Hibernation

There is general agreement around these Pittsburgh parts that it is way too cold for this early in the winter, even if the frosty season has not officially arrived yet.

General agreement notwithstanding, the cold is here, oblivious. And while we are not as cold-bound as the upper Midwest and the upper Northeast, we are cold enough to be weary already of hunched shoulders and heavy coats.

So I am happy to report that I have some summer friends hanging around, in my garage, who are doing rather well in the cool and dim confines of their winter home. This fall I decided to skip the fussy gardening advice about lifting tubers, blah blah blahbeddy blah blah. I've been growing things long enough to know that there's a lot of advice out there designed only to make you work too hard.

My patio pals are hibernating quite nicely so far, still green and in the case of a canna, still flowering. If there is sun and it isn't too frosty, I open the garage door for a bit to give them a bit of weak winter light on the weekends.

Of course, there will be work to do in the spring, dividing and trimming, but I am happy to say I have $7 end-of-season ferns and hibiscus from Home Depot and black mondo grass from I can't remember where ready to set out on the warm asphalt driveway in March.

Just 3 months to go!

Carnival of the animals

In the spirit of the season, even though I want to spit nails the next time (ever, and I do mean EVER) I hear "Feliz Navidad," I volunteered today to be a Santa's helper at a local PetSmart store, printing pictures of nice people who wanted to pose their (mostly) pups with Santa Claus. All proceeds went to Going Home Greyhounds, the rescue group that brought us our lovely hounds.

So, my fellow volunteers & I took pix of Spike and Daisy, Carly Ann and Turbo, but not of Sadie, who was totally tail-between-the-legs-and-quivering traumatized by Santa. Poor sweetie! Reilly the cat was cute, too, until he hissed at Santa (great photo, though!)

Best part of the day? After a nice nap, sitting in the family room with a drink and my dog snoozing and the stereo on, listening to "Carnival of the Animals" by Camille Saint Saens.

Oh, and I read the paper, too!

Can a Sunday get any better?

Cheers!

A Charlie Brown Christmas

OK, I'm not going to link to any of the various and infinite videos and images, pirated and otherwise, to Charles M. Schulz's "A Charlie Brown Christmas."

Let me just say two words, however. Pink (and) red. And quite a bit of Violet. I don't remember being so struck as I was Wednesday night by the amounts of red, yellow green and blue, all highly saturated, that filled the show.

My favorite moment (after Snoopy sitting on his dog house, crunching bones from an endless pile and reading a newspaper) was Lucy, capped in a red hat and wrapped in a purple coat, in the scene leading to her asking Charlie Brown to direct the Christmas play.

And when Linus says "Lights, please?!" the whole auditorium goes pink and purple.


That a 45-year-old-show still has such power and draw (we have a group at work quite devoted to it) says a lot for the staying power of its message and the every-day-ness of its characters.

And, as a coda, Vince Guaraldi died much too young.

Thank you Charles M. Schulz, Vince Guaraldi, Lee Mendelsohn, Bill Melendez and all members of the "Graphic Blandishments" crew and the delightful children who gave voice to Charlie, Linus, Schroeder, Lucy, Snoopy and the rest of the Peanuts crew.

You make my Christmas every year.

All fat

Delivery day today for redecorating plans.

Two guys from a trucking company brought in a bunch of boxes, one of them a chatterbox talking, like most chatterboxes do, for the pure pleasure of hearing himself speak.

He chattered about a cat of his that has gone missing and I empathized, because ours has gone missing too. He had a good partner. Quiet, but smiling because he seemed not to mind working with Mr. Chatterbox.

Anyway, Mr. C. nattered on about his missing cat. One of many he and his wife live with, he said, but "I really liked that one."

Then, and I don't know who he was talking to, he tromped out the front door ready to bring in another box and said "Yah, he's probably at someone's house. He'll come back in the spring. All fat."

Hope my cat comes home in the spring too.

All fat.

Stay warm, Otto.

Autumn, and America

Sunday and it is cold.

There is frost on the grass, my breath appears before me and the end-of-the-year constellations sit in the velvet of the night sky, glimmering.

Colder weather is coming, of course. But I like the in-between cocoon that shelters between autumn and winter.
Fallen leaves smell sweet and cinnamony. Birds chatter. The sun arcs a low slanting path over the horizon.

I especially love Sunday mornings in this cocoon season. Coffee, newspapers, toasty slippers, a dog to keep you company and some good newspapers to feed your brain.
Two articles today caught my eye. Both in the New York Times. One: Why can't the U.S. make China do what it wants it to do? Two: Several opinions, all downward looking, about the U.S. economy.

Having read both, my reaction is: Time for this country to stop being in debt to China. Americans are innovators: We have forgotten how many inventions we have under our national belt. We need to be creative and innovative again, especially when it comes to energy and basic products, like textiles.

Anyway.


The picture is a mural in Pittsburgh's Lawrenceville neighborhood. One of many examples of Rust Belt communities reinventing themselves.

Fuzzy moon

Twist & I ended our evening walk tonight with a gorgeous view of a full moon behind a naked tree. The orb was bathed by a fuzzy halo, with a jet contrail slashing underneath, all against an inky and velvety blue-black sky.

Thanksgiving is four days away, but I say thank you now anyway. For blue skies, for warm air and only a bit of a breeze to scatter the leaves from the oaks, the locusts, the chestnuts, the maples and magnolias and all the other trees that shade our neighborhood. For warm days at year's end. For everything good that we enjoy.

For family, friends, health and happiness.

Thank you!

If it's Thursday, it must be Wednesday

In West End Village today to catch up with kitchen cabinet contractor.
Details settled with cabinet guy. Headed back 'aht' in the general direction of the South Hills but absolutely had to stop first at artifactsweb.com, on Steuben Street. Not linking because there are server errors, but the photo is the best thing about the place.
It's huge, chilly and full of weird, cool, old and strange stuff (statues of dogs tearing up prey, tapestries, chairs made of animal horns, strange modern paintings, etc., etc. If you want a stuffed elk or a polar bear pelt or ancient (royal) furniture or African totems, this is the place. If you are a film producer, this is the place for shooting or borrowing.
It's also the place to have dinner with the Seven Dwarfs. :)

Sunday, November 14, 2010

This weekend was fall in a nutshell. Saturday full of sun and blue skies, Sunday full of gray skies and rain.

So, you take advantage of the weather however you can.

Saturday, garage door up for a little light for the napping plants, a stroll around the backyard to tend to dried greenery and frozen mums. And a few minutes to let the dog snooze in the slanting November sun. Happy dog!

Sunday, garage door up even thought its dismal, a dusky walk between the raindrops with the dog and a cozy hour spent with the NY Times.

The book review had a couple articles about Native Americans, including a description of the Sioux tribe's fruitless efforts to defeat the white men. An article about Crazy Horse mentioned Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper. I'd love to know more about FLIN; seems relevant in this age of dying (or refusing to re-invent themselves is how I look at it) print products.

Back to the present. The cat, Otto, is mellowing in his dotage. He spends much more time inside and sitting on our laps on the weekends (weekdays he disappears upstairs). Much different from his younger days of indifference

Katy was a Girl with Tools this weekend, installing blinds using her brand new Ryobi drill, which already has fallen short of expectations. Not enough juice. Next time, I'll spend more cash for a drill with watts. I love putting things together and putting things up.
That's my new career. Tool Girl. :)

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Social media is what the information world is all about these days, but I watched something very basic, and very comforting today, that reminded me of the power of real human connection.

My living room has a picture window and late in the afternoon I sat down for a brief break from chores to enjoy the view of the fading day. Across the street, a red truck pulled in to my neighbors' driveway. Everyone got out and the younger folks dropping off my older neighbors stayed to chat briefly. Conversation, hugs all around and the kids drove off.

What struck me was the connection and the communication: The wrapping up of the day in the driveway at the end of an obviously nice afternoon, the warm body language.

No Facebook or any kind of online connection will ever replace the social bonds of spending time with people you love and like. There is nothing nicer than spending a dinner hour or a long weekend, cooking, eating, talking, walking with the people who occupy your heart.

So, I had coffee with a good friend this morning and wandered about the little mall we met at after. There is an Anthropologie store there, which I love to wander in just for the design. How cool is it to use embroidery circles as a design feature? Pretty darn. The picture is of a dress with a scarf. That I would have loved to have bought. Perhaps after Christmas!

Election

At 6 a.m. today, the sky was inky blue and jeweled with constellations. Twist and I took a frosty walk; I had a flashlight but didn't really need it. There was no traffic, no noise; just a horned owl hooting in the distance.

Made it to the elementary school to vote by 8 a.m., with only one candidate (Democrat) in sight and a big make-do sign composed of smaller campaign signs for the Republicans. Ran in to our next-door neighbor on the way in, then greeted our across-the-street neighbor, who's a volunteer at the polls. The lady who took my ticket told me she didn't recognize me without my dogs (she lives on a neighboring street where we usually walk). She was sorry to hear Holli is no longer with us.

Touched the screen for my candidates, hoped it took, then slipped back out into the hall for the PTA bake sale, my favorite part of the general election. Bought two bags of scones (chocolate cherry and blueberry, and small!, not those mega-calorie bricks they sell you at Au Bon Pain), headed to the car and work.

Scratch that favorite part. Not true. I love that I can participate in a process and know that my neighbors and friends are doing the same thing. I hope that where I vote is reflective of the rest of the country. That is, we set aside our differences and participate in a peaceful process. And buy really delicious baked goods.

I thought about taking a picture inside, but the school has such a nice little learning garden for the kids. I snapped what looks like a milkweed pod instead.

I ignore all the coverage of running tallies. I don't care about exit polls. Count the votes and tell me who won. And keep the Supreme Court out of it.

Hiding from Halloween

Not enough kids on my street to make it worthwhile to buy bags and bags and bags and bags of calories, so, with husband working, I dimmed the lights, had a glass of wine and enjoyed the last bit of sun on the patio. Nice. Among birds spotted at dusk at the feeder: purple finch, song sparrow, chickadee, titmouse and cardinal. A perfect combination of my favorite colors: grey, taupe, red and brown (though the titmouse breaks out of that family with its bluish grey coloring all around).
Saturday night, for the first time in ages, we stayed up long enough to watch Saturday Night Live, of which we got a kick out of the Rhianna skit with Adam Samberg. Not a Rhianna fan, but hey, how can you not be a fan of creative writing? ;)
Loved all the letters to the editor in the Sunday Styles section of the NY Times today, responding to Dominique Browning's essay on long hair in older women. Amazing to read how many women, if you extrapolate from the responses, have not had their hair cut in ages. For me, it's been almost a year, partly due to, at this time last year, having a husband in the hospital.
Now, so long. I like it; and it's nice to be able to pull it up in a pony or a bun. And wear pretty barettes.
November tomorrow. Amazing. Seems like spring was only yesterday.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

I don't know that it signifies that on 10.20.10 (or 20.10.10 if we're in Europe) that I came to some good conclusions, but let's say that it does.

That way, I'll remember said conclusions. Or I'll remember winning the $46 million Power Ball!

So, there's this difficult (aka pain in the rear but I'm trying to be nice) coworker. I think this person is pretty unhappy, but why must that unhappiness be shared?

Tonight, walking the dog, I thought about a dealing I had with this person this week, and then my mind wandered to my Monday night dream. Stripped of weirdness, the dream had me walking through a long hall, opening door after door after door. It also had me trying to get a little girl who had been hit by a car to a hospital. This coworker was driving the car there. The other part of the dream was me going somewhere, realizing halfway that I had forgotten my purse. I have that 'forgetting something important' dream a lot.

My dreams are vivid, so mornings I deal by (a) quickly re-visiting, (b) shaking my head (c) heading straight for the coffee pot. It's a good plan, but it means I put off a lot of thinking.

My lovely friend Maria has an expression: "May I say?" So, to quote Maria, may I say, that I absolutely love a relaxing walk with the dog in the evening. My brain gets so much done!

And on getting things done, of course as soon as Twist and I walked in the door, I began to think about all the things I could do before posting. Therefore, may I share this article from the current New Yorker. You can read it later, if you like. ;)

Cheers!

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Another weekend has zoomed by.

Twister and I did a Meet & Greet on Saturday at the Bethel Park Petco. Of which I have to say one of the most interesting side events was watching (when there were no customers interested in greyhounds) a young man and his father buying a snake, and all the hardware and apparatuses appertaining there-to. Dad wanted no part of it. Said young man is in the background of the photo, wearing the grey hoodie.

Snakes aside, it was a nice couple hours, and I think we got at least two or three people interested in adopting a greyhound. Oh and in the photo, Twist is cut off on the left. Hogging the camera is FX, our co-star for the afternoon. Thanks to Rob McGinley, FX's dad, for the image via iPhone

On to the next topic: One of my very favorite bloggers, Wanders, has decided to hang up his shoes. His blog is Mary Worth and Me and it pokes gentle fun at a newspaper comic strip that has outlived its prime by many decades.

The days are getting so short, I take every chance to sit outside and absorb the sunlight. This afternoon, speaking of comic strips, I felt like I was in "Mutts."

Why, you may ask?

Because, completely minding my own business sitting on a chair in the back yard, I got bonked in the head by an acorn falling from the pin oak on the back slope. And it hurt!

So, was there a squirrel up there laughing?

Hmmm

Saturday quickie

Quick post.

It takes 20 minutes to walk briskly from the intersection of the Pittsburgh Post-
Gazette at 34 Blvd. of the Allies and Commonwealth Blvd. east on Fort Pitt Boulevard then south on the Smithfield Street bridge to the Station Square cheapie parking lot.

I did the walk this evening after work and the northwest breeze from the Ohio River was a tad chilly.

Station Square has some of my favorite pieces of salvaged Pittsburgh art. Including the pictured with this post.

Quick post.

It takes 20 minutes to walk briskly from the intersection of the Pittsburgh Post-
Gazette at 34 Blvd. of the Allies and Commonwealth Blvd. east on Fort Pitt Boulevard then south on the Smithfield Street bridge to the Station Square cheapie parking lot.

I did the walk this evening after work and the northwest breeze from the Ohio River was a tad chilly.

Station Square has some of my favorite pieces of salvaged Pittsburgh art. Including the piece pictured with this post.

Wednesday Whimsy, 10/13

(Experimenting with a new name. Stay tuned.)

As we are based in Pittsburgh, and just to get it out of the way, general congratulations on the 50th anniversary of the Pirates beating the Yanks in the World Series.

(Crickets chirping).

OK then.

A couple design points for discussion.
Point 1. An underappreciated, or more realistically, not-appreciated, form of design, metallurgy, in the function of the manhole cover and other doors to the underworld. The name East Jordan Ironworks is on many such covers hereabouts. And many of them are, in addition to being so heavy, durable and constructed from valuable ores and metals/ores as to be worth stealing, very cool looking.
One is above, I love how the water has oxidized the metal differently between different thunderbolts of the lid.

Point 2. When form rules all. My friend and colleague James Hilston and his bride, Amy Chapman recently visited New York City and splurged at Rice to Riches. Whereat customers shell out for rice pudding in lovely, beautiful plastic bowl and utensil sets. Which are, when empty of rice pudding, thrown out. Why? Why? Why? Especially with all the love given to the vessels on the company's Web site. And those colors! Is there any combo better than green, brown and red? Not for my money. (OK, lavender, green and tan are up there, too.)

Last word: Rice to riches has a nice sales design concept. But their sustainability, unless, I am missing something, is nil. Therefore, as pretty as their company, business model and packaging are, if that pretty packaging gets tossed after one use, RtR gets a totally failing grade.

Last last word: Sirius in the western sky early this a.m. Beautiful planet in a silent morning.

Sunday Serendipity (on Monday). And cancer

Well, in spite my best efforts, Sunday got away from me. However, now that it is Monday I can more fully reflect on the weekend.

My favorite part of every Sunday is the New York Times. I always reach for Sunday Styles, Week in Review and Sunday Business, and thereafter the front section and the Book Review. As Philip Roth's latest offering was on the cover of the Book Review this week, I felt comfortable in AVOIDING IT COMPLETELY. If you get my drift. Angry old Jewish men. Writing about their anger. No thank you.

Ann Coulter catering to gay conservatives on the Sunday Styles cover. Gads. I read it, but it was more about AC than why gays think its acceptable for them to support her.

Ahem.

Twist and I had a lovely walk in the Sunday dusk, below a silvery-gold crescent moon.

Wait.

What's that you say?

It wasn't PINK!!!!!!!

Oh, the nerve of Mother Nature to ignore Breast Cancer Cancer Cancer Cancer Cancer Cancer, oh, one more time, Cancer Month! The nerve. Fountain waters are pink this month. Big, burly football players are wearing pink gloves. Even the Sunday funnies in the newspaper are pink. So seriously. Get with it Mom.

That said.

My style icon for Sunday is a new acquaintance, Jill Black, from Mary Worth. That's right. Black. She looks to be a real hard case who will reduce Adrian Cory, who is as dumb as a drawer full of hammers, to a puddle of jelly while helping her "choose" her wedding dress. Again, imagine the nerve of the comic strip's author introducing a character named BLACK!!! during pink cancer month.

And speaking of cancer, cancer, cancer, I like this post from Blag Hag.

The "illustration" is done by deviantART muro. Just call me Jacksonia Pollock.

Cheers. Happy Cancer Month!

Wednesday Whimsy

OCTOBER 6, 2010
The week: It's been rainy so far, but I have seen some interesting things in the drizzle. One of which I will describe below, and having witnessed it, am resolved to now carry my cellphone at all times. To use the camera.
Heading back from the PPG Food Court on Monday, one-ish, I came down the steps from the PPG building and stopped a step above a tiny woodpecker, obviously so lost. It tried to cross the street, hopping, and I trotted along behind to hurry it along before it got run over. He trotted across and then unfortunately flew back across the street and smack into a Wintergarden window. Stunned him but he perched on the ledge, although I can't imagine it was good for his little brain.
He was interesting looking, not a downy though. So henceforth, I will carry my camera. It's the second time I've found an interesting bird in the vicinity of PPG Place, which really is a death tower, with all that glass, for birds. A couple years ago I found a dead cedar waxwing on the sidewalk next to the Wintergarden.

Readings: Very interesting article in the New Yorker from last week by Malcom Gladwell about the value of social networks. The link is here: The revolution will not be tweeted.

This week's picture: I love this sign design, from an actual non-chain drugstore in the Pittsburgh neighborhood of Lawrenceville.

Goodbye to mid-century modern

Some of my favorite buildings, albeit ones that I do not (or now, cannot) visit often have come down in recent years. Or altered past their original design to be unrecognizable.

In Downtown Pittsburgh in the 1980s and early 1990s, First Federal Bank, now long since absorbed into some financial institution conglomerate many times over, had a warm, contemporary wood and brass office at the corner of Penn and Stanwix. I loved going there. The space was so minimalist and the glass and a few plants added a gorgeous slight hue of green to the space. Gone.

In Cleveland, the Garden Center in University Circle, in the same time period, (and I'm guessing it was built mid-20th century too,) had a gorgeous terrazo floored lobby, with a glass curtain hanging under a brass stairwell that was wide and curving down to a lower level that had a spacious auditorium, simply adorned. At ground level, another glass curtain wall looked out onto herb, rose and other gardens, with fountains place unobtrusively. Gone.

In Columbus, the Ohio Union, built in the early 1950s with an expansive entrance from High Street with twin staircases inside the main entry (heading up and down) and lined with brass rails has been torn down in favor (after, of course, due consideration to refurbishing-remodeling, but no, not when there is a rich alum who wants his/her name on a new building) of what has become the bland design of the present, red brick with shiny silvery trimmings and lots of space inside for fast food joints (though to be fair those had invaded the old OU as well, which had a cafeteria that in my memory resembles nothing so much as the one featured in "Animal House." Gone.

Here in Pittsburgh, development interests are pushing as hard as they can to tear down the Civic (Mellon) Arena, a groundbreaking design when in was built in the early 1960s. The Pittsburgh Penguins want to develop the site, but have warned it will "take time." Sounds to me like it will be a parking lot. Soon to be gone.

We want to be "green" here, but only when the term applies to new buildings. Which isn't very green at all.

Pittsburgh says: Go away

I hate being mad

Why, you might ask, gentle reader?

I will tell you. Madness, also known as anger, as frustration, leads me down the path of idiocy. I lose control of my reason, a powerful tool, and become a shrieking, or at the very least, shrill, harpy.

Alas, I became a harpy today, in the wake of two incidents of public -- I will not say rudeness, because I do believe rudeness requires malice aforethought -- but of public unconsciousness. In other words, I encountered people so utterly out of touch with the fact of their presence in public spaces that they were utterly unable to see their way toward accommodating another human being. In the smallest of ways.

Allow a single person already exiting a door through which you and your posse are about to enter? Nonsense. The out-of-touch will have none of that and simply barrel through the door and over, through and around the solitary exiting person, who will be lucky to make it through without bruises.

And yet another door user, exiting and, before doing so, turning briefly and seeing more human traffic behind him, and despite this, exiting and then, yes, dear reader, pausing, nay, stopping in his moronic tracks, yes, I say immediately outside of the door. Pausing thoughtfully to survey his surroundings. And, being a total fucking moron, oblivious to the people traffic exiting the door behind him, who, much like the band in that apocalyptic parade scene in that finest example of satirical American cinema, "Animal House," simply followed their course, stacking up against the wall of flesh created by one human moron. Ahh. Of course the sin is upon not the moron, but those who expect the smallest of civic courtesies.

Now, to the last tormentor of my reason. It is No. 3, but by virtue of being sicced upon me by a faceless corporate entity, must and shall live in a separate category.

It begins thusly: "No trespassing!" "No loitering!" "Private property!"

A public space -- designed as such some 50 years ago when Pittsburgh truly deserved, as it most assuredly no longer does, though some lazy media outlets continue to rely on it like a crutch, the nickname of "Smoky City" -- has been turned into a No Fly zone by current ownership.

Gateway Plaza, its gorgeous, severe and yet serene Mid-Century Modern design already having been squashed, cluttered and fussified some few years ago by said current owners, has now been ruled off limits in the area of a certain restaurant patio, cutting off pedestrian access through the plaza at one of two sets of steps toward Liberty Avenue.

Perhaps the plaza has become a haven in recent years, with its shady arbors and welcoming benches, for layabouts, the unemployed, oh, the folks who enjoy reading during lunch hour or just a chance to sit in the noon sun and enjoy their lemonade. And yet, it is so odd, truly, that property managers, in the name of discouraging such behavior, block off only the access around a new restaurant, which, like its apparently less fearful predecessor, has parked tables and umbrellas on the patio in an area that is open, airy and unshaded. Exactly the sort of space that malingerers and evildoers would NOT frequent, perhaps, because, rightly, even sub-human brains would recognize that such a spot would not be the ideal place for engaging in questionable deeds.

The arbors with deep shade, however, are still available. Bad guys, come on down.

A chapter closed

Our lives have chapters. Childhood and adulthood in their many separate branches. Private lives, with their mysteries known only to us. Connected lives, which we share daily with partners, friends, spouses. Ephemeral lives, the ones we share with the clerk at the lottery counter, or the barista who makes our daily coffee. The lives we share with our animals, the lives we share with the creatures of the world.

Carl and I lost an animal, Holli, on Tuesday, the last day of August. We had shared lives since February of 2002 and felt utterly enriched by her presence. As she aged with us, she grew from a goofy blonde greyhound with a Fred Flintstone 5 o'clock shadow to a sweet, yet reserved, regal beauty. We called her the Honey Dog for her personality and the Soft Dog for her smooth coat. We mellowed, too, growing easier with age ... feeling less called upon to adventure. Perhaps a good thing, or, perhaps not.

We were enriched by her presence; but that seems pat.

I think that the people and creatures and times that define our lives do constitute chapters. Our thinking is shaped by our days and our reflections upon them. We grow with parents, siblings, children, friends, animals and all provide us with bricks of love and insight for the foundations of our time on earth.

Holli offered love, companionship, a measure of silliness, and total trust. And she asked for so little in return. I miss her selflessness, and her sweetness.

She was a lovely chapter in our lives. And I hope we were in hers.

Good-bye, Honey Love.

Fall is coming

August is a melancholy month.

Kids go back to school. Squirrels start hoarding nuts. Rains fall quietly.

When Carl and I were newlyweds, every August 22, our anniversary, was spent having an extragavant dinner at a lovely restaurant. I would always have a champagne cocktail to start the evening, in honor of the delicious one I had at the Ritz Carlton in Boston.

This year, I spent our anniversary driving home from Washington after visiting a friend. When I arrived home, Carl was out grocery shopping. I didn't have his gift ready, nor he mine. So we spent the evening on the patio under the big umbrella and the dogs joined us.

Love affairs change over time, and ours is no different. We are more comfortable and less passionate. The good thing is we are still together

Wishful thinking

Tonight I sat on the back patio, under an umbrella, and listened to a late afternoon steady rain; water tumbling into downspouts, raindrops pattering and splashing on roof tile and concrete and all surrounded by the late summer symphony of cicadas, crickets and other buzzy creatures.

Early summer is so quiet, it's a feast for the eyes, not the ears. Flowers bloom and fireflies flicker. Late summer is noisy, if less spectacular a feast to watch. I like it best, because it has such a lovely somnolence. The world of growing and buzzing things rests, enjoying the fruits of spring and early summer's labors before fall requires them to prepare for the next cycle of growth and birth.

The evening performance put me in mind of a passage in a review this week in the New York Times. One of my favorite actresses, Bernadette Peters, is appearing on Broadway in "A Little Night Music." The reviewer was enamored of her rendition of "Send in the Clowns" but not very enthusiastic about the production as a whole. Here is part of his review:

Desirée has just come to realize that the dreams of reuniting with her now-married former lover Fredrik Egerman (Alexander Hanson) were the comforting delusions of a sultry summer night. Alone with Fredrik at last, she drops the role of the worldly seductress and carefree flirt that she assumed in order to play Fredrik’s renewed infatuation against her young lover’s obsessive devotion. The heart she has kept under wraps for too long speaks forth the unhappy truth: The love they shared in their youth and brushed aside so cavalierly cannot be recaptured without painful cost in middle age. Closer than ever before, they are also infinitely farther apart.

For some reason, drowsing on the bus on the way home from work this evening, my thoughts wandered to a long-ago high school and college (very briefly, both times) boyfriend.

When I first noticed him noticing me in high school, I was thunderstruck. I could never get over that he noticed me. In college (we both went to the same school) he showed up twice at a sub shop where I waitressed, the second time deliberately I think because he came without his then-girlfriend. I ignored him and haven't seen him since, and I dreamily wondered in the back of the bus today what would have happened if we had managed to create a relationship.

I think it would not have been great, from my viewpoint, because there was too much immaturity on both sides. But he made my heart pound. And a little night music made me think of him.

Losing it

Recently lost: Company ID.
School ID
Cell phone
Charger kit for new cell phone
Mind (If found, keep, I will just lose it again)
Something going on brain, telling it to not pay attention to much of anything
Why? No idea
Tried to upload pictures to include with this post
Camera batteries dead
Sigh
Camera now in trash can. I'll retrieve it, but it felt good to pitch it.
The pictures are of bugs, namely caterpillars which soon will be black Swallowtail butterflies.
They have been devouring the foliage of my potted fennel bulbs, which is OK; I only want the bulbs.
There are 3 of them, 2 bigger than the third. As of this writing, the big guys are just over a half inch long. They spent the past day motionless on the stalks, but this evening were on the nosh again.
We have a lot of birds in the backyard (feeders) so I am hoping these plump fellows don't become an avian appetizer. I'd love to see the metamorphosis from bug to butterfly.
Meanwhilst... I shall return with a caterpillar picture, should brain and technology cooperate.
Unless I lose it again.

Wednesday Whimsy

I love midsummer. In our quiet neighborhood crickets and locusts buzz and chirp loudly through dusk to midnight. By 5 a.m. the birds take over the symphony.
Tonight we had the proverbial stray shower drench us, accompanied by bursts of thunder loud enough to send Twist into the closet, her favorite hiding place.
Not before we had a nice interlude in the back yard when I came home from work. And before she realized I was taking her picture. Something about the sound of the camera spooks her.
So many other things I wanted to write about tonight. I blame it on the Pirates. I was watching and they were winning. Uh oh. ;)

Wednesday Whimsy

(One in a continuing series!) (Thrills and excitement to follow!)(Don't get too excited!)

Passages through DT Pburgh on a lunch-hour walk: Belgian blocks in Market Square, blockades at PNC, empty storefronts on Fifth Avenue. All attempts at reconstruction still don't address the fact that, for whatever reason, Market Square attracts a lot of people who don't have much to do except hang out. So. We shall see. And, by the way, my grandfather, Edward Hurley, loved Market Square, except in his day, the space was called the New Diamond Market.

I found the image below at the Carnegie Library Online site; it dates to after Grandad Hurley's day, but shows that Market Square actually was a covered market, kind of like Les Halles (much smaller scale!)

Here it is. Thank you, Caroline!

Art Appreciation: Milton Avery

This is "Conversation" by Milton Avery, from 1956.

I have a large framed print of this work, presently hanging in our basement family room but deserving of better display.

This painting speaks to me on a primary level, that of kinship between two women, but there are so many other things that I love about it.

Number one is the seeming ambiguity between the two women. They are touching, but leaning away from each other despite the conversational tone of their poses. The viewer is left to wonder what kind of intimacy exists between these two people. Anger? A disagreement between longtime friends? Or just a momentary shift in positions during a long conversation?

I also wonder what the artist intended in painting one person in sharp detail, the purple girl, and another in softer, fuzzier more ethereal fashion, the blue girl. Blue is so ephemeral she looks ready to float away. Purple has her legs crossed, on firmly on the ground, hands clasped and a shoulder on the sofa. She is not going anywhere.

This painting also has a strong horizontal composition: The four bands of background color; the women's gazes, seemingly pulling the women toward each other, and the placements of their hands. Even the shapes of their heads mirror the shapes of their knees.

What, finally, I love about this painting, is, that like a wonderful biography or piece of fiction, I never tire of it. Each time I enjoy it, I see something new it it.

Shake Up at La VieC!

I’m sitting in my living room, thunder rolling outside in a very rainy dusk. Power is out, but the laptop has a full battery. Still daylight-ish, and I am wishing it was a Saturday or Sunday morning (as it was not when this was written) so I could be snuggling under the bedcovers and drowsing to the symphony of thunder and rain. Another wish: I wish I had another good day for every day that I wished time away.

(Warning! Another paragraph beginning with “I” to follow.)

I have been mentally constructing a new direction for this blog. I do fairly well, usually, writing off the cuff, but off the cuff has no structure. So, new direction means “topics,” as the Mackenzie Brothers of Second City TV called them. Structure means schedule and so I will address each of these topics in a Sunday and Wednesday posting schedule. Posting every day, I have come to realize is unrealistic and exhausting.

This list will be edited down for expediency, but as of now, here are the subjects I want to cover:
*Art and Design
*Birds and Dogs (birds, with help from family, dogs, mostly mine)
*Family and Girlfriends.
*Pittsburgh (My Mom was born here!)
And the occasional piece of whimsy, craziness and/or sarcastic humor. That last will be a challenge. I (think I) have become a more compassionate/less critical person thanks to therapy but I hope I have not lost my very precious prickliness (VPP).

Shall I call it Katy And? No, there will be no voting on the name. None of this community crap. I will decide, you will read.

Love and air kisses.

Kate

I want a vacation

Up until a few years ago, a group of friends and I made regular spring trips to New York. Not all together, but usually overlapping so we could get together for drinks or dinner or lunch or coffee. Some of us ran (walked, in my case, with an occasional spurt of jogging) in the More Magazine half-marathon in Central Park. One spring the race was scheduled for a weekend in late April that ended up being coolish warm, perfect for a run, and sunny, perfect for the baby green leaves on trees and the tulips and the daffodils. It was absolutely gorgeous.

We haven't made this spring trip in a few years, but I have a door-hanger from Anthropologie to remind me of the fun a weekend in the big city can be: "I'm in New York. Come back later."

I have been wanting a "me" vacation for a while, and New York seems like as good a place as any. I would love to just wander, poke in and out of shops and museums, stop for coffee, wander through Central Park, visit the Union Square farmers market and explore the parts of the city that I don't know.

In my 30s, I interviewed with The Wall Street Journal and had a pretty good shot at a job there. Carl didn't want to live in New York and I've always regretted I didn't push harder for us to try it. We were young enough then and probably could have gotten over the cost of living shock. Now, not so much.

Anyway, teeny weeny spring vacation: Walking the dogs tonight, we wandered along a street with no sidewalks. Lilacs in full flowers hung over part of the asphalt. Twist of course found something underneath to investigate while Holli waited patiently. I waited, too, and stuck my nose deep into some of those lovely blooms, breathing in their perfume.

Lilacs, a cool spring evening, me, and the greyhounds. Pretty short vacation, but it'll do for now.

The coo of the doves

I've been enjoying so much lately listening to the mourning doves, who become more vocal in the spring, along with all their winged brethren.

Their cooing takes me back to college and my lovely old apartment on Neil Avenue, north campus. The building, I'd put it at 1920s vintage, had an "E" footprint, with the spaces between the horizontal extensions of the letter serving as tiny courtyards, paved in stone and coolly shaded from the sidewalk. Three stories, if I recall. My apartment, a very spacious studio, was on the second floor.

Between my sophomore and junior year, I stayed on the OSU campus for summer quarter. I don't remember waking up to an alarm, though I had a job as a secretary in the anthropology department that required my presence at around 8.

But I do remember the coos of the mourning doves, serenading me as I awoke and prepared for the day.

That is the first bird call I ever paid attention to, and, though they are among the most humble and common of birds, I treasure their song, because it reminds me of a less complicated time of life (though, of course, back then, I did not realize it!)

Anger and quiet

I let my emotions get the better of me this evening.

A long day, starting with an overslept, rushed morning, ended with me (Miss Public Transit) sitting behind the wheel in the evening rush hour.

Couldn't do it.

I detoured to a less traveled route, probably taking the same time to get home as I would have sitting, but at least I was moving. Got honked at by an idiot, made every red light and basically wondered why I was being such a slave to hurry. Don't know. Just was. And didn't f---ing feel like sitting in traffic or being honked at by idiots.

Finally home. Let the girls out, sat down in front of the fire with a glass of wine, scratched the dogs and took a few deep breaths.

We went for our walk. No owl tonight. Just the quiet of the evening, black tree silhouettes against the grey night sky and the sound of a train in the far distance.

The rush of air deep into my lungs.

I felt better, and we strolled home.

A short Sunday

A short Sunday is what you get when you sleep until 11:30 a.m.

Part of my short Sunday included grocery shopping at my tiny neighborhood Giant Eagle, which, if I don't exactly love, I favor, because it is familiar and has only two self-checkout lines. The rest have people at the cash registers

I know the cashiers and the baggers by face, if not by name, meaning I know which ones I prefer and which ones to avoid. Today I learned the face of a new bagger to avoid; he tossed items in my bags willy nilly, with me repacking almost as soon as he plopped a bag in my cart. But most of the people there are nice, they seem all to have worked there for a long time, although I haven't seen the Sikh cashier checking anyone out lately.

In September 2008, my friends Carol, Virginia, Ellen and I took a girlfriends trip to Paris. One of the nicest experiences of the trip was buying our dinner the first night at a street market near the apartment we had rented in St. Germain des Pres. We bought a whole roasted chicken, some fabulous roasted potatoes, green beans and a baguette.

It was so much fun choosing our food and having it packed right in front of us.

I'll always remember from having lived in France when I was a kid seeing moms head home in the evenings with string bags full of provisions for the evening meal and the ever-present baguette. My mom once took us to Les Halles, now demolished, and, because I was little, I remember being awed by things like skinned pig heads in the meat cases. As a grownup, I am certain I would have appreciated the atmosphere more. In Pittsburgh, the Strip District comes close, but for my money, Cleveland's West Side Market is the place to shop on Saturday mornings.

Happy Birthday

This has to go into the books as an unremarkable birthday, except that I slept too late. There might be a bit of symmetry there if I could remember my mother ever telling me that I arrived in this world early, late or just about on time. Perhaps a remarkable aspect of me is that I can be all three. I am never perpetually late, early or just about on time.

I prefer to mix things up; it's the Aquarian in me.

Back to the birthday. It could not even be called remarkable in that it was defined by 2 and 3 feet high drifts of snow outside, because, after, all it is February in a northern climate even though such heavy falls are less common now then when I was younger.

What could be remarkable is that, except for shoveling snow, I take the dreary weather of my birth month with much more equanimity now that I am older, or as singer-songwriter-actor Loudon Wainwright III (63) told Terri Gross in an interview on "Fresh Air" this afternoon, "closer to the end."

I'm not a particular fan of LWJ, but I enjoyed the interview because Terri Gross asks good questions; for example wondering what it was like for him to revisit songs he had written as a young and very different man, singing with a much younger voice. I don't recall the answer; I just was struck by the empathy the question evoked in me, because I feel like such a completely different person from young Katy. The journey hasn't always been easy, but it has been interesting. I've learned a lot that has helped me to be, I hope, a better person.

There are 50 minutes left in my birthday. Snow is falling and time is passing, softening all hard edges.

Reflections of a day

What do you call the moments of the day, remembered in a jumble, deep into evening when the daylight has long since passed?

This morning brought dry, bitter cold and the palest of January light.

In the park, the dogs and I had barely come down the steps and moved down the path when a crashing sound stopped us, at least two of us with ears up. We turned and on the slope above us, two deer, galloping full speed, flashed by, followed by a small, golden streak, barking.

I expected shortly to hear horns honking, as they were headed toward traffic, but as we continued on, the only sound was a whistle for a dog, and the next sigh the golden streak, in the form of a running boxer, rushing back past us into the park.

We were left with the hollow sound of a woodpecker drilling on a tree trunk and icy water rippling over stones in the creek. We finished our walk uneventfully, the memory of the chase immediately replaced in the dogs' minds by the next fascinating smell.

I went to the hospital in the early afternoon to visit Carl, who now has a very talkative roommate. On his cell phone. With the nurses. About things you just would rather not hear about, as they are unpleasant daily realities in the hospital. I won't say thanks for sharing.

After work, I drove back to visit again. Heading in to Oakland on the Boulevard of the Allies, I saw the moon, low and huge in the evening sky, veiled by cloud drift. At the hospital, I headed to the top floor of the garage, hoping to get a picture, but the skyline obscured it. By the time I left, the risen moon had lost its near-to-the-horizon majesty.

Now, at midnight, it lights the dark, turning the snow in the backyard to a pale silver gray, reflecting what's left of the day.

The painting is by artist Edward Bannister, a black American who was born in Boston and died in 1901.

Remember me

When I leave this planet, there will be no tombstone, no mausoleum, no endowed chair, no charity to remind the living of my time here.

The best I hope for is to have been (and selfish younger me would never have imagined this) kind, generous, patient, civil and possessed of a real good sense of humor (got it!). And that those qualities made life better for others around me. Because I think the best we have to offer others is the best that's in us, not for the reward of heaven, or reincarnation, or at the lowest level, avoiding hell, but because we can in the here and now.

There's a scene in "Schindler's List" in which Ralph Fiennes' character, the odious concentration camp commander, is being talked out of not shooting a young boy, an inmate , because he has the power not to. He seems to buy the argument, then kills the boy anyway. That's the seduction of power and it's addiction. That killing may have given the commander a fix, but it only left him wanting more of the same hideous drug.

The better addiction is finding the place that lets you set aside your own immediate needs and face the world not as one against many, but as part of a group of souls made of the same stuff as you. So when you are in a hurry, easier to smile and say excuse me. Or to let another go ahead. Doesn't mean you let yourself be taken advantage of, just that in the daily bustle, you see the larger picture of your journey.

This all seems very nicey-nicey from Miss Prickly here.

(Brief pause here for viewing of Andrea Martin on YouTube. No, I am not linking. Open a new browser window and find it. Hmm hmm hmm. Back? OK, good!)

One reason I am thinking about this is how often older people unload about their aches, pains, ills, etc., in response to a simple "How are you?"

Another is: I've been told a few too many times lately how tired I look. By strangers. Why? Such a comment serves no purpose, except to make me want to run to the restroom and see how dark the bags are under my eyes. Thanks!

It's like a stranger telling you to "Smile!" Why? So stranger can feel good?

Of course strangers don't know my husband is in the hospital and that I am worried and stretching myself with visits and trying to figure out his care. Still. Butt out!

I resolve never to tell another that he or she looks tired, and never to complain to another about my aches and pains.

When someone says "How are you?" the proper response is "I'm good! Thanks!"

Snowflakes on snowflakes

Since Dec. 28, snow has fallen.

Traffic slows, newscasts get frantic and life goes on.

The dogs love the snow; the salt they hate. I take them out in the evening after the plows have been by and in no time, one paw after another is daintily lifted up and held, awaiting a soothing rub to dispatch the stinging salt. I have decided to call these moments of need "poor paws."

Needless to say, our walks are short. Yet life retains its rhythm. I say hello to neighbors, even on those brief walks, who are shoveling snow or taking their own dogs out for a break. The owl hoots at night and I wonder if he is lonesome. The flakes continue to fall, silently and beautifully, and enthralling against the dark sky. The clocks tick, the alarm waits, and the days grow longer, if only by seconds.

And my husband is another day closer to coming home.