Making Toast I ask myself what stories I should try to preserve for my family--like jars of fruit in my grandmother's cellar stored on a forgotten wooden rack that might one day be opened--or maybe not. Years ago I was part of a week long large summer session at Green Acre that was fast gaining a reputation for being too sciency. It really was well deserved criticism. I was one of the organizers and I know a lot of it was over my head. My mind begins to get a little wacky when I get hyper or frustrated so when talent show night came around toward the end of the week I had this strange inspiration to just embrace my frustration with all the science talks. About an hour before the show I hurried back to the house and gathered our toaster, bread, peanut butter, jam, butter, little paper plates--in short every thing needed to make toast. When it was my turn, I went to the front of the crowded hall with my most serious face and proceeded in my best Mr.Wizard voice to demonstrate how to make toast. The audience was divided into four groups. The children sitting in the front were totally fascinated and thought they were back in a first grade home ec. class and they better pay attention. There were the older people (some might say too old) who were shocked and astonished. They had been to many a Green Acre program and talent show but had never seen anyone make toast before. The third group were laughing with tears in their eyes especially when I demonstrated the unwisdom of using a fork to spread jam on toast--one should always use a knife (the kids nodded) The older crowd shook their heads sadly looking for someone of authority who could get me the help I so desperately needed. The kids eagerly volunteered to take samples of toast around on little paper plates and I'm proud to say I never cracked a smile even when an elderly lady held a little square of toast and wasn't quite sure what to do with it. The fourth group was my shocked and appalled family--especially my daughters who were totally embarrassed that their strange father could think this was funny. It's Thursday morning--shopping day with Laurel, Samaya, and Violet. Maybe I'll pick up some bread, jam and peanut butter give the kids a science lesson.

Thursday

Thursday is my favorite day. I have nothing against the other 6 days, but Thursday I go shopping with my daughter, Laurel,Samaya and Violet. The most mundane of activities,but the day fills me with joy.Laurel and I can hold a conversation and for a moment I am her father and she is my daughter again. We go the new Trader Joes in Newington which is the oddest of stores--everything is exotic. They don't sell just chicken. Their chickens have all gone to High School or at least have their GED. They have a sticker lady who gives the kids stickers. The take the groceries out of your cart and double bag them all the while smiling like they work in paradise. Violet is very affectionate and the life of the party, but Samaya is more reserved. She rides in my cart because she loves the little coffee cups I give her (Laurel sighs but lets me do it). We share the cup--I sip and she dips her finger in constantly. I tell her if you are under four, Trader Joes gives you a free cup of coffee. We stroll around the store talking with everyone--well I talk and make up tall tales. I feel like Jimmy Stewart in "Harvey"when he walks around town in a state of euphoric delusion making friends with every step. We went home and I took the kids down to the Green Acre park where they love to swing.Later on they came for dinner with Sisay. Karen played piano, I sat in my recliner and continued planning the puppet show with Laurel for the children's school this Sunday. It was a stunning late fall day with the beauty of the leaves and the sky falling down on our wandering heads. I brushed a cloud off my shoulder--a light, airy Thursday cloud.

Miss Danbury

The third floor of our house in Beacon, N.Y. was the attic. Like the rest of the house and three other nearby houses it was primarily built by my grandfather. This was before the advent of building codes. My memory(not always trustworthy)says that he built the house from the remnants of an old train station which would explain why the lamp in my bedroom flashed intermittent red lights and made a ringing bell sound every now and then. The attic was a mysterious and dangerous place because who knew what was stored up there?. It was dangerous because they must have run out of lumber because their were gaps in the floor boards. One time during one of our exploring adventures my brother's leg went through the kitchen ceiling. We got blamed by my mother--misplaced blame we thought. How about the grandpa we never knew? But "Pa" was without flaw in my mother's eyes. She had a look in her eye when she talked about him that every father would would hope for. After all he and my grandmother brought up eight children during the great depression. So what if he had to build houses out of old lumber and my grandmother made bath tub whiskey(that pa drank a little too much of) during prohibition and sold it to the neighborhood bars. There wasn't much time for much of anything except surviving which made our discovery of an old beat up trophy with the inscription "Miss Danbury" engraved on the front all the more surprising. We dusted it off and brought it down to show our mother. We were puzzled to say the least. There had to be a good story behind it. My mother, in a matter of fact voice said, "Oh that. I was Miss Danbury,Ct. when I was seventeen." With all the tact of young boys we laughed until she got annoyed. She brought out a picture of a gorgeous young lady with rosy cheeks in a blue dress holding a trophy-this trophy that we now held. You would think that she would have mentioned this. We only saw a rather large woman who wore either a white uniform or one of a couple of voluminous house dresses. We didn't know this beautiful young lady. Now I think how wonderful that she did have a moment that wasn't all about survival--about having enough to eat and a place to sleep. May we all have such a moment--in fact many moments of profound beauty. Imagine answering a knock on your door and someone hands you a silver trophy testifying that you have brought beauty into the world. A beauty that will never become covered in dust or tarnished by time-imagine.

Passed the Daughter Test

I never know if the rare poem hat enters is my life will be a life long friend or an insufferable bore that should be shown the door asap with with my parting words of "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out" chasing the verse down the street. This one passed the critical daughter test. A Summer Afternoon The feel of mountain grass beneath our backs Our bodies curving with the orbit of the earth The sight of the timeless God Disguised in cloud rainments Billowing arms outstretched The aroma of the eternal sun fills our lungs As it slowly climbs over towering green cliffs We look at each other-trembling "How long can you hold your breath?" I ask "How long can you hold me?" she answers

Portsmouth Community Radio

Dear Friends, This coming week is pledge week on Portsmouth Community Radio 106.1fm. We believe our show, "Don't Dis My Ability" is unique and valuable because it gives a voice to individuals with a wide range of disabilities. It is not only a lone voice on the radio but often a lonely voice that aches for someone to hear and understand. Please call and make a pledge 603-430-9822. With the advent of the internet there is no such thing anymore as a local radio show. My agency has put our own page on their site--livinginnovations.com--scroll down to "Don't Dis My Ability" and you can listen to past shows with just a click.Much love to all my friends.

just another memory

For a guy with plans for the future-stories to write--grand children to play with I still get captured by distant memories that I have to pinch to see if they really happened. But first I have to tell you what Samaya said today. She went with me to the bank, post office and Dunkin Donuts where I bought her a multi grain bagel with cream cheese. Her face had cream cheese streaks and her cheeks were bulging--unbelievably adorable. I asked her how did she ever get such puffy cheeks and she informed me, "I was born with them grandpa". To have such grandchildren is to fall in love with life again when you think the flame is flickering dimmer by the moment.But I digress as usual. Last week Laurel was driving and we were going grocery shopping with the kids. We stopped at Dunkin's and my face lit up. They were raising funds for cf. You donate a dollar and they put your name on a sticker. The windows were filling up with stickers. My daughter groaned because she knew what I was going to do and she had to help. "Yes, I will gladly donate a dollar to this wonderful cause. "What name would you like us to write in for you?" Would you mind if I wrote it in myself?" "Not at all" Laurel is giving me a look like she would rather be anywhere in the universe but being a go between for me and the lady waiting on us. I received the sticker and like last year I wrote the name, "Nert Sorry". Who is Nert Sorry you might ask? Fifty years ago in study hall the substitute teacher was taking attendance. She would ask each kid to say their name which she dutifully wrote down on the attendance sheet. I, of course, said "Ronald Tomanio" but my friend Gary Groza said "Nert Sorry" when asked. I know this is juvenile, but I was filled with Buddha- like blissful joy . In the following days when roll call was taken the teacher would call out "Nert Sorry"--no answer. "Is Nert Sorry here?" It didn't matter if I had another frustrating day in advanced algebra or I was feeling alone on a desert island the size of a school desk. For that moment when that poor teacher scanned the room annoyed that once again Nert Sorry was playing hooky, I was in heaven burying my face in my arm crying tears of joy. Certainly, such a fine fellow, although sadly devoid of physical reality, deserves a sticker with his name on it plastered high up on the Dunkin Donut's window. We drive away--my daughter groaning, me shaking with laughter, Samaya's cheeks bulging with cream cheese. Who knew that youth could be recaptured again for the measly sum of one dollar.

Bee bee guns and bows and arrows

Still thinking about our visit to my Aunt's house in New Milford the other weekend. She couldn't talk fast enough jumping from one old story to another like a kid running across a stream briefly touching down on expose rocks. "Remember when your Uncle Harold broke your brother Richie's bee bee gun in half when he shot the bird?" "You mean the same uncle who gave us dangerous weapons for birthdays and Xmas like real bows and arrows just like Rambo used to wipe out Vietnam?"
I told her I remembered that story and Uncle Harold should have given Richie a medal--of course I was trying to get her riled up. "Uncle Harold shot a thousand birds". "Yes, but he always ate what he shot." I was thinking about the moral implications of that statement and how it could doom Quakerism, but decided it would be more fun just to cause trouble. It was summertime when kids released on parole from school try to destroy the natural world. We had a shiny brand new bee bee gun aching to spew destruction, but what to use it on? My brother leaned out of my second floor bedroom on South Chestnut Street in Beacon, N.Y. scanning for a victim. Nothing in our backyard, but over the fence of lilac bushes in the Nelson's domain was a birdbath with one thirsty bird perched on the rim.It was an impossible 30 yard shot on a windy day. "I need to adjust for the wind and being up so high" He pulled the trigger and and down went the bird face down in the birdbath. We knew we were in trouble because we had already put some bee bee holes in the Nelson's garage window and had to apologize and replace them. No fun getting picked up by the ears and dragged over to the Nelson's house by my mother. We had to make another apology to the kindly old Nelsons. Mrs.Nelson returned to singing while she pinned her dripping laundry suspended over the brilliant green grass oasis of their tiny kingdom. Mr. Nelson went back to listening to Red Barber narrate Yankee games on Sunday afternoons. My brother and I went back to playing wiffle ball on our side of the lilac fence pretending to be Mickey Mantle imaging how Red would say our names. Eventually, Uncle Harold took back the bee bee gun and broke it in half and we stopped receiving lethal weapons for presents. So the world became safer, but less fun--at least for thirsty robins in the summertime. A few years later Vietnam came along and the world turned a deaf ear to Uncle Harold's maxim for world peace.