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Sunday, November 22, 2009

I Remember

by Susan Cameron

Reader alert: If you hate memoir, stop here. This is some of the material that's going to end up in a much bigger piece.


I remember driving to the cider mill in the fall. Michigan in autumn is one of the most beautiful places on earth. The trees! There are so many, so beautiful; scarlet, gold, orange, yellow, brown, leaves rustling and falling soft as snowflakes. As you walk through them on the pathways they make a soft swooshing sound. When you're a kid, you rake them into piles and jump in them, rolling around with your friends in the leaves, laughing and shrieking and getting leaves in your hair, all wild and tangled. We used to burn them -- that was one of my favorite jobs when I was a kid. I'd rake them into piles, carry the piles to the wire trash-burning basket in the alley, stuff it full and fire it up. The smell of the smoke epitomized fall.

The cider mill was out in the woods next to a stream, of course. You could buy fresh-pressed apple cider, doughnuts hot out of the grease, hunks of smoked cheese and fresh apples. You'd sit under the canopy of red/gold/brown and eat and drink and listen to the rush of water burbling over the rocks in the streambed. The sky would be that bright, fresh blue, and the clouds would be as light and puffy as cotton candy, and the air smelled like trees and cold fruit. Breathing spring air made me feel giddy and light-headed and like dancing in the street (and sometimes I did!), but breathing fall air made me feel calm, content, and hungry. I was ravenous in the fall. Was it the change in seasons? Winter coming? Getting ready to hibernate? Who knows. But I would roll those hunks of smoked cheese around my mouth, and close my eyes and sigh a little from the taste of those doughnuts, and chase it with a few deep slugs of fresh apple cider, and life just couldn't get any better than that.

I remember winter all too well. When I was in grade school, we would all go to bed and snuggle under our blankets and quilts, and the heat would be turned off to save money. When we awoke, the house was icy cold. My grandmother would turn on the heat, there would be a muffled "whoomph" from the basement, and in a while, heat would begin to rise from the registers in the floor. There were wooden grids that sat over the vents leading from the furnace. I would take a deep breath, throw off my warm covers, and leap from my cozy bunkbed to the cold wooden floor. I'd scurry to the register in the hall and squat over it in my flannel nightgown, holding it open like a tent, feeling the delicious heat rising up through my collar. That didn't last long -- my chilly school clothes awaited. At one point they no longer used the furnace and tried just heating the kitchen with the oven (whose bright idea was that? How did they think this would save money?), and it was horrible. My teeth would be chattering like a flamenco dancer's castanets before I could make it to the kitchen.

I remember how cold the basement was in winter. I would grab my schoolbooks, open the kitchen door to the landing and feel the chill by the drafty back door. I'd shut the kitchen door behind me, muffling the sound of the adults yelling at each other. By the time I'd walked down the flight of steps and arrived in my sanctuary, I was already shivering. The cold seeped from the cement floor through my shoes, and the cinderblock walls were freezing to the touch.

I enjoyed reading. I was an "A" and "B" student in high school, though I think my study habits were peculiar in retrospect. The basement's ambiance left something to be desired, but it was easier to concentrate in the quiet freezing gloom than it was upstairs.

There was only one 60-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling for the right side of the basement, but there was also an old lamp on my grandfather's desk. I had enough light to read by. I would wrap myself up in some dead relative's heavy drapes that had been stored in plastic and hung on the clothesline. They held in body heat really well. I would wrap myself in my long ivory robes, push my glasses up on my nose, and fire up the turntable. It wasn't exactly a record player any more, since the speakers were shot to hell, but I'd put on an album anyway and listen to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young whispering "teach your children well" in a sort of ghost song.

I'd spread out my books and papers, switch on the desk lamp, push my glasses up again, and start reading my homework assignment. Breathing correctly was extremely important. It was necessary to breathe through the nose, especially when exhaling, because the basement was so cold that a breath exhaled through the mouth would fog up my glasses. They would remain fogged unless I took them off, slid them under the drapes and wiped them on my shirt. (I couldn't use the drapes; they didn't absorb moisture and left the glasses smeary). Anyhow, I'd have to open the drapes and let out some of my heat in order to clean the glasses, so I learned to be more careful. As I read, I would tuck one foot under myself to warm it, then switch to the other one. ("...Your children's hell...will slowly go by...")

Writing was harder than reading. Gloves were too clumsy so I had to write bare-handed. I'd write until my fingers got too cold to hold the pen, then I'd tuck the right hand in until it was warm and flexible again. It had a mind of its own -- once it was warm, it didn't really want to go back out there, but like a good soldier it did what it had to do. Reading was easier on it -- it only had to zip outside to turn a page, then scurry back into the warm shelter of the drapes. Forearms and elbows could keep the book open while draped in the material.

I could barely hear the arguing and screaming from my little nook. I'd just tuck the drapes around me nice and snug, crank up the broken record player to maximum volume (barely audible Graham Nash -- "don't you ever ask them why...if they told you, you would cry...") and settle in for as long as I could hold out.

Piece of cake.

Susan Cameron, copyright 2009

Monday, November 16, 2009

The Cassie Chronicles - She's Back

Cassie’s learning a new way to talk to her customers - and to Skinny Bitch. It’s all about love and semantics. Do you feel it?

Vocabulary Test

A few weeks ago we had a seminar for sales and customer service. Three days of a man named Chuck with slicked back hair, pungent cologne and loud ties, telling us how to interact with customers. It seems we’ve been doing things all wrong.

First was the vocabulary lesson. Chuck’s handout showed two columns. Column A listed words we currently use. Column B proposed better choices. I studied my handout.

Column A said “Project”. Column B said “Community”.

“Never say project,” Chuck told us. “The word has no heart. People can’t feel attached to a project. They’re looking for a community to belong to, a comfortable home environment.”

Column A said “Tract”. Column B said “Neighborhood”.

“Same principle here,” Chuck said. “Tract equals a lifeless plot of dirt. Who wants to live in a tract?” He waited for a response and seemed pleased to receive none. “That’s right!” Chuck exclaimed. “It’s a neighborhood people want. In a neighborhood, people look out for one another. Everyone wants that.”

“Are we supposed to use these words in Customer Service, too?” someone asked.

“Oh, yes,” Chuck replied. “This is a whole new company vocabulary. Put Column A behind you. Embrace Column B. Soon you’ll feel the love coming from everyone, buyers and co-workers alike.”

Skinny Bitch was beaming, eating up everything Chuck said. So was Art Baker, the head of customer service. The rest of us squirmed in our straight-backed chairs.

Since then there has been a steady stream of emails from Skinny Bitch reminding us of our new jargon. Replacement price sheets have arrived listing “Home Sites” instead of “Lots”. It’s not Tract 16632, but the Neighborhood of Bella Vista in the Community of Cantata del Mar. A new sign out front announces the Sales Gallery, not the Sales Office, and we don’t sell houses, we offer homes. People don’t go to the Design Center anymore to pick their upgrades, it’s the Design Studio. Oops, they aren’t upgrades, they’re customizing options. Standard items are now included features. And according to my new business card I’m a sales counselor, not a sales representative.

We are all trying very hard to embrace this change, because times are tough in real estate and we’re afraid we’ll be caught using the wrong word and be out on our keesters.

So, Skinny Bitch’s call today surprised me.

“Cassie,” she said, “We’re reviewing your project and need to know if the buyers of Lot 52 in Tract 16632 have gone to the Design Center yet to pick the upgrades for their house.”

Hmmm. Was this a test? I wasn’t taking any chances.

“Let me check the paperwork for my community, Tina,” I said. “Yes, the Wilsons went to the Design Studio on November 3rd to select customizing options for their home on Home Site 52 in our neighborhood, just like I counseled them to do.”

I figure I aced it. And yes, Chuck, I do feel the love.

Copyright 2009, Liz Zuercher

Monday, November 9, 2009

The Autumn of My Life

The last week in October, during which I was on the east coast, was filled with many activities, but my favorite, even including my birthday, was my unplanned viewings of nature’s magnificent seasonal changes. Her comforting, shade giving leaves were changing from a pleasing, vibrant green to spectacular and awe inspiring pinks, reds, oranges, and yellows. I probably shouldn’t have even been allowed to drive because the shapes of the trees and the colors which were often almost translucent or florescent as the chilly fall sun sprinkled her magical light upon this changing spectacle caught my attention like nothing else has. I think I might have even made my passenger nervous from time to time or at least unsure of the age of her driver when I would blurt out with youthful exuberance regarding some tree or other.

The once leaf-filled trees were thinning out leaving bare and exciting looking branches whose various shapes and sizes reached out in multiple directions. It was like a tasteful and alivening strip tease! From one day to the next things were changing. It was very like remembering life with my baby daughter who is now almost twenty-one. When she was an infant and into her toddler years, she was often delightfully different from one day to the next; my experience with these magnificent trees was almost an emotional match as I watched things become slightly different and always more beautiful from day to day until the day I was leaving.

The day I left the east was the day I decided to take pictures, but many of my beautiful trees were now filled with brown, crinkly, and uninteresting foliage, and it hit me…

this was all just a death knoll. I had watched this beautiful, exciting season move from vibrancy to death. The leaves had gone from a beautiful extravaganza of color to dull yellows and browns. Supple, soft leaves splattered with color had become stiff and dull. Squishy, silent paths filled with newly fallen leaves had become walkways that announced one’s coming with a noisy crunching sound. And then I wondered: what judgment am I making about going from one state to the other. Perhaps, I thought, this was just a vibrational shift from one state to another.

Though it might appear that death is upon them, it is temporary. In six or seven months a new cycle will begin, and I would very much enjoy being there to watch as buds begin to appear, and the sexy, exciting branches begin to fill with a new kind of life.

And then I began to think about what this means for us as humans. I wonder why we can’t just live this way? Why is it that old age is considered an unpleasant, hated movement directly from green to crumbly brown? What about all the colorful possibilities and excitement that can exist in the middle from green to brown, supple to crunchy?

I have decided that I want my waning years to be colorful and bright. I want to shimmer and glow and be translucent and extravagant. I want to use the time I have left to explore and learn and grow and develop and sing and dance and play and have more fun than I’ve had, maybe ever. I imagine that a leaf has a wonderful time growing from bud to leaf, but then it just hangs out for the next six or so months; I would be willing to bet that the most fun it has is the change from green to vibrant and exciting colors, and it makes me wonder where the life of the leaf goes just as I wonder where the life of me will go when my body changes from red and pink and yellow and orange to the soft grey stuff that the Nautilus Society will hand back to whomever wants it when I’m done with it.

Time marches on, and rather than regret it, I intend to embrace it, and to find the joy and playfulness in it, and I invite you to enjoy this journey with me.

copyright 2009 by Nancy Grossman

Monday, November 2, 2009

Poetic Play

Today I offer a few poems. The first one is a copy of William Shakespeare's Sonnet 18, followed by my parody of his poem titled, Shall I Compare Thee to a Winter's Day: Or, Just Drop Dead. The final poem is The Artichoke

SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY?: SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare

SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A WINTER’S DAY: OR, JUST DROP DEAD!

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art more chilly, bitter, and extreme.
One look from you, one testy word convey
Such stinging slander one can only scream.
Yet sometimes even wintry days abate
And grant relief from frigid, freezing times,
Bring milder days that do not aggravate
And give one hope for softer, warmer climes.
But thy eternal winter does not fade
Nor lose intensity of harsh ill will.
My only hope’s for death to grant thee shade,
Deliver me from thy infernal swill.

So long as thee can breathe or thee can see,
So long lives this. I hope it torments thee.

Susan Matthewson
Copyright 2009


THE ARTICHOKE

The artichoke has no fashion sense,
Dressed in olive drab splotched with brown,
Like a raw recruit in jungle fatigues.

Camouflage is second nature to the artichoke.
It hides its tender heart and sophisticated tastes
Under a tough-guy exterior,
Thick-skinned, waxy petals and
Thorn-tipped leaves in overlapping layers
Like rows of shark’s teeth.

Overly sensitive to criticism,
The artichoke has a prickly personality,
It’s given to barbed responses
From its sharp-tongued thistles,
Stilletto-like bayonets fixed to the tips
Of its concentric leaves.

The artichoke is sturdy.
A hefty compact globe,
It looks like the accidental offspring
Of an amorous adventure
Between a cactus plant and a pinecone.

Instensely private,
The artichoke is hard to get to know.
It demands patience and pampering,
A thorough manicure
To prune its sharp edges
And a luxuriant lemon-juice massage.
A steam bath eases its defensive posture;
Its uptight petals relax,
Recline like sun worshippers on tilted lounges.
It shows its softer side then,
Becomes vulnerable to touch,
Secure in offering up its secret self,
Its tender-hearted core.

Copyright 2009 Susan Matthewson