The rumors are true. I am attending the community college. I finally gave in to all the social pressure and signed up and filled out all the financial aid forms and took the placement test to prove that I could read and made myself look somewhat normal on paper while fighting my desire to be perfectly honest and tell the college that my high school philosophy class consisted of a long, in depth conversation on the internet with an atheist from Denmark about the nature of good, evil, suffering, and free will. That was a long sentence. It was an interesting process that ended in a head ache and a bag full of over priced text books. I didn't have four or more years of training in high school to prepare me for all the carrying of books. My shoulders hurt. I'm going to invest in a rolling back pack. So far that's the only draw back to my previous home education. I'm doing pretty well in all of my classes and all that. I'm excited for the part where it gets hard, academically, that is. The getting up before the sun, riding the bus with weirdos and generally not having as much time as I formally enjoyed for the important things in life, like reading and playing with little brothers is hard. Good grief, that's a long sentence too.
I'm taking an Literature class in which our teacher thinks of elaborate ways to keep us busy so she doesn't have to talk. But it requires reading so I can enjoy that. I don't like Greek tragedies, but next we get to read Shakespeare so I should be ok.
My music theory class is getting more fun now. We are getting to things I am less familiar with. It's good to review. I hope we get to some new stuff before the semester ends.
And my art class. In this one I can tell that I'm learning. Ouch. But it's a good kind of ouch. I've never had an excuse to buy all sorts of art supplies I don't know anything about. Then suddenly I found myself in an art store with a long list of things that I was required to have. (YeeeHaaa!) It made me very happy. Now, where can I use these things without risking my brother's digestive system? That is the question. I got to use charcoal for the first time. All sorts of good stuff like that.
So, that's what I'm "Up To" for all of you who ask regularly. And if you miss my more regular posting, you can blame formal education.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
Belated reflections
I wrote this sometime several months ago; maybe early July, when I was missing my violin so much. My mind works at an incredibly slow pace. There is a long period of information gathering, then a long period of processing information and forming opinions (that part can take years) and eventually I might be able to articulate it all. Then, some months later, I feel ready to share. Oh, well, here are some belated opinions on things I heard in Malibu.
The Violin is a really awesome instrument. When I went to Malibu, there was all that emphasis on a cappella as the only kind of music suitable for worship. It got me thinking about why I played violin for five years and why it's still so special to me. Did that make any sense? Probably not. I was hearing people say that man made instruments, like the violin, were unworthy of God's praise. I tried to imagine going to church and never hearing anything but the human voice. There is that saying about singing and praying twice. I can't remember which way it goes now cause our choir director always said "he who sings prays twice." but I seem to remember hearing "he who prays twice sings." That has always made a lot of sense for me, either way. I plan to spend most of my eternity singing. Ah, heaven, where there is no such things as a sore throat. But the problem with singing your prayer is that singing almost always involves words. Catholics have the reputation (mostly true) for being no good at spontaneous prayers, we're just an inarticulate lot when it comes to talking to our creator. It's just so much easier to say what we mean by reciting psalms or the Lords Prayer. But sometimes even these fail us and this is the reason I can't say that only the human voice can truly worship God.
When you play an instrument like a violin, you end up carting it around with you a lot of places. Carrying it around so much, I always harbored a hope that I would find myself in an empty church with my violin and no one else around. It happened a few times and I would play all the hymns I could think of by ear plus some improvisations of my own and this was a deep form of prayer for me. I didn't need words. Words would not have been enough.
Anyone who has heard some of the religious music of Bach and so many others knows you don't really need the words to pray those songs. After the communion hymn is over in some parishes there is an instrumental piece which serves as a meditation. I hate it when they pick songs with words for that, it kind of defeats the purpose: they should have songs that let every heart provide it's own words or let Jesus sing to each heart alone.
The Violin is a really awesome instrument. When I went to Malibu, there was all that emphasis on a cappella as the only kind of music suitable for worship. It got me thinking about why I played violin for five years and why it's still so special to me. Did that make any sense? Probably not. I was hearing people say that man made instruments, like the violin, were unworthy of God's praise. I tried to imagine going to church and never hearing anything but the human voice. There is that saying about singing and praying twice. I can't remember which way it goes now cause our choir director always said "he who sings prays twice." but I seem to remember hearing "he who prays twice sings." That has always made a lot of sense for me, either way. I plan to spend most of my eternity singing. Ah, heaven, where there is no such things as a sore throat. But the problem with singing your prayer is that singing almost always involves words. Catholics have the reputation (mostly true) for being no good at spontaneous prayers, we're just an inarticulate lot when it comes to talking to our creator. It's just so much easier to say what we mean by reciting psalms or the Lords Prayer. But sometimes even these fail us and this is the reason I can't say that only the human voice can truly worship God.
When you play an instrument like a violin, you end up carting it around with you a lot of places. Carrying it around so much, I always harbored a hope that I would find myself in an empty church with my violin and no one else around. It happened a few times and I would play all the hymns I could think of by ear plus some improvisations of my own and this was a deep form of prayer for me. I didn't need words. Words would not have been enough.
Anyone who has heard some of the religious music of Bach and so many others knows you don't really need the words to pray those songs. After the communion hymn is over in some parishes there is an instrumental piece which serves as a meditation. I hate it when they pick songs with words for that, it kind of defeats the purpose: they should have songs that let every heart provide it's own words or let Jesus sing to each heart alone.
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Our Lady of Sorrows.
September means a lot of things to people: the end of summer, back to school, so many things starting and ending. The month is dedicated to Mary in the Catholic Church. It sure seems like a lot of months are dedicated to Our Lady but I can't think of anyone better to dedicate September to. Specifically, September is dedicated to Our Lady of Sorrows. Mary has a lot of titles too. But when you think about it, everyone has a lot of titles, no one is just one thing to everyone.
The Church gives us these feast days for Our Lady to call attention to some aspect of her that may be helpful to us in our journey to heaven. There are seven moments of sorrow in Mary's life that we are asked to reflect on:
1. The Prophecy of Simeon.
2. The Flight into Egypt.
3. The Loss of the Child Jesus for Three Days.
4. Meeting Jesus on the Way to Calvary.
5. The Crucifixion and Death of Jesus.
6. Jesus Taken Down from the Cross.
7. Jesus Laid in the Tomb.
There you pretty much have the spectrum of suffering for a womanly heart: Impending doom through the death and burial of a child.
I could rant about how amazing Mary is for a very long time. Our Lady of Sorrows is possibly my favorite Marian feast. When I read the scripture accounts of the seven sorrows and put myself in Mary's place, reflecting on her feelings and thoughts as a mother, as a woman, and I know she had perfect trust in God, (as she demonstrated when she agreed to bare His Son) my respect and admiration for her grows so much. And, just as she said in the Magnificat, I always find myself thanking God and seeing Him magnified in her.
I put two different settings of the Stabat Mater on the music player. The Stabat Mater is a beautiful prayer in Latin that is traditionally associated with the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. It depicts Mary standing at the foot of the cross. Lots of composers have written music for this prayer. The English translation is also very nice though when you sing it, it must be in Latin. My favorite version is a very modern choral piece that I heard the Gonzaga choir sing two years ago. I can't remember the composers name. But anyway, these two are kind of interesting cause they contrast so much. I've heard the first one somewhere before but the more modern one is totally new to me and I'm not sure what I think of it. There's no rule that says you can't have a synthesizer in a setting of Stabat Mater but somehow is seems wrong to me. Not to mention the drums.
Here is the English translation:
The Church gives us these feast days for Our Lady to call attention to some aspect of her that may be helpful to us in our journey to heaven. There are seven moments of sorrow in Mary's life that we are asked to reflect on:
1. The Prophecy of Simeon.
2. The Flight into Egypt.
3. The Loss of the Child Jesus for Three Days.
4. Meeting Jesus on the Way to Calvary.
5. The Crucifixion and Death of Jesus.
6. Jesus Taken Down from the Cross.
7. Jesus Laid in the Tomb.
There you pretty much have the spectrum of suffering for a womanly heart: Impending doom through the death and burial of a child.
I could rant about how amazing Mary is for a very long time. Our Lady of Sorrows is possibly my favorite Marian feast. When I read the scripture accounts of the seven sorrows and put myself in Mary's place, reflecting on her feelings and thoughts as a mother, as a woman, and I know she had perfect trust in God, (as she demonstrated when she agreed to bare His Son) my respect and admiration for her grows so much. And, just as she said in the Magnificat, I always find myself thanking God and seeing Him magnified in her.
I put two different settings of the Stabat Mater on the music player. The Stabat Mater is a beautiful prayer in Latin that is traditionally associated with the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. It depicts Mary standing at the foot of the cross. Lots of composers have written music for this prayer. The English translation is also very nice though when you sing it, it must be in Latin. My favorite version is a very modern choral piece that I heard the Gonzaga choir sing two years ago. I can't remember the composers name. But anyway, these two are kind of interesting cause they contrast so much. I've heard the first one somewhere before but the more modern one is totally new to me and I'm not sure what I think of it. There's no rule that says you can't have a synthesizer in a setting of Stabat Mater but somehow is seems wrong to me. Not to mention the drums.
Here is the English translation:
At the Cross her station keeping,
stood the mournful Mother weeping,
close to Jesus to the last.
Through her heart, His sorrow sharing,
all His bitter anguish bearing,
now at length the sword has passed.
O how sad and sore distressed
was that Mother, highly blest,
of the sole-begotten One.
Christ above in torment hangs,
she beneath beholds the pangs
of her dying glorious Son.
Is there one who would not weep,
whelmed in miseries so deep,
Christ's dear Mother to behold?
By the Cross with thee to stay,
there with thee to weep and pray,
is all I ask of thee to give.
She beheld her tender Child,
Saw Him hang in desolation,
Till His spirit forth He sent.
For the sins of His own nation,
She saw Jesus wracked with torment,
All with scourges rent:
Can the human heart refrain
from partaking in her pain,
in that Mother's pain untold?
O thou Mother! fount of love!
Touch my spirit from above,
make my heart with thine accord:
Make me feel as thou hast felt;
make my soul to glow and melt
with the love of Christ my Lord.
Holy Mother! pierce me through,
in my heart each wound renew
of my Savior crucified:
Let me share with thee His pain,
who for all my sins was slain,
who for me in torments died.
Let me mingle tears with thee,
mourning Him who mourned for me,
all the days that I may live:
Let me, to my latest breath,
in my body bear the death
of that dying Son of thine.
Virgin of all virgins blest!,
Listen to my fond request:
let me share thy grief divine;
Wounded with His every wound,
steep my soul till it hath swooned,
in His very Blood away;
Be to me, O Virgin, nigh,
lest in flames I burn and die,
in His awful Judgment Day.
Christ, when Thou shalt call me hence,
by Thy Mother my defense,
by Thy Cross my victory;
When my body dies,
let my soul be granted
the glory of Paradise. Amen.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
The Great List of things I learned this summer.
- Don't put styrofoam in the oven. It will melt and evaporate into a foul smelling fume and ruin your dinner.
- Camping in a marsh may result in a wet sleeping bag.
- I can make a chicken soup! Sort of.
- When you start seeing big gray patches where the face of the person next to you should be, it's probably a sign of an oncoming migraine head ache. Going to bed immediately is advised. Running up and down stairs, hills and eating giant breakfasts are NOT recommended.
- Never underestimate my father's ability to make last minute plans.
- Remember that when ever you run down a hill, you will eventually have to climb up it again.
- When challenging your twelve-year-old cousin to a water fight, make sure you have a bigger gun.
- Beethoven piano sonatas must be listened to with my dad narrating to be fully enjoyed.
- Maleny thinks she's invincible. When you agree to teach her to ride her bike, be aware of this fact.
- You can get almost anything you want using only monosyllable words like "ai," "uh," and "umm" and pointing at things, but you have to have have Big Blue Eyes and a mouth full of only five teeth.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Jessie
I work for a woman who was born in 1912. Her name is Jessie and she's an "little Catholic Italian lady." Talking to Jessie is like talking to a piece of History. She has an amazing memory. She tells wonderful vivid stories; painting a picture for me of the world she lived in. I have been doing chores for her in the evenings since early June. Now that the summer is almost over I thought you would like to hear some stories from this amazing little old lady who has lived through so much. I'll try to reproduce her way of talking. That will be very difficult cause it's her inflection that does it.
Her father ran a restaurant.
"We didn't have a bathroom in the building. There was one of those out houses; little wooden shed sort of... There was a mean old rooster... He wouldn't let me by to use the out house! I was so afraid of him; he was bigger than me! Well, I was just a little thing... three or four."
"You know, they hadn't invented things like the... freezer. We had a..." -- gestures vaguely with her frail arms -- "We called it an ice box. The ice man would come every morning in a wagon and give us our ice."
Me: "How did they make the ice back then, Jessie?"
--Long pause-- "I don't know! I guess they must have... I don't know!"
Her father lost his eye sight when Jessie was still a young girl. She told me how it happened once but I've already forgotten. Her mother took over the management of the restaurant. It was hard on her father to have his wife running the business but there was a nice German man who lived near by and kept him company sometimes; reading to him and talking. "He was a Darling Man! He had five girls, but they were all grown up. He made the best dandelion wine."
"I wonder how my mother did it; with my brother still nursing and us in school. That wasn't normal in those days; having a woman working like that." There sure are a lot of strong, intelligent women in Jessie's family. Her grandmother, she told me on an other occasion, also defied social norms by running her husbands grocery store while he was working on the railroad.
Jessie grew up and lived most of her life here in my home town and even in my neighborhood. She had watched it grow and change SO much over the years. She showed me an old print of the street where her family restaurant was. It's the same corner I drive by every week when I go to the library but it's not recognizable at all. The photo is of a parade. There are two horse drawn, circus style wagons all brightly painted (you can tell, despite the vague black and white shapes that portray them) and Jessie says there are lions inside. There is a park now where her family business used to be. Either that or a parking lot. I'm not even sure what side of the street it was on. I'm so thankful that my city has persevered some of it's older buildings. I love to hear stories about places I can still visit.
"My brother worked at the Davenport hotel. He cleaned the change." (Puzzled look from Karen) "When you got change from the Davenport it was all shiny and new looking. Cause they washed it down in the basement. I used to always give them my dirty change. I would go there for lunch. When I really wanted a treat there was a tea room upstairs. I loved to go up there and see all the lights and fancy things. I would have (name of some food I'd never heard of.) They don't make things like that any more. Has your mother ever made you that?" No.
There is a very old cook book in her pantry. She told me it was older than her. Then we looked at the copy right date and it was the year she was married but that still makes it pretty darn old. There are lots of strange recipes that I have never tasted. Some of them sound better than others. Jessie loves to cook and has her own way of doing everything. She knew her old stove like a good friend but this new one cooks things too hot and fast so she uses a hanger between the burner and her pot when she makes oatmeal.
She remembers her excitement the first time she got to vote. That boggles my mind. She was not one of the first women to vote but she was eight when the nineteenth amendment passed. So it was still a pretty new thing by the time she was old enough. WOW.
She has all sorts of old furniture in her little house. I get to polish the wood with home make furniture polish once in a while. There are also mirrors to clean with home made cleaner. There is a vacuum cleaner that must be from the fifties which we use for many things including getting dust out of the air. One day she asked me to vacuum some picture frames for her. "And be careful," she cautioned me. "those are about a hundred years old." I wish she wouldn't tell me things like that. I have found after moving around her tiny kitchen and her small house in general that I tend to bump into more things that I should. The china cupboard rattles and I hold my breath. Jessie is so hard of hearing that she doesn't notice but that doesn't make it any better for me.
There are a long list of ailments that Jessie must be careful of. She is always very cheerful about them. But it dose bother her when people make things more difficult than she thinks they ought to be.
"Now see this?" She hands me an empty cardboard box which had an eye drops in it recently. "Look in there." I oblige, not sure what I'm looking for. "There's a coupon printed in there! Now why would they hide it in a place like that. I've been throwing those boxes out. Well, I won't anymore. I could get a dollar off! They just raised the price three dollars. Now, that's a lot of money! Listen to me; three dollars is a lot of money. Well, it is. A penny is a lot of money. I always pick up a penny when I see one on the ground. I'll regret leaving it one day. When your a little old lady like me everything counts."
The next day:
"I called Safe Way and asked them why they took the price of my eye drops up three dollars. The young lady I talked to was very nice --her grandmother was Italian-- but they had to jack the price cause the company they buy it from did. So I called the company. I had to call someone else and I ended up calling a girl in Arizona. She said there is some marketing manager who took the price up. I told her to leave a message for him from me. Tell him, I said, that he ought to think about what he's doing to people. Old people have to get what they need and three dollars gets to be a lot of money. Maybe he should rethink his life a little. I bet they pay him a pretty penny. He doesn't need an extra three dollars but it's a big chunk to some of us."
I guess in the world where Jessie was born, people called each other up like that. You could just ask a business man to rethink his life if he jacked the price on something you needed. I pity the people she talked to that day. But, at the same time, I am glad she called. I hope that guy did rethink his life.
Everything does seem simpler back then. People seem friendlier.
"You know those lines they have all the way down the side walks? I don't know if they do it now. You'd go over them and your skates would go 'clicketty-clack clicketty-clack.' We would roller skate to (very specific street address that probably doesn't exist anymore) where they had that museum. There were all sorts of artifacts in there. We loved to look at them and there was a brother. He was a Jesuit brother, he always wore his habit and all. He was the door keeper. He was a darling man, his name was.... I can't remember his first name. I should go to the archives and look that up. I can't go, I'll have to send someone. He was a hunchback. He was a little shorter than me. Of course, I've lost two inches since then. We would go and ring the bell and after a little while he would come and open it with a big smile." (in her 'little kid' voice) "'Mr. (name) can we see your... Museum?' and he would always go around with us. I don't remember an elevator. We climbed up four flights of stairs. You read about door keepers in books. That's what he was; the door keeper."
Jessies faith is very important to her. For years I would see her in the pews at my home parish. "I'm as old as that church. It was dedicated in 1912 in October and I was born that year in October. They're not getting rid of me. They'll have to carry me out feet first. I think they ought to let me have a say in things."
Whether or not someone is Catholic and practicing always comes up when she describes anyone. (The other thing that gets mentioned is any Italian blood in the family.) Her among her favorite Saints is St. Frances Cabbrini, better known as Mother Cabrini, an Italian lady who immigrated to the United States and founded many hospitals, orphanages and churches including the parish my family currently attends. Mother Cabrini eat dinner at the house Jessie lived in once. She was there before Jessie lived there but Jessie loves to tell me about it anyway. She also loves Blessed Padre Pio, also an Italian. Mostly there are a million people she has known in her long life that she will be very glad to see again when she gets to heaven. Her husband Clyde is waiting there for her. I'm not sure if he was Catholic when they were married or not but it seems he was not practicing. She told me about how hard she prayed for him and how happy she was when he came back to the faith.
Being 96 she has been thinking about death and coming to terms with dieing for a while now. Recently she had pneumonia in both lungs. Somehow she pulled through. "I don't know why I'm still here. I'm just waiting to go home." There are certain things you get to do when you know you want be on this earth much longer. "I read that book. I'ts a great book. All about what you should eat for arthritis. But I like all the things they tell you not to eat so if you know anyone who can use it, their welcome to it." No need to sharpen her knives, they won't be in service much longer. It's worth it to buy expensive meat but not to buy a new dress for her grand daughter's wedding. It makes sense, really. She's so excited to be leaving soon. "I was just thinking about heaven; you know we won't have to do laundry. I'm passed the time when I have to cook for people. No more cooking in heaven." I'm very glad to know someone who is so unafraid and happy to grow old and wait for her call to come home.
This post keeps getting longer and I haven't even scratched the surface. She once saved a baby girl's life when the child's mother left her below the low tide mark on the beach. She owned several houses and has no end of stories about renters. She seems to remember every priest who ever preached at our parish. There are stories of miraculously answered prayers and people she regrets loosing contact with and still prayers for after so many decades. This is my favorite story. After writing several little intro paragraphs to it I decided it didn't really need one.
"I used to be prone to fainting when I was a little girl. I used to go to eight o'clock Mass every morning before breakfast. I would walk to the church before I eat. Once when Mass was just over I could tell I was going to faint and so I hurried out of there and made it to the convent that used to be close by there. I knocked on the door and the sister came and opened it. They still wore their habits back then. I just had time to say 'Sister, I'm going to... faint' And down I went. They took me into the parlor and I remember hearing sister call 'Quick! get the brandy!'"
Her father ran a restaurant.
"We didn't have a bathroom in the building. There was one of those out houses; little wooden shed sort of... There was a mean old rooster... He wouldn't let me by to use the out house! I was so afraid of him; he was bigger than me! Well, I was just a little thing... three or four."
"You know, they hadn't invented things like the... freezer. We had a..." -- gestures vaguely with her frail arms -- "We called it an ice box. The ice man would come every morning in a wagon and give us our ice."
Me: "How did they make the ice back then, Jessie?"
--Long pause-- "I don't know! I guess they must have... I don't know!"
Her father lost his eye sight when Jessie was still a young girl. She told me how it happened once but I've already forgotten. Her mother took over the management of the restaurant. It was hard on her father to have his wife running the business but there was a nice German man who lived near by and kept him company sometimes; reading to him and talking. "He was a Darling Man! He had five girls, but they were all grown up. He made the best dandelion wine."
"I wonder how my mother did it; with my brother still nursing and us in school. That wasn't normal in those days; having a woman working like that." There sure are a lot of strong, intelligent women in Jessie's family. Her grandmother, she told me on an other occasion, also defied social norms by running her husbands grocery store while he was working on the railroad.
Jessie grew up and lived most of her life here in my home town and even in my neighborhood. She had watched it grow and change SO much over the years. She showed me an old print of the street where her family restaurant was. It's the same corner I drive by every week when I go to the library but it's not recognizable at all. The photo is of a parade. There are two horse drawn, circus style wagons all brightly painted (you can tell, despite the vague black and white shapes that portray them) and Jessie says there are lions inside. There is a park now where her family business used to be. Either that or a parking lot. I'm not even sure what side of the street it was on. I'm so thankful that my city has persevered some of it's older buildings. I love to hear stories about places I can still visit.
"My brother worked at the Davenport hotel. He cleaned the change." (Puzzled look from Karen) "When you got change from the Davenport it was all shiny and new looking. Cause they washed it down in the basement. I used to always give them my dirty change. I would go there for lunch. When I really wanted a treat there was a tea room upstairs. I loved to go up there and see all the lights and fancy things. I would have (name of some food I'd never heard of.) They don't make things like that any more. Has your mother ever made you that?" No.
There is a very old cook book in her pantry. She told me it was older than her. Then we looked at the copy right date and it was the year she was married but that still makes it pretty darn old. There are lots of strange recipes that I have never tasted. Some of them sound better than others. Jessie loves to cook and has her own way of doing everything. She knew her old stove like a good friend but this new one cooks things too hot and fast so she uses a hanger between the burner and her pot when she makes oatmeal.
She remembers her excitement the first time she got to vote. That boggles my mind. She was not one of the first women to vote but she was eight when the nineteenth amendment passed. So it was still a pretty new thing by the time she was old enough. WOW.
She has all sorts of old furniture in her little house. I get to polish the wood with home make furniture polish once in a while. There are also mirrors to clean with home made cleaner. There is a vacuum cleaner that must be from the fifties which we use for many things including getting dust out of the air. One day she asked me to vacuum some picture frames for her. "And be careful," she cautioned me. "those are about a hundred years old." I wish she wouldn't tell me things like that. I have found after moving around her tiny kitchen and her small house in general that I tend to bump into more things that I should. The china cupboard rattles and I hold my breath. Jessie is so hard of hearing that she doesn't notice but that doesn't make it any better for me.
There are a long list of ailments that Jessie must be careful of. She is always very cheerful about them. But it dose bother her when people make things more difficult than she thinks they ought to be.
"Now see this?" She hands me an empty cardboard box which had an eye drops in it recently. "Look in there." I oblige, not sure what I'm looking for. "There's a coupon printed in there! Now why would they hide it in a place like that. I've been throwing those boxes out. Well, I won't anymore. I could get a dollar off! They just raised the price three dollars. Now, that's a lot of money! Listen to me; three dollars is a lot of money. Well, it is. A penny is a lot of money. I always pick up a penny when I see one on the ground. I'll regret leaving it one day. When your a little old lady like me everything counts."
The next day:
"I called Safe Way and asked them why they took the price of my eye drops up three dollars. The young lady I talked to was very nice --her grandmother was Italian-- but they had to jack the price cause the company they buy it from did. So I called the company. I had to call someone else and I ended up calling a girl in Arizona. She said there is some marketing manager who took the price up. I told her to leave a message for him from me. Tell him, I said, that he ought to think about what he's doing to people. Old people have to get what they need and three dollars gets to be a lot of money. Maybe he should rethink his life a little. I bet they pay him a pretty penny. He doesn't need an extra three dollars but it's a big chunk to some of us."
I guess in the world where Jessie was born, people called each other up like that. You could just ask a business man to rethink his life if he jacked the price on something you needed. I pity the people she talked to that day. But, at the same time, I am glad she called. I hope that guy did rethink his life.
Everything does seem simpler back then. People seem friendlier.
"You know those lines they have all the way down the side walks? I don't know if they do it now. You'd go over them and your skates would go 'clicketty-clack clicketty-clack.' We would roller skate to (very specific street address that probably doesn't exist anymore) where they had that museum. There were all sorts of artifacts in there. We loved to look at them and there was a brother. He was a Jesuit brother, he always wore his habit and all. He was the door keeper. He was a darling man, his name was.... I can't remember his first name. I should go to the archives and look that up. I can't go, I'll have to send someone. He was a hunchback. He was a little shorter than me. Of course, I've lost two inches since then. We would go and ring the bell and after a little while he would come and open it with a big smile." (in her 'little kid' voice) "'Mr. (name) can we see your... Museum?' and he would always go around with us. I don't remember an elevator. We climbed up four flights of stairs. You read about door keepers in books. That's what he was; the door keeper."
Jessies faith is very important to her. For years I would see her in the pews at my home parish. "I'm as old as that church. It was dedicated in 1912 in October and I was born that year in October. They're not getting rid of me. They'll have to carry me out feet first. I think they ought to let me have a say in things."
Whether or not someone is Catholic and practicing always comes up when she describes anyone. (The other thing that gets mentioned is any Italian blood in the family.) Her among her favorite Saints is St. Frances Cabbrini, better known as Mother Cabrini, an Italian lady who immigrated to the United States and founded many hospitals, orphanages and churches including the parish my family currently attends. Mother Cabrini eat dinner at the house Jessie lived in once. She was there before Jessie lived there but Jessie loves to tell me about it anyway. She also loves Blessed Padre Pio, also an Italian. Mostly there are a million people she has known in her long life that she will be very glad to see again when she gets to heaven. Her husband Clyde is waiting there for her. I'm not sure if he was Catholic when they were married or not but it seems he was not practicing. She told me about how hard she prayed for him and how happy she was when he came back to the faith.
Being 96 she has been thinking about death and coming to terms with dieing for a while now. Recently she had pneumonia in both lungs. Somehow she pulled through. "I don't know why I'm still here. I'm just waiting to go home." There are certain things you get to do when you know you want be on this earth much longer. "I read that book. I'ts a great book. All about what you should eat for arthritis. But I like all the things they tell you not to eat so if you know anyone who can use it, their welcome to it." No need to sharpen her knives, they won't be in service much longer. It's worth it to buy expensive meat but not to buy a new dress for her grand daughter's wedding. It makes sense, really. She's so excited to be leaving soon. "I was just thinking about heaven; you know we won't have to do laundry. I'm passed the time when I have to cook for people. No more cooking in heaven." I'm very glad to know someone who is so unafraid and happy to grow old and wait for her call to come home.
This post keeps getting longer and I haven't even scratched the surface. She once saved a baby girl's life when the child's mother left her below the low tide mark on the beach. She owned several houses and has no end of stories about renters. She seems to remember every priest who ever preached at our parish. There are stories of miraculously answered prayers and people she regrets loosing contact with and still prayers for after so many decades. This is my favorite story. After writing several little intro paragraphs to it I decided it didn't really need one.
"I used to be prone to fainting when I was a little girl. I used to go to eight o'clock Mass every morning before breakfast. I would walk to the church before I eat. Once when Mass was just over I could tell I was going to faint and so I hurried out of there and made it to the convent that used to be close by there. I knocked on the door and the sister came and opened it. They still wore their habits back then. I just had time to say 'Sister, I'm going to... faint' And down I went. They took me into the parlor and I remember hearing sister call 'Quick! get the brandy!'"
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Opera Spaghetti
Opera tastes like spaghetti. When ever I hear La Traviata I think of my dad and my grandparents and I smell spaghetti. It's so much fun to be Italian.
Opera is an acquired taste. And that doesn't mean it's something you like if you are forced to listen to it and there is nothing else available; like freeze dried meals. No one really likes them but you definitely acquire a taste for it when your other option is a peanut butter flavored power bar.
Opera is like the spaghetti sauce my dad makes with four or five cloves of garlic; it's REALLY good, but NOT for the fainthearted. You have to redefine your idea of what is normal cause it's a little bit extreme but once you do there are whole new levels of enjoyment to be explored.
Opera is an acquired taste. And that doesn't mean it's something you like if you are forced to listen to it and there is nothing else available; like freeze dried meals. No one really likes them but you definitely acquire a taste for it when your other option is a peanut butter flavored power bar.
Opera is like the spaghetti sauce my dad makes with four or five cloves of garlic; it's REALLY good, but NOT for the fainthearted. You have to redefine your idea of what is normal cause it's a little bit extreme but once you do there are whole new levels of enjoyment to be explored.
Wild berry hunting
A few years ago I was leading a girls club meeting in the summer and we had some time to kill so we were out in the yard playing 'refrigerator tag.' That's kind of a complicated game but suffice to say that it involves yelling out the names of random edibles and running around. So I was it and I yelled out "Huckleberries!" and everyone ran around. Turns out one visiting girl had never eaten a huckleberry before. This was shocking. She was from Southern California so it was explainable (you have to have a colder climate and mountains or giant hills) but it was still shocking cause the Huckleberry is a staple of the Northwestern American summer experience. It's just hard to imagine a life without Huckleberries. There is nothing quite like a huckleberry.
When describing a huckleberry it is fastest and simplest to say that they are a kind of wild blueberry. Unfortunately this description falls far short of conveying the full mystery, majesty and beauty of a huckleberry. Huckleberries resemble blueberries only in that they are small, round and grow on a bush.
This is a huckleberry bush. There are many varieties of huckleberries. This bush is taller and greener than some; the leaves are perhaps a bit wider than the average bush. Some have leaves with red and yellow splotches. These are usually lower to the ground. In some places you can find bushes that are so big you can pick on one side and a bear can eat on the other and you would never see each other. Okay, that's a tall tale told to me by a Montanan but I guess they can get pretty big in wetter places, like the middle or west side Washington.
The berries themselves are usually a blueberry size or smaller. In color they can be anywhere from red (like an under ripe blueberry) to deep purple or blue that is pretty much black.
You can walk along a path lined with bushes and every third berry you pick will have a different flavor. Some can be very tart, tangy or sweet. Some are closer to a raspberry or an apple even, in taste. I eat one recently that was spicy like cinnamon or something. It tasted like Christmas. They all have a kind of wild mountain tang to them.
The Huckleberry is a highly valued treasure cause they only grow wild. You have to climb into a mountain and go tromping around in the underbrush to find them. You risk the bears who don't want to share them and the bugs who want to eat you and the other underbrush that wants to get in your eyes and up you pant legs and down your socks. It's quite an adventure.
Savor your Huckleberries. They are good on their own but even better when mixed in something. When we go camping we put them in our oatmeal and pancakes. They are the perfect side dish for freshly caught and cooked mountain lake fish. If you get enough to make a pie, this is also to die for. Huckleberries in vanilla ice cream is my favorite. (Don't fall for the Huckleberry flavored ice cream. I don't know how they came up with that but it is all wrong.) The sweetness of the vanilla cuts through any tartness and compliments that mountain tanginess to perfection.
When a good day of Huckleberry picking is through, you can be proud of red and purple stained fingers and even a small bag full of juicy loot.
When describing a huckleberry it is fastest and simplest to say that they are a kind of wild blueberry. Unfortunately this description falls far short of conveying the full mystery, majesty and beauty of a huckleberry. Huckleberries resemble blueberries only in that they are small, round and grow on a bush.
This is a huckleberry bush. There are many varieties of huckleberries. This bush is taller and greener than some; the leaves are perhaps a bit wider than the average bush. Some have leaves with red and yellow splotches. These are usually lower to the ground. In some places you can find bushes that are so big you can pick on one side and a bear can eat on the other and you would never see each other. Okay, that's a tall tale told to me by a Montanan but I guess they can get pretty big in wetter places, like the middle or west side Washington.The berries themselves are usually a blueberry size or smaller. In color they can be anywhere from red (like an under ripe blueberry) to deep purple or blue that is pretty much black.
You can walk along a path lined with bushes and every third berry you pick will have a different flavor. Some can be very tart, tangy or sweet. Some are closer to a raspberry or an apple even, in taste. I eat one recently that was spicy like cinnamon or something. It tasted like Christmas. They all have a kind of wild mountain tang to them.
The Huckleberry is a highly valued treasure cause they only grow wild. You have to climb into a mountain and go tromping around in the underbrush to find them. You risk the bears who don't want to share them and the bugs who want to eat you and the other underbrush that wants to get in your eyes and up you pant legs and down your socks. It's quite an adventure.Savor your Huckleberries. They are good on their own but even better when mixed in something. When we go camping we put them in our oatmeal and pancakes. They are the perfect side dish for freshly caught and cooked mountain lake fish. If you get enough to make a pie, this is also to die for. Huckleberries in vanilla ice cream is my favorite. (Don't fall for the Huckleberry flavored ice cream. I don't know how they came up with that but it is all wrong.) The sweetness of the vanilla cuts through any tartness and compliments that mountain tanginess to perfection.
When a good day of Huckleberry picking is through, you can be proud of red and purple stained fingers and even a small bag full of juicy loot.
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