Another Water Kettle

Or is the term still "tea kettle"? Nontheless, I have just burned up my fifth kettle. Of all the accomplishments in my married life, I can boast how well I burn kettles. It's not so much that I want to, but when I buy one, I make sure there is a whistle attached.  Now the pretty green kettle is a brown with the top eroded like the early eruption of Mt. Vesuvius. At least the handle reminds me of the lovely green.

The above one had a whistle. No matter, it didn't work for me. I think the whistle burned at 90 degrees, for by the time I followed the odor trail I saw why. By then the kettle was sitting emanating 400 degrees, at least. Where was I? Trying to churn out an essay on the computer for a contest on Southern Sin . I was so caught up in my thinking that only when I began to breathe that stinking odor did I look around, take deep breaths around the printer and the computer, expecting one of them  to blow up. Not until all was shut down did the odor continue. Now the house is drenched. The outside air is quiet from all the rain that has poured for two days so nothing will absorb or take away this foul smell. I can't hide the fact that another kettle is gone.

 My weakness around the stove is turning a knob to HIGH, then walking off. Oh, I've burned foodstuffs that I was "warming".My explanation always to my husband is "My mind is so busy that I forgot". I zonk out when I'm writing, and leaving the stove unattended  sounds like dementia. But I'm not suffering from old age, yet. I am not mindful of my responsibilities as a cook because I AM NOT A COOK. I'm NOT A WARMER, either. Maybe I should give up on water kettles and use the boiler. They are cheaper to replace.

Is my Southern Sin  the failure to be honed as a cook?

Writing the Lyric Essay

I found it time to enroll in a writing class at the local college. I've dabbled in fiction, trying to describe, plot, structure paragraphs, detail characters, all those points known authors push at writing conferences. However, I actually like to write about the history as it progressed from my 1930's birthday to the present. Little points, like the clothes I wore, music I enjoyed, fun I had in high school (there wasn't much but movies and listening to radios, in the home or with friends). All those memories will appear ancient to my grandson when he is a teen. For this reason I'm taking a non-fiction class to better spiff up my writing.

I've rarely explored the different kinds of non-fiction beyond the memoir, but Monday night I'm delving into my first attempt at writing a lyric essay. It's sort of poetic, much imagery (which is difficult for me), and seemingly disjointed paragraphs with the same theme.

As much as I dislike seeing snakes, I wrote my first lyric essay on that subject. I have a number of snake "snapshots", little bits of remembrances that I want to put into words. For example"

Mother once told me at age eight her older brothers had thrown a snake at her feet after they killed the creature. That, despite it being dead, coiled around her ankles. From then on she never wanted to see a photograph or drawing of snakes. Later with a family, she depended on us to hide the reptiles with a sheet of paper the photos.

 My sister and I spent most of our teen life at home perusing magazines and newspapers to find snakes and either cover them up or write on the cover: "Skip Page 12". No explanation was needed. Mother either didn't read that periodical or she skipped page 12.  We thought it funny (ha ha funny) for Mother to have such a phobia, despite her telling us the above story. Perhaps we thought by making light of the subject Mother would understand she'd never if rarely ever see another snake. She worked in the city and Dad worked the yard on weekends. Unless one hooked itself to the underside of the family car or slithered inside the house unannounced, Mother had nothing to worry about. 

She didn't mind my purchasing a pair of snakeskin shoes  with my first salary. The pair didn't remind her of snakes. It was the reptiles in sight that scared her. A  trip to the zoo didn't include a pass by the reptile exhibit. Somehow I caught that phobia and had difficult looking at a snake in my maturing life.

When our local newspaper printed the photos of the most common poisonous snakes in our state, I made myself look at them. We have a wooded area behind our house and I've always been leery of traipsing into the brush, or getting close to the edge of the yard. I need to know what to expect.

I want to remember the herpetologist's advice upon seeing a poisonous snake: "Ignore the snake, walk slowly back from it."  I imagine I'll stand in place with my eyes closed trying to remember what he said.

Memories

I boast daily that I wish to live until I'm 140 years. Those within hearing distance smile, cluck their tongues, or peer sideways as though someone else may be listening. My reasoning is to accomplish all the ideas I have to rushing through my mind. I worked without enjoying life for 30 years. Now with retirement long past, I work to enjoy my life. One of those ideas I work on is recording my memories on paper.

Being a kid who was born in the early 1930s and learned about the world around me in the 1940s, and got educated and dated boys in the 1950s, I have many experiences about my family and those who came before me, the summers I spent in the rural areas of Mississippi, and the funny happenings within my own family.

Now with  grandson Henry in the picture, the urge to write almost overcomes my waking moments. What will he have to remember Veve with but reams of paper snapped up in a series of notebooks that reveal all these wonderful years of my life?.

Time. It seems to stand still when the day begins, then  leaks slowly out of my life and darkness arrives too quickly. I hold that brief snapshot that jumped into the mind's eye until the next morning. When I drive any distance, memories flood  the car's interior and I'm living in the past for an instant while trying to keep my distance from the car that stops suddenly in front of me.

When the above photo was snapped in the back yard of an early home, I had no idea at age seven what I'd be thinking or doing fifty years later. Fortunately, I'm active, exercise, and have fun with friends. Why not want to live 140 years?

Check This Link

 I'm not one to brag, except on certain occasions. Our family is quite proud that one son's creativity (Scott Newkirk) is now published in a book called Handmade Houses: A Century of Earth Friendly Home Design. The link below is the article that ran in the Wall Street Journal, March 17 issue concerning the book. Son's property, now sold, is the featured hand made house. Hats off to Scott and to his loyal builder, Craig Petracek of NY, whose creative juices alighned with Scott's and flowed throughout the process.

The book is filled with gorgeous homes both architect-insprired and owner-creator inspired. A good read for tempting one to build with recycled materials.

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052702304692804577281560861340968.html?mod=WSJ_LifeStyle_Lifestyle_5

Spring

A quick trip to Bath, Maine, a few weeks ago reminded me how dry the air was (my hair would not behave!) and how cold it was. I thought I prepared for the change in weather. Back home in Mississippi I was already into lighter clothing. My body shook from the quick change an airplane ride can affect you. I could only remember the prettiest site in our yard before I left:

The Mississippi landscape was just stretching from its short winter nap and the natives were treated to an array of blooms from daffodils, crocus, Bradford pear trees, and the Japanese magnolias. When I returned to the familiar scene the trees had bloomed into that lime green that denotes new growth, the limbs of the greybeard trees were prancing in the breeze and the azaleas were at their height of blossoming. What a lovely sight.

We arrived in a thunderstorm. The next morning the heavy remains of pelting rain lay on the trees, soaked into the soil, giving off a glow that is incomparable. That scene reminded my daughter J how much she missed this time of year. Maine's springs and summers are ever so short. Everyone sees in his own surroundings the reminders of the wonders of nature and how appreciative animals and humans are that spring has arrived.

Those Crazy Techs

How often have you had to call a tech to help you with your computer, your phone, or some other electronic device? You remember how frustrating it was attempting to (1 )understand his English or (2) making him understand your problem. Needless to say, you spend numerous hours with him/her getting  nowhere with your broken device. Recall the commercial about a person calling for help and getting someone in Siberia? Sometimes it seems we've called the wrong number. The foreign voice answering to Sally, Frank, or Betty doesn't fool us for a moment. I'd rather they use their regular names, even if unpronounceable.

I heard the funniest the other day during exercise class. Yes, we sometimes chat, as the class is composed of older ladies doing what seems to appear "easy" exercises. The true story goes like this:

The exerciser remarked that her husband while working in the yard accidentally cut in two the cable to their television. She immediately called the cable company's tech:

"Hello, this is Buddy, how can I help you?"
"Uh, Buddy, my husband cut the cable and our TV won't work."
"Oh, I see, just a moment, please." A second or two passes and he returns to the phone.
"Let me review your problem; you have no TV working?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Let me walk you through the process of restoring your TV."
"But, uh, Buddy, the cable is cut, I don't think . . ."
"Yes, I understand, but I will walk you through the process."
"Buddy, listen. The. Cable. Is. Cut. Someone needs to repair the cable."
I understand, but if you will just let me walk you through the process . . ."

There seems to be no way we can avoid talking to techs who don't understand our problems. Yes, I admit some are successful in helping you.  My biggest obstacle is my southern accent. One tech hung up on me because I couldn't understand his speech nor he mine. I can't speak into the phone giving any information like telephone number, address, or similar facts, since the automated system will constantly say, "I don't understand the answer." Even speaking slowly seems to muddle the airwaves.

Automation, foreign speakers, directions written in English by non-English speakers are just a few difficulties we  face in our daily lives since American companies hired overseas personnel. Do you wonder the laughs and the stories those techs in Pakistan, the Phillippines, India, and other countries tell to their friends  about their encounters with Americans?  

Reminiscing about Drama

I was caught in a crowd of automobiles yesterday entering Madison, but the slow-down allowed me to pause in front of the old elementary school building. It now houses the arts center. I paused a moment to read the lighted sign in the front yard announcing a drama group’s audition for the play “Ramona”. That prompted me to recollect my own entrance into dramatics.

During a session in North Carolina at two-month summer camp dramatics was offered as a fun course. At age 14  I decided my timid ways needed to be injected with some energy that would bring me out of my shell. I auditioned for several summer plays. I loved it and showed a flair for improvising. I recall only one play in which I played the lead: “The Ghost in the Green Gown.”

If you remember the plays in your high school, those silly ones that required the entire senior class on stage at one time or another, “Ghost” was just as silly, but required only 6 participants. I was the ghost with more lines to speak than anyone. During that play when the other players forgot their lines, I incorporated the missing lines in my speech to cover their forgetfulness. 

Armed with summer success, I began participating in high school and junior college. By then we dropped the name dramatics to drama. I continued participating in senior college. When I became a teacher I took on the responsibility of being drama sponsor in small schools.

When I married we joined the local Little Theatre (now called New Stage) and helped backstage with what I had learned in college – makeup. I had become pretty adept in the basics of stage makeup.  But the love of the stage beckoned me. I auditioned for “The Man Who Came to Dinner” and got a good spot as the maid.  I worked one summer under a visiting director and learned more than I ever expected. By then I had a heavy load teaching and unable to audition for any more plays. With new family responsibilities drama dropped low on my priority list. I’m still haunted by the fact that I no longer have the stamina to learn lines, practice nightly long hours, and deliver them satisfactorily.

However, news of auditions for plays, like the one on the signboard I saw yesterday, tugs at my heart. It gives me a chance to reminisce of fun times being someone else.

Appreciation at Christmas

Christmas Day this year had a special meaning. Our grandson at age 15 months brought the wonderment of a child in the same way that Baby Jesus awed the shepherds and the Wise Men. Our lives alone were becoming meaningless until Henry came along. You who are grandparents already know and understand the meaning of a new generation with  your own grandchildren.

This year watching our child imbued with enthusiasm in the simple joy of smiling when he recognizes his family, or when he runs to one to be picked up and loved a quick minute, trying out his new shoes, learning new movements with a play slide, or holding up a new book to be read for a minute—all these actions of discovery is what every grandparent should experience.  We thank our son and his family for making our Christmas one of those we remember  fifty years ago when he was the same age.