Yearly Archives: 2015

We Won’t Go Until We Get Some

Yankee Candle2015As a child, you were probably encouraged this time of year to make a list of your wants. Why not try your hand at it now? Make a list. Check it twice. What did you leave out? Global peace? Affordable organic groceries? A sporty little convertible you can corner hard in? Then take a minute alone (say, in the bath) to consider your wants. Dwell on them. Flesh them out. I’m certain they’re valid.

You know the expression, “Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy?” Replace Mama with “Me.” Reality is subjective, and your particular reality comes first. Take care of it. Once I owned a Mazda in Cali that a friend described thusly: “It’s not so much a car as a … process.” That process took me all kinds of places, lit. and fig. Sometimes you don’t even know why you want something. Run with it. Maybe your wanting knows better than you do.

Prison was, for me, a theme this month. Prison reform in New York State brought to kitelight the sick horrors of solitary confinement.  Then PBS’ The Brain With David Eagleman explained how Alcatraz prisoners thrown into The Hole for weeks on end had very realistic hallucinations despite complete sensory deprivation. Because of the brain’s natural drive for experience, after a time they saw things in The Hole as if they were 100% happening. The brain just created them. One man “saw” someone flying a kite. Proof, in my opinion, that we are wired to want, and to make our wants real. Next, Friend A visited Friend B incarcerated in a low-security prison. Friend A’s post-visit report, which I was dreading, ended with: “It wasn’t awful. It didn’t seem to be much worse than being in the military.” Still.

I’ve known five decent people who have done time. I can imagine few things worse. But there are prisons so many of us make of our own design. An aversion to forming lasting good relationships. A fear of leaving bad ones. The incapacity to see what we’ve done wrong, or to apologize for it. Obsession with our appearance. Addictions to substances, food, gaming (Sugar CRuSH!), Facebook, you name it. A cage of crippling beliefs (that our bodies must age poorly, or that the world is going to hell in a handbasket … so why even try?) confines us.  There are countless prisons.

Isn’t this, the Season, with a new year around the corner and long nights, the perfect time to break out? I for one plan to do and see things in new way. Won’t you join me? We’ll tunnel out together by the light of the moon. Make that a supermoon. I’ve got a spoon hidden under my mattress. It’s sturdy and I intend to wear it down to a nub. We can take turns.

This year has been one of distressing changing winter lighttraditions for many. But a no-nonsense Philadelphian I know said about my 3 a.m. worrying habit, “Knock it off. Just snap out of it.” So there’s no snow. There is still that gorgeous winter light. Bask in it. Surround yourself with some assemblage of [good] family and [good] friends and create your Wish List for 2016.

Not a tiresome New Year’s Resolution list about self-deprivation. A list of what you’d like to do or have that’s fun (remember fun?) and rewarding. Your list of wants. Often we hear things like, “If humans spent half the time we spend devising ways to kill and torture people, we’d have solved [x] by now.” I’m putting that on my list: That mankind spends half as much time devising ways to kill and torture people. And solves [x].

Your wants seem unattainable? List them anyway, then don’t give up. I mean, don’t wish you were 30 again; pick something within the basic rules governing earth. But don’t stop at 2 or 3 wants. Keep going. Your attained wants are good for all of us in the interconnected machinery of life. You are an important cog. No cog left behind, I say. No want too insignificant. Wish hard.

Go out into 2016, dear Reader, and prove the naysayers wrong. Go get yours, whatever it is you want. Stubbornly refuse to not get it. Don’t go until you get some. Get some. Good day.

Quote of the Season: “Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?” – Clarence, “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Much Like the Unicorn…

SD….the SD Ireland Concrete Mixer vanishes as suddenly as it appeared. Into the night? Through a wormhole into another slot in the time-space continuum? Only its nutter captain knows for sure. With 25,000 lights that take 10 days to apply, Vermont is the better for its ephemeral presence.

[A fundraiser for SD Ireland Cancer Research, which supports research at UVM.]

Run, Dick, Run…

A Next….to North Country Books in Winooski. He is closing, which is terrible, but for one more week he has all manner of used and out-of-print books and the best greeting cards ever. All discounted. Last day: 12/17/15.

He has other cool stuff like these GIANT cards (24 x 36″?) teachers used to teach us to read with in first grade. I’d forgotten all about them. Each one reads like a gorgeous, sometimes hilarious, haiku.

Fantastic memories. What’s more magical than learning to read?

Sample card from Saturn Press in Maine below, then NCB info.

Keep Smiling Saturn Press MaineNorth Country

 

 

This Is For All The Rattled People

pilgirmPerhaps you, dear Reader, like your humble Columnist, hates change. Tradition is one of the hottest numbers in Fiddler on the Roof for a reason. This column is for those whose holiday traditions have changed to the point where, as he says in It’s A Wonderful Life, everything’s all “screwy.”

Usually by now I’m shopping Harriet Carter, cranking up the treacle spigot on Hallmark TV, shaving years off my age at pharmacy checkouts (nothing says holiday hospitality like the fine wines of Rite-Aid), fending off rabid skunks and inventing statistics in time for the family argument at Thanksgiving, just having a gas. But the year’s events, including my parents’ leaving the Upper Valley, have altered tradition considerably.

My own woes are small. My mother, God love her, has baked me 52 birthday cakes. She couldn’t mail #53. Sniff sniff! I never went to Silver Lake’s state park, and I missed the Barnard Fire Dept. tag sale, Bethany Church TNT Auction, Tunbridge World’s Fair, knitting fireside with my Bostonian golf pahtnah, and other key events that mean, well, life in Vermont — either because the people I did those things with weren’t around or I thought them depressing to do alone. Relocating to a condo, I haven’t been to the dump in a year. Vermonters understand the social importance of the dump on Saturdays. I’ve never even seen a garbage truck here. We dump it. We give and get at the FREE table. We love it. I got my recipe for gravy (nod to the Valley News) at the dump. I miss it. I miss all those people and events.

Sadness sometimes means feeling sorry oneself – which our forebears pooh-pooh’d as self-indulgence but I believe humans are allowed to do – or sometimes sadness means grieving losses from change. The world ever changing, for the messier, my people are suffering. They’re losing their hair, teeth, bodies, savings, their minds. They are concerned about their parents — if they’re even alive — and their kids. And about Europe. Africa. The Americas The whole planet for God’s sake. It’s a lot to worry about. Troubling dreams besiege us. We are sad. Rattled.

Friends move away. Kids grow up. People and pets die. I’ve found that just getting out there and doing holidays differently instead of lamenting a past now gone does create a useful diversion. In California I spent many an odd holiday, with weird foods and people, but the casseroles exploded and turkeys were dropped and people fought and laughed – business as usual.

imagesIn the history of Vermont’s 14 counties on PBS, my favorite part was when, decades ago, a visitor noticed there were no squirrels in Winooski. His host advised this was because Vermonters ate them. I’ve spotted beefy squirrels across the Land this fall – big, meaty, good-eatin’ rodents. That turkey deep-fryer sitting in the barn? Fire it up and drop ‘em in there. So they don’t have wings. Big deal. Invite others who have no family and go local this Thanksgiving, with the bounty of your own back yard.

Some traditions remain. I will lovingly wash the dust from my decorative light-up Pilgrim’s little plastic fanny by autumn’s hazy light. We’ll buy winter boots on sale from a log cabin-y shoe store chain where the shoes are, seemingly, cobbled by elves. We’ll haul out the holly and spark up A Vibraphone Christmas and do a secret mitzvah. Nothing helps like helping someone else – fact. But if you can’t work that up, and sometimes you just can’t, slog back a hearty glass of Poor Me and have it. If you go through that terrible feeling, you’ll be on to the next. Emotions are fleeting.

Melancholy? Don’t give up! Things can turn around in a heartbeat. Something wonderful can enter your life. Leave a space open in your heart. Nature abhors a vacuum, as do the Great Oz and all other magical forces. Lost someone? Take in someone new. You might change their life. You, dear Reader, have changed mine, and for that I am thankful. Good gobblin’, and good day.

Trotting out an old column’s Turkey Day Sniglets® for your holiday pleasure:

Bloatilla – The fleet of bloated bodies littering the living room post-meal.

Candensation – Glistening moisture layer that forms on canberry sauce.

Exconversation – Labored dinner conversation with your sister’s creepy new boyfriend.

Goo-Goo Goggles – What your son must be wearing to see any merit in his new girlfriend.

Coochie Cool – The appeal of your niece’s cute new squeeze.

Loonesta – The senseless postulate posed by a crazy relative so late in the meal it puts you to sleep.

Yankee Panky – What the Pilgrims did after the feast to increase their number.

The Other Energy Potion

energy lgEvery young person I meet lately at a cash register or whatever is, like, all shaky. I think they’re pounding that bottled 12-hour AWAKE chemical crap.

Try this, kids. Slopeside Syrup. You won’t get rattled and it tastes good, too.

What’s It Excelling At Anyway?

xlerI’m friendly. I don’t necessarily recommend it, but it has its benefits. Like the convos I have in passing with strangers.

In a Vermont Welcome Center restroom, I thanked God aloud that there were paper towels in addition to the useless hand-drying machine. A woman and I agreed that the newer machines sound like F-16s and still don’t do any good. She noted how these things used to have instructions on them. You know, “Place hands under Sani-Master® and rub together.”

She said once she saw someone had scrawled below that,  “Then wipe your hands dry on your pants.”

I’d Hammer Out The Love Between

terrafoliage.comIf I had a hammertoe, which I do, I’d hammer out a warning. Which is what I do unintentionally, serving as a cautionary tale for others by saying, doing, and being the wrong thing a good deal of the time. Most often, thank God, egregious missteps and ill-planned embarrassments make for the best laffs later on. It’s hard to remember this when you’re in the thick of it.

My favorite foliage incident, aside from the time when a leafpeeper in Woodstock agonized endlessly over a close-up of a lone, colored leaf to his wife’s visibly thinning patience, was my own folly: years ago I grabbed my Minolta with old film still in it and took a friend, the King, auto touring to view our autumnal Vermont panoramas—like the postcard says—ablaze with color. I painstakingly lined up shots of the King against various ridgelines ablaze with color. When I found and developed the film (!) some two years later, the ridgelines were evenly aligned, the King handsomely framed, we were young again … not ablaze with color. The old film in my camera had been, apparently, black and white. I laughed and laughed. B&W foliage photos; I’d put the moron in oxymoron.

My most horrific tales of truly awful embarrassment are ones I save for special occasions. When a friend is terribly down and needs a diversion, I trot those babies out and we are howling so hard we are c r y i n g. Alas, for our purposes here: unprintable, Dear Reader.

Modern tymes have multiplied the speed and breadth of our errors one thousand-fold. Who hasn’t forwarded an email to exactly the wrong person, Replied All horribly, tweeted from the wrong Twitter account, or Facebooked a comment that was grossly misinterpreted and made an object of scorn by complete strangers? I don’t sweat most of that because there’s pretty much nothing I’d say about someone that I wouldn’t say to their face, and why people need to chronicle their entire lives on FB is a mystery to me that I’m openly cranky about. Really, I’m a bull in a china shop in there. I think of it as a service I offer.

thenounproject.comFacebook. Where I should be using a tweezers, I’m hammering away with a pickaxe. But come on, no one tells you anything anymore. You are expected to go into FB and find out. Which takes one hour. Every single time I go in there I waste an hour of my life on animal videos, faked graphics, and gooey, untrue comments (“You look like sisters!”), and I become aggravated. Who has time? And it’s a big, juicy venue for social gaffe-making. Not “juicy” in the way “juicy” has become a buzzword for, like, “sexy”; rather, juicy as in … I dunno … just … you’re in big trouble.

Work’s another dicey realm. With everything so bloody PC these days, it’s impossible not to offend someone — which was always case, only now there’s some crazy-awkward HR trial over it. In work meetings you may feel you talk too little or too much; if you don’t, rest assured that someone else thinks you do. It’s best to build a game around bizarre modern workplace foolishness with a trusted colleague. Then the pain becomes solid gold. Like my friends that text each other in meetings with “points” every time someone uses tiresome corporate language like “low-hanging fruit,” “cross-pollination,” or “maximizing synergistic mindshare.” They bet on who will sling the most BS in the meeting. It’s like playing the ponies only funnier and more wicked.

Suddenly: spring! Fall’s a perverse season, no? It starts out innocently enough, with a refreshing need for a light jacket, then BOOM it hammers you with icy winds and unexpected flakes. Then it’s 65. We roll with it. Because New Englanders have, another overused buzzword of late, grit. We’re tough as nails. When we’re not scrambling through unheated rooms on all fours for the box of winter clothes, frantically dialing mechanic shops with everyone else who’s realized it’s snow tire time, we’re pretty tough.

bwpunkAs a lingering summer became fall and (eventually?) becomes winter in Vermont, we move in our wardrobes from cotton to fleece to wool, from pink to orange to brown to red to black. Juicily and with grit – like a pomegranate, fall’s favorite fruit – we march in our not-quite-warm-enough jackets from one holiday to the next, each in its own special way affording a magical stage upon which we can make a giant ass of ourselves. Magnificent. Good day.

Foliage Part Deux

part deuxUp north the reds are gone, leaving the oranges, yellows, evergreens, and sticks behind, You can see things you haven’t seen for months — train tracks, a dilapidated barn, a quaint and elderly outhouse, endless fields.

Next up, part trois:  stick season! My favorite.