For Wooing and Such

Many, many moons ago, when my husband and I were mere children, we would occasionally venture off to Newport, Rhode Island, one of the most delightful spots for wooing on the east coast. We would rent bikes and ride everywhere, being sure to catch a tour of one or two of the "summer cottages," owned once by such people as the Vanderbilts. Anyhow, Newport has always been one of my favorite places for picnics, boat watching, people watching, long walks - you name it.

This summer, we found ourselves needing to head up to Boston once again for another round of doctor visits. Of course, being the person that I am, I felt that a serious round of fun was necessary to balance out the gloom of stupid doctors (oops).

So of course, Newport was first on our agenda. No pics. of me, but you can see pretty husband.

We happened upon the childhood home of Gilbert Stuart, a pre-Revolution portrait artist. Beautiful home, complete with bubbling brook and 2 (like our 2 car garage) water wheels. Stuart is actually responsible for one of our most famous portraits of George Washington. Where might you find that portrait today? ( Anyone? Anyone? Bueller. Bueller.) That's right! On the one dollar bill. Too smart.

More of Stuart's beautiful home. This is also HIS pretty hollyhock.

As a small surprise to Andy, I scheduled a sunset trip on a schooner around Naragansett Bay in Newport. Lovely.

My guy.

Can never get enough of the architecture in Newport. I'll gladly take up residence here.

Sleuthing Genius

I have often considered the question, "What will I be when I grow up?" And, for many years, the answer has eluded me. When I was a child, it was a ballerina, but then I grew to giraffe proportions and nothing there after filled in that dream gap. Oh, I think at one time I considered being a lawyer and becoming a fearless champion for foster children. And then motherhood hit. But I believe I may have finally, at 35, discovered my true life calling. Drum roll, please.

To be Miss Marple.


Yes, the twinkly-eyed, British detective lady. Man, I want to be 70 and be an understated sleuthing genius! Now to some this may seem out of left field, but before you guffaw at my new profession, let me tell you about my prior sleuthing history:

As a child, I had a bit of a reputation in my neighborhood for being convinced that everyone was either mafia related or about to murder or be murdered. My favorite past time was playing "Spy" and I had a handy little stash of old credit cards, small screw drivers and gum (very McGyver ) for all eventualities. Now let's fast forward a couple decades to my more immediate past. Remember the t.v. show "Alias?" Okay, so it lost its way several seasons in, but, for a while there, I was seriously hooked. I wanted the funky earpieces and the ability to speak Russian and Korean without ever batting an eye. I wanted a get-away van and for my roommates to be replaced by evil body doubles. I use to rent an entire season of "Alias" and watch it in one late night sitting. When I finally did go to bed, my body literally shook with all the pent up adrenaline. Poor Andy, half asleep, would simply turn over in bed and say, "You've been watching more "Alias," haven't you? Don't hit me in your sleep."



So now for this summer: Every summer, I allow myself to indulge in my mystery reading fetish - only summertime. Once summer ends, the silliness must end as well. This summer, I read Agatha Christy and, in particular, her delightful invention of Miss Marple. Well, synchronicity can be a lovely thing, because lo, and behold, as I was reading these books, PBS debuted its new Mystery! Miss Marple series. Time sapping nirvana.

Now, obviously, I can not be the undercover agent in "Alias." But, I can turn 70, wear tweeds, live in a cute little cottage, watch every neighbor come and go through my binoculars, and fake a British accent, like Madonna. This seems very plausible. I have 35 more years to work out the details, until then, I'll keep working on my karate/evasion skills. No one expects a 70 year old woman in tweeds to be lethal. They'll never see me coming.

Say Something Real

Words are hard to get away from. Try it sometime. Try escaping words in print - texting, twittering, blogging, e-mails, books, signs, recipes - and then go one further and try to get away from the spoken word, such as t.v., cell phones, etc. Hard, huh? I love words, but sometimes my brain tires. But it tires of a specific kind of communication, the kind used to persuade, to flatter, to bully, to confuse. Oh, how I tire. When my mind starts to feel seeped in toxic verbiage, I grab my slim volumes of poetry.

A good poet uses a minimum amount of choice words to convey a succinct thought, image, emotion. And yet she may allude to layers of meaning, leaving it to the reader to delve in and explore. For me, most of the poets I love provide a space for meditation. They quiet my mind. An image is left for my mind to dwell in for a time. Usually, the image defies the mundane of my life, the laundry piles and oil changes, and encourages me to be observant. So much beauty in a single day that is lost to the routine of our lives!

Mary Oliver is one of my favorites. A Pulitzer poet from Provincetown, Massachusetts, her poetry leans towards simple images of nature; images that are familiar to me and remind me of home. But they also encourage observance. Here is an example of one of my favorite poems authored by dear Mary. Someday, I'll thank her for the gift of sharing all these lovely thoughts; it has made my mind a richer place.

Little Owl Who Lives In The Orchard

His beak could open a bottle,
and his eyes - when he lifts their soft lids -
go on reading something
just beyond your shoulder -
Blake, maybe,
or the Book of Revelation.

Never mind that he eats only
the black-smocked crickets,
and dragonflies if they happen
to be out late over the ponds, and of course
the occasional festal mouse.
Never mind that he is only a memo
from the offices of fear -

it's not size but surge that tells us
when we're in touch with something real,
and when I hear him in the orchard
fluttering
down the little aluminum
ladder of his scream -
when I see his wings open, like two black ferns,

a flurry of palpitations
as cold as sleet
rackets across the marshlands
of my heart,
like a wild spring day.

Somewhere in the universe,
in the gallery of important things,
the babyish owl, ruffled and rakish,
sits on its pedestal.
Dear, dark, dapple of plush!
A message, reads the label,
from that mysterious conglomerate:
Oblivion and Co.
The hooked head stares
from its blouse of dark, feathery lace.
It could be a valentine.

Mary Oliver

I love this part - "it's not size but surge that tells us/when we're in touch with something real." See? These words, so thoughtful, restore a mind blighted by the craziness of modern living. I want my mind to dwell in the "something real."



Dear friend, if you read poetry, who do you especially love?