Memory Lane Prompts

I remember learning...to ride my bike. It was birds-egg blue, a bit too big for me, and represented a promised land of freedom and self reliance. I spent some long hours hoisting myself onto the seat and falling before I could get even get my feet on the pedals. Realizing part of my yard gently sloped, I cleverly made my starting point the upper corner by the redbud tree, facing down the slope which all of a sudden, loomed long and steep...but hey...automatic momentum! I was able to coast long enough to put feet to pedals, before falling. I did this all day. All Day. My mother says she remembers glancing out the kitchen window at my determined little face, body language in full motivation, fully intent on riding that bike out of the yard before twilight. I don't really remember much about all the falling, but oh. I remember the first exhilaration of flight, of speed that didn't end up with a mouthful of dirt. If only I'd kept that spirit to see me through so many of my heart's desires that now lie cobwebbed in the darkened rooms of a forgotten youth.

I remember biting...down on a loose front tooth, feeling the almost but not quite painful wiggle of it, amazed that my body was capable of dislodging one of its own. I tongue-worried it, moving it this way and that, feeling the wiggle grow wider and looser, with the occasional copper taste of blood proving the event progressing quite nicely. Thoughts of a fairy visit thrilled me more than any financial reward, although I never could stay awake to see her. Yes, it was a girl fairy. Weren't they all?

I remember the balloons...of the Macy's Thanksgiving parade. They were huge, and the people looked so cold. I never wanted to be there. I can't remember what the balloons were now. Was there a huge turkey? Was Snoopy there in the 1960's? I'll need to google.

I remember falling...into fall leaves. My dad would make these huge piles (our yard, particularly the back yard, was tree heaven) and I remember taking a flying leap into the piles, scattering the crunchy leaves as my father half-heartedly chastised me for messing up his neat piles. I remember the smell of them, the dry, woodsy, clean smell of them as I fell face first, inhaling their cool scent. Days must have been cooler then as I was always wearing a coat or sweater, never worrying about getting itchy or scratched. Here it is, mid-November, and almost 70. It would not be the same experience for children in the yards of today. One needs the red cheeks of a sweater day to properly do the Leaf Dive.

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Quote of the day: Perhaps there is an airborne spore in Vegas which enslaved Liberace and now has Siegfried and Roy by the boleros; they all end up with the hair of rash French poets and the jackets of Prussian limo drivers hewn out of sequins and semiprecious chandeliers. Wilson - A Massive Swelling. Chosen because it made me laugh. I love this kind of sarcastic, dry wit. There's a danger of coming across as rude or offensive with wit like this, but I can't help myself. I respond to it and if I didn't watch myself, could easily let fly with this kind of thing. In fact, I think I probably do from time to time, particularly with each passing year.

Okay. The writing genie is still on vacation, but there have been some, okay one, and you know who you are, who has been pestering me with guilt-inducing, whiny emails about the paucity of my blog entries. So to quieten the madding crowdette, I post a short journal entry I wrote while waiting for my flight in Laguardia, circa 2006.

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I just had a nice hour of people-watching. One very large woman made me hungry as I watched her wolf down a pretzel dog. Never having heard of a pretzel dog, much less eaten one, I was seduced by the warm soft look of the pretzel dough with just that touch of salt, wrapped enticingly around one of those fat juicy, bad-for-you dogs that one remembers from school sporting events or state fairs. I easily succumbed and bought one. Oh my. The trickle of mustard I added to the top of the bun lifted it from merely tasty to absolutely Divine. I blotted out the fact that my Ellen underwear was a bit snug as I savored every fatty, succulent, hot bite. Also to entertain while we waited for our plane to arrive was a real live mouse family scurrying and darting out from the wall directly under the large, plate glass tarmac windows, and 2 feet from my chair. I kept sprinkling the area with bun crumbs and they would zip out of the wall and back, quick as a snake's tongue. They must have been pretty hungry to come out around all those pairs of shoed human feet within easy stomping range. A few women who sat next to me saw them, shot their feet out as if they were on springs and, waiting for the beasts to disappear into the wall again, moved away to creature-free territory a few rows away. I thought the mice were cute and even took a few photos.

After boarding the plane, there was a full fifteen minutes of taxiing, and my eyes were drooping. I truly suffer from motion-sleepies. Better than pills. Just plop me down into a moving vehicle of any description and I'm drooling on my pillow in no time. Thank goodness there are no screaming children or chatty cathy's on this flight. Being a night flight, it's not very full and I do my usual scoping of those sitting around me. No one of real interest, just the typical couples, businessmen headed home, studying company papers and clicking on their laptops, face bluish in the monitor screen light. Am I the only person who takes in and studies everyone in my immediate vicinity thinking, "these could be the people I die with? These faces could be the last ones I see when we fall screaming to our fiery and horrible deaths?"

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Quote of the day: Life was, after all, like air. Seemed to be no way of keeping it out or at a distance and all he could do for the moment was live it and breathe it. How people managed to draw it down into their lungs without choking was a mystery to him. It was full of bits. This was air you could almost chew. Hornby - About a Boy.
Chosen for the wonderful last line. Who hasn't felt that occasional thick air that was hard to swallow for any variety of reasons; adrenaline of fear, indignation of rage, the heartpound of new love.

Naming names

Name the following things:

A desert town - Aridity
A race horse - Salty Dog
A literary magazine - The Proseiden Adventure
A new disease - Diabolicus
A football team - Omaha Omegas
A diner - Eats and Sweets
A new religion - Raptured Repugnants
A new planet - Flumbo
A rock band - The Banned
A summer cottage - Roses and Roaches
Triplets - Somer, Wynter, Faul
A liqueuer - Golden Rainbow
A beauty salon - Snippy
A new diet - Dough or Die
A soap opera - Tomorrow Will Tell
A polluted river - Richman Folly
A poetry collection - Tequila Torso
A chihuahua - Itty Bitty
A burglar - Burt Scrabble
A bar - Happiness Counts
A lipstick color - Does this make me look fat?
A yacht - Seas Control

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Quote of the day: It was a myth that people created their own children, the ball-of-clay business. The truth was, children made themselves in reaction to you. Hearon - "Ella in Bloom"
Chosen because it's true. I responded to the truth of this as any parent will and it's something you can't know unless you've experienced the maturation of your own child, guided by you, but somehow totally independent of you. Which is glorious and eternally sobering.

What would you buy?

If money was no object, what would you buy?

Easy. I would travel, travel, travel. I would visit a thousand travel websites, looking for out of the way places, as well as well known iconic places that have always beckoned, crooking a seducing finger to come....come....

Here's the SHORT list of immediate dream trips:

All major National Parks in the U.S.
Stand on the equator.
Climb to the top of a Mayan Temple
See temples at Angkor Wat
Go kayaking in Lake Louise, Canada
Visit the Rain Forest
Eiffel Tower
Taj Majal
Coliseum in Rome
Amsterdam
Canary Islands
San Juan Islands
Walk the Acropolis in Athens
Galapagos Islands
Great Barrier Reef
Ayers Rock
Perth, Australia
Ride a fan boat in Everglades
Visit 15 European capitals
Great Wall of China
Mount Rushmore
Costa Rica
Valley of Fire in Nevada
Flume Gorge in White Mountains
Canoe the Buffalo River in Arkansas
Milford Track in New Zealand
Hermitage in Russia
Patagonia
Desoto Caves in Alabama
Carlsbad Caverns
Niagra Falls
Madagascar
Meteor crater in Winslow, AZ
Venice
Vienna
Those are the well known places. I might come back to this list and add another section on the out of the way, hidden gems as yet undiscovered. A good friend found a place where you sleep up in the trees in Brazilian Rain Forest. That sounds pretty darn cool... Oh yes, if money were no object? I'd rarely be home. Wanderlust is my constant companion.

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Quote of the day: Old widowers in the back woods of the north shore got frog marched down the chapel aisle by the first woman quick enough to make eye contact with one of them over potato salad at a dead wife's wake. Harper - Worst Day of My Life So Far
Chosen because it made me laugh, this image of frantic spinsters leaping upon a brand new widower like bargain hunters at a fire sale.

What makes you sentimental?

Seeing elderly people still holding hands after a lifetime together, as if to say, "I'm still here, hold on to me."

Gruff, unemotional men reduced to goo-puddles when around small children.

A sacrificial act to help others.

Men totally enraptured by their family.

The general reaction by the driving public when an ambulance is passing...the unacknowledged agreement between dozens of strangers to forget for a moment all differences between them, and for that brief space in time, as one organism, unilaterally understand that nothing else matters but to allow the ambulance passage, respecting the solemn circumstance being faced by the faceless patient inside, wishing all godspeed. I get very moved by this silent rite of aquiescence. It's one of the few times I know of where everyone, everyone, is on the same page - all for someone they don't know and wishing well. One of my favorite moments of human interaction, when I feel a part of something bigger.

Childbirth

Watching two opposing forces find surprise in an unexpected affection and respect for each other.

Musicals

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Quote of the day: I don't believe Mr. Wodehouse knows where it comes from or how; wherever he is, in luxury or in prison, he is able to sequester himself and, as it were, take dictation from his demon. Donaldson - P.G. Wodehouse - A Biography
Chosen because I know exactly what this means.

Looking for prompts

I've hit a dry spell for creative output lately, and I miss it - so am resorting to asking myself direct questions to answer, just to force something out of me. For prompts, I will be stealing directly from the Q&A website of an actor I do a bit of work for. Over the past few years, I've been impressed with some of the insightful answers that he is able to mine from an apparent deep core, and always on the fly. I don't claim that kind of depth, and am not going to compete for wit or significance. I just want some words to flow.

What's better: old friends, or new friends, and why?

This is the kind of question that I hate, having to choose between choices that each have strong merit. I see pros and cons to both. Old friends know your stories, your battle and eventual victory over puberty perhaps, or the fears and tears you secretly confessed the day before a wedding, or the month before childbirth. They are the golden few who have chosen to love DESPITE, rather than BECAUSE. They are the loyal, the truthful, the kind.

New friends bring the joy of having someone discover your gifts anew; they bring the glorious tabula rasa, the new beginning, the thrill of starting over with someone whom you've not yet hurt, or betrayed, or annoyed. There's something cleansing in two people marking a fresh, new map that appears between them; a land mine here, a treasure buried there. I like the hope and promise new friends bring and I also like the solidity and freedom in my choice to continue to pursue the friendship or to gently acknowledge that it didn't work out, no hard feelings. I like feeling free from the agonies of teenage bonding rituals and the desperation of not belonging. I like the confidence that my age brings my inner security in knowing what is best for me.

I cherish my old friends and I adore meeting and learning new possibilities, new combinations of personality traits and daily interests. Life is good this way. But if I absolutely HAD to chose, it would be old friends. Cultivations of a lifetime bring a richness not available elsewhere and one would be foolish not to guard them constantly and nourish them often.

Quote of the day: The baby was in diapers that should have been changed two game shows ago. Anna Quinlan - "Blessings"
Chosen because what a perfect way to describe a certain type of mother in four words, "two game shows ago." In an instant, I see her, I know her, I see their future laid out before them if nothing changes. Brilliant.

Sunriiiiiise, Sunset... Sunriiiiiiise, Sunset....

I still haven't felt like writing, so am putting up this old chestnut written when my daughter's marriage was looming...

Looking back over the quicksilver years, it’s easy enough now to identify those many defining moments when my world as parent cracked open. “It’s a girl!”; “Hello? This is the principal calling - there’s been an accident”; “Mom, Nick asked me out on a date!”; “Guess what! I’ve got my own apartment!” “I hate you!”, “I love you” -- countless events, conversations, prayers and pleas - those emotional threads invisibly weaving the silken bond between parent and child. So fragile, so amazingly resilient, so immovably strong is this gossamer fabric woven in the unspoken, gentle dance of family life. We pull it tight around us, craving its comfort in the warm familiarity of a lifetime spent together when cold realities threaten at fate’s whim..

Today, a new moment to add, a new thread of color begins - “Mom, I’m getting married” One hears the songs, Sunrise Sunset, one watches the Kodak commercials, one acknowledges the facts of childhood’s swift passage without really absorbing it all, busy as we are with the day to day journey of family survival. As a single parent, the years of child rearing were always ones of hardship, heartache, a great roller coaster of up and down emotional wallops - time only seemed to stand still due to the sheer exhaustive nature of the task at hand. My independent streak silently screamed, "When will I get some time to read again? When can I sleep through the night again? When will I have any extra money for myself again? When will the worry stop?" My life loomed ahead as an endless string of unselfish responsibilities forced upon me and I looked forward to the time when I would have my life back. I loved my children fiercely, but their childhoods seemed, at the time, to be ignoring the “time passes so quickly” mantra of parenting. I felt heavy with the burden of them, with only my maternal love and their bright little spirits to buoy me during the process of getting through each day with my good humor intact. Yet, despite it all, I recall crying over the sentiments of the lyrics, “turn around and he’s 3, turn around and he’s 4, turn around and he’s a young man going out of the door”, yet not fully grasping the implications of truth found in the prophetic words. I grasp them now.

Time, that sly rascal, plays a tricky game with us. At the outset, with one’s entire parental experience ahead, time stretched out eternal in its hopes and possibilities. One sensed an endless road ahead, filled with all the time needed to right wrongs, reverse unfortunate judgment calls, and instill all of life’s goodness into the malleable clay of a child's spirit. Armed with immeasurable parental love, it seemed a cinch to carry forth and prosper at being the SuperSingleParent. Wrong. Somehow, and I can’t figure out how, time managed to maintain a false image of an endless tomorrow where we still had time to fix things, we still had time to savor the child’s presence. After all, look, he’s just ten, she’s just eight. Still plenty of time left. In fact, time seemed to slow, and they would stay small forever - I always had tomorrow. Then, of course, with the coming agony of teenagers, the sheer maddening chaos of it all, one wished for time to pass in an instant. The only thought of mother and child was to hang on by our collective fingernails until we reached the proverbial other shore of twenty years, a glorious number with nary a teen in it... But here’s where Time has his little laugh. While all are heaving massive sighs of relief, and giving ourselves hearty pats on the back for surviving this ancient battleground, we are slow to notice that in the last six years of crisis and turmoil, time noticeably sped up, somersaulting over itself in a rush to the finish line. In a blink, the end is in sight, the time for teaching, correcting past mistakes, for love’s touch has passed. It’s just not amusing at all.

So, I watch my second and last-born...twenty-four, blessedly human again, now marrying - with gusto. I find myself staring at her all the time, like when she was newborn. I drink her in, moonily mesmerized by the perfection of offspring, failing to quench a sudden and intense thirst for her face, her laughter, her company. “Mooom,” she wails, glancing at me sideways, catching my stare. “Quit staring at me! Why are you looking at me all the time?” We laugh, and silently acknowledge the need for this mother-child bond to Never Ever Stop.

As she begins her new life safely cocooned in the warmth and security of a man who loves her, I offer her up tentatively to the future that awaits her, hoping that the fates will be as kind to her as they've been to me in so many ways. I hope she knows that, as is the eventual way of all children, while Time may have moved her physically from my presence and Love has created a new, fledging family to which her attentions will be rightfully focused, that she and I are forever linked and blessed in a bond of shared histories, emotional and physical traits, and a love that goes bone deep.

I welcome Jeremy into this waltz of mother and daughter already in progress – he picked up on the steps pretty early for a guy, and I appreciate that he respects things enough to not want to change the music; just the order on the dance card, which is just right.

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Quote of the day: The martini tasted like John Coltrane sounds. Robert Parker. "Backstory"
Chosen because I love the brilliance of using one sense to describe another - Coltrane sets the tone..you just KNOW what the room looks like, the stage that's being set, the mood the martini is setting. So simple...wish I could think of things like this. I have shamelessly stolen this idea in a few things. Don't tell.