Did I ever tell you the story about the owlet in the kitchen? Not mine. Not my kitchen that is nor, my owlet. But definitely an owlet in a kitchen. Who's on first?
Back in the day, I entered college as a shy gangly thing fresh out of an all girls boarding school. Four years later, I graduated somewhat irreverent in thought and action. It was after all, 1967-1971. I can hardly be faulted for swapping my Villager skirt and sweater sets for bell bottoms, buffalo sandals and crop tops, right?
The change was gradual until I met Hig my sophomore year, his senior. My very own personal Peter Pan. I was introduced to him by a mutual friend. He might well have been from outer space. Tall, equally as gangly, long hair and goatee, living off campus, riding his bike, working on an underground paper, marching in protests, messing with the Dean's mind. But in those days, he represented everything I was not and I followed him around like a puppy. He taught me how to shoot a gun. Drive his motorcycle. Run the bridge rails. Roll my own.
One day, I being upset about something, he decided I needed to head home with him to Heartslog Valley, to meet his mother the ex-Russian actress and his father, the man who developed the formula for the paint that is the stripes down the middle of the roads.
As we walked into the house, well after dark, we entered through the 'music room' complete with baby grand, harp, fiddle and other miscellaneous musical instruments and stands. I was taken a little off balance but not so that I didn't notice the goings on in the kitchen while being introduced to his mother. Along the upper most portion of the four walls, were dead branches nailed and strung together forming a trellis of sorts winding around and around the room. Trying to concentrate on the conversation with his mother . . . first impressions being what they may . . . I totally lost it when my eyes focused off to one corner. Surely someone else must have noticed the owlet among the twigs??? The very much alive owlet. Mouth agape, finger pointed, I indicated the forest creature lurking in the woodwork. They, however, seemed not surprised. Apparently, he/she lived with them . . . in the kitchen . . . in Hartslog Valley . . . just off the music room.
To this day, whenever I meet another Peter Pan type soul, for a brief second, I have an urge to ask them who lives in their kitchen, hoping to find another owlet.
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Showing posts with label college. Show all posts
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Friday, October 23, 2009
home sweet home . . .
Let's regress here a bit. Long before I was happily married to the 9TS and had a 21 year old. I was a college student on a small bucolic campus. It was a stunning place. I remember it fondly if hazily. As a matter of fact, I liked it so much, I stayed on in town for another three years before heading south to my present location. Often in my late night meanderings through the net, I come across a gem. This one almost got away from me. I looked at it several times before the light bulb went off.
This I filched from Jim Patterson's Post Cards from Snyder County. See that little arched window on the upper left side of the house? That was my roost for a year. One of two attic apartments in a 100+ year old farm house. I loved looking out that window down the end of the Isle and off into the river. It was from my neighbor's matching window that I looked out and saw a "plastic bag" on the ground a little ways off. The bag was moving. As I went down to investigate, I grabbed my landlord, Mrs. Burgard, who being much more savvy than I, grabbed a towel. The baby lamb was in perfect shape. Awesome.
That front door was also the site of my slipping on ice and finding myself flopping on the ground like a landed pike. Sigh.
The summer after I vacated the premises, hurricane Agnes came roaring through and decimated the area. I went back to visit Mrs. Burgard to see how she and the family had fared. Mud and yuck dribbled out of her kitchen drawers as she opened them one by one to clean. Simply awful.
It was an odd but wonderful place to live . . . that aerie of mine.
This I filched from Jim Patterson's Post Cards from Snyder County. See that little arched window on the upper left side of the house? That was my roost for a year. One of two attic apartments in a 100+ year old farm house. I loved looking out that window down the end of the Isle and off into the river. It was from my neighbor's matching window that I looked out and saw a "plastic bag" on the ground a little ways off. The bag was moving. As I went down to investigate, I grabbed my landlord, Mrs. Burgard, who being much more savvy than I, grabbed a towel. The baby lamb was in perfect shape. Awesome.
That front door was also the site of my slipping on ice and finding myself flopping on the ground like a landed pike. Sigh.
The summer after I vacated the premises, hurricane Agnes came roaring through and decimated the area. I went back to visit Mrs. Burgard to see how she and the family had fared. Mud and yuck dribbled out of her kitchen drawers as she opened them one by one to clean. Simply awful.
It was an odd but wonderful place to live . . . that aerie of mine.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
snooping the net . . . .
I admit it. I spend way too much time snooping around on the net. But once in a while I find a gem or two that either cracks me up or takes me back down memory lane. Yesterday, I found both. This little goodie comes from an online version of The Handbook of Private Schools, 1920 edition.
STAMBERG: Yeah. No electricity in the cabin, no running water in the cabin. They were cabins, and when it rained, you pulled a canvas curtain across the windows and you had to go down a little boardwalk to the facilities, and you brought in pitchers filled with water and poured them in basins in order to brush your teeth. So it was pretty rugged.
Trekking down to the latrine in the dead of night, in the rain, was not one of my most favorite memories. (We soon discovered it was easier, if not less sanitary, to sort of balance our bottoms out the windows.) Nor was, come to think of it, the poison ivy . . . a favorite memory. But it was the summer camp my mother had attended and so, that summer after her death, I too attended Camp Po-ne-mah. It closed down some 25 years ago. I was not responsible. For all that I didn't like and for all the homesickness, they had horses. Put me and a horse in the same sentence and I was, as they say, a happy camper.
My mother (on the right), as a happy camper . . . I don't think her butt ever hung out a window . . .
See the notorious windows????
And here I am circa 1962
All I need to complete the ensemble is an over sized pocketbook with a huge can of hair spray and a tube of white lipstick hanging out and I'd be the epitome of Jersey Girl style. In case you didn't catch it, I'm the tall, skinny, slouching one, second from the left with her mother's cankles.
Then, I found this guy's description of his drive around the lake where I grew up:
". . . I think I should take it once more around the lake. Then I think, no, that may not be a good idea. Let's be more specific about why it's called the Rust Bucket. The tires are cracked, under inflated. The chassis is sagging from rust. . . . So, I get in, and I'm off. Decide to head toward the bridge first. I figure if it's gonna melt down, it'll be after a ways, so I better get over the bridge early. Shouldn't clog up the bridge for my neighbors. That wouldn't be good."
Insert: The bridge is a single lane "road" running across the top of the damn at the end of the lake. Very narrow and very creepy. Water on one side and a sheer drop on the other.
"Well, over the bridge and off past West Beach, head poking out of the little thing like George Jetson. . . . Then it's off up around the bend, through the woop-dee-do over by Columbo's house. With thirty-five year old shock absorbers and tires maybe nearly as old, let me tell you, it was one heck of a woop-dee-do. Roller coaster class. Then down around the north shore. There it is, Indian road. I come to a stop and consider whether I should venture out onto a main road. Should I stay or should I go. The car is unregistered, uninsured and no plates. A wise man would have turned around and gone back the same way rather than keep going. I am not a wise man. I look both ways, then onto Indian Road for the 900 feet before I can get off onto the east side of the lake for the rest of the trip around. I should be worried, but I'm not. Wisdom is a burden. Stupid people are happier. I'm smiling my way down Indian Road like a bobble-head doll in a Tonka truck.
Then it's off Indian, back onto Pines Lake Drive, past a couple more walkers, a dog with a man on a leash, a nice old lady out picking weeds. Up the hill towards the school. Come on lil' Red, you can do it. Drop it to second. Fingers on the choke. But red puffs his way to the top without the need for extra oxygen. Past Pines Lake school. Then down the hill. This part could get tricky. Needs brakes. Real ones. There's a turn at the bottom. Oh boy, and there are cars parked on either side for someone's barbeque. This'll really make it interesting. Obstacle course. Well, I'm all in. Pop it into third. Head down the hill. Tap the brakes to make sure they're there. WeeeeeEEEeeeee!!! Lil' Red's tail is swingin' around like the town hussy at church, headed for a communion wafer and a sip of wine, knockin' down chairs on both sides of the aisle . . . Whew. Made it through the gauntlet. All parked cars intact. Then a nice leisurely spin down along the park to the Vale road entrance and safety in the driveway . . . . "
Excerpt from Jim Buonocore's blog "QBaroque". I finally found some one more loquacious than I. . . . wish he had more posts on his blog.
Did you catch his mention of the turn at the bottom of the hill? It was that hill, with my sister riding shotgun, that I first realized, at age 17, that braking was a requirement to successfully navigate that corner alive. It is also the hill I got called out for in the middle of 4th grade social studies for riding without hands on the handle bars. We all rode that way?!?!?!
And one last blog called: The Pines Lake Redhead:
"Growing up in Pines Lake was truly the perfect childhood for me. I couldn’t have been happier and I have only the fondest memories. Everything in Pines Lake revolved around The Lake. The social hub was South Beach. No, not that South Beach. During the summer there was every possible activity to do outside! Swimming, diving, sailing, kayaking, canoeing, windsurfing (does anyone do that anymore?), fishing, tennis, frog & turtle catching, basketball, gossiping, picnics, parades, arts & crafts, knock-hockey (anyone know what that is?), and summer jobs. In the winter, if we were lucky, we got black ice and could ice skate, play hockey, and ice fish."
"Needless to say, I was very active. I was out the door from sun-up to sundown. In the spring and the fall we played in the woods and I would come home with leaves and twigs in my hair. When the weather got warm and The Lake wasn’t officially open yet (open season was Memorial Day to Labor Day) we would go down to The Glen. We had to climb down a rock-face wall to get down there and no, we weren’t allowed to go down there. But it was so much cooler down there in the shade! We would catch crayfish and just dangle our feet in the ice cold stream. Looking back through the eyes of motherhood, I would have killed my kids if they hadn’t fallen and broken their necks first."
"There were two drawbacks to being the Pines Lake Redhead. First, I was the Pines Lake Redhead! There were two redheaded brothers that were a few years older than me. But as far as I can remember, I was the only redheaded girl my age. I was my family’s calling card. People wouldn’t have any idea of my parents’ names but they knew that they belonged to me. I could have never have misbehaved and gotten away with it. Well, at least it forced me to keep my nose clean." Boy can I relate to this!!!!
"Then there’s the obvious problem with being a redhead and spending so much time in the sun. I may not have tanned but I sure did freckle! Not much could have been done about it though. SPF 15 didn’t even hit the shelves until I was in high school and lifeguarding. Yes, lifeguarding. I’m in my 30s now and I’ve already had one piece of skin cancer removed and several other pre-cancerous spots."
The Glen:
What's truly weird about her blog as I read through it, is that not only do we both have red hair and grew up at Pines Lake, but we're both shooting with Canon D series cameras, have migrated to Florida and ruined our skin. Things that make you go hummmmm.
Anyway, that is Katie, me and the 10TS a couple of years back. I dragged them down to the Glen since we were up that way. That's the brook and the rock face behind them. Sweet huh?
No wonder I love snooping the net.
KENT PLACE, Summit, N.J. A School for Girls. Mrs. SARAH WOODMAN PAUL, A.B., Wellesley. Miss ANNA SOPHIA WOODMAN, A.B., Wellesley.
Kent Place is a home school and a working school, providing an attractive home life and sound academic training from primary through college-preparatory work. There is individual attention and close contact between girls and teachers.
There are now on the ten acres of grounds four buildings,— the House, the Gables, the Gymnasium, and the School House,— with earth tennis courts, a hockey field, a basket-ball field, and adequate room for other out-of-door sports.
The Gymnasium is modern and well equipped. The School House was built in 1913. Especial attention was given to providing in the best possible way for the four important requisites: space, heat, light, and ventilation.
The House is devoted exclusively to the home and has room for thirty-five girls. The Gables, a modern private house opened in the fall of 1918 to meet the needs of the growing school, provides a home for ten of the older girls and contains an isolated infirmary under the immediate care of the registered nurse.
The school offers a college preparatory course preparing for the comprehensive and old-style examinations, and a general course which is largely elective and may include work in the Home-making Department.
Write Mr. Sargent, 14 Beacon Street, Boston—See pace 767.
MAY FESTIVAL IN THE SCHOOL GROUNDS
Here I am, some 47 years later . . . it's a graduation ritual.
Don't I look thrilled??? Not. Definitely, a "I think you had to be there" item but it made me chuckle. And just as a note, our class did them in. They closed the boarding department that summer. The day school is alive and well.
STAMBERG: Yeah. No electricity in the cabin, no running water in the cabin. They were cabins, and when it rained, you pulled a canvas curtain across the windows and you had to go down a little boardwalk to the facilities, and you brought in pitchers filled with water and poured them in basins in order to brush your teeth. So it was pretty rugged.
Trekking down to the latrine in the dead of night, in the rain, was not one of my most favorite memories. (We soon discovered it was easier, if not less sanitary, to sort of balance our bottoms out the windows.) Nor was, come to think of it, the poison ivy . . . a favorite memory. But it was the summer camp my mother had attended and so, that summer after her death, I too attended Camp Po-ne-mah. It closed down some 25 years ago. I was not responsible. For all that I didn't like and for all the homesickness, they had horses. Put me and a horse in the same sentence and I was, as they say, a happy camper.
My mother (on the right), as a happy camper . . . I don't think her butt ever hung out a window . . .
See the notorious windows????
And here I am circa 1962
All I need to complete the ensemble is an over sized pocketbook with a huge can of hair spray and a tube of white lipstick hanging out and I'd be the epitome of Jersey Girl style. In case you didn't catch it, I'm the tall, skinny, slouching one, second from the left with her mother's cankles.
Then, I found this guy's description of his drive around the lake where I grew up:
". . . I think I should take it once more around the lake. Then I think, no, that may not be a good idea. Let's be more specific about why it's called the Rust Bucket. The tires are cracked, under inflated. The chassis is sagging from rust. . . . So, I get in, and I'm off. Decide to head toward the bridge first. I figure if it's gonna melt down, it'll be after a ways, so I better get over the bridge early. Shouldn't clog up the bridge for my neighbors. That wouldn't be good."
Insert: The bridge is a single lane "road" running across the top of the damn at the end of the lake. Very narrow and very creepy. Water on one side and a sheer drop on the other.
"Well, over the bridge and off past West Beach, head poking out of the little thing like George Jetson. . . . Then it's off up around the bend, through the woop-dee-do over by Columbo's house. With thirty-five year old shock absorbers and tires maybe nearly as old, let me tell you, it was one heck of a woop-dee-do. Roller coaster class. Then down around the north shore. There it is, Indian road. I come to a stop and consider whether I should venture out onto a main road. Should I stay or should I go. The car is unregistered, uninsured and no plates. A wise man would have turned around and gone back the same way rather than keep going. I am not a wise man. I look both ways, then onto Indian Road for the 900 feet before I can get off onto the east side of the lake for the rest of the trip around. I should be worried, but I'm not. Wisdom is a burden. Stupid people are happier. I'm smiling my way down Indian Road like a bobble-head doll in a Tonka truck.
Then it's off Indian, back onto Pines Lake Drive, past a couple more walkers, a dog with a man on a leash, a nice old lady out picking weeds. Up the hill towards the school. Come on lil' Red, you can do it. Drop it to second. Fingers on the choke. But red puffs his way to the top without the need for extra oxygen. Past Pines Lake school. Then down the hill. This part could get tricky. Needs brakes. Real ones. There's a turn at the bottom. Oh boy, and there are cars parked on either side for someone's barbeque. This'll really make it interesting. Obstacle course. Well, I'm all in. Pop it into third. Head down the hill. Tap the brakes to make sure they're there. WeeeeeEEEeeeee!!! Lil' Red's tail is swingin' around like the town hussy at church, headed for a communion wafer and a sip of wine, knockin' down chairs on both sides of the aisle . . . Whew. Made it through the gauntlet. All parked cars intact. Then a nice leisurely spin down along the park to the Vale road entrance and safety in the driveway . . . . "
Excerpt from Jim Buonocore's blog "QBaroque". I finally found some one more loquacious than I. . . . wish he had more posts on his blog.
Did you catch his mention of the turn at the bottom of the hill? It was that hill, with my sister riding shotgun, that I first realized, at age 17, that braking was a requirement to successfully navigate that corner alive. It is also the hill I got called out for in the middle of 4th grade social studies for riding without hands on the handle bars. We all rode that way?!?!?!
And one last blog called: The Pines Lake Redhead:
"Growing up in Pines Lake was truly the perfect childhood for me. I couldn’t have been happier and I have only the fondest memories. Everything in Pines Lake revolved around The Lake. The social hub was South Beach. No, not that South Beach. During the summer there was every possible activity to do outside! Swimming, diving, sailing, kayaking, canoeing, windsurfing (does anyone do that anymore?), fishing, tennis, frog & turtle catching, basketball, gossiping, picnics, parades, arts & crafts, knock-hockey (anyone know what that is?), and summer jobs. In the winter, if we were lucky, we got black ice and could ice skate, play hockey, and ice fish."
"Needless to say, I was very active. I was out the door from sun-up to sundown. In the spring and the fall we played in the woods and I would come home with leaves and twigs in my hair. When the weather got warm and The Lake wasn’t officially open yet (open season was Memorial Day to Labor Day) we would go down to The Glen. We had to climb down a rock-face wall to get down there and no, we weren’t allowed to go down there. But it was so much cooler down there in the shade! We would catch crayfish and just dangle our feet in the ice cold stream. Looking back through the eyes of motherhood, I would have killed my kids if they hadn’t fallen and broken their necks first."
"There were two drawbacks to being the Pines Lake Redhead. First, I was the Pines Lake Redhead! There were two redheaded brothers that were a few years older than me. But as far as I can remember, I was the only redheaded girl my age. I was my family’s calling card. People wouldn’t have any idea of my parents’ names but they knew that they belonged to me. I could have never have misbehaved and gotten away with it. Well, at least it forced me to keep my nose clean." Boy can I relate to this!!!!
"Then there’s the obvious problem with being a redhead and spending so much time in the sun. I may not have tanned but I sure did freckle! Not much could have been done about it though. SPF 15 didn’t even hit the shelves until I was in high school and lifeguarding. Yes, lifeguarding. I’m in my 30s now and I’ve already had one piece of skin cancer removed and several other pre-cancerous spots."
The Glen:
What's truly weird about her blog as I read through it, is that not only do we both have red hair and grew up at Pines Lake, but we're both shooting with Canon D series cameras, have migrated to Florida and ruined our skin. Things that make you go hummmmm.
Anyway, that is Katie, me and the 10TS a couple of years back. I dragged them down to the Glen since we were up that way. That's the brook and the rock face behind them. Sweet huh?
No wonder I love snooping the net.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Shickshinny . . .
Central Pennsylvania was, back in the late 60’s, dotted with camp grounds of various religious persuasions . . . the meeting sites of summer revivals. Members owned small cabins situated around a community meeting/dining hall. While occupied throughout the summer, these little two story bungalows laid vacant during the late fall and winter months. Sally’s great aunt was the owner of one such cabin . . . the perfect destination for those of us with the urge to escape the grasp of academia.
We loaded up my father’s old blue Oldsmobile station wagon that I had commandeered for a few weeks and headed north on Route 11. We traveled past Sunbury and Danville, through Berwick and on into Shickshinny . . . . It was as clear and bright as only an October day can be locked in the throes of an Indian summer.
The cabin had a screened in front porch to protect it’s occupants from the swarms of summer gnats and yet allow them to chat with anyone who passed their way. Inside was a large room with a partition in the back hiding a small bedroom area. The rest of the sleeping quarters were tucked in a half loft overhead . . . . three large iron beds. The downstairs was completed with a small parlor and a tiny kitchen . . . . the stove so ancient we had no idea how it functioned . . . not that cooking was high on our priorities. We settled down as the sun fell, chatting about this and that. Discussions that held our attention at the time but have long since fallen to dust and been swept out of the corners of my mind.
When we first heard the noise, a steady tattoo around the house, we had no idea what we were hearing. Slowly the recognition hit that we were not alone in the camp ground out in the middle of nowhere. And shortly, we were, not only not alone, but our company was now on the porch although Sally had carefully latched the screen door. Panic set in. Cyndee bravest of us all, grabbed a butcher knife we had found earlier in one of the kitchen drawers. My stomach was decidedly sliding lower and lower, Nancy puddled onto the floor in horror as we watched the transom above the front door push inward. As a hand followed, Cyndee lunged at it with the knife, plunging deep into the old wooden door. She had missed.
Immediately the voices cried out in shock. Familiar voices. Voices of boyfriends, who thinking themselves pleased silly, had decided to scare the heck out of us. They had indeed, succeeded.
EDIT: The place still exists!!! Well, not Sally's aunt's cabin . . . it burned to the ground several years later. But Sally, being a now twice published author, and therefore relatively easy to track down, sent me a link to it's web site.
And just so I didn't breeze past it too fast . . . and in case you are in the mood for something written in a totally refreshing voice, click here to Sally's web site and start with Crackpots!!!
We loaded up my father’s old blue Oldsmobile station wagon that I had commandeered for a few weeks and headed north on Route 11. We traveled past Sunbury and Danville, through Berwick and on into Shickshinny . . . . It was as clear and bright as only an October day can be locked in the throes of an Indian summer.
The cabin had a screened in front porch to protect it’s occupants from the swarms of summer gnats and yet allow them to chat with anyone who passed their way. Inside was a large room with a partition in the back hiding a small bedroom area. The rest of the sleeping quarters were tucked in a half loft overhead . . . . three large iron beds. The downstairs was completed with a small parlor and a tiny kitchen . . . . the stove so ancient we had no idea how it functioned . . . not that cooking was high on our priorities. We settled down as the sun fell, chatting about this and that. Discussions that held our attention at the time but have long since fallen to dust and been swept out of the corners of my mind.
When we first heard the noise, a steady tattoo around the house, we had no idea what we were hearing. Slowly the recognition hit that we were not alone in the camp ground out in the middle of nowhere. And shortly, we were, not only not alone, but our company was now on the porch although Sally had carefully latched the screen door. Panic set in. Cyndee bravest of us all, grabbed a butcher knife we had found earlier in one of the kitchen drawers. My stomach was decidedly sliding lower and lower, Nancy puddled onto the floor in horror as we watched the transom above the front door push inward. As a hand followed, Cyndee lunged at it with the knife, plunging deep into the old wooden door. She had missed.
Immediately the voices cried out in shock. Familiar voices. Voices of boyfriends, who thinking themselves pleased silly, had decided to scare the heck out of us. They had indeed, succeeded.
EDIT: The place still exists!!! Well, not Sally's aunt's cabin . . . it burned to the ground several years later. But Sally, being a now twice published author, and therefore relatively easy to track down, sent me a link to it's web site.
And just so I didn't breeze past it too fast . . . and in case you are in the mood for something written in a totally refreshing voice, click here to Sally's web site and start with Crackpots!!!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
in a life time far, far away . . .
As I approach my 60's, I understand that the majority of my life is behind me. That in itself is not a bad thing. My life now is deep, warm, deliciously good. I spend my time with my best friend . . . he who I love with all my heart. I amble about doing this and that . . . I am a putterer extraordinaire. I am happy. Will I leave behind a mark on the world . . . no, not unless, hopefully, it is a warm spot in the hearts of those I have loved . . .
But I sent an email the other day confessing a 'sin' from an earlier life and I began to wonder about the trip from there to here and wondered if that colored her perception of me and would others feel that difference as well.
I started off life a carbon copy stolen from the set of Ozzie and Harriet or Leave it to Beaver. The perfect childhood . . . two loving parents . . . a rural setting outside a big city . . . the best of all worlds. As with all good stories a little drama is needed so at the age of 13, my mother died of cancer and off to boarding school I went. (To be clear, I was not shipped off . . . there were very clear perameters and my agreement was number 1. Ozzie was adamant about that.) I think boarding school was the start of my walking another path. Or maybe it was just me railing against the confinement . . . she who was used to flying free down country roads was not happy with clipped wings. I was expelled along with three cohorts in crime for skipping church one Sunday morning, crossing the railroad tracks and enjoying coffee and a cigarette in an off limits diner where the proprietor was happliy teaching us modern day Greek. The expellment lasted all of one day . . . phone calls were made. College opened Pandora's box, it took exactly one year for my wing feathers to grow back stronger than ever. It was 1968 and the world was a fascinating place . . . a smorgasbord of delights . . . a phantasmagoria. The pendulum had swung and off I went shedding my imprisonment with abandon. It was wonderful to be alive. But slowly, ever so slowly . . . as was inevitable, the pendulum swung back to center and when it swung up the other side, things had changed. Ozzie and Harriet were back, old values held, time sweetly changed and brought with it, new life.
It makes me wonder . . . are the crayons of life in permanent layers. Do people see only the layer they are familiar with or can they see all the layers . . . and if so, do the layers then become muddied or do they combine so that each person's life rainbow shows through?
But I sent an email the other day confessing a 'sin' from an earlier life and I began to wonder about the trip from there to here and wondered if that colored her perception of me and would others feel that difference as well.
I started off life a carbon copy stolen from the set of Ozzie and Harriet or Leave it to Beaver. The perfect childhood . . . two loving parents . . . a rural setting outside a big city . . . the best of all worlds. As with all good stories a little drama is needed so at the age of 13, my mother died of cancer and off to boarding school I went. (To be clear, I was not shipped off . . . there were very clear perameters and my agreement was number 1. Ozzie was adamant about that.) I think boarding school was the start of my walking another path. Or maybe it was just me railing against the confinement . . . she who was used to flying free down country roads was not happy with clipped wings. I was expelled along with three cohorts in crime for skipping church one Sunday morning, crossing the railroad tracks and enjoying coffee and a cigarette in an off limits diner where the proprietor was happliy teaching us modern day Greek. The expellment lasted all of one day . . . phone calls were made. College opened Pandora's box, it took exactly one year for my wing feathers to grow back stronger than ever. It was 1968 and the world was a fascinating place . . . a smorgasbord of delights . . . a phantasmagoria. The pendulum had swung and off I went shedding my imprisonment with abandon. It was wonderful to be alive. But slowly, ever so slowly . . . as was inevitable, the pendulum swung back to center and when it swung up the other side, things had changed. Ozzie and Harriet were back, old values held, time sweetly changed and brought with it, new life.
It makes me wonder . . . are the crayons of life in permanent layers. Do people see only the layer they are familiar with or can they see all the layers . . . and if so, do the layers then become muddied or do they combine so that each person's life rainbow shows through?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
