I’ve been listening to the radio play John Prine and his song called Jesus the Missing Years. Humming along, I heard him sing “Cause we all reside down the block, inside at ….23 Skidoo.”

This reminded me of a time when I was about 13 years old and my friends and I were walking home from junior high, clutching our books and little purses in the crook of our arms. I don’t doubt we had on similar mini skirts and ribbed shirts with a little zipper at the neck. We saw the “older boys” across the street and they were yelling stuff at us and then someone said the “f” word. I’m sure they didn’t even know how to execute proper “swearage” but we were shocked and didn’t have any comeback at our disposal.

When I got home I told my mom about this event and the word and I wanted to clarify the meaning. What? She gave me the most useless answer, “You know, I’ve never been quite sure, maybe ask your dad” OK,  so now for a super embarrassing moment for my dad who puts the newspaper up a bit higher and then suddenly disappears into the basement. It’s no wonder I have some gaps of information in my formative years.

But later that evening when everyone was composed, my parents thought my friends and I needed some “clever comebacks” rather then resorting to bad language. So my dad suggested, “Put an egg in your shoe and beat it” and my mom said I could call them “blockhead” just like Charlie Brown. Oh my. But the best of all was my dad said I should call out “23 skidoo”!!!!

Well I filed all the info in the “I’ll never need to remember this” folder and went on with life in junior high.

But along comes John Prine’s song and that phrase and I thought about my dad and I looked up the words. The phrase 23 skidoo first appeared around 1906 and become quite popular in the 20’s and 30’s. It refers to leaving or getting kicked out, “get out while the getting’s good”. Well I think you can see why I never had the opportunity to toss out this risky insult to the bad boys, but I’m gonna try to bring it back now. I had been thinking of a name for my little blue row boat that currently has a trolling motor and goes about 2 mph, and I can’t think of a better homage to my dad than christening my boat the “23 skidoo”

 

 

 

 

The unusual activity of the people on the street might cause a second glance, but there are so many instances that I wouldn’t be able to keep walking forward. I filter them out and continue on my errands. But I slowed my pace at the man pouring water from a plastic water bottle onto a folded newspaper that was creased and shaped like a long, narrow, flat brush. Hmmmmm Then I watched briefly, no eye contact, as he made marks on the vacant storefront window. The dust and grime was thick but as he drew his marks revealed the shiny glass. When I walked home down the same street, he was gone but had left his marks on the glass. Interlocking patterns of lines and curves, that hovered somewhere between graffiti and the Book of Kells.

 

I thought immediately of why I told myself I couldn’t draw or paint in my small city apartment. Not enough room, too messy, can’t leave my work out, lots of excuses when here was the example. Make art, make music, and make friends where you are. Use the tools available, make due, make hay, and put something into the world that wasn’t there before.

 

The next big rain, or a window washer will remove the art. The impermanence is what made this so special. My sense of wonder was heightened by the fact that it will be gone and that is what makes each day so special. The poet Billy Collins reminds us, “Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers”

Still, quiet and slow, the snow…… and also my internet. It will be a February up north where we remember the real reason why we came here. To walk in the snow-filled woods, venture out on the frozen lake and stand in the vast white tundra dotted with a few tip-ups. The bare trees expose sheds, barns and cabins that are no longer shy in the winter landscape.

But a bit of internet would be so lovely as we sit by the fire and long for a smidgen of Netflix. The public library has DVD’s that are little treasures to me on a winter night, watching unheard of and forgotten movies.   I’m happy I took the time to seek them out. That is what this is about. Time. Slow. Spinning wheels. Can I do it? I’m trying.

We are too far from the road for the modern world to find us. We can get a sad little signal, and we have strangely adjusted and rejoiced in brief moments of reruns of West Wing.

We are baking Icelandic brown bread that is in a slow oven for 8 hours. This is symbolic of our day. The sun dips slowly behind the old farmhouse and the shadows are long on the lake, it is light until almost 5:30 and I will celebrate that small victory that signifies a winter ebbing away. But also a winter cherished for all the snowshoe tracks I leave in the woods and around the island. To stand on the ice in the big part of the lake and listen to the quiet is a special kind of slow.

 

“THE WAIT: It is life in slow motion,
it’s the heart in reverse,
it’s a hope-and-a-half:
too much and too little at once.

It’s a train that suddenly
stops with no station around,
and we can hear the cricket,
and, leaning out the carriage

door, we vainly contemplate
a wind we feel that stirs
the blooming meadows, the meadows
made imaginary by this stop.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke

 

A mere two stops south on the subway the train comes above ground and we arrive in Chicago’s Chinatown. We were heading to the Chinatown branch of the Chicago Public Library for a Tai Chi class.

We made our way to the back row and as we arranged ourselves our teacher appeared in yellow silk pajamas. He was a small man and spoke no English. We were going to have to figure this out on our own. Class began with some warm ups and everyone else knew what to do, so we followed along.

Our teacher then turned on the lovely, soothing music and our classmates all began slow beautiful movements. What we did was flow along as if we knew what to do. At a pause in the music our fellow students insisted we move to the middle (!) so when everyone turned to the back we would have people to watch. I guess we didn’t fool anyone with our “carrying the moon” movement. My right and left-brain were working overtime as I tried to move my arms for “wave hands in the clouds” or step out low for “snake creeps through the grass”.

The benefits I had heard of came to me from the calm music, the concentration the movements require, the camaraderie of helpful classmates, and the smiling teacher. On a cold, grey morning in that weird week between Christmas and New Year I felt better, gently challenged and hopeful for a coming year.

 

 

To the what?

Every Thanksgiving weekend for about 10 years we packed up the car and headed to a different city for the Oireachtas. In the Irish language it means “assembly” but for Irish Dancers it is the championships of Irish Dance. This gathering is an honor for a dancer and the competition is fierce. Boys and girls represent their dance schools as well as themselves individually. Our daughters were Trinity Irish Dancers and this sport/art form was now woven into our family life.

The Oireachtas was a special gathering of families from around the mid-west and we had a big Thanksgiving dinner together in whatever hotel we were all staying at. One year the dance teacher came dressed as a giant turkey. At night in our hotel room each dancer had a little tiny packet of glitter to sprinkle on their shoes. I’m sure these hotels are still vacuuming.

Each girl had a solo routine as well as a set dance, which was a traditional set of steps put to well known tune, “Hurry the Jug, Planxty Drury, Miss Brown’s Fancy and the Blackthorn Stick” to name a few.

Dance Dramas done with large teams of dancers were amazing spectacles of Irish history that are danced to traditional music. There are celli’s, that are similar to a square dance, with intricate hand and footwork. There are dances called a 16 hand, with 16 dancers weaving in and out telling a story of the Galway Races or the High Cauled Cap.

The night before the competition hair was curled, shoes were shined and last minute rehearsals were held. Corrections were made, and feedback was direct. Irish dancing was not for the faint of heart. Dances were run until every move was perfect.

It was a family life style, just like soccer or hockey. It was so much fun to follow our girls through all the activities and sports they took on and we learned that each had it’s own culture and traditions. What I saw my girls learn, besides dancing, was that working hard was a good thing –it was about the doing, the friends and the accomplishment.

 

The acorns are raining down on metal docks and making a ricochet sound across the bay. I look up and am sure someone must be there throwing them with such force, but there is no one in the trees. They crunch under our boots with a satisfying sound that you imagine your foot is the pestle to the earth’s mortar.

The million shades of yellow ochre create a perfect backdrop for black vertical tree trunks. The woods are wet from rain and early snow, the soybean field bows under the first flurries and the sumac wear a white veil. It is a time of transition and we all adapt.

The deer that we knew are now strangers in different color coats. The mouse begs to come in. The jet-black loons have left their gray-feathered children behind. Slow moths circle our porch light and the shoreline is boatless. It is so quiet. No motors, no people.

Colorful beach towels in the linen closet and the swim rafts have lost their shape. We look for socks that have been pushed to the back of the drawer and tug on boots that feel tight on summer feet. And off we go again down an old yet new path.

Painting by Fairfield Porter “Autumn Morning”

A few years back I could barely walk down the hall of my school. An amazing surgeon, diligent physical therapy, and a bit of titanium, and I am walking just like the girl who walked to school almost every day of her life.

I have met the best people by just walking. My walking group is sometimes as large at 60 women. I cherish my time with them and time spent outside in the north woods. We make a million small connections as we walk and talk. Together we have traveled some incredible wooded paths, old railroad beds, ski trails and rolling country roads.

When I’m walking on my own with my headphones on, it is hard for me to just walk; I have a few random dance steps I throw in. You try just walking while listening to Motown. Without music a solo walk can be contemplative and often the best place for thinking through life’s challenges. It is magic.

Many pilgrims have walked the entire length of the Camino de Santiago, which begins in France and ends at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Spain. This walk could take upwards of 35 days and many people follow this as a spiritual path or as a retreat for spiritual growth. If you haven’t watched the move “The Way” I highly recommend it.

Can we unlock life’s mysteries by walking? Can we discover who we are? Where we are going? And how to live our life? Spanish poet Antonio Machado writes that it is you that must walk the road, and it is the journey that matters.

“Wanderer, your footsteps are the road, and nothing more; wanderer, there is no road, the road is made by walking. By walking one makes the road, and upon glancing behind one sees the path that never will be trod again. Wanderer, there is no road — Only wakes upon the sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We went to see Michael Perry and the Long Beds last night, and in the band was an amazing guitarist, a woman who could wail on a shiny, black electric guitar. This image flooded me with a memory of my own experience with the guitar.

I fancied my self as part Joni Mitchell part Simon and Garfunkel and a bit of James Taylor. It might have been even slightly more realistic if I could have played the guitar. I asked my parents for guitar lessons and a guitar. They agreed on the lessons but I was to borrow a guitar until I could prove I was going to practice and be worthy of the purchase of a guitar. My mom arranged for me to borrow a guitar from a neighbor. I went happily down the street to pick up my guitar and head to my first lesson.

The Clark’s, a family with 3 boys, handed me a shiny, black, Chuck Berry- style electric guitar. This guitar was bigger than me. My hopes of strumming on a blonde wood, acoustic guitar fell away and now came the horror of walking through town with this huge, un-cased shiny black, guitar.

I went to my lesson in a very un-cool little room above some stores in our small town. My teacher gave me a workbook, and some notes and chords to practice. The metal strings had cut into my fingers and I could not picture practicing being the mellow experience I had hoped for. The only remotely popular song he had was “Sloop John B”, so that gives you an idea.

To the rescue came my grandparents at Christmas with the blonde wood guitar and case that I proudly carried through town to my lessons. I learned a few songs and played with my friends.

Fast-forward 40 years……………. I’m scavenging through my basement to find old items to set up an interesting still life for my high school art classroom and there was the guitar. It had been in the attic and basement and in too many temperature changes and so the strings were hanging loose. I brought it to school and there it lived out its’ days. It was the subject of many drawings and paintings and that made me so happy.

Last spring I went back to substitute in my old classroom and saw that grey cardboard guitar case and could not believe that it was mine, so I looked inside and on a piece of tape, the kind that comes out of one of those little portable punch machines was my name. It was a reminder of my groovy days and my macramé guitar strap, flowy gauze blouses, bell-bottom jeans, and platform shoes.

I give many thanks to my family for not being too hard on me for my lack of success, but I can still play a mean C, D, G, E and even F.

 

 

 

 

 

 

………….Could I not rush off, would I put aside my plan and could I just hang out? There was nothing my mom loved more than to have her two adult daughters linger after breakfast around her kitchen table. She would still scold us not to lean to heavily on the leaves of the round, worn, wooden table, but when we did make time to linger on  cool summer mornings, all still in our nighties, it made her so happy and us too. In thinking back I hope we indulged her enough.

Our new cabin is just down the long driveway leading from my parents’ house. It is an old Victorian farmhouse that my sister and I inherited along with its’ resident fox, bats in the attic, and a few mice. I feel the ghosts of many long gone relatives, but especially those of my parents. I want them to come out of the door and ring the bell as they did for so many summers when we’d arrive from Chicago. The kids would tumble out and run around the yard like colts. My dad always had cold Leinies for Kevin and we’d head inside to quickly put on our bathing suits and fit in a cooling swim before dinner.

My mom didn’t like that slap of the screen door, but I loved that sound. It said “summer” and so many other things. The mother-daughter relationship is complicated and something I can’t quite put my finger on. My mom and I fought like cats and dogs over my choice of clothing, harmless fads that ranged from go-go boots and hot pants to overalls, clogs and bra-less college years. On the other hand my mom and I were quite similar, with a silly streak that runs deep. We loved similar books, art and music and we never missed an episode of Laugh-In or a Masterpiece Theatre series.

I’ve been listing to a Carly Simon song and it made me think of my mom and how I wished we could sit on the screen porch together with an iced tea and talk about all of my friends, and hers and what everyone is doing. She’d be so amazed and proud of her grandchildren and her little great-grandson.

A bit late for Mother’s Day, but I miss you on all the days. 

“I’ll wait no more for you like a daughter,
that part of our life together is over
but I will wait for you, forever
like a river”

 

Song by Carly Simon 

Painting by Joaquin Sorolla

 

 

Meet George Jetson,

His boy Elroy,

Daughter Judy

Jane his wife.

Driving through Palm Springs, California you cannot help but hum this tune, the theme song from the Jetsons. The Jetsons was my favorite cartoon in 1962 and the style of their home, furniture and clothes were popping up everywhere in Palm Springs. It was heavenly, a mid-century modern paradise.

The friends I was with also would all know this song, as I’m sure we watched it together. I was in Palm Springs with five girls who all went to kindergarten together.

The planning of our trip had taken over a year and our dreams came true. We told everyone we met our story and asked them to take our picture everywhere we went. We will all turn 65 this year and we toasted 60 years of friendship with pink champagne.

Having gone our separate ways after high school we went on to college, jobs, marriage, and kids, all the while keeping in touch via lunch, cards and phone calls, but finally we had time to really reconnect.

I remember watching a movie about J. M Barrie the author of Peter Pan with my daughter Emma. Mrs. Darling talks about different kinds of bravery and how when we make sacrifices for our families, we often put away our dreams. Emma asked me if I had done that and if I had, I should get them back out. This was such a sweet acknowledgement of what parents do while they are raising their family. So a trip to Palm Springs was my way of taking Emma’s advice.

I will never forgot those walks to school, sleepovers, riding bikes and playing we were the Beatles. We reminisced and our conversations were easy and almost like no time had passed. We had been imprinted with the indelible ink of childhood friendships

We had done it together, wearing paisley mini skirts, we conformed, we experimented, we rebelled and we grew up.