Rest in Peace, Good Old Dog

Pippin died tonight. I am so brokenhearted.

Boots

It's six weeks away, but I'm already getting geared up for our annual trip to San Antonio, Texas to visit my mother-in-law. It's always a bit of an emotional rollercoaster ride, but Texas certainly has its charms, one of which is the little farm across the way where Hedgie has spent many a long afternoon playing with the eccentric animals. Case in point, the old goat Boots, who likes to play on the trampoline if anyone else is game.

A photoessay from several years ago:








He bounces around for awhile, then lies down to watch. Odd?

I Love...

The truly delightful Savannah tagged me with this, and it fits just perfectly into my February Cheer theme...and don't think the beheading of St. Valentine wasn't part of that! I never said I would forgo the acerbity!

Anyway, here it is:



in exchange for which I'll list a few things I love.

I won't even mention Sarge and Hedgie. My dear ones are the absolute sine qua non.

But I also love...

1. Rain: I scan the 10-day forecast to see when we're due for some, and then I look forward with such eagerness to the rainy days. I think rain speaks to most of my senses in a comfortable way. The long half-light that soothes the eyes and the subtle grey-on-grey of the clouds, the rivulets on the windows; the way a rainy day smells, in the city it brings a freshness to the concrete and in the country, carries with it the almost primal smell of summer grass or in autumn, the very distillation of wood smoke on damp; the feel of a rainy wind on my cheeks; the sound of rain thrumming on my little skylight, or the tin roof of Hedgie's lake cottage bedroom as I put her to sleep...

2. Perfume: I've never been a girl with a single signature scent. I change perfume with the whim of my moods. I think it's the best way I know, as a grown woman, to play dress up. My bottles live on my dressing table, which once belonged to my grandma Eva (a staunch single-scent woman by the way!), it's an enormous Victorian piece all out of scale with my modern life, but I'd never give it up. It's where I go to stand and look and wait for inspiration to strike: "who am I today?" I ask myself and some days, even if I'm just going to drop Hedgie at school and do the marketing and mail some letters, I find that I'm my own gothic heroine, planning some assignation with a shadowy someone...you see, one can't let one's self be crushed by the weight of sheer practicality all the time!

What is on my dressing table? L'Aromarine "Fleurs Blanches"; Annick Goutal "Mandragore"; Fresh "Fig Apricot", "Mangosteen", and "Pink Jasmine", just to name a few of my favorites...

3. Kissing Sarge: not sex, no. That I would put with my list of without which nothing...kissing, though, is a different matter entirely. Done correctly, as it is always between me and my husband, I think it's the epitome of...well, I won't say what. It's just the very last word.

4. Laura Ingalls Wilder: I know I've said it before, so many many times, but the "Little House" books are something like my bible, her words are my words to live by, and contrary to what one might believe at a casual glance, this was not a simple woman. She was complex, emotional, ornery, and romantic; thoughtful, faithful, and full of curiousity, a pioneer in every way one can be, a feminist housewife with boundless imagination...in short, my role model.

5. Felt: yes, felt. I do love felt. Ever since Hedgie was very small, we've kept a supply in our house. It can be easily sewn up by hand, even by a child, no seams necessary. It comes in every color imaginable--check it out--don't you want to make something with this too?

Now I won't tag anyone in particular, you're all great and creative, but if anyone would like to snag this and in turn tell us some things you love, please do! I guarantee that it will make you feel just wonderful.

Poor St. Valentine

Let's join the cynical horde and remind ourselves that today is a Saint's Day--of sorts--not officially recognized by the Catholic Church, but a Saint's Day nonetheless--and that according to story, St. Valentine was horribly martyred--

First, for your enjoyment, a link to The Onion's take on the "holy day."

When I went to do my "research" (and by this I don't mean a thorough academic source-searching, but rather a lazy click on Wiki) on this hapless fellow, I discovered that there's a bit of mystery and confusion surrounding him, but I liked one version best:

"The first representation of Saint Valentine appeared in the Nuremberg Chronicle, (1493); alongside the woodcut portrait of Valentine the text states that he was a Roman priest martyred during the reign of Claudius II, known as Claudius Gothicus. He was arrested and imprisoned upon being caught marrying Christian couples and otherwise aiding Christians who were at the time being persecuted by Claudius in Rome. Helping Christians at this time was considered a crime. Claudius took a liking to this prisoner -- until Valentinus tried to convert the Emperor -- whereupon this priest was condemned to death. He was beaten with clubs and stoned; when that didn't finish him, he was beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate."

Are you catching the key words here? "Martyrdom"? "clubbed, stoned, and beheaded"?

Now that's my kind of Valentine's Day. But then again, I'm the girl who loves Krampus.

It was such a warm, beautiful day...

At the risk of inducing boredom whilst waxing about the glories of my city...

I can't help it, I really like it here...

and besides, we had that indescribably delicious 70 degree sunshiny day, a gift in the middle of February...

Hedgehog, home on midwinter break from school, suggested we walk across the Brooklyn Bridge into Chinatown, which we did.




Hedgie and my sis, getting ready to climb the steps to the pedestrian path



At the Brooklyn foot of the bridge, looking toward the first arch



view of the Manhattan bridge right next door



at the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, looking up at those lovely arches, suspended in lacy-looking cables. One of the most beautiful sights in NYC I think





sunlight on the East River



And in Chinatown, on Bayard Street, our favorite place for bubble tea



Homer guards the entrance, although we're not really sure why



Hedgie enjoys her strawberry drink



and next door, none of us can resist the strings of little stuffed charms--mushrooms, turtles, and unidentifiable "kawaii" creatures with smiley faces, a dollar apiece



around the corner, a little hole-in-the-wall with yummy, glutinous, slightly fermented sticky rice cakes



Arms full of delicacies and gee-gaws, we make our way through the warreny streets of Chinatown and the court buildings, back across the bridge, and home again

Why Bother? The second installment in my February cheer posts

I've been knitting dish cloths and socks lately. When so many perfectly good socks and dish cloths can be had for little money, the legitimate question is, why bother?

It's not like I'm Caroline Ingalls, or even my own grandmother, who lived through the depression and, although she didn't knit socks, she rinsed and dried paper towels and carefully darned the holes in my grandfather's store-bought when his toes and heels began to poke through. Ma Ingalls not only had to knit socks, if they wanted woolen socks through the long prairie winters (and of course, sensibly, they did), but she also had to stitch up their bed sheets from long strips of muslin. By hand. They didn't even have that new-fangled invention, the foot-treadle sewing machine, until Laura was 16. Of course, she also had to butcher the hog and milk the cow and weave their straw sun hats, make dresses and bloomers and haul water and keep a fire going if they wanted bread and warmth and and and. It was only after all this work was done that the girls could spend time on their leisure arts: crocheting yards of lace to trim their petticoats.

So why all this time and effort spent learning and doing the more humble of the needle arts, in a world where they're no longer needed?

I like to think there might be a practical reason. Of course, I suppose, it's a good skill to have in the Apocalypse that might come our way. To the Apocalypse, Sarge brings his incredibly encyclopedic survival skills that he learned in the Army and in his life experience. He can find us food and create shelter, deal with munitions, do mapping and orientation. And I, representing Womanfolk, can knit us warm socks.

But seriously, I've become a woman on a mission to save, in my own small way, these "useless" skills. I worry that my daughter will be such a product of our noisy, technology-driven world that she will miss the quiet moments, the slow moments. And I worry that I will too, although I grew up in a decade that was decidedly more slow-paced. I really believe that if I continue to knit socks and dishcloths, it'll be a small victory in the fight against the confusing hubbub of modernity.

For the same reason that I believe in running a household where we're not always multi-tasking, not always getting to the next thing, not racing to appointments for no reason but to busy ourselves, constantly bombarded with media, so I believe passionately in the act of turning a heel in a pointlessly hand-knit sock.

There's sweet respite in yarn and needles, the colors and textures and possibilities. I feel calmer, I feel more connected to my grandmother, who, 30 years ago, patiently taught me to crochet, and even to the history that flows from the long-gone women of generations and generations past, in this country and universally. I like my MacBook, but I need my knitting.

I think I'll start referring to myself as Steampunk Housewife...

A Shimmer of Possibility

February Blues. I've got 'em.

I can't remember the last time I was so bummed out. The fact that I'm blogging at 3:30 in the morning should tell you something!

Sometimes when I feel like this, it helps to keep a running list, in a special little notebook I have, of things that make me happy. Maybe I'll do it here instead. In November, I did a post a day--Thankful for 30. Maybe I'll try a sort of Thankful for the Remaining Days in February. I'll just call it 20 Days of Cheer. My gloomy hunched anxious negative NY Jewish (and not in the good way) pessimistic self can just suck it up. Instead, I'm dragging out, kicking and screaming perhaps, the Hebrew Princess with the good haircut and sunny disposition.

To kick things off, let me share that, once again, I had a lovely day yesterday at the Museum of Modern Art. The best thing I've done this year, one of them, was to get a MOMA membership for myself and Sarge and Hedgie. The museum admission is 20 bucks, so visiting regularly would have been impossible without my card, my little key to happier times. The return on this relatively small investment has been enormous, and I can bring guests in too for 5 dollars each. So, yesterday, my wretched cold finally having abated, I spent an afternoon there with my mom and sister. I left Hedgie behind with Sarge, and it was a good thing to go off on my own. Really.

There's nothing like spending time in a museum, a lot of time, over a long period, to really feel like you own it. I liken it to living in a foreign country, in an apartment, shopping, cooking your own meals, using the public transportation there...when you're a tourist, it's different. You can't really get at the essence of a place with a quick stop-over and glance-through, which is why I'm not so keen on being a brief tourist when I travel. The same holds true for a museum. One visit can be overwhelming and not too illuminating. Several, or even many, and you begin to know the place, like I'm beginning to know the MOMA. I can find my favorite paintings now, and they're always there, just waiting patiently for me! The strange angles of the architecture are becoming familiar. The cafe menu (honey crisp apple sorbetto is the very definition of icy manna). The guys at the coat check. The crazy, precipitously dangling helicopter



The view from a second floor window, the one that I always like to pretend is my living room window



Do you notice how clean our glass is? It's quite a chore.

And the brilliant reflection of those same buildings



The stout, reliable bull-man-thing in the Sculpture Garden



We saw a grand exhibit of photography, by Paul Graham, poetically titled A Shimmer of Possibility.

And on the way home, it was so warm and sunny that we walked for awhile down 5th Avenue and stopped to look at the Saks windows, where they had a display of costumes from the Met (if you look closely you can see the reflection of my MOMA bubble ring--I doubt any piece of six-dollar plastic jewelry has ever given a girl more pleasure than this brings me)





And in a decidedly NY-ian juxtaposition, this van, belonging to the man who sells movie scripts on the street



...so hang in there Leah! Spring is on its way...eventually...

p.s. I'm steadily amassing a great collection of postcards, so if anyone would like to receive a really awesome art card in the mail, direct from NYC, just leave me an email with your address and I'll happily oblige. "theweatherinthestreets@gmail.com" Seriously!

The Confessional

I've been thinking about how much I reveal, or don't reveal, in my journal here. I wonder whether I seem forthcoming; I talk about many things that the more cautious wouldn't dream of discussing in public. I can't help it--I love to talk, and I love to talk about myself. Partly as a way of understanding my motives, feelings, and dreams, and partly as a writing exercise.

But in truth, while my brief entries here can seem at times to be quite frank, whether or not I appear to be forthcoming, I'm actually a private person who reveals very little. If I come through at all in my true incarnation, then it's in the margins of what I write more than in the substance. This is not to say that what I say isn't truth, because every bit of it is. But it's what I don't say, and in the end there's a very great deal that I don't say, that makes up the substance of my existence, and I keep this substance closely guarded.

The process of editing is essential, not just in this public journal, but in my everyday life. Just as I don't blurt out every single one of my innermost secrets to my friends on a regular basis over coffee, so I wouldn't do it here (let's be honest, besides being unseemly, it would be deadly boring after awhile to the person across the table from me). And as I check my academic work for spelling and syntax, so too I check these entries for any security leaks of the psychological and personal variety.

When I was younger, much younger, in my extended adolescence, I think I really believed that unless I spoke myself out loud, I wouldn't exist. As a result, I liked to tell my stories--even the darker ones, the ones full of pain and real suffering--to too many people. I don't do that anymore, but sometimes I worry that my telling here will overstep my self-proscribed, and admittedly highly subjective, boundaries, and I'll have a horrid, detailed, cringy, vulnerable story that I forgot to edit out; one that I'll live to profoundly regret.

I've heard it said (and I think it's an old 12-step truism) that "you're only as sick as your secrets." Well, I don't buy it, not entirely. A person needs to have a private place to tuck things--even or especially the tragic, the painful, and the frightening--not everything is to be consumed by others, digested, and spit back, interpreted and weighed in on. Full confessionals may be for some, but they're not for me. I don't want to say everything...

Dangerous business, this public journal...

I think I'm already regretting this post...





*beautiful photo by Darwin Bell

Clothes Horse: A Brief History

I love clothes, for the way they costume, disguise, transmogrify, inspire, keep me warm...I love clothes, and the little bits of things, earrings, lace scarves, shoes, that come with...

I've had some memorable bits of sartorial flotsam and jetsam in my past...

My earliest truly adored outfit was a lavender wool suit my mother bought me especially to wear to her Doctoral graduation day.  It had a special blouse to go with, lace and silk and pearl buttons.  I remember mom in her doctoral robes and hood and funny puffy hat, I beaming at her side, a vision in lavender and pride.

In the the '80s, when I was in high school, I had a favorite outfit, my party uniform.  It was a perfect black cocktail dress that had been my Aunt Abby's in the early '60s.  I liked my dresses short, so modified it a bit with an ad hoc hem.  It zippered up the side and was of some sort of rayon.  I do shudder to think how I paired that dress with neon green fishnet stockings, purchased in a rash moment at Canal Jeans (a NYC icon of bygone days), and sometimes turquoise satin sharp-toed, spike-heeled pumps.  Dear God.  Yet, I still think fondly of it.

Also from that era, a brown suede coat, which I liked to think of as Blonde-on-Blonde Bob Dylan.  Especially meaningful because one night a boy I crushed on, Jonathan was his name, he had a wild mane of curly golden-brown and was quite unintelligent really, except maybe in the maths...anyway, one night at an outdoor after-party under the Brooklyn Bridge, he borrowed it and wore it.  I still have a clear picture of him, perched up on the guardrail over the East River, wind ruffling his curls; the jacket that was snug across my breasts hung loose on his skinny frame... when he gave it back, it was as if it had alchemized, that's how much, in the privacy of my room, I stared at it and sniffed it and caressed it in lieu of sniffing and caressing the boy himself...

My wardrobe from that era was a mixture of vintage dresses from stores in the Village (there were so many vintage dresses to be had then, a plague of vintage dresses),  wonderful clothes from my mom's college years (two suede jackets come to mind, one russet red, the other olive green, both brass-buttoned), things plundered from closets in our attic (a veritable silk-and-wool history of the women in my family) and then secreted away in the depths of my enormous Victorian mahogany wardrobe...

In college, some of these things persisted, but my freshman favorite outfit was much less fanciful: a pair of jeans, motorcycle boots, a snug t-shirt, and an enormous black cardigan, sterling silver hoop earrings, and a sizable silver skull ring a la Keith Richards.  When I moved into an apartment off-campus with two girlfriends (we called it "The Cathouse" if that gives any indication of the flavor of the place), we were all roughly the same size and shape and pooled our clothes.  I mean that literally--our clothes were kept in a sort of communal heap in the livingroom.  My favorite Cathouse dress belonged to my roommate, and it was so short and wispy that I can't believe now that I wore it in public.  This I paired with borrowed six-hole Doc Martens (at the time I imagined I was being insouciant--it was the '90s after all).  And is it really any wonder that I didn't get to my papers and readings till the last minute...I was too busy tugging at my short skirts, adjusting my stockings, staring into mirrors, and reapplying lipstick...

Over these last years, the vintage dresses have receded into the background, the hems frayed past the point of no return, the buttons hanging by threads, most retired and some given a hero's farewell...they still turn up now and again when we're clearing out a closet, and I feel a fond little feeling and smile a fond little smile as they slip through my fingers...

More recently, I think lovingly of my wedding outfit. I spent 108 dollars on the dress, a creamy gold lace shirtwaisty formitted-bodice thing that I purchased on a whim in a little boutique in Soho. My mother was chagrined that she wasn't in on the decision--but as we were married by a judge at the courthouse, the dress was never fated to be anything more elaborate, expensive, or thrilling to choose. I walked in, tried it on, and bought it. I think it was charming. The shoes were cream colored satin kitten-heeled mary-janes, with little satin-covered buttons at the sides. Perfect for a courthouse wedding, and the dress is now stored all crumpled up in a shoebox, that's just the sort of dress it is.

I also dearly loved one very peculiar accessory: a snood (yes, snood) that I bought when I lived in Jerusalem, inspired by the pretty Modern Orthodox ladies I saw everywhere. It was a perfect blue, and I thought I looked quite fetching in it. When I arrived back in the States, wearing it right off the plane, Sarge took one look at me and laughed. Laughed! "A snood," he shook his head at me. "A snood!" And laughed again as he gently pulled it right off my hair. That was the last word on that.

And now I must ask, if you're willing to share, what is your favorite piece of clothing, past or present? I really really do want to know.

More Like a Girl Every Day

These days I feel more and more like the girl I once was. It's really quite odd, how your old self comes back to you like this. As the years pass, I can shoulder my responsibilities with something pretending to competence, I am a more seasoned mother, I can manage a household and make sure everyone's okay and fed and clothed, I'm not afraid of getting older, and in fact it's good to be able to rely on my own grown-older self. But still, the more this happens, the more 16-year-old Leah makes her presence known.

I remember a night in August, many years ago: I sat on our Brooklyn balcony with my friend Sarah. We talked and talked, sipping our one-beer-each, of all the things that young girls talk about confidingly, in the secrecy of a hot dark night. At last, after a pause, I could feel her looking at me, and she said, "in the end, all I really want is a family, a house and a husband and children to take care of." It seemed so subversive at the time, the least choice among so many, but also quite romantic. I said back to her, daringly I thought, "me too."

Some days I think I've traded places with the girl on the balcony, and I'm back there in that long-ago city night, knowing my willing fate, not in it yet but looking forward to it as one looks forward to going home after a long, turbulent journey...and she, the lovely vivid girl (anxious and excitable and emotional and adventurous, boy-crazy, intense, and a daydreamer) is here, unsuitable but earnest guardian of my adult life.

I think I'm satisfied now that I couldn't have one without the other; wouldn't be happy without my girl to remind me of sweetness and excitement and hope...


"Big girl as she was, Laura spread her arms wide to the wind and ran against it. She flung herself on the flowery grass and rolled like a colt. She lay in the soft, sweet grasses and looked at the great blueness above her and the high, pearly clouds sailing in it. She was so happy that tears came into her eyes."*




*"Little Town on the Prairie" by Laura Ingalls Wilder