ThingsPondered

I am saying goodbye to a special place.  My mind, intuition, soul, heart, and soon bank account, know it is the proper time to pass it to the next family.  Therefore, there are no regrets mixed into my aches.  Nevertheless, it goes hard with me, saying goodbye to my sanctuary.  Sunlight, ubiquitous wood, glass doorknobs, porcelain kitchen sink, tiles from 1937, a back garden framed with tall privet hedges like “the secret garden.”  May the next wonderful family’s guardian angels watch over them as they love and create a home in this space.  And, may my guardian angels quickly take me to my next sanctuary.

Dictionary of Wilzbach-isms

Since my mother came from a partially German-speaking family, many of our household words were some sort of colloquialisms or creations with a Cherman flavor.  I hope relatives who may remember more of these Wilzbach vocabulary words will add to the list.

I have guessed at spellings.  Generally, in my renditions both a “u” and the “oo” are pronounced as the “u” in “put,” such as “Put the milk back in the refrigerator.”

Bruntz = brunts  (verb) to urinate

Brunser = BRUN-zer  (noun) a boy

Brunshilda = BRUNZ-hil-da  (noun) a large woman or large girl.  Think Valkeries.

Futsnipper = [pronunciation exception: U is pronounced as the “u” in “cut.”] FUT-snip-per  (noun) a person who is delaying things by obsession with minor details.  Literally, it means fart-cutter.

Goonk = gunk (noun) nose mucous

Grootzely = GRUT-sul-lee (adjective) annoyed, irritable, out of sorts

Machs nichts = mox NIX (sentence) it doesn’t matter, it makes no difference

Runtz = runts (noun) a mischievous, joke-playing yet lovable person

Runtzing or runtz  (verb) = making light-hearted mischief

Schlutz cloth = SHLUTS-cloth  (noun)  a blanket used by a toddler for comfort when going to sleep, for accompaniment to thumb sucking.  In the A & T Morgan household, it was a specially designated old, clean cloth diaper.

Schmecks = shmeks (sentence) With voice going up at the end of the word, it is a question: Does it taste good?  Or with voice staying level or dropping at the end of the word, it is a statement:  It tastes good.

Stroobled = STRUB-uld (adjective) messed up, especially for appearance such as hair or clothing

Perhaps a reason I can indulge in squirrel watching and thus become enamored of the little rascals is my bizarre work hours.  I work a split shift:  7:00 to 9:30 AM and 2:30 to 6:30 PM.  This schedule permits plenty of daytime deck viewing.  However, I think that 8:00 to 9:00 AM is the ideal time for our neighborhood.  Weekends and weather-related work cancellations afford me access to this window of squirrel gazing.

Our squirrels are definitely morning creatures, as am I.  Just as dawn hints, they are up and checking for food in our feeders and bowls.  As day breaks, if there is bright yellow sunshine the squirrels and I position ourselves to maximize exposure.  For Seasonally-Affected me, I position myself at the eastern side of the house, straining my eyes and soul to absorb as much as possible of the life-giving warmth and light.  Strangely, some of the squirrels do a version of this as well.  The first priority, of course, is to see if food is available.  After gorging on food and water, sometimes a squirrel hops onto a rung of our deck railing to mentally prepare for yoga Sun Salutation.  It digs its toenails into the wood, braces itself against the wind, and thrusts its white-furred belly into the gold glow of the rising sun.

A squirrel wanting to feel the sun on its body  -  I totally understand.

I have been to Richmond a few times in my life: several times decades ago and most recently for a job fair months ago.  I have made a conscious decision to move to central Virginia, despite lack of family, employment or buddies there (yet.)  Why, one might ask?

I could suggest all sorts of illogical reasons. For one, Richmond is the home of DrumBum – a totally cool online percussion supplies business.  I visited its offices during my job fair trip.  (I would love to win one of the free T-shirts, hint hint —   ) Or, I could say that the name “Parham” has mystical attraction for me.  Also, Virginia is a commonwealth, as is my current state.

Here are some of the more motivating reasons:  Richmond is within driving distance to my family and friends who are largely in PA, NY, and east coast states.  It is closer to the ocean than my current home.   I do not need to live on the oceanfront, but I surely would like to get to it more frequently than I now do.  According to city-data , Richmond has more days of sunshine than does my current home.  As I have Seasonal Affective Disorder, I am suffering where I live now in “below-average-land.”  Furthermore, the city of Richmond has many colleges and universities – I want to be near people with intellectual curiosity and who may be liberal-minded.  In fact, I am told that the Fan district is similar to a New York City SoHo and Greenwich Village.  WooHoo!   Additionally, I want to be near a city large enough to support live theatre and live classical music performances.  I think Richmond fills the bill there.  Also, I am counting on many more job opportunities in a large city. 

Thus, I have focused on Richmond as the answer to my needs.  Future employers, what can I offer you?

“Does the C in YMCA stand for chocolate?” asked one of my before-school care charges, obviously hoping that my answer would be “yes.”

Why is chocolate so magical?  Why does it conjure up images of comfort, caring and indulgence? There is no denying that in the United States, if not the world, it holds the status of a reward.  Chocolate producers obviously capitalize on this attitude in their marketing.  However, even without marketing, I believe that it would nonetheless be regarded as special enough for children and adults to clamor for it.

In the past, I did not crave chocolate.  No, my favorite sweets (and I DO have a sweet tooth) were desserts using any red fruits.  I could rather easily walk by a plate of chocolates.  But then, I worked for a supervisor who adored fine European chocolate.  Occasionally he would bring in a morsel from Belgium or environs to attempt to convert me to his tastes.  Aah, to my detriment, it worked.  I am now a chocoholic.

It is not the cocoa or cacao alone.  Heavens no!  Have you ever had a spoonful of unsweetened cocoa mix?  Blecch.  Now, add sweetener.  Not good enough for me.  It is not the sugar which redeems the cocoa.  No, it is the butterfat.  When one combines the cocoa with sugar and the glorious dairy fat, then the result is a sweet for the gods. Thus, until the candy makers tap the raspberry and butterfat lover’s niche, I guess I will settle for chocolate.

At A Crossroads: Between a Rock and My Parents’ Place by Kate T. Williamson. 

This is a humorous diary in comic book form about the frustrations of a college grad who ends up living at home while writing a book and waiting for the next job, or next step, or next living space.  Although arranged as an interim stay, the residency stretches a tad longer than planned, therefore creating the need to make some adjustments and endure some oddball embarrassments and vexations.

Kate Williamson is one bright cookie who has been an artist for most of her life.  She is as intellectually scrupulous as she is honest and humble, self-deprecating in a bitter-sweetly funny way, and a natural to produce this graphic novel about the journey of returning home.  Just as Lauren Bacall was meant to be found by Hollywood, Kate Williamson was meant to combine her oriental artistic sensibilities in watercoloring and cartooning, her pithy humor, mots justes, and frank brevity,  to create this gem of a storybook.

Immediately, the cover art gives one a good feel for the yarn.  Kate has drawn herself despondently prostrate on the very pink carpet of her very pink childhood bedroom.  It’s not a fate she pictured as she matriculated to Harvard University.  Her particular adventure is flavored by the character of her childhood hometown – a nice enough place for growing up, but not a happening locale for a single.  She copes in her connections for social contact: reverting to play with little kids in the neighborhood, hanging with much older generational friends (also revealing a truly nice mutual regard and enjoyment of her parents), and some of that boredom-numbing filling of time with videos.  Many of us have been there, done that.  However, not as many of us have been able to catalogue our own adventure as it unfolded and recognize our pathos as gentle, ephemeral comedy.   

She gives hope to any of us who have faced a turn in the road, an unexpected intermission in the symphony of life, and the occasional accompanying feelings of isolation or defensiveness as we try to work past those speed bumps.  Kate’s ability to examine herself and laugh, all the while retaining confidence that this is a temporary, yet necessary stage, is enviable and inspiring.  She is a chrysalis who knows that butterflydom rests at the end of her road.   

Watercolor illustrations, great in their own right, fill this book.  Some of the best are seasonal nature scenes interspersed between the story pages, displaying the influence of Kate’s studies in Japanese art.  The detail of woodgrains in hardwood, variably fading wallpaper patterns ,  autumn leaves and tender spring buds are sublimely captured.

I have high recommendations for At A Crossroads: Between a Rock and My Parents’ Place.  Buy it as the perfect gift, but allow yourself enough time to read it first (and then maybe buy another copy for your permanent collection.)

Would you like to know how relaxed and slow-moving life in the USA was for your grandparents or great-grandparents?  Why not travel back in time?  Marty McFly did it (backwards and forwards) in the Back to the Future movies.  Unfortunately, maybe we won’t live to enjoy that sort of technology.  However, despair not.   Even if you weren’t alive in 1958, it really is not at all difficult to get a sense of it.   Just consult a catalog from The Vermont Country Store .

The catalogue includes fashions such as Tangee and Tabu make-up from way back when.  There are even hair curlers, dusters, pettipants, granny panties, and portable hair dryers with the plastic-bag-type bonnet.  For the men, Bay Rum cologne is offered.

Within housewares and other supplies one can purchase the reusable douche/enema bag (a familiar sight half a century ago.)  Chenille and rib-cord corduroy bedspreads, flour-sack towels, manual typewriters, cloth handkerchiefs, and oilcloth kitchen appliance covers are some of the other treasures still made.

In foods, once again you can purchase and enjoy a bottle of cod liver oil, movie house Crows gumdrops, or Chiclets gum.

Please know that I mean absolutely no mockery or ridicule for this “Voice of the Mountains®“ family-owned establishment.  The store sells up-to-date products such as Pilates balls and Neti pots.  However, its vast array of older products is its jewel.  The Vermont Country Store is obviously meeting needs.  The bonus is that in doing so, it is providing a valuable lesson in anthropology for today’s young students and a nostalgic look back for the old gomers.

There are many religious mysteries in our world.  Some are phenomena; others are concepts.  Many people are very comfortable co-existing with unexplained ideas.  Others create a reason for accepting them.  Still others must reject anything that cannot be justified to their satisfaction.

Mystic beliefs exist in many sects.  For example, in Christianity, many followers are taught that the Highest Power is one God, but also THREE god-spirits at the same time.  This is the concept of the trinity: that God is one and also a threesome, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. 

 I have no trouble accepting the Trinity as an un-understandable reality.  I can live with this mystery.

However, there is an idea on the God-front and mother-front that has provoked strong reactions in me.  A Christian counselor once told me that God loved my two sons more than I ever could.  Impossible.  No way.  My love for them is limitless.  It is pure and strong and constant.  Such was my initial reaction. 

Many years have elapsed since that counselor’s assertion.  Inevitably, time and reflection have made their marks on my thoughts, feelings, and perception of the inexplicable God.  Now I accept the notion that God’s love for my boys is bigger than my love.  However, this notion belongs in the realm of un-understandable mysteries to me.  It cannot diminish my knowledge of the strength of amount of love I have for them.  What it tells me is that there is a God-love that I cannot begin to comprehend. 

This possibility of a huge God-love which is larger than my infinite mother-love is so mysterious and incomprehensible that I tire trying to imagine it.  Happily, I need not understand it to accept it.  As long as it is the “force of goodness,” I am assured that all is well in my world.  Love you, sons!

I grew up without football on Thanksgiving Day.  I am very thankful for that.  Here is how it came to be and why I continue the tradition.

My parents grew up without television.  Mom and Dad each came from large extended families, and the holiday of Thanksgiving truly meant family time.  If their local high schools or colleges had a football game on Turkey Day, I guess this event did not burrow itself into their respective schemas about how one celebrates Thanksgiving.  Or, perhaps the fact that we did not live in either’s home town severed any connections to a local football contest.

Our tradition was to take a family walk in a county park.  Living in southwestern Pennsylvania, we could enjoy brisk weather for exploring the woods, yet usually count on the absence of snow on the ground.  This particular park was familiar and welcoming, being the site of summer scout camp, occasional swimming, and other fun activities.   

After that, somehow another tradition evolved.  We were far from grandparents or cousins.  It was “just us.”   Therefore, instead of us eating a turkey cooked at home, we dressed up in our very good clothes and went to a restaurant.  It was always the same one, and we kids only saw it on Thanksgiving.  After driving for what seemed like an hour “over the river and through the woods” (literally – gorgeous rural woods), we arrived at the Century Inn in Scenery Hill.  This inn, built circa 1794, was very Colonial including a large stone front step which was visibly worn down from the footfalls of so many visitors.  Perhaps even George Washington slept there.  (He could have if he came west to oversee troops during the Whiskey Rebellion.)  Our family always ate in the keeping room – the small room with the enormous walk-in fireplace.  Also, we kids always had the historically interesting appetizer of fruit shrub: a fruit sherbet with orange juice poured over it.

This was my Thanksgiving.  I had exercise and family time and good food.

Therefore, I am appalled at the rudeness of football fans (particularly of the male persuasion) who feel that the Thanksgiving events must occur around some idiot television producer’s schedule.  I am revolted at the notion that this family meal for which the purpose is reflection on our many blessings should possibly be eaten in front of the set, or with a TV set blaring conveniently close-by.  These ideas are so patently ridiculous, that I do not trouble myself with them.  I am extremely thankful for a lifetime of no-TV-giving-of-thanks.