Category: An Ongoing Journal…

Various and sundry writings. This is the page where the most recent posts appear as well.

Floating

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Last night without my son. Taking advantage of an unstructured day. Although I’ve not made it out of my pajamas, I’ve been out. Communed a bit with the birds. Held my goose. Checked in with nature. Mostly worked on organizing my writing, both personal and professional. Getting a method book together. Students have always enjoyed my class, and I’m fired up by the idea of communicating how music works to those for whom it seems intimidating. But seriously, does the world really need another fucking method book? Seriously? Probably not. I begin to lose my fire as I sit here, hours into the project. Sometimes it’s hard to keep my enthusiasm and convictions when I live in such isolation. So I take breaks, wandering in and out of websites, Facebook, You Tube… Looking for what I don’t now. Maybe I’m searching for hope, for inspiration, for relief.

I see old friends and musicians I’ve worked with who are still doing what they love. I envy that. I suppose if my son were here there would be less time to dwell on it. But I’m alone, at my computer, staring out into the big, big world and seeing that lots and lots is still going on out there, but it’s all going on without me! I console myself by remembering the hundreds of wonderful projects I’ve been a part of, all the great friends I’ve made through the years, all the places I’ve traveled – reminding myself that I’ve been a pretty lucky girl. But still…

Guess tonight I’m also having a hard time with getting older. I’d like to think I was better than that. I’ve worked hard these past couple of years to identify the grip of ego and become aware of the wasteful way in which it uses my energy. I’ve spent hours in thought, in meditation, in reflection. But I’m still trapped; I’m not good with knowing my hair is thinner and my waist is thicker. I should know better, yet I keep worrying the wound. I search out ancient videos of beautiful young artists and then zip off into the web to see what they look like today. I see the changes, I marvel at the transformations. I fear the changes in spite of myself. Life seems so fleeting tonight. I should be more graceful about this, really. I should show some class and just stop this nonsense. But I continue to wander, tetherless, visiting the vibrant world out there and observing the passage of time in faces I know, something mournful and unnamed relentlessly tugging at me…

I don’t have regrets. I’ve lived the shit out of my life so far. And I haven’t stopped learning by any means. It’s just different. Apples and oranges. Can’t compare the old life to the current one. Yet I seem to be doing just that…

I gotta shake it off. I may not be creating music these days, but I’m creating. Tonight I’ll just have to take my peace in that. And my son. And my birds. And that gorgeously sublime moment when it all disappears as I fall asleep, absolutely unable to do any more work.

Sometimes it feels so good to float away.

A Good Tired

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My arms and shoulders are tired, in fact my whole body is tired, but I’m feelin good. It’s Elihu’s first day away – first of five – and I’ve knocked the garage and the coop off my list. After discovering some ‘loose poop’ recently and learning it might mean worms, I’d intended to clean the coop and all the food and water containers of the potentially infected stuff on my first free day. I also had a bunch of other outdoor jobs to do while the kid was gone and the weather was good. It took a while to get my butt going this morning – I found all manner of tiny jobs around the house to stall – but after an hour I was taking it on full steam.

Among my many, mini projects today I finally ‘wired’ the coop for heat lamps. That just means I untangled the mess of outdoor extension cords and finally got them properly tucked out of harm’s way and arranged so that I can plug in the heat lamps with ease. I’ll need a couple of 3 way extension cords too, as I’ll need to plug in the crock pot (keeps the drinking water from freezing) and may have to give Max, our goose, his own heat lamp, as he sleeps on the ground by himself.

I spent some time cutting various pieces of lumber and adding them onto my homemade nesting boxes. The gals really do like privacy when laying, and if you don’t give it to em they’ll just take their business outside. I once found a good 30+ eggs in a huge mound inside the mower’s leaf receptacle. I’ve found a stash of eggs behind the wood pile and even dozens laid under the coop itself. The gals won’t do this if you give them the proper feeling of security in which to lay. In that production has been way, way down of late, I thought it time I set out to fix the place up proper. (I would like to add that I’ve kept them penned in to remedy this, but they got me back. They just boycotted and stopped laying altogether. So today, since it’s nice out, I had pity and let them roam, praying they’ll reward me with eggs laid where they’re ‘supposed’ to be laid.) I peered inside the little rooms, checking for breaches where the light got in. I patched them all up and even inserted some pieces of black card stock left over from Elihu’s Anchiornis costume just to add more privacy. Cozy. Then I replaced the old bedding with a fresh layer of wood chips adding new hay on top. Super cozy. Within minutes of having finished my work in the coop the gals were returning to check on my work. Four eggs in short order. Success!

Now to the garage. I still don’t understand how a building in which one does not live can become such a mess. What further confounds me is that I’ve undertaken several intense clean-outs of the garage in the three years I’ve lived here – yet the place still needs tending. The first time was really cleaning up after the many tenants before me, yet the subsequent few projects were all about my crap. Seriously, where does it all come from? I consider myself a rather simple woman. Yet there’s just all this stuff. So once again, I begin to wrestle it all under control again, telling myself that this time it’ll be easy to maintain. This is the last time I’ll have to do this…

Thankfully I’m supported by a constant companion throughout my day: our goose Max. He stays ever near, turning his head to the side and fixing me in the gaze of one eye when I lean down to say hello. He watches me as I work, occasionally nibbling at my boots when he needs a moment of attention. I crouch down, put my arms around him and simply relish the love of a goose. He tucks his head under my arm. We sit like this, unmoving, for several minutes. Then, when we are ready, we separate and go back to our activities. I am humbled; I never imagined I would be invited into the trust of a bird like this. Despite the tedium of my chores, Max keeps me working with a soft kind of happiness in my heart.

In the past, before we had our new swanky coop, the chickens would take any opportunity to sneak into the garage. If I had my back turned and the garage door was open, they would escape from the run and fly into the rafters of the garage, thereby ensuring a night of luxury accommodations. The morning after my tools and work space would be covered in droppings. Although they didn’t do this too often, and I did try to keep up with the mess, the amount of dried crap just kinda piled up. This summer, while I managed to establish a pretty good system for putting things away, I never seemed to have the time or energy to face the project of de-pooping my work space head on. Today I did. I turned my ancient boom box to the local NPR station and got to work.

I soon remembered why this project had been so easy to avoid. Several glass jars of nails and screws had been accidentally knocked to the floor and broken by the errant chickens and the floor had become a nasty mess. I’d swept it to the side many times, but today I would get down to it. It took a while, but finally I got it all sorted out, down to the last and tiniest screw. I liberated tools from twine, pulleys from bungie cords – I got everything wrested from its neighbor, identified and returned to its proper place. I gathered every last scrap of wood together in a box. I put the good lumber in one place, all the rakes and shovels were leaned against the wall in a row, the tomato cages were hung back on the walls. I stepped back after several hours’ work and was very, very pleased.

I’ve since had a shower and a chance to enjoy some down time. A little blog posting, a little crap TV and I’m feeling pretty good. I look out, checking on the sky. It sure does get dark out fast now. Gotta go close everyone in before the predators beat me to it. Wow. It seems getting out of my chair will take some doin. I just realized how pooped I am. I don’t always sleep too well these days – but I bet I will tonight. Cuz I am tired.

You know, that good kind of tired.

Missing

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Tonight I am unable to sleep. I have a vague, sick tummy. Was it the acidic, vinegar-based Greek chicken that was supper? Or is it the stormy mess of to-do lists and impending life issues – a severe lack of money being foremost in my mind – that has me feeling so unwell? Another question floats to the surface as I take a moment’s fresh air this moonlit midnight to sort it all out… just what the hell is it that I am supposed to be doing here on this planet?

I am a mother, and I know that I am a good one, a creative one. I know that I’m helping to build the complex and inspiring world of a very unusual and special child who will one day be a remarkable adult. I know that for now that is mainly what I’m here to do. Yet that doesn’t satisfy the question for me. Tonight I am remembering music, and how it once occupied my life.

Melodies and harmonies, lines and parts, lyrics and tempos swirled about my consciousness and kept me aloft, satisfied and forward-looking for all of my baby-less adult life. I derived such pleasure creating and performing music. A kind of pleasure and satisfaction that is absent in my current life. While I’m able to lift my spirits with little windows of time spent at the piano here and there, coaxing my fingers and brain to revive favorite pieces, that just doesn’t scratch the itch. I miss the collaboration, the kind of creating that occurs only when that certain mix of talents and personalities is present. The unique dynamic of a particular group of musicians. Truthfully, I’m feeling alone. Tonight I miss the family of a band. I miss my old life.

I see many of my friends still on that path – some even have children. I wonder, with a slightly jealous heart, how on earth are they able to do that? I wonder if a partner makes it possible. Must be. How can one make dinner, do the laundry, check homework and then run off to rehearsal without some assistance? Much less find time to write, to arrange – to perform? And I grumble to myself that it’s not fair. Even if I physically lived among musicians, how as a single mom, would I find the time, the energy? Then I scold myself; all my post husband-leaving, inward-looking self-study has taught me to know better than to indulge in fruitless self pity. But there it is. I am without any musical peers or partners, and tonight I am mourning it.

A couple of years ago, having made it through my first year of isolation and the setup of a new household and basic routine, I set out to find someone with whom I could at least do a couple of singing gigs. After some calls and searching, I finally met a jazz guitarist in the area. Immediately, it felt we were old friends. He, like me, knew songs. And their verses. He, like me (although he did it years longer and much more hard-core than I) had hosted his own radio program. He had a great sense of humor (most musicians do – you kinda have to) and we just grooved. I learned later, that he had that sort of relationship with nearly everyone in his life. I would have expected that. He was easy to like, and this new friendship promised to be lifelong.

He called me one day asking if I could do a gig the following weekend. I drove to his house and we began to talk tunes. In my former life as a singer, I’d made a point of doing mostly lesser-known tunes; the standards were kinda done to death and there were hundreds of charming and beautiful songs that deserved an audience. Not all musicians know them. Sam did. And he knew all the lyrics. He knew nearly all of my book – several hundred tunes, most of which were a bit off the beaten path. My heart was light with the possibility of our future that bright December morning – I had found my new duo partner. I was back at home. Voice and guitar, Ella and Joe. I had one less reason to miss my husband.

We had one gig. A nice little job, complete with really good food and a few laughs. Our thing was effortless. That comes when working with a pro. I don’t think I realized til then how lucky I’d been to have cut my teeth in Chicago, with its world-class jazz professionals. Thankfully, that didn’t really matter once I’d met Sam. Fast-forward to a fine summer evening when Elihu and I walked the warm Saratoga streets, the night when we passed the club Sam and I had played – the club he himself was playing in that very night. The night I uncharacteristically opted not to check inside to see who was playing and so walked right by. The night Elihu and I went instead to the Adelphi Hotel, and I alone, as if receiving some heavenly warning of things to come, inexplicably smelled the scent of hyacinth in the empty upstairs library.

I scold myself soundly for indulging in my own private perspective on that night, for it was not so much my life that changed, but the lives of Sam’s own family. Sam had Leukemia, and had experienced a bad nosebleed on the gig that night after a recent blood transfusion. Feeling weak and ill, he’d been taken by ambulance from the club to Albany med. That night also happened to be his 16th wedding anniversary. His wife was with him at the hospital several hours later when he died.

The news was stunning. Many have lost dear friends and family and know the horror of learning news like that. It’s just such an impossible thing to comprehend. It’s so permanent and unforgiving. It knocked me off my feet for months. It’s been over a year now, and I still push his death to the back of my mind, thinking that somehow Sam will call some day and we’ll play together again. I cannot even fathom how life has been for his wife and two children since then. I pray for them and send them my love whenever Sam crosses my mind.

Tonight it all washes together in a queer mix of regret, gratitude and ‘what’s next?’ There’s little I can do about it for now, because tomorrow I must hit the ground running. I’m soon to settle for poverty-level support from my near-ex, bringing our three year divorce process to a close and so must check in with my attorney. I wrote a check on Friday with no money in the bank to cover it and that worries me; I have a check from my weekend student which I must deposit first thing in the morning, but they’ll hold it for three days – in the meantime will I get an overdraft fee? I’m out of milk again and I need to find enough change around the house to buy some. I need heating oil and a piano tuning too, but spare change won’t cover those. When, oh when, will life feel lighter, happier, more hopeful? When will the music return to my life? I miss it so.

I hope it’s still there, just waiting for me to come home one day.

Halloween Recap in Pictures

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Elihu and his Red Golden Pheasant, Timothy
Anchiornis smooches a Rabbit.
Anchiornis rides a Pony
Proud Mommy's Newest Creation: The Roosting Bars
Ah, Max.
Maximus naps on Elihu's lap
Maximus love peas.
Hal shows Elihu his African drum
Elihu and friend Carter in the snow
Jessie Bruchac and Elihu
Elihu at Ndakinna Nature Center
Trick or Treating in Saratoga Springs
Aaah!
Enjoying the Bounty

99 + 1

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What a perfect prologue to the thoughts on my mind this cold fall morning. I have made 99 posts in my growing blog to date, and this is the 100th. A personal milestone for me today, a symbolic equation for many these days.

As I watch folks around the country take their protests of the disproportionately rich 1% to the streets, bravely weathering the elements, my awareness and concern for the truth of their message begins to sink in. I feel the chill of my own reality as I dash for the bathroom in the middle of the night, the cold of my under-heated house reaching me as soon as I leave the covers and remaining with me long after I’m safely tucked back in. (My not-yet-ex remarked on his last visit that the temperature here in the house was ‘sort of like camping’. Great.) I cannot afford to heat my house, and that’s not right. I am out of milk and will need to find spare change to buy some, and that’s not right. Yes, I do have a house, and internet too, but I am hard-pressed to maintain these, let alone begin to figure out a way to buy Christmas presents for my 8 year old son. I can’t say this is directly related to all that’s gone on in the financial and banking  worlds, yet somehow it is linked. The distribution of the world’s wealth is simply wrong.

That debt can be forgiven of a huge, impersonal entity yet it can be held over the head of a suddenly-single mother who cannot feed her child is immoral. It is wrong that while some fret over which $500 handbag to wear, small children on the same planet fret over going another day with nothing to eat. I believe that one who has wealth should enjoy it, and perhaps even boast a closet full of $500 handbags, yet at the same time I believe everyone here should be eating and heating their house, secure in the knowledge that the rest of their human family has their back.

I’m lucky, for the US government has had my back to a degree; in the wake of my husband’s financial desertion I have been able to feed my son and myself as well as keep my pipes from freezing. If it weren’t for welfare, I know my situation would be dire. The credit card debt I carry from our marriage hangs over me still. The purchases were made for our business (mistake, I know), our home, for medicines and doctor visits for our child. And since it was my name alone on the dotted line it is me alone who is responsible for paying it back. Never mind that my husband has historically made 10x the income I’ve ever made, never mind that now I must buy food and basics on a wage far under the national poverty line – that debt will not be forgiven. Not unless I locate another grand I don’t have to hire someone to file bankruptcy. (Bless my mother, she’s the one who’s bankrolled my bankruptcy.) Inequity reigns supreme.

Last night, as we drove home from a session with Elihu’s mobility coach at the local mall, the topic of this 99/1 inequity began rather naturally. I had just bought us dinner at the Famous Cajun Grill – a shared plate which set me back a modest but meaningful $7. I expressed my concern that since I’d had to buy some gas today which I hadn’t planned on, I didn’t have currently have that much in my checking account; I ran the risk of incurring a $35 overdraft fee, which worried me.  (Plus we’d attended his school’s book fair that day, and while I pleaded with him to remember our beloved library, he in turn pleaded for books which he’d had on his list all month in anticipation of the fair. Bird books, of course. How could I deny him these? Perhaps I should have, but I didn’t. The book fair is also something of a social event and as his peers were buying books with no constraints I just couldn’t say no. I ended up writing a check for a purchase that I didn’t currently have the money for. As many of us do, I wrote the check knowing it wouldn’t be cashed for a few days – and that by Monday I’d have another small deposit from teaching that would cover it.) Remembering the bag of coins I’d gathered earlier that day I told him not to worry – I’d pay a visit to the Coinstar machine first thing tomorrow and we’d get enough from that to tide us over for now.  This is a frustrating situation to be in. Very disheartening to say the least.

A few minutes passed silently as we drove through the night. “It’s not fair” Elihu said from the backseat. “It’s not fair that we have so little money. It makes me mad.” I paused, considering how to explain the situation without it becoming a lecture. “No, it isn’t.” I agreed. “That’s kinda what this whole ‘occupy’ thing is about. You’re right. For now we have to deal with it, but I really think it won’t always be like this. For us – or the other, really poor people. It can’t stay like this because people are getting mad, just like you are. Sometimes it takes a serious situation to get things to change. Sometimes things don’t change until someone gets mad”. Elihu needed more information.”Are all the regular people getting poorer?” he asked. I thought for a minute, then I answered him.

I explained that there have usually been three main types of people in our country: poor, middle class and rich. We’re kinda in the middle class, I explained; we don’t worry about going hungry, we can drive a car, use the internet and do some fun extra things too. But the truly poor people don’t have those things. They really do worry about eating. They can’t go to the Famous Cajun Grill for supper like we can. And the rich, they don’t have to worry about anything. They can enjoy the things that their money gets for them. And good for them – we’d want to live like that too if we could, right? I go on to explain that the new, big problem is that it’s getting harder to be in the middle. “Like us, for example. We’d be considered ‘middle class’ –  yet really and truly sweetie, we’re not.” I let a moment pass. “We have a lot of the things that middle class people usually have – good education, a car, beautiful things in our home, the ability to travel sometimes – yet we almost never have more than a couple hundred dollars in the bank and I can’t afford to buy heating oil for the house. I guess you could say that we act like middle class people, but we live like poor people. We’re kinda both.” Elihu began to list his friends, and then families we knew who lived in large houses and regularly went on vacations and skiing trips. He wanted to know if they were middle class too. I could feel him measuring himself against the world in which he lived, trying to figure out how he fit in. “I guess you’d call them upper middle class, honey.” He’s a smart enough boy to know that his life is not terribly lacking – of that I’ve made sure – so I hoped this new information wouldn’t dampen his spirits too much. A few minutes pass in the dark. “It’s ok, Mommy, we have a good life”. I smile. ‘Attaboy’, I think to myself, then I add “I think so too”.

The conversation then turned to how we might improve our situation. I told him that most folks would tell me to get a ‘real ‘ job. (The judge in our divorce case cites this point too.) However, if I did get a ‘regular’ job as folks would suggest, it would be a babysitter who met him at the bus after school, got him his supper and put him to bed. It would be a babysitter who’d pass the weekend afternoons with him instead of me. I explained that any of the jobs I might get – at Walmart, Target, Kohl’s – they’d all require me to work nights and weekends. And while that wouldn’t necessarily mean all nights and weekends, it would mean many of them. And if I can’t be here, someone else needs to be. “Now”, I go on, digging to the bottom line, “if I take home $9 an hour, and I pay a sitter $7 an hour, how much money do I really end up making?” “Two dollars.” “Yes. So now let’s say I work for 6 hours at $2 an hour, then how much would I make?” I wait for his answer, wondering if he’s hanging with me on the math…”You’d make $12.” “Yes, right. Now I need to take out $4 for the gas to and from the mall… How much do I end up making for my day of work?” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Eight dollars. Mommy, you’d just make $8 for a day of work?” he asks, really wondering where the benefit is. “Yes, sweetie. That’s my point. I could take a ‘real’ job, I could work – but that would mean someone else would be with you most of the time. I’d just be there to get you up in the morning. That would basically be our time together. All so I could make $2 an hour. How does that sound to you?” He tells me it doesn’t sound so good. “So you can see that I make more money teaching piano lessons than I could with a ‘real’ job. Plus you can be here, at home, with me. For now, it’s the best I can do. When you’re older and you can be home alone, then I’ll be able to take a job of some kind. But for now, this is how it is.” I don’t want to sound ominous, so I try to lighten the message. “I feel, sweetie, that the quality of our life is the most important thing. You won’t be a little kid for much longer; I think it’s really important that we’re together as much as we can be.” Again, I let a moment pass before I ask him how he feels. “Yes!” he shouts, “you should teach piano!” Then he becomes quiet, thoughtful. “Mommy, I want you here. I want to do things with you.” So at least he now knows the deal. I’m doing the best I can in our situation.

For us it’s one percent about money, ninety-nine percent about living. I just wish living didn’t cost so much money.

The Junk Drawer

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I bet every house has one. One in the kitchen for sure, the office probably. About twice a year it becomes such a tangled mess that I can put it off no longer. It takes me an hour or two to sort the screws, hooks, nails, paperclips, twist ties, pebbles, mouse-eaten sticks of gum and the rest of life’s detritus. I summon my organizational skills putting ‘like with like’ and ‘reducing redundancy’ as best I can, using these clever little phrases which I coined in my brief stint as a personal organizer years ago – way before it was hip.  I once offered organizational help under the moniker of ‘Assess a Mess’.  However enthusiastic I may be about assessing the messes of others, I would like to make it clear that it is much easier to do so for others than for oneself. But to clean up one’s own mess is far more fulfilling.

In the past, my not-yet-ex had said that I used housework as a means to put off  ‘real’ work.  I would agree. Sometimes I did. But I am one of those for whom ‘real work’ cannot successfully commence until my home is in relative order. My not-yet-ex thought it was a serious handicap, and as a result I used to feel quite guilty about it; I began to suspect it was my problem alone. Thankfully, what with all the connectedness we enjoy today, plus the glut of blogs about just plain living, I have come to learn I am definitely not alone. And so today I set about putting my house in order, backed by a clean and healthy conscience.

Establishing order today meant taking down the Halloween decorations and readying them for the trip downstairs. It meant cleaning the crud at the base of the toilet, darning my socks, vacuuming and dusting the house, bagging up several weeks of recycling, getting every last goddam sock paired and put away, washing the sheets on my kid’s bed and finally… sorting through the kitchen junk drawer.

Three hours later I am satisfied and cleansed. In some way I have declared, through my actions and their tangible results, that I can create a positive affect in my world. By taming those random, insidious objects that find their way into my ordered world I take back some control over my small universe. So there!

Now it’s off to my desk, to my ‘real work’.  If only those results were as tangible as the satisfyingly clean lines of my junk drawer…

Halloweens Past

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One of the many, trivial things that comes to mind as I lay in bed at night, unable to sleep, is the list of Halloweens Past. I fear that soon I will lose track. I go over them, checking my chronology, making yet another mental note to myself to write them down, lest they be gone forever. As I will never be a scrapbooking mom, nor am I great about actually sending and/or printing out photos, this is the single repository for my memories. Here they are…

Elihu’s 1st Halloween, 2003, 6 months.

Elihu’s very fist costume was that of Dom DeLuise as chef. Inspired by the big cheeks he inherited from his father, I donned the infant in a Chef’s costume, complete with black and white checkered pants, double-breasted white smock, painted-on beard and moustache, and wooden spoon. As I pushed his stroller down Main Street in Evanston we passed a Dachshund in a hotdog costume. I will never forgive myself for not stopping to get a picture of the two of them together. Some things live only in memory…

Elihu’s 2nd Halloween, 2004, at a year and a half.

I dressed him as a spider, in one of those pre-made costumes. I felt I was able to redeem it from its potentially average standing by the addition of my own costume which was that of ‘Little Miss Muffet’. I had a dress made years back for a medieval-themed Christmas party which featured a full skirt and tight, corseted bodice – just perfect for this fairy tail character. Elihu and I traveled to New York in order to visit my folks and go to a Halloween party that my family traditionally attended. I panicked when I realized I’d left my wood-tone plastic bowl back at home and had my assistant fed ex it to me at my parents’. I had to be eating my curds and whey, right? In the end, perhaps it was worth it. Little Miss Muffet and the Spider Who Sat Down Beside Her went over pretty well.

Elihu’s 3rd Halloween, 2005, 2 years old

This was the year of the train. So many young boys become Thomas converts, so many parents begin to learn the nuances of the Thomas culture. Ringo Starr or Alec Baldwin? No matter your narrator of choice, in the end one must fully embrace the experience. If one is really lucky, the child will catapult the parents into a world of steam-powered train trips and weekend excursions that truly widen one’s view of the world. Elihu wore real coveralls with a red bandana tucked in his hip pocket and an engineer’s hat. The epitome of innocence and pure childhood.

Elihu’s 4th Halloween, 2006, 3 years old

That year he went as a pile of leaves, and I chased him with a rake, playfully admonishing him to ‘get back here’ so I could rake him up. A red sweat suit with leaves hot glue gunned all over (complete with leaf covered shoes and hat) it was perhaps one of the most inventive costumes I have ever seen. I cannot take credit for it; I bought it for less than $10 on ebay from a woman whose name and info I still keep in hopes that one day I will thank her for all the joy she gave to us that season. !

Elihu’s 5th Halloween, 2007, 4 years

Ahh, this was the year of the cicada. I found my inspiration in the recent return of the Midwest’s 17 year version of the insect. What a costume. It was true to life in every way, down to the segmented abdomen and clear, veined wings. It was a masterpiece, and I’m still rather bummed I chose to give it away shortly before I moved to New York. Elihu carried with him a larger-than-life alarm clock which had been set to ‘summer’. The bit was that he’d slept late by a season. Cute.

Elihu’s 6th Halloween, 2008, 5 years old

Our first year on our own in our new home, here in upstate New York. At five, Elihu aspired to be like the impish six year old Calvin of the comic Calvin & Hobbes. In the strip the young hero creates an imaginary character; a space-exploring version of himself in wraparound shades and tubular shoulder pads called ‘Spaceman Spiff’. I was proud of my physical rendition, accurate down to the frap-ray blaster.

2009 Elihu’s 7th Halloween, 6 years old

Bald Eagle. The bird thing now in full swing, he decided to start at the top. What better choice than the patriotic emblem of his country? This year marked my first avian work, and a deeper exploration into the medium of paper mache. I feel I did a pretty good job of nailing the contours of the head; eyes eerily sunken and beak frighteningly hooked. The body and wings were still primitive, it was a form that would take another couple of seasons to get down. Elihu won ‘most original’ costume at the local firehouse although one of the grandma judges thought he was a chicken, which he found most insulting.

2010, Elihu’s 8th Halloween, 7 years old

This year our bird thing really took off. He decided to be a Turkey Vulture as we’d had a resident flock of them living on our property the year we’d moved here. It was a very appropriate choice for the holiday; Turkey Vultures eat dead bodies. I went to town on this headpiece, and the results were quite impressive. This was the year I discovered armature wire – a very bendy and sturdy frame on which to lay the paper mache. It enabled me to make a very long beak that jutted out about a foot in the front. I accompanied him as the grim reaper; what I killed, he ate.

2011, Elihu’s 9th Halloween, 8 years old.

Inspired by his love of birds and the desire to be something spooky, he decided on an Anchiornis this year. What is an Anchiornis? It is an early, feathered dinosaur. Modeled on an illustration by a friend (who paints birds professionally) we created our own, slightly tweaked version as there is no one on the planet who can definitively say what the creatures really looked like. While not as true to life as my creations in years past, this costume was probably the best success. Not only did it garner a prize, but its wings were very sturdy and moved a lot of air, something of top priority for Elihu. I took a little extra time on the legs, sewing the embellishments rather than just gluing them, and the result was a costume that survived a 14 hour day of holiday appointments.

We have yet to go trick-or-treating, that’s tonite. We’ve found our little routine here, and we always enjoy it. Starting with the mansions on North Broadway, we wind our way into the interior of the tree-lined neighborhoods and on our way make a couple of social calls to old family friends. One fellow has a party each year with grown-up food and wine for the callers, a nice treat for me. We’ll explore the inner courtyards of the homes whose matching carriage houses are now gorgeous homes themselves, we’ll follow the route that most appeals to us, and we’ll allow ourselves to live fully in the moment, floating in time, dreamlike and untethered to any formal plan. How surreal it feels to meander like this through the darkened streets, to hear the hushed sounds of anonymous voices all around us, to see glowing pumpkin faces shining out at us from from porches and doorways…

Then we’ll get in our car and head into the blackness of the countryside. When we arrive home, the big dump will be made on the kitchen table. We’ll sort, compare, trade and bargain for favorites, eat some now, store the rest in the mouse-proof refrigerator. Then we’ll brush our teeth, climb into bed and recount our evening.

One scary story later, it’s lights off and goodnight to another wonderful memory.

Halloween: A Deadline Met

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When I was five or six I had a dream which has stayed with me for all of my life.

I dreamt that my mother was fixing my Halloween costume just so, dabbing powder on my face, tugging at the waistline of my garment, making adjustments to the fabric, pinning things here and there and telling me to wait just one more minute… In the dream she fussed with my costume for so long that when I finally made it out the front door and onto the street, Halloween was over! The street was dark. There were no voices. I had missed it all. I missed Halloween getting ready for Halloween??!? The irony of it just killed me. No, it was too much – this was not possible! I never forgot the feeling of panic and heartbreak I awoke with after that dream. Never. If one believes the theory that dreams allow us to experience alternate outcomes as a warning for what not to do in one’s waking life, I can say that it’s served that purpose well through the years.

Many years ago I told my high school sweetheart about the dream, and as we are now still good friends, whenever I feel I’m close to missing some deadline he’ll say ‘oh no, it’s Halloween!’ and we’ll laugh. Life is a busy affair; everyone of us flirts with our own ‘missed Halloweens’ as we scurry to get it all done in time. When Halloween approaches each year I get a little nervous. I’ve always made a costume for Elihu which takes many, many hours (before he was around I spent those hours on my own costume). However daunting the goal, I always know I’ll pull it off – thanks in part to that dream – yet the week prior I’m never completely at peace. Although the real trick-or-treating is tomorrow, our big Saturday is now behind us. It was a jam-packed day and we both had a very good time. The costume made it too – no touch ups needed. My house looks like a bomb went off inside it, we’re out of milk and there are no clean dishes left, but I made it. It’s Halloween, and I’m happy.

Just what was Master Elihu for Halloween? An Anchiornis. An early, feathered dinosaur. He was bedecked in crispy, high-contrast black and white feathers with a large headpiece of red and black feathers rather like a Mohawk, two shining eyeballs with tiny dots of white to create depth, a foot-long beak with pointy white teeth, a six foot wingspan and bendy, curving black claws at his feet and wings, with large, scary-looking nails. All accurate, by the way. He wore his costume the week prior, to a neighboring community’s event. (It’s nice to get a ‘dress rehearsal’ before the big day; it’s an opportunity to fix the bugs and make last-minute adjustments.) Elihu entered the costume contest there and surprisingly he didn’t win or even place. I was kinda shocked at that, but even more shocked that he didn’t care a whit. ‘What a really good kid’ I thought, truly impressed. He had a lot of emotional investment in that costume. In the end though, only two things mattered: that people responded to it and that his wings could really move some air. Both of those requirements were enthusiastically met.

Yesterday, in and among our many stops we attended a telling of scary stories by local heroes the Bruchac family, a clan that has chosen to celebrate the tiny bit of Abenaki Indian blood they share by dedicating their lives’ work to the promotion of the culture through the sharing of stories, music and artifacts. It was snowing fat, moist clumps when we arrived (having just left a party with a band that invited Elihu to sit in with his djembe on the next set, ah well, can’t do it all) and we were glad to see they, like us, were running just a little late and had yet to begin the really scary stories. We took our place in the small audience. What a lovely and unexpected surprise when one of our hosts announced there would be a prize for the best costume – and that they were awarding it to this fellow here – he motioned to Elihu, who with such a potentially appreciative audience as this had thankfully not yet removed his headdress. He won a book written by the speaker and afterward had it signed. Ha! That more than made up for the oversight by the frumpy matrons in the Wilton rec center the week before. That, and the post-performance discussion about birds with several like-minded as we stood in the lobby ready to leave. Just perfect.

We then joined Grandma, Grandpa and Uncle Andrew at a party on the other side of town in an ancient brick home with wood stoves and crumbling plaster. We’ve joined this family at their party every year since Elihu was born. Behind the old house there’s a footpath illuminated by candles in old coffee cans that winds up the steep, wooded hill to the bonfire where most of the guests stand and talk. We pay a visit to the circle, and shortly thereafter a woman correctly identifies Elihu’s costume. His jaw drops open, then he recovers in a burst of laughter. He is absolutely thrilled. Plus, she’s actually seen the real fossil at Yale. Again, it’s just the very best news he could hear. Shortly we are making our way down the forest path through the falling snow to say goodnight to our hostess.

In the space of fourteen hours we did a lot. While the day included such mundane events as an hour of mobility work with his vision coach and home-bound, bird-related chores, it also included a pony ride, busking, being interviewed and filmed for the paper, attending several parties, being recognized as an Anchiornis by two people, jamming with some musicians, winning a prize for his costume, making s’mores around a campfire in the woods and coming home to a cozy house and a scary bedtime story. We both fell asleep as soon as I was finished reading.

And just now, as I begin to enjoy our do-nothing day, Elihu runs in my room to tell me that the Juncos are back. Ah, this is truly a wonderful weekend.

It’s Halloween and we haven’t missed a single thing.

Mouse Call

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The sounds begin around now. Just after Elihu has fallen asleep and the house is quiet. A tickering sort of sound begins from behind the wall. It’s a slightly muffled, rapid-fire, repetitive knocking sound. Are they chewing? Hammering? Creating a nest? Procreating in a nest??

At first it was cute. We didn’t see them much in the beginning. A couple of years ago we might see a couple of tiny poops laying about in the pantry one morning, perhaps a pile of chewed cardboard, but nothing much more. A year later they began to interrupt me as I read aloud to Elihu in bed. Our nightly routine involved banging on the wall as if to silence a noisy neighbor. It worked for a few minutes. Then, as we finish the chapter, turn out the light and get comfy…. there it is. Bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih bih….

I have learned to use earplugs in a country home with absolutely no street noise. Aside from Bald Mountain, our resident rooster who begins to announce the morning around 5:30 am, there is no other sound inside this house. It’s not really even old enough to creak. On a rainy night the sump pumps in the cellar will kick on and off, and the furnace grumbles along intermittently throughout the night, but for the most part there’s no sound to interrupt one’s sleep. Kind of. Tonight one particularly industrious mouse is obviously knocking something off his to-do list.

I have found shoes stored in the basement filled with macaroni. I have found rice in my jewelry drawer. I have found a dead, desiccated mouse entrapped in the white hair of a Halloween mask, surrounded by the stores of his cache. I find several dead mice floating in the downstairs toilet bowl each week. One day I broke the crown on a tooth and set the two pieces on the window sill. The next morning one half was missing. I may yet find it in my underwear drawer. Strangely, these creatures have not destroyed anything of value (aside from food) except my very favorite, go-to slip on summer dress shoes. Why, oh why, of all the crappy ass, Salvation Army finds and assorted hand-me-down shoes did they choose the ONE pair I actually love and wear? That was a turning point. In fact there have been several turning points and tonight, once again, I am at another intersection.

I see these little guys daily. Sometimes I have half a dozen sightings in a day. And I do believe they’re getting brave – I swear they slow down now as they cross in front of the stove – I swear they even stop to make eye contact. They know I can’t catch em, and besides, perhaps they’re growing fond of me; I feed them, house them and provide them with so many interesting diversions! What a fun place this is to live! I must do something, right? But just what?

I have tried it all. The humane trap was a bomb. They got in and out no matter how well I set it. The 5 gallon bucket thing has never worked as they don’t cross the bridge to even investigate… the snap traps are good, however they can still take a little time to die (oh dear, horrible to watch) and my now arthritic fingers are just no good at setting them. I can’t do the glue traps for that same reason of an unsure death, in fact they’re much worse as it takes them much longer to die.

I got mad once, broke down and bought the poison. It works, but there is fallout… Smells begin to emanate from the house – bad smells with no definitive source. Also, I have come upon mice that were dragging themselves spasmodically along the floor, obviously having ingested the chemicals. I could not tolerate that – and ended up running over a few of them in the car in order to bring their misery to a swifter end.

My mother keeps talking about calling their exterminator. But won’t they just use poison? And won’t my house just end up stinking like a big, redolent, decaying mess? This alone give me pause. Then I begin to think. I’m not sure why I want them gone. I know that the stove top is covered in their anise seed-shaped droppings every morning, that just today they gnawed the strap off of my camera in the space of a half hour (as I sat in the very room!) and that they certainly must be multiplying. But aside from my favorite mid-heel Aerosoles slip-on sandals, what have they taken from my life? In what way do they seriously diminish the quality of our lives? Why should I worry? I can imagine some folks might cite disease as a concern. Ich. I don’t know. We wash and clean ourselves and our work spaces pretty thoroughly as we have chickens and we’re used to it. Ok, I steel myself. I can do this, I’ll just call the pros. Yes. I’ll do it tomorrow.

Then I remember Winkle. And his friends.

One morning I actually caught one of these lil guys in the bathroom. He must have been a little groggy – I know I was, and I’m surprised how easily I entrapped him under a cup and transferred him to Elihu’s terrarium. Once in his new home he popped up vertically several times to test his environment for an out (that’s the only real disconcerting thing about them in my eyes – ya catch one and they’ll pop up in your face! Ack!). When Elihu first saw him, he said oh so naturally, and without missing a beat, ‘his name is Winkle’. Indeed! Yes, what a perfect, story-book name for a mouse! Yes, he is a Winkle, isn’t he? We kept Winkle for a couple of weeks until one night when I made a surprising discovery.

I had heard noise coming from the living room for several nights. I’d tried to ignore it, but one night it was simply too much. Somehow this sounded different than the other routine mouse sounds of the house. I had to investigate. In the dark of the room I shone a flashlight onto the glass tank and saw Winkle on the inside, his tiny paws stretched above him on the inside wall, and several of his mates on the outside making sounds and moving excitedly; they appeared to be rallying their imprisoned comrade to discover an escape. So this is what had been happening for those many nights! Oh how this stirred my heart, my humanity! Winkle had a family, he had friends, he had others who cared about him! First thing the next morning I took Winkle and let him go in the field across the creek. I had to give him his freedom if nothing else.

As I ponder what exactly it is that I plan on doing about this, one of Winkle’s extended family appears from under my bed and looks up. He sees me and thinks better of his planned excursion, turning around to return from whence he came. Hmm. Would this house seem lonely if all the mice were gone? What is a country house if not shared by at least one mouse? But then again, you can’t have just one mouse, can you? I think of Winkle, and his friends. No, you cannot.

Ok. I’ll say a heartfelt prayer for my dear little housemates, then tomorrow I’ll pick up the phone and make a call to the exterminator.     I think…

Like A Rhinestone

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I’ve had a long-term ear worm the past month. Through the ether this little gem reached me, inspired by what I cannot tell. That I even know the song is somewhat of a mystery; I was after all I was just about eleven or so when it came out. While I do have memories of sitting in the back seat of our Plymouth station wagon, hanging my chin over the front bench seat and begging my mother to please turn on the radio, I don’t think I encountered the song there. At school, perhaps? On the playground? Did my hip-looking fourth grade teacher play it for us in our progressive, 70s classroom? These were the days when music was an elusive treasure; a pre-walkman, pre-ipod culture, so the sources were few. Ah, perhaps I heard it first on my yellow, doughnut-shaped AM wrist radio… yes, that might be it. Imagine this simple little melody, absolutely fixed in my brain after all these years. Well, Glen, kudos to you; you chose to record one sticky little tune.

In an effort to exorcise the nugget from my head I awake early and pull out my tether to the world – my now rather ancient, yet essential G4 I Book – and I cast my line out into the ocean of information. What will I find? My friend Joan told me recently that he doesn’t look so good these days. I’m emotionally prepared. How old must he be? My mom’s age? Hmm… Then there it is. A page of head shots past and present. First, my eyes are drawn to the Glen Campbell I remember, the helmet of perfectly feathered hair, the cleft chin – the classic 70s handsome good guy look shared by the likes of Mac Davis and Bobby Sherman. This wasn’t the type I had gone for back then. I preferred the curling, long black hair of Donovan and Marc Bolan (so much so that decades later I crafted my own look to resemble Marc’s as closely as possible). Then there are the full body shots. The iconic belt buckle, long thin legs, cowboy boots, thumbs hooked onto belt loops with one hip cocked to the side. One groovy, sexy silhouette. I continue my quest. Just what is he up to these days? Soon I begin to collect a tidy list of tidbits on the man. I realize that I know very little of the guy.

My first impression upon seeing the first photo that comes up on his website is that he looks a little Sting-like, only with a wider nose. In the next shot he evokes a little Willy Nelson. All in all, not bad for a fellow who’s been around so long. I learn he has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s and has recorded his latest record “Ghost on the Canvas” and plans to do a farewell tour. Sort of. He doesn’t commit to this, but for the time being it appears this is the plan. I look elsewhere and learn that he played rhythm guitar as a sideman on Frank Sinatra’s recording of “Strangers In The Night”. Apparently, he was starstruck and admitted to the producer that it was the reason he kept staring at the maestro. Irked at young Glen’s stares (also perhaps at the session itself as later Frank called the single ‘a piece of shit’) the crooner asked his producer ‘who is that fag guitar player?’ and told him he’d slap Glen if he did it again. Love it. I move on…

I am taken on a brief detour as I chase a link to Anne Murray – and discover that she is probably aging the very best of her generation. She looks gorgeous. After a quick foray into her history and current life I wander back to my man. I visit You Tube and find his song covered by school-age kids in Thailand, in a David Hasselhoff concert in Germany, by a homeless guy in the States and a marching flute band in Ireland. Nuff said. This is an earworm shared by a worldwide family. Lest I make the mistake that I disdain in so many and assume that he himself wrote it, I wonder: who really did write this song? I admit that I was quick to assume that Glen himself did, yet a quick check shows that is not the case. I must remember that the time in which this song was recorded was one in which performers themselves were not necessarily songwriters. This era was on the cusp of change; until that time singers had recorded and performed material created by folks whose sole job was that of songwriter. Even more specifically music and lyrics were two separate occupations. Although the music world was certainly changing by that time, the old architecture still existed; songwriters wrote, managers assisted the artists in choosing material and anonymous session musicians played on the tracks.

Larry Weiss of Newark, New Jersey wrote it. And poor guy, while he’s had a long and varied career since then, he has ultimately hung his hat on that one little song, and is even still actively wresting the life out of it in his current work on the theme for Broadway. Sheesh. But then again, if ‘Mama Mia’, why not ‘Rhinestone Cowboy’? Give the people what they want – redo your kitchen and buy a new car while the iron’s still hot. Why not? I would. I still love my old band The Aluminum Group’s ‘Chocolates’ and never minded playing it at every single show. I admit I was never sorely tested on that front; I really do wonder how folks are able to play their hits night after night after night and still bring it the life their audience deserves. Could I? Don’t know. That Larry and Glen continue to have an interested audience, and that they and thousands more can still make an income off that one two-minute song impresses me.

My tappy-tap tap sounds from the keyboard awaken my son. I greet him with the first line of the song. He finishes it. I guess I’ve been singing it around the house this past week more than I’d thought. He likes the song too. I’m surprised to learn he knows just about all of it. Elihu has a nice singing voice, I get a kick out of hearing him. It gives me an idea. I suggest he might want to sing it at this year’s Talent Show. He laughs and says he’d love to. I can play the piano for him… yes, and he can wear a big belt buckle… I’m getting excited now. Maybe this will be what clears my head of the hit. Hair of the dog, right?

We finish our breakfast and head to the school bus singing. The bus arrives, and my little cowboy rides off to his star-spangled rodeo.