Maternal Musings from Mary: May 20, 1975

From time to time we're flashing back to some of Grandmary's additions to my baby book. These sheets were just stuffed to the back of the book for years and years. I've sorted them into order, and put them in archival sleeves to preserve them in their physical state. They are also preserved here for all to see. Not the different formatting and different fonts. Most especially, check out Grandmary's handwriting. That's super fun to see.

The reason we get an entry so relatively soon after the January 1975 addition, is because my track record of being a klutz is starting to leave evidence all over my face - marking me for years to come.May 20, 1975

I’d better add this or I doubt I’ll remember it when I write again. It has been a non spring, but on the pretty days [Nettie] won’t go outside. One Saturday, she was riding with her daddy on the motorcycle and got a bug up her nose. Now, she is afraid of bugs and being outside. [AN: And wouldn’t you be, if a bug flew up your nose? YECH!] Our first real fear to conquer. She still tells us no and won’t listen. Who says the threes are calm years?

And I must not forget her stitches. On January 28, I was bathing Jed and she came into show me something and ran out, as she had been told not to do—run in the house. She tripped, and I heard a crash. She started to cry, which was unusual, so I asked her what was wrong. She only kept crying, so I jerked Jed out of the tub, wrapped him a towel, and rushed into the family room to see what was the matter. There she was sitting by the big chair with blood all over her face. I put Jed in his crib, grabbed a towel and wiped off the blood to assess the damage. Immediately, I could tell that she needed stitches, so I called Max to come home take her up to the hospital, since it was about 8:30 [a.m.] and the doctor would not be in until 9:00 or later. I held her to keep her talking because I was frightened too and did not know how hard the blow had been. She got about 8 stitches, but the scar is looking fine now and in time will not be noticeable at all. She still runs in the house, though. [AN: It was the 1970s. Plastic surgery in the ER didn’t crop up until the 1990s. It took about 30 years, but you can barely notice the scar dissecting my eyebrow unless you know where to look.]

And finally, on March 11 she got her last molar, but not before a cold and throwing up. At least she has all her teeth now, and two sets of stitches.

AN Notes: Two sets?! Oh yes. The 1970s were the era when all kinds of accidents happened that caused later regulations. Say, like the seat belts in the shopping cart carriages? The story goes that I stood up in a metal grocery store shopping cart and it tipped over, causing a scar on the underside of my chin. I don’t remember this happening, unlike the above mentioned trip to the ER. THAT trip I remember, unlike most of the B.C. (before Connecticut 1980 move) years. Unless you are looking up at my chin, you can’t see the scar. You probably CAN see the other scar on my chin, caused by messing around with Jed and a metal vacuum cleaner when we were teenagers. Moral of that story? Don’t mess around with your brother and a metal vacuum cleaner and then try to hide the accident and lie to your parents, or you’ll have the physical scars to show for it for the rest of your life. Some people carry all their scars on the inside. I have battle wounds on the outside, as well as in an archival box to exhume later.

Photo of the Day: Long Shadows

Train Station, Evening Return

via iTouch

Dreaming Out Loud - Holding out my hand to see

Image from here

Maybe there is something in this Dreaming Out Loud idea. I was just dreaming of the seashore, and then my friend, my darling friend Christine, persuaded me that I needed an overnight trip to the shore.

A trip where we saw gulls, pipers, osprey, heron, geese, sparrows, shellers, Scouts, snappers, diggers, duffers, dudes, and so much sun, sea, surf, sky, sand, shells, rocks, wrecks, and more. Marvels like an incredible strand of trees bedecked in shells, and a series of old tree stumps weathered by wind and surf into modern art, and so many many shells - some we left, others we brought home as souvenirs of an excellent adventure.

Thank you Christine!

I know I usually  Dream Out Loud earlier in the month, but when a dream is coming true, you stop and appreciate it before thinking of what else you might be dreaming. It seems rude to have a hand out asking for the next thing before you finish savouring the last. 

Photo via here

Which brings us to this month's Dream, which may seem peculiar. I have a dream to pop into a palmist or a tarot reader's establishment, with enough cash to pay so it can be anonymous, without notice, and see the kind of reading I might get from someone who does not know me, or have a way to do prior research via the Internets. 

Photo via here

While I believe that we make our own destiny, and I know that nature, nurture, our ancestors, and our own free will help us forge our paths, a little guidance can't hurt. I am probably a little more open-minded than some, having read a lot of fantasy and science fiction, and studied other cultures and religions, so I know that many consider that there may not be "one true way." I may not believe in reincarnation for myself, but I know that the spirit world is closer than we think. That's why I will NOT, however, play with a Ouija board, or invoke anything negative to enter my space via a seance, or even go to a psychic or a medium.

A little palm reading though? Or a little "card-flipping"? Those can be open to interpretation, and if you are careful not to reveal too much in advance, or via face/body language ... could be fun.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

~ Hamlet, William Shakespeare

Wreck it Wednesday: Wreck This Journal Updates

 From the Preface: 
Warning: During the process of this book you will get dirty. You may find yourself covered in paint, or any other number of foreign substances. You will get wet. You may be asked to do things you question. You may grieve for the perfect state that you found the book in. You may begin to see creative destruction everywhere. You may begin to live more recklessly.

Spring has sprung - and is Leaf-ing me behind

Despite the advertising, it would still take more than an hour here to change my mood. 

Happy hour? Ha! It's time for:

Sometimes life is sweet, sometimes life is the pits.

Flowers and herbs as far as the eye can see. 

It was a Farmers Market Thursday in the concrete jungle. 

 I am full of impatiens for the spring.

Just pretend that this is as sage as I am.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Azaleas

When you turn away from seeing me
and go,
gently, without a word, I shall send you away.

From Mount Yak in Yongbyon,
azaleas
I shall gather an armful and scatter them on your way.

Step after step away
on those flowers placed
before you, press deep, step lightly, and go

When you turn away from seeing me
and go,
thought I die, no, not a single tear shall fall.

from Korean poet Kim Sowol’s classic collection, Azaleas, translated by David R. McCann








all photos via the iTouch

Scenes from the Road, er - I mean, Rails

As I've saying, this year has been busy - but this last few weeks has also been super busy. I have been trying to remember to snap photos to illustrate the weird and random - but ...

As this ad says, it's almost too hard to choose between photos, activities, and necessities ...
(i.e., blog, eat, work, sleep, blog, or sleep ...)

So, in now particular order, here's some of the weirdness that has been the last month or so, when my life was going "off the rails."

Fashion

This is a bad photo of the gentleman with his leather shoes, handbag, and jacket, the jaunty socks under his high-water khakis, the fancy fringed scarf tucked into this shirt -- TOPPED OFF BY A BOWLER!

This little commuter has matching fuchsia accessories. She often also carries the cutest little kitty cat handbags. She is as allergic to commuting in the morning as the rest of us are.

L: I want to go to London and get my own very special Harrod's handbag. I would be perfect for lunch and the library, and everything. I WANT!
R: "Do anything you want to, but ... Honey ... Don't you step on my blue suede shoes." THEN GET THEM OUT OF THE AISLE.

 Which brings us to other annoying passenger issues....

Talking and Trashing:

I don't know which is worse, listening to this dude on the left for more than 30 minutes, or watching/listening/smelling this guy on the right's breakfast for the entire commute. PLEASE shut up and don't eat your entire smelly porridge-y breakfast on the train.

L: I thought Activa was supposed to give you energy? So you should have enough energy to clean up after yourself.
R: Someone forgot to take away their take away on the subway.

The other night, I forced myself to leave the building at 5:30 so I could catch the 6:05 and go home and do the laundry. But because I hadn't caught the 6:05 in almost 2 years, the train wasn't at its "usual" track. I had to race across the lower level and was trying to run up the escalator. I, of course, took a nasty, gnarly, spill up the escalator and it chewed up my shin and left me with a goose egg on my knee I have named "Grace." For me, the light at the end of the tunnel is the train arriving to take me home.

I have been able to enjoy my spring via the train platforms and windows.

Finding Beauty in Nature:

 

 

 

Spring sure looks/looked pretty ... Maybe I need to get out of the building and tin can and enjoy it more?

Finally.

I don't usually stand in the shelter on the train platform, but last week I did -- only to discover that Brooklyn's influence is creeping into Westchester.

Sigh. I want to go back to the beach.

all photos via the iTouch

Happy Mother's Day!

Q: Why did the cookie cry? A: Because his mother was a wafer so long!

Found in Cape Cod Life, July 2012, Words of Remembrance by Brain Shortsleeve

Best Loved Poems of the American People
My Mother's Prayer

As I wandered round the homestead,

  Many a dear, familiar spot

Brought within my recollection

  Scenes I'd semingly forgot.

There the orchard meadow yonder,

  Here the deep, old-fashioned well,

With its old moss-covered bucket,

  Sent a thrill no tongue can tell.

Though the house was held by strangers,

  All remained the same within,

Just as when a child I rambled

  Up and down and out and in.

To the garret dark, ascending,

  Once a source of childish dread,

Peering through the misty cobwebs,

  Lo, I saw my trundle bed.

Quick, I drew it from the rubbish,

  Covered o'er with dust so long,

When, behold, I heard, in fancy,

  Strains of one familiar song,

Often sung by dear mother

  To me in that trundle bed;

"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,

  Holy angels guard thy bed."

As I listened to the music,

  Stealing on in gentle strain,

I am carried back to childhood,

  I am now a child again.

'Tis the hour of my retiring,

  At the dusky eventide,

Near my trundle bed I'm kneeling,

  As of yore, by Mother's side.

Hands are on my head so loving,

  As they were in childhood's days;

I with weary tones am trying

  To repeat the words she says.

'Tis a prayer in language simple

  As a mother's lips can frame,

"Father, Thou who are in Heaven,

  Hallowed ever be Thy name."

Prayer is over, to my pillow,

  With a good-night kiss, I creep,

Scarcely waking while I whisper,

  "Now I lay me down to sleep."

Then my mother over me bending,

  Prays in earnest words but mild,

"Hear my prayer, O Heavenly Father,

  Bless, O bless, my precious child."

Yet I am but only dreaming,

  Ne'er I'll be a child again,

Many years has that dear mother

  In that quiet churchyard lain.

But the memory of her counsels

  O'er my path a light has spread,

Daily calling me to heaven,

  Even from my trundle bed.

~ T.C. O'Kane

Mothers' prayers never cease, despite age, distance, separation of realms of existence. Isn't that a reassuring thing to know on this Mother's Day.

Love you Mom. No cookie bouquet today - but will call you soon.

xo Auntie Nettie