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Cracks

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Some thoughts to begin the day…. Where to begin…. I have so many things I want to get down on paper before they fly out of my head like a flock of wheeling starlings and are gone forever… so I will try: Obedience…. Oh, this word! How I railed and fought against it for so long. Submit? NEVER. Not me. I was strong, proud, independent, intelligent, and unrepentant. I would NOT submit or back down, ever. And yet… perhaps, through a tiny crack in my strong façade, crept doubt that, well, maybe MY way of doing whatever it was… might not be the best way, the easiest way, or the “right” way….  Oh, who cares about being right? I am a seeker, a researcher… I have always looked for answers, for information, for knowledge and deeper understanding… I have not ever been content to rest on what I know now, but rather to explore and search and question… yes, question everything, including myself. And when I do, I discover that I know such an infinitesimal drop of nothing in the huge pool o...
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Memories of Fred

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Now just because I named my bantam rooster after my dad doesn’t mean Fred was small and cocky…. On the contrary, he was a big man, with a huge presence… I always found his big, calloused hands a bit frightening, and his gruff nature put me off. We had a fractious relationship in my teen years and beyond, but I have been assured he loved me with all his heart. I believe that now…. There were times when I didn’t. Fred was a lot like me, although I didn’t readily admit it. He was a tinkerer, a wanderer, and an inveterate scrounger. He cared not one whit about the latest fashion, and wore his grubby jeans low and baggy. His flannel shirts and striped railroad cap were a signature… pushed back on his head, a two day growth of beard stubble that he loved to rub on my cheek to hear me holler, and a pair of sturdy black leather laceup boots were his usual garb. He cleaned up nicely, and I have memories of him, clean shaven and smelling of Aqua Velva, heading out the door in the evenings. The...
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Piano lessons

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Polished and dark, the baby grand sat solidly in the corner of the living room. As you entered the front door the stairs rose directly in front of you across a small vestibule. To the right, along the wall, sat a small slant-front desk with cubbyholes and tiny drawers. The desk was forbidden territory, but the piano was not. A black and white vase always perched atop the piano, and a large fern on a stand sat nearby. Sunday afternoon light from the front window slanted across the keys as I practiced. I cannot remember how old I was when I learned how to play, probably five or six. I was given a scale fingering book, and my chubby fingers picked at the notes. Every Good Boy Deserves Favor. It was how I was taught the line notes, and F-A-C-E were the notes inside the lines. I still remember the notes from the lessons in the language of a child. My first piano teacher fades from memory, but by the time I got to the second teacher, I knew the basic notes. Mrs. Dusseldorf was a flat fa...
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