I am in the Half-Hour. It's Sunday, you see....around here, we call that "Fosamax Sunday". Now, that's not a plug or product placement or anything, because the truth is that it's "Alendronate Sodium" Sunday. Admit it, doesn't have the same ring. But what that means is this: 1) I apparently have...or am teetering on the brink of...osteoporosis; 2) I therefore take a pill once a week to shore up me creaky bones; 3) When you take one of these, you must "remain in an upright position" for a half-hour.

Which makes me, unrepentant hippie passive-aggressive that I am, want to: 1) lie down; 2) stand on my head; 3) ask "WHY??" However, I am also an Old-and-Therefore-WISE old lady, so I will: 1) stay upright; 2) throw over the headstand anyway, as it would be: 2a) uncomfortable; 2b) undignified; {and I hear that cackling over there, NEVERMIND! } and 2c) whaddya, think I'm outta my mind? (Which question is RHETORICAL, Peanut Gallery.)

But wait, there's more. ALSO during the half-hour post-pill period, I cannot drink anything but water, nor eat ANYTHING. That includes the rest of my morning regimen of pills (think: I'm always tempted to just toss the lot in a bowl with milk and sugar....) AND it includes....

DIPLES!

These are delicate scrolls of pastry, Greek in origin, which are made by some arcane method - and then drizzled in a thin syrup of honey. The honey permeates the layers without making them soggy. When they're finished, the bakers (in this case, some nuns at a convent, I'm told) lean over and whisper "Cinnamon" over them. It's not so much a flavoring as a scent in the throat.

I learned about Diples as part of my college education. There was a place called The St. Clair Broiler (over on St. Clair Avenue, as it coincidentally happens) which served, along with decent burgers and the usual - very large, perfect Diples. They were also open late, for the benefit of we Macalester scholars who were unencumbered by stuff like dating and so wandered over there from the "Libe" in a knot for something to eat.

"So, Dale-Harriet, where then have you obtained another example of this ambrosia, all these long, vast, centuries months later?"

The Road to Hell, and fruit!

Yes, we all know about "the road". But guess what, I figured it out! I've been trying to sort through my notes going back to my last post, so as to catch up with all good bits intact. As some of my favorite webbers say, "REDONKULOUS!" So rather than trying to catch up by writing about Things Past, I'm going to PICK UP instead, and pepper the conversation with recollections where applicable. Deal?

Identify the Mystic Berries. These appeared in my back yard, growing on thick stems which curve over and are armed with Very Serious Thornage. I took a few pictures, because these are not something I planted; I know they're NOT ordinary raspberries because I know what those leaves look like.

And it's NOT this. I'm figuring these berries were carried about in the craw (sounds better than the alternative) of some birds who were enjoying the chaotic jungle that I think of as "my natural garden", and were ultimately deposited, where they began to grow. I think I've seen them before, but I've pulled them out or broken them down. This year, however, my indolence ...erhhm...Busy Schedule has prevented my doing much in the back yard, and you can imagine my surprise when I found these berries!

This is what they looked like a few days later, "redding up" as they say. They look very much like ordinary raspberries, which happen to be a great favorite of mine -- but which I cannot bring myself to pay eleventyfour dollars an ounce for. HOWEVER! Owing to my indolence extreme busyness at the Museum (see above), I wasn't able to get out to look at them very often.

NOTE: In order to get the previous photographs, I had to move VERY fast, and only the fact that my clothing caught on the thorns prevented my being carried off in the clutches of an Oscenity of Mosquitos; laughingly called "The State Bird of Wisconsin" I am here to state that there is NOTHING humorous about them, and only the fact that our neighbors are vampires and had a few quarts of Type O (I think it's a Pepsi product) in their fridge... and the knowledge of transfusing ... prevented that last from being my Final Blog post.

UNDAUNTED, however, as I am never, ever daunted at my age, I went out last night to examine them again, and found this:


NOTE: I went out wearing sweatpants (it was in my own backyard, not a soul around to see me) and a hooded sweatshirt with the hood tied tightly around my neck. Did they attack my hands? NO they did not. Fortunately I managed to protect my face....mostly.....

Now, I found this entirely beautiful, and there were several clusters identical to this on the other curving, thorny arms of the plants. Mr Dearling had thought they might be thimbleberries; someone else suggested blackberries. I had no idea - oh, and did it occur to me to (duuuuuuhh) look them up ON LINE? It did not. Lay it at the feet of above-mentioned Busyness.

So what I did instead was go back inside for a bowl, and at great expense to life and blood, I gathered up the ones that were actually like this and therefore, I thought, probably ripe:


I found it interesting that the berries AROUND the central one were still red, but I'm guessing that they're just unripe and will darken. I brought in the eleven ripe berries that I found, and brought them in, where they look like this:
They DO look so edible, and there's some rhyme about white berries being dangerous but red or black being fine....with the exception of Deadly Nightshade, which has bright cherry red berries and are also known as Bella Donna, the poison of choice in Renaissance Italy.....nevermind.

I put them in a pretty ceramic bowl,and showed them to Mr Dearling to see if he might be able to recognize what they were.

NOTE: Mr Dearling was born in da Bronx. Grew up on Longk Islandt. And I'm asking him to identify a wild berry found growing in the wilds of the back yard. Plus - he's a boy. So of course, being a New York boy with all those man genes and a healthy sense of scientific curiosity.......

He ate one.

And of COURSE (you saw this coming) immediately clutched his throat, made hairball hacking noises and slumped against the counter. Unconvincing -- but what could I do? I read "Romeo and Juliet". I immediately popped one into my mouth too.

And thus arrived at the following verdict, since corroborated by examination of information on line, might I add :

BLACK RASPBERRIES!

They're in the fridge, waiting for some of their fellows to ripen, and then they have an appointment with a splash of cream. There won't be many of them, I think, but we'll each have a small bowl...and then I'll read up to see what I can do to guarantee their future health and welfare, and I'll mark them out for Protection and Further Care.

Unless we were wrong, in which case we might be dead before you finish reading this. Lovely Daughter gets the stash.

"Ouvert"

"Ouvert" is the French word for "open". Windows open, doors open - opportunities open. It's been a very long time since I've been here, time in which I was enclosed, snug, protected. I took the full proscribed period of mourning for my friend....because (as often seems to heppen to me) what began as my keenly feeling the loss of my friend became my feelings of loss for everyone I've lost in my life up to this point: my parents, beloved in-laws, some friends, Willie....and cats, who are little furry people. (Yes, so are doggies; all you pupfans have my agreement with you too!)


But the seasons change, and change again, and a New Season is beginning. The school year is over (no more tours of 4th graders at the Museum for a few months); the winter is over (said in a whisper...Wisconsin weather can be fickle); my period of high mourning is over.


What is ahead? Summer. Some exciting Outreach programs at senior centers. Travel - next week to a long weekend in the 18th century - an invitational event with especially good friends, the wedding of a darling girl who is the daughter of especially good friends (a *modern* trip, to Montana), our annual journey to Grand Portage....perhaps a few other jaunts.


Study! When I was a kid, I always felt a huge rush of Intellectual Freedom as the last bell of the school year rang. I could hardly wait to get to the library to delve deeply into what I wanted to study. And this summer is no exception. Without the daily tours, I can really dig into my study of Mary Hayes Chynoweth (it's a good thing - my first presentation is coming up this week!)


I am going to rework my Hattie Fairchild program. That's one I do in my hoopskirts about a lady's lot in life during the mid-19th century. I call it "Manners, Mending and Morals" - it has a Power Point show with it, but I'm going to prepare a version without the visual aid of slides, so that I can do it even if there's no projector equipment available. (I KNOW, a computer slide show about the 19th century, in costume, no less -- is ODD.)


I'm also scheduled to do a program in November on the Metis women in the Fur Trade, and I haven't yet cracked a book about that one yet. The Metis were the children born of native women and French or French-Canadian traders and trappers and voyageurs, and they had a rich culture as a group; I've long been interested in those folks with "a foot in each world", as it were.


And KNITTING!! Well, believe it or not I have a couple of commissions for toques, but it's been a while and I'm looking forward to them. I've also decided I'm going to knit me some socks and I have TWO (count 'em, 2) afghans planned. Each is for a bridal couple, one the end of July (yeahright like THAT's possible) and the other is for the end of August (see above). But I AM going to knit them, and they're going to have cables and bobbles and noobles and dingdongs and so forth. They may not be delivered at the weddings, but they WILL be given. You saw it here first.


There will also be some babyknitting in the future, but as you may recall, I won't be selecting a pattern, buying yarn or casting on until the little tyke is already happily cooing in its cradle. (That's not to say I may not idly flip through the occasional pattern book or grope and stroke the errant skein here and there. Just sayin'.)


Now then - I intend to write an actual blogpost, catching up at least in overview format, in the next day or so, but I had to flex the old catssticksandbooks fingers here.


I'm back, I'm fine, all's well (erhm....except the Serious Lack of Moneys is making life difficult to the left of me and the right of me, but seasons turn, right?)

A Passing....

I've lost a friend. It was yesterday (ten seconds ago? a hundred years ago?). Because it is her wish, her partner (and I) are arranging a Jewish burial. She was a Believer; her understanding was that her mother (long dead) was discovered to have had a Jewish birth mother.....and so, in recent years, she felt herself to be Jewish, all of her spiritual leanings were much in alignment with Judaic thought, and she loved studying about Judaism.

As a result, we're proceeding accordingly. Although she did not live with me, her home (and her partner's) is not a place where visitors could come.....two dogs and four cats are much of the explanation. Therefore, such "shiva" as will be observed, will be observed in my home. Especially the last few years people who saw us together, or who met me while I was with her, assumed without exception that we were sisters. By birth? No. Otherwise? As much as loving sisters leading separate lives can be, so we always chuckled and "Yes, good as."

Note: Shiva (from sheva, "seven") is the second stage of mourning; the first is the period immediately following the loss when the mourners maintain solitude for the deep outpouring of grief that naturally occurs. The third stage, Shloshim ("30") is the next 23 days, when one begins....slowly....to restore daily routine; the degree of these depends on the closeness of the relationship.)

Hers was a life of experiences. We met in the occult shop I worked in. It was the spring of 1971, and I was very pregnant. She "made eyes" at me, and we laughed, and I said that I figured, as it seemed I was probably straight, that ours would be a relative love: the love of a relative for another relative. Sisters.

We were very different in many ways. Her life had been difficult, before we met. And about seven years later, we discovered that my husband and her partner were cut from the same cloth - FEH! In time, she found her partner, L., and I found Mr. Dearling. We've all been together around 23 years, and we agreed we finally "got it right".

She never went to college....and never quit studying. She loved music - generally different from my taste. We hung out, occasionally; we talked often, even when we didn't see much of each other. She lived not far from me. She and L. and I are devout and devoted catpeople. She and L. have had a series of funny ol' cats (one was rescued as a kitten--from the warm engine block of their car!). They've generally also usually had a dog, from the Shelter, and it's been a series of gangly, mutt-y, rambunctious dogs.

In the early days, she was much a part of my children's lives. My Lovely Daughter called her Mom. She saved my older boy from a life of crime by coming up behind him in a grocery one day and whispering "Planning to pay for that, are you?" as she saw him pocket a candy bar. He put it back and never repeated anything like that. (She told me about it later......much later. Years later.)

She had children too, in a different life a thousand years earlier, and when her circumstances changed she recognized that she wasn't in a position to care for children as they should be, and found a foster home where they could remain together. For many years they were out of touch; in the last few years she's heard from them and her grandchildren, and her eldest - a dear girl about Lovely Daughter's age, has been a happy part of her life these last years. (On her part - that was an act of clear-thinking, unrestricted love for her children, and was an act of strength.)

She and L. were at my Thanksgiving table every year. And she worked for years for the Madison Metro bus company, on the phones providing information, &c. She just retired last year, and her time was her own.....although her health was somewhat fragile.

Recently, she was on dialysis, three times a week. I went often to sit and knit and chat with her; sometimes I'd collect her after and we'd "go play", which involved things like a meander to the bookstore often - and a nice lunch somewhere always. In recent weeks she'd taken to volunteering at the Senior Center, and even before that on a couple of occasions I met her there and we'd enjoy the free lunch and following movie. She really liked being there.

She heard of a program yesterday at the Senior Center that interested her a great deal: there was a Holocaust Survivor going to speak, and then sign copies of his book. She was looking forward to it a LOT, and hoped I'd be able to go with her to it...and I was fascinated too and would have loved to, but had to work at the Museum. She called Thursday and left me a message saying that she'd been able to rearrange her dialysis for Friday morning and would be going to hear the speaker - and hoped I'd somehow be able to negotiate around and join her.

I really couldn't, but I called her in the evening and said she should remember what was said so she could tell me all about it. Instead, yesterday afternoon, I got a message on my cellphone from L. saying to call right away. I did. And L. said she was at the hospital emergency room - and that our dear one had collapsed and died. I think I shouted "You're not telling me the truth!"

But she was, of course.

She did go to hear the speaker, and she was in line with her book, waiting to get it signed, when she collapsed. I hope I go that way, when the time comes -- but I just really wasn't quite ready to lose her. I wanted to hear about the program. And so much more......

The next days I mean to observe "shiva", the formal mourning period. It begins after the service (Monday afternoon is the present plan, although it needs to be finalized). I don't know if I'll be writing here during that time. If so -- you'll see it. If not --watch this space.

I'm very, very sad.

A Day of May to Celebrate!

We are all affected by people, from the instant of our births. Some people inspire us, some entertain. Some nurture and love us; some live only to torment us. Hundreds of thousands of people walk past us in our lives, people with whom we share this day, this town, this state - country - continent.

There are people we encounter "in the ether" only: on the teevee, over the phone, walking around on the innerwebs. There are people who might be in our lives only briefly - and yet whose connection changes us in some profound way for all of our lives. Teachers, neighbors, friends, sweethearts. Clerks, salespeople, medical staff. We remember kindnesses, and we remember slights. The former may make US better, and we may "pay it forward"; the latter may make us angry or bitter - and hopefully we then encounter another kindness and carry on.

One of those people who has touched my life in a deep way is havin' hisself a birthday today. May 3, mark the date. May 3. I mean to honor him every year on May 3 for the rest of my life. He has given me courage when I needed it; he has delighted me every SINGLE time I've encountered him....either his image or his voice, since I first encountered him. I admired him from my initial awareness, and that admiration has deepened ever since and is now a true and abiding love. He's made me laugh, he's made me cry (with sadness, with tenderness, with joy), he's done something very few others have done in the whole of my life -- he's made me sing. Loud. In public.

Did I mention that he and I share space on this planet...on this continent...but I have never been in the same room or auditorium or open field with him?

This precious, darling, strong, brave, inspiring, poetic, gawky, homely lovely man whom I cherish so?

PETE SEEGER!

And thank you for every single moment I've had the pleasure and privilege of hearing you sing, or speak -- for your courage during the "blacklisting" period, for the strength you gave me and all the others during the Civil Rights movement. Thank you for saving the Hudson, for speaking out when needed, for standing tall when those of us around you needed someone to look up to. Thank you for your songs and your heart, your words and your philosophy. Thank you for writing on your banjo: "This machine surrounds hate -- and forces it to surrender"

Will I have you forever? No, not in life - I hope you sing at your 100th birthday, provided your health is good, but you will be with me until the end of MY life, in tapes and DVDs and CDs and songbooks - and in my heart. And Pete? When my time comes, the first thing I'm going to do when I stroll through that great woodland archway to the Other Side -- is find out where you're playing and singing, and I'm going to join the throngs and I'll sing along with you at the top of my lungs. (And probably - over there - I'll sound pretty good! )

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PETE!

HAPPY 90th BIRTHDAY, PETE SEEGER!

"What a Piece of Work is Man....

...........how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how likea god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals..."

This is one of my favorite quotes by Will Shakespeare. Did you know he sometimes spelled his name "SHAXPER"? Spelling wasn't standardized so much in the 16th century.

Today, 23 April, marks the day accepted as William Shakespeare's birthday; therefore, I say, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU, BARD!

However.......today, 23 April, marks also the day known to be the one on which Our Noble Bard "shuffled off this mortal coil". Therefore, I say Woe betide us, for have we not lost the fairest flower e'er to sculpt the humble symbols we know as words?

Coming on the heels of my heightened awareness of literacy (and the lack thereof) I'd have to say that I'm guessing the number of people who revere, relish and enjoy Shakespeare's works - compared to the number of people in the world who DO read - is probably relatively small. There are many educated, cultured, literate people who either haven't ever read Shakespeare (except, perhaps, a wee mite under severe duress in a classroom). But there are some of us who DO read Shakespeare for pleasure, the plays, the sonnets....and some of us occasionally curl up with annotated works or discussions of Shakespeare's work or life or biographies.

When my first two babies were little....Lovely Daughter was two years old and Son #1 was just a couple of months old....I sat between their cribs for a while every afternoon to read them to sleep for their naps. And I read Shakespeare. One day my sister was coming over to visit; I told her when I buzzed her in that she should just come up and come in, I'd be with her shortly. (Had to finish the act - I think I was reading "Midsummer Night's Dream".)

When I closed the door and tiptoed out of the nursery, she said "What were you doing?" I said I was reading to the kidlets before their naps. Her eyes widened and she said "WHAT were you reading????" all aghast-like.

I told her, and she whuffed (you know, the sniff-with-shoulder-wiggle) and said "That's ridiculous, they don't understand that." I pointed out to her that they wouldn't understand "Hop on Pop" either, at that point, and I wanted them to hear the richest phrases their language possessed.

Now - before any Seuss-o-philes get up in arms, fear not. I ADORE Seuss and all of my children and any who come within reading distance are Seussed within an inch of their lives. Just sayin'.

Part of my adoration of Shakespeare may have come from my 11th grade English teacher (I'm blanking on his name, of course). He made us memorize long passages, he read aloud to us every day, and I can't speak for my classmates but he imbued my heart with a real passion for Shakespeare and his works.

Oh! Just remembered this. One day we got into class and he pulled the movie shades down, rendering the room almost totally dark. He then lit a big fat candle on his desk (no doubt against the rules) and told us to put our heads on our desks or cover our eyes. "NO PEEKING!" he said. He then read the Witches' Scene from Macbeth: "Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. "

He read the entire scene. I cannot lie: I peeked. Because he read it in three distinct voices, and I had to be SURE two other people hadn't slipped into the room to join him. One voice was dry, cracking and high; one was very throaty and evil-sounding; and the other dreamy and querelous. There were long pauses.....I would've sworn I heard some thick fluid bubbling.

Well, let's just say, he had me at: "Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd." I have a very special copy of Shakespeare's complete works, a gift from a former neighbor, and to this day it is NOT uncommon for me to pick it up and read a whole play, part of a sonnet.....

Now, for all of it, neither of my sons are big readers. Son #1 has a very analytical mind and is more likely to study a language on his own than read a novel; Son #2 really doesn't have much time to read anything.

But my daughter, my Lovely Daughter -- also reads Shakespeare for pleasure now and then, and enjoys the plays as much as I do.

Will Shaxper, you have my forever gratitude and deep affection. On this day I mourn your loss, I also celebrate - CELEBRATE!! your birth and every day of your life. For your gift, thank you.

What if You Couldn't Read?

Illiteracy . Definition: "The condition of being unable to read and write . When I was a little kid, after supper was reading time. Dad sat down with his newspaper or a book; Mom had her Ladies' Home Journal, and my big sister always had a book going. At one point I decided that if I just stared really HARD at a book, the words in it would begin to make sense. (I may have told you this before....I'm old, cut me some slack.) I remember taking a book out the bookcase next to the fireplace, lying on the floor and staring at it. It didn't work. In later years I discovered that the book I had taken down was on Public Opinion and American Marketing...bleecch.

Of course I did learn to read - I think it was second grade, and they didn't have all those rewards, &c in those days but I learned FAST and always read "ahead of level."

My father sometimes reviewed books for the paper and often brought me review copies of kid books, and we always had lots and lots of fabulous books to read. "Illiteracy"? I thought it meant reading without pleasure, reading slowly.

I know I've told this before (but I'm not going back to look - if you've heard it skip on). When Willie and I were preparing to marry he had to get permission from his mother, and when it came it had a big black X on it surrounded by the words "Ella Mae Carter, her mark." She WAS illiterate (and that was, recall, 1965.)

Yesterday was an annual event at Border's, the Reading Marathon fundraiser for the local Literacy Network. In past years it was a 24-hour period; you could sign up for a stint and collect pledges. During the day they have Celebrity Readers on the hour, reading either from their own books or something else. I always liked taking something like 11:00 pm - 5:00 am. But this year it was just 9:00 am to 9:00 pm. I didn't get the email announcing it until Thursday, either. So I determined to just go, make a donation, and tuck into a corner to read for a few hours.

When I got there at 5:00 (having decided to read until 9) the Celebrity Reader was a veterinarian, Dr. Patricia McConnell. She's written DOZENS of books on dog training and understanding and grooming....and she has a program on NPR called "Calling All Pets" in which discusses qustions pertaining to ANY pets, it's a phone-in show. She's CHARMING!


She has voices....one for "dog talk" -- "Ooh, I'm so glad to see you, I'm going to wag my tail right off"....and another "dog-training voice"..."GUH-BOY, GUH-BOY!!" So I sat and listened to her until about 6:00. She's delightful. The whole audience sat and stayed during the entire reading.

I also noticed that they had a rather nice spread of munchies, so I staked out my little corner in the Children's Department and got a plateful.

By the way, I didn't read my dream book by Robert Moss; I actually decided to finally give myself a long interrupted read of The Story of Edgar Sawtelle, which I've been reading in wee hunks for some time. It's an "I CAN put it down to do something else but I'd rather not" sort of book. I made a little table for myself out of one of the stools for reaching books high up...there are a lot of those in the Children's Department for some reason...and settled in. The nosh? There was pita bread with a very smooth hummus, some of those (terrific) cup-shaped chips and some lovely rather sweet salsa and some tiny squares on crackers from a fancy restaurant. They seemed to have sundried tomatoes on a cracker with some mild sauce and teensy blobs of really good roquefort (which is, see earlier post, endangered).

These were beyond delicious! It was all I could do to not fill up my little plate from the silver tray of 'em. I even practiced saying "These should be fine for us all" before loading up and dodging back into my little corner -- but in the end I was good and only went back once -- uhm...twice...OK! I went THREE TIMES, but they were out-o'-sight. Oh. Well, when Mr Dearling stopped in for a visit I had him go get some for me too. Twice. So I could keep reading and shaddup about it.

I was there to read after all, not eat. Mostly. The upshot was that I made real progress on my book, enjoyed some very yummy treats - and I got a VERY NICE travel cup, gleaming metallic green with the Literacy Network logo on one side and all the corporate sponsors on the back. That was for my donation. It was a very nice evening - think of the luxury of tucking into a little corner with your only obligation being to READ - while enjoying some free munchies. My idea of a Great Evening, if I do say so myself.

And then, after all was said and done, books were packed away, paper plates discarded and I trundled happily home, feeling well-content and rather satisfied. And when I got home...

To sleep. We're good at that, too, in our house.