Around Here

One of our dirt roads

I get out in my car a lot. Sometimes just to go for what I call a meandering drive.  No destination.  Just a chance to clear my head and take in some back road country greenery.  Many of the roads around here are dirt.  Since they become the mother of muddy roads in early spring, I avoid them in March and April.  But from May on, they're good as gold.  And better even than the paved ones with their "Rough Road" warnings because of all the potholes that, yes, do get filled in, of a fashion, but that still make you rattle as you drive over them.

So I've discovered some things about the drivers around here.  Often, if you're waiting to make a left turn, the oncoming cars can be very patient, stop, or slow down as they flash their lights, signaling you to turn.  So you smile and reply with the Thank You Wave.  But equally often, those waiting to turn onto a trafficked road will dash out smack in front of you, barely missing you.

And then, though cars should stop for pedestrians if they're in a cross-walk, you can guess that they often don't.  When a car does stop, the pedestrian gives a little wave.  A "Thank you for letting me cross without running over me."  It reminds me of when I was in San Francisco once, wanting to cross busy Van Ness Avenue.  I had no more than gotten to the cross-walk than, as if by magic, ALL the cars stopped for me.  I felt like saying, "It's okay, guys, I'll wait my turn."  But, no, they were saying, "It's the law here; we have to stop for you so you go right on ahead."  Well, it's the law here, too, but drivers can be oblivious.

Then, another thing.  Different subject.  A couple of days ago as I was driving along a main street, I passed a man in his pajamas walking his dog.  Or people dress as if their day's main chore is to clean out the garage or change their car's oil ... which it very well may be.  Or men on bicycles wear too-low trousers.  Then there's the woman with a short skirt over her long night-gown.  It made me want to write a whole posting about the missing art of Taking Pride in One's Appearance ... which seems to rank maybe #103 on a scale of the fifty most important things in one's life.  When you do see people nicely dressed, you have to guess they're lawyers or tourists from foreign parts.  There, got that off my chest.

Downsizing

How's this for downsizing!

With "downsizing" being the operative word these days, especially in my age group, I've been looking for another house to buy for a long time but have only come up with two possibilities--each of which would have required a contingency clause:  I buy yours when I sell mine. Neither seller would, in fact, accept that ... and my realtor tells me that (since I'm not going to do a mortgage) I need to sell first, move into a temporary rental, then find something, then move again.  And I counter with:  moving once is bad enough but moving twice?!  (All of you in my age group will know how much energy we've got for that sort of thing!)

Nonetheless, feeling that I need to be responsible for the years ahead, I want to go from what is basically a three-story house counting the cellar (with washer/dryer, garage) to something on one level. But it's not a given that, once moved, I'll find a suitable place very soon--something easier, less expensive to maintain. Plus something with a garage--no having to dig the car out in the winter to go anyplace.  Nor can it be on one of our many dirt roads--which turn into mud pits for a couple of months each spring.  I'm not about to get stuck off in some backwoods spot, especially since cell phones often don't work there.  (One friend recently said that in their entire house, they have one chair upstairs where they can get reception.)

A lot of the problem is that the town, which is not very big, is old with a limited choice.  Either the houses are enormous (three-story Victorian heat guzzlers), the same size I have now, or just not for me.  And then new single levels are being rented, not sold, and all for high prices.

But I've long since started the downsizing part, going through everything I own more than once, putting piles in two yard sales, our "experienced goods" store, used bookstore, and local dump.  I've taken sheets of music to the music school, books to two libraries, and various things to friends and neighbors.

With all this behind me, I've now called my realtor to come and tell me what she thinks my house will sell for.  So, in preparation for her visit, I've been spiffing things up.  I've gotten the roof problem repaired and front entryway ceiling re-plastered after that ice dam leakage this winter.  I've had all the windows washed.  The yard raked for its spring clean-up.  The outdoor furniture and pots brought out.  I've cleaned up the cellar. Planted pansies. Tidied and uncluttered the house.  Just before she comes, I'll set out a bouquet or two of tulips.

Then we'll just see what happens.

  

With Love and Remembrance

Hanuman Dhoka

13th century temple

Pots and barbers on temple steps

Little Swayambhu

Vadyasatra

Nyatpola, Bhatgaon
(It survived.)

Drying rice

The bazaar

Durbar Square, Patan

Farm house, Kathmandu Valley

Getting there:  the road from India

Transmission .... Received??

Something has been going on these three weeks since I returned from California.  Which has left me if not exactly amused, at least a bit befuddled.  Of course, change means getting rid of the old to make way for the new.  But I'm also wondering "if there's a message here."

Since coming back, my computer has given out.  My car has bit the dust.  My kitchen radio (a nice short wave perpetually tuned to NPR) has ceased to function.  One of my digital cameras no longer works.  And my battery charger seems kaput.

I've had to replace two of my three (land line) telephones plus my computer keyboard.  I've sent emails that haven't arrived.  The Messages application on my laptop froze.  And though it still works, my modem is temperamental.

Then, after my computer tech came to get my p.c. tower--to diagnose the problem and then switch all my files to another one--I haven't been able to find my speakers.  No, he didn't take them with him, no reason to do that.  But I have no memory of moving them myself.  Weird!  I've looked everywhere.

On top of all that, I've been having throat problems which as every New Ager knows is the speech chakra. There does seem to be something of a theme here.

So, what's the message:  Time to Move and Find Your Next House?  (That's next week's posting.)  Time to Find a Better Climate?  Time to REALLY Downsize?  Or as my saggy internet connection says, Problem Loading; Retry.  Hmmmm .....

Well, at least while all this has been going on, the last of my snow piles has melted and daffodils have come out all over town.  Despite a few renegade flakes yesterday, winter is over, hurray!  Time to get the pots out of the cellar.  Have the yard raked.  (Spring clean-up, it's called.  I used to do it myself, but no more.)  Get my entryway ceiling re-plastered that fell down after an ice dam on the roof had its way.  And have the windows washed.  At least I now have a newish computer up and running.  And I've just bought a car.

The Oral Tradition: Remembering Donald

I recently had a ditty going through my head that harked to a family member who had a fine repertoire of word-play.  Wit, humor of the G-rated, family-oriented variety, was important to him whether he might decide to recite something when guests came to dine or when a child was working on her mashed potatoes.  Some of these, in turn, were repeated from his own childhood in an English-speaking Canadian household.  The humor magazine Punch was well thought of there.  Edward Lear was often quoted. Lewis Carroll.  The humor harked more to 19th century Britain than to 20th century North America and did not have what I might call a contemporary edge.  Though irony certainly had its place. 

His periodic repetition of these little limericks, nonsense word plays, jokes did not detract from them.  He used to say that jokes, like wine, got better with age.  In fact, they seemed to.  So that now when one comes to mind, I can still chuckle over it.  I can remember the twinkle he'd get as he was reciting it.  The amused looks of those who were listening.

Some lines from Punch were part of the repertoire.  "Her hair's her crown and glory and oughtn't to be tampered with" as one char said of another whose coif looked as if it had never seen a comb.

He liked to come up with his own witticisms, as well, saying, "Shampoo is better than real poo" and "Champagne is better than real pain."

He loved the Dr. Doolittle books and said that Dr. D. was the supreme scientist--who, when capsized, reached for first, and thus saved, his scientific journals.

He once copied limericks into a little black notebook.

The Reverend Henry Ward Beecher
Called a hen a most elegant creature.
The hen, pleased with that
Laid an egg in his hat
And thus did the hen reward Beecher.

A young man named Fiddle from Brie
Intended a preacher to be
But he shouted "Nay Nay"
When he found out one day
That he then would be Fiddle, D.D.

There was a young lady named Bright
Whose speed was much faster than light.
She set out one day
In a relative way
And returned on the previous night.

Then he told the story about a train conductor approaching a passenger carrying a turtle.  In explaining the cost of transporting animals, the conductor said, "Cats is dogs and birds is dogs, but this here turtle's an insect and there ain't no charge for it."

Goofy, silly, funny, amusing, corny, punny. 

He liked to say, "If you get there first, make a blue line.  If I get there first, I'll rub it out."  Or, he'd tell of the time a salesman came to his door and he told the man, "I can't buy anything; I'm illegible," at which the man looked startled and promptly left.

With what would have been his birthday coming up this week, I put this out into the ethers.

Lost Edges

Pink Peony

I want to talk about a technique I found myself using and expanding on as I began doing more and more painting some years ago.  What happened was this:  I knew that everything I was painting was too careful, too tight.  I wanted a freer expression.  So I began dropping edges.  Letting the paper carry the image off and away ... knowing the brain would be able to "fill in" those images without any difficulty.

I've included some of these images in past blog postings but I'm pulling them out again to illustrate this specific topic.  As you see, dropping the edges, not articulating them adds an ethereal quality.  A mystery, even.  And it works with watercolor, especially, since one only needs to add water and let the puddling, the mystery do its work without having to touch it again.

So for you painters out there, I share this with you and urge you to try it.  Just be casual about it and have fun.

Peony Epiphany

Three Daffodils

April Morning

Untitled Petunias

N.B.  This posting begins my blog's fifth year.

Home Again, A Few Last Notes from My California Trip

1.  On my flight from Boston to San Francisco (and then back again), everyone around me was ordering diet soda when the attendants came with the drinks cart.  On looking around--according to their laptops--I'd already discovered that these were people doing work on brain function, politics in the Philippines, etc.  I figured, as the BOS-SFO crowd, they represented a pretty well-educated group--MIT, Harvard, Tufts, Stanford, Berkeley, etc. So why was it they were so blithe (shall we call it) about the ingredients in diet soft drinks and how those chemicals affect the body.  (Badly.)

2.  I also found myself deluged with background music in the form of what my father called Noise.  Xylophones, horns, tinkly pianos all in an indistinguishable soup.  No let up.  That or background TV's.  Including four going at once during breakfast at the Marriott ... as if I wanted to hear more awful news over toast and coffee.  The hotel lobby was jangling as well.  The airport shuttle driver had his radio on.  More dithering played in the airport. Later:  department stores, book stores, restaurants, coffee shops.  So what is this!  Do we need constant distraction?

3.  Cra-zee in Santa Barbara.

• Rather than pants, women now wore tights.  As if they've just come from yoga class.
• The homeless sprawled on library and church lawns, slept on sidewalks, spent the day on the art museum steps, made use of bus-stop benches--one even hanging her laundry there.  900 homeless in Santa Barbara alone.  As one local told me, with its ideal climate, "You don't die here if you sleep outside at night."  
• Baby buggies now seemed the size of small European cars.
• In one major department store where I went to take in the SoCal scene, I found myself in such overload, I had to leave again.   I decided there was more choice there than in all the stores in my state of Vermont.  "Here I am; look at me," every item called out.
• Outside, scruffy buskers played guitars and sang with one objective--volume.  One fellow beat a drum and shouted the single word, "AGAIN ... AGAIN ..." 
• Skate-boarders feeling invincible, whizzed down the main street, daring stop lights and traffic.
• Passersby gestured to no one as they carried on phone conversations.
• As for the real estate market, it STARTED at a half a million and that most likely for a mobile home now called a "manufactured home."
• And as for Cra-zee Great, how's THIS for a fabulous bookstore, Chaucer's Books, one of THE best-stocked I've ever seen.

4.  Finally, is this English?  "To come into budget is like yeah."