shoulder formed by years of friends and acquaintances dismissing what I do as not a "real job".  Tell people you work at a quilt museum and they tilt their head a little and say something like, "(pause...) Well....isn't that niiiiice! You must lovooooove it!" They act like it's just a big 'ol quaint, cozy sewing bee.  Let me tell you something - there is nothing cozy about it. We have layoffs, budgets, deadlines, evaluations and performance goals. We are dealing with decreasing revenues and increasing costs - AND we have to deal with the general public e-v-e-r-y day. Believe me, it's a real freakin' job.

I promised a review of this program and here it is. I really did not know what to expect when I popped a copy of Why Quilts Matter: History, Art and Politics into my DVD player. There are some quilts in the series from the collection of the New England Quilt Museum  (where I have my "pretend job") so we received an advance copy.   I was so afraid it was going to be all Sunbonnet Sue and ditsy prints and old grannies with their white hair in a severe bun at the back of their neck - or go on to reinforce other negative stereotypes about quilters.

BOY WAS I WRONG.

I was positively thrilled at how wrong I was.  Shelly Zegart has taken the quilting bull by the horns and put it all out there - the good, the bad, and the dicey politics. There are nine programs in this series, each featuring good scholarship and interviews with experts. These are interspersed with photographs, images of many beautiful quilts and some good b-roll of exhibitions and colorful locations.  I downloaded the nine episode guides to my iPad so I could follow along with the narration. When I saw a particularly beautiful quilt all I had to do was look down and see the name, maker, location, etc. Nice touch.

The best pat?  Oh, how I bonded.  I bonded with the Gee's Bend quilter who said, "When I finish the top I love it, and then when I take it out later to quilt....I get another breath of it."   I nodded knowingly when Shelly Zegart talked about how quilting is often dismissed as "just" the work of women or looked upon as a domestic chore - not an accomplishment or an art or craft. I stood up and cheered when Shelly took on The Sun Sets on Sunbonnet Sue, threw down about the MYTH of the Underground Railroad Quilts, and called out THE QUILT POLICE on their marginalizing hostility. I felt proud to be a quilter, I felt my peeps were finally getting some respect.

As a museum professional I especially enjoyed Episode 6: How Quilts Have Been Viewed and Collected.  There was a wonderful discussion of how quilts are appraised and evaluated (just because they are old doesn't mean they are priceless, people)  and what makes them historically important. It was so gratifying to see it put out there for all the world to see and learn what epic changes and the rise of authoritative scholarship that has come about in the past decades.  The existence of The Quilt Index is one shining example of the tremendous knowledge base that has been created. The database of over 50,000 quilts, essays, lesson plans, and images has become the preeminent starting point for quilt research and exhibit planning.  Let's not forget the mothership - The International Quilt Study Center in Lincoln, Nebraska.  I guarantee that if you visit their website and play with the Quilt Explorer you will look up 2 hours later and say, "WHAT? WHAT TIME IS IT?" There are numerous organizations that promote quilt scholarship and research. The American Quilt Study Group is one of the most preeminent of them, and I am proud to note they are also based in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Fair Disclosure: I was born and raised in Nebraska.  When I hear people disparage the fact that the IQSC is located in Nebraska I get a little sideways. I grit my teeth and nicely point out what a great idea it was to locate it in the CENTER of the country where everyone has equidistant access. I then take the opportunity to educate them about the outstanding textile studies programs in place there long before the IQSC was founded.  


Let's wrap it up: this program is well worth the purchase price.  Yes, you'll see it on PBS but you won't see it all because you'll miss an episode and you won't be able to realize the full impact of this production. It will move you, inspire you and enable you to carry your head a little higher. If we truly want to promote and continue the work, art and craft of quilting we need to make it a priority.  We need to support this kind of scholarship and PR  with our blogs, our actions, and our money.  Buy it from the Kentucky Quilt Project. Buy it from your locally owned quilt shop or from a museum.  Just be sure you share it with as many people, guilds, neighbors, townspeople, church groups as you can.  It is a wonderful production that will entertain, inform and enrich anyone who appreciates something truly beautiful.

Quilts really matter to me.  I've given up more financially rewarding job opportunities to do what I do.  I don't want to burn out for a corporation. I don't want to come home exhausted to benefit a bunch of faceless stockholders. Don't kid yourself - I come home burned out and exhausted all the time. My daily commute is a 100 mile round trip. The cost of gas is killing me. I do it because I want to be around this kind of art. I learn from my co-workers and visitors every day. I'm willing to do it as long as I can because I thrive on the emotion I have always felt when seeing a quilt for the first time. It never lessens. I have the curators trained to call me when they are opening boxes for the next exhibit.  I want to be with them and see them first. When I go upstairs to open or close the galleries I have my own private time with the quilts and it just. fills. me. up. I am inspired, I feel creative, and I feel proud knowing I use my daytime hours to care for, promote and share this art. I can then go home and use my talents (and what I have learned at work) to create my own beautiful quilts.

Quilts have always mattered to me. From my earliest childhood I have always felt and known hand-made objects to give off a sort of emotion, energy, karma - I'm not sure what to call it.  I feel it when I touch quilts made by others - especially old ones. They almost whisper to me. Willa Cather (another Nebraska girl) called it, "That irregular and intimate quality of things made entirely by the human hand." This quote says it best:

It took me more than twenty years, nearly twenty-five, I reckon, in the evenings after supper when the children were all put to bed. My whole life is in that quilt. It scares me sometimes when I look at it. All my joys and all my sorrows are stitched into those little pieces. When I was proud of the boys and when I was downright provoked and angry with them. When the girls annoyed me or when they gave me a warm feeling around my heart. And John, too.  He was stitched into that quilt and all the thirty years we were married.  Sometimes I loved him and sometimes I sat there hating him as I pieced the patches together.  So they are all in that quilt,  my hopes and fears, my joys and sorrows, my loves and hates.  I tremble sometimes when I remember what that quilt knows about me. 

Marguerite Ickis, quoting her great-grandmother in the book,  Anonymous Was a Woman, 1979, Mirra Bank, St. Martin's Press.





Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Lowell Quilt Festival



Strap on your party livers, it's time for the 2011 Lowell Quilt Festival!  This year's show is scheduled for August 11th through the 13th at the Lowell Memorial Auditorium. The judging is done, the quilts are in the process of being transferred to the auditorium for show prep and presentation, and the winners......have not been announced yet!  It is a closely guarded secret, although I will confess to sneaking in to the museum's classroom (hey - I work there, I can) while they were photographing the winners.  (WOWZA.)  It is nice to get up close and personal with award-winning quilts. The "do not touch" rule strictly applies, but under the photographer's lights you can see every amazing detail.  I am always inspired to see what creative quilters can do given the time, fabric and sheer love of their art. I wanted to go home and shut myself up in my sewing room, crank up my Bernina and let the threads fly.

I'll do my best to post pictures from the show - we have some firm photography guidelines that apply to everyone (even staff, that's me) and they are RESPECTED. I can tell you we have a series of RED AND WHITE quilts from the New England Quilt Museum collection that will be on display, along with a number of "Lunch and Learn"  and "Tea at Three" programs that let you rest your feet and learn/see great presentations.   Admission to the festival is $12 for a bracelet that also gives you admission to the New England Quilt Museum.  One admission for 3 days - such a deal! There is a free shuttle bus that loops all around so you can visit partner sites and galleries that all have special exhibits and quilt-related shows.

This is the museum's annual and biggest fundraiser - be sure to check out the pile of antique and vintage quilts donated to the museum for this fundraiser - they will be tagged and on sale at the auditorium. (Note: do NOT get in front of me when these go on sale.)  I'll be at the New England Quilt Museum working the LQF Admissions desk most of the week - say hello when you come in!

Friday, July 29, 2011

Red White and WOW!

I wasn't lucky enough to go to NY and see the Infinite Variety show at the American Folk Art Museum, but I did download the free iPad app and enjoy playing around with all of the spectacular red and white quilts.  Since I also work for the New England Quilt Museum it was a natural next step for us to show some major love for the red and white quilts in our own collection.

[gallery link="file"]

Just a few short weeks away is the Lowell Quilt Festival.  In addition to a city-wide celebration of quilts, IMAGES - a juried quilt show - the NEQM is going to feature a special exhibit of our own red and white beauties:  Inspired by the recent exhibit of Red and White quilts in New York City, New England Quilt Museum Acting Curator Laura Lane has put together a group of red and white quilts from the Museum’s Permanent Collection.  This group of Red and White quilts will hang at the Lowell Memorial Auditorium throughout IMAGES 2011.  The exhibit will feature the stunning  "Feathered Star with Wild Goose Chase" quilt pictured on the dust jacket of America's Quilts and Coverlets by Carleton Safford and Robert Bishop.

IT GETS BETTER.  We decided to feature this quilt on a woven, Jacquard blanket made by ChappyWrap of Martha's Vineyard.  Our exclusive design features the Feathered Star quilt from our collection, woven in Germany, and beautifully done with a red & white (cream) design that reverses on the back side. They just arrived in the shop and they are GORGEOUS.  They are also selling right away - a good sign we hit the target with this design.  We'd like to do one quilt from our collection every year, making it easier for all of us to have something beautifully made that supports the quilting arts, makes a wonderful gift and makes an even more wonderful treat for yourself.  Bonus - you can throw in the washer if you spill your wine on it. Okay, maybe that's just me.....

The blankets can be purchased at the Museum's gift shop and at the Lowell Quilt Festival.  These are NOT, I emphasize NOT a fleece throw.  They are thick, woven, Jacquard blankets that are beautifully made.  Our first production is limited so be sure to check them out. More info coming soon on the New England Quilt Museum website -  or you can email Quita (Shop Manager) at    shop at nequiltmuseum dot org   (Spam bot avoidance right there.)   See you at the Festival!

Monday, June 20, 2011

I Need A Genie

When I was a kid I loved watching I Dream of Jeannie  because I thought it would be so COOL to be able to BLINK BLINK and the housework would be done, BLINK BLINK and the laundry, cooking, etc. would all be finished in a flash.  Even then I knew that Jeannie was a dumb broad if she thought the way to Major Nelson's heart was doing the vacuuming and cooking all by herself.  Everyone knows the  real way to a man's heart, and it is NOT by being an immaculate housekeeper, just sayin'.

Instead of enjoying my new fabrics and my Alabama Beauty  INKLINGO patterns  I have spent the last week-plus  cleaning my BUNS off.  I've thrown out, de-cluttered, smuggled bags out of the house for Goodwill (my husband still has his original diapers....) and spent today balancing on a chair cutting the trim in and around the bathroom cabinets, mirror, tub and closet.  There must be 9 miles of trim in that bathroom. Normally I love to paint, but my husband got a hold of my (yes, MY) cutting brushes and wrecked my favorite one, leaving me with a sub-standard brush to cut 9 miles of trim (French Linen Gray, BTW) in this bathroom. (Note: If anyone from Pittsburgh Paints is reading this, you guys have GOT to get your act together.  This stuff is not covering well and frankly, it's a little drippy.  I used to love you guys but I have 3 rooms that need paint and this is the last gallon of P.P. that is going up in my house for a long time.)

I guess this would all be okay if MY relatives  were coming to visit ( hell, I'd make them paint ) but it is HIS cousins.  We haven't seen these people since our wedding almost 23 years ago so I'm not sure what we will be talking about, but there you go. They are coming for a 4 day festival that I avoid like the plague.  St. Peter's Fiesta used to be a lovely novena-based celebration of faith that culminated in the blessing of the fishing fleet and some fiercely good Sicilian cooking.  It has degenerated into a 5 day drunk complete with a sleazy carnival and a baby boom 9 months from now when all the babies will be named "Peter".  It saddens me to see something that was once so beautiful become such a nightmare.  Note to Gloucester Italians:  "Fiesta" is not even a word not found in your language. Be authentic - your grandparents and great-grandparents had the right idea.

I need to get back to cleaning.  Sometimes you just need impending house guests  to light a fire underneath your slovenly self and git 'er done.  Joe will be handling the cleaning of all the floors, including the Chernobyl-like kitchen floor that is original to the 1975 house.  An uglier floor never lived.  These folks are arriving on Thursday and leaving on Monday morning.  I'm following them out the driveway and heading downtown to the flooring store where I will put a blindfold over my eyes, swing a cat and whatever it lands on is the new kitchen floor.   BLINK BLINK.  I'm on a roll.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

A Visit to the Mothership

Two weeks ago we left for what  (we thought) was going to be a week-long vacation on Key Largo.  Since Joe and I carry the dubious distinction of being the oldest people from Gloucester that have never been to Florida  it was kind of a big deal.  We had a wonderful time, realized that the ocean in Florida was just like Gloucester (only warmer and with palm trees) and managed to be spoiled rotten by our wonderful host and bestest-buddy ever.  Things came to a screeching halt about four days in to the trip when we got the call that my darling Dad had joined my mother in eternal rest. (That is about all I can say about that right now.... I need some time.....)

We found ourselves at the mercy of American Airlines  ( FYI - they HAVE no mercy) and flew back to Gloucester, dumped all the summer clothes in the dining room, repacked the late-winter clothes and flew off the next day (on Delta, thankyouverymuch)  to Lincoln, Nebraska.  The next few days are a bit of a blur (again,  I need some time here......) but on the day before we flew back to Massachusetts my sister-in-law and I made a visit to the International Quilt Study Center (AKA "THE MOTHERSHIP") in Lincoln.  I always go when I am home  and it never disappoints.  With luck (and the divine intervention of my quilting mother) the Marseille: White Corded Quilting  exhibit was there to give us a fall-down-on-the-floor,  shut-my-mouth-wide-open look into the stunningly beautiful art of French quilted and corded needlework.  I was so blown away I forgot to get the exhibition catalog.  RATS.  (I'll order it from the IQSC because they need the funds much more than Amazon and for pete's sake  you have got to SUPPORT these places, people.)

As luck would also have it, the other exhibit was Nebraska Quilts and Quiltmakers. We have covered (at great length) my goobering admiration of the quilts of  "Amazing" Grace Snyder.  My personal favorite, Mrs. McGill's Cherries, was there hanging in all it's glory:

[gallery link="file" order="DESC" orderby="ID"]

IMPORTANT NOTE:  The IQSC allows photography (no flash) in the galleries.  It is very important to take note of and respect ALL  museum photography policies.  I'm just sayin'......  These are grainy because they were done on my phone, sorry.

It was so nice to have another  up-close  look at Grace's fantastic quilt.  It reminded me that my attempt at copying it has languished, needs to be revived,  and put on the very top of my list.   This was all made very clear to me by the fact that not only was I standing in front of it (duh), but 24 hours prior I was putting flowers on the grave of my Grandpa and Grandma (wait for it......) McGill.  It also marked the 100th anniversary of her arrival on Ellis Island on board the RMS Campania.   How great is all of that?   Jack and Mac are back together and Mrs. McGill's cherries (in the form of her children, grandchildren, great and great-great grandchildren)  were all there in the ultimate celebration of life, love and the Resurrection.

A blessed Easter to you and all you love.

Friday, March 18, 2011

The Schoolgirls of My Japan

In 2004  my husband was president-elect of the local Rotary Club.  One of his "duties" as incoming president was to attend the Rotary International conference  to be held in Osaka, Japan.   (Sidebar - the man who held the office one year after Joe went to Chicago.)  The local club paid for Joe's airfare, conference registration and a hotel stipend.  We agreed it was a once-in-a-lifetime chance for both of us to go  so we swallowed hard and bought my plane ticket and added to the hotel stipend kitty so we could upgrade to a really nice hotel.

(Note:  Okay, I am not a total bitch, but I have rules and standards  about hotels. My feeling was we were arriving in a very foreign country with no guide or tour or assistance and I wanted a sanctuary hotel with a Western toilet, thank you very much. )

[caption id="attachment_1652" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="To the left of the hotel is a beautiful, multi-level green garden, nestled among the shops and offices. "][/caption]

The Swissotel Nankai at Namba was all of that and more. I could go on for days about the beautiful linens, the marvelous toilet with an instrument panel for swishy warm water (and air) features, or the delicate porcelain of my  morning  coffee creamer  that fit in the palm of my hand,  looking for all the world to be a fragile,  dainty blown egg. I could regale you with stories about how we ventured out unaccompanied and explored  Osaka and Nara and surrounding cities by train, bus and subway.  (We did get pretty horrifically lost once, but recovered quickly and found our way back to Osaka and the aforementioned sanctuary hotel, thank you very much.)

But this is about my schoolgirls.

While wandering through Nara Park we stopped at the  Toshodai-ji Temple where we found a busload of Japanese students all wandering about with little notebooks in their hands, obviously there on an assignment that would enable them to mingle with non-native tourists. Most of the girls  just looked at us, giggled, and shyly scattered.  Once we sat down on  a bench  we were approached by four beautiful girls who, in halting English,  asked us if we could help them with their English lesson.  We proceeded to answer their questions, sign our names in their notebooks, let them take our pictures with them while  all the time giggling madly like 6 year-olds.   (In fairness,  they were giggling too.)  It was all too hilarious - between their halting English and our feeble attempts at the Japanese phrases we learned for the trip, the whole thing was entirely too funny to be borne.  They were so charming and adorable and sweet and innocent.  Their "homework"  provided us with one of the best memories of the trip.

[caption id="attachment_1667" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Ikebana"][/caption]

I loved Japan.  Profoundly. Our trip there was like nothing else I have ever experienced.  We wandered up and down streets of towns where no one spoke a word of English, and yet we were greeted and kindly welcomed everywhere we went.  Even in restaurants we managed to point at menus and communicate we were open to tasting whatever they thought we would like. When we got lost or turned around we were quickly rescued by someone who would observe our confusion, hold our map and look at us as if to say, "Where do you want to go?" and we would point at the map and they would point us in the direction we needed to go.

Now it is seven years later and I watch the news reports with a knot in my stomach. When I see people looking for their lost family members  the emotion swells up in me and I feel my nose and eyes  ache and grow warm   with tears.   I feel helpless and sickened and overwhelmed.  I look at our pictures from the trip and the faces of  those schoolgirls  and  I wonder where they are today.  Have they started college by now?    Are they near the worst of the earthquake and tsunami damage?  Are they safe? I think about all the ema we left at every temple we visited, writing our prayer intentions and wishes on them and hanging them carefully among the others.  I brought home a few extras I made and holding them now I close my eyes and  make a spiritual  ema for the people of Japan.  I  pray for their safety,  for the continued  grace they have shown in the aftermath,  for the unthinkable sacrifices made by the Fukushima 50 and their families,  and especially for the well-being of my Nara schoolgirls.

[caption id="attachment_1673" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Photo by Ilya Genkin www.genkin.org"]Photo by Ilya Genkin www.genkin.org[/caption]

 

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Seriously?


The last two weeks have been a hazy blur, and not in the good way.

Dad suffered a  series of markedly down-turning events that necessitated a very quick trip home.  As a consistent target for TSA bitches  I'm not a fan of flying to begin with - much less when the day has to begin at 3AM to catch a 6AM flight. The TSA's were manageable on the outbound flights from Boston, no hammer complexes there.

After a few days of hospital roulette (never knowing who the next assigned doctor would be, ever getting an update on some test results, or wondering if the wastebaskets would EVER be emptied) we ended up moving him to a local rehabilitation center.  For reasons known only to fans of the movie Birdcage,  I have nicknamed the place Bob Fosse.  I spent the next few days there with my sisters and brothers trying  vainly  to honor my Dad's wishes about his health care proxy.

"Fosse" is a Catholic institution that currently has 3 local priests  with a parent/patient currently in-house; consequently the place is crawling with RC priests.  I'm ok with that, my little brother is one of them.  Here is what I am not OK with:  one of them (pretty much a stranger to me no less)  took the opportunity to get all pastoral on my ass at a time when I was trying to pull myself together and say goodbye to my Dad for what well could have been the last time I will see him alive.  I told him three times I was not going to have that conversation with him right now, and that I really had to concentrate on my father.   I understood his deal,   I knew he thought he was being helpful, put he pushed back with a lengthy  fairy tale  about how " your  Dad's suffering is  not in vain, his suffering will save other souls and that when he is in heaven there will be people lined up to thank him for his suffering because he saved their souls....."    and I threw a big, red bullshit flag.

Seriously?  A line of people thanking Dad?  It sounded like a coffee shop in a bad Disney movie.  I am  RC by faith and by grace but what heaven will or will not be is not definitively known to any of us. We can hope, conjecture  and read Catherine of Siena until we are blue in the face but I believe our puny human minds cannot begin to comprehend what lies ahead.  I think it is much bigger and better than anything we could ever come up with and I am content with that knowledge.

Father Get-All-Up-In-My-Grill was shocked when  I threw that BS flag and tripled his horrifically patronizing efforts to educate me on the error of my thinking. It set off an avalanche of reprimand and judgment.  ( I was also told to go to confession.)  He started peppering me with questions, all of which I answered pretty calmly.  Here is a sample:

Father Grill:   Are you married?

ME:  Yes.

Father Grill:  Children?

ME:  No.

Father Grill:  (One eyebrow critically raised)

ME: I had ovarian cancer.

Father Grill:  Oh.  (Evidently that was pardonable)  What is your married name?

ME:  Ciolino.

Father Grill:  Ciolina?

ME: No.  Ciolino - with an O at the end.

Father Grill:  Oh, is he Italian?

ME:  No, Sicilian.

Father Grill:  (Scared look)  Ohhh, Sicilian.  Did you learn to make the pasta?   (SERIOUSLY, HE SAID THAT.    I SWEAR I AM NOT MAKING THAT UP. )

ME:  No.  I don't have to.  My husband makes it when he wants it.

It went on longer than I ever should have permitted and he left the room wearing more skin on his body than I ever should ever have left on it.  I was angry and shaken and grieving - and all at the same time.   I refuse to dwell on it or give it any more time or thought than I already have.  Instead, I will take that experience and offer the following suggestions for visiting the sick that all of us can use:

  1. Speak softly.  Noise in the sickroom is anathema.  Ditto for perfumes and well-intentioned  aromatherapy.

  2. Be brief.  The family and the patient are both exhausted.

  3. Be useful.  Ask  them if you can bring them water, coffee, dinner - anything. Walk the hall with them.  Anybody need to be picked up at the airport?  Anybody need a ride to the hospital?

  4. Be present.  You don't need to regale them with stories of your own family illnesses and/or deaths, it isn't a throw-down.  Just be present.

  5. Be honest.  Spare them the "oh wait and see, he'll be good as new in no time, " especially when that is NOT going to happen.

  6. Be cognizant. It is about what they need, not what you want to give them.


I remember years ago when we lost mom and people started showing up at my folk's house with all kinds of food.  It was all home cooked and all wonderful.  Since there were about 24 of us there at the time (children & grandkids, spouses, etc.) it made meal times much  less difficult. Then, and I'll never forget this,  someone showed up with a huge box of stuff and just left it very quietly.  It was filled with big packages of paper plates, cups, napkins, rolls of paper towels.... and toilet paper.  It was the most incredible, thoughtful,  useful thing ever.  Who knew?  Someone did, and I'm happy to pass it along.  We should all be so useful.  Seriously.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Even Steven

"Even Steven" was something my mom used to say  a lot  - probably because with 6 kids there was a lot of dividing up to do and there was much less chaos if things were evenly distributed.

This weekend I officially become "even Steven." Twenty six years ago on Labor Day Weekend I left Nebraska and flew out to Boston to start the next chapter of my life. Twenty six years later, here I am.  I have had one foot in two very different lives for 26 years  each.  Even.  Balanced.  Or not.

First of all, I can't believe I am 52.  (I expected to be MUCH older when I turned 52, probably close to being dead because back then it sounded so ancient.)  I know like my brain is more fully formed than it ever was at 26  and I do like myself a lot more.  While I am happily  free from so many of the concerns that overwhelm the 26-year-old mind, I look back and am a little in awe of myself -  I uprooted my life, my culture,  everything I had and knew to move halfway across the country. Yikes.  I was motivated by a broken heart, a fatigue of singing at all my friend's weddings (and then  babysitting their children) but mostly  because I had to feed the wanderlust that  took root when I began reading books. Those days of lying in the grass and watching the contrails from jets stream across the sky  - oh how I wanted to be one of those people ON the jet,  going somewhere,  anywhere - just going.   I wanted to  see,  do, and experience the big, wide world.

Would I do it over?  In a New York minute.  There are parts of both lives I would never want to repeat, which is moot anyway since we don't get a do-over in life.  I can't choose which life has been richer or more satisfying because each has had tremendous joys and gifts.

It will be interesting to see which way the scales tip in the next 26 years.  I have a lot of places to see (when am I EVER going to get to Paris????) and a lot of things to do out here.  I do know that when it is all over I want my body to be burned and my ashes to be scattered along the Platte River in Nebraska.  That saying about "you can take the girl out of the country but you can't take the country out of the girl" is true.  Life is where you live it, but home......is home.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Wanting to Walk in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night


Of cloudless climes and starry skies;


And all that’s best of dark and bright


Meet in her aspect and her eyes


George Gordon, Lord Byron, must have been thinking of a woman wearing a really good embroidered silk kimono when he wrote that lovely poem.  My love affair with nightgowns began when I was very young. This picture shows me going out early -  in very bright sunlight -  to fetch the morning milk.  I knew the nightgown would provide the necessary elegance to undertake such an act at an ungodly hour.  (It was before I drank coffee and could manage a few basic functions....but I digress.)

My mother was prolific on her sewing machine and I had beautiful nightgowns all through my life (even college).  I could give you colors, trims, details about them that should have long ago disappeared from my memory banks.  To this day  I seek out and feel a little thrill when I find something really nice. A new nightgown by   Eileen West has been my annual birthday gift to myself since I turned 50, but deep down I'm yearning for something really spectacular, something I have wanted for years.

I want a silk robe kimono.

An authentic one,  none of this eBay or Pottery Barn crap.   I have this "champagne taste on a beer budget" syndrome that extends into the strangest areas of my life. Purses? Meh.  Shoes? Pffft.  Jewelry?  Got it, don't wear it.  But a good nightgown and silk robe?  Tie on a bib, I'm slobbering.

Most movies are memorable for the story they tell but  I also remember them for the truly important stuff.  In one of the most poignant scenes of the movie DeLovely, Ashley Judd gets dressed for an opening night just after suffering a miscarriage.  She's weepy, the music is haunting, and all I can see is this drop dead gorgeous silk kimono she is wearing as a robe.  It is thick, heavy, buttery, gorgeous. The colors?  OMG.   In Gosford Park, Kristin Scott Thomas rocks  a silk nightgown (likely trimmed with Calais lace) and shrugs on the most spectacular ivory kimono, embroidered with all kinds of muted tones. Her face is covered with night cream for God's sake, but she still looks positively STUNNING.

I'm not at all  surprised at my love affair with nightgowns and robes.  I have never felt especially pretty in my entire  life - even when I was young and thin and pretty-ish.  The nightgowns and robes are just for me - not for public consumption, not for competition or approval.  They exist solely to please me.  I feel pretty in soft, lovely things.  I feel elegant and pampered and sophisticated.   I like the feel of it on my skin and the whooshing sounds they make when I "walk in beauty" to refill my morning coffee or cross and uncross  my legs as I read the newspaper.   That is probably the same experience other women get when they are rocking a new pair of designer shoes, the latest purse, or something off the fashion pages.  It isn't really important what that thing is that gives us  the feeling of 'walking in beauty.'  It just matters that you take the time to do it for yourself.  Women generally spend too much time and energy caring for others and neglect themselves.    Whatever it is that  makes you feel like you are walking in beauty,  to borrow a phrase from Nike -  "Just do it."

Monday, August 16, 2010

Stay-In-Your-Nightgown Monday

Design Wall Monday has been preempted by Stay in your Nightgown Monday. The 2010 Lowell Quilt Festival is in the history books and I'm taking a day to decompress.  While the festival closed on Saturday, the museum is open on Sunday and it's one of my 'regular' work days.  I woke up Sunday morning wishing I could take a roll of duct tape and strap a couple of puffy pillows on my feet and call them shoes.  (Probably  not advisable to attempt the  one-hour commute with pillows strapped to my feet. )  I could also use an IV drip of ibuprofen for sore muscles. Bonus - I'm sporting a large BUO (bruise of unknown origin) on my right forearm, pretty attractive since it is too hot to wear anything with long sleeves. Really attractive.  Yes,  today I need to stay home in my nightgown and just.....cocoon.

Between the ramp up to the festival and the actual three-day extravaganza the days are long and the hours are demanding.  A good friend managed to get me two nights at a very reduced rate at a Holiday Inn near the festivities.  I'm never one to complain about hotels (I think we stayed in one twice during my entire childhood) but I think I'll be writing the management on a few issues.  Namely the following:

  1. Why do you put the coffee pot in the bathroom?  DO NOT  put the coffee pot in the bathroom.  Do you have any idea how gross and disgusting that is? I get the dry heaves just remembering it  and I don't need to pay for the privilege.

  2. Touch up paint.  Buy it in bulk and apply it generously because  it makes a big difference.  Lotta bang for the buck.

  3. Put a sign in the hallway that says, "Unattended children who repeatedly  run screaming up and down the hallway will be shot on sight."  If you don't have the stones to do it, leave a BB gun in my guest bathroom.    (Hey - then you could move the coffee pot to the far corner desk in the sleeping area.  Think about it.)

  4. Doors to the room should not only lock securely but they should be actually CLOSED.  This picture shows  (I turned off the room lights) just how much room was between the door and the door jamb.  Color me paranoid but I don't feel all that secure when you could swing a cat through the crack in the door.  The one along the bottom  was even bigger.  (Note: apparently not big enough for them to slide a copy of my bill beneath it (enabling rapid checkout) but I'm guessing big enough to slide under  a Sunday edition of a newspaper without having to expend much effort.) Just sayin'.




All of that and more is why today is going to be just for me.  I'm tired - mentally and physically.  I need to be left alone for a while.  I want to soak up some quiet and take a ridiculously long shower and do girlie stuff like scrubbing and buffing and putting nice moroccanoil on my feet and sliding them in to clean, cotton socks.  I want to be pink and fresh and centered.   I'm going to snooze, read, pad around in my socks and let the world turn without me. I'm always better after I do, and that makes life easier for everyone around me.

PS - I will also be enjoying as many cups of coffee as I like, from my coffee pot that is not located remotely close to a toilet.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Melancholy Meteors

The annual Perseid meteor shower is underway but I won't be watching this year.  I'm away from home (and too surrounded by city lights) to get a glimpse of the magic. It's probably a good thing as my dark Irish side kicks up and I go into a full "have a pint, dear" funk.

I didn't know it at the time, but the last time my parents came to Gloucester for a visit was during the Perseid meteor shower of about 1998.  We had friends who were members of a local beach club so we were able to troop down to the beach with a hibachi, wine, dessert and sand chairs to make a perfect evening in a perfect setting even more....perfect.  We had a marvelous supper, topped off by peach pie made by my mother from peaches picked in our own backyard.  Dad was the official peach peeler (he's a hound dog for peach pie) and Mom could whip up a pie so effortlessly it was all done in a blink.  I can still remember the setting in vivid detail, but I can't conjure up the taste of Mom's peach pie.  It's been too long and while my own peach pies are pretty good (from good DNA) they aren't hers.  They aren't from peaches in our own backyard, they weren't peeled with love by my Dad, and ..... well, you get the idea. We watched the sun set and the stars come out, the moon rose perfectly between the twin lighthouses of Thatcher Island, and the meteors began.  It was an experience we all talked about for years to come - but especially during the annual event.

I woke up this morning and listened to the news about the meteor shower.  I got a little weepy - I'm up here for the Lowell Quilt Festival and I thought about how perfect it would be for my quilt-making mother to come out for the show, see me working at a museum of quilts, and then go home and enjoy the meteor shower.  Some things aren't meant to be - but at least I know Mom has a fabulous view of the Perseids, and that helps.

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Strap on Your Quilting Liver - It's Festival Time!

We've been very busy at work getting ready for this year's Lowell Quilt Festival.  The FedEx and UPS trucks have been making two stops a day to deliver the juried quilts, and believe me - there are some spectacular quilts to be seen.  It is a tremendous project,  undertaken by a core group of volunteers from the New England Quilt Museum Auxiliary, museum staff, and supportive spouses!  I include them because they won't see much of us for the next several days - events all day and in to the evening will occupy a lot of time and energy.  The auction on Friday night is my favorite part (click on this link) because of the wonderful variety of quilts and quilt tops available.  Bonus -  we have the opportunity to bid on quilt blocks (some very old) to create something of your own.  I have my eye on a couple of quilts - but there is one lot of antique quilt blocks that I might just have to tackle a few people to outbid and get them for myself!  There is no discount or special treatment of museum staff - we bid like the rest of the folks - so I will square my shoulders and go easy on the pre-auction champagne and chocolates so I keep my wits about me and bid responsibly.  The  auction proceeds benefit the New England Quilt Museum, so it is a win-win evening.   Wish me luck!

Sunday, August 8, 2010

'Scuse Me While I Miss the Sky



It is Sunday night and it is  happening.  Again.  You wouldn't think so after this long, but it is definitely happening again.

This Labor Day marks the 26th anniversary of my moving to Massachusetts. I was 26 when I moved here, so my time-life  pendulum will officially swing to this part of the country in a few short weeks.  You would think after 26 years I would not still get the August blues but I do.  I have them now.  Neck deep.

August is always the time of year I am most homesick. I'm not sure why - the change of seasons, the memories of school starting  and that fresh new start feeling you'd get purchasing textbooks and notebooks and wondering what (and who) the new year would bring.  It always seemed to me the new year began in the fall  when the last bloom of summer dies and the whole process begins again. Football season starts - college ball, what's not to love? It is also thee best time to be outdoors and see acres and acres....of sky.   I miss the sky terribly. I am surrounded by dense populations, buildings, wide stretches of  concrete highway.  There is very little sky - it is either blocked by buildings or by trees. I need sky - serious sky - 360 degrees of sky.  It is nowhere to be found out here.   I need to get out where I  can breathe and walk or drive for miles and just see open space and sky.  I need to go home. I am homesick.

When I fly in to the Lincoln, Nebraska airport (my favorite airport in the world) I begin a ritual.  It starts with crossing the street from the 4-gate terminal to the parking lot (yes, across the street) and getting my rental car.  There is a ticket stub you feed into the machine so the arm at the gate will swing up and let you pass.  But get this - written in beautiful scroll across the gate/arm is the phrase "WELCOME HOME."  I burst into tears every time I see it. I am weepy just writing about it - I am so homesick.

Then I'm out on the road, flying along (speed limits are much higher!) and the whole sky opens up.  My head unzips and my shoulders relax and I can't begin to express the  feeling of weight lifting  off my spirit.  I am most at home under the sky.  When I was little I used to stretch out in the grass for hours and watch clouds to see if,  from heaven, my Grandma McGill would peek over the edge. (Okay, I was very little.) Then I'd find shapes of things and wonder where the clouds blew off to and whether I'd see distant lands myself someday.  My mom was a huge fan of a good sunset - I think I have loved the sky since I was a fetus.

I feel saner and calmer under a wide swath of sky than just about anywhere else.  I miss the Nebraska sky, the slower pace and the kinder people.  I don't know that I could move back there, but I definitely need to go home and recharge the batteries of my psyche, inhale my family, sit with my Dad  and maybe eat some  proper hash browns.

The picture above is of the Platte River (a mile wide and an inch deep) which will be my final resting place someday.  I want to be cremated and have my ashes scattered somewhere  along that river.  I hope to be near a cottonwood tree (it exemplifies my "if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be" spirit) and bonus -  I'll have an eternal view of wide open sky.  Heavenly.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Reality Bites....Back

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Well, this is what happens when you house sit for a month.  Our  creeping ivy has become galloping ivy.  It is also a bone of contention - I love it, my husband hates it.  (He should sand blast and paint the patio of he wants to get me on board, I'm just sayin'.)

All of that,  a dusty house, and the return to non-central air  conditioning are looming like a veritable sword of Damocles.  Tonight  is our last night over at the house-sitting house and we are celebrating with take out lobster rolls for supper.  It's a Thursday special at a local restaurant and we figured - why mess up the kitchen again?  We'll just eat lobster rolls and soak up the cool.  I came home for a quick shower (hey, I'm a girl and all my junk is here) and check email.  I've also got to find a little hand sewing to take back with me for one more afternoon of movie watching, hand sewing and at about 4PM EDT, one last, great, epic  indulgent nap on the world's greatest napping couch, under my woobie - one of Mom's quilts.  It does not get much better than that.
My two Christmas cathedral window's projects are each missing a tooth (who counts?) so I've got to stitch up a couple of foundations (made easier by my repaired, cleaned , faster, smoother Bernina) and bring them with me back to the "summer cottage," as we have been calling it.

Sigh.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

The Party's Over....



Not only is the party almost over, the outdoor temperatures are about to soar....again.   Our house-sitting adventure staycation is coming down to the final one or two nights before the homeowner returns.  (He is currently making a transatlantic crossing on the Queen Mary 2 and swears he will never leave the ship, but I have a feeling when he  hits New York he'll be ready to come home.) I spoke to him this morning.  He was sitting on the balcony of his stateroom watching the ocean pass by.  Now I don't like to brag  but I would be SO GOOD at that.  I would be equally  accomplished in a deck chair.  I could positively preside over an en suite stateroom.  I have these refined skills and talents - yet no way to exercise them.  I could flag down a nattily dressed steward and gracefully request a something or other  and do it with such panache.   Seriously.

The ship above is the RMS Cunard Campania. It happens to be the ship Margaret Carroll sailed on  from Ireland  to New York  and then spent her 18th birthday on Ellis Island.  I'm glad she did, she later married Martin McGill and they became my maternal grandparents. I'm sure when Grandma sailed on the Campania she was probably in steerage.  That seems to have set the tone for my life - I'm a first class girl always sailing (and flying) in steerage.  What's up with that? It is enough to convince me in the possibility of having past lives - and in one of mine I must have been some  kind of grande dame with engraved (not thermographed) stationery and all the accoutrements necessary for exercising the civilized life.  What else explains my penchant for bread and butter notes, cloth napkins and having the instinctive knowledge of how to properly eat soup?

My mother used to say I had champagne taste on a beer budget.  True dat.  I don't  need to fashion myself as wealthy or  throw myself around on boudoir furniture and feign a swoon at odors, but jeez  I do like nice things.  Not expensive or pretentious things, just nice. Everything is so disposable now, nothing is made to endure.  From appliances to dishes to events  (an e-vite?  Are you kidding me?)  it has all gone down with the ship.   Now we must pack up our bags and return to home sweet home.    Oh well, we can always dream, right?  I think of all the things I'll miss about the staycation house,  the central air conditioning (and the world's greatest couch for napping) will be what haunts my dreams most in the ungodly hot  days to come.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Ever Get the Slows?

I am a slug.  I have achieved some sort of house-sitting-non-vacation nirvana and I don't feel even remotely productive.   That is unfortunate because I still have 2 jobs, still have to go to work, do laundry, the whole nine yards.  It is some sort of limbo not being fully in one place or the other. It  is fascinating - I've never had this sensation before.  I'm fully convinced  I will  show up at work in clam digger pants and one of my husband's old shirts, and on a day I can be house sitting I'll get up, shower, do the hair and make-up bit and go sit in the living room and make applique grapes (don't  ask) for the next quilt  project taking shape in my head.

This summer's best-selling t-shirt at Joe's store says, "Say no to pot!"  Next to that, there is a cartoon of a lobster pointing to a boiling pot of water.  It's pretty cute.  Last night there were 3 lobsters that said YES to a  pot. We steamed them, then took them out on the front porch and cracked, dunked, poked and inhaled their buttery goodness. It was delish.  Not to be wasteful, we put all the shells and bits of legs into a zip lock bag and in to the freezer.  Next time we are wanting some shrimp scampi, we'll pull the bag out of the freezer and use the shells to make a lovely broth.  Being married to the son of a fisherman has its perks - the man does things with fish that make my head explode.  It's a good thing he can because all of his bad habits at home are starting to show up at the house-sitting-house, including his unexplainable penchant for leaving cupboard doors wide open in the kitchen.  It makes me NUTS.

I wish I could go back to house-sitting-house and take a nap.  I even brought one of mom's quilts over there to crawl under and just bliss off to sleep.  I take the BEST naps over there.  I am a slug.  I have the slows.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

The Final 2 in "52 of 52" - The Birthday Edition

Happy Birthday to me!  And happy 100th blog post!  I've only been doing this for about 7 months and I've had about 4000 visitors.  How is THAT for bonkers!


The final 2 of the 52  great things about being 52 are not necessarily the most important but they are the ones I notice most often in my everyday life:



  1. The global village - the world is so completely connected by media and news outlets our access to anywhere  is almost 100%.   At this very point in my life, the smallest thing that happens a world away can be known instantly throughout the planet.  This is both good and bad.  It is bad because somehow the mindless minutia of celebrity chasing has become reportable news on TV news programs and newspapers I used to respect. The art of true  journalism is dead.   It is good because in the event of serious news, we are almost instantly informed and can take action. Think back to WWII when people waited weeks for letters or news.  Today the awareness and gathering of resources & aid for the earthquake in Haiti began immediately - the DAY OF the earthquake.

  2. Social Norms - I have lived to see changes in social norms that I never would have dreamed possible.  I grew up in a town of 6000 in the middle of Nebraska.  (In the dictionary, under "sheltered life" it says,  " see Jo Major." )  I grew up in a town full of Fagots.  Meg Fagot was my little  sister's best friend, Janelle Fagot was my older sister's best friend, and Craig Fagot was the hunky basketball player a few years ahead of me in high school.  We had NO IDEA that "Fagot" was a disparaging (and particularly hateful) insult.  None whatsoever. It was just another last name in a small town full of people.  How is that for an eye opener.  It does bring to mind the lyrics of that song from South Pacific about prejudice:


You've got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You've got to be taught
From year to year,
It's got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught.


You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,
You've got to be carefully taught.


You've got to be taught before it's too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You've got to be carefully taught!


That goes for a lot of things - for racial diversity, for sexual orientation, for class differences.  What changes we have seen! One of the things I least like about living in the provincial East is the "where did you go to college and who are your people" attitude which is practiced with an almost religious zeal by many of the natives. Your standing and status and worthiness are judged by those things.  I've learned to to see it for what it is - insecurity on the part of the questioner.  Meh.  Sometimes I tell the truth, sometimes I make up something like, "Oh  I went to a Home Economics  school in Nebraska where we learned to field dress a deer and can meat and jellies.  You know, wife stuff."


Aside from my two sisters (who I love more than my own life) I have always preferred the  company of men.  Women are frequently catty and bitchy and their own worst enemies.  My dearest and closest, most loving and supportive friends are all gay men. These guys are my rocks, my shelter, my loving, supporting, non-judgmental comrades on the final leg of my journey.  I have learned more from them, loved them more, and been loved by them more than any friends in my life.  It's like somebody saved the best wine for last, you know?  How great is that? Collectively, we are free to be open and who we are - and love who we love. It is a depth and  richness beyond belief.


Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." The  "52 for 52" has been an amazing exercise in examining my life, my world, what I have seen and lived through.  I have survived many things (like cancer and a spinal fusion), the loss of a parent, of friends and relatives and very young people.  I have seen monumental changes in science, society and technology.  I have been to places in the world I never dreamed of seeing.  AND I AM ONLY 52.


Can you imagine what the next years will bring?


I absolutely cannot wait - and I promise,   "60 for 60" is going to be a real pisser!