Monday, June 28, 2010

In The Garden


I've always liked this little guy. Strum on, dude.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Sesame Street, With Beer

When my son Rorie was a little over a year old we watched our first episode of Sesame Street. I had vowed that my precious firstborn child would not be exposed to television until he was much older. I planned to provide much more stimulating interactive pastimes to develop his little mind and spirit.

Then I became pregnant with Ra’s younger sister Maggie, and was so tired and morning-sick that I had to lie down on the floor to read to him. We spent a lot of time there, me on my side, propped up on an elbow, and him giggling as he bounced books off my head to keep me awake. As a result of these months, I can still recite Sandra Boynton’s Moo Baa La La La, and I still feel nauseated every time I see it.

So we tuned in to PBS. Rorie loved “Street” and so did I. The characters were fun, the songs addictive, the guest stars and many of the jokes aimed at adults. Bird and Snuffy and the Count, Bert and Ernie and Elmo became everyday companions. The day Maria and Luis’ daughter Gabriella was born, we made a special picnic and celebrated with a few of my Baby Group friends and their toddlers. I think we still have an old VHS tape of the big event.

Fast forward over twenty years. Ra lives in a row house in multicultural South Philadelphia with five other guys. There is a little convenience store at the end of his block, and front stoops on all of the houses.

We visited on a recent Saturday. I brought lunch for Ra and his friends and Maggie and her friend Farah, who were visiting. As often happens when we pull up, Ra’s next-door neighbor Mr. Freeman, who just celebrated his seventieth birthday, was standing outside. He’s taller than Ra’s height of 6’4” and no wider than my lanky son, and I can barely reach up high enough as he hugs me hello. Ra’s friend Chino waved from his third floor window—“Hey, Rorie’s Mom!”

Mr. Freeman both watches out for the boys-- “I tell people, these are my sons,” he says, and keeps them in line, “I tell them, if it gets too loud over there they’re gonna hear from me.” Ra digs his garden for him and takes him to Home Depot. Mr. Freeman and Miss Mattie, his wife, feed Ra regularly, which makes me happy.

We picnicked in the back yard, sitting on mismatched chairs the guys pulled from all over the house. A few stray cats the boys have adopted poked around looking for a handout. The corn and tomatoes they planted were sprouting. Mr. Freeman leaned over his fence and accepted a cupcake. His niece Celestine, a talkative six-year-old, kept up a constant prattle about her toys, her outing to the park, and school (“no matter if you’re listening or not,” Mr. Freeman remarked). Henry, his brother, came out to visit, as did Celestine’s mother Anastasia.

Victor and Anthony, who live in the house on the other side, passed Ra a Corona over the fence and asked if we wanted to try the Vietnamese lunch, a mix of seafood, herbs and greens in a bubbling pot of broth, that his aunts were was concocting in their kitchen. We’d just stuffed ourselves, but next time we’ll leave room. Ra says the aunts are amazing cooks.

Moving from chair to chair and fence to fence, talking about perennials with Mr. Freeman, cameras with Jeff, and teaching autistic kids with Shea, I thought of how we become part of communities we never could have envisioned. Ra had considered small colleges where he could play basketball, but he decided on an ultra-urban school of twenty thousand in North Philly. And while he loves all that big city life has to offer, he has also created a welcoming home, surrounded by friends of all ages, in a neighborhood in a house with a stoop.

Which is where, Maggie told me, the kids sat after we left, hanging out for hours. One of the guys’ friends rode up on his bike around eleven and said, “I thought you’d be out here.”

Next time maybe we’ll stay late enough that I can check out the Street after dark. We have to visit again soon. I promised Mr. Freeman that I’d divide some perennials from my yard and give them a chance to thrive in South Philly.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Summer Solstice


On this longest day of the year, six women gathered on our good friend Cindy's dock to watch the sun rise. We had all awakened before 4 a.m., so our eyes were a little bleary, and each of us clutched a travel mug of coffee or tea. We wore vivid colors in honor of the day. One of us wore bright pink lipstick. The crabbers who passed by looked up from working their trotline and waved, but I'm not sure they knew what to make of our sungazing, in silence punctuated by muffled laughter....

What a perfect way to celebrate the summer light and the joys of friendship. Love you, ladies! I'd put in a 19-hour day with you anytime.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Admiring the Curve of Rob's Blackberry



Today in the grocery store, in an attempt to steer Rob in the direction of the selzer aisle, I accidentally brushed against the mobile device that constantly hangs from his waist.

"Honey," I gasped, "Do you realize I just touched your Blackberry in public???"

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Wednesday, June 16, 2010

For Uncle Sam

Earlier today I stopped at the Post Office. The line was longer than usual, and as I moved to the front I could see why. Of the three postal employees working with customers, one was dealing with a pile of letters to be overnighted and another was helping a family—mom, dad, young teenage son and daughter—apply for passports.

I was contemplating my choices for stamps when I overheard the woman behind the counter talking to the passport-seekers.

“I don’t know. They look gray to me,” she said.

I glanced over. She was peering into the face of the son.

“What should I write?” asked the father, appealing to his wife.

“We’ve always called them hazel,” said the boy’s mother.

“They’re really—what color are those eyes? I’d say gray,” the postal worker went on.

By now I was intrigued, mostly because it’s interesting that this kid had reached adolescence without his parents coming to an agreement about the color of his eyes.

The father looked a bit exasperated. He glanced in my direction—I was at the front of the line by then—and I smiled.

“Ask her,” he said to his wife, motioning to me, and then to his son, “Look at this lady.”

The teenager turned to me and I examined his irises. He looked remarkably poised considering that in the last few minutes two different middle-aged female strangers had been gazing into his eyes. He even raised his eyebrows so I could get a better look—at eyes of such a pale blue that they really could be called gray.

“I vote gray,” I said, and grinned at the boy, who looked relieved.

“I said gray,” the postal worker affirmed.

“What color is hazel, anyway?” the mother mused.

So that’s how today I contributed to the U.S. government’s official record of one if its citizens. It was kind of exciting to cast the deciding vote, even if it was a pretty big responsibility. After all, if on his trip to another country the kid wants to learn the word for his eye color, he’d better have an idea what to ask.

Monday, June 7, 2010

Sacrifice

This is the lovely fern outside my front door. Notice how it's thriving!








Let's look a little closer:













Gorgeous, isn't it? Doesn't it make our entryway look warm and welcoming?

You may wonder why I'm not taking better care of this fern, by trimming off the dead fronds, or maybe by watering it just a bit more. You might even wonder why I don't just take this lovely fern out to the compost heap and start over with a new one.

There is a good reason: for the third year in a row, a pair of house wrens have built a nest in my hanging plant. When I try to water it, there is an angry fluttering of wings from within.

And because the babies who came from the eggs that Mama Wren laid have now hatched, the fern is really noisy. Whenever we go outside to get the mail, or to walk this dog:


















the wren babies are cheeping really loudly for more food. (Mom and Dad must be working hard to provide for them--I know just how they feel :-)

But in the last day or so, I have noticed that although a cacophony of chirps still erupts whenever we're in the vicinity, it dies down almost immediately. You can just picture Mama hushing her brood, who are now big enough to follow instructions and wait a minute for the next bite of worm. She's teaching them manners. (Or maybe how to stay hidden.)

In any case, because of the wren family, I am allowing this fern to waste away. It's a dilemma, because if I can't get any water into it, it may die back enough that it won't provide camouflage for the nest. But if I disturb the babies too much by watering, they may hop out before they're ready. (That happened the first year, and although the little guy was okay, I still have not forgotten the trauma.)

So far I'm batting .500--one year the babies flew in time for me to save the plant, and one year they didn't. I don't know what will happen this year.

But I bet the fern likes the company, and is okay with it either way.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

Overheard In A Coffee Shop

Yesterday when I was getting my large black unsweetened iced tea with lemon, a young couple, maybe college-age, was in line behind me. They had their arms around each other and were chatting with a woman who could have been one of their mothers.

The young guy said to the older woman, “No, you’re all right, because you haven’t gained weight in your face.”

And I thought, dude, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop right there.