Nostalgia
Drive past the overlook,
remember those happy times--
a toxic city
-----
The schoolhouse is gone,
replaced by a jungle gym--
children still prevail
-----
Drive the Cade's Cove loop,
deer grazing in green pastures--
watch them watching us
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Biscuits 'n Honey
When I was growing up in Oak Ridge, my father used to go to Monroe County (where his brother and sister and their families still lived). He knew farmers out in the country who were his sources for country ham and sourwood honey. He would go frequently on weekends and bring back these delicious foods for us to enjoy. Certainly we never bought them in grocery stores. My father was a "country boy."
When he brought in the jars (I think) of honey, my mother got out the old serving dish that came from his family and was perfect for honey. It was old glass, age worn, on a pedestal, and had a design engraved on the sides. Each time we sat down to breakfast (sometimes night, and sometimes morning), he would remind us that this was sourwood honey, the best you could get.
I loved to watch him eat his biscuits, butter, and honey. He'd cut off a piece of the comb and mash it up, mixing it with the softened butter. When it was almost gone, he would "sop" up the remains with the last of his biscuit.
My daddy was an old-fashioned man--moral and hard-working, and he loved his family, his coffee, and his country food.
At my writing group that day, the taste of honey and the comb brought back some lovely memories.
When he brought in the jars (I think) of honey, my mother got out the old serving dish that came from his family and was perfect for honey. It was old glass, age worn, on a pedestal, and had a design engraved on the sides. Each time we sat down to breakfast (sometimes night, and sometimes morning), he would remind us that this was sourwood honey, the best you could get.
I loved to watch him eat his biscuits, butter, and honey. He'd cut off a piece of the comb and mash it up, mixing it with the softened butter. When it was almost gone, he would "sop" up the remains with the last of his biscuit.
My daddy was an old-fashioned man--moral and hard-working, and he loved his family, his coffee, and his country food.
At my writing group that day, the taste of honey and the comb brought back some lovely memories.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Gotta be perfect
Since starting this blog a week or two back, I've come to realize (and not for the first time), how difficult it is for me to "just do it." I've known for a long time what a procrastinator I am, but now I'm beginning to understand how much that is tied to some weird kind of perfectionism. Now anyone coming into my living space would find that amusing to outrageous, as a good housekeeper I am NOT. But there's a connection even there. Why start, when I can't get it all done? Why start, when I'm sure it will never be done well? Why start, when I can't do it perfectly?
Since beginning the blog, I've had all kinds of ideas roiling around in my head. (There's that word again.) From some of the stuff I've done in writing group (my father's love for biscuits and sourwood honey), to some of my childhood memories (am I the only kid who spent lots of time with a shoebox full of trading cards?) My brain jumps from pillar to post, and finally gives up in despair. What am I gonna write about? And even when I decide on something, I know I'll never do it perfectly.
So for today, I'm just throwing this on the table to chew on a while. I have an early shift to work at the library, so don't have time to ponder the question all morning. Which, in this instance, is probably a good thing.
OK, Syd and Bob, this one's for you. :-)
Since beginning the blog, I've had all kinds of ideas roiling around in my head. (There's that word again.) From some of the stuff I've done in writing group (my father's love for biscuits and sourwood honey), to some of my childhood memories (am I the only kid who spent lots of time with a shoebox full of trading cards?) My brain jumps from pillar to post, and finally gives up in despair. What am I gonna write about? And even when I decide on something, I know I'll never do it perfectly.
So for today, I'm just throwing this on the table to chew on a while. I have an early shift to work at the library, so don't have time to ponder the question all morning. Which, in this instance, is probably a good thing.
OK, Syd and Bob, this one's for you. :-)
Sunday, September 20, 2009
The nomadic life
I know that the "general wisdom" has always been, own your own home. Don't waste your money on rentals. And I've followed that advice on several occasions. Although, to be honest, while I was still married, we rented more than we owned. It worked better for us during those years, because we moved so frequently that reselling would have been difficult, if not impossible. Before our daughter was born, we were pretty much nomads, much to our parents' distress. Actually, even after our daughter's birth, that didn't change too much. My mother once complained that she was going to give us our own address book, just to hold all our address changes. We moved from apartment to house, and then to another city; and the pattern repeated itself.
Our first years we lived in Oak Ridge while my husband was in school at UT-K, and then he got a job with Boeing in Seattle, and we moved across country in our new Jeep, taking a friend as passenger who wanted to go to California and find an exciting new life. We were all very young, I keep reminding myself. It was an adventure, and it was fun. We lived in Seattle for three years, and in those years, we lived in four residences--an apartment on Mercer Island, a house in north Seattle, a farmhouse on Vashon Island, and another house in the Green Lake area. Then we moved back to Tennessee, so our new daughter could have time with her grandparents. Also, Boeing was in the throes of one of their frequent layoffs, only this one was major. Eventually, our Seattle friends told us of the big sign saying, "Will the last one to leave Seattle please turn off the lights."
Back in Tennessee, we lived in first an apartment in Oak Ridge, then a different house, while my husband returned to school in a different field (from metallurgical engineering to archaeology). Somewhere in there we lived in a trailer and married student housing. I have truly lost track of all our places of residence. Finally, we went to University of Idaho for graduate school, and again an apartment, followed by a farmhouse out in the country. All rentals, of course. After graduate school for him, it was my turn to finish my interrupted undergraduate degree, which was done at UT-K, while we lived in Oak Ridge again, and then moved to Knoxville, into the first "home of our own." We didn't stay long there either, of course, as it was time for him to get a "real job," instead of temporary employment as contract archaeologist or director of archaeology summer field schools. Permanent employment came from the State of Tennessee, in Nashville, necessitating another move. A year in a rental house in Murfreesboro, followed by, finally, another "home of our own" in Nashville.
During all these years, our daughter was also growing up as a small nomad (nomadette?). She changed schools, as well as residences, every year until fifth grade. She says it's what has made her so outgoing, making friends easily. She had no other choice.
I don't know what got me off on this nomad tangent. I started out telling about my Sunday morning maintenance emergency. At 6:00 a.m., I was calling the maintenance hot line because of a water leak. Oh yes, I remember! It's why I rent an apartment, instead of owning my own condo or house. I truly hate to have to deal with home maintenance and yard work. So for me, those blessed maintenance people are worth their weight in gold. Thanks, guys!
(Hard as it is to admit, the nomadic lifestyle didn't end for me with the move to Nashville. Maybe sometime I'll tell "the rest of the story.")
Our first years we lived in Oak Ridge while my husband was in school at UT-K, and then he got a job with Boeing in Seattle, and we moved across country in our new Jeep, taking a friend as passenger who wanted to go to California and find an exciting new life. We were all very young, I keep reminding myself. It was an adventure, and it was fun. We lived in Seattle for three years, and in those years, we lived in four residences--an apartment on Mercer Island, a house in north Seattle, a farmhouse on Vashon Island, and another house in the Green Lake area. Then we moved back to Tennessee, so our new daughter could have time with her grandparents. Also, Boeing was in the throes of one of their frequent layoffs, only this one was major. Eventually, our Seattle friends told us of the big sign saying, "Will the last one to leave Seattle please turn off the lights."
Back in Tennessee, we lived in first an apartment in Oak Ridge, then a different house, while my husband returned to school in a different field (from metallurgical engineering to archaeology). Somewhere in there we lived in a trailer and married student housing. I have truly lost track of all our places of residence. Finally, we went to University of Idaho for graduate school, and again an apartment, followed by a farmhouse out in the country. All rentals, of course. After graduate school for him, it was my turn to finish my interrupted undergraduate degree, which was done at UT-K, while we lived in Oak Ridge again, and then moved to Knoxville, into the first "home of our own." We didn't stay long there either, of course, as it was time for him to get a "real job," instead of temporary employment as contract archaeologist or director of archaeology summer field schools. Permanent employment came from the State of Tennessee, in Nashville, necessitating another move. A year in a rental house in Murfreesboro, followed by, finally, another "home of our own" in Nashville.
During all these years, our daughter was also growing up as a small nomad (nomadette?). She changed schools, as well as residences, every year until fifth grade. She says it's what has made her so outgoing, making friends easily. She had no other choice.
I don't know what got me off on this nomad tangent. I started out telling about my Sunday morning maintenance emergency. At 6:00 a.m., I was calling the maintenance hot line because of a water leak. Oh yes, I remember! It's why I rent an apartment, instead of owning my own condo or house. I truly hate to have to deal with home maintenance and yard work. So for me, those blessed maintenance people are worth their weight in gold. Thanks, guys!
(Hard as it is to admit, the nomadic lifestyle didn't end for me with the move to Nashville. Maybe sometime I'll tell "the rest of the story.")
Friday, September 18, 2009
dot's spot
The blog begins, stepping blindly but hopefully. Thanks to Syd for the encouragement (and the web site). This whole journey of my senior years has been made up of those tentative steps--Divinity School, ordination, actually preaching, then retirement. More tentative steps into retirement--the reference desk at the library, which is a constant (and frequently intimidating) learning experience. And art classes. And the writing group.
So today, too early in the morning, in mid-September (one of my favorite months), I take another tentative step into the unknown--a blog, of all things. My hope is that it will help me put down some of the turmoil of thoughts constantly roiling in my head. (Is that a word?) Even better would be if some sense could be made of all that chaos. But that might be a little too optimistic.
Who knows? We'll see. Thanks, Syd. (I think.)
So today, too early in the morning, in mid-September (one of my favorite months), I take another tentative step into the unknown--a blog, of all things. My hope is that it will help me put down some of the turmoil of thoughts constantly roiling in my head. (Is that a word?) Even better would be if some sense could be made of all that chaos. But that might be a little too optimistic.
Who knows? We'll see. Thanks, Syd. (I think.)
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