Get This Worm Out of My Head!

It’s starting all over again.  My head was finally clear of all constantly repeating tunes, and then I sat down at the piano and played Vangelis’s Hymne.  Now, a day later, it is still roaming around inside my consciousness, pushing everything else out.  Not that it’s not a nice tune.  But after the 64th time of hearing it in my head, I find it more than annoying.

I can go weeks without suffering through an earworm.  That’s what they’re called, you know, those melodies that get a grip on you and won’t let you go, no matter how hard you try to shake them.  They burrow into your brain, and no amount of cajoling will dislodge them.

I seldom listen to pop music unless I’m visiting my daughter.  Her family listens to their ipod music everywhere they go.  I would have no clue who Jason Mraz or Twyla Swift (or is it Tyler? Taylor?) were if it were not for them.  They try to keep me up to date, but it’s a losing battle.  I’m addicted to my Bach cello suites and my Beethoven piano concertos.  Rossini overtures make me want to dance around the house, and Mozart arias can move me to tears.

Since I’m so prone to earworms, that’s probably a good thing.  If I listened to pop music, the chance of me catching a catchy tune would be much greater.  It’s hard to keep a Vivaldi recorder sonata in your head.

Anyway, I need to remind myself to stay away from Vangelis.  His Hymne can be fatal.  Oh, what’s that playing on my WHRO station?  Percy Granger’s arrangement of Skye Boat Song?  Beautiful.  I think it’s driving Vangelis out of my head.  Yep, definitely.  Vangelis is totally gone…and Granger is here to stay.

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What’s So Funny?

I talk to everybody.  That has always been a source of amusement to my husband and probably to the rest of my family and close friends.  I’m a people watcher, and whenever I see something, in my opinion, that merits a comment , I am quick to offer one.  It is always in a spirit of fun, never critical, and nearly every time I make a comment, I get a smile or laugh and a reply.

Because I enjoy talking to people, I don’t order a lot of things online, preferring to talk to someone on the phone instead.  I think I’m on a first-name basis with half the customer service representatives at L.L. Bean.  How else would I know what the weather is up there in Maine or how their families are doing or if the color of that sweater is really as pretty a red as it looks in the catalog?

When my husband came home for dinner tonight, he turned on the radio so we could listen to our classical music station, WHRO, while we ate.  Since it happens to be their pledge drive week, instead of music, he was greeted by someone talking and asking for support.

“I know it’s necessary,” my husband said, “but I really hate this time of the year.”

I perked up.  “But I got to hear my name on the radio when I called in my pledge this morning.”  Mind you, I could have made my donation over the internet, but as I’ve been saying, I like the personal touch.

“Did they say Susan, or did you give them your full name?” my husband asked.

“Oh, my whole name, of course, and I told them we had moved up here from San Antonio, and we had a classical station there as well, and I was so excited when we moved up here because we have some of the same programs we had in Texas and the announcers are the same, so it sounded so comforting to hear the same voices, and…”

My husband interrupted.  “Is this another case of “Help I’m talking and I can’t shut up?”  He started laughing.  “So, now do they know our entire history?”  He was laughing harder and harder.   “What else did you tell them?”

I looked at him over my glasses while he continued to laugh hysterically.  “I told them of our impending divorce.”

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Cultural Literacy

Every morning when the newspaper comes, my dear husband always hands me the most important section first:  the comics.  One of my favorite comic strips is one called Zits, about the life and trials of raising a teenage boy.  A couple of days ago, the teenager’s father asked him if he had seen the Yellow Pages, and the boy replied, “Not since I sat on it in my highchair.”  I used to always look in the Yellow Pages if I needed to look up the phone number of a business.  Now, however, I find it easier to look it up on the computer. Today’s youth, though, probably have never used the Yellow Pages.  Then a couple of days ago, I saw this Zits strip:

Most kids these days have always used cell phones.  Many homes don’t even have land lines anymore, so how would kids know about dialing “1” before calling out of their area code, or know what long distance meant?

This made me think about a book I read many years ago, Cultural Literacy, by E.D. Hirsch.  Hirsch talks about the body of knowledge that all Americans should know in order to understand what they read and to effectively communicate with one another.  He advocated that this core knowledge be taught in schools because students who did not have this knowledge were at a disadvantage in literacy.

For example, when we read about somebody who is a scrooge, we know that refers to a person who is miserly or tight-fisted.  How do we know this?  Because nary an American doesn’t have some connection to Dickens’s A Christmas Carol in some form or another and know what kind of a man Ebenezer Scrooge is.  If they haven’t read the actual story, they have seen one of the many film adaptations of it.  From studying mythology, a person would know why Atlas Tires is a good name for a company who wants to project the image that they can carry you safely on any trip you take in your car.  That person would also know that you were speaking of someone’s weakness when you mentioned his or her Achilles tendon.

The recent Zits comic strips brought to mind that this body of core knowledge is constantly changing.  New words are periodically being added to the dictionary as technology advances and cultural and world situations change.  A few recent additions to the dictionary are the following words:  tweet, bromance, sexting, flash mob, vlog, Bollywood, and fist bump.  Many older people have no frame of reference for these words, just as many younger people wouldn’t know what the Yellow Pages are for.

I don’t know how you keep it all straight!  Kids these days speak a language I don’t understand, and no amount of my “core knowledge” has prepared me for it.  While surfing on the web this morning, I came across a site that offered free online tests of cultural literacy.  They were entertaining, and I did quite well on every one I’ve taken so far.  I wonder how many of today’s young people can score as well as I did.  Yet, how well does my grasp of those facts help me to function in today’s fast-changing world?  Not very, I’m guessing.

You can’t teach a child, or anybody for that matter, everything, so obviously, you have to pick and choose what’s important to know.  How do you know what to leave out in order to include what’s new?  Are different generations having trouble communicating with each other since each has a different set of core knowledge?  I’m certainly willing to learn new things and incorporate them into my frame of reference, but I hope the younger generation is, too, because certain knowledge is too precious to lose.  I’m dreading the day when my youngest grandchild says to me, “Clark Kent changed into his Superman costume in a what?”

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Help, I’m Talking, and I Can’t Shut Up!

I’m feeling stressed these days, like I just want to curl up on the sofa with a big bag of salt and vinegar chips and watch Shirley Temple movies all day.  My problem stems from the fact that I am not an organized person.  Wait!  There’s more.  I am not an organized person, and I have a memory like a sieve.  I rattle my mouth off and get myself deep into things I’ve said I’ll do, and I really do want to do them, but I talk big about things I’m going to do and then can’t figure out how I’m going to fit them all in.

I know there are things I’ve agreed to do that I can’t even remember.  If you nominated me for an award lately (I think three people have, but I can’t remember who they were or what the award was, so any dreams of fulfilling my obligation with the reward or challenge requirements is slim to none.)  My husband, as well as many other d0-gooders, have told me I need to write things down.  I’ve tried that, but then I can’t remember where I wrote them, or I just plain forget to read what I wrote.

I’d like to say I haven’t always been this way, but it would be pretty much a lie.  Don’t get me wrong.  When I was a teacher and then an academic dean, I did my job very well, made every meeting on time (early, in fact), met every deadline, and learned all 150 of my students’ names in the first two days of classes.  I have no earthly idea how I could function so well in my professional life and can’t get a handle on my personal one.

If you think this was brought on by adding my novel writing to my list of to-do’s, you’re probably right.  I feel sort of obligated to give it a go after I shot my mouth off about it.  I already do the newsletter for Hampton Roads Writers, and now I’ve said I would do a newsletter for my YMCA, teach English to a young Vietnamese woman so she can prepare to become a naturalized citizen next year, and either write an article about a friend’s worthy organization or put her in touch with someone who could do a better job of it.

Now, on top of all my other “stuff,” I agreed to play violin once or twice a week with a fellow musician in my neighborhood.  She needs a quiet place to practice because her house can get quite hectic.  Since I’ve been so busy doing other things, I have been neglecting my music.  I haven’t touched my piano in weeks, preferring to pick up my Irish whistle and play a quick tune instead, and my violin has needed new strings for three years.  My fingers don’t even have the calluses on them anymore that I need to firmly press down on the strings.  I’m quite nervous about this violinist coming over next week.  I’m going to feel like such a dolt.  I will be so embarrassed and humiliated at my poor skills while she will shine.  I don’t know why I ever agreed to this.  Oh, well, my mouth gets me in trouble yet again.  Anyway, how great can a five-year-old play the violin anyway?  She hasn’t even picked up her bow yet and is still working on her pizzicato.  I’ll wipe the floor with her.

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And Then There Was One…

For the past month or so, I have been watching black swallowtail caterpillars devouring my Italian parsley.  First, there were five or six sizable ones and a slew of tiny ones just beginning to develop.  Before I went on my Florida trip, I counted them and took pictures so I could see how much they changed in a week.  When I got back, only three of the big, fat, juicy ones were there, and only about half the number of smaller ones were still clinging to the leaves.

I went to Maine and Boston for a week and kept tabs on the little fellers each time I called my husband.  Alas, he said, only two were left.  The plumpest ones were goners. 

“I saw a dove in the garden, ” my husband said.  “I think that’s our culprit.”

I’ve been keeping an eye on those two big boys every day since I returned, and they have been so fun to watch, as they’ve munched and munched my parsley leaves.  Those two were still there this morning.  Now there is only one.  Will it ever make it to its chrysalis stage?  I’m not holding my breath.

The Last One
Any bets on if he’ll still be around tomorrow?
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I Don’t Get It, I Don’t Get It

One of my all-time favorite movies is Big, starring Tom Hanks.  It cracks me up every time I see it.  One of the scenes that stands out for me is when Paul is with his girlfriend and mocks Josh (Tom Hanks):

I love that “I don’t get it, I don’t get it” line.  Josh’s naivete is due to his age, but there are many things I don’t understand, and my age has nothing to do with it.  For example, have you ever noticed those signs posted around public schools that say “Drug Free Zone”? What is the purpose of those?  Do drug pushers stop in their tracks when they reach those signs and say, “Drat!  Guess I can’t sell any of my drugs here because this is a drug free zone”?  I’m thinking not.  Judging from the kids who sat in stoney silence in the back row of my classroom with their glazed eyes staring vacantly, I don’t think those signs meant anything to them either.  In fact, maybe they thought the signs read “Free Drugs Zone.”  So do those signs serve any other purpose than wishful thinking?  I don’t get it, I don’t get it.

Another thing I don’t get:  Have you ever been driving on the highway, surrounded by trees on either side, and seen one of those communication towers with fake pine branches sticking out of it?  The tower is a good 30-40 feet above any other structure, natural or man-made, and somebody had the great idea that sticking fake pine branches out of it would somehow make it blend in?  We’d think it was just another tree, although an impossibly tall one?  Who are they kidding?  I don’t get it, I don’t get it.

I heard that Bank of America is going to charge $5.00 every month if you use your debit card, but you can avoid that charge if you keep $20,000 in your account.  So let me get this straight.  If you have enough money that a measly $5.00 would never be felt, then you don’t have to pay it.  But if you are struggling to make ends meet, then you’re out of luck, too bad, so sad.  I don’t get it, I don’t get it.

Finally, would someone tell me why Columbus rates a federal holiday, complete with bank and post office closings, but it took us until 2000 for all fifty states to observe Martin Luther King, Jr. Day?  Columbus didn’t actually set foot on our soil, and he wasn’t even a very nice guy. Should foreign exploration and imperialism be rewarded with a national observance?  I don’t get it, I don’t get it.

There are many things in life that leave me shaking my head.  How about you?  Tell me about them.

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The Light in the Forest

Many long years ago, when I was a young teenager, I read a novel entitled The Light in the Forest by Conrad Richter.  It was about a teenage Pennsylvanian boy who was kidnapped by the Lenni Lanape Indians, raised as one of them, and later returned to his blood kin.  The forest was an important part of the setting, and I always loved the images the title evoked.

Sunday, on a glorious afternoon, my husband and I went hiking in First Landing State Park here in Virginia Beach.  The name First Landing commemorates the Virginia Company‘s landing on Cape Henry in 1607  before they moved westward and formed Jamestown, the first permanent English settlement in North America.

Although it was a very sunny day, once we entered the woods, I no longer needed my sunglasses.  I brought my camera along and snapped some pictures.  I want to share some with you, just so you know that, even though I live in a sizable city, nature is not far away.  In these photos, look at the light in the forest.

The bald cyprus swamp below reminds me of Yoda‘s planet of Dagobah.  All that’s missing is the fog…and Yoda, Luke, and R2D2, of course.

It was nice to see a little fall color making its appearance among the muted greens and browns:

My camera didn’t miss the small things, either.  Notice how the light illumines the fungi:

Light filtering through the Spanish moss:

 

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Speaking of Graves…

Yesterday’s post made me think of Thomas Gray‘s poem “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard,” especially the following stanza:

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

It’s a sobering fact that we all come to the same end in the end.  Here are some graves of notable people and one who is notable by the witness of his life.

Paul was buried in the Granary Burying Ground in downtown Boston

Sam is buried near his buddy Paul. Oh, and he makes a pretty good beer. At least, we New Englanders like it.

Here lies Henry David Thoreau. Expected more, didn't you?

Emerson lies near Thoreau in Author's Ridge at the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts

Louisa May Alcott's grave on Author's Ridge. I used a picture of her grave in an earlier blog, but this is a different view.

Hawthorne is in good company on Author's Ridge.

At Monticello in Charlottesville, Virginia

Final resting place of John Paul Jones, the Father of the American Navy, at Annapolis, Maryland

I snapped this of Longfellow's grave last weekend at Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts

This last one is one of my favorites.  I found it on a hill in a little church cemetery in Concord, Massachusetts.  The gravestone is very faded and difficult to read, but I wanted you to know what it says:

God wills us free.  Man wills us slaves.
I will as God wills.  God’s will be done.
Here lies the body of
JOHN JACK
A native of Africa
Who died March 1773 aged about 60 years
Tho’ born in a land of slavery
He was born free.
Tho’ he died in a land of liberty,
He died a slave,
Till by his honest tho’ stolen labors
He acquired the source of slavery
Which gave him his freedom,
Tho’ not long before
Death the grand tyrant
Gave him his final emancipation
And set him on a footing with kings
Tho’ a slave to vice
He practiced those virtues
Without which kings are but slaves.

(The last four lines are compliments of blogger Rob Pedley who was able to read them when my trusty magnifying glass failed me.)

He must have been quite a man. I would like to have known him.

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Walking on Graves

While I was in Boston this past weekend, I went to Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge.  I love to go there in the fall to see the autumn colors, but I was too early to see the changing leaves this time.

Leaves just beginning to change this past weekend

I will be going back with my husband in a couple of weeks, and we’ll see if we get treated to a show.  Since this summer in New England was unusually hot and rainy, the leaves will not be yielding up their glorious display like they did two years ago, my first trip back in autumn since we left Texas.  The colors were so amazing, it brought tears to my eyes.  I had missed it more than I realized.

I remember that drive up the Eastern Shore.  My husband does all the driving on our long trips north, giving me the gift of writing time.  I had my notebook and pen handy and jotted down some thoughts and feelings:

Emblazoned
Conflagration of the hills
Envious evergreen
The story of Moses and his burning bush must have been set in New England in late October
Ribbon of blue cutting through banks of grey cirrus clouds
Van Cliburn hammering out Paganini‘s theme
Trees who flamed out early and now regretted their lifeless limbs
Bare white birch trunks stark against the hillside color yet beautiful for all their starkness
Narcissus admiring his own reflection in the pond

When I went to Mt. Auburn with my sons and daughter-in-law, they told me that they had taken a friend there who was visiting from California.  He did not like it at all.  In fact, he found it kind of creepy, walking on people’s graves.  I don’t know why that bothers some people.  I have always liked walking through old cemeteries, reading the gravestones, wondering who these people were, what their lives were like.  It keeps them real.  I want people to walk across my grave and say my name so that when I am long gone, my name will still be spoken in this world, reminding it that I lived and mattered.

As I walked along Mt. Auburn’s paths and witnessed such beauty surrounded by solemn gravestones, stirring up the musty pungency of fallen leaves like fragrant death, I wondered how many of these residents laid here had walked these same paths, awed by the same grandeur.  How many of them flamed out before their end, reawakening to a spring I will one day see?  Walking on graves in autumn somehow makes me see life more completely.

Here are some of my pictures from that amazing autumn trip two years ago:

Shelton, Connecticut
On Brattle Street in Cambridge
Entrance to Mt. Auburn Cemetery
Resting in the shade at Mt. Auburn
“Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee…”
View from a hill
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It’s Time to Get Serious…Again

The weekend before I left for my New England trip, our Hampton Roads Writers held its annual writers’ conference.  It was fabulous!  Our keynote speaker was Michael Palmer who has written sixteen New York Times best sellers.  We also had Marisa Corvisiero and Linda Konner,  New York literary agents, Chuck Sambuchino, editor for Writer’s Digest Books, and several other authors.  The sessions were not only informative, they were inspiring as well.

Perhaps the session that made the biggest impression on me was the one presented by Karen Jones, an author, educator and broadcast journalist.  These bits of advice from her presentation make me want to stop talking about my writing and sit my butt down and get it done:

1.  Don’t wait for inspiration.  You’ll never get your book published.
2.  There is no writing fairy.  You have to take an active part in the writing process.
3.  Write your first draft as fast as you can.  It will stink, but you’ll have something to work with.
4.  Your first draft is for you and you alone.  Do not share it with anyone.  You can write 5,000-6,000 words a day if you know no one’s going to read it.  It’s private, nobody’s business but your own.
5.  Act like a writer.  Find a time to write.  Write every stinking day.
6.  Confront your inner critic.  All writing excuses are expressions of fear.

Unfortunately, as soon as the conference was over, I jumped on a plane and was gone for an entire week.  I was infused with  so much enthusiasm and hope and then had to wait to put it into action.  Now I need to recreate that feeling.  This happens after every conference I attend.  I get so excited and tell myself that this time it will be different. This time I’m really going to write that book.  This time there will be no excuses.  Luckily, my husband is my biggest supporter.  He said this morning that my job is to write.  Everything else can wait.  What a gift!  And I’m going to get right to it.  I just have to polish the silverware first…

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