A brief consultation...
The marbles (three, I think) dropped into the hopper...
Around and around they go...
Success!
And a graceful acceptance of applause from the dress circle.
So come Monday, she’s ready to roll.
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Our schoolgirl
Sweet B starts kindergarten Monday. Last weekend, we went to Massachusetts to celebrate our niece’s engagement, and B displayed the engineering gene she’s inherited from her dad. She and a grown-up helper or two constructed this elaborate set of chutes, and performed highly technical experiments to align all the elements properly. Mom was called into play solely to keep the marbles that landed in the tray from popping back out.
A brief consultation...
The marbles (three, I think) dropped into the hopper...
Around and around they go...
Success!
And a graceful acceptance of applause from the dress circle.
So come Monday, she’s ready to roll.
A brief consultation...
The marbles (three, I think) dropped into the hopper...
Around and around they go...
Success!
And a graceful acceptance of applause from the dress circle.
So come Monday, she’s ready to roll.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Deus ex machina
Years and years ago, I often ran workouts that I called “Rockers,” pushing hard for a half-mile or so to the top of the road we then lived on, which was a well-pitched hill, recovering by jogging slowly down the other side, then turning and pushing up again, back and forth. Hill-running for me was always a sort of magic potion, and this was a way to efficiently get a good bit of it in toward the end of a shortened training run. One day, I’d just gotten to the top and had down-shifted to a little jog, when a dog—an Afghan Hound of all things, a beast I’d never seen before—appeared from behind a neighbor’s house and headed toward me. I knew immediately that he meant business. Runners learn to tell. This guy wasn’t loping toward me to bark and get scratched. He was hunting me down. I didn’t have time to feel scared. I’d read somewhere that the thing to do when you’re attacked by a dog is to jam your arm down its throat and choke it. So I’m standing there, in my chop top and short shorts, ready to make my stand and thinking to myself, “Oh, shit, this is going to be bad.”
When, all of a sudden (isn’t that a great phrase?), the door pops open on a pickup truck parked by the side of the road, a man with a tire iron jumps out, he bashes the dog, and I’m saved. This whole event takes less than 10 seconds. The adrenaline surge hits me, I realize how terrified I’d been, and I can barely stand up long enough to say thank you and stagger away home. Bless you, Lee King.
When, all of a sudden (isn’t that a great phrase?), the door pops open on a pickup truck parked by the side of the road, a man with a tire iron jumps out, he bashes the dog, and I’m saved. This whole event takes less than 10 seconds. The adrenaline surge hits me, I realize how terrified I’d been, and I can barely stand up long enough to say thank you and stagger away home. Bless you, Lee King.
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Panache
At bedtime when she’s here or I’m at her house, I often lie down for a snuggle with B at bedtime. She invariably asks me for a Little Peach story, an impromptu feat of imagination I no longer carry off as well as I did for her mom, so I’ve started to ask her if she’d rather hear a story about when her mother was a little girl.
One of her favorites is a story about H at a horseshow. Like a lot of little girls, H was passionate about horses. She had lessons, eventually a pony of her own, and when she was bigger, a wonderful jumper and event horse named Panache, who, early in the relationship, frankly scared the sweet bejeezus out of her mother and me. But H had an excellent teacher, learned how to control all that power, and the two of them had great fun together. One Saturday, the two of them went off to a show jumping competition in which one of H’s earlier teachers, who had done a great job teaching her the basics and a good bit more, would be riding a favorite. Panache was in his prime, H was riding joyfully, and they rode absolutely clear rounds to win. B, who has visited Panache in his Vermont retirement, loves my (much-embellished) version of this story.
Sadly Panache, died last night. He’d been a sweet, easy-going boy—except in competition, when all he wanted was to go fast and jump high, and when he demonstrated he was a terrific athlete. He’d had a very comfortable retirement. And he was a very, very old man. He was also, of course, much loved by us all.
I’ve just discovered that all our pictures of P and H flying over things are those antique paper things. But here are a few shots digitized:
A little snuggle, I think the fall H went off to college.
Early retirement in Vermont, spring 2003.
And the B has a go in 2011.
One of her favorites is a story about H at a horseshow. Like a lot of little girls, H was passionate about horses. She had lessons, eventually a pony of her own, and when she was bigger, a wonderful jumper and event horse named Panache, who, early in the relationship, frankly scared the sweet bejeezus out of her mother and me. But H had an excellent teacher, learned how to control all that power, and the two of them had great fun together. One Saturday, the two of them went off to a show jumping competition in which one of H’s earlier teachers, who had done a great job teaching her the basics and a good bit more, would be riding a favorite. Panache was in his prime, H was riding joyfully, and they rode absolutely clear rounds to win. B, who has visited Panache in his Vermont retirement, loves my (much-embellished) version of this story.
Sadly Panache, died last night. He’d been a sweet, easy-going boy—except in competition, when all he wanted was to go fast and jump high, and when he demonstrated he was a terrific athlete. He’d had a very comfortable retirement. And he was a very, very old man. He was also, of course, much loved by us all.
∞
I’ve just discovered that all our pictures of P and H flying over things are those antique paper things. But here are a few shots digitized:
A little snuggle, I think the fall H went off to college.
Early retirement in Vermont, spring 2003.
And the B has a go in 2011.
Friday, July 26, 2013
Wheels
I think I’m needing a new car. I’m driving an 8-year-old Subaru Outback, a great, practical car for New England that’s lately been sending me intimations of its imminent demise. Thinking about a new car has naturally gotten me thinking about cars in general, but specifically my cars of years past.
I learned to drive on my father’s 1958 Rambler. And also on my school’s dual-control 1962-ish Chevy trainer. Both standard shift, both three on the column, and I’ve been a standard-shift guy ever since. But my mother in those days was driving a little 1959 Morris Minor convertible (four on the floor, of course), and once I got my license, this became my main ride. It was easy to winkle away from her, and it had a jaunty distinction the square old Rambler lacked.
My own first car was a gift from my father (this in itself stunned me to the point that I was almost unable to utter, “Thank you”). It was a very used, early ’60s Karmann Ghia convertible, essentially a Volkswagon in a sporty body, and I remember it fondly. It was the car I drove during my final year at college, and it was great to have at my disposal in far-from-everywhere Hanover.
The car I really wanted in those days was an Austen Healey 3000, but I was never within miles of being able to afford one. After I got my first job, though, I did find a little used Sprite in great shape,
then moved on to a truly foul used MGB-GT, by far the crappiest car I’ve ever owned. From the early ’70s, to now (except for a used MG Midget—essentially the same as the Sprite—for nearly a year when we lived in England), it’s been mostly new cars, but with economy and practicality very much in mind, and we’ve driven them until they’ve cried uncle. A 40-year automotive yawn. But now, once again, I’m being drawn by the sporty, or at least cheeky. I keep seeing restored 3000’s around,
but that’s definitely not on. And I keep doing double takes whenever I see one of these:
And, of course, there are Miatas. And all those upscale sporty roadcars.
But realistically, there are certain inevitabilities at play here. Though I’d love to be the kind of guy who could at least keep a little MG-TD in the garage for short toodles on beautiful summer evenings...
... I have a pretty good idea of what’s going to go down here.
So it goes. Or to be a little more sporty, or at least cheeky, c’est la vie.
I learned to drive on my father’s 1958 Rambler. And also on my school’s dual-control 1962-ish Chevy trainer. Both standard shift, both three on the column, and I’ve been a standard-shift guy ever since. But my mother in those days was driving a little 1959 Morris Minor convertible (four on the floor, of course), and once I got my license, this became my main ride. It was easy to winkle away from her, and it had a jaunty distinction the square old Rambler lacked.
My own first car was a gift from my father (this in itself stunned me to the point that I was almost unable to utter, “Thank you”). It was a very used, early ’60s Karmann Ghia convertible, essentially a Volkswagon in a sporty body, and I remember it fondly. It was the car I drove during my final year at college, and it was great to have at my disposal in far-from-everywhere Hanover.
The car I really wanted in those days was an Austen Healey 3000, but I was never within miles of being able to afford one. After I got my first job, though, I did find a little used Sprite in great shape,
then moved on to a truly foul used MGB-GT, by far the crappiest car I’ve ever owned. From the early ’70s, to now (except for a used MG Midget—essentially the same as the Sprite—for nearly a year when we lived in England), it’s been mostly new cars, but with economy and practicality very much in mind, and we’ve driven them until they’ve cried uncle. A 40-year automotive yawn. But now, once again, I’m being drawn by the sporty, or at least cheeky. I keep seeing restored 3000’s around,
but that’s definitely not on. And I keep doing double takes whenever I see one of these:
And, of course, there are Miatas. And all those upscale sporty roadcars.
But realistically, there are certain inevitabilities at play here. Though I’d love to be the kind of guy who could at least keep a little MG-TD in the garage for short toodles on beautiful summer evenings...
... I have a pretty good idea of what’s going to go down here.
So it goes. Or to be a little more sporty, or at least cheeky, c’est la vie.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
“Time’s on the wing...”
My dad’s moving out of his little apartment with us, into a “senior living” facility. It’s been a tough choice to make, but I’ve pretty much come to the end of the road and can no longer do him justice here. I’ve found a great place, and I’m content with the decision. I think he will be, too.
The fact of this major change has brought to the surface more memories of moments we’ve shared over the years. Some are utterly mundane, some are pretty awful, but so many involve laughter and joy. Here’s one that popped into my head Thursday as I was driving home from a chat with the people at Maplewood.
In mid-October, 1963, when I was 15, I ran in my first large cross-country meet, sponsored by my own high school due entirely to the energy of our coach. It was the third running of an event that continues to this day. I’d been having a good season for a new runner, which had been a great surprise—to me most of all. I’d lost only once, but I’d so far run only dual meets, which have an entirely different dynamic than meets with a dozen or more teams. My dad had given me a little shake that morning, to add a “Good luck today” to the standard kiss before he left for work. We all hoped I’d do well, of course, but others were favored.
It was a two-lap course that allowed good views from a hill near its center, and the meet was big enough to attract spectators. My mother was there, and she brought her mother and, I think, one of her sisters. Schoolmates, teachers, other adults, little kids—all a real kick for us runners, who seldom performed for crowds. It was especially great for me, because it was a home crowd. It’s an indescribably wonderful feeling to have a mass of people cheering for you.
But it’s a nervous-making feeling, too. You don’t want to let people down. I took off at the gun like a scalded cat. There was no doubt who was going to win the first half mile: this inexperienced idiot in the blue singlet. But that would leave another two miles to go. A little after the mile mark, though, when I needed a bit of a boost, we came back through the starting area and that wonderful crowd, and I got energized all over again. I ran scared the whole way, but when I took my last look back with just over a quarter mile to go, I knew I had it.
Unexpected victory is pure joy, and I experienced a fantastic half-hour or so getting pummeled and congratulated. (And scolded by my grandmother: “I’m never going to watch you run again. You look like you’re going to die!”) Great stuff, for sure. But the very best moment of the day came later. My mom had had to go back to work, and I walked to my grandmother’s house to wait for my father to come through town to pick me up on his way home. He stopped on the other side of the street, and I jogged stoically out and got into the car with my gym bag. He said, “So, how did it go?” as if it didn’t really matter all that much, because he knew I hadn’t been likely to win, and he didn’t want to make me feel worse than I probably already did. I managed to keep a straight face while I fumbled with the zip on my bag. “Well,” I said, “not too bad.” And I pulled out the trophy. “You won!” he said, showing just enough amazement to confirm he thought I wouldn’t. “Of course,” I said, showing just enough irony to confirm I hadn’t thought I would either. And we laughed, both at each other and out of the pure happiness of the moment.
The fact of this major change has brought to the surface more memories of moments we’ve shared over the years. Some are utterly mundane, some are pretty awful, but so many involve laughter and joy. Here’s one that popped into my head Thursday as I was driving home from a chat with the people at Maplewood.
In mid-October, 1963, when I was 15, I ran in my first large cross-country meet, sponsored by my own high school due entirely to the energy of our coach. It was the third running of an event that continues to this day. I’d been having a good season for a new runner, which had been a great surprise—to me most of all. I’d lost only once, but I’d so far run only dual meets, which have an entirely different dynamic than meets with a dozen or more teams. My dad had given me a little shake that morning, to add a “Good luck today” to the standard kiss before he left for work. We all hoped I’d do well, of course, but others were favored.
It was a two-lap course that allowed good views from a hill near its center, and the meet was big enough to attract spectators. My mother was there, and she brought her mother and, I think, one of her sisters. Schoolmates, teachers, other adults, little kids—all a real kick for us runners, who seldom performed for crowds. It was especially great for me, because it was a home crowd. It’s an indescribably wonderful feeling to have a mass of people cheering for you.
But it’s a nervous-making feeling, too. You don’t want to let people down. I took off at the gun like a scalded cat. There was no doubt who was going to win the first half mile: this inexperienced idiot in the blue singlet. But that would leave another two miles to go. A little after the mile mark, though, when I needed a bit of a boost, we came back through the starting area and that wonderful crowd, and I got energized all over again. I ran scared the whole way, but when I took my last look back with just over a quarter mile to go, I knew I had it.
Unexpected victory is pure joy, and I experienced a fantastic half-hour or so getting pummeled and congratulated. (And scolded by my grandmother: “I’m never going to watch you run again. You look like you’re going to die!”) Great stuff, for sure. But the very best moment of the day came later. My mom had had to go back to work, and I walked to my grandmother’s house to wait for my father to come through town to pick me up on his way home. He stopped on the other side of the street, and I jogged stoically out and got into the car with my gym bag. He said, “So, how did it go?” as if it didn’t really matter all that much, because he knew I hadn’t been likely to win, and he didn’t want to make me feel worse than I probably already did. I managed to keep a straight face while I fumbled with the zip on my bag. “Well,” I said, “not too bad.” And I pulled out the trophy. “You won!” he said, showing just enough amazement to confirm he thought I wouldn’t. “Of course,” I said, showing just enough irony to confirm I hadn’t thought I would either. And we laughed, both at each other and out of the pure happiness of the moment.
Barter
by Sara TeasdaleLife has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And childrens's faces looking up Holding wonder in a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstacy Give all you have been, or could be.- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20724#sthash.h5lRBa9V.dpuf
Barter
by Sara TeasdaleLife has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And childrens's faces looking up Holding wonder in a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstacy Give all you have been, or could be.- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20724#sthash.h5lRBa9V.dpuf
Barter
by Sara TeasdaleLife has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And childrens's faces looking up Holding wonder in a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstacy Give all you have been, or could be.- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20724#sthash.h5lRBa9V.dpuf
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Hugs and kisses
Nice moments with my dad have become sadly rare. His illness often leaves him frustrated and angry. But he was exceptionally calm and happy yesterday evening, and we had a sweet little time together. He can’t really converse anymore, so I just chattered to him (mostly about H and B, but I also described this photo).
We had a few laughs, and a bowl of ice cream—Neapolitan, his favorite. Then I washed up as he headed to bed, followed him in, tucked him up, and kissed him on the top of his shiny bald head (our long-running joke). He laughed, and I said good-night and left.
Something about this reminded me of the mornings of my youth. Dad always got up far earlier than my mom and I. He liked to get to work early, have a light breakfast in the company cafeteria, and ease into his day. But every morning, just before he left the house, he came into my room, bent over, and gave me a kiss. He did it when I was a small boy, and he was still doing it when I was home from college and during the months I lived at home after I graduated.
My mom once learned from dad that when he came back from the service and walked into the old apartment on Southmayd Road, his mother’s reaction was simply to look up and say, “Hi, Dick.” Not a home where he got a loving kiss every morning. Which, I suppose, is a big reason why I did.
And after years of mostly pats and hugs, we’re back to lots of kissing. I give him his smacker on the dome almost every morning and frequently before bed, and I kiss him on the cheek when tea is over and Paul begins to walk him up to his little apartment. When I head out his door, having left him with a quick peck, he often trundles across the room for a firm embrace and a kiss planted squarely on my mouth. It’s partly goodnight, it’s partly thank you, it’s mostly I love you. And it’s also, clearly, goodbye.
Great love. Great sadness.
Thanksgiving, 1958-ish. That’s a whiskey sour near the turkey.
Dad’s, not mine.
We had a few laughs, and a bowl of ice cream—Neapolitan, his favorite. Then I washed up as he headed to bed, followed him in, tucked him up, and kissed him on the top of his shiny bald head (our long-running joke). He laughed, and I said good-night and left.
Something about this reminded me of the mornings of my youth. Dad always got up far earlier than my mom and I. He liked to get to work early, have a light breakfast in the company cafeteria, and ease into his day. But every morning, just before he left the house, he came into my room, bent over, and gave me a kiss. He did it when I was a small boy, and he was still doing it when I was home from college and during the months I lived at home after I graduated.
My mom once learned from dad that when he came back from the service and walked into the old apartment on Southmayd Road, his mother’s reaction was simply to look up and say, “Hi, Dick.” Not a home where he got a loving kiss every morning. Which, I suppose, is a big reason why I did.
And after years of mostly pats and hugs, we’re back to lots of kissing. I give him his smacker on the dome almost every morning and frequently before bed, and I kiss him on the cheek when tea is over and Paul begins to walk him up to his little apartment. When I head out his door, having left him with a quick peck, he often trundles across the room for a firm embrace and a kiss planted squarely on my mouth. It’s partly goodnight, it’s partly thank you, it’s mostly I love you. And it’s also, clearly, goodbye.
Great love. Great sadness.
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Our mountaineer
I spent the weekend in New Hampshire and Vermont with the Concordians. On Sunday afternoon, we took a walk on Mt. Kearsarge—up Winslow (1.1 mi.) and down Barlow (1.8 mi.).
Sweet B made the ascent and descent entirely under her own power.
She loved the open slabs that form the mountain’s peak, and she and daddy had a go at the fire tower, only to find that the little house on top was locked. (Don’t know why I have no photos of this exploration, and the top and bottom photos aren’t mine, either. Thanks, A and H.)
Like all kids, B’s idea of mountain walking boils down to surmounting interesting obstacles. Up and over rather than around. Steep and leaping instead of gentle and avoiding.
At one point, H carefully explained the best route down through some rocks and trees. B blithely ignored it all, and headed off over some interesting granite. “I kinda like going my own way,” she remarked over her shoulder. Mmm, yes, we’d already noticed that...and not on a mountain.
All natural and good, I think, though it does call for parental and grandparental self-control and reasonable anticipation of the inevitable literal or figurative misstep. Though B seems to have that covered, too. Early on she danced out ahead of us and tripped. As she got up, she noticed that we were continuing to walk along and chat, so she stood and announced, “When I fall down, everybody must pause.”
So. A four-year-old iconoclast with delusions of grandeur. But charming, charming.
Sweet B made the ascent and descent entirely under her own power.
She loved the open slabs that form the mountain’s peak, and she and daddy had a go at the fire tower, only to find that the little house on top was locked. (Don’t know why I have no photos of this exploration, and the top and bottom photos aren’t mine, either. Thanks, A and H.)
Like all kids, B’s idea of mountain walking boils down to surmounting interesting obstacles. Up and over rather than around. Steep and leaping instead of gentle and avoiding.
At one point, H carefully explained the best route down through some rocks and trees. B blithely ignored it all, and headed off over some interesting granite. “I kinda like going my own way,” she remarked over her shoulder. Mmm, yes, we’d already noticed that...and not on a mountain.
All natural and good, I think, though it does call for parental and grandparental self-control and reasonable anticipation of the inevitable literal or figurative misstep. Though B seems to have that covered, too. Early on she danced out ahead of us and tripped. As she got up, she noticed that we were continuing to walk along and chat, so she stood and announced, “When I fall down, everybody must pause.”
So. A four-year-old iconoclast with delusions of grandeur. But charming, charming.
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