I possess endless curiosity, always have. I think that’s part of why I’m a voracious reader. Some people are conversationalists and satisfy their curiosity in that manner. There are those of us who are very shy and that presents a challenge.
I’ve learned over the years to “play nice” with others. Thanks to my mother’s efforts, I have good manners and know how to conduct myself according to situations. But, due to inherent shyness, it can be very uncomfortable and awkward for me to converse with people I’ve just met, however interesting they may be.
Engaging in small talk has always been difficult for me. My curiosity often spurs me to want to converse with people but I never seem able to connect. So, how does that work? There are people I find interesting but when I try to initiate further conversation they don’t appear to be interested.
My sense of humor is as rampant as my curiosity. There are times when I’m just plain goofy. It’s just the way I am. But I feel it may detract from people wanting to engage with me. Sometimes when folks find out I taught high school English, they seem startled. It makes me wonder at what kind of vibe I may be giving off but I’m not going to change the essence of my being in order to change another’s perception of me.
So when that voice in your head says, “wow, that’s interesting. How could I speak with that person again?,” how might I make that happen? Many of my previous efforts have failed, thus causing me to be reluctant to try again. Anyone else experience this?
“All that is, was, and will be/Universe much too big to see/Time and space never ending/Disturbing thoughts, questions pending/Limitations of human understanding”. “Through the Never”. Metallica
I will never understand people’s motives, thoughts, words, and actions. Never. Ever. I realize there is no rule that says we have to understand. But when folks lash out (due to their insecurities?) it makes no sense to me. Do they enjoy creating a conflict? Do they need attention? Do they comprehend the hurt they create? Do they care?
Some may be asking, “ what difference does it make?” Or, why should I care? First of all, I don’t enjoy having lies told; when I’m misunderstood and wish to explain the misunderstanding, I don’t like being shut down and not allowed to give my explanation; nor do I appreciate that I must be wrong regardless of what I have to say; I feel deeply and do not wish to be hurt.
Here’s the deal. Every living and breathing person is entitled to his or her opinion. I do not have to agree with yours nor do you have to agree with mine. But I will allow you to express yourself. I’m not one to cut and run. However, I don’t like to argue with others who aren’t willing to listen in return. I’ve learned, in the last several years, to listen. Then it may be my choice to further engage in the conversation or skip over it.
It’s now easy to block communication from people. There are levels of disengagement on social media. You can mute people or block them entirely. Does this mean I have never blocked someone on social media? Of course not. I will block an individual I feel is nasty, cruel, spreading disinformation and/or lies., etc.
Hey, it’s easy to jump to conclusions. It’s far less easy to listen to an explanation of why an assumption may be incorrect. And to persist in pushing the incorrect assumption despite having been given the explanation of the reality of the situation, that’s just childish. It may be followed by a diatribe of why the person is correct, why you’re wrong, and then, bada bing, the person blocks you from further communication. Period.
I left the third grade behind fifty-some years ago and I quit cooties for infinity back in 1968. The blockage of communication allows the blocked person to make, perhaps, his/her own incorrect/correct conclusions. But it smacks of something more. You may reach your own incorrect/correct conclusions on this one. Rest assured, you will never know for sure because you are no longer allowed to communicate and find out. Ain’t life grand?
N.B.—“you probably think this [rant] is about you.” Doubtful. But maybe.
I am a Jimmy Buffet devotee. Though I was never hard-core like some of his fans, I did have some parrot earrings and at least one cheeseburger pin. I attended three different concerts and was thoroughly entertained. Being a parrot head is a culture unto its own.
I first became aware of Jimmy when I was in college and received one of his albums as a gift. The title of the album “A White Sport Coat and a Pink Crustacean” promised verbal hijinks. The album also contained a fan favorite called “Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw.” It ranked right up there with Todd Hobin’s “I Hate You (a love song).” And there was Fleetwood Mac’s “Second Hand News,” the “lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff” song. All better than the disco offered in the late 70s. Dare I forget “Baba O’Riley” or “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”?
It was not long before I appreciated the genius of Buffet’s lyrics: “Where it all ends I can’t fathom my friends/If I knew I might toss out my anchor/So I cruise along always searching’ for songs/Not a lawyer a thief or a banker.” This verse from “Son of a Son of a Sailor” reminds me of where I find my motivation for writing. It’s through life experiences, observations, books, conversations.
The playful song “Fins” also carries a cautionary message. “But now, she lives down by the ocean/She’s taking care to look for sharks/They hang out in the local bars/And they feed right after dark.” As with many of his songs, there is a huge audience participation component in the chorus of “Fins” that allows for concertgoers to imitate a shark’s fin with outstretched arms and point the fin to the left or the right. Just watch out for the feeding frenzy.
His breakthrough hit “Margaritaville” contains such a variety of misheard lyrics that it’s funny to listen to a crowd sing along. There are common misheard lyrics like “I put on my flip flops/Stepped on a pop tart/ Cut my heel half through to the bone.” Uh, really? How is a pop tart able to cut your heel? The correct words are “I blew out my flip flop/Stepped on a pop top/Cut my heel had to cruise on back home.” But todays young people may not know the experience of blowing out a flip flop nor the meaning of a pop top.
Buffet was quite a writer. His book of short stories “Tales from Margaritaville” is well worth the read. The stories are as entertaining and meaningful as his songs. It’s worth the chance of a laugh.
There are loads of quirky and not so well known songs that are great as well. Some are “The Wino and I Know,” “The Great Filling Station Holdup,” “We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About,” and my personal favorite, “If the Phone Doesn’t Ring, It’s Me.” Though “The Weather is Here, Wish You Were Beautiful” is a close runner up.
There’ve been so many laughs and so many tears surrounding Buffet’s music in my lifetime, I could fill a bathtub. His songs were guaranteed to make me smile though some were cause for sadness and reflection. I have to think lyrics from “He Went to Paris” were prescient when the war veteran in the song says “‘Jimmy, some of it’s magic, some of it’s tragic/But I’ve had a good life all the way.’”
Thank you, Jimmy, for sharing yourself with all of us. RIP
Summer always ends too quickly for my liking. In this northeastern part of the US, we spend several months yearning for summer and it comes and goes without a second glance. Summer is fickle. It might be cool, rainy, harsh, drought-inducing, humid, pleasant, breezy. Time is running out on this summer. The only good that comes of that is football season.
I admit that summer has always been my favorite season. I love to be in the water and summer is when I have most access to pools, lakes, and the ocean. Swimming indoors in a pool is my least favorite water activity due to the chlorine that dries my skin and clogs my nostrils.
This summer season flew by at an alarming rate. I’ve not availed myself enough of the wonderful local summer produce, utilized the local pool as much, lingered on my lovely patio, and it’s mostly for one reason. In large part the weather has been uncooperative but my efforts were focused on finishing the book I’ve written.
And I did it! It’s a non-fiction piece that caters to a specific audience but it’s my creation. It took quite a few years to compile and the journey was well worth it. I’m not a fan of unanswered questions so when I was writing an article for our local historical association and an important question (to me) popped up, I needed to find an answer.
The basic premise is how a highly-regarded school district evolved in less than twenty years from a basic one-room schoolhouse. There was little factual information on paper so I had to dig for it. I found enough to answer the question for my own satisfaction. Though there is still wiggle room for speculation.
I’ve read hundreds of articles in local newspapers. If you’ve never read articles from one hundred years ago, I encourage you to do so. They are beautifully written and full of information. So many of them are available online, there is no excuse not to check them out. Newspapers were THE method of informing the masses.
While I felt I knew the basics of the answer to my question, I learned so much more. I spoke with dozens of folks who conveyed information to me that, in turn, required validation. That process allowed me to learn an ever-increasing amount of information which did include some startling bits which revealed the ugly side of human nature. One hates to think of that happening in one’s community but reality is harsh.
At any rate, my work is now able to go to an editor in a few weeks, and then on to publication. It’s such a great feeling to know I’ve accomplished this goal, not only for myself but for others who may enjoy reading the book. It also leaves me free to pursue the fiction writing that has been my dream for a long time.
This summer has been meaningful to me. Though I’ve missed some of its bounties it has allowed me to achieve a major personal goal. Cheers to summer!
It’s true, I’ve written a book. After far too long, all that remains is to type the bibliography. Then, around Labor Day, it all goes to an editor. Then there will be corrections and revisions. Hopefully, before the holidays it will be published.
This is a non-fiction book and meant for a specific audience. But it’s the culmination of thousands of hours of research and reading old newspaper articles. Hundreds of hours of personal interviews were conducted. I laughed, I cried, I smiled, I rolled my eyes. It was a wonderful and, at times, frustrating experience.
I will never write non-fiction again 😉
This chapter can be closed. It allows for the next chapter to open, namely my desire to write mysteries. But I have a few other ideas on the horizon as well, including the launch of a new blog platform within the next month or so. Among other things, it will feature some of my original poetry.
“Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.” Emily Brontë.
Back in the 1980s, one of my three jobs entailed working weekends at a horse stable. It was hard, but mindless, work and always satisfying. My love of horses is lifelong and I appreciated the ability to be around them. In those days I carried a small buck knife, the kind where the blade folds into the handle. At the stable it was useful for many things including cutting the strings on bales of hay, opening bags of feed, cutting up apples for horses, and many other useful tasks.
Little did I know it would come in handy for other reasons. My full-time job back then was working in a bank in the downtown area of a city. The cost of parking was outrageous so many of us parked quite a distance away requiring a 20-30 minute walk. This was not a nice area to walk. Standing at a stop light waiting to cross the street one morning, a local man next to me (who had been following me) pulled out a sizable knife and started cleaning his fingernails while eyeing my purse. So, I pulled out my much smaller knife and started cutting up an apple. I looked at the guy and said, “handy things to have no matter the size.” He ceased following me at that point.
Fast forward a few decades. When I was teaching, a very slim box cutter resided in my desk drawer. It was mostly useful for opening boxes, cutting paper and trim for bulletin boards, etc. But it was calming to know it was there, especially after the Columbine massacre. I’m certain I was the only one who knew of its existence. It sits in the desk of my home office now that I’m retired.
Cleaning out a drawer the other day, I found a few small penknives. These were the early precursor to multi-tools but many just had one small blade. It seemed to be customary for men to have one in a pocket throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries. My paternal grandfather, first-generation American born in 1896, always carried one and it never failed to fascinate me. When I cleaned out my father’s apartment after he died, I found several of them. They were mostly my grandfather’s and showed they were well used. Looking at them and handling them always brings a smile to my face. My Papa wasn’t a warm and fuzzy guy but his stories were interesting.
Today I drove my almost 95 year old mom to an appointment. Returning her to the assisted living facility I noticed she had a bit of a white hair growing out of her chin. Yes, ewwww, but it’s part of our future I’m afraid. I produced a small set of tweezers from my pocketbook and got rid of the offending hair. My mother was enthralled by my tiny Victorinox “multi-tool” and wanted to see the gadgets. It’s small so it didn’t take long and she was mesmerized by the toothpick, the tweezers, and the scissors. Hard to think such a small object has saved the day so many times.
I do have a larger multi-tool that stays at home. Though it could be a good weapon merely by being in my purse if I swung it to thwart a bad guy. The tool has some heft and could make someone see stars if it clanged them on the head. Don’t think that possibility doesn’t cheer me.
It’s one reason I’m loathe to get rid of some stuff. Just handling it brings back memories, mostly fond. I’m a person who feels memories are very important regardless if they’re good, bad, or ugly. They are part of one’s own being. I think many of us kept a small box or container of some sort with our “prized” possessions. We could look through it and remember. I’m always reminded of a song from my youth when I think about this. Jim Croce had such a way with words and we lost him all too soon. “If I could make days last forever/if words could make wishes come true/I’d save every day like a treasure…”. “Time in a Bottle”
We haven’t had a visit from the Alone Girl in a long time. She visited the other blog but the password disappeared and so did the blog. The blog owner was silly enough not to save the posts. Lessons learned the hard way.
The Alone Girl tells us she is still working hard to grow up. Too many of life’s challenges have worn her down and allowed her to believe she is less than she is. She excels at listening and offering her thoughts to others. But it’s a rare moment that she allows the same treatment for herself.
You see, the Alone Girl has always been on the outside looking in and never quite belonging. With the exception of her first six years on Earth, turmoil has dogged her relentlessly. Individuals handle turmoil differently. The Alone Girl seemingly handled turmoil beautifully. On the exterior she maintained a remarkable stoicism.
She tried to do all of the right things, despite never feeling like she was “normal.” She wasn’t one to dress up. She stuck her nose in books but wasn’t quite like all of the other bookish kids. She wasn’t musically inclined and couldn’t sing. She often wondered where life would take her, her primary skills were reading and sports.
As the Alone Girl traveled through adolescence, the once confident, happy-go-lucky kid became more unsure and afraid of life. She did well in school but constantly berated herself for not being able to focus and study like the other kids. She was attractive and well-built but was rarely asked out. Her home life was far from that of her peers.
Though the Alone Girl is aware of Jay Gatsby’s greatest fault, thinking he could go back and re-create his happy times, it didn’t stop her from reaching out to “old friends” and trying to reconnect. Life marches on and they were not as interested as she. Again, the Alone Girl was left to wonder why she wasn’t good enough once again.
Grace, humility, and time have allowed the Alone Girl to morph into more of her own personality. For the majority of time the Alone Girl presented a facade of what she was expected to be. One of the greatest ways she resisted was by not conforming to being a girly girl. She is most comfortable in sporty togs, though she has a good eye for a tasteful appearance. And though her body tells her she is aging, she defies the horrific-looking roadmap of veins on one leg by wearing shorts a majority of time during nice weather. Her legs are well formed and she prefers to thumb her nose at the superficial veins. She also loves the water and never fusses over wearing a bathing suit.
Throughout her life, the Alone Girl has encountered some odd medical issues. She navigates the course with her perpetual fortitude . But curiosity spurred her to look into her biological family origins. Yes! Horror! The Alone Girl was adopted! Well aware she could be opening a Pandora’s Box, she undertook a journey over a few years. But, she found the details of her true origins.
Easiest to investigate the maternal side, due to geographical proximity, the Alone Girl met several relatives and/or spoke over the phone with them. She says she recognizes many of her traits among that side of the family. The paternal side proves more of a mystery but that will be partially unraveled within a few months. You will have to wait until she reveals that info, if she chooses to do so.
What she says is the most refreshing thing is that she is embarking on a new personal journey as she nears her 65th birthday. She continues to develop her creativity, something she was often told she didn’t have in her youth. It’s somewhat accurate, she just hadn’t discovered what appealed to her. Having access to books and access to sports (volleyball, basketball, and tennis) was enough for her at that point. She was a hard hitter in tennis and it was very therapeutic to use her imagination while smashing those tennis balls!
Why the sour grapes? There aren’t any. The Alone Girl never envisioned raising a family due to her fear of passing along her issues. She would not have wanted to create a life who might inherit the mental health stuff. It’s been her life, she deals with it, it will never disappear. There are times when it’s more bearable. She doesn’t want to belabor the issue nor does she feel the need to describe it in detail. For those who insist she just pick herself up, get over it, and move on, she likens it to having to put together a complex item but only having access to far fewer tools than is necessary. You can cobble it together but it will break often with use.
So, is she bitter that she doesn’t live the “age old” life as a mother, wife, grandmother? Not at all. She is happy for those who embrace that lifestyle and are happy with it. She asks that people don’t look down their noses at her type of lifestyle (and hush, you know they do). While she isn’t able to always understand your lifestyle, she tries and rejoices in your happiness.
The Alone Girl is forthright and speaks her mind. Instead of trying to fit in, she does her own thing. But she is also intuitive and is able to recognize people who likely have unresolved issues. She will probably mention it to you because she cares about you and your inner peace. This does not always go well. People think it’s sour grapes on her part. The Alone Girl feels deeply and cares. People aren’t able to see that and jump to incorrect conclusions.
But when people feel the need to “brag” about all they’ve done or all they have, something is out of balance. If in balance, folks don’t feel this need. And if a person mentions a certain negative event, situation, person over and over, it’s a sure bet there’s more to that story.
At this point, let’s let sleeping dogs lie. Just try to think outside your own sphere once in awhile. It’s appreciated and may be useful to you. Given my penchant for words, let me share some of Maya Angelou’s with you. “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Give those words some thought. They’re simple words, yet they convey a profound idea.
Trust me, there are those who will rejoice in the extra pounds, glasses, etc. If that’s what works for you, so be it.
Words are amazing things. They can build you up, they can cut you down. They can express beauty, they can describe horror. They can be melodious, they can be blunt. The marvel of words is they may be pretty much whatever you want them to be.
Words cascade through my head like the chocolates whizzing by Lucy and Ethel on the assembly line. So many end up left in the dust on the floor. There just isn’t enough time to use them all. No one said I had to use them all, but I hate to waste them. Words are so expressive but one doesn’t visualize a writer creating a fabulous sentence and then breaking into a celebratory dance like some sports star. Watch some music videos and live vicariously through the expressions of the musicians as they experience their music. Come on, we all sang into the handle of the hairbrush as kids. It was fun!
When I write, I write. It often pours out in a huge rush and I’m exhausted when the words stop. And then I think, who even cares about my writing? Then I recall it shouldn’t matter who cares. I write for myself. I write because my life wouldn’t be complete if I didn’t. I write because I can.
I go through phases. For days at a time, I will listen to a specific type of music. I’m not musical in the sense of being able to create it but I very much enjoy listening to music. I don’t have a favorite genre, my tastes are eclectic. But there are times when only well-crafted music will satisfy. Those moments often coincide with my frustration with writing. When I can’t get the words to come out as intended. Hemingway famously equated writing with bleeding. Sometimes I just need to draw the blood.
Music isn’t just melody. It’s also the lyrics. In my mind, neither is more important. They’re equal. And when the words are tight and the rhythm is right, I can be brought to tears. And then the bleeding can commence.
An example of a song that has this power for me is Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” Now, the song has been vastly overused in films and covered by many artists. I like a few of the covers as well as Cohen’s own version. The beauty and play of his words is amazing. It may be enjoyed superficially and it may be enjoyed for the complexity of its depth, or layers of depth. Cohen’s writing is literary in quality and intellectual in its makeup.
My favorite covers of this song? For their fabulous harmony and diversity, Pentatonix can’t be beat. I’m such a sucker for a good tenor, or two. My preferred female cover is kd lang’s version. I’ve always enjoyed her ability to flat out sing. She doesn’t need to embellish her singing in any way. It’s strong and comes from the heart. Aside from Leonard’s version, another where the emotion is palpable is Rufus Wainwright’s version. Each of these creates tears for me in different ways. And that’s the beauty of it. These artists aren’t acting out a version of a song, they’re living it. Those emotions are coursing through their veins.
I know that feeling. I crave it.
“Your faith was strong but you needed proof/You saw her bathing on the roof/ Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew her”“And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch/But listen love, love is not some kind of a victory march”
The month of June is meaningful to me in many ways but the date of the 25th stands out for two important reasons. It was my grandmother’s birthday and the date of my high school graduation.
Meet Charlotte Conklin. She was born on June 25, 1888, in New Haven, CT. Her grandparents (on both sides) had come to New Haven from Ireland. Charlotte was the oldest of three. Her siblings were Roland and Margaret. Apparently her mother was a big fan of Victorian literature, hence the names.
Young Charlotte was outgoing and pretty. At 15, she had the opportunity to attend a unique program at Yale that trained young women in the field of business. She became an excellent secretary. In her early 20s, she met a young medical student from Yale. Though the story is shrouded in a bit of confusion, the end result of her being heartbroken was clear. Apparently the young man, from a “nice” family in the Boston area, may have been expected to marry a local girl. Even though my grandmother had travelled to Boston and met his family, he proceeded to marry the local Boston gal.
He was always known to us as the “doctor.” My grandmother did not talk about it much and it was obvious it had hurt her deeply. Because I’m a nerd and love mystery and research, I’ve done a bit of a look into his life. My mom and I couldn’t remember his complete name but from various bits and pieces of information, I discovered him in a 1908 Yale yearbook.
His life was one of success. A successful orthopedist, his first wife died at a reasonably young age. He remarried. There were children. They were well-known and respected in their societal strata.
Devastated by her loss, my grandmother threw herself into her work. She also helped her brother, Roland, start a pharmacy business and did the books for him. Though she was heartbroken, she did date but not seriously. Then she met an IRS agent while working in a federal building in New Haven. The man was from Albany, NY. It was this man whom my grandmother married. Both were older, she was 38 and he was 45. My uncle was born the next year, my mother the year after. I never met him as he died when my mother was 11.
My grandmother was always “old” to me. By the time I knew her, she was fairly crippled by arthritis. She was not one to do any sort of play with me and my brother. But she was a wonderful cook and played the piano beautifully, whether following sheet music or playing by ear. My posture has never been great and I can remember walking the length of her house with a book balanced on my head. It was not one of my better pursuits.
My nana also regaled me with stories from her past. She loved New Haven and her friends and cousins. By moving to Albany, it pretty much isolated her from them. I don’t think her life turned out as she’d imagined. Yet she loved her husband and her children. Things were not always easy for her but she persevered (Irish stubbornness?) until a month shy of her 99th birthday.
I always remember her with fondness. My home contains several of her possessions which helps me keep her fresh in my mind. She was a lady, through and through. Her manners were exquisite and she had a lovely New Haven accent when she spoke. She was 86 when I graduated from high school on her birthday although she did not attend the graduation ceremony. The mid-70s hadn’t yet heard of handicapped accessibility. She waited at our house in the company of a family friend until we returned and then we celebrated both occasions.
Each June 25th is bittersweet. I loved my nana but I always smile when I think of her, despite the tears that also form. Graduation from high school created such a feeling of unexpected trepidation in me. That’s another story for another time. I’m going to keep smiling and thinking of my nana and her sweet and gentle ways.
My grandmother, Charlotte Conklin Pringle ca. 1920
“Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you’ll look back and realize they were the big things.” Kurt Vonnegut
For most of my life, I’ve found joy and beauty in the little things. A bird on the wing. A wave creeping up the sand, inviting me to play. A bee gathering pollen. My soul is stirred by so many small things at times I think I may burst with joy.
My essence is triggered by my senses. An image may cause my heart to flutter. A scent may envelop me in a blissful calm. A sound may trigger memories. Many times I’m so moved by what I experience it’s hard to contain my emotions. It’s also difficult to find like-minded people. So, I keep it inside and enjoy my own thoughts.
I’ve always been a “thinker,” a dreamer. I was the student always gazing out the window, distracted by anything visual, but always listening. It’s given me powerful insight and honed an almost bottomless depth of emotion. It’s also spurred me to “do” more.
When I was teaching I often told my students that each of us possesses our own set of gifts. We should not compare ourselves to others because each of us is unique. I believed what I told them to be true as each child who sat in my classroom brought something singular to our shared experience. What was missing, in my belief, was me. So easy to recognize in others, but near impossible to discern for myself.
I’m “growing” into my gift(s). I’m learning it’s okay for me to have them and to acknowledge them. I’m tentatively becoming comfortable in sharing them. I’m opening my future to include them.
Remember the little things. A shared glance, companionable silence, the sun poking through the clouds. At any given moment we do not know how we may be impacting others. For twenty five years I tried to stand on my head each day to make connections, to inspire, to matter. And now it’s time to let it ooze in dribs and drabs, in spurts, in torrents. Fear and trepidation aside, it’s time to live with purpose and authenticity.
N.B. – this is a work in progress. My intent will become more apparent in the coming months. I’m looking forward to it. As usual, I sidestepped as I wrote, always willing to follow the tangents in my thoughts. I’d intended to write more about Vonnegut, one of my perennial favorites. Another time. “So it goes.”
Stories Are For Eternity 