When I enter the Asian wing of New York City’s Metropolitan Museum, I am transported to a realm like no other. I turn one way and arrive in a land of bamboo and cranes, or another and travel with philosophers on their long, slow journeys to sit and draw and write and talk.
And suddenly the memory appeared. That taste was the taste of the little piece of madeleine which on Sunday mornings at Combray . . . my aunt Léonie would give me after dipping it in her infusion of tea . . .
Mrs. Schweer? Who the devil is Mrs. Schweer? I turned in desperation to the internet. Lo, there she was! She’d been written up in Life Magazine, and she’d died at age 105 in the very hospital where I was born. I wrote Mom to confirm.
I’ve been troubled by computer problems and an inconstant internet these past few days. I had to remind myself there was a time when such things were not only unnecessary, but not even available. I had to think: what, then, were the things I used to use?
I no longer own a typewriter, so I looked around for a notebook and a pen. I found them foreign objects, and inefficient. I looked for a dictionary, but had only a small paperback that didn’t contain what I required. I wanted confirmation of something I’d been told: that the etymological root of the word “poet” was “maker.” Without my usual tools to search, I was thrown back on my own experience for proof.
Now and then, as a vestige of my egghead education, I’m compelled to attempt a hard book. So when I was shown The Power of the Center: A Study of Composition in the Visual Arts, I thought, why not? At page 44, I set it down by Finnegans Wake, vowing, MacArthur-like, to return to each.
As the shortest, darkest day of the year approaches, the town of Phoenixville PA will light up the night with the 6th annual Firebird Festival on Saturday, December 12th. The highlight of the Festival is the lighting of the Firebird, a 29 foot tall wooden replica of the mythical Phoenix bird. Area artists spent several weekends constructing the bird sculpture that now sits on Bridge Street, a block away from the town’s retail center. When lit, the firebird will become a huge bonfire to illuminate the darkness of December.
There are close to 200 versions of “White Christmas” available on iTunes. And I think I have inadvertently heard most of them on the radio already this year. For the past several years, come mid-November, two radio stations on my car’s preset list change over to “All Christmas Music! All the Time!"
I will confess that I once got sucked into a season of American Idol: the clash of the titans, Ruben and Clay. So when a friend sent a YouTube clip of Susan Boyle on Britain’s Got Talent, I knew Simon Cowell was the judge to watch. And, as a result of that heads-up, I wasn’t caught entirely flat-footed when my mother said she hoped Susan Boyle would get a chance to sing for the Queen.
I have it on good authority that the snowflake has long been up at the crossroads of Fifth Avenue and 57th Street in New York City. Shop windows are already dressed for the coming holidays, and December 2nd is the date for lighting the Rockefeller Center tree.
With “Temporary Visitors,” we paused to consider the turkey’s fate; with “May I Eat as I Please, Please?” we ruminated about French tarts and frozen peas. With “Thanksgiving Prep,” we ended up redecorating the house in anticipation of arriving guests. And with “Thanksgiving in South Africa,” we were reminded that Thanksgiving is not just about the groaning board.
Every Saturday this summer, we visited the local farmer’s market—for fresh vegetables, of course, but also for French tarts so good you knew butter suffused every pastry pore. I waited to have my annual blood-letting until the market closed, for I suspected my cholesterol level might be in doubt. I should have waited until the holidays were over.
My younger sister laid claim to the Beatles first. My idea of popular music back then was Henry Mancini's movie scores and Nino Temple and April Stevens crooning Deep Purple. When Ed Sullivan brought the mop-headed boys into our living room, I more than feigned indifference—I really didn’t see the point.
I can’t stop thinking about turkeys. A few days ago while out driving, I notice the open field next to my children’s former preschool has become home to a large flock of turkeys. A temporary fence encloses 50 or so beautiful white turkeys roaming the pasture. Who knew turkeys could be white, instead of the typical brown versions that adorn grocery store ads in November?
November is when Winter tries to make an early appearance in Southwest Florida. Summer will have none of it. After lulling us into a false sense of security by allowing a few mercifully cool days, Summer sends the usurper packing with a stealth move – an eleventh hour Hurricane.
For those of us who are not, by nature, early risers, it’s unclear whether the end of daylight savings time is friend or foe. In the morning, we make it a point of honor not to rise in the dark. The end of daylight savings time foils our resolve, for daybreak arrives too early and wakes us up.
Our poet-friend came visiting, The New York Review of Books in hand, with Dan Chiasson’s review of the new Selected Poems by Wallace Stevens. We pored over the review, trying to find in poems the things Chiasson said were there to see. I felt I had tiptoed up behind a group of elders, Helen Vendler and Harold Bloom chief among them, peaking over their shoulders for a glimpse of Susanna.
I don’t recall which my dad taught me first – to throw a curveball or hit a curveball. Both skills were necessary for a budding baseball fan like his only daughter. Later lessons, like when to try the hit-and-run and why Richie Ashburn was one of the most underrated boys of summer, cemented my love for the game. By college I was sure I could only fall in love with someone who also understood the infield fly rule.
Something leaps off the wall onto my shoulder and we both jump in terror – the lizard lands lightly and speeds off into the undergrowth, I go back to clearing the steamy jungle that is my garden in summer.
Poughkeepsie lies on the east bank of the Hudson River, midway between New York City and Albany, New York. It's south of the Culinary Institute of America, north of the Dia:Beacon galleries, and west of Millbrook and horse country, all three of which are destinations in New York’s Mid-Hudson Valley. But should anyone go to Poughkeepsie itself?
It’s raining acorns. Last year I thought the sound was squirrels, harrying the leaves. The sounds were scattered though, in space and time. That should have been a clue, but I was too much a novice to connect the acorns strewn across our driveway with the noises in the woods.
