Summer Time

Believe it or not, I am full of ambition to write and photograph and blather on. Just no time. I have been taking pictures again. Here are a couple for summer.

Oh, here's a little odd bit of writing for you too, in case you don't have enough to read on your computer:


Welcome to my Déjà vu.

(I just had to write this down the other day. I have thought about it, once in a while, for years. Don’t ask me why because I really have no idea).

I see in my mind’s eye a small house, badly built, higgledy piggeldy, alone on the top of a hill. The walls are made from various materials - salvaged bits, odds and ends. Where it is wood, it is brown but sun-bleached. Where it is stucco, dirt has collected in the swirls meant to be decorative. The roof is flat, though it slopes to the back.

A too-big window a picture window fills nearly one entire wall. There is a bulkhead at the back of the house, like a little shed with steps to the cellar. Though the foundation of the house is hidden by the grass and bushes, the lines of the house are straight and true, suggesting the foundation is sound. There is an old iron water pump nearly lost in the grass not far from the front door.

It is a fall day, but with humid summer air and a cloudy gray and white sky.
The front of the house, where there is a door at the top of three concrete steps, looks down the hill at nothing but hill and grass. The grass is uniformly long and gone brown, like straw. The wheaty tops of the grass bob in the wind, up and down, as the breeze, which is sometimes builds to a wind, rises and falls.

The front door is wood and was meant for an interior door. It has been damaged by the weather. Veneer is popping off all four of the panels. The steps are chipped and in places the aggregate shows through. There is a bald spot in the brown grass at the bottom of the last step.

There is only the house at the top of the hill, with the grass, and a few overgrown bushes around it. A few blowsy pink blooms still cling to the bushes.

?

As far as I know I have never seen this place, but I get a feeling about it sometimes, like a place I knew in some other time... Do we all have these places?

One more summery (weird) picture in keeping with the above and out:

Hon, Where's My Terry Cloth Romper?

"Oh God! I meant to throw that out before you could wear it again."

It serves James Bond right that he has been immortalized wearing this garment. Not that I don't love Bond, and all, but I mean - really. Shack and I settled down in front of Goldfinger this morning (Saturday, and all). The scene where Bond zippers himself into this attractive robins-egg blue one-piecer, with full wedgie functionality, opens with Bond having sun tan lotion applied to his back by one "Dink" (a girl, despite the name). In case you've forgotten, Dink is run off when Bond's CIA contact, Felix, appears poolside. Run off with a slap on her bottom before her blond head gets all confused by the "man talk" that Bond tells her is imminent.

I actually stopped at this point to explain to Shack, who was watching with great interest, that this kind of thing is not done anymore. "Why?" He looked very confused. I think my explanation about the 60s being a long time ago, the evils of sexism etc. didn't clear things up for him. But then there's Bond's "towelling playsuit" and that's some consolation.

Some dedicated fashion blogger has a long explanation about this here, and a few more pictures of Sean Connery having been steered very wrong, sartorially speaking. FYI.

North To Alaska

For those who have been following along, you'll no doubt be relieved to know that we have finally made a decision about where to go for Shackleton's big trip. (When the Understudy was 10, I took her to London and a little bit around the Island. The deal was that when Shack got to be 10 he would get to choose where he went.) I guess the title of the post pretty much says it all.

I am sort of embarrassed about going on a cruise. Not exactly a wilderness adventure - though the boat stops in five different places where we can all race off and stimulate the local economy. Still, we will get to see Alaska, if it isn't raining too much. I even bought new hiking poles for Mendenhall Glacier and Mount Ranier (where we will visit on a day trip from Seattle after the cruise wraps up.)
I also have to admit that the idea of being on a floating hotel, where I don't have to figure out any foreign currency or train tables etc. has a certain attraction. OK. I'm weak. I said it.

Shackleton is sort of excited but with the vast stretch of time before we actually leave (mid July) it doesn't seem to be much occupying his thoughts. I am sure the Internet will be thrilled to see our pictures. Have no fear, they will be shared.

Government Work

I went to the cafeteria this morning in the government complex where I work (the former state mental hospital and poor farm - poorly repurposed as office space for its current population of bureaucrats (i.e., yours truly). This is the hallway at the top of the stairwell that leads to the cafeteria:



If scenes like this didn't make the former occupants of the state hospital want to kill themselves, I don't know what would. It briefly made me feel suicidal.

Well. Now I need a lift. Probably you do too.

Here's a link to a very funny bit of business that the Understudy passed onto me from her cheerful tumblr blog. It will make your day if you click through or your money back. FYI: music will start to play when you click through so if you are looking around the internet at work, you might want to turn your volume down. Also, the Understudy is 13 so when people go to her blog she forces them to work with a cursor that is shaped like bow and trails glitter along the screen. Have fun!

"Confirmed in Antwerp..."

I just read that phrase out on the internet, at the beginning of some longer comment to a blog post. The comment had nothing to do, as near as I could tell, with the content of the post. Maybe it was a kind of artistic statement? Maybe misfiled? Whatever. I just loved it, though - hinting as it does at some important, busy life - some artist. some contemporary eminence. A long way from where I sit, alas, and probably not a phrase likely ever to be said following my name - but there it is. Isn't it poetry?

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In other non news, I have been thinking for a while about those great pop-culture metaphorical places: "Chinatown" (I mean in the sense it was used in the movie of the same name - I know that there are many literal Chinatowns), Margaritaville, Hotel California. What would I call the metaphorical place I currently inhabit? How about you? Looking forward to getting a couple of answers here.

Mirror, Mirror... and a Junk-Free Memorial Day Weekend

Is anyone else out there bothered by the high reflectivity of his or her computer screen? I mean, until the LCDS light up on my laptop it's as bad as having a great horking mirror 18 inches from my face? (Mirror avoidance = peace).

Also I just "invested" in a iPod touch and was dismayed to see it produces the same effect. I was waiting for Shackleton to return from a field trip yesterday and decided to use my new iPod to watch an episode of The Office on Netflix. If I refocused my eyeballs at any given moment, there was my own face, hovering ghostly and malevolently over a tiny Steve Carrell.

I sense a marketing opportunity here... Is there some film that we could put on these screens so they wouldn't force us to look at ourselves looking at our screens?

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In other news, my name is Woolfoot and I am junkaholic. It's been two months since my last auction or visit to an antique store.

As you know, it's Memorial Day weekend and I live in Vermont, where almost everyone is white. In case you haven't heard, White People in general, especially rural white people like most of us here in Vermont, like to pull their stuff out of their houses and onto their lawns and try to sell it during the summer. They like to get off to a big start on Memorial Day weekend.

I drove 60 miles today around our little state and, hand to heart, I saw a yard sale at least every two miles on average. I did not stop at one.

OK, OK, I'll admit I walked into the auction house where I have spent so much time and money in my past life. (They had a sign by the road that said "flea market.") I came late - people were packing - and I left immediately. Really, my stopping in was just a little auld lang syne (I own a blue-and-white jumbo coffee mug from about 1890 with the words to auld lang syne transferprinted on the saucer - FYI). Temptation had vanished. The fever has passed. Why?

I have been wondering about that myself and I have a few ideas.

First, my daydream of opening an antique store ran aground when I set up an antiques booth early last fall at a big event. That booth was work! Miserable, hard work. Not fun, as I had vaguely hoped, nor profitable, as I had argued with Whusband. Also, I just looked around my house one day, and my studio, and the outbuildings on our farm and saw that every available nook, cranny and bit of wall space was occupied - not to mention the drawers and cupboards and I thought: enough! Finally, if you have been following along, you know I pulled together a "Blook" this spring, that is a book made up of old blog posts -- and there I saw how much time and energy I have spent in the last few years accumulating things I don't need and really can't afford and then writing about it. Again, why?

OK, collecting was fun. While it lasted. But I think I am over it. I have a pin, one shaped like and anchor and covered with rhinestones, (from a box lot last year at auction last year). I think I will put it on in recognition of my new-found sobriety.

Adele in Montreal (and a Little Life Lesson for Your Hostess)

I had bought tickets to the Montreal Adele show in February at the pre-sale as soon as they were made available to the Adele nerds. However, when the day for the show arrived last week -- a Monday which was really inconvenient for a middle aged woman with two half grown kids and a job to be at on Monday and again on Tuesday morning -- I almost balked. I had also bought a ticket for my friend "Splenda" whom I successfully coerced her into going to the last Adele show in Montreal a couple of years ago and a good time was had by all.

Well, now both of us are just that much older and it was raining and the kids had evening activities and blah blah. I sat in my office that Monday at lunchtime, as the time for my departure approached thinking, Where the hell am I going to park? (Montreal has the most confusing parking signs in the world and I had never been to the venue) and it's such a hassle going over the border these days - the friendly, easy days of back and forth to Canada a distant memory (at least some of the time) maybe I should just bail.

Then I picked myself up and said "that is ass." (As is, stupid, ridiculous old codger thinking). I got my umbrella (the good kind of old codger thinking) and left the building.

The drive up was in its rainy spring way, lovely. The border, a breeze (I think Adele's tour had come through the same point earlier in the day - no questions about my plans to attend her concert). I had memorized a Google map of the location of the theater and I pulled my minivan into the space in front of Adele's tour bus at around 4:30 PM. No problem. I figured out the parking meter - which can be paid with a credit card. (Montreal is forward thinking kind of city. I love that).

I walked around the corner and picked up tickets at will-call. It was three hours 'til the doors would open, but already a small crowd was huddling at the door. The venue was a standing-room-only deal - an old movie theatre where all the floor seats had been removed. This meant that the first ones in would get to stand right up by the stage. Fan that I am, three hours in the rain and wind (it was about 55 degrees) was too much for me.

Splenda called my cell to relate her plans for getting her kids to the places that they had to go and for working her way downtown. Clearly, she was pressed. I told her not to worry about me. I have always wanted to try the uniquely Quebec fast food place, La Belle Province, and there was one next to the theater. I ate a gyro (they love Greek food in Montreal) and a pile of delicious French fries (greasy with the sweetish ketchup favored by French Canadians) and read the weekly arts paper. By the time I had worked my way to the not-so-veiled ads for prostitutes at the back of the paper, I had managed to occupy myself that way til about 6. I thought I would walk around the city a little but as I passed the theater, the line had gotten much longer, snaking around the corner. I had thought that, rain and wind or no, I had better get in it.

Two guys were walking up and down the line trying to buy tickets. They had been going for about $300 a piece on Ebay the week before. No one was selling. Least of all, me. Splenda called and said she was taking her son to his diving class and then her daughter was going to her mother's house. It was rush hour. She would be a while. I asked her to top off my meter when she got downtown. I was in line and not moving. She couldn't believe it. "It's still nearly two hours til they open the doors!" She felt bad. Twenty minutes later she called again and gave me carte blanche to sell her ticket. I told her I really didn't want to do that - I wanted her to come, but I also didn't want to twist her arm. We went back and forth on this for a few minutes - she said she wanted to come but she didn't want to cost me a payday. I stood my ground. She was coming.

Splenda arrived, with parking meter money in hand, about 7 PM. (She told me that if you have the number of your parking space you can top up you meter at any of the pay stations around town). She also said that her next door neighbors who are also two of her favorite people, Marc and Marco, had tickets for the show. She called them and moments later they appeared and joined us in line (which had by then stretched to the southern horizon). M & M were fetching and friendly, so waiting that last half hour or so turned into a bit of a party.

When the doors opened, we were sufficiently near the front of the line (owing to my stakeout) to have our choice of positions in the theater. Marc and Marco I went right to the front of the stage while Splenda bought us a drink at the bar. When I turned to examine the room, however, I saw there was a balcony - with seats! I told Marc I was going to see if I could get a few. (I had already been standing for two hours and it was at least an hour before the show would start). I ran up the stairs and, yes, got seats just behind the rail. Splenda came moments later with a vodka tonic. (Can you see where this is going?) Marc and Marco (who are very fit) decided to stay in the mosh pit.

OK. If there is anything better than sitting with a great friend in a comfortable theater seat and sipping a vodka tonic while you wait for your favorite singer to do a show, let me know.

The opening act came on at 8:30: a boy/girl duo from Alabama called "the Civil Wars." They sang brilliant harmonies and the girl was very Montrealaise in a short black dress and heels. They were playful. The crowd was in a great, appreciative mood and ate them up. It was love.

Then, at last, came Adele. Now that I have pounded you with a blow by blow of the preconcert details, I'll just leave you by way of a review with the comment I left on the Adele website the day after her show and an email exchange between Splenda and I.

The comment:

Dearest Darling Adele - It was my privilege to be part of the crowd last night in Montreal. That word "magic" gets thrown around a lot, but last night was the real thing - a regular alchemical romance, We all loved the Civil Wars (could you tell?). Your band was brilliant and, of course, you looked beautiful and you sang us all up, up, and away! After the show, my friends and I stood out on the sidewalk and tried to process our excitement like the grown ups we are - but more or less failed. We just stood there trying to recover our wits and pinching ourselves. Bless you. Take care of yourself. Thank you (and your mom!).

(NB. Despite my leaving ingratiating suck-up comments like this for A on a couple occasions she has yet to reply. Oh well.)

The email exchange between Splenda and I a Few Days Later:

(From me)

Hi Dear -

I am just back from the Spring Concert at [the Understudy's school] - which I have mentally renamed "Lilly White Middle and High School." I actually like these school concerts because the kids are so putting themselves out there and are generally adorable. I remembered something I read by Margaret Atwood years ago - she had given some kind of graduation speech at a HS in Ontario and she wrote about how all the graduates were beautiful, even the ones who didn't think they were good looking (just by virtue of their youth). Anyway, I am putting this concert down in my book of recent live performances. I have been processing the Adele show since we left. Marc "friended" me the next day and sent me some pictures of A just as I was posting a fawning fan comment on her website (telepathy?) I saw a review from the Toronto show that she did the next night. They had bumped up the venue to some 6,000 seat arena and the reviewer thought (and Adele said) she was nervous. I think we may have gotten her best night....

(From S)

I have been meaning to sit down and compose my ENORMOUS thank you for what may be the best concert of my not so young life! :) and apparently she upgraded to the ACC the next day which has a capacity of 18K ... so depending on the configuration, we had BY FAR the better show! by FAR!


When I got back to the minivan after the show, I saw that Adele had been issued a whopping big ticket. I mean the piece of paper was 8 1/2 by 11! I assume the fine matched (thanks to Splenda I was still in good parking graces). However many hundreds of dollars that ticket must have been, I am sure she would be happy to pay it. She said (and seemed to mean) that we were the best crowd of the tour so far.

So, there you have it. You would think I would have learned by now that any effort that takes me out of my Hobbit-like ways is always repaid. Apparently, I need frequent reminders.