Category: Memories

Tidy Tidbits: Fall Memories, Reading & Viewing

JWF 3 Comments

BACK TO SCHOOL

It’s September, the first day of fall is upon us, and everyone who’s going back to school is there by now.  I always liked going to school and happily anticipated the end of summer, the cooler days of autumn, and the challenge of new subjects, new teachers, and sometimes even new friends.  And while it’s still summery here in Florida, the official change of season reminds me of some incidents from elementary school.

  • In grade school, going back to school meant the purchase of a new dress, at first just for me and then later for me and my two sisters. These dresses had full skirts, short sleeves, and were almost always plaid.  I recall fondly one green and red plaid with a separate red belt that I thought was particularly smart.
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  • From kindergarten through second grade, I walked several blocks to school. It seemed like a longer walk than I’m sure it was.  One morning I arrived to find the school door tightly locked.  I knocked vigorously several times and then in tears walked back home.  My folks had not realized it was a school holiday.
  • My father’s job called for him to be transferred to another town about an hour away. Before I left for school one morning, my mother told me the name of my new school was “Seward,” and that I should tell that to my teacher.  I don’t know why she didn’t write down the name, but she spelled it for me and said she was sure I could remember it.  All the way along the sidewalk, I went, chanting, “s, e, w, a, r, d, s, e w, a, r d,” until I reached my classroom.  I have no recollection of actually giving Miss Rosa the name nor did I at that point have any idea who William H. Seward was.
  • Even when I went there, Seward School was an old building (constructed in 1911 and long since torn down) with a basement that was dank and dim and a bit scary.  Mr. and Mrs. Steimle, older German immigrants, were the school janitors.  Always cordial to the students, they assisted with any drills.  When we had air raid drills, a regular occurrence in those years, we had to wind our way down the stairs to that dusty basement and kneel along the wall with our heads down.  I don’t think most of us realized what we were preparing for or the potential seriousness if such a drill were for real.  It was just another drill, like a fire drill, only we stayed inside instead of exiting the building.
  • Seward School had classes through 6th grade before we moved on to one of the three high schools in town. Graduation from 6th grade was a big deal—white shirts and ties for the boys and for the girls fancy dresses, and probably stockings.  For many of us, this was the first time we had worn stockings.  In this pre-pantyhose era, that also meant garters to hold them up.
  • Sixth grade is also when I had my first male classroom teacher. Mr. Loretan was a young good-looking, capable teacher—liked by all of us, especially the girls!

READING:  SIBLING SQUABBLES

The Nest by Cynthia D’Aprix Sweeney

cynthiasweeney

I received this book, on the bestseller list for some weeks, as part of my First Editions book club membership.  After aging it for a few months, I brought it out of my stack and read it over several days.  The four Plumb siblings, Leo, Melody, Jack, and Beatrice, are somewhat at war with each other over the money they are due to inherit from a family trust in several months.  The problem is that their mother has given or loaned a significant portion of said “nest” to Leo, who had a car accident while drunk and caused serious injury to his passenger.  Each of the siblings has financial issues of his or her own and has been counting on the money.  They collectively gang up on Leo to make him do the right thing, but aren’t sure he will.

Often novels about dysfunctional families, and this lot qualifies, are downers and downright depressing.  This novel is actually frothy and fun, despite everyone’s problems.  I even found myself liking some of them!  This reflection of Leo’s on life after sobriety captures his personality:

However he parsed it, his future in New York could only be a diluted reflection of his before, a whiter shade of pale.  Evenness defined his present, the by-product, he often thought, of small minds and safe living.  In his new after, there would be no ups and downs, no private jets…or walking home from a riotous evening under a pinkening sky.  It wasn’t luxury he missed, it was surprise.  The things money could buy weren’t the reward; the reward was to feel lifted about everyone else, to get a look at the other side of the fence where the grass was rarely greener but always different and what he loved was the contrast—and the choice.

For some insight into this first-time novelist, check out this brief interview in the LA Times.

VIEWING

Thanks to my friend Mary for recommending the Netflix series, The Time in Between, which I just finished watching.  Set in Morocco, Madrid, and Lisbon between 1937 and 1941, it’s the story of a talented young Spanish dressmaker who ends up being a spy for the British and infiltrating the German community in Spain.  It’s subtitled and the pace, compared to most American productions, is measured—at least until the last few episodes when tension builds and events race to the climax.  Adriana Ugarte as Siri is beautiful and the clothes she creates are gorgeous, part of the fun of watching this series.  The novel of the same name on which it is based was written by Maria Duenas.

Notes:  Header art: www.clipartix.com; plaid dress:  www.etsy.com; Sweeney’s photo from Harper Collins author web page

 

Moments in June

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SUMMER RED

June in upstate New York means fresh locally grown strawberries.  We lived in a city, a small one that is still the county seat, but it was really more of a small town—surrounded by farm land.  My mother never let me forget that when I returned home one time, perhaps from college, I commented on how rural the area was.  In years to come, she’d kid me about “rural” Auburn.

Auburn is also only a few miles from Owasco Lake.  Owasco is one of the smaller Finger Lakes, but yet, it is 11 miles long, cold and deep (177 feet deep at its maximum).  You hoped by the 4th of July that not only would the sweet corn by ripe for picking, but that the lake would be warm enough to swim.  Warm enough here meant something a tad above frigid.

The region was dotted with farm stands and everyone had his personal favorite.  Come June, my father would frequently stop at one on his way home from work .  He’d arrive, through the front door, smiling and proudly bearing the first quarts of local berries.  Dessert would be strawberry shortcake, and that was my mother’s sign to quickly whip up a batch of biscuits.  In our house, shortcake meant biscuits, none of those wimpy, sweet patty shells for this family, but freshly baked, sometimes still warm, flaky biscuits.

One of us girls, or “you girls,” as my mother would say, would be assigned the task of hulling the berries.  At dessert time the biscuits were split down the middle, perhaps a pat of butter added, and then the berries, sliced and slightly crushed, would be ladled on top.  The combo of the sweet berries juicy on the pastry was the essence of early summer.  On rare occasions a dollop of vanilla ice cream added a bit of indulgence.

Now we can buy strawberries all year round and live not far from Florida’s commercial strawberry fields.  Strawberries are no longer special, but my memory of the first strawberry shortcake of the season is.

NOVEL OF THE WEEK

Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi.  How do you tell the story of the subjugation of blacks in 18th and 19th century Ghana midst centuries of tribal warfare?  How do you trace the history of slavery in America from Africa to the American South to the present day?  Born in Ghana and raised in Huntsville, Alabama, Ms. Gyasi has created a rich and memorable novel that only broadly sketches the big picture and instead focuses on the six succeeding generations of two half-sisters both born in Ghana.

One branch of the family stays in Ghana for many years before coming to the U.S.; the other is enslaved on Southern plantations through the Civil War and then becomes part of the Great Migration to Harlem.  Each chapter in this novel is about a different individual at a certain point in time; each is an imperfect human, seeking to craft a life.  Gyasi is sympathetic, never judgmental, and the result is that frailty, love, hate, conviction, and strength are interwoven throughout.  This is a remarkable first novel!  For more about how she approached writing it, here’s her conversation with Slate.

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RAINBOW COLORS

This weekend is the annual date for several large Gay Pride parades—New York and San Francisco to name two.  In 1978, I attended the American Library Association conference in San Francisco.  This was not the first ALA I had attended, but it was the first time I visited that city.  ALA’s summer conference was typically over the last weekend in June and so it overlapped with SF’s Gay Pride parade on Sunday.  Going to and from meetings at various conference hotels, it was almost impossible to avoid crossing Market Street and encountering the parade.  Sheltered and probably somewhat naïve, I was stunned, transfixed, and a bit shocked by this boisterous and colorful display of costumes and flesh.  It was my first experience of that aspect of gay culture.

Fast forward twenty or more years.  The Chief Penguin and I were part of the diverse sidewalk throng enjoying New York’s Gay Pride parade and soaking up the vibe.  Advance another few years and we ended up living in San Francisco.  SF’s inclusiveness was apparent on many fronts and we were proud of our own very diverse workplace, the California Academy of Sciences.  We have seen great progress with more legal protection from gender discrimination, greater acceptance of gays, and the right to marry whomever you choose.  And yet, we had the tragedy in Orlando.

The American Library Association, an organization that has advocated for library services here and around the world since 1876 with a core value of social responsibility and the public good, is this year holding its summer conference in Orlando.  That seems very right.

 

Header photo:  2013-11-Fresh-Strawberry-Fruit-Wallpaper.jpg

Tidy Tidbits: Childhood Memories

JWF 1 Comment

CURRENT READING

Hold Still:  A Memoir with Photographs by Sally Mann

I am one of those individuals who was offended by Mann’s photos of her children when they first appeared about twenty years ago.  I felt she had exploited them and that the photos were totally inappropriate for public viewing.  Yet, on the recommendation of a very good friend (another avid reader), I decided to try her memoir.  I’ve been dipping into it slowly and am beginning to have more appreciation for her as a person and some greater understanding of the aims of her work.  Close in age to me, she was a wild child, unconventional, very much a rule breaker, and not someone with whom I would have bonded.  That said, her connectedness to her southern roots (Lexington, Virginia) and her strong passion for this particular geography along with her explanations of her craft are keeping me engaged.   So I will continue with her life’s journey.  Reading this goes along with my strong interest in the art of the memoir.

A Master Plan for Rescue by Janis Cooke Newman

I think that creating a child protagonist who is believable and rings true is a difficult assignment for many fiction writers.  Emma Donoghue did it wonderfully in her novel, Room, and Ms. Newman, a San Francisco based-writer and mother of a son, does it here in this recent novel set in New York City in 1942.  At almost 12 years old, Jack is a dreamy, unpopular kid (regularly bullied) who has an active, even overactive, imagination.  He is captivated by the radio (a Silvertone monstrosity) and the dramas its programs bring into his living room.  On the cusp of adolescence, he is extremely close to, almost worshipful, of his father.  It is this relationship and the growing publicity about the war emphasizing the possibility of enemies among us that drive how Jack plays out his grief over a death in the family.

HOUSE KEY

With retirement, the number of essential keys on my key ring has dwindled.  No more keys for work (three or four), no traditional car key, just a front door key and a mailbox key.  This got me to thinking about the role of certain keys as markers of one’s stage in life.  Certainly, the first significant key I acquired was a house key.  My parents planned and built a new house in the 1960’s and it provided more space for our family of six in an attractive neighborhood.  This key enabled me to come and go alone and reflected both a measure of independence from my parents and my sense of ownership of this house.  I returned home here during college and, after I married, my husband and I, and later our son and his family, visited and stayed in this house at holiday time and in the summer. If no one was home, there was another house key hidden for family members to find, but it was comforting and familiar to have my own.

The key is plain and easy to overlook, very thin gray metal made for a simple non-deadbolt lock, a lock that has remained the same for more than 50 years.  I still have that key on my key ring.  My parents are both gone, the house is empty and up for sale, and the key will not be used again.  But still I have it and I will probably keep it.

Along the way, I’ve had other keys—a series of car keys, but not that many as we tended to keep our cars forever (where forever could be as long as 18 years), and car keys now are fobs; office and file cabinet keys; and several other house keys.  But none, I would say, carries the emotional weight of this unprepossessing little key.  It has become a talisman—a pleasant reminder of the transition to adulthood, a last link to a home full of memories of father, mother, sisters and brother, a connection to a past in a small town.

 

Header photo:  Orchids at Marie Selby Botanical Gardens, Sarasota (copyright JWFarrington)