We hung lights on the outside of the house today. The days are short, the nights are long, the temperatures dropped precipitously last night and the wind was cutting. Thanksgiving feast finished; the garden cleaned up of dead leaves and everything looks brown and bare. Wintry. I like lights on bushes and around doorways. I like the bravery of it. Yet as I connected string to string, I couldn't help but wonder how many watts I was consuming. Inside the house we have converted to CFL bulbs in an effort to conserve energy. When I buy a new light fixture I choose one that will accept a CFL. I follow my teenagers around shutting off the light fixtures they leave burning. Then I blithely string lights around the outside of my house on the off chance they will cheer the passerby!
In everything we do we make a choice. We can weigh the monetary cost and the environmental cost. To live without consuming excessively what does that mean?
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Thursday, November 26, 2009
November 26, 2009
Thanksgiving 2009, we had five for dinner. It was going to be four, the nuclear family, mom, dad, sister, brother. At the last minute we added another teenager. It was easy. No tension. Low expectations. Turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and a green vegetable. Simple food, nothing elaborate.
I celebrated my first Thanksgiving in 1964 in Queens, NY, three weeks after my family emigrated from England. I don't remember it. It was, in all probability very, very tense. We were staying with my uncle and his family while my father looked for a job and a place for us to live. My mother did not like my aunt. There was a huge clash of will, personality, and expectations mostly because of cultural misunderstandings. My aunt was well meaning but my mother was hyper-sensitive and very homesick. The next Thanksgiving we were established in a home of our own and my father was earning a wage at his trade. We began to establish our own Thanksgiving traditions. Turkey with gravy and stuffing, yes. My mother could easily do that. Cranberry sauce she refused to adopt. Two years later I was away at college and began the tradition of travelling home for Thanksgiving. It is a short holiday. Which makes travel over any great distance arduous. Because you hit the road or the airport in a very small window of time with a great many other people often in some of the worst weather possible for long distance travel. I hadn't yet acquired a lot of emotions around eating turkey on one particular day but I had no desire to stay in empty dorms and a desperate need for a break from classes so it became a fixture for the next 4 years. Get a ride for the 300 mile trip from upstate NY to the southern tip of Long Island. The next 2 years were easy. I had a job on the Northern tip of LI, a car and no friends in the area. Naturally I went home to my family of origin.
By 1973 I was living and working in London, England. I didn't miss Thanksgiving but Christmas was tough. Like my mother before me, I wasn't comfortable with my new in-laws and they didn't much like me. It wasn't a problem for long. 1975 found my new British husband and I celebrating his first Thanksgiving in Madison, Wisconsin. We were back on the road again. Driving up North to have dinner with the family of one his new American friends. It was a big gathering and I remember feeling embarrassed when I was asked to say what I was thankful for. I couldn't think quickly enough with all those strange faces looking at me. It was a lovely traditional dinner. I was impressed with the grandeur of the table, the quantity of food and the large number of people present. It became, for me, a standard to aim for.
By 1978 we were living in Iowa. The next 2 years were strange. At holiday times all the native Iowans we knew went home to the farm. We were left to our own devices. All that changed in 1980 when we moved to Massachusetts. Now we were back in driving distance of my parents. Thanksgiving meant a ferry trip across the LI Sound. We were a married, but childless couple so we did the traveling. My parents were still hosting my younger siblings so Thanksgiving was a family re-union of sorts. There was never any discussion of where we go it was assumed we would join my parents. My mother was in charge of holiday celebrations. They succeeded or failed according to her mood and expectations.
It wasn't until I was in my early 30's that I began to think about this. There were other options. Thanksgiving celebrated with a group of un-related people. Friends, co-workers, strangers. It wasn't until I had children of my own that the holiday pivot point changed from my mother to myself. Thanksgiving became my show. Grandparents travelled to be with grandchildren. My sister, brother and I consulted and divvied up the job of celebrating with our parents. Travel, distance, age of children, health of parents all had to be factored in. Until it got to the stage where the grandparents were too old, too fragile to travel. Then it became a different calculation. How to take care of them. How to make sure they had a Thanksgiving celebration without unduly burdening them with either cooking or travel. The tussle between my mother and her daughters over who was going to prevail when it came to "staging" the dinner. Every year when I put the cranberry sauce on the table she would screw up her face and pronounce it disgusting because she didn't like ( had she ever tried?) cranberry sauce. The year I cooked the dinner following a Julia Child recipe and made an elaborate wine based gravy. My father ate with a long face because it wasn't the gravy my mother made.
Dad died 2 years ago. Mom is in assisted living. My children are now in their early 20's. Soon they will be debating whether they want to travel for Thanksgiving or spend it with their friends. The wheel keeps turning.
I celebrated my first Thanksgiving in 1964 in Queens, NY, three weeks after my family emigrated from England. I don't remember it. It was, in all probability very, very tense. We were staying with my uncle and his family while my father looked for a job and a place for us to live. My mother did not like my aunt. There was a huge clash of will, personality, and expectations mostly because of cultural misunderstandings. My aunt was well meaning but my mother was hyper-sensitive and very homesick. The next Thanksgiving we were established in a home of our own and my father was earning a wage at his trade. We began to establish our own Thanksgiving traditions. Turkey with gravy and stuffing, yes. My mother could easily do that. Cranberry sauce she refused to adopt. Two years later I was away at college and began the tradition of travelling home for Thanksgiving. It is a short holiday. Which makes travel over any great distance arduous. Because you hit the road or the airport in a very small window of time with a great many other people often in some of the worst weather possible for long distance travel. I hadn't yet acquired a lot of emotions around eating turkey on one particular day but I had no desire to stay in empty dorms and a desperate need for a break from classes so it became a fixture for the next 4 years. Get a ride for the 300 mile trip from upstate NY to the southern tip of Long Island. The next 2 years were easy. I had a job on the Northern tip of LI, a car and no friends in the area. Naturally I went home to my family of origin.
By 1973 I was living and working in London, England. I didn't miss Thanksgiving but Christmas was tough. Like my mother before me, I wasn't comfortable with my new in-laws and they didn't much like me. It wasn't a problem for long. 1975 found my new British husband and I celebrating his first Thanksgiving in Madison, Wisconsin. We were back on the road again. Driving up North to have dinner with the family of one his new American friends. It was a big gathering and I remember feeling embarrassed when I was asked to say what I was thankful for. I couldn't think quickly enough with all those strange faces looking at me. It was a lovely traditional dinner. I was impressed with the grandeur of the table, the quantity of food and the large number of people present. It became, for me, a standard to aim for.
By 1978 we were living in Iowa. The next 2 years were strange. At holiday times all the native Iowans we knew went home to the farm. We were left to our own devices. All that changed in 1980 when we moved to Massachusetts. Now we were back in driving distance of my parents. Thanksgiving meant a ferry trip across the LI Sound. We were a married, but childless couple so we did the traveling. My parents were still hosting my younger siblings so Thanksgiving was a family re-union of sorts. There was never any discussion of where we go it was assumed we would join my parents. My mother was in charge of holiday celebrations. They succeeded or failed according to her mood and expectations.
It wasn't until I was in my early 30's that I began to think about this. There were other options. Thanksgiving celebrated with a group of un-related people. Friends, co-workers, strangers. It wasn't until I had children of my own that the holiday pivot point changed from my mother to myself. Thanksgiving became my show. Grandparents travelled to be with grandchildren. My sister, brother and I consulted and divvied up the job of celebrating with our parents. Travel, distance, age of children, health of parents all had to be factored in. Until it got to the stage where the grandparents were too old, too fragile to travel. Then it became a different calculation. How to take care of them. How to make sure they had a Thanksgiving celebration without unduly burdening them with either cooking or travel. The tussle between my mother and her daughters over who was going to prevail when it came to "staging" the dinner. Every year when I put the cranberry sauce on the table she would screw up her face and pronounce it disgusting because she didn't like ( had she ever tried?) cranberry sauce. The year I cooked the dinner following a Julia Child recipe and made an elaborate wine based gravy. My father ate with a long face because it wasn't the gravy my mother made.
Dad died 2 years ago. Mom is in assisted living. My children are now in their early 20's. Soon they will be debating whether they want to travel for Thanksgiving or spend it with their friends. The wheel keeps turning.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
November 21, 2009
I lost myself today. I decided to wander around Washington DC. I wanted to amble from the Smithsonian mall to Dupont circle. I wanted to explore to get the feel of the city. I started with an exhibition at the African art museum, Yinka Shonibare MBE It was energizing. I enjoyed the looking. When I emerged the sun was shining and I wasn't yet ready to return home. So I started walking through some of my favourite spaces the Enid Haupt garden in its winter state, then the NGA sculpture garden. They removed one of my favourite sculptures next to the cafe. Four silver cubes that rotated freely yet were attached to a vertical support. Replacing it is a metal tree. It's OK. Less interesting.
I thought I would use the Archives metro to move me some distance. There were problems on the yellow line; smoke at Gallery place. So I re-emerged above ground. Started walking up 7th. Looked for another station as I was starting to tire and the weather was changing to cold and looked like rain. The next station was also green/yellow line. So changed direction. Ended up following Mass ave ( not the kind of walk I had in mind) to Dupont circle and it was there I got a brain freeze. I knew where I was, Dupont circle, yet it didn't make sense, didn't connect with anything else I recognized. I could just give up and get back on the train. I could see the metro entrance. But I wasn't done yet. I needed to rest. Ducked into Books-a-million. It isn't the kind of bookstore that encourages reading and sitting. Left. Crossed the road to the grassy area of Dupont circle. Found a bench. Sat. This must be what it feels like to be homeless. My back hurt. I was tired. I didn't know what to do with myself. But it wasn't raining, I wasn't too cold and I had found a place of reasonable comfort where I could just sit and pull myself together. I had a piece of technology with me that was supposed to enable me to find myself, to make a phone call, get a direction. It was giving me mis-answers. It supplied information that didn't help my dilemma. I was still lost. No one home when I phoned. I continued to sit. There was a guy under the statue with a bunch of vinyl LP's for sale. The Doors. He wasn't making any sales. I thought about using my new technology to make a photograph of the statue, or the salesman but I knew I couldn't do it. So I sat some more and checked my phone. Finally a text message to an earlier query. I was welcome to visit at my daughter's place of work, Studio gallery. I thought it was 2 blocks away from Dupont circle. But nothing looked familiar. I struggled to access my biological technology, my random access memory, my brain. Nothing was computing. I had rested enough that I could walk again so I got up and changed the location of my body in space hoping to reboot my brain. Phoned again still no answer. I was slightly relieved. I wasn't eager to confess how confused I was. It would only invite exasperation. And then; oh joy; the world came into focus, the little cylinders shifted and rotated and clicked and suddenly I knew! If I exited the circle at Connecticut avenue I could find my way to the gallery.
I thought I would use the Archives metro to move me some distance. There were problems on the yellow line; smoke at Gallery place. So I re-emerged above ground. Started walking up 7th. Looked for another station as I was starting to tire and the weather was changing to cold and looked like rain. The next station was also green/yellow line. So changed direction. Ended up following Mass ave ( not the kind of walk I had in mind) to Dupont circle and it was there I got a brain freeze. I knew where I was, Dupont circle, yet it didn't make sense, didn't connect with anything else I recognized. I could just give up and get back on the train. I could see the metro entrance. But I wasn't done yet. I needed to rest. Ducked into Books-a-million. It isn't the kind of bookstore that encourages reading and sitting. Left. Crossed the road to the grassy area of Dupont circle. Found a bench. Sat. This must be what it feels like to be homeless. My back hurt. I was tired. I didn't know what to do with myself. But it wasn't raining, I wasn't too cold and I had found a place of reasonable comfort where I could just sit and pull myself together. I had a piece of technology with me that was supposed to enable me to find myself, to make a phone call, get a direction. It was giving me mis-answers. It supplied information that didn't help my dilemma. I was still lost. No one home when I phoned. I continued to sit. There was a guy under the statue with a bunch of vinyl LP's for sale. The Doors. He wasn't making any sales. I thought about using my new technology to make a photograph of the statue, or the salesman but I knew I couldn't do it. So I sat some more and checked my phone. Finally a text message to an earlier query. I was welcome to visit at my daughter's place of work, Studio gallery. I thought it was 2 blocks away from Dupont circle. But nothing looked familiar. I struggled to access my biological technology, my random access memory, my brain. Nothing was computing. I had rested enough that I could walk again so I got up and changed the location of my body in space hoping to reboot my brain. Phoned again still no answer. I was slightly relieved. I wasn't eager to confess how confused I was. It would only invite exasperation. And then; oh joy; the world came into focus, the little cylinders shifted and rotated and clicked and suddenly I knew! If I exited the circle at Connecticut avenue I could find my way to the gallery.
Friday, November 13, 2009
November 13, 2009
The phone rang today. It was a California number. I picked up and a recorded voice said "this is a call from (telephone #) for a cause that you support. We realize that we called you but there is no-one available to talk to your right now....." Abruptly I disconnected. Ten minutes later the same California number rang again. I picked up the phone and without saying anything put the receiver down on the kitchen counter until I heard a dial tone. I have registered on every do not call list that is out there. But organizations that have benefited from my money are exempt. Its maddening. We all do it. Send our $ then watch the recipient spend it mailing us back to ask for a larger gift.
Fund raising is not about doing good anymore its a business. There are so many non-profits out there they compete with each other. Medical school is over, MBA's are over, dot coms are over the next trend is start your own foundation! That is what the bright young things who graduate today are doing.
Fund raising is not about doing good anymore its a business. There are so many non-profits out there they compete with each other. Medical school is over, MBA's are over, dot coms are over the next trend is start your own foundation! That is what the bright young things who graduate today are doing.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
November 10, 2009
I ironed a tablecloth this morning.
As I was doing this I was laughing at myself because I used to be so arrogant about not ironing. I considered it beneath me, too domestic. I had more important things to do. So here I am ironing a table cloth that I inherited from my mother. It is white, heavily embroidered with cross stitch roses. There is cutwork too. And in the cutwork there is crochet. Very fine crochet. As I am ironing this article I'm thinking about the woman who made it. The embroidery is neat and small and even. It looks as good on the reverse as on the front. I have to be careful with the iron because it gets snagged in the openwork and I don't want to damage it. There is puckering because the crochet thread has shrunk a little more than the fabric in the wash and I have to ease it out with the tip of the iron. Doing this causes me to really look at the workmanship, to admire the design, the intricacy and neatness of the stitches. The act of ironing is making me see. I have looked at the stitching as I might look at an object in an art gallery. Even though the creation of this tablecloth was an act of craftmanship rather than creativity the act of ironing has brought me into relationship; with the woman who made it, with my mother who selected and purchased it, with all women who launder and press and select and display their household goods when it comes time for a special dinner celebration.
As I was doing this I was laughing at myself because I used to be so arrogant about not ironing. I considered it beneath me, too domestic. I had more important things to do. So here I am ironing a table cloth that I inherited from my mother. It is white, heavily embroidered with cross stitch roses. There is cutwork too. And in the cutwork there is crochet. Very fine crochet. As I am ironing this article I'm thinking about the woman who made it. The embroidery is neat and small and even. It looks as good on the reverse as on the front. I have to be careful with the iron because it gets snagged in the openwork and I don't want to damage it. There is puckering because the crochet thread has shrunk a little more than the fabric in the wash and I have to ease it out with the tip of the iron. Doing this causes me to really look at the workmanship, to admire the design, the intricacy and neatness of the stitches. The act of ironing is making me see. I have looked at the stitching as I might look at an object in an art gallery. Even though the creation of this tablecloth was an act of craftmanship rather than creativity the act of ironing has brought me into relationship; with the woman who made it, with my mother who selected and purchased it, with all women who launder and press and select and display their household goods when it comes time for a special dinner celebration.
Monday, November 9, 2009
November 9, 2009
On our last trip to Canada, we pulled off at a highway rest stop for coffee to go with the sticky buns my sister had baked for us. The building reverberated with jangling artificial sounds so we found a bench in the sun. As soon as we seated ourselves the sparrows appeared. Bold little guys hopping around our feet. Clearly they were used to being fed or just scarfing up dropped crumbs. I normally don't feed birds where people eat but these two were so direct, so bold that I encouraged a few more crumbs to crumble. One dived forward, the other held back. Soon they were joined by others and my husband joined in the feeding game. Within minutes it was clear he had a game plan; to distribute the crumbs equitably. This involved, as you might guess, scattering a few crumbs close in for the brazen and pitching a larger piece far out for the timid. I'm sure he is not unique in his bird feeding behavior. How many of us do the same, trying to even out the odds. We root for the underdog, or in this case the underbird. But the underbird with the big crumb only attracts the attention of the top-bird and often looses his crust. Thereby earning the scorn of the dispenser.
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