Memoir – Page 3 – writinghersense

Winter Blues

It’s a melancholy day here. I can’t believe it’s snowing this early in December. And it’s snow mixed with freezing rain, forecast to turn to black ice later tonight. Too miserable to go out, but I’m restless inside.

When I was growing up in Tennessee snow was a rare occurance, and greeted with delight. A snow day! We got to stay home from school! I remember one storm when I was small that left over a foot of snow, something that almost never happened. My brother went out sled riding with his friends and got run over by one of the boys. The sled runner must have been sharp because it sliced his knee open and he had to have stitches.

Ice storms were more common. They were actually frightening because the power could go out in addition to the roads getting slick. Once when I was home from college there was a massive ice storm and the power was out for a few days. Mother cooked on the wood-burning stove in the garage, and Daddy hauled water up from the well since the pump couldn’t work without electricity. It was so cold that Mother even let my German shepherd come in the garage with us. He was rarely allowed to come inside since Mother thought having pets in the house was low-class and dirty. Poor Chico was so happy! He always wanted to be an indoor pet, despite his size.

In recent years we’ve had ice storms here, which used to be uncommon. One of my friends calls it “global weirding,” to explain the more violent weather we seem to get. Big parts of Connecticut were without power for weeks due to tree branches taking down power lines.

So I guess a relatively mild snow and ice event is nothing to complain about. Still, I feel grumpy and blue. So I’ll post a picture of a Christmas tree and go watch some cat videos. Light activities for dark days! Any hints for cheering yourself up in the winter weather are welcome!

Cowboys in Tuscany

All Americans are not cowboys, but sometimes we think we are. This story comes from the summer when a group of us rented a villa outside Panzano, Italy for a week. The villa was on a working farm.

The owners lived in the other wing of the house and grew grapes and olives. They had two little girls and an extremely friendly dog who loved to visit at mealtimes. They also kept a couple of horses, Oskar and Luna, for riding. Our group enjoyed looking at the rolling hills and watching the horses graze while we sat on the terrace sipping wine.

One day half the group went to San Gimignano. The rest of us decided to have a lazy day at the villa’s pool. Sally had broken a bone in her foot six weeks before we left for Italy. She had walked through Rome, Florence and Siena in an orthotic boot, so she thought a day at the pool would be a nice break.

Sally, Scott, Nancy and I were sitting on the terrace reading and relaxing when we heard a clopping sound. Oskar and Luna were standing in the yard looking at us, and the fence was down. Sally jumped up and caught both horses by their halters, while I tried to find some rope so we could tie them up. There was no rope to be found, so Scott closed the farm’s electric gate to keep them from straying onto the road. The owners were away in Florence for the day, so Nancy called them on their mobile phone and reported the problem.

Oskar and Luna were patient with us, but they didn’t stand still, and they had big, heavy hooves. One of them shifted his weight and stepped on Sally’s broken foot! She yelled and let him go. The horses drifted to the front yard, and Sally put an ice pack on her foot.

Then a real Italian cowboy arrived, on a motorbike. The owners had called him to come fix the fence and get the horses in. He had a ponytail and a tan, and wore cargo shorts, sunglasses, and hiking boots. He was quite handsome. He said something like, “Los cavallos escapa,” and we said, “Si, si.”

The horses had broken their water pipe and were thirsty. So our cowboy fixed the pipe, repaired the fence, put the horses back in their field, and buzzed off on his motorbike.

Fortunately Sally’s foot was only bruised, not broken again. She elevated it and daydreamed about the cowboy.

Day of the Dead: Remembering the Food They Loved

Day of the Dead, or Dia de los Muertos, is celebrated in Mexico after Halloween to honor the spirits of their ancestors. Family members and friends gather to pray for and remember family and friends who have died. Families prepare special breads, cakes and candies to honor the day, the familiar skulls and skeleton shapes you may have seen. They also cook favorite foods of their loved ones and have a feast in honor of them.

This season made me try to remember the favorite foods and meals of the family members I have lost. Some are easy to remember. Aunt Eunice, one of Daddy’s sisters, loved the creamed corn that Mother would cook in the summer. Fresh corn just picked from the garden, creamed and cooked with a little bacon grease in an iron skillet just until it stuck a bit–what’s not to love? Sometimes Aunt Eunice loved it too much and would actually get sick from eating so much.

Daddy had a lot of different dishes that he loved. For some reason, today I remembered how he liked buttermilk and cornbread. He would crumble cornbread fresh from the oven into a large glass, then pour buttermilk over it and eat it with a spoon, drinking the last few bites like a corn mush. He was also fond of fried chicken with mashed potatoes and brown gravy, as well as slices of country ham fried in the skillet and served with biscuits and red-eye gravy.

Mother loved anything she didn’t have to cook, since she spent much of her time growing vegetables, canning, freezing, making preserves and pickles, and cooking our meals. Don’t let anyone tell you this homemade stuff was fun to do–it was hard, tedious labor. The fruits of her labor were delicious, but it was hard work. So she adored eating out, especially going to the Pic-a-Rib for pit (pork) barbecue after church on Sunday. She also liked being invited to other people’s houses for dinner. It was a big treat when Aunt Eunice would do a fish fry and have us over, or when Aunt Mattie Lou (one of Mother’s sisters) would invite us and make her fabulous biscuits. They were kind of a thorn in Mother’s side, however, because she could never get her biscuits as light.

Uncle Preston (one of Daddy’s brothers) had a special treat he adored. Back in the day, fresh seafood was nonexistent in our area. Whenever anyone went to Florida or anywhere on the Gulf Coast, he would ask them to bring back a bucket of oysters in salt water. With luck, most of the oysters would survive the trip. Aunt Mary Emma would dip them in cornmeal and deep fry them.

You’ll notice most of this was fried and pretty high in salt and fat. In recent years this has come to be known as the Southern stroke diet, it is so highly correlated with strokes and heart disease. At least at our house the ingredients were mostly unprocessed and fresh, although a lot of salt went into preserving that country ham.

Aunt Geneva’s coconut pie (a custard one, not cream), Mother’s chess pie, my grandfather’s favorite country ham, boiled in a lard stand in the back yard–and always biscuits and cornbread, it all brings home back to me. So on this chilly fall night I think of the ones who are gone, I miss them, and I remember what they loved.

Halloween’d

My village has officially become a tourist destination. When I saw the first tour bus parked on Main Street a few weeks ago, my first thought was, huh? The walking tour with a microphone-wielding guide kind of threw me yesterday. Maybe it was the tourist carrying a chihuahua in his backpack (so not Tarrytown.) Then I realized it was inevitable.

The first step was when North Tarrytown changed its name to Sleepy Hollow a few years ago. In fairness, the area really was known as Sleepy Hollow long before the time that Washington Irving wrote about Ichabod Crane and the Headless Horseman. But for some reason that village was incorporated as North Tarrytown. It’s also not apparent to me why there ever were two villages (Tarrytown and North Tarrytown), but that has been the case for many years. They have separate police and fire departments and each has its own mayor, village trustees and judges. However, they do share a school district.

The name change was a smart marketing move. There are a number of historic properties in each village, including Philipsburg Manor (Sleepy Hollow), Kykuit (Tarrytown/Pocantico Hills), Lyndhurst (Tarrytown), Sunnyside (Washington Irving’s home, also in Tarrytown), the Old Dutch Church (Sleepy Hollow) and the Old Dutch Burying Ground (Sleepy Hollow). The Union Church at Pocantico Hills with its amazing stained glass windows comissioned by the Rockefellers is nearby. And the Headless Horseman’s ride was reputed to be close by the cemetary. Both villages began to market themselves in a small way, and Historic Hudson Valley, a nonprofit which owns and manages many of the historic properties, began to advertise a bit and get the word out. Tourist traffic had been building slowly, and the local restaurants were pleased to see an increase last year–until Superstorm Sandy hit town. Historic Hudson Valley also souped up the events at its properties and created new ones, like the Great Jack o’Lantern Blaze at Van Cortlandt Manor.

But what really stuck a match to the firecracker was the new TV show, “Sleepy Hollow.” Granted, it bears basically no resemblance to Washington Irving’s characters or to the real villages. One of my neighbors was joking that the two villages between them don’t have enough police cars to fill up one scene in the show. As a result of the publicity, however, we have tour buses, walking tours with guides on Main Street in Tarrytown, and foreign tourists showing up on the River Walk by the Hudson.

It’s kind of fun but a little weird when you’re used to living in a (really) sleepy albeit beautiful village like Tarrytown, named one of the 10 most beautiful in the country by Forbes last year. I’ve always enjoyed the feeling that it was our own special secret, living in such a historic, lovely and low-key place. The big event of the Halloween season used to be the Ragamuffin Parade, when the little kids would wear their costumes and walk from Patriots Park to the Y (early years) or more recently the fire station on Main Street and see the fire trucks. I’m told that years ago a person dressed as the Headless Horseman used to ride through the neighborhoods on Halloween and scare people. Now the Headless Horseman figures in our Halloween Parade and appears at events.

The locals curse the traffic, but we’re all glad to see more revenue coming to town. And with any luck, once Halloween passes and the autumn leaves have fallen, we’ll go back to being a couple of quiet, charming villages once again.

Stormy Weather

A boat left high and dry by Superstorm Sandy

I still think of fall the way it was when I grew up in the South. The weather grew gradually cooler, the leaves turned red and gold and brown, and slow, heavy rains washed them off the trees. By late November the leaves were gone, the branches “bare ruined choirs” as the poem says, and we settled in for the chill of winter. I don’t recall violent storms or tornados once we were past the summer.

Living closer to the ocean has taught me about hurricanes and tropical storms. I always pictured them as a phenomenon of Florida or the Gulf Coast. Picture Bogie and Bacall in “Key Largo” (a really great movie to watch during hurricane season.) Until recent years I never realized those storms could do damage not only at the shore, but several miles inland. They can even carry their violence and damage for hundreds of miles from the ocean. Who knew? I saw it last year outside my window, watching the Hudson River overflow its banks during Superstorm Sandy.

So now the fall brings with it a shiver of unease. I hadn’t really thought about it until some friends were discussing the date of the village Halloween parade for this year and how it’s been cancelled for the last two years, due to a snowstorm (yes!) and then Sandy last year. Another friend remarked about the storm that roared through yesterday, “Trees are not our friends.”

But today is a placid, blue-sky autumn day. No signs of clouds or winds or witches on broomsticks blown past the window. A perfect day to sky-write, “Surrender, Dorothy.”

The View Out My Window, or Watching Bridge Construction

One of the main reasons I bought my condo was its view of the Hudson River and the Tappan Zee Bridge. I’ve watched the river traffic for years now. Summer evenings mean sailboats gliding from one side to the other. Winter mornings feature the Coast Guard cutter going upriver to look for ice, and on one memorable occasion an ice-cutting ship.

In the fall the view is framed by orange and yellow maple trees. In the spring it’s a vista of green buds which eventually open up to block part of the view. Construction of the new luxury townhouses and condos by the riverbank has taken off the bottom of the view. Last October I watched Superstorm Sandy drive the Hudson over its banks as the water swelled up.

Now my view is changing again, due to construction of the new Tappan Zee Bridge. Barges, tugboats and dredges are moving into position. I understand one of the largest cranes in the world is on its way through the Panama Canal to help with the construction.

This will go on for five years, I’m told. I’m not sure how crowded the river will be before they are done. There has already been a terrible accident when a powerboat hit one of the construction barges at night. Since then the barges are lighted more prominently, and I think I heard that river patrols have been stepped up.

I hope the sailboats and pleasure boats will still be able to cruise above and below the construction. So far the noise has not been bad on my side. There will be a certain fascination in seeing this massive structure rise and the old bridge be taken down. But I already miss the days when sailboats and the occasional barge were the only vessels disturbing the peace of that grey water.

9/11, Twelve Years Later

I was grateful today that it wasn’t one of those blue-sky September days, but muggy and cloudy. Every September when the sky is that clear, unclouded blue I remember how lovely it was on 9/11 in 2001, and how that day fell apart into terror and dread.

It’s amazing to me how New York City has come back and how people have carried on with their lives. New Yorkers (and New Jerseyites, for many of them were killed that day) are tough.

The reading of the names still makes me cry, and the footage of the attacks is still horrifying. But every day people commute to the city to work, and millions of others live there. The Freedom Tower looms over lower Manhattan. Downtown businesses came back. Children have been born who will have no personal memory of what happened. Tourists come and go in their hordes. At least now they have a memorial to look at instead of a gaping hole.

“Never forget” is the motto you see at many fire stations and police stations, throughout the tri-state area, where first responders poured into the city to help the New York City forces. But I wonder, will the day come when the pain is not remembered? At least, will the day come when a blue September sky doesn’t make us uneasy?

Happy New School Year

The start of the school year always feels like the beginning of a new year to me, even though it’s been many years since I boarded that school bus or headed off to college. September is a time of reflection and remembering as autumn moves in and summer dissolves like the early morning mists. But there’s still the hope that it’s not too late to plot a new course, try something new, find a better way to go forward.

As a small child in the South, the weather was still punishingly hot when we started school in August, and schools were not air-conditioned. My main concern then was school clothes. Girls were not allowed to wear pants (can you imagine?) so we wore “dark cotton” dresses, usually plaids in fall colors but made of cotton so we weren’t too hot. School supplies involved having the correct pencils, tablets and crayons so you could carry out your assigned tasks. No computers, book bags or backpacks!

Elementary school was both a delight and a punishment to me. I never fit in from the very beginning because I had learned to read, write and do basic math at home, so I arrived in first grade ready for second grade. My mother was adamant that the school should not make me skip a grade because I was small, shy and among the youngest in the class. So for the first three years of elementary school I sat in the back of the class and did my own work for the next grade, only joining the rest for art, music, phys ed and math. I never really felt like part of the group, even in later years when I was “tracked in” and joined the rest of the class.

But I learned. I made friends, I got along, I kept working to learn new things and do better. I wanted to make my parents proud, and I wanted a college scholarship. All those things came true, and I am grateful. This was the foundation of the life I’ve had since then.

At this point in my life back-to-school just marks the end of summer. But it still feels like a time of possibilities and new plans. Here’s to the new year: It’s never too late to learn and grow. My wish for us all is health, prosperity and curiosity!

Summer Vacations

Some of my friends have jetted off to exotic places, and others are staying home and picnicking at outdoor concerts, going to dance performances and generally enjoying summer stay-cations. I have been remembering vacations in my childhood. We couldn’t afford to fly anywhere, much less to stay in a motel (remember motels?), so our vacations were either day trips or long drives to visit more distant relatives.

One trip we made many times was from our home in Tennessee through Kentucky to Ohio, to visit my oldest sister and her young family. This was in the early days of the interstate highway system, and Kentucky was pretty low on the priority list for completion. I think we went KY 68 much of the way, and finally got to the Bluegrass Parkway, a toll road.

The route was mostly two-lane blacktop highways with the occasional passing lane. The roads wound around the hills and hollows, passing through towns like Horse Cave and near Mammoth Cave National Park. I was in the back seat, trying not to get carsick as our un-airconditioned car swerved around the curves. Daddy liked to drive fast, and Mother was constantly front-seat-driving from the passenger side. “George! You’re making me nervous!” was her frequent cry.

From www.stuckeys.com — From http://www.stuckeys.com

My favorite part of the trip was stopping at Stuckey’s. Any Southern or Midwestern road warriors will remember them. Often they were the only place to get snacks and gasoline on these highways winding from one one-horse town to another. Their claim to fame was the famous Pecan Log Roll. Stuckey’s also sold the driest, nastiest pralines on the face of the earth, but we thought they were great since we’d never had the real thing.

It was a tremendous treat to stop there, look at all the tourist junk, and maybe get a candy bar or a piece of pecan divinity. I coveted the small figurines of horses made of ceramic or plastic–I was into collecting horses and reading horse stories at that time. They also sold novelty goods like cups that spilled on you, and I think I remember comic books.

We’d get Cokes to go with Mother’s box lunches (another big treat, since Cokes were forbidden at home), park in the shade, and gas up and hit the restrooms before getting back on the road again. A road trip, indeed!

Kitten Therapy

One of my neighbors is fostering some tiny kittens whose feral mother seems to have disappeared. Her (adult) daughter found them and brought them home, and is supposed to be responsible for feeding them and taking care of them. I think her daughter is doing most of the heavy lifting, but my neighbor is filling in quite a bit. She texted me a few days ago, “Want to help me kitten-sit?”

I went over to hang out, pet them and help socialize them. There was an article in the New York Times science section several years ago which explained the types of cat personalities and said studies had shown cats are more socialized toward humans if you handle them when they are small kittens, less than 8 weeks old. So playing with and petting kittens is actually good pet parenting. It’s a great excuse, anyway!

Spending an hour with them reminded me how much fun they are–and how much work! I’ve always adopted adult cats because they have a harder time getting adopted, and because they already have their personalities and habits.

These three little kittens were tiny furballs in perpetual motion, then they would just conk out. The largest was a grey male with white paws, whose fur stuck out in all directions. The middle one was a pretty female, sort of tabby. The runt of the litter was a tiny female with muddy markings and a white stomach but a loud squeak of a meow and a purr bigger than anything a creature that small should be able to produce. She discovered she could climb up the front of the couch before I rescued her from an end table.

Kittens are like wild children, running until they are exhausted–wild children with claws, who can climb curtains and shred chairs! I was tempted by the runt, but I’m afraid my aggressive cat would not react well to a small, furry irritant.

Playing with them and petting them was good for them, but it was great for me. It’s impossible to think of anything unpleasant when a little fur lump has its head tucked under your chin, purring. I’ll come play again before they find homes, I hope.

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