The Burrow

( Click here and start the music ........ and don't watch the video..... just listen as you read and make up your own pictures..... even if that behavior is sooooo 20th century........) I'm not sure that it was "the seminal event of the 20th century", as one of its producers pronounced it, but it certainly had an impact. 40 years ago and I was a high school graduate heading off to the Ivy League and "Sure," G'ma and Daddooooo said when I asked if Linda and I could go to this big festival in Upstate NY that summer. Then an opportunity to travel abroad came my way, and I'd be gone til the end of August, and that's how I didn't go to Woodstock. Graham Nash said that "if all the people who say they were at Woodstock really had been at Woodstock the planet would have tilted on its axis." But I think he's missing the point. We all imagine we were in Bethel that weekend because just thinking about being there makes us smile. And the mu...

I have a lot of old friends. I'm not talking about people who have known me since I was 12, or who lived on my street when I was in nursery school. I'm talking about people of a certain age who are important in my life. And none of them would take offense at being referred to as old, either. That's part of why I like them. They are all comfortable in their own skin. Harry was a Canadian newspaper editor who snow-birded with Nannie and Grandpaw in Florida. He smoked a pipe, and bought me one when I admired his the weekend TBG and I met him. He'd lead long walks on the beach, all of us smoking and picking up sharks teeth and opining on everything and everyone. He wrote fabulous letters (he would have been an av id blogger, I'm sure) and sent the Big Cuter a porringer as a baby present, complete with a poem extolling the virtues of the infant, the parents and the gift-giver himself. Profanity and profundity were intertwined in his speech; his writing was elegant. A bit...

sorry loyal readers....... today's post was delayed by not checking my work ...I typed PM instead of AM in the scheduler...... I feel bad :-(

Ted Kennedy was a great senator and an effective champion of liberal causes. He also drove off a bridge with a girl in the car while married to another girl who wasn't in the car. And the girl in the car died. Today, his eulogists can't seem to find Chappaquiddik on a map. Michael Jackson was as cute as a button as a 5 year old and made beautiful music as an adult. But would you send your 8 year old to his house for a playdate? No one presenting the hours of tributes last month touched the issue more than briefly. Michael Vick is drop-dead gorgeous and a gifted athlete. His inability to play nicely with other species sent him to a federal penitentiary. Now he's returning to the NFL and the animal abuse story is replayed and rehashed and remarked upon and, at the risk of sounding ridiculous (ouch!) the remonstrations have been overwhelming the football. So I've been thinking about celebrity and scandal. If I believe in the possibility of rehabilitation, then I ought to c...

It rained this week and the plants are so grateful. The crepe myrtle wasn't dead or finished blooming as I'd thought. It was just resting and waiting for the monsoon. I found another Caesalpinia pulcherrima at Lowe's yesterday and for $2.50 I brought it home. It's sitting in the courtyard as I contemplate where to put it. Though it's much too hot to plant it now and be guaranteed success, once again, I was unable to resist the siren's call. The hibiscus which lured me into possessing it has already fallen victim to the curse attached to its new home. I didn't plant it the first day, but rested it atop the pot-which-continues-to-fail. That was the night the rains and the winds refreshed the plants secured in their moorings by soil and roots. Sadly, the poor hibiscus was a victim of my procrastination and the morning found it lying on its side, branches broken, reproaching me with its helplessness. Even though I know it's only a plant, I felt bad. (Poor gr...

It's my favorite meal. I can eat it any time of the day or night. I can eat more of it than you would guess, given my size. And while I might feel full, I will never feel bloated. I have lots of little places in my stomach to hide all the eggs and english muffins and real butter and pancakes and hash browns and biscuits and orange juice and bagels and oatmeal and fresh fruit and skim milk you would care to put in front of me. Right now. TBG and I used to have eating contests late at night at The Rosebud Diner, in those long-gone days when we could eat what we wanted and rely upon our metabolism to do the rest. We always started with breakfast. I had a really good breakfast in L.A. last week. They waved me in as I opened the door and within the welcome was a sit anywhere efficiency I warmed to immediately. The waitress had water on the table before I had opened my menu, and my challah french toast was dusted perfectly with cinnamon and powdered sugar. "Heah ya go, sweetie"...

He starts school today. He thought, studied, tested, planned, researched, applied, considered, decided, registered, funded and relocated. I watched. He owns the entire experience, and I'm bursting with pride at the same time as I am having an awful time not being there and helping. Daddooooo always gave us a new pencil the night before the first day of school. It had the logo of his business, fancy green calligraphy and a point that was sharpened to the teeniest tiniest most perfect tip. It made you want to get to school the next morning just so you could write with it. We got new shoes for the first day of school. Gym shoes were just that - shoes you wore in gym class. They weren't worn in the classroom and if you hadn't grown, last year's model would work just fine. But you definitely got new school shoes, along with a new purse or lunch box depending on your age and gender and a haircut and 3 new outfits. I suppose we out-grew or ripped or otherwise mutilated clothes...

I became a Hot and Spicy Bowler. I bought bowling shoes, though that was more a matter of being too old and too ornery to wear someone else's smelly foot coverings. They are white with blue trim and have very flat soles and nice gushy laces. My fingers only got stuck in one ball (then I realized that I was in the kids' section) and I really liked tossing the swirly red sphere I chose. There weren't any teams, and our conversation was mostly giggling and taunting. The other lanes were peopled by more serious combatants who seemed to be aiming at points we were only pretending to find. I found out that big paper scorecards with little pencils don't exist in the modern bowling alley. Roll the ball and the electronic scorer puts your result up on the overhanging wall for all to see. It was a good thing we didn't really care - otherwise the humiliation would have been overwhelming. Bumpers in the gutters might have been a good idea for us; who says they're only for l...

There's comfortable free fun in the heart of Beverly Hills. Inside the Paley Center for Media are nearly 150,000 media experiences and all you have to do is walk in the door. They asked for a donation, but, this being Beverly Hills and all, my wallet contained only one lonely $50 bill nestled behind my plastic. The volunteer at the desk smiled and waved me inside, with vague instructions about going up the steps. There are lots of steps on several different staircases. I was having a Zero Mostel moment, humming " one long staircase just going up, and one even longer coming down" when I honestly came to "one more going nowhere, just for show". Just a little freaked out, I found the front desk and started all over again. Walter Cronkite had just died, and the tv in the big front window was running loops of him being famous and fatherly. The walls had Hirschfeld drawings and I spent more than a little time feeling nostalgic for Sunday mornings with the Arts...

Beverly Hills is definitely not a walking city. But with 450+ miles of driving ("after 276 miles, bear left...." intoned the GPS lady) and sitting still, we were looking for fresh air and exercise. So, Yes, we wanted to walk to Century City to see our movie. Skeptically, the concierge gave us directions and we set out on our adventure. The air in California smells better than air anywhere else I've lived. There's a fecundity to it, a heft, a whisper of an aroma you just can't catch. Even as we walked down Wilshire Boulevard and crossed to Little Santa Monica, it rose above the passing cars and buses and felt like a gentle hug. I was reveling in the feeling when I felt the Big Cuter picking up the pace and suddenly the green hand welcoming me to the other side with the perfume of adventures to come was replaced by a countdown starting at 10. I'm in reasonably good shape, and we were striding instead of strolling, but I barely got across the intersection in the ...

Blogspot is having issues saving the sapces between my paragraphs. I'm working on it. Please, don't be discouraged by the big box below; I really mean it to be 5 separate paragraphs.

The Big Cuter and I were together for 7 days. Almost immediately, we were in a comfortable rhythm of eating and driving and sleeping and packing and loading and doing it all over again. From the desert Southwest through LA and up the Central Valley to Marin and San Francisco we watched as both the landscape and his life began to change. We saw an overturned mobile home, whose sides had separated from the base and which was spewing pink insulation all over I-10. The two 60-something be-hatted women beside it were an unlikely pair to be driving the shiny F-150 which was attached to the toppled home, but there they were, standing on the side of the road as traffic inched by and sighed for them. Aside from that delay, we had smooth sailing and excellent weather. We ate at In-n-Out Burger which was a treat for his East Coast palate and I failed, once again, to take a proper picture of the Welcome to California sign. People still don't understand how to merge onto 580, and their need t...

Every generation, it seems, has its war. WW I just lost its oldest survivor; Anne Perry's novels make the trenches seem much closer than 100 years past. WW II = The Greatest Generation. Books, tv shows, movies......... ok, Tom Brokaw, I get it already. Korea (a "conflict" not a "war") hangs somewhere between Daddooooo and The Beatles and is so conflated with M*A*S*H and anti-war 60's sentiment that it has lost its connection to a specific time and place for me. When I conjure Korea I go to the DMZ as Earth's last untouched wilderness spawning flora and fauna unseen in generations or to Kim Jong Il singing "Ronrey" . Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan - the discussions always seemed to be more about politics and collateral damage than about troop movements and battles. And then there's Viet Nam. A brother-in-law. A roommate's boyfriend. A fraternity brother. Moose and Stroker. They all served and they were all damaged in ways that seemed diff...

For those of you who have been reading for a while, I offer this new incarnation of The Burrow. For those of you who've been noting the side-bar updates while awaiting a new post, I hope you enjoy the new look. If you're new to the site, Welcome and to the 81 visitors as of this afternoon, thank you!

I'm finishing up G'ma's move and preparing to move the Big Cuter to SF for Law School. Blogging will have to wait until I return from Cali on August 14th. Look for the next post on August 17th, when, once again, I'll be faithfully sharing my musings every weekday at 6am.

The Amster came over this afternoon. She's been on vacation with the boys and a variety of friends and relatives for the last 10 days and her absence has been noted both here and at the gym. I'm known as half of a duo; "Where's your partner in crime" has been the dominant theme on the weight floor this week. We lolled on the noodles in the pool and brought each other up to date on our lives. G'ma's move, what I'd done in the gym, how she liked the books I'd lent her, her divorce papers, Mr. 6's repeating the shark explanation (with all the seriousness the subject deserved) to any and all who would listen.... the mundane and the profound mixing easily together as we reveled in each other's company. Dinner was Costco's Chicken Alfredo - an unhealthy but delicious and easy to heat casserole - and salad and garlic bread and way too much wine. The Big Cuter was keeping up with us, glass for glass, drinking the odd beer he'd purchased at...

You get what you pay for. The " 2 guys and a truck" were exactly that - and they were 6 hours late, too. But G'ma is moved into her pod-castle, and nothing was broken or lost during the move. I probably should've checked the apartment before we left, but G'ma was in the car and it was already 4pm and I was tired. Very very tired. And she doesn't have to vacate the Old Folks Home space until mid-September, so I have time to dispose of the detritus left behind. I'm guessing that architects of pod-castles have determined that residents in Assisted Living spend most of their time in the bedroom. G'ma's is huge, with a picture window framing the mountains and the sunset. All of her bedroom furniture and some of the living room furniture fits comfortably. The living room space is another story entirely. She's watching tv at an angle, there's no getting out onto the patio without moving an arm-chair, and that 27" tv really should be a flat...

I think I'm coming to an epiphany. Obssessing will do that for me, and I certainly have been single-minded in my focus on G'ma's move these last few days. I'm feeling more and more like the pastrami in the rye bread sandwich, with the Big Cuter here on his way to Law School and G'ma there on her way to the pod-castle. They each require my attention. Neither wants to be a burden. Both are happy to let me make most of the decisions except the ones they want to make for themselves. And neither of them lets me know in advance into which category a particular decision might fall. It's a good thing I love them both. G'ma came back from lunch today to an apartment stripped to the bare walls. "I'm moving, right?" And it hit me right then. I have been pouting while putting pictures into boxes and knick-knacks wrapped in flannel nightgowns into dresser drawers and lamp shades on the back seat of my car and you've just reminded me of why th...