Riding home from the central library last night on the Green Line, my young fellow travelers reminded me that, regardless of how young I feel, the world sees something different.
I climbed aboard a packed trolley car on a wind-whipped, rainy day and squeezed my way through college students and young professionals carrying dripping umbrellas and backpacks. A woman jumped to her feet and offered me her seat.
Old lady comin' through. For God sakes, somebody let her sit down!
Having spent the whole day seated on a wooden library chair, I thanked her and declined.
Another old lady, maybe mid-40s, looked a little worried as she studied the route map.
Spotting the other old lady in the car [that was me], a glimmer of hope lit up in her eyes.
"Do you know the stop for Kendrick Hospital?" she asked.
Boston has dozens of hospitals, but I'd never heard of that one. Sorry, I said with what I hoped was a kind smile.
All around me, the iPhones and similar contraptions came out, and the thumbs were flying. Somebody called up a map and showed the lady where the hospital was.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
A Strange Week in Local Journalism
This week I covered two stories in Woburn, Mass. One was uplifting, the other baffling.
Monday I attended the MLK Luncheon sponsored by St. John's Baptist Church. Woburn is a very white place, and I've met few black residents while covering government and school functions. So I was disappointed that most of the church members at the event were not actually from Woburn, although some had lived there at one time.
The keynote speaker attended college at the height of the Civil Rights movement and went to jail for nonviolent protests. He lived with real injustices, like having to eat in the back room even at the restaurant where he worked. He went on to have a great career as an engineer and an entrepreneur and to provide a life of privilege for his children and grandchildren. But he still had a catch in his voice when he talked about those days.
He had paved the way to equality and then watched Obama take that road to the White House. I can't imagine what that felt like.
And it must have been bitter these past few months as support for health care reform dwindled along with support for Obama, whose star dimmed so quickly. This time last year, all things seemed possible, but now, Obama is just another disappointing politician.
He's so disappointing that a virtually unknown conservative Republican won Ted Kennedy's seat in the U.S. Senate yesterday. That was the second story I covered.
Speaking to voters as they left the polls, I made a disturbing discovery. People who voted for Martha Coakley identified specific reasons why: health care, gay marriage, education. People who voted for Scott Brown talked in generalities: a fresh new face, seems like an intelligent guy, no more business as usual. They knew little or nothing about his positions on the issues, or they didn't want to tell a reporter that they didn't want health care reform or gay marriage.
Even Brown volunteers had nothing to say about issues. The only Republican who actually mentioned issues to me was the chairman of the local committee. He said that people want health care reform, but they are worried that the Democrats have come up with the wrong plan.
As for the Democrats, their Coakley campaign broke all records for arrogance and incompetence, the very charges they recently leveled against George W. Bush.
Bush is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, he still deserved the respect of the office, and we liberals did not give that to him.
My sister Gerry pointed that out last month. Hearing people say that Obama is not their president and seeing him heckled by a congressman during a speech, she began to question some of the personal attacks against Bush when he was president.
And she made me think, too. It reminded me of a time at work when a co-worker, promoted to his Peter Principle level of incompetence, was really struggling. Instead of helping him, everybody gave him a hard time, including me. We were angry that he made our jobs harder. But it started to turn into bullying. That's when two of us started correcting instead of criticizing, and he improved.
I felt really horrible when I saw my complicity in what was happening to that guy, and that feeling came back when Gerry talked about liberals' treatment of Bush.
That doesn't mean we shouldn't make fun of the President. That is our privilege, even our obligation. But it has to come with some respect for the office.
Monday I attended the MLK Luncheon sponsored by St. John's Baptist Church. Woburn is a very white place, and I've met few black residents while covering government and school functions. So I was disappointed that most of the church members at the event were not actually from Woburn, although some had lived there at one time.
The keynote speaker attended college at the height of the Civil Rights movement and went to jail for nonviolent protests. He lived with real injustices, like having to eat in the back room even at the restaurant where he worked. He went on to have a great career as an engineer and an entrepreneur and to provide a life of privilege for his children and grandchildren. But he still had a catch in his voice when he talked about those days.
He had paved the way to equality and then watched Obama take that road to the White House. I can't imagine what that felt like.
And it must have been bitter these past few months as support for health care reform dwindled along with support for Obama, whose star dimmed so quickly. This time last year, all things seemed possible, but now, Obama is just another disappointing politician.
He's so disappointing that a virtually unknown conservative Republican won Ted Kennedy's seat in the U.S. Senate yesterday. That was the second story I covered.
Speaking to voters as they left the polls, I made a disturbing discovery. People who voted for Martha Coakley identified specific reasons why: health care, gay marriage, education. People who voted for Scott Brown talked in generalities: a fresh new face, seems like an intelligent guy, no more business as usual. They knew little or nothing about his positions on the issues, or they didn't want to tell a reporter that they didn't want health care reform or gay marriage.
Even Brown volunteers had nothing to say about issues. The only Republican who actually mentioned issues to me was the chairman of the local committee. He said that people want health care reform, but they are worried that the Democrats have come up with the wrong plan.
As for the Democrats, their Coakley campaign broke all records for arrogance and incompetence, the very charges they recently leveled against George W. Bush.
Bush is not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, he still deserved the respect of the office, and we liberals did not give that to him.
My sister Gerry pointed that out last month. Hearing people say that Obama is not their president and seeing him heckled by a congressman during a speech, she began to question some of the personal attacks against Bush when he was president.
And she made me think, too. It reminded me of a time at work when a co-worker, promoted to his Peter Principle level of incompetence, was really struggling. Instead of helping him, everybody gave him a hard time, including me. We were angry that he made our jobs harder. But it started to turn into bullying. That's when two of us started correcting instead of criticizing, and he improved.
I felt really horrible when I saw my complicity in what was happening to that guy, and that feeling came back when Gerry talked about liberals' treatment of Bush.
That doesn't mean we shouldn't make fun of the President. That is our privilege, even our obligation. But it has to come with some respect for the office.
Friday, January 15, 2010
A Few of My Favorite Things
The first moment of a simple pleasure is especially delightful:
When I first get under the covers on a chilly night.
The first sip of coffee in the morning.
Stepping out of the office and into Friday evening.
Pulling out onto the street with the car gassed up and packed for a trip to Harmony.
When I first get under the covers on a chilly night.
The first sip of coffee in the morning.
Stepping out of the office and into Friday evening.
Pulling out onto the street with the car gassed up and packed for a trip to Harmony.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Allston coming back to life after holidays
The students cleared out a few days before Christmas, leaving Allston deserted, but now that the holidays are over, they are back preparing for spring semester.
Sunday is shopping day, and the supermarket and sidewalks were jammed with young folks toting packages. Reflecting a new atmosphere of frugality, two students picked their way down the ice-banked sidewalk, each carrying two 12-packs of toilet paper.
In spite of their return, Brighton Avenue was fairly quiet late at night this weekend, thanks to bitter cold temperatures that kept the party people indoors.
Sunday is shopping day, and the supermarket and sidewalks were jammed with young folks toting packages. Reflecting a new atmosphere of frugality, two students picked their way down the ice-banked sidewalk, each carrying two 12-packs of toilet paper.
In spite of their return, Brighton Avenue was fairly quiet late at night this weekend, thanks to bitter cold temperatures that kept the party people indoors.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Christmas week in Harmony: Part Three
Last day of a relaxing week in the little cabin in Maine. The threatened storm turned out to be powerful but brief with less than 10 inches of snow, but the wind blew all the snow off the pine trees, erasing the "winter wonderland" feel of the place.
No matter. Sunday was above freezing and cloudy with occasional slush balls falling. Our plan to snowshoe in the woods was thwarted when we discovered we had a serious ice dam on the roof. I knocked down 5-foot icicles and got hit in the face with a shard, giving me a little cut on the lip. Ralphie of A Christmas Story fame would have been impressed.
We spent several hours breaking up the ice along the edge of the roof with a hatchet and raking off two feet of snow. Actually, Spencer spent several hours doing that while I held the ladder, handed him tools and dodged hunks of ice and snow. We were both soaked and freezing by dusk, but we got it done.
Afterwards, we got into dry clothes, stoked the fire, and sipped hot apple cider while watching football on TV. The most blissful hour of the whole week.
Tomorrow I drive back to Boston over precarious road conditions, but if I can get the little Scion 0.3 miles to the main road in town, it will be smooth sailing.
No matter. Sunday was above freezing and cloudy with occasional slush balls falling. Our plan to snowshoe in the woods was thwarted when we discovered we had a serious ice dam on the roof. I knocked down 5-foot icicles and got hit in the face with a shard, giving me a little cut on the lip. Ralphie of A Christmas Story fame would have been impressed.
We spent several hours breaking up the ice along the edge of the roof with a hatchet and raking off two feet of snow. Actually, Spencer spent several hours doing that while I held the ladder, handed him tools and dodged hunks of ice and snow. We were both soaked and freezing by dusk, but we got it done.
Afterwards, we got into dry clothes, stoked the fire, and sipped hot apple cider while watching football on TV. The most blissful hour of the whole week.
Tomorrow I drive back to Boston over precarious road conditions, but if I can get the little Scion 0.3 miles to the main road in town, it will be smooth sailing.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Christmas week in Harmony: Part Two
On New Year’s Day, it snowed lightly all day long, covering the pine trees surrounding the cabin with white powder and softening the footprints that humans, dogs and deer left in the snow.
We walked into town for such necessities as newspapers, mayonnaise and lemon pies, and squandered four dollars on losing lottery tickets.
Since the advent of all-digital broadcast television last year, we receive only ABC and Fox. Fortunately, we could tune in the Capital One and Rose Bowls, so we got our dose of college football to make it feel like New Year’s.
Both too exhausted last night to add late-night logs to the fire, we woke at 5 a.m. this morning toasty under three comforters despite an indoor temperature of 45 degrees. With patient tending, Spencer got a nice blaze going in the stove, and by 8:00, it was 55, tolerable if you wear several layers, sip lots of black coffee, and wrap yourself in a lap robe.
The predicted big storm is due in today with high winds. I plan to trudge into town in snowshoes for a newspaper.
We walked into town for such necessities as newspapers, mayonnaise and lemon pies, and squandered four dollars on losing lottery tickets.
Since the advent of all-digital broadcast television last year, we receive only ABC and Fox. Fortunately, we could tune in the Capital One and Rose Bowls, so we got our dose of college football to make it feel like New Year’s.
Both too exhausted last night to add late-night logs to the fire, we woke at 5 a.m. this morning toasty under three comforters despite an indoor temperature of 45 degrees. With patient tending, Spencer got a nice blaze going in the stove, and by 8:00, it was 55, tolerable if you wear several layers, sip lots of black coffee, and wrap yourself in a lap robe.
The predicted big storm is due in today with high winds. I plan to trudge into town in snowshoes for a newspaper.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Celtic Knotwork
For the past few months, I’ve been drawing Celtic knotwork.
I use the word “knotwork” as a general term for the interlaced borders and panels that decorate the Books of Kells and Lindisfarne, as well as illuminated manuscripts, metalwork and stone carvings throughout the ancient Celtic world. However, knotwork is actually one of several pattern types such as plaitwork, spirals and key patterns.
I use two pattern books for reference: Celtic Art: The Methods of Construction by George Bain; and The Treasury of Celtic Knots by Aidan Meehan. One style pattern is formed by a continuous ribbon whose course is amazing to follow; others use multiple ribbons, which can be distinguished using several colors.
I plot dots for the pattern on graph paper, requiring a bit of simple math and a lot of counting, similar to needlepoint. Using a light box to see the dots, I pencil in the path of the pattern as a single line on a sheet of plain drawing paper. Next, I sketch in double lines along the path to form a ribbon, doing my best to keep its thickness even through all the twists and curves.
My partner Spencer once looked over my shoulder at my dots and intersecting lines and said, “Good Lord!” At this stage, it looks like a needlessly complicated muddle.
Now for the tricky part. Before applying ink, I follow the entire pattern and erase overlapping lines to show where the ribbon weaves “over” and “under” as it intersects other ribbons and doubles back on itself. Next, I ink in the lines with a black, felt-tip pen and then erase all the pencil lines.
If the pattern has multiple strands, I take another journey along the intricate paths to color each with a different colored pencil,.
Finally, I fill in the background with a black Sharpie.
It’s a lot of physical labor for something that could be done more precisely in half an hour in Adobe Illustrator. So what’s the point?
Following these labyrinths as the original artists did is remarkably satisfying, a kind of meditation. As the mind focuses entirely on the path, all thoughts requiring words disappear.
And in the end, you have something elemental and beautiful.
Knotwork is also an excellent subject for pyrography.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Christmas week in Harmony: Part One
We came up to the cabin two days after Christmas to play and relax in the silent woods of Harmony. Our little cabin was 34 degrees inside when I opened the door. My big plan to greet Spencer with a blazing fire in the stove was thwarted by my inability to coax anything thicker than a pencil to burn.
Without a fire, the refrigerator doesn’t run, the water in the toilet stays frozen and you can’t turn on the water.
Spencer arrived with the groceries and got the stove going, and soon the place was warm enough that we could deal with a host of other calamities: the toilet would flush but not fill; cans of seltzer left in the refrigerator door had frozen, exploded and expanded so that, once opened, the fridge wouldn’t close.
But by sunset, we had everything running smoothly, and the place was cheerful again. Good thing, because our friend John came for brunch and a walk through the snowy woods the next day.
That night, the temperature plummeted to single digits, and the wind howled through the trees. We left the kitchen faucet trickling overnight to keep the pipes from freezing.
On the third day, as I washed my hair, the rubber shower mat began floating around my feet. The drain was frozen. After bailing out the shower stall, we boiled big kettles of water and poured it slowly down the drain. It didn’t work. The water just pooled up and had to be bailed again. We still had another option: we could shovel a path to the crawl space door, shimmy inside and heat the drain pipe with a hair dryer, but we decided we’d rather just take bird baths in the sink until April.
Though bitter cold outside, in the cabin it was a balmy 60 degrees, quite comfortable if you wear long underwear, sweat pants, a long-sleeved T-shirt, a sweat shirt and a cardigan sweater.
Spencer worked on a model airplane from a simple kit to which he has added bits and pieces to create a work of astonishing detail.
I drew a piece of Celtic knotwork, the elaborate, interwoven ribbon art found in the Book of Kells and on Irish music album covers. It’s my latest artistic passion.
On Wednesday, we drove to Skowhegan to stock up on batteries, water, cider, canned spaghetti and cake, among other things, to prepare for a pending storm.
Today, New Year’s Eve, the temperature has moderated to the mid-20s, but we’re bracing ourselves for three days of snow that could accumulate to two feet. I could have left today, but I wanted to stay and play in the snow, and we’re having a lovely week hanging out and sipping hot cider.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Smokin in Boston revisited
Lightning strikes twice!
Spencer and I were in the neighborhood of Symphony Hall and Berklee School of Music today, and once again, I smelled a fine cigar. Glanced around, and there was the red-headed woman I saw in May puffing a slim cheroot. This time, her hair was very curly, possibly a concession to the drizzly day when the natural look is the best grooming option.
Our mission was to find architectural model supplies for Spencer to use in crafting airplanes. He builds model planes 1/48th and 1/72nd scale, primarily up to 1950. We went to Dick Blick's in the Fenway and Utrecht across from Symphony Hall in search of tiny aluminum rods and thin sheets of plastic.
The area between Fenway and Mass. Ave. is one of my favorites in Boston. It's a little seedy in places, a bit upscale in others, and just teeming with creative types of all stripes. We lived near Fenway Park for a few years; used to abandon our dinner and rush to turn on the TV when we heard a cheer rise from the ballpark on summer evenings.
The place got too expensive, and when we finally bought a condo, Allston was as in-town as we could get on a shoestring. We love being a 3-minute walk from places selling everything from molly bolts to mandolin strings.
The only time we hate it is Saturday nights at 1 a.m. when we wish the college kids would either find someone to screw or go to bed alone.
Spencer and I were in the neighborhood of Symphony Hall and Berklee School of Music today, and once again, I smelled a fine cigar. Glanced around, and there was the red-headed woman I saw in May puffing a slim cheroot. This time, her hair was very curly, possibly a concession to the drizzly day when the natural look is the best grooming option.
Our mission was to find architectural model supplies for Spencer to use in crafting airplanes. He builds model planes 1/48th and 1/72nd scale, primarily up to 1950. We went to Dick Blick's in the Fenway and Utrecht across from Symphony Hall in search of tiny aluminum rods and thin sheets of plastic.
The area between Fenway and Mass. Ave. is one of my favorites in Boston. It's a little seedy in places, a bit upscale in others, and just teeming with creative types of all stripes. We lived near Fenway Park for a few years; used to abandon our dinner and rush to turn on the TV when we heard a cheer rise from the ballpark on summer evenings.
The place got too expensive, and when we finally bought a condo, Allston was as in-town as we could get on a shoestring. We love being a 3-minute walk from places selling everything from molly bolts to mandolin strings.
The only time we hate it is Saturday nights at 1 a.m. when we wish the college kids would either find someone to screw or go to bed alone.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Chess Pie
Spencer's sister Barbara asked me if I had her mom's recipe for Chess Pie, a rich, gooey, family favorite that was as important to the Morrow Thanksgiving as the turkey. It's nothing but butter, eggs, sugar and flavoring (including vinegar) baked in a pie shell.
Well, I've baked Candy Morrow's chess pie a dozen times and always with the same result: a sloppy mess that does not at all resemble the divine confection I had at her house. It doesn't matter how long I bake it; it never firms up.
So when I got Barbara's request, I didn't know whether to send her mom's version or my own, The Joy of Cooking's pecan pie without the nuts that includes a heretical ingredient, corn syrup. I also add the all-important vinegar. Spencer thought it would be silly to give her a recipe that doesn't work, and that I should just send mine without comment. As far as he is concerned, it's Chess Pie.
But given my love of family history, I felt obligated to preserve the authentic recipe from Barbara's mother's kitchen, so I sent it to her with the explanation that I can't make it work, and also sent my Pecan Pie Without Pecans.
And guess what?
Barbara has Candy Morrow's recipe, but it has never come out right for her either! She thought maybe she wrote it down wrong because she always ends up with a sloppy mess too, and that's why she requested the recipe in the first place.
So this year, she's making the kind with corn syrup, and I know from experience that it will be marvelous.
Well, I've baked Candy Morrow's chess pie a dozen times and always with the same result: a sloppy mess that does not at all resemble the divine confection I had at her house. It doesn't matter how long I bake it; it never firms up.
So when I got Barbara's request, I didn't know whether to send her mom's version or my own, The Joy of Cooking's pecan pie without the nuts that includes a heretical ingredient, corn syrup. I also add the all-important vinegar. Spencer thought it would be silly to give her a recipe that doesn't work, and that I should just send mine without comment. As far as he is concerned, it's Chess Pie.
But given my love of family history, I felt obligated to preserve the authentic recipe from Barbara's mother's kitchen, so I sent it to her with the explanation that I can't make it work, and also sent my Pecan Pie Without Pecans.
And guess what?
Barbara has Candy Morrow's recipe, but it has never come out right for her either! She thought maybe she wrote it down wrong because she always ends up with a sloppy mess too, and that's why she requested the recipe in the first place.
So this year, she's making the kind with corn syrup, and I know from experience that it will be marvelous.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
November in Harmony, Maine
At our little cabin, the rusty leaves are all down covering the yard and the floor of the woods.
The pointed evergreens, deep green cones reaching for the sky, dominate the landscape against the gray net of naked branches around them.
Mornings everything is frosty: cars, leaves, milkweeds. The milkweeds and cattails have exploded, sending their genetic messengers out into the world.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Second-time empty nester
After a stint in Europe, my son Jesse moved in with us for a couple of months. Most of the time, Spencer was in Maine, so it was just the two of us.
Having him as a roommate required adjusting shower schedules, different shopping habits, brewing more coffee each morning, and watching more ESPN. He slept on the fold-out and stowed his worldly goods next to the recliner. Not a very happy living situation for a 36-year-old.
It was stressful for him and for me, but it was also a gift to spend time with him. We haven't done much of that in recent years. We looked up stuff on the internet, went hiking in New Hampshire, talked on the fire escape, cooked dinner.
He's moving out this weekend, sharing a place with his old roommates. It will be great to have things "back to normal" in the apartment, and great for him to be able to do his own thing without his mom in the mix.
But a gentle sadness wells up inside me. I'll be away this weekend, and when I get home Monday, he and all his stuff will be gone.
I skipped the empty nest syndrome when he left at 18 because his father was very ill, and my mind was otherwise occupied.
To my surprise, I'm having it now.
Having him as a roommate required adjusting shower schedules, different shopping habits, brewing more coffee each morning, and watching more ESPN. He slept on the fold-out and stowed his worldly goods next to the recliner. Not a very happy living situation for a 36-year-old.
It was stressful for him and for me, but it was also a gift to spend time with him. We haven't done much of that in recent years. We looked up stuff on the internet, went hiking in New Hampshire, talked on the fire escape, cooked dinner.
He's moving out this weekend, sharing a place with his old roommates. It will be great to have things "back to normal" in the apartment, and great for him to be able to do his own thing without his mom in the mix.
But a gentle sadness wells up inside me. I'll be away this weekend, and when I get home Monday, he and all his stuff will be gone.
I skipped the empty nest syndrome when he left at 18 because his father was very ill, and my mind was otherwise occupied.
To my surprise, I'm having it now.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Birthday Barbie
For my birthday last week, Spencer got delicious cupcakes with bright green icing that made our fingertips look like the Jolly Green Giant’s.
I thought back to my 8th birthday, when I received a Barbie doll.
I already had a “Babette”, a disappointing knock-off that could wear Barbie clothes, but was made of squishy, unnaturally pink plastic like dolls won at a carnival.
However, my birthday present was the real thing by Mattel, sturdy, substantial, and beautifully tan, the classic Barbie with a blond ponytail and black-and-white-striped swimsuit.
She came with a wire stand, and I stood her up on my dresser and admired her that night before I went to bed. I loved her pouty, red mouth and her tiny feet permanently molded to accept little plastic high-heeled shoes.
I was totally infatuated with my Barbie, but more than the doll itself, I was infatuated with ownership. The next day at school, just knowing that she was on my dresser made me feel good, and I rushed up to my room that afternoon to look at her.
Few possessions have given me that Barbie feeling since. I felt the same thrill when I first walked out the door with a cell phone in my purse, even though I had not particularly wanted one and only got it when it became a business necessity. The feeling came back when I took my perfect, white Mac iBook out of the perfect, white box. Most recently, I got the Barbie joy when I took my new Dahon folding bike for a spin.
What do these items have in common?
I had coveted the Barbie, the iBook, and the bike, but I hadn’t cared about the phone until I had it.
All are well made. All but the bike were practically required equipment to be a contemporary human being (although the laptop doesn't have to be a Mac; any brand will do, as long as you use it occasionally in a coffee shop), and even the bike has a certain up-to-the-minute cache. Bicycles skyrocketed in popularity when gasoline topped $4 per gallon two years ago, and the Dahon is billed as “personal transportation.” Its advertising depicts hip, unique people always on the go and always ready for anything.
Perhaps what gives me the Barbie thrill, then, is becoming part of the contemporary community of owners of a well-designed thing.
I thought back to my 8th birthday, when I received a Barbie doll.
I already had a “Babette”, a disappointing knock-off that could wear Barbie clothes, but was made of squishy, unnaturally pink plastic like dolls won at a carnival.
However, my birthday present was the real thing by Mattel, sturdy, substantial, and beautifully tan, the classic Barbie with a blond ponytail and black-and-white-striped swimsuit.
She came with a wire stand, and I stood her up on my dresser and admired her that night before I went to bed. I loved her pouty, red mouth and her tiny feet permanently molded to accept little plastic high-heeled shoes.
I was totally infatuated with my Barbie, but more than the doll itself, I was infatuated with ownership. The next day at school, just knowing that she was on my dresser made me feel good, and I rushed up to my room that afternoon to look at her.
Few possessions have given me that Barbie feeling since. I felt the same thrill when I first walked out the door with a cell phone in my purse, even though I had not particularly wanted one and only got it when it became a business necessity. The feeling came back when I took my perfect, white Mac iBook out of the perfect, white box. Most recently, I got the Barbie joy when I took my new Dahon folding bike for a spin.
What do these items have in common?
I had coveted the Barbie, the iBook, and the bike, but I hadn’t cared about the phone until I had it.
All are well made. All but the bike were practically required equipment to be a contemporary human being (although the laptop doesn't have to be a Mac; any brand will do, as long as you use it occasionally in a coffee shop), and even the bike has a certain up-to-the-minute cache. Bicycles skyrocketed in popularity when gasoline topped $4 per gallon two years ago, and the Dahon is billed as “personal transportation.” Its advertising depicts hip, unique people always on the go and always ready for anything.
Perhaps what gives me the Barbie thrill, then, is becoming part of the contemporary community of owners of a well-designed thing.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Allston graffiti
Here's a couple of enigmatic graffiti declarations found around Allston, both done in an even hand in black spray paint:
JESUS IS A SHOE COMPANY
I AM THE LION KING
JESUS IS A SHOE COMPANY
I AM THE LION KING
Monday, October 12, 2009
Pyrography
It's a fancy word for wood-burning, as in drawing with a heated stylus on wood, as kids once did at scout camp before things like environmental studies and Photoshop came along. It's very earthy, the perfect craft for our cabin in Harmony, Maine. I've been playing with it for a couple of years drawing birds and making plaques with people's names.
My hairy woodpecker plaque won Second Place last year at the Harmony Fair. But it didn't go to my head because there was no first place, and the only other wood burner did a tray featuring Mickey Mouse and all the gang. I received a red ribbon and four dollars, which I squandered foolishly.
This weekend in Harmony, I made a plaque for my brother's upcoming birthday. It took me hours to draw the design and transfer it to the slab of wood, but only about half an hour to actually burn the image.
There are a couple of problems with this craft. I'd like to take a class or join a club so I can improve my technique, but I can't find any. Wood-carving clubs open their membership to wood burners, but most have few or no takers. I've also seen some fine work online by very talented artists, but the subject matter gives me pause. They favor portraits of John Wayne, eagles, and deer. And they all seem to be in Arizona and New Mexico.
So for the moment, I'm a New England wood-burners club with one member.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Omaha, October 2009
As my plane descended on its approach to the Omaha airport, it flew over an emerald baseball diamond completely surrounded by farmlands brown after the harvest but still showing their even furrows following the contours of the land.
Reflecting its surroundings, Omaha is an orderly place with clean, wide streets: no random storefronts among the tall office buildings, no irregular jutting in the architecture, no meandering streets. Everything is rectangular and spotless.
The occasion was my niece Julie’s wedding, a stylish celebration in orange and cream that spotlighted the creative genius and profound love the couple shares. On the door of the reception venue, a dance club, a sign said, “Closed for a private event.” What fun to be among the invited instead of the disappointed. We Kush sisters comprised the old generation, the gaggle of aunts at the elders’ table.
Three of us yukked it up in the hotel elevator after the party and told another passenger that we were sisters.
“Who’s the youngest?” he asked.
We froze.
That would be Betty. We had last gathered in Omaha four years ago for her funeral.
But in a flash, we recovered the festive mood and replied with good humor.
I’d opted to return to Boston at the crack of dawn Monday, and by mid-afternoon Sunday, the rest of the family had gone. Alone in a hotel in the heartland, I felt like the last person on the planet.
I wandered the streets of “NoDo,” the up-and-coming neighborhood north of downtown. I saw signs of an artsy community on the verge of bursting out: the Tip-Top Apartments in a rehabbed, 90-year-old factory; a sculptor’s studio in a low, orange-painted building, the lawn and driveway covered with metal creations. The place was deserted; no sensible person walks around downtown on Sunday evening.
At a squeaky-clean bar in the Tip-Top, I drank a Tall Grass beer brewed in Kansas and watched football while waiting for a to-go sandwich.
I was a long way from Boston, but even farther from the Midwest I knew when the nine Kush kids lived in Lake Zurich, Illinois, more than 50 years ago. We were together in that house for only a few years between Betty’s birth and Jackie moving out for college, but the experience still defines a part of each of us. We ended up in nine different states. Betty landed in Nebraska when our parents moved there, and she stayed.
Although Julie and Jason reestablished the Kush connection to Omaha after Betty’s children moved away, I sipped my beer and doubted I’d ever return. I had a strong feeling that at first felt like sadness, but before my sandwich arrived, I knew it was something else, an intimate awareness of the passage of time.
Reflecting its surroundings, Omaha is an orderly place with clean, wide streets: no random storefronts among the tall office buildings, no irregular jutting in the architecture, no meandering streets. Everything is rectangular and spotless.
The occasion was my niece Julie’s wedding, a stylish celebration in orange and cream that spotlighted the creative genius and profound love the couple shares. On the door of the reception venue, a dance club, a sign said, “Closed for a private event.” What fun to be among the invited instead of the disappointed. We Kush sisters comprised the old generation, the gaggle of aunts at the elders’ table.
Three of us yukked it up in the hotel elevator after the party and told another passenger that we were sisters.
“Who’s the youngest?” he asked.
We froze.
That would be Betty. We had last gathered in Omaha four years ago for her funeral.
But in a flash, we recovered the festive mood and replied with good humor.
I’d opted to return to Boston at the crack of dawn Monday, and by mid-afternoon Sunday, the rest of the family had gone. Alone in a hotel in the heartland, I felt like the last person on the planet.
I wandered the streets of “NoDo,” the up-and-coming neighborhood north of downtown. I saw signs of an artsy community on the verge of bursting out: the Tip-Top Apartments in a rehabbed, 90-year-old factory; a sculptor’s studio in a low, orange-painted building, the lawn and driveway covered with metal creations. The place was deserted; no sensible person walks around downtown on Sunday evening.
At a squeaky-clean bar in the Tip-Top, I drank a Tall Grass beer brewed in Kansas and watched football while waiting for a to-go sandwich.
I was a long way from Boston, but even farther from the Midwest I knew when the nine Kush kids lived in Lake Zurich, Illinois, more than 50 years ago. We were together in that house for only a few years between Betty’s birth and Jackie moving out for college, but the experience still defines a part of each of us. We ended up in nine different states. Betty landed in Nebraska when our parents moved there, and she stayed.
Although Julie and Jason reestablished the Kush connection to Omaha after Betty’s children moved away, I sipped my beer and doubted I’d ever return. I had a strong feeling that at first felt like sadness, but before my sandwich arrived, I knew it was something else, an intimate awareness of the passage of time.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Smokin in Boston
Walking down Massachusetts Avenue toward Symphony Hall, I picked up a rare and earthy aroma, and a glance around me revealed the source. A woman of a certain age with neat red hair puffed a slim cigar.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Joyless in Mudville
During the fourth quarter of last night’s Super Bowl, the street below our window was eerily deserted. Everyone was indoors staring at a television somewhere. The Patriots didn’t look sharp and never found their steamroller rhythm. They lost by 3 points.
After the game ended, young people trickled onto the sidewalk in twos and threes for sullen walks home from parties and bars. A tiny, bent Chinese lady trudged up Brighton Avenue pulling a tandem of shopping carts laden with black garbage bags of pickings from dumpsters.
After the game ended, young people trickled onto the sidewalk in twos and threes for sullen walks home from parties and bars. A tiny, bent Chinese lady trudged up Brighton Avenue pulling a tandem of shopping carts laden with black garbage bags of pickings from dumpsters.
Sunday, February 3, 2008
In the eye of Hurricane Super Bowl
Red and white signs warn that vehicles parked on Brighton and Harvard Avenues within two blocks of the intersection will be towed between 8 a.m. Sunday and 2 a.m. Monday. Presumably, this will provide fewer targets for over-zealous fans who may have the urge to overturn cars either in celebration of a perfect season for the Patriots or in frustration should they lose the big game.
Six years ago when the Pats won their first Super Bowl, our college neighbors spilled out into the street seconds after the winning field goal cleared the uprights, and within two minutes, the incongruous chant, “Yankees suck,” rose from the crowd. Four blocks away on Commonwealth and Harvard, the revellers turned into vandals, and a couple of years later, a pepper spray pellet killed a college student in Kenmore Square as police tried to control rowdy students after a Red Sox playoff game.
But things should be calmer tonight. With two World Series and three Super Bowl championships behind them, the fans no longer experience the same burst of adrenaline. Brighton Avenue was practically deserted after last year’s World Series.
Other evidence that the big day is near: Printed signs in the windows of the White Horse Tavern urge fans to come in for “The Big Game,” avoiding any licensing problems with the NFL, but the Sunset Grill has no such scruples. Their blackboard on the sidewalk invites people to watch The SuperBowl. Yesterday at the grocery store, demonstrators offered samples of snack foods from card tables scattered throughout the store. We bought two kinds of seafood spread, which was not even on our radar screen until an old lady in a pastel baseball cap offered us a taste.
Six years ago when the Pats won their first Super Bowl, our college neighbors spilled out into the street seconds after the winning field goal cleared the uprights, and within two minutes, the incongruous chant, “Yankees suck,” rose from the crowd. Four blocks away on Commonwealth and Harvard, the revellers turned into vandals, and a couple of years later, a pepper spray pellet killed a college student in Kenmore Square as police tried to control rowdy students after a Red Sox playoff game.
But things should be calmer tonight. With two World Series and three Super Bowl championships behind them, the fans no longer experience the same burst of adrenaline. Brighton Avenue was practically deserted after last year’s World Series.
Other evidence that the big day is near: Printed signs in the windows of the White Horse Tavern urge fans to come in for “The Big Game,” avoiding any licensing problems with the NFL, but the Sunset Grill has no such scruples. Their blackboard on the sidewalk invites people to watch The SuperBowl. Yesterday at the grocery store, demonstrators offered samples of snack foods from card tables scattered throughout the store. We bought two kinds of seafood spread, which was not even on our radar screen until an old lady in a pastel baseball cap offered us a taste.
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