Journaling

It's been a great week. I've stuck to my food plan, kept up with my novena on Dorothy Day, prayed for others, done some swimming, kept up with NaNoMo much better than I thought. Haven't had the urge to watch tv or movies.

I asked a stranger to sponsor me in the 90 day OA program. That wasn't too bright. A sponsor is someone who has what you want and you do what they did. I realize I don't know what she has. And she doesn't seem willing to tell me ("we'll discuss your food plan first.") She vetoed some of my foods and I accepted that veto because sugar is an ingredient. But she also vetoed fruits canned with fruit juice  ("processed") and homemade hummus ("I don't do mixtures." "But you eat salad").  Now I don't know if I want what she has ... since I'm not yet aware of what she has. I am a food addict and can't recover by myself. I have illusions and delusions.

As I was wondering "How do I know what's right? Who will tell me?" I realized that I can pray for the answer.

NaNo, NaNo

November is National Novel writing month, NaNo for short. It's sort of a social network event for people who prefer to be alone. The challenge is to write a novel with 50,000 words or more. There are participants who have been doing this for years. You win if you meet the word goal. Since I almost have never exceed 400 words in a day, I don't expect to win. But it's worth the effort.

In order to churn out the words, I'll have to forego TV, movies, and Facebook. I should have OD'd on those things for a while.

I'll be making an effort to attend Aquacare aerobics, on-line twelve-step meetings (good enough for DFW is good enough for me), a few church services, thanksgiving dinner, acupuncture, and maybe some Skype with my granddaughter.

My grandson flipped my mattress and my son changed my bedding so I'm off to a fresh start.

Writing

After a long blank, I got a writing idea. The idea came to me in the way comedians get their jokes ... from irritation. I found myself uncomfortable with people commenting on pictures of sunsets with statements such as 'When you see this, how can you not believe in God?'  The urge to write comes with my irritation and my puzzlement over my own irritation. I believe in God and I enjoy sunsets, so why am I bothered?

I wrote my first response longhand (to keep me away from the computer). After I revise, I'll post it here.

days in the life

This is a week of my recent life. 

I promise not to post this sort of stuff again in the near future.

Friday
I've been binge-watching a TV show again. The first 11 episodes of the season were OK but the last 20 minutes of The Killing were almost unbearable. Curiosity led me to follow my investment ... If you're considering doing the same, skip the lat 20 minutes which are silly and boring.

So while that was going on, I neglected self-care and household upkeep. Now it's that time when I try to motivate myself to do all the things I regularly resolve to do ... over and over.

I did some good swimming yesterday (vigorous) and can hope to repeat that today. I don't have pool access tomorrow or Sunday, so I'll need it.  The A/c is on today which mainly produces a feeling of cold clamminess. It's 90 humid degrees outside. Last week we had a respite featuring back to school weather. I guess I'll get to the pool as first priority since thunderstorms are in the forecast and the pool is closed when there's thunder.
Yesterday I bought beef to go with my leftover ratatouille and pasta (the last of several day's worth). But I couldn't finish it. I really don't think I like beef any more. And I may have had my ration of ratatouille for the year.
.... more to follow ...
Sat.
Next day. I didn't do anything as it turns out. I started in on a new tv show. So here we are today with a new stickie

blood sugar 250
internet distraction messed up writing
before lunch b.s. 300 (really need to get metformin today.
still on track but very very slow
I'm pleased that I took out the trash (some moaning and groaning)
I'm pleased that I got out to Greenbranch and got some groceries.
I went to the pharmacy and when I got home I found I still didn't have Metformin. I'll have to call and hope to get it tomorrow.
Then I'll call it a day, much better than yesterday, and watch netflix.

My dream for the future is that I can go up and down the stairs four times a day: Three times for the dog I dream of getting, and once for a trip to the pool.  
............................................
Sunday
No, I don't want to go to church today.  Last week's experience was too unpleasant. I have to say I really admire those who are so faithful. They can see the same problems that I do, but they are so much more tolerant.

And I'm balking about my own list. It's a fine list, but it's a list, which feels so oppressive. I'd rather sit around and compose lists all day, rather than follow them. The list is not very demanding.

The name of the salad is caprese. Pronounced in an Italian way.
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Monday
Off to a staggering start this morning. Got hung up on facebook. Lots of interesting items re: cookie cutter christianity, humor, new friend requests from me for friends of friends, funny stuff, peace, peace, peace ...
I'm procrastinating from a shower.

I'd really like to go back to bed. It's afternoon. Trash has got to go out.... I checked my bank account and paid my credit card bill the minimum. Usually I pay much more than the minimum, but finances this month seem pretty tight. I felt more and more like staying home, partly because I wanted to avoid going out and buying something to eat ... I 'd really like to adhere to my committed food plan today. Every morning I submit my food plan and recently that has been more and more a fleeting fantasy.  My food plan is a tool I have to keep from eating compulsively. Compulsive mean unplanned. My first meal today wasn't until the smoothy after noon. Going out this afternoon would make buying (spending money on) an unplanned sandwich a temptation I want to avoid.

I did take a shower and then took some more Ultram for the pain in my thighs and read an essay by Jonathan Franzen.  It was beautiful and brought tears to my eyes. It was about his father and Alzheimer. A topic I've written myself but without the detail, depth and breadth. It was writing that I could only wish I could do, if I only had many more years to hone the skill, practice the discipline.

I could feel guilty for the trash piled up by my front door and for the undone exercise that would be beneficial if done. But reading the essay by Franzen felt like completely worthwhile activity. Perhaps I'll be inspired to take out the trash later and "core exercises" are still on the sticky.

I tried to listen online to the sermon I missed this weekend. I could not finish. Like the week before, the pastor read aloud from a book for a large portion of the sermon. This is not good. I called up a close friend and, in a sense, we committed we would not flee, but try to find a way to do what we could to help our pastor and our community.
....................................................

 Tuesday 
This is Bowser. By the time I'm ready to adopt a dog, she'll be gone. But I have her picture for inspiration. She's a lovely dog.
Last night, I had an idea for writing but this morning it's evaporated.  All I can remember was that it seemed like a good idea. This morning I'm circling the drain with a lack of purpose.

Add to this printing out articles.

Not a good day. Couldn't come up with anything to write, didn't go swimming, couldn't finish lunch ....

 

 Wednesday Seems like yesterday was a pretty depressed day. And the best thing for depression is exercise ... which I have been avoiding for several days. The weather today is condusive to lifting a mood, sunny and cooler.  As I write this I'm feeling more optimistic. Later... took out the trash, swam, went to Greenbriar farms. brought groceries upstairs ... much improvement over yesterday! But my appetite's still pretty poor. I can't complain about that though. I didn't do any writing today.

   While at the pool I took part in a few conversations.  It seems that we had competing agendas, to "out-sick" each other. One person would describe their health problems (or their pet's or relative's) and people would listen sympathetically until they could hear something that they could hook on to with their own story. Then focus would switch to the new story teller until a new hook was found. Part of the game was to sound realistically sympathetic right up until it was your turn to be telling the sick story. There were plenty of sick stories to offer because nobody at that pool was there to show off their athletic prowess or physical fitness. We were there because we were in physical trouble, preparing for joint replacement, recovery from difficult to diagnose complaints,  burning calories, striving for muscle tone, straightening up, sucking it in ... There was a fine balance between fitting in and being special.

...................

Thursday Reading a good essay by Jonathan Frazen makes my brain feel healthy.

This morning, I compose essays on sciatica and pain. Actually I haven't, but It would probably a good idea. Tho what can one say but owee ow ow?If it were a good essay, who would want to read it? Pain is eomthing that you can't really remember. Then when you're in pain you don't remember it it not bein present. Well, it is connected to the brain.

..........................
Friday
 I bought a taco salad throughthe drive thru yesterday. It was awful. I'm pretty sure taco salads were better 20 some years ago.
I had a lot of pain yesterday and am demanding a lot less of myself today. I took 2 oxycodones this morning and feel much better physically and mentally. I'm not going swimming, mostly because I don't think I would drive safely. I'm enjoying my sunny living room.

The art of being retired.

Here am I at last. I now can do whatever I want, be whoever I choose to be. I retired on April 1.  I immediately set out to get sick in any way I could - diverticulosis, stroke number five, and my back as bad as it's been in years.  So whatever I wanted was sleep, sleep, sleep.  I slept and watched a lot of movies and binge watched a lot of TV - cable shows mostly that I was able to find online after some searching.

But gradually I started to wake up and now I'm working on acquiring the habits I want to have in my retirement.  One is exercise - which I do at Aquacare, a physical therapy heated pool.  It is closed whenever there is lightening which is unfortunate with the weather we've had recently (thank you, CO2). Along with that is writing. I'm using some writing exercise books that I bought a few years ago and am only just now putting to use. After getting those two in my consciouness, I've added a daily period of decluttering (just started, not yet a habit). Exercise had to be a prerequisite because physical pain made writing and decluttering quite difficult.

PS This afternoon I was reading http://www.brainpickings.org ... a great resource on writing ... and it seems that many writers put exercise (including swimming) into their daily routines. Good to know!

Reading a book of poetry

I have just finished reading a book of poetry by someone I was acquainted with. Finished is the wrong word because I'm not done with reading this book. The poet is married to someone I used to know pretty well and the poet knew a number of other people I knew pretty well. Although I can't say I can remember ever having a conversation with him. For the past few years I've been reading his essays on Facebook and on the website of the Public Radio station he works for.

I'm wondering if the North Country of New York State is a peculiar part of the world or if I just burrowed into that part of the world in a peculiar way. Potsdam NY is a college town, but so is the Eastern Shore town where I live now. It seems that the people I knew in Potsdam were brainy and eccentric in a way I don't run into here. But then I wonder if I'm just not looking right. I am pretty convinced that language is different in upstate New York ... I noticed this when I found a childhood upstate NY friend living nearby and the melodies and rhythms of her voice were familiar in a way that was special to me - in great contrast to the alien sounds of the local Maryland voices.

Reading this book of poetry sounds so much like the North Country to me. I can't tell if I'm reading good poetry because the voice is so evocative of a time and place in my experience. I wonder if someone who has not known the same people, who has not experienced the "mud season", or who has not experienced the small chilly waterfalls, streams and rivers can respond in the way I am responding.

I only lived up there for about nine years. I've lived longer than that where I live now. But I don't feel as much at home. Two more variables to consider: my age then and now, and the historical times then and now. I'm not as malleable now, and I'm less able to scramble into different geological and social terrains and landscapes. I was part of the beginning of a food coop there and the birth of a day care center. I don't have a husband and a child with me any more. In my twenties, they created openings I no longer have. Here I'm active in the original CSA, but my involvement is more isolated and I don't feel much connection to the local membership. Up north, I was also entering the world of academics and the world of 12-step recovery (and the world where they intersected). Now, although I'm still sober, I'm not so connected to "the rooms" locally. (See DFWallace for some great descriptions of the old time AA)

Back in the day, hippies were still around. I was among that group and our group hadn't thoroughly alienated others yet. Then computers were just starting to happen. I was eager to be involved with them, but had no inkling how my world would be so different.

Years ago, even before I'd moved to the North Country, I wrote and did not mail a letter to a famous writer. I proposed that I could read his stuff better than anyone else. I still have that feeling, as a gifted reader, from time to time. The volume of poetry I have just read, recalls that feeling for me.

As is so often the case with my bloggishness ... this needs more revision and careful thought.

main character beginnings

A character has poor memory

Things can’t get worse, but they can.

A character’s child is cruel and heartless and grows up to be selfish and hurtful.

A character is unable to relieve another’s sorrow.

A character is oblivious to another person’s pain until it’s too late to help.

A character realizes he has forgotten obligations.

The friend of a character dies, but the character doesn’t know for a long time.

A character is planning to marry someone, but realizes she really doesn’t like him.

A character is planning to marry someone, but realizes her fiancé doesn’t like her.

A character is not recognized for the good she does.

A character is put on a pedestal for the good she does.

A character wants intimacy but doesn’t like to be around people for long.

A character likes being around people, but doesn’t want intimacy.

Being a widow.

Having one’s admiration count for something.

Having one’s opinion affect another’s action to a greater degree than wished.

Not being understood. Speaking an unknown language. Having the wrong set of social cues.

Friends committing suicide.

Worrying about money and feeling guilty about worrying.

Losing friends because you said something about them to someone else.

Being a boring person.

Gretchen

A character has poor memory = Gretchen,

The girl was to come after breakfast. Breakfast was in the kitchen. Gretchen put on the robe that was next to her bed and stepped into her slippers. The orange cat curled itself briefly around her legs and raised her tail. Gretchen scratched its hind side and sent a grateful thought to God. As she went to the bathroom she tried to construct a satisfactory ending to her interrupted dream, but it slipped away leaving only an unresolved sensation. She flicked the light switch but nothing happened. Gretchen told herself to ask the girl to change the burnt out bulb and she left the door open to used the light from the hall. She thanked God for another day of continence and she took the last paper off the roll. She changed it and put the empty roll cardboard into her robe pocket.

Ellen

Things can’t get worse, but they can. - Gretchen

A character’s child is cruel and heartless and grows up to be selfish and hurtful. = Gretchen

A character is unable to relieve another’s sorrow. – Sarah, Gretchen

Being a widow. = Gretchen

Having one’s admiration count for something. = Gretchen

Worrying about money and feeling guilty about worrying. [ Gretchen

Ellen

A character has poor memory = Gretchen, Ellen

Not being understood. Speaking an unknown language. Having the wrong set of social cues. [ Ellen

Larry

A character is oblivious to another person’s pain until it’s too late to help. = Larry

A character realizes he has forgotten obligations. = larry

Sarah

The friend of a character dies, but the character doesn’t know for a long time. = sarah Having one’s opinion affect another’s action to a greater degree than wished. = Sarah

Friends committing suicide. = Sarah

A character is planning to marry someone, but realizes she really doesn’t like him. = Sarah

A character is put on a pedestal for the good she does. = Sarah

Nichel

A character is planning to marry someone, but realizes her fiancé doesn’t like her. = Nichel

A character likes being around people, but doesn’t want intimacy. = Nichel

Losing friends because you said something about them to someone else. [ Nichel

Ed

A character wants intimacy but doesn’t like to be around people for long. = Ed

Being a boring person. [ Ed

…………………….

more radio life

moved for more privacy....

radio life

Second draft of stories

Well, I've gone through the "Stories" stories a second time. Now I'll down load them into a Word file into one long piece and then maybe rearrange sections. I also have to add my own pictures instead of what I find on Google. Then I'll be going through the "hippy dayz" first drafts. Another project I'll be starting is to interview my friend Jim R. on tape and transcribe that. He has had an interesting life. I want to ask him about being a conscientious objector during the Korean War. (nothing like jumping into the middle) His wife suggests I ask him about growing up in the country.

seventy first

Now things get hazy and it's hard to put things in order. Still, this is not history, it is "what it was like" not "what it was". My rambling is not fact-finding. When I have dementia and repeat things, will you say "you said that already"? This is not an essay test. .... moved ....

The Track part 3

I took a day off

I've been holed up writing and little else. Probably mourning Stuart's illness and death. But today was a day to get out, and I did. Back to writing tomorrow morning.

That's it for the first draft

I have some things to add, but they are part of the appendix of things written by other people. I'll include my Cousin Edith's letter describing when the Kennedy's used their rest room after the end of a white water race on the Hudson. And then there are things my Dad put to paper about relatives and about his WWII experience. So I've come to the less pleasant part of writing: looking at the thing as a whole, and working on the second draft. The way I'll work on the second draft will be to revise these blog entries ... so I don't think that will show up on facebook posts.

Meanwhile, I think my writing activities will be divided between this and a first draft of something else. I'm thinking a description of the hippy years. In a way, it's sort of embarrassing, but it also may be of interest. Some people will find it boring compared to what they imagined, but others may react differently.

And what a job it will be to write about! I have to keep my modern judgments out as much as I can. Also want to keep out the bragging "dope story" aspect. I don't know if I can do either.

Today I'm thinking about the old friend who died last winter, and I only just learned about it yesterday. This was an old friend I was happy to let go of, but I also had the thought that I'd see him again some day. I don't have an image of heaven as an old time reunion place, so I don't have that expectation. So I'm mourning him and thinking about what I can write about him. I cared about him a lot and had a lot of important experiences through him, but also didn't like him much. He was an amazing conversationalist and could play chords on the guitar and hold his harmony well. He was uncomfortable around me, probably because he knew what I knew about him and knew I didn't much like things about him. He told me a lot of his shortcomings and withheld some that were so huge, I only speculated about them. (I do the same myself - I'll tell you 80% of who I am so you won't find out about the 20%.) We were very intimate, but touched rarely - rather like Robert E. Howard and schoolteacher Novalyne Price Ellis in the movie the Whole Wide World. No wonder I wasn't in contact with him when he died.

facts of life

It seems that in my family, kids are most cute when they are around three. And cute kids make the best stories.

I am told I have made some serious factual errors in the following story, but I think it's more fun than the "factual" version.*
My grandson who is extraordinarily cute and unusually well behaved has a story told about him during a rare time he misbehaved. He had a lock put on the outside of his door when he was a toddler. He never required spanking or even a verbal dressing down, but when he was in trouble he was told to take a "time out". One day his father brought him into his room for a time out and a little talking to. Suddenly, three year old Seth jumped up, ran out into the hall and locked his father in his room. "Now YOU take a time out!" he told his father. His father had to climb out Seth's bedroom window.

Long before Seth was conceived, I was taking my precocious three-year old brother to his first church service. John was cute, not so well behaved, but very verbal. I was eleven and had prepared him as well as I could for the church experience. As we were sitting there waiting for the service to begin. My brother whispered "Where's God?" I said "You can't see God. God is invisible." Then the organ stopped and the pastor stood up from behind the lecturn. My brother shouted out "I see God!!"

As I've mentioned my brother was precocious. He talked and read at an early age, and had a large vocabulary. When I was seventeen and he was nine, we were watching a movie on television. Tuesday Weld was looking pretty sorrowful in "A Summer Place."
"What's wrong with her?" my brother asked.
"She's pregnant" I answered.
"But she's not married." he argued.
"You don't have to be married."
In my family, the mom told the facts of life to the girls and the dad told the facts of life to the boy. I realized that this was my chance to find out the dad's version.
"Didn't Dad tell you where babies come from?"
(in a tentative voice)"Yes"
We watched TV a few moments more, and then I asked "What did Dad tell you?"
John recited,"A man places sperm in the woman and it fertilizes the egg and then the baby grows in the mother's womb."
A few more minutes passed, and then I asked "How does the man place the sperm in the woman?"
"He didn't say."
Minutes.
"How?" John asked me.
I used the Socratic teaching method at even this young age.
"Well, John. What does a man have that a woman doesn't have?"
He thinks. Then slowly his eyes grow big in astonishment.
"I didn't know they were detachable!!"

My own son learned the facts of life when he was much younger. He was about six and it was the seventies when Free to Be You and Me and Our Bodies Ourselves were popular books. The minute the poor kid asked a question, I was armed with books and photographs. After reading with Gareth the cute picture book Where Did I Come From?**, I proceeded to The First Nine Months of Life, a book that I'd often consulted when I was pregnant. I explained that the photographs of sperm and embryonic babies were enlarged under microscope. I was proud of my son as he listened with interest. Then he beamed and exclaimed."I'm so glad I'm a spermer!!! When I get married I'm going to get a microscope and show my wife my sperm!" Later that week a neighbor told me that she overheard a conversation between Gareth and Andy, her son who was two.
Gareth: And look at these pictures! These are sperm.
Andy: Yeah
Gareth: and you and I are boys and we have SPERM!
Andy: Yeah
Gareth: Aren't you glad that we are spermers?!
Andy: Yeah


* My son points out,"I had put the lock on the outside of the door only for the purpose of time-outs and bed time. Seth was four years old and refused to stay in his room at those times. Never would I lock the door at night in fear of emergency situations such as a house fire or even less drastic instances such as if he felt sick and needed to let us know."

"The books I had read around that time suggested never to leave a child in time out for more then 10 or 15 minutes so I never locked his door for longer than that and always remained close to the door when it was locked so that I could listen out for sounds that would give me concern for his safety. After 10 or 15 minutes he would most often stop crying and that is when I would enter his room and ask him if he understood why he was on time out. On that particular night he just got up and shut the door behind him. At first I told him he had better open the door. I looked around the room and found that I had done too good a job at child proofing it. There was nothing small enough to pick the lock. All I could think about was how his mother would come home and find him roaming around the house with me locked in the room. Jumping out the window would have not worked out since that would only mean I would be locked outside the entire house instead of only in a room. I didn't want to destroy the door either. Finally I realized that the best way to get him to open the door would be to let him know that he would not be in trouble if he opened the door within the next few minutes."


**Here's how a review described Where Did I Come From? at Amazon.com:

....Mayle and Robins are disarmingly natural about the naming of parts ("Now, if you put your mother and your father in the bath together you'd notice something interesting. . ."), probably as detailed as kids' interest allows about fetal development (incidentally, it's a girl), and bolder than any children's book yet about the "tickling feeling" of "making love": "The man pushes his penis up and down inside the woman's vagina, so that both the tickly parts are being rubbed against each other. It's like scratching an itch, but it's a lot nicer". . . and it ends in "a tremendous big lovely shiver" that is a little like a good sneeze. You can't deny Mayle's talent for translating adult experience into child-level concepts, and we found Robins' irreverent cartoonlike illustrations (the pudgy nude figures are anything but erotic) a welcome break from the breathless wonderment that has recently prevailed. .... (Kirkus Reviews)

food stories

Nana and the ice cream

One very warm day, when she was in her eighties and living with us she walked down to the village of Ardsley while we were all gone and purchased a quart of ice cream. She really liked ice cream. She took a taxi back up the hill and when she went to open the door of the the house she found that she had left the key inside. The ice cream was starting to melt. She had no spoon. A walk around the house showed that a small cellar window was open. Without a bit of hesitation, she climbed up, in the window, down on to the washtubs and into the cellar. She really liked ice cream.

Dad and the liver

Dad lived as a choirboy in the Cathedral of St. John the Divine choir school when he was around ten years old. The boys led a pretty formal life. He told us children about how, like me, he didn't like liver as a boy. He would "finish" his liver by putting it in his pocket and throwing it away later. Once, however, he forgot to throw it away and was discovered when the jacket in his closet began to smell.

John and the broccoli

My brother John had thought he'd found a way to dispose of unwanted dinner until a very thorough house cleaner found petrefied broccoli stuffed in the pedestal of the dining room table.

Rick and the animal crackers

During a family gathering at Grandma's, Cousin Rick did not ingratiate himself with the family when he threw his box of animal crackers into Great Aunt Sophie's soup. He's been in disgrace ever since.

Eileen and the cheese

A close family friend came to visit one evening and started to walk around the house with a funny look on her face. "What are you doing, Eileen?" "I think I smell a dead mouse and I'm trying to locate it." "That's not a mouse, Eileen. It's the cheese you gave us for Christmas!"

Dad and the milk

The kids in my family really liked milk, but we could never get as much as we liked. Dad would say "Milk is a food, not a beverage." Sometimes on the lucky days we would have pie, Dad would give us all pie with a glass of milk. We would usually finish the milk before we finished the pie, and Dad would not let us have any more, saying "Milk is a food, not a beverage." With nothing to wash it down, the last forkfull of pie was unpleasant. Meanwhile Dad's milk glass remained full until his own pie was finished. Then he would pick up his glass and drain it, saying "AAAAAAAHHH". Thus we had a lesson in delayed gratification.

At Christmas (more on Christmas later) we would have a big bowl of shrimp to be dipped in shrimp coctail sauce. To be sure that the kids wouldn't be fighting over who got the most shrimp, Dad would count it out. "Everyone may take three shrimp!" and we would. Then "Everyone may take three more shrimp!" and we would. And on and on until the shrimp was gone. Of course we would gobble it as we got it. But when the shrimp was gone, Dad's plate was full of his own share of the shrimp. Thus we had another lesson in delayed gratification. Every year.

I understand that children who are able to delay gratification grow up to be greater successes in life than those who don't. This has been tested by leaving children alone with marshmallows. I don't know how kids develop this skill. Neither my brother, sister nor I have it.

stories on race relations

My sister's memories are quite different than mine, and in some cases more detailed. I guess getting a black eye from a green apple when I wouldn't defend her would create a lasting impression. Perhaps she is getting some satisfaction in reminding me what a villain I am in HER family stories.

Like those in other White Anglo-Saxon Protestant American families, members of my family have travelled a long road when it comes to racial understanding. Each generation has rid itself of a little more prejudice than the last. Some of our family stories reflect the prejudices that continue.

Grandma tells the story of taking young Bob to the movies to see The Ten Commandments. (Dad was two when the 1923 Cecil B. DeMill movie was made.) When the movie was over, they were walking on a busy street. Bob saw a Jewish man with a long and impressive beard. "Look Mother! There's Moses!"



When I was roughly two or three, Dad invited a colleague for dinner. Men usually wore fedoras as daily wear - the way men now wear sports caps. There was a lot of laughter from the guest when I asked, "Mister, why are you the same color as your hat?"





This story my Dad told to show off his mastery of the Irish brogue. He left a memoir of his grandmother in writing, so I will reprint his version here:
William Moulton (Sr. ) liked to be up to date and soon after Model T Fords became available, he purchased one and took the whole family for a ride -- over the Brooklyn bridge and into Manhattan. They were doing fine until they got to Broadway and 42nd st. where a policeman directing the traffic stopped the cars, including the Moulton's headed East on 42nd. The car stalled so Grandfather jumped out and cranked it to get it going and when he got in to go, the policeman had stopped the East bound traffic again. It stalled again and the procedure was repeated. By this time , the traffic was backed up all the way to 8th street. The policeman was angry, Grandmother was mortified and the rest of the family huddled down as far as they could in the meager seats. Finally, the policeman in complete desperation held up all the traffic and walked over to grandfather saying with a real Irish Brogue --- "Ef yer ever get that tin lizzy goin again, take it back to the ferm and keep it there". My grandmother was a proud woman. ( I really would have liked to have seen that.)

Mother learning Spanish

Mom's mother died when she was thirteen. The family lived in the SouthWest in Arizona or New Mexico and Elsie-Beth went to school with several Mexican friends. They gave her lessons on several phrases she might find useful. However, she didn't know they were off-color remarks.
My sister tells me that was around the time the three girls were sent to live with cousins in the northern states.


My family took pride in being in the vanguard of racial tolerance. My grandmother was in a sorority that included Jewish women. My mother's father famously challenged a fellow Baptist over his acceptance of colored people. And my father and his boss were proud to have allowed colored kids into the Tarrytown YMCA. Even though there is plenty of racism in my family and in me, my family has never considered racism as politically correct.

I'll get this out of the way first

If I'm going to talk about my family in a book that is read anyone who comes upon it, it will agitate some of my relatives. They will disagree with things. They will not like my own point of view made public. I'll clear things up right away and stress that this is a book of stories, not facts. Chronology, science and majority opinion may run counter to the things I tell, but I am only passing on stories. As in any history, the true facts may never be known. I have invited others to make comments and add recollections. I may or may not use them. True or not, it depends on whether or not they create better stories.

The stories I wish to tell are those that were told more than once. Such stories take on a rehearsed tone and seem to be simply waiting for a cue. Often the story is more fun to tell than to hear.

My mother told me several times about the time she came upon a surprising scene in the bedroom that my infant sister and I were sharing in New Hartford. I was playing on the floor and my sister was in the crib. My sister had reached out and had pulled out all of my hair. There was hair all over the floor. I had very blonde and very fine hair. It grew in rather slowly and, when I was close to one, my father labeled a sled box I rode in "Cathy Express" so that people would know I was a girl. So my folks were probably concerned that all that hard earned hair was gone. (picture of Cathy express)
This story may have stretched over the years, or I have misremembered it, because 1) I have no pictures of me being bald after two and 2) I was a real crybaby and mother would have heard me yelling. This is an example of a favorite family stories - how true or accurate it is will always be debatable. I also have come to distrust the stories of our family, mine own included. But I will do my best to be faithful in recording the lies I am fond of remembering so that they may be passed down through the family line.
(picture of me combing patty's hair) This is the first family picture of my sister. She wasn't born at this size. Like many second children, her babyhood was taken for granted. That table with a chair in the middle was fabulous and it was used 8 years later by my brother. For a short time, it prevented my sister and I from killing each other. But I digress.

Another favorite story of my mother's was when she asked a neighborhood child "Where did you put your turtle?" and the child said "I gave it to Patty". That got my mother busy looking for Patty. She knew that Patty put everything in her mouth. When she found Patty, sure enough, the little tiny turtle legs were sticking out of her mouth.

While Patty was still under four, Mom took her to the Child Guidance Clinic, where they explored why she did things like kick Sunday school teachers, bite other children, and eat turtles.
After a few initial sessions of Mom telling them that her sister Cathy would never do such things, they decided that Cathy was the child they were supposed to be seeing. So they took me to the Child Guidance Clinic. I can remember play therapy where I built bridges with blocks and played with toy people. I've been told that they were anatomically correct people, but I have no memory of that. My father often said, with sadness, that in the good old days before I was five, I was "so well behaved". I guess they cured me. I guess that is more a story about me than about Patty.

Patty tells a story about her difficulties learning to read. She had a great deal of difficulty in primary school.* She says that in grade 3 she could understand whole paragraphs, but her decoding skills were non-existent. Evidently she was a context clues kind of kid, on whom phonics were useless. She says that something "popped" in her head and suddenly she could read. She still loves to read, but her spelling is a source of great amusement for others.

When I was eight and my brother was born, Patty and I once again shared a bedroom. Patty was considered a messier housekeeper than me. My toys lasted years, hers lasted moments. One night I dreamed that we had worked hard with our parents to clean our bedroom. By the end of the dream, the room was neat as a pin. Then I woke up. There was the room in its usual messy state. I tend to get my dreams mixed up with reality, so I could only assume that Patty had gotten up and messed the room up again and gone back to sleep. So I went over to her bed and started beating her up before she had woken up. Patty had a hard childhood and I don't think getting beat up before breakfast was any help.

Patty would have had a different, easier life if it weren't for her sister getting others to gang up on her every chance she got. Once I overheard her telling a bully in the park "I'm going to get my sister and she'll beat you up." and I stepped out from behind a corner and said "I will not". My sister says she got her only black eye from that kid. The nastiest thing I did was when we moved to a new place, I would tell the new kids all the bad nicknames ("witchie", "cooties") she had from where we lived before.

One thing my parents will deny was that they used the expression "son of a bitch" and other words often enough for it to become part of our regular vocabulary. One year, our rural school got a first year teacher who taught grades 6, 7, and 8 and who served as principal as well. At first he was really easy going. He had read Summerhill. He listened to Joan Baez. He drove a VW beetle. He was great friends with our parents. He took my mother and I to see Andre Segovia. But as the year went on he got much more rigid with his students.** One day he announced that students using foul language would have their mouths washed out with soap .. liquid green soap. The first student caught cussing was my sister, who said "damn" having no idea that it was bad language. Mr. Montgomery was quite distressed at having to punish the child of his friends and, to provide an out, asked her to spell "dam" in hopes that she'd provide the homonym. That might have worked but "somebody" called out "Oh Mr. Montgomery. You know Patty can't spell anything." Later, my parents said "we never use that sort of language". Well, they didn't after that.


* Unlike her sister who brought home so many A's that she was thrilled when she got a C in handwriting - hoping in vain that her parents might fuss as they did over Patty. Instead I was greatly disappointed when Dad said "I, too, had bad handwriting when I was your age."

** Once he caught me slapping a student and I had to write "I will not create a disturbance without asking the teacher's permission." 5000 times. That's when I learned that if a teacher is going to make students write sentences they should at least contain something worth remembering. Like: "A fraction is in its simplest form when the greatest common factor of the numerator and the denominator is one."

A start

family stories

So many of grandma's stories are forgotten. I can hear her telling them in her upper class New England moviestar accent and playing sorrowful notes with her voice. She used lost words like "cunning" and "stout" and "gay"

I'm a story teller myself. I know this because my friends have been trained to hold up two fingers to tell me I've told the story before. Or maybe to indicate "peace".

patty pulling out hair
eating turtle
kicking the Sunday School teacher
biting people
therapist
learning to read
waking up and hitting her
getting mouth washed with green soap

race understanding
there's Moses
Mister, why are you the same color as your hat?
the irish cop
mother learning dirty words from Mexican kids

food
Nana and the ice cream
Dad and the liver
John and the broccoli
Rick and the animal crackers
Eileen and the cheese (dead mouse)
"milk is a food, not a beverage"
milk with pie

Dad's expressions
pasta fazool
"no pie for you!"
We're off! Like a dirty shirt
Sad Sack, Sunshine

food traditions
shaking the corn cob
I'll have the BAKED macarOni with the RICH CHEDdar CHEESE!
spaghetti at christmas, sourkraut and turnips at thanksgiving

dirty jokes
rust- mom
I'd swear I had two when I came in

Stories I have told
John and God
John and the facts of life
Gareth and the facts of life
Finding Anne franke on the internet
Singing with dad's dementia

Dope stories
It's all in time to the music

Will Brady stories
What will they do now? Farm
looking at geology
"my faith in you is restored"

Don't disturb the Rostheizers
The family whistle

Elmer and the stone
Elmer and the porch
Elmer and bullheads,bacon and bisquick, vargas girls

Mom's cooking
pioneer stew
macaroni and cheese
baked beans
meat loaf and turkey stuffing
tomato aspic
Grandma
shepherd's pie
stewed tomatoes with bread

books on the table top
the family of man
pay the two dollars
cartoon book about having a baby

Records
Sing along with Mitch Miller
Tom Lehrer
Stan Freberg The United States of America
West Side Story
Frank Warner

Christmas
creche at christmas - looked like stained glass window images
night before Christmas
sugar plum tree
tangerines, hard candy, olive can in the stockings
Child's Christmas in Wales
dad counting the shrimp

sad stories from mom
how her mother died
how mom learned to swim
living in a tent and having squirrel for christmas
being reprimanded in school for chewing dentine, wearing a horned toad as jewelry

sad story from dad
the little indian boy in Little Falls

Marian and the eyeball
marian at the airport
Dad in Annapolis
Cathy in Virginia
Seth in New York

appendix .
stories dictated or written by Dad
When the Kennedy's came to Raparius told by cousin Edith

Songs
When Apples Grow on a Lilac Tree
Desperado
Good morning Merry Sunshine
Broadway's a Tame Street
A Man Without a Woman
Love's Old Sweet Song

First assignment for the writing workshop

I'll be editing this over time.

My writing history.
I’m old and my history is long. Here goes.

When I was in middle school, I read the novel “Desirée”. It was written in diary form. I started right then and there to keep a journal … mostly for the benefit of the future historians who would be writing about me. (About thirty years later I threw away all of my journals because I didn’t want future historians to know that I was a blithering idiot who obsessed about the same issues over and over and over.)

I learned that my 10th grade English teacher was a sucker for descriptions like the clank of the door of a pot-belly stove or the dripping of a blackberry on the branch. I thought I was manipulating her by writing vivid descriptions. In fact, she was teaching me.

In the eleventh grade I wrote to amuse friends. There were comic books featuring “The Purple Martin” who was unable to punch his way out of a paper bag but was a super hero otherwise. And a parody of Leslie Gore’s song “Downtown” called “Oatmeal” which made no sense but was a hoot to sing.

I was in the twelfth grade when Simon and Garfunkle became big. I wrote poetry and anguished lyrics. During that same year, my Dad was in grad school and from him I learned the trick of writing term papers. Use topic sentences and always include three details for each thought.

During my “hippy” years, I really thought that I would live a wild life like Neal Cassidy and write about it like Jack Kerouac. And then I could make a lot of money and buy land and live out my years on a commune. A few years after I cumulated a collection of wild adventure stories, I was too embarrassed to describe my risky behavior and would rather my children and grandchildren not know how irresponsible I was. Perhaps the adventures were more entertaining in the doing than the telling.

I did continue writing poetry and had a nice little typewritten collection. I was flattered when my husband showed them around college and his English professor read one to a class to analyze. Unfortunately my husband gave my little book to someone and didn’t try to get it back after we divorced. Unlike some poets, I do not have those poems memorized. But like most lost manuscripts, I’m sure it contained my best work.

I have always been a storyteller, and as I get older, I’m aware that I can be almost obnoxious coming up with stories during conversations. My friends are always encouraging me to write. I suspect that they might be suggesting that I stop yakking and go put it in a book.

Years ago, a coworker encouraged me to write pornography. Before I go on, I must describe my friend as the most wholesome and virtuous women I know; as a professional, she has become the director of a major museum. And I must point out that this was when I was younger and more interested in pornographic issues. No I never published the porn, but it was an important experience in my life because it was not writing to specifications, as most of my subsequent writing has been. In this kind of writing I had the transcendent experience of seeing how developing characters would start to write themselves and story details would seem to come up out of thin air.

I went back to college in my late twenties and majored in history. We had to do a lot of writing as history majors, and I’m proud of the papers that I did. I focused on intellectual history, so I was exposed to very good writing in my studies. My teachers had very high standards and I did not earn A’s easily. Or often.

Away from school and apart from teaching, which is my primary vocation, I have actually been paid to write. But it has been creative writing within strict specifications. (37 characters wide, 6th grade reading level, about the moon, containing the words entertain, habitat, Manitoba and ....) A lot of it has been in a lesson plan format. A great many sentences begin with the words “Have the students….” (measure, stir, shake, write....) .

Under a National Science Foundation grant, I have written a series of babysitter guides complete with read-aloud stories for girls to use to teach young children science. Actually the idea is that the babysitter learns more than the sittee as she is teaching. All this hard work is sitting in a file cabinet somewhere in the Smithsonian vaults next to Indiana Jones’s Ark.

Another NSF grant covered the writing of teacher manuals to accompany the Maryland Science Center’s Beyond Numbers math exhibit. I also wrote scripts for demonstrators on the stage and on the museum floor. These were published and distributed during the life the of the exhibit and I was able to save the work on my website. We had at least 26 people proofread the first edition, but after publication, errors jumped off the page at us! There was no money to create second editions, so I’ve been revising my website editions. It makes me feel better.

I also wrote two units for the Baltimore City STARS Science Curriculum. I’m very proud of these, which were written during the MSPAP era when Baltimore’s inner city students probably had their best chance at getting any hands-on science education.

I also wrote a few booklets for Cooperative Extension in connection with a project called Adventure in Science. I wrote a nice summer curriculum on Science Careers, and a booklet for family outings related to science.

Back when I started writing, it was exciting to see anything I had written in print – letters to editor, short memoirs for a local magazine, reports on local folklife skills. Now, thanks to computers, it may be less of a big deal. Even little kids know what a “font” is. But it’s still a thrill to say that I have my name on several commercial publications as an editor for workbooks on MultiLinks, an internationally known math manipulative.

In all of this writing experienced, I must say that the actual writing process has been torture. Sitting down and writing for these projects almost physically hurt. I would be in some sort of “zone” as I worked, and it wasn’t a nice place to be. I even worked in my sleep; sometimes my biggest problems were solved in my sleep. I would tell friends “Remind me of how much I hate this before I take on another project.” But I never turned down a project.

Then I left the formal/informal education world for a few years. My only connection was in substitute teaching and in that, it is possible to be oblivious to what’s going on. But I started volunteer teaching ESL and have been trying to write a seasonal curriculum for volunteers to use and follow in our church building situation. It’s hard to do because technology is going through rapid change in the ESL world. Even though our evening classes won’t have internet access, we can store MP3’s and movies to use with a computer connected to a big screen TV. There is so much to choose from. Teaching ESL has also made me hyper aware of my native English language. Boy is it hard!

Recently another friend offered to coach me in writing, by sending me assignments. His enthusiasm has died down a bit, but I hope to pick up the momentum by participating in this course. I started with the statement “I like the Goth kids” and I’ve become more and more interested in the Middle School experience for students and faculty alike. My job as an office assistant, which I intend to keep for another year, gets me around the building and I see so much! Apart from vice-principals, I don’t know if anyone gets the variety of perspectives that I have.

For my resume and the Beyond Numbers activities, see my website at Cathysfiddle.com