On Pearl Street

For the past for days my daughter has a cold nothing to bad, but sick nonetheless. Now I am not feeling so hot today either and have spend the day sort of dazed. Oh well, does anyone get a lot of work done on a Friday anyway?

Last week we were hanging out in the sun on Pearl Street Mall. It is an outdoor mall and I played on the same rocks that my daughter plays on now. The only difference is that now they have this sort of soft cork like padding around the rocks and in my day it was just pebbles. There are also lot's of buskers on the mall and this particular day there were a couple of nouveau hippies and they sang my daughters song! It was pretty cool.

Day 20: Something that means a lot to me.

Here is another post where I want to say my daughter; I just thought I would put that out there. I had a hard time deciding what to write about, but today we had to re-arrange our schedule all around so that I could go to a dance class. Usually I go on Thursdays though since this Thursday is a major holiday class is cancelled. So I realized that ballet classes mean a lot to me. Particularly getting to go to Boulder Ballet with the same teachers I have had since I was a girl.

I had these great intentions of taking pictures in class today to post here, but I failed. Somehow I was distracted because I even had my phone out ready to go. With an internet search underway I came up with the above pictures. These pictures our of the studio where I danced so many years ago. Currently, Boulder Ballet is located at the Dairy Center for Arts, but it used to be here (it was also called Ballet Arts). It was above Tom's Tavern on the West End of Pearl Street. These pictures make me a little bit sad, but also a little happy because I can imagine being there, where I stood at the barre, being distracted looking out those wonderful windows, and the smell of fries wafting out of Tom's. The studio was on the second floor and to get there you had to climb a very steep and narrow stairway. Sometimes there would be violin music because there was a rehearsal space across the hall. This was such a special place to take classes.

Even though I am being flooded with amazing memories; I will share just one. It is an incredibly big deal when a young dancer gets to finally wear pointe shoes. If you wear them too early you can cause a lot of physical damage. It doesn't have so much to do with technique as much as it does with a child's development. Before we could take pointe class (which at first was 15 minutes at the end of our technique class) we had to have our shoes approved by our teacher and  I remember us all sitting around her (she was in a chair, placed to the right of the door in the top picture, and we all looked up at her with our eager eyes wanting so badly to put on our shoes and dance across the floor). She explained how to sew the ribbons and elastic onto our shoes, how to take care of our feet (blisters, ouch), and I remember very clearly being told not to dance around in the shoes outside of class (so we wouldn't injure ourselves before we knew how to dance in the shoes properly). It was a really good day.

Today as I was driving down the East End of Pearl St., I was thinking about how different it looks. I tried to think about what the old buildings looked like or where there used to be  dirt lots when I was growing up. Everything looks all nice and pretty now, but sometimes I miss when things aren't so polished, and shiny, and new looking.

Apparently this post is about two things that mean a lot to me: ballet and memories. Though, for me I guess those two things will always be intertwined.
(photos found at this photo stream)

Happy Thanksgiving

We are getting ready to head down to Atlanta to celebrate our "first" Thanksgiving. When we get back we will celebrate our "second" Thanksgiving this Sunday (that's when we listen and dance to Arlo Guthro's Alice's Restaurant). Today I made a pumpkin cheesecake and a vanilla sparkling wine pound cake. I just finished wrapping them up and realized I had not taken pictures, hopefully I will remember when I get there.

There are many little things that signify the holiday that are springing up, for instance the radio station that plays not stop Christmas music and an ice rink downtown. I always get excited for the holiday commercials like the Hershey's kisses acting like bells and the one at the rings loud and long. One of my favorites is the Folgers commercial from the 1980s when the son comes home to surprise the family on Christmas morning. In the 1980s and 90s I thought it was lame, but now it's pretty cool because they keep playing this circa 1980 commercial. It has become a tradition. A few days ago I even told my husband I couldn't wait to see it.

Here comes the big disappointment. While watching some television tonight a Folgers commercial came on about a son coming home Christmas morning...but, it is not circa 1980 it is a contemporary family! They RE-SHOT the Folgers commercial! How could they do this to me? And it is so cheesy and unwatchable, ugh. Hopefully, I can find Miracle on 34th St. playing somewhere. Though, with my luck it will be colorized or even worse that awful remake.

To end on a happy note. My daughter and I went to the mall this week to Christmas shop and she saw Santa and he waved to her and it was very cute. She didn't sit on his lap just yet, I wasn't sure if my husband would want to be there, but she looked around the Santa area and oohhed and aahhed a lot. Christmas takes on a new perspective when you have a little girl around. Maybe I won't miss that Folgers commercial too much.

The New UPS?

My grandmother read it like it was a word instead of an acronym. "I sent your package ups, should get there tomorrow." There was a point when I tried the pronunciation out, but people just thought I was dumb, whereas my grandmother was charming. I guess that how it goes. She had a contagious smile and laid back laugh. She never said, "hi," she said, "Well, Hey..." and gave you a hug.

This week good old ups paid us a visit making me wonder: didn't they use to knock? They didn't always stay to chat, but at least gave the common decency of letting you know they were on your front porch and leaving a package. In the past few years their delivery has gotten shakier and shakier, until today when, I'm quite certain, the delivery man threw my package from the truck door or at least the sidewalk. I heard a thump. A loud one. The package contained only clothes so no real harm done. Other than the fading memory of delivery men who were courteous and I was able to communicate with even if it was a just a wave and a thank you as they headed back to their truck. Oh, the bygone era when we people interacted with each other in person, face to face, with words, smiles, and sometimes even a wink (another of my grandmother's fave).

Back to the Routine

My mom left on Tuesday and yesterday my routine felt all out of whack and I couldn't make it to the computer. I think I (we) are getting back on track; mostly because I am back to having my "me" time tonight. My husband and daughter are passed out. I can use the computer and watch anything I want on TV. Small pleasures.

Today is my good friends birthday. I have known her for about two decades. Long time. On her birthday I can reminisce about bygone years, but since she is older than me I always feel young. The only time being older was a benefit was when she turned 16. That was a good year for her. You'd think 21 would have been good, but she said it wasn't too fun because no one else could go out to the bars with her. She was 30 first and will be 40 first. And some people say a month doesn't make a difference.

Of course it comes back to get me because me other friend that I've known for almost three decades is younger than me by a month and a half. So I'll be feeling old in January.

Happy Birthday Lindsey! Love you.

Thoughts on Biscuit Making

We arrived back from Vermont somewhat late last night. It was a good trip and my daughter is very good at making friends. She was running around and going up to just about anyone hoping they would smile at her. Luckily, pretty much every at UFVA is easygoing and likes kids so she was a hit. I took two and a half rolls of film while in Vermont so hopefully I will have some good photos soon. 

Before we left for our trip my husband made biscuits for dinner (as pictured above). It made me think of a story my dad tells about his grandmother, my great-grandmother. I believe the story is of my great-grandmother who was raised on a farm outside of Paris, TX. She moved to Winfield, LA, which is where my grandmother was born. In her cupboard she had a drawer (one of those triangular metal ones that pulls out at an angle) where she stored her flour. When making biscuits she would take the ingredients to the drawer pour everything on top and knead the dough in the flour so that she would be able to use the exact amount of flour without measuring it out.

I have heard others tell similar stories of biscuits made in the flour bin. I wonder if this is a lost art of baking. Often I think of bakers having to measure everything perfectly, yet, clearly that is not always a case. In this day biscuits are probably not made from scratch as often as in the past and our skills have gotten weak. I would try it just for the experiment of it all, but unfortunately I store my flour in a jar and it would be hard to knead dough through the jar opening.

Thoughts on Music Down by the River

Yesterday around dinner time we were listening to our Avett Brothers Channel on Pandora. If you haven't listened to Pandora before it's an interesting take on a radio station where you put in a favorite band/artist and the program chooses similar music for you. By the end when I was cleaning up and it was just me and my daughter dancing (my husband cooked so he was relaxing) we rocked out first to The Band's The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down and then to Bob Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone. I suddenly realized I could have been a kid in the kitchen with my mom because the music hadn't changed. Just maybe my attitude.

When I was young I defiantly hated Bob Dylan and The Grateful Dead. I remember admitting that Dylan's songs were good, but his voice was unbearable. "Mom, he can't sing," I would say. She would shrug, in a that's not what really matters kind of way. I'm not sure about the Dead, the songs were probably too long or something. I don't think it was my mom that won me over, but more than likely D.A. Pennebaker; having watched Don't Look Back so often I finally had to learn to love appreciate the voice of the reluctant prophet. And so I dance in the kitchen.

Thinking about downtown Wilmington, the Cape Fear River, and the Grateful Dead reminded me of a few months I spent years ago grading standardized tests. We had this very dry, very boring grading scale. The only "essay" that I remember is one where the student had written down all the lyrics perfectly (I sang it in my head to check) to Friend of the Devil. I had to give that student a zero, but I often think I wish that I knew who he/she was because I think there was a spark there. The student could have left the essay area blank, but didn't. This is why teachers need to grade their own tests.

Some of the music my parents listened to I didn't object to so much, in fact it was mostly those two, I needed to rebel against something. My parents also listen to John Prine on a fairly regular basis and when he played with Patty Griffin (a personal fave) a few years back my husband and I had to go. You can check out a clip from the show here, though it's not the whole song it's still enjoyable. Be prepared to sing the song all day long, it's that good. Though I do have to say if I had a nickel for every time either of my parents has said, "Jesus...the missing years." I'd be fairly well off.

And, yes, mom I know you're smiling right now. Enjoy it.

Our Garden (a little on the late side)

This past week we decided to start our garden. We have been planning on it for awhile, but have been dragging our feet.

My husband has been devouring a book about gardening and fashioned this lovely raised bed. We have both seeds and seedlings; just yesterday I noticed some radishes have already begun to root down. I am excited to grow strawberries in the fall. When I was a kid we had a huge strawberry patch and I loved it so much.

Building the garden was fairly easy to do (though my husband really did the grunt work). It's pretty exciting even if a little pass due.

Post Script

Dear Blog Reader,

Recently I have been thinking about how to tell friends and family that I don't speak to on a regular basis about my blog. I'm not the kind of person that can send out those mass emails telling everyone what I've been doing. So, I've been attaching a p.s. to many emails. In a "by the way check out my blog" type manner. That's more my style.

It has gotten me thinking about p.s. and if it will slowly be used less and less. Perhaps, I will have to explain to my daughter, "well back in the day when we hand wrote letters..." When I was young I thought that the p.s. was fairly ubiquitous and I always included it when I wrote a letter regardless of whether or not I had forgotten to include something or not. I planned out the p.s. In junior high school (yes, I'm of the age I went to junior high instead of middle school) we used to pass notes throughout the school day (do students still do that? Is note passing a lost art?). A good friend of mine, Christie, had German class (I think) during an early morning period and my French class was in the same room in the afternoon, or vice-versa; this was a long time ago. We would leave notes for each other in the cardboard cut out of the Eiffel Tower. Christie would often write hilarious stories in her notes. Somewhere at my parents house I have a box of these intricately folded notes because you would always have to fold them in some origami type fashion. Who knows what I wrote, but I always had a p.s. and sometimes I went farther with a p.p.s or even a p.p.p.s.! I loved to line up all the letters and make a right triangle type shape.

p.s. Let's lunch by the tennis courts.

p.p.s. Did you see what Madam wore today? Ugh.

p.p.p.s I think maybe your necklace is not a snowflake.

The thing is with computers there really is no need for the p.s., if you forget something you can just insert it into your text and no one is the wiser. Back in the day (how'd I get this old?) you would have to start your note all over again if it weren't for the p.s. So I wonder does it still get used? Will it fade away? Be neglected and discontinued like Kodachrome? As I was adding my p.s. to my emails it felt odd like I could find a place in the body of the email. But I didn't want to, I think I miss the p.s.

 

Chelsea



p.s. Don't you hate it when you use parenthesis properly and they look like emoticons? I do.
p.p.s. Why did jr. high schools get changed to middle schools anyway?
p.p.p.s. This is pretty fun, huh?