Author: madmuser

A butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker, and a few things in between. And so that road less traveled has brought me here to follow my dream and my muse.

Buffalo Blizzard

snow shoesA man walked 5 miles to bring formula to his 9-month-old baby. In order to get to the airport to fly to Detroit, which was graciously hosting the Buffalo Bills game that was supposed to be played at home on Sunday, some players were picked up and carted there by snowmobiles. A firehouse filled with marooned firefighters and stranded drivers feasted on eggs and milk that was on its way to a store in a truck that got stuck in the snow. Others in that firehouse group walked to a nearby Tops supermarket where they got bread and other provisions – for free. Rescuers managed to reach a woman whose roof was collapsing under the weight of 7 feet of snow. Not only did they guide her to safety, but also her two cats and dog.

These comprise just a small paragraph of the book-load of stories of resiliency and kindness that arose amid the absolutely astonishing weather events of the past week that shocked not just residents of Buffalo, but also those of an entire nation. I live just 60 miles from where the white catastrophe unfolded in mounds that were three, four, six and over seven feet high. Here – a mere two inches of snow fell. Even in Buffalo, one neighborhood had blizzard conditions, the next a moderate and typical winter snowfall.

That’s the way it is in upstate New York in the winter. Well, it’s never been like what Buffalo endured, but the Great Lakes are the source of our Lake Effect snow – squalls that come off the lakes, skipping blocks and towns and moving around in defiance of weather predictions. (Our weather folks work very hard here in the winter. )

The anomaly in November temperature (Polar Vortex) that led to the snow event is quickly receding, replaced on an hour-by-hour increase in temps that are rising from the teens to 61 degrees. The blizzard warnings have now been replaced by flood warnings and my friends to the west are most cleverly finding ways to put wheels on their snowmobiles, sleds, skates and skis for easy entry to the Ark that awaits us all.

An Old-Fashioned Sick Bed

Crayons 003Crayons, paper dolls, Nancy Drew and Etch-a-Sketch. Scotch Broth, tons of OJ and Vicks-Vapor Rub lovingly rubbed into my chest. My box of 64 Crayolas, heaps of coloring books, paper dolls, my favorite Breyer horse and volumes of Nancy Drew and Bobbsey Twins all competed for space on my night table. And on the floor was the vaporizer with its comforting purr. This was what it was like to be sick during my childhood.

I took a little trip down memory lane last week when my temperature careened to heights not seen in many-moons and my lungs went into phlegm-based revolt. To the couch I headed, equipped with serious cough medicine, antibiotics, five flavors of Celestial Seasonings herbal tea, and a BIG bottle of cranberry-apple juice. In lieu of crayons (I do have a box of the 64-count Crayola that I am saving for a special occasion), along came my Lamy fountain pen, (filled with purple ink), the second book in Ken Follet’s Century Trilogy and my computer to watch morbid Youtube videos.

Even though the tableau of the sickbed setup wasn’t the same as when I was a little girl, the basics were in place and my memories filled the gaps. I projected myself back to when my dress-with-apron clad Mom brought me glass after glass of orange juice and bowl after bowl of Jello. I loved how she tucked me in tight and let me watch more TV, and later, than usual. My favorite fare was Mr. Ed, Lassie and The Andy Griffith Show. (Last week my favorite fare was HGTV, HGTV and more HGTV! ) Then there were the long soul-soothing naps where nothing mattered but dreams and the promise of waking up to Nancy Drew.

Last week, while I endured this worse than in many years bout of what turned out to be pneumonia, I sucked down the sweetness of my childhood memories, surrounded by three Boston Terriers, several cans of Campbell Beef Vegetable soup (couldn’t find Scotch Broth) and lovely dreams of sparkling snow and Sugar Plum Fairies. (And yes, we have now had our first nature-induced bling of the season!!)Nancy Drew

Sound of the Bugle Always

Alaska 2A little over a week ago I wrote a piece about my old camp friend, Annie, the bugler. I wrote the story because I was deeply affected by the news of her passing – this friend of some 40 plus years ago who I’d not seen since then. After writing and posting the tribute to Annie, I went to explore her Facebook page to see if I could find meaning in her death. I went to her photo page and what I found there took my breath away. There were just 20 or so photos, and there among them was a scanned copy of my confirmation picture, and typed next to it was “Hi MaryAnne.” I must have given her that picture oh so many years ago. To find it there, with her personal greeting, is one of those rare life events where the spiritual transcends the physical and shows how we are all connected no matter in what world we reside.

Annie – Hello back at ‘cha and thanks for the spiritual wake-up call!

And the Beat Goes On … Or Does It?

As I proceed with this thing called aging, I have become exquisitely sensitive to the pulse of my world and all the wonderful things in it. This means that when something changes, it has a profound impact on my psyche, something quite surprising for someone who used to LOVE change. To acknowledge the impact of changing beats, I present three beat stories that affected me deeply.

The little old stooped-back woman made her way purposefully down our neighborhood street, late, as usual, for the daily 7 a.m. Mass. Devoted to her old-school God, she made this trek no matter the weather. In winter she wore a too-big-coat from Goodwill and in summer, a too-small sweater from Salvation Army. I know these things because one day we crossed paths – me, jogging, and she, headed to the comfort and warmth of her church. But then it stopped being the neighborhood church. As the Catholic Church reinvented itself, this little church merged with two others, making a big, impersonal, non-cozy organization where Masses rotated among all three churches, including the daily Mass. The little old lady couldn’t walk to the other churches, and then she became sick and couldn’t even walk to her home church. She probably got sick from not walking as much. The rhythm changed when she stopped walking and the street became eerily empty at 7 a.m. each day.

On the next block over lives a lovely older gent who, every afternoon at precisely 4 p.m., walks by our house with his yellow lab. The man has a jaunty gait and he is one of the few dog walkers in our hood who picks up the poop. Some days I used to take my female Boston Terrier for a walk around the same time and we crossed paths. The lab was as friendly as only a friendly lab can be. He, of course, was more than enthusiastic about making my BT’s acquaintance, but she would have none of it. Her hackles went up and she howled in protective protest. The man and I smiled, and red faced, I made some lame excuse until I finally changed my walking time to avoid being rightly mortified. Still, I took comfort in watching the yellow lab and his man-person walk by our house every day at precisely 4 p.m., until one day they didn’t, nor the day after or the day after that. When I realized they weren’t passing anymore, I felt lost – a major beat in my daily rhythm had stopped. I couldn’t face the fact that something had happened to one of them and my song turned to silence.
IMG_0079
A therapist I took my daughter to many moons ago likened a relationship she had with a former boyfriend of mine as being attached to a wire monkey. In other words, the little girl that she was then became attached to this man even though in her heart of hearts, she couldn’t stand him. I’ve had my share of wire monkeys and one such was a cashier in my local supermarket. This cashier was not terribly friendly, rarely cracked a smile, and had a way of making you feel like you were intruding on her. I was determined to crack her code and after many chirpy chats and cheerful (me) conversations, the code indeed broke. But then so did she. I haven’t seen her in months and the pulse of my grocery shopping experience has been forever changed — by a wire monkey!

Halloween Encounter

pumpkinsWe typically don’t get too many Halloween trick-or-treaters on a given year– maybe 25 or 30, and the ones we do mostly come from the city to take advantage of our oh-so-much safer neighborhood. I love these kids: they are full of bright energy and loaded with friendliness and exuberant thank-you’s.

This year most of the kids came in bunches, except for this one little guy who rang our doorbell and stood in the doorway all by himself. He looked to be about 8 or so and in a very serious tone he  announced “Trick or Treat.” I took a couple candy bars and plopped them into his plastic pumpkin basket. Quite deliberately  he said “Thank you.”  Then I said,  “I really like your costume.” (I’m not really even sure what he was dressed as and I don’t say this to many kids. There was just something about this kid that was special.) With just a hint of smile breaking through his stoicism, he said, “Thank you for the compliment.” I was bowled over and in my delight I burst out with, “Thank you for coming!” At that I heard a little chuckle that came from his father who was lurking in the shadows.

Day is Done

It’s starting. That horrific cascade of friends and classmates who have begun their travels to another world not inhabited by me … yet. … and the news is always unbelievable because we are still summer campers, neighborhood pals, grade school chums and high school buddies … only we’re not.  Funny how that goes – like time never really stops. We feel the same as we did then – mostly, and  when we see a long-lost friend, we wonder why they aged and we haven’t.

As grim as it sounds, it is truth, and truth cannot be hidden from – for long. Soon there will be a torrent until someday, as happened with my parents, their parents, and so on, we will be one of the few left, having said goodbye to former loves, best friends, not-so-best friends, colleagues and everyone in our lives who made an impact.

Annie made such an impact in my life with her fiery red hair, her face amass with friendly freckles, her dedication to all things fun, her kind and gentle heart, and her bugle.

I knew Annie from summer camp. She was the one who woke us in the morning with Reveille and put us to bed at night with Taps.  She was the one who gave our days the pulse that wound its way into our young psyches. We could count on her and her bugle which is more than could be said for other areas of our lives – then and now.

Two days ago,  a glistening scarlet red drop found its way into the torrent. It was the forever young, red-headed girl for whom Taps played one last time.

Day is done, gone the sun,
From the lake, from the hills, from the sky;
All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.

From: http://www.spc.noaa.gov/publications/corfidi/sunset/

Wool

L.L. Bean SweaterWool is back! All those funky, chunky L.L. Bean wool sweaters that I always loved can now emerge from their mothball moratorium. Hooray! However, there’s a reason my beloved sweaters were sent to storage for so long. They ITCHED!! They remained stored away in a Tupperware container, instead of being tossed, in hopes that one day they would suddenly stop …. itching!

My passion for wool ignited again when I stopped in a thrift store the other day and there but to my wondrous eye appeared a beautiful, almost-new, L.L. Bean turtleneck sweater. It was a wool blend and it felt just yummy to the touch. Excited beyond words, I washed it as soon as I got home (by hand) and set it out flat to dry. I checked it twice a day for the two days it took to dry and at the appointed hour, on it went and shortly thereafter – off it came. It ITCHED!! I wanted to cry.

Unwilling to be thwarted, I began an Internet search for how to eliminate wool’s itch. Was this even possible? To my delight, I found a good bit of information. Here’s what I learned:

  1. Wear things under the wool garment: long sleeved tee or under-shirts, camis or another garment that is comfortable next to the skin.
  2. Use talcum powder: it is great for protecting skin.
  3. For itchy-neck, turtle-neck wearers, add style with scarves smartly tucked into the top of the sweater.
  4. Opt for Marino or Angora, higher-quality wools that are generally non-itch.
  5. Choose wool garments that have linings, which protect the skin from direct contact with the wool.
  6. Hand-wash wool garments and use a mild soap or even vinegar which is known for adding softness to clothes.

Also in my Internet travels I learned that after a 15 or 25-year fashion hiatus (because of itching?), British fashion houses, including Ralph Lauren and Chanel , are glomming on to this rediscovered fabric-treasure and fashioning it into high style clothing. Besides flexibility, wear ability and durability, wool is the essence of green – think natural, renewable, biodegradable and sustainable!

As for my treasured L.L. Bean sweater, with my new information, in tow, the project of de-itching (it or me?) has begun.

Interested? Take a look at “Why is wool spinning back into fashion.”

After the Wedding

I went to a wedding this weekend … a beautiful fairy-tale affair where the bride looked like a princess and the groom, her charming prince. It was my son’s wedding, a gala event and the culmination of weeks of finding dresses, shoes and purses; making appointments and going to get hair, manicures and pedicures done; shopping for bridal shower gifts and going to the shower; and making arrangements for and hosting the rehearsal dinner. It was a whirlwind.

When it finally arrived, the day dawned dark and rainy, a frightening  prospect since this wedding was to be on a hillside, in front of a castle overlooking Seneca Lake. As if by magic, four hours before the late afternoon ceremony, the sun came out and gave warmth to one of the few remaining temperate days of the season. Perfect!

The time came and the groomsmen stood alongside my son, all of his high school buddies who always congregated in our garage, the designated ‘hang-out’ place. I loved those boys. I still do, but what a shock to see them in their tuxes, bringing with them careers and marriages – a rude awakening since in my mind they were still the boys in the garage.  As I looked at these handsome men, I began wistfully reminiscing about their teen years, of all the possibilities before them then, possibilities replaced by the hard-core realities of lives needing to be lived, money needing to be made and careers needing to be forged.

The wedding was truly magical, with lots of wine to drink, food  to eat, and dancing to be done. I thought I would dissolve when it came time for the mother-son dance, and indeed, a few tears threatened my mascara, but it wasn’t the gush I’d anticipated.

We stayed over – too far a drive, too much wine and food – and after a country-diner breakfast, set off for the 60 mile trek home. I was feeling sort of numb and I couldn’t figure out why. Until – I wasn’t! It came on me explosively. One minute I was gazing out the window, the next I was gushing – sobbing – with a hole inside me bigger than the Grand Canyon. Thoughts catapulted around in my brain:  clips of my son’s childhood and teen years, his first job at Tops, spinning out the first time he drove in snow, being afraid of a little toy figurine of a man with a snake: “I don’t like dat man with dat snake,” his 3-year-old self said, and so many more memories and the feelings that went along with those memories.  And now – all over. That’s what I felt. An unexpected and overwhelming surge of the emotions of a mother sending her son off to another phase of life and saying good-bye to what once was.

To Every Thing There is a Season

IMG_0327IMG_0328We had our first frost last night. They predict another for tonight. It’s always so astounding how quick the seasons change, how we go from summer to almost-winter; at least that’s how it seems to go when the seasons change here in upstate NY.

It was just a short week ago   when, on a warm and sunny day, I took a stroll into the back field with my camera. I wanted to capture the end of the season, the life that would soon say goodbye to a summer that left us all wondering, “Is that all there is?”

The answer: no it wasn’t all there is, and here is the proof.

The Ritual

100_0611Short-wearing season is over, and with it, the end of the ritual. Ritual? Argh, yes, the ritual.

You see… I have three Boston Terriers, one of whom is the little old man. He is indeed the littlest of the group at 10 pounds, as well as the oldest, at, well, we’re not really sure, because he was from a puppy mill, but the vet puts him at around 13 or 14. Our little old Timmy is nearly-blind – he walks into walls and furniture, and deaf – you have to scream before he turns his head in acknowledgement of your existence. Of course, his deafness could be a keenly-honed avoidance mechanism. But whatever it is, our happy little old man romps around gaily, when he isn’t sleeping, that is. And he does a lot of that!

Timmy is wickedly spoiled, and one measure of this is “The Ritual.” It goes something like this: during the last several years, Timmy’s favorite thing in the whole wide world to do is lick my legs. He is relentless. Anywhere I am sitting with my legs bared, there is Timmy at my feet, licking madly away. He takes this activity very seriously and would go on and on, forgoing even naptime, if so allowed.

One of the places he especially likes to do his licking thing is in my office, which is where the full ritual occurs. He licks and licks and licks until he gets plum-tired out at which point he puts his front paws on the side of my chair and ogles me with rheumy-eyes, making his request to be placed on the daybed for his daily snooze. He is thusly placed. Only this is usually not a one-shot deal. For whatever doggy-reason, he doesn’t settle into his final nap until after he’s done several rotations of down-lick-ogle and be-placed-on-bed.

With fall and jean season here at last, the ritual is on hiatus. For now, Timmy sniffs hungrily at the cuffs of my pants, occasionally finding a spot or two where he can get a few licks in. But with winter fast approaching, my soon-to-be head-to-toe covering means my little old man gets tons of goodies and loads of under-the-covers time.