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Archive for November, 2010

When Rachel at BookSnob mentioned a book she thought I would like, I knew I would enjoy it. When she reviewed it in the warm and engaging style I have come to appreciate and look forward to, I sensed the book was more than just the aura of a 1950′s convertible and a trip down memory lane. When The Girls from Winnetka arrived in my mailbox from Rachel a few weeks ago, I knew I was in for an enjoyable ride.  I was surprised, however, by how hard it was to put down.

Winnetka is an affluent North Shore suburb of Chicago. You’ve seen Winnetka in movies like “Home Alone”, “The Breakfast Club”  and “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” and the television series “Sisters”. Large estates and well-appointed homes, many designed by some of the country’s most celebrated architects, Winnetka offers some of the best public and private elementary schools in the country. It is also home to New Trier High School.

I visited New Trier High School as a high school senior many moons ago. Three of us boarded a train and spent a day there to visit with the school’s newspaper staff. I was part of our high school’s newspaper staff. “The Proviso Pageant”. A Pace Maker award-winning, eight page, twice weekly newspaper, we held our own in high school journalistic excellence, but New Trier’s was the area’s gold standard, as was the building, the television studio, and the honors English class we sat in on. I will always remember the lively discussion the class was having that day on Dante’s Inferno and I always remember that mini-field trip with a sense of awe.

Marcia Chellis’ book is a memoir of sorts. The story of five girls, high school friends, who reunite for their 50th birthdays and begin the journey of putting down their stories of coming of age in the 1950′s, their expectations to go to college and then get married soon after graduation to men who take care of them forever and ever. Of course, we all know how much the world has changed from then, especially for women, and how forever and ever was not to be. It never really was. Annie, Margo, Barbie, Brooke and Laura sneak out of the house (and get caught) in the 50′s, their dads ringing the doorbell and claiming their daughters at unchaperoned parties, their moms waiting past curfew with hands on their hips as they try to sneak back in at night. They go to some of the finest colleges and universities in the country in the early  ’60′s, experiment with marijuana and liquor and changing sexual mores. They marry, have children (or don’t), and wade through all the turbulence and changes of the times they have lived in. They are not so different from many women of their time and place, but, their story gives the reader time to pause and reflect on the roles and expectations of women in the last fifty years.

This is a story of moving through the decades and what it meant for each of their lives and the collective legacy of their experiences. The trials and tribulations, the joys and sorrows, the things they let go off and the things they kept. It is, in the end, the story of what women, all women, have gained in those fifty years – and, perhaps, some things we have lost. I found it interesting to see the choices some of them made when given the chance – or those who had to courage and determination to make choices in a time where it was not the norm. The girls from Winnetka are a generation older than me and maybe you. They might be the generation of your grandmothers and aunts. They were born as the world was waging a war and came into their own as a steely cold war raged. Rules were set and conformity was the prescribed route in the lives they were to live, and then the rules were tossed in the air like a game of 52 pick-up.

I smiled at some of the chapters in each of the girls lives, and I found myself suddenly tearing up at some of their experiences and sorrows. In the reading, I did not find it to be the best written book, but, I did find it insightful and an interesting take on the last fifty years of the women’s movement and, when it was done, I found myself wanting a little more, a good thing to want at the end of a book, don’t you agree?

Thank you, Rachel, for sharing The Girls from Winnetka with me and for your ever wonderfully written and insightful book reviews.

I encourage you all to visit BookSnob; see what Rachel is reading and how she is experiencing her job in New York City, far away from her home in Britain.

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Penelope NotGiven

It was time to buy the turkey.

I wasn’t having a particularly good day. Not bad, mind you, just not particularly good. My bones ached, my hair needed a mow, and the real grass outside was covered with leaves of every size, shape and color and limp from a rain – and I was a tad tired, but . . .

. . . I needed to buy the Thanksgiving turkey.

Off I went to the nearest grocer, a Dominick’s, which is not my favorite, but, I had a few coupons and I like to give local businesses a bit of my money. There I was, herding a squeaky cart with one of the wheels insisting on turning left when the rest of the team were going right, while  Mr. Turkey Lurkey was rolling around in the cart,  playing tag with the cranberries and sweet potatoes.

I was ready to check out when I remembered I needed vacuum cleaner bags. Now, where did I see them? Aha! There they were, toward the bottom of the shelf in their appointed seat in the store. The only problem was a towering display lounging right front of them. I tried to be careful. I did. I tried to slowly move the badly positioned tower of Thirsty Safeway Paper Towels,  ever-so-gently . . .

. . .  at least I didn’t break any jars of molasses or pickles, necessitating a clean-up in Aisle 6!

Image from Google

It wasn’t the stickiest mess in a grocery store, but, you know, those round paper towels were bouncing all over the place, getting thirstier and thirstier, and rolling up and down the aisle with a great deal of pent-up energy. I collected them and stacked them up as best I could and high tailed it to the checkout before I was asked to take my turkey and vacate the premises.

I put my selections on the conveyor belt and watched as they rolled obediently forward to the friendly cashier. Really. All the cashiers and employees at this particular store are very friendly. You didn’t think I’d self-check with the turkey, did you, especially after the melon debacle last summer? I handed over my club card, paid my bill, and out came the never-ending receipt with more coupons, which the cashier handed me along with my change, smiling, and saying, with glee,  ”thank you, Penelope NotGiven”.  She smiled as she said Penelope and drew out the NotGiven.  It sounded a little like Nutgiven. The receipt, you see,  prints out with one’s name on the bottom. My receipt said Penelope NotGiven. She, and the other patrons, now listening to the repartee, were enjoying a little chuckle at my expense.

When did one’s name start to show up on one’s grocery receipt and why wasn’t I given the chance to add my last name?

At least my friendly cashier knew how to pronounce Penelope.

It is what it is. I’ll sign off for now, knowing the turkey is sitting, waiting to be dressed for our Thanksgiving feast next Thursday.

I remain, dear friend,  faithfully yours,

Penelope NotGiven

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Peek-a-boo . . .

. . . I see you.

(click on the picture for best view)

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Amaryllis: The Day After

I just thought you might like to see this lovely little plant in 24 hours after yesterday’s pictures.

 

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Amaryllis

Kathryn is always giving me things; paintings, jewelry, her time. She asked if I wanted some bulbs.  Amaryllis. Have you ever grown an Amaryllis?  They start out as a big, fat, bulb that seems to be devoid of life and then a little green pushes through, then a stem, then a leaf, and it grows, sometimes an inch a day. Sometimes, it seems, as you turn your back. It is a wonderful plant to grow with a child because they can see it change daily, measure it, watch it open almost before their very own eyes. It is also a wonderful plant to grow as days grow shorter and all that is green fades away on the northern landscape.

I planted this in with a peat pellet about a week ago. I needed to get it in the pot as it was literally growing in the bag I had it in. Like a child, I watched in awe as it inched forward before my very eyes. I measured it and I carried if from room to room to catch the sunlight and I turned it just so in hopes that it would grow straight.

What a joy it was to see it start to bloom on Monday, just before we sat down to dinner, the late autumn sky dark, nightfall blanketing the Cutoff. New life bursting forth in our kitchen.

Ah, the beauty and hope as winter approaches that comes to call in the guise of an Amaryllis. It is the simple gifts and simple pleasures that carry us through, is it not?

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“Autumn Leaves”

The lawn is a carpet of leaves, waiting to be raked and mulched or dragged to a pile along the road. The air crisp and clear and breathing the breath of Old Man Winter. It is, after all, mid-November, and for all my grumbling and fretting that it is too warm or too windy or too dry, it has been a long and enjoyable autumn here on the Cutoff.

We will be busy the next week, raking and mowing, hauling pile after pile of leaves on a tarp. Whether they go to the road or one of several compost piles, they will need to be lugged in some order and fashion. There will be some piles to break down to add to the soil in spring and a pile for deer, and another pile for the city to pick up. We really have that many leaves.

The sycamores are the last to fall; huge leaves the size of dinner plates with a tough composition allowing them to decompose slower than most of the other leaves. If we leave them on the ground, they will still be the same shape come spring.

Not a good thing . . .

. . . and still, leaves cling to trees and bushes, especially the snowball bush, which sits outside my window here.

The leaves are falling and falling and falling,  still. The barren trees, naked in the wind, showing every burl and bump and exposing every nest, remind us of the coming winter and the slow descent into the darker days ahead.

The beauty of it all, and the sadness as well, reminded me of the wistful song, “Autumn Leaves”, which was recorded by so many vocalists over the years. I thought you might like this Doris Day rendition.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZMD_2RZrm4

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Stuck in the middle with you . . .

Taking a little walk about this morning with the sun peeking through and the crisp November air, I saw this lone sycamore leaf stuck in the middle of some Becky daisies that had been cut back. Ever since, I’ve been singing the words “stuck in the middle with you”.  This song always makes me want to get up and dance or really turn the sound up if I’m in the car.

My weekend was good, if a tad busy. How was yours?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1e63MpTDt8

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The Saturdays

Every Saturday, the Melendy children pool their weekly allowance. Each child, in turn, takes the weekly amount and does something special, just for themselves, on their given Saturday. The idea is formed on yet another boring Saturday as they gather in the top floor “office” of the family’s well-worn Brownstone in New York City with nothing to do. They convince their father to allow them to do this and he agrees, warning them to not get hit by a car, never talk to strangers, and ask a policeman if they have any problems.

The story, of course, is set in a different era. 1941. A time when a child could leave home  and walk the streets of Manhattan, know where to go and how to get there. A time when a parent could allow such adventures.

Each of the Melendy children are unique and inquisitive and delightful and their choices are interesting and sometimes scary and sometimes so funny I laughed aloud.

I read The Saturdays as a child and it made me want to travel to New York City. The idea of four siblings coming up with the idea (and naming themselves I.S.A.A.C. – the Independent Saturday Afternoon Adventure Club) seemed so remarkable to me as a child, and, in fact, still do. I’m not sure that at an elevenish age I would have chosen the opera, let alone walk all the way there, buy a ticket, and climb so far up to my seat I could almost touch the ceiling. I do know I would have loved it, though, and remember so clearly the time my father took us to the Civic Opera House and how its grandeur mesmerized me. Each solo Saturday adventure brings about a subplot with interesting stories about being kidnapped by gypsies, meeting the actual child in the painting at an art gallery, or how to get red fingernail polish off of one’s nails before nail polish remover was widely available. (That one reminded me of the time my sister decided to dye her hair Lucille Ball red and is a story for another time.)

As an impressionable youngster growing up in the suburbs of Chicago who longed for the day to be able to got into the city by herself, The Saturdays gave me a way to explore within the restrictions of my own family. It was one of those books of childhood, we all have them, that stayed with me throughout my life and I was delighted to find it in the library and surprised to learn it was part of a series about the Melendy family.

I was not surprised to find the author, Elizabeth Enright,  had written many books, including Thimble Summer, but, I was surprised to learn that she lived in Oak Park and was a niece of the renowned architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. Enright illustrated the book as well as writing it and the illustrations are whimsical and capture the mood of the book. It is her words that paint the best pictures for me of the Melendy children, their widowed father, Cuffy the housekeeper, and Willy the handyman/plumber and general fixer-of-things, and of the worn but loved Brownstone, five stories tall with a huge coal furnace in the basement.

It is Saturday here on the Cutoff and I’m off to my own Saturday adventure. I won’t be going “into the city”, but, instead, heading out west a way to a church bazaar and then it is home to the leaves and the leaves and the leaves, which have had a glorious time blanketing the area.

How about you? Any adventures, big or small, for your Saturday?

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We just got back online a little while ago. A cable was accidentally sliced (don’t ask) severing us from the wonderful world of the internet. It is amazing what you can no longer do when technology needs a bit of attention – or, how much more gets done when you are not sitting at the computer.

In between carpet cleaning and computer crisis, I needed to run out for a few things. Some fruit and vegetables, bread, a toy for my granddaughter. You know, important stuff. I was stopped at a red light at one of the busier corners in Chicagoland. Said corner is at junction of the old Route 66 and the location of a now defunct car dealership, where presently sits an Amish furniture/baked goods store. They will have fresh Christmas trees on sale there soon, but wooden lawn furniture and swings are displayed outside right now. Every time I pass this corner, I can’t help but chuckle at the irony of an Amish store housed in a vacated car dealership. This buggy was parked in front. I just love these little “slices of life” that appear and amuse and give me pause in the middle of my day. Out flew my camera, clicking away through the now opened passenger window, the driver to my left peering over, wondering, perhaps, if I was Natasha, the spy. Seeing no Boris in the passenger seat, he just shook his head in wonderment, likely glad I wasn’t the gal he was driving home to, maybe remembering Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons of the late ’50s/early ’60s, his mind, for a moment, decades away from the hustle and bustle of life at this junction. There he sat, a brief moment of humor, watching a lady taking a picture out of her window of a horseless buggy.

The light turned green, our paths diverged, and it was, in the words of Mother Goose, home again, home again, jiggety jig.

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Remembering

Whether you call it Armistice Day, Veterans Day, Remembrance Day . . .

. . . we all pause this  to honor those who fought for our freedoms everywhere.

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