That's Flippin' heartbreaking

One of the pages I regularly peruse in the Sunday newspaper is the real estate listings. I've done this for years, just to keep an eye on what my house would be worth on the market. This Sunday's front page story about the assorted horrors of the housing market foreclosure crisis in the area had my burb's housing stock as down 11% in value. Looking at the range of prices made me think that the average must have been lowered by the historic mansions out on the boulevards. What caught my eye in a shocking way, and opposite the downward pricing trend, was seeing a listing for the house I grew up in for $179K. Yikes.

That brought back anew the sorrow at having to sell that house to pay for my aunt's nursing home in the years I was going full tilt at starting a retail business. Because of the business, I was unable to fix the house up to get either a good price or be able to rent it out, and keep it longer. There are half a dozen shows now about "Flipping that house," but in the 80s that niche wasn't such an obvious thing. I was able to get into the house, just on the first floor, a few years ago. I saw the "garage sale" sign on the corner and couldn't resist a peek. I was met with effusive greetings from the darlin lady who lived next door who introduced me to the current owners who talked about what had been done with the house. I particularly enjoyed their story about having a First Annual Safecracking Party to get open the large office safe of my aunt's that had been accidentally locked by a real estate agent (with the slip with the combination INSIDE the safe). Someone got it open the first party.

The last time I drove by, I was enchanted with the three color paint job they'd done , showing off the original storm/screens on the front windows. It was warming to know that the current family loved the place as much as we did & also felt "It lives like a larger house." With 4 "official" bedrooms and 2 baths, it was large enough for the five adults, one kid and one cranky cocker spaniel when I was growing up.

I know the guy I sold it to (for less than a third of the current asking price) had to do some serious renovations. When sold, all the phone lines were hardwired in or 4 prong plugs. All the electric ran through 4 screw in glass fuses. Both bathrooms needed tile work. The heating system was one of those behemoth converted coal furnaces taking up a quarter of the basement, complete with asbestos wrapped ducts. The leaded glass cabinets in the dining room needed repair. I don't deny lots of work and likely lots of money had to go into that house. Yet, it had a working fireplace, leaded glass built ins, hardwood floors that had been protected by carpet, and one of the most comfortable porches in town. But it still does make me want to weep that I couldn't have hung on to it. More bitter the pill is that I sacrificed my chance to keep that lovely house in order to keep my aunt safe while I built the business, and I don't have the business anymore, either. .

For those companions of my youth, you can oogle the old house along with me.

Snarky Cat Blogging

MissKtty says "this is the shrink face we all strive for"

Rest in Pieces

I was in such a dash to get out the door last night that I killed my lovely large lilac dragonfly embellished teapot. It smashed on the floor and the remainder of a pot of "Tea of Good Tidings" splooshed out and soaked my foot. So I went to the concert with one wet foot, smelling of spice laden tea. All I've got left to make tea in are the very nice special-occasion-only pots or mugs. One mug at a time, for the time being. Today it's some Irish Breakfast tea in my "Snarling once a day improves the complexion" Sylvia mug.

Friday night in the big city

Sometimes in the comfort of suburban life, I forget that we live with a big city near our doorstep, and sometimes that's the place to go play, or in this case, listen. Steve, Arron, and I went to the Beachland Ballroom to hear some Celtic flavored music last night. We arrived early, got good seats, and were amused at the commercials for other shops in the area that ran on the club's sound system. It gave me a feeling of being a part of the city life like a Charles De Lint character in Newford, out for an evening's carouse. We were excited to see Gráda and were vastly pleased at the opening band, Pitch the Peat, a locally based group with some Irish imports in the personnel. The guitar player had a fascinating style: he was often playing with a flat pick while finger picking with his last two fingers. They were wondrous good, high energy and obviously had a good following in the audience, as the place filled to standing room. The quantity of quality band originals was impressive, and held it's own as part of a great evening of music winding up for Gráda's powerhouse presentation.
Gráda - oh, they were good. Every one of 'em, including their Irish/Italian substitute (#2) fiddler who doubled on trumpet. Yah really, a trumpet. Alan's fluting was everything you could hope for. There was enough light from the neon "BAR" sign that I tried some sketching: if you can't dance, it's amazing how enjoyable it is to be penciling in the dark background to a wild set of jigs. The guitarist was a dervish, dancing and waggling his guitar around while bending notes in a lush way. His glasses kept sliding down his nose; sometimes the fiddler would shove them back up, and sometimes he'd take 'em off. I watched the bodhran player's hand turn a blur on the tuneable bodhran that reminded me of Margaret's, though a bit deeper. She sang beautifully, high energy. They too had a great number of traditional sounding songs they'd written. It was three hours of grand live music. I felt sorry for them, driving off to Nashville overnight. I'd not want to be on the road after putting out that kind of energy for a couple hours. Good thing they're a batch of young lads and lass!

A Clean Slate

This spring, change is in the air. I'm reconsidering jobs, my artwork, and some of the baggage I carry with me from past sorrows. I need to lighten my load in lots of specific areas.

It was Easter yesterday. Easter a few years ago was the last time I saw the inlaws I loved when I made brunch for them. They're not dead, just dead to me. My adored elder niece inscribed a tribute to my cooking in multi colored chalk on the slate chalkboard I have hanging at the entrance to my kitchen. Grocery lists have come and gone on that slate. Notes of recordings and books lent and returned have come and gone. The lovely line from the lovely girl stayed.

I was told it wasn't my fault...exactly. It was the other folks who'd hurt them so much that they decided to close in to just the nuclear family, and shut out the rest of us with "we love you, but don't call us - we'll call you when we're ready." I ached to see them hurting, and I stepped back to give them the mental space they needed. I squelched my own hurt. But as days added up to weeks, and weeks built up months, and then to a year, and no word, the hurt festered anyway. I broke radio silence briefly last Christmas, when I sent them a cookbook I'd done of my traditional cookies, but got no response.

My blood family has long since died out. I have no progeny. The part of my late husband's family I loved has chosen to be dead to me. The wheel of the year turns to a new spring, and I've come to delight in and appreciate the generous love of friends more and more. And so I shed my last bit of reluctance.

I wiped the slate clean.

Late to the wake

Laruel Burch, a woman for whom a single adjective just isn't enough, has died. She died in September, but I only heard about it today, so it's today that my heart aches for the end of the vision of an artist and designer whose style inspired me so much. Her Obit told me things about her struggles in life that make her accomplishments even more inspirational. In her own words:

"I live within the vivid colors of my imagination, soaring with rainbow-feathered birds, racing the desert winds on horseback, wrapped in ancient tribal jewels, dancing with mythical tigers in steamy jungles."

All that in was her head, while dealing daily with a very frail body and constant pain; what she chose to make for the world was exuberant beauty and visions of joy, with a particular love for cats. My one trip to England was chronicled in a journal with this Laurel Burch cat head cover. It was with me through days of sketching at the Victoria and Albert, through grad school interviews and observations of the world I craved to enter.

I so clearly remember the first place I heard of Laurel Burch. In the early 1970s there was a book of folk artists in the San Francisco Bay area called "Native Funk & Flash." This book was a key to creativity for many artists of my generation, and seems to have been in the hands of many bead artists who sprung up in the 80s, m'self included. In it was a picture of Laurel, sitting on a bed wearing a "Lifetime dress" of her own (at that time) exotic design. My first contact with her mass produced jewelry was in Ye Olde Mystic Shoppes, a very twee shopping district down the road from the Mystic Seaport Museum. I was on a forced march speed day trip by bus & I was cranky because as much time was allotted to the "Ye Olde Shoppes" as was the Seaport, where I thought we were spending the day. Two things of delight came out of that forced shopping trip - a view of rainbow-like sundogs and the purchase of a pair of pewter Laurel Burch sitting cat earrings. I wore out the first pair, lucked into finding a matching second pair made out of sturdier metal, and wear them still. My world comes in richer colors because Laurel Burch lived.

I write this with tea fragrantly steaming by my side, my own mix of black tea with peppermint & spearmint, in a mug decorated with Laurel Burch dancers.

Is lusting after furniture a sin?

Once upon a time, in the last century, my late husband and I bought this house from a very busy couple; he an oral surgeon, she a brain surgeon, with two kids, a large dog and a nanny. I suspect the only stores they went to were grocery stores, and that they bought everything else mail order. We became "Or" (the current resident) to a mindboggling collection of catalogs that missed being forwarded. Once or twice a week something would arrive. My wonderment at the profusion of catalogs caused me to start collecting them to see how they'd add up. Six months later, I had a two foot pile. It took years to stop being the "Or" family. I think that Siberia on the Heights was a "desirable" zipcode to the catalog producers, because it took years, in some instances for the catalogs to stop coming. I think the only one we succumbed to was Lillian Vernon, who at that time had storage items that were difficult to find elsewhere.

27 years later....

I'd been gawking at the Toscano catalogs that came to a friend at work. The peculiar combination of religious articles, medievalish gargoyle/dragon tchotckes, lovely library furniture & fittings and other oddments enchanted me. The continual exposure to the catalog finally got me to ordering a couple things from them. The funky gag gift of pens turned out to be much more nicely made than I'd anticipated, and the humor part mutated into just a bit peculiar. The other items, some celtic knot work sculpture, were decent for the price. I was happy. I figured I'd be getting the Toscano catalog myself now.

Yes, that happened AND a stream of about one new catalog a week in an increasingly peculiar vein. It was easy to be amused with the one that had a combination of wiccan folderol, Christian tchotckes and hippiechick clothes. The lamp catalog was something I knew I should hide from Chuck (who has a fetish for acquiring lamps). But what really got me moaning and drooling was the fairly thick catalog with dozens of lovely, reasonably priced furniture in the Mission style. Some gave you the choice of "golden" or "Morris" oak. Even with reasonable prices, what I want out of that catalog likely equals a year's worth of salary, between the oak and the rugs. Oh yah.. lovely lovely rugs. Wool. Rugs. I am damned to catalust & I'll save you, gentle reader, the same fate by not posting their link. You'd thank me, really.

Oh yeah, Spring

This is a week overburdened with events of significance, great and small. Holy Week calls for lots of attention (and odd jobs and lots of music rehearsal) and time in church. St. Pat's got it's due with a dinner party, but the coming of spring was noted only in passing, during a deep breath or two.

Spring in Siberia on the Heights is frequently indistinguishable from winter. On the first morning of spring, I woke to a couple inches of crisp snow, covering all the muddy grey ugliness of the melting heaps of previous snow. The view from my stair landing of my back yard was a giggly delight. I usually see some bunny tracks, we have lots of bunnies here, but the yard was crisscrossed with dozens of bunny trails in the snow. There were a half dozen or more places where the snow had been seriously scuffed up at intersections of tracks. I rather suspect this was evidence of wild spring bunny boffing & this may well be another bumper crop year when we contemplate hasenpfeffer potlucks.

Meme: Passion Quilt

The "look what I made" smiles

Dr. Zeus tagged me I also hear and obey.

What I'm most passionate about my students learning is the feeling of satisfaction and pride in work that is worthy of it. Kindling the fire of inspiration to do artwork is the overarching principle. Art students come to you with the urge already there, and in my teaching in mostly alternative situations, I'm blessed with an even more motivated group. Technique is part of what I teach, but always in aid of an idea. Showing a student how to take that path from a fuzzy idea, to a well formed concept, through picking a compatible medium, and working on the technique required, to the conclusion of pleased astonishment at their work - this is my passion. Showing them ways to tap their inner fire with mental exercise as casual or intellectually rigorous as their stage in life and dedication to art require is the flip side to technique. The path is the same with students from wee girls in camps to the oldest students in senior centers: "oh, I can't do that... oh, that's not so hard is it...hmm... I might try that ... wow, this is not so bad ... cool! I CAN do this!" I am equipping them with the tools to do their own creative explorations, & the ability to take that path again without me to guide.

THE RULES:
Post a picture or make/take/create your own that captures what YOU are most passionate for students to learn about.

Give your picture a short title.

Title your blog post “Meme: Passion Quilt.”

Link back to this blog entry.

Include links to 5 (or more) educators.

I was startled Dr. Zeus tagged me for this as I'm an art teacher (and have only drawn from live, if recumbent, bodies) & this is my first meme. I'm new to the blogosphere, and don't have any teaching acquaintances to tag, so either I'll have to suffer the consequences of not passing it on, the way I have with chain letters, or if you're an untagged teacher, consider yourself tagged.

I Bind Unto Myself Today

It's a rare year that has St. Patrick's falling at the start of Holy Week. Lent and Easter haven't been this early since our grandparents' day, nor will it be so early again until our grandchildrens' day. While every bar and restaurant becomes Irish for the day, drinking celebrated, shamrocks on everything including fast food shakes, it's more striking how off the mainstream my appreciation of the day has become. While I love how much the whole Irish culture is celebrated this day, and I'll be doing it m'self with friends helping me eat corned beef, colcannon, and soda bread, this heritage is something I cherish every day. Today I praise the enduring power of the prayer of St. Patrick's Breastplate.

St. Patrick's Breastplate is contained in the ancient Book of Armagh, from the early ninth century. "Breastplate" is a translation of "lorica" or protective garment, particularly armor. Metaphorically, a Lorica is a chanted "binding" prayer for protection. St. Patrick is thought to have written this prayer to strengthen himself with God's protection as he prepared to confront and convert Loegaire, high king of Ireland. The use of a binding prayer/chant shows one of many facets of how early Christianity in Ireland absorbed & changed aspects of the druid faith to it's own purpose. The legend surrounding it's use has St. Patrick & his companions appearing as deer and doe to the threatening druids, giving the prayer the alternate name "Deer's Cry."

While it is by no means the only Lorica in existence, St. Patrick's Breastplate is the best known, possibly because of being translated from the Gaelic and set to music. Though the music is somewhat difficult, changing tempos from being composed of two traditional tunes, it is beautiful. Cecil Alexander put words to music at the re­quest of H. H. Dickinson, Dean of the Chapel Royal at Dublin Castle:

St. Patrick's Breastplate

I bind unto myself today
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same
The Three in One and One in Three.

I bind this today to me forever
By power of faith, Christ’s incarnation;
His baptism in Jordan river,
His death on Cross for my salvation;
His bursting from the spicèd tomb,
His riding up the heavenly way,
His coming at the day of doom
I bind unto myself today.

I bind unto myself the power
Of the great love of cherubim;
The sweet ‘Well done’ in judgment hour,
The service of the seraphim,
Confessors’ faith, Apostles’ word,
The Patriarchs’ prayers, the prophets’ scrolls,
All good deeds done unto the Lord
And purity of virgin souls.

I bind unto myself today
The virtues of the star lit heaven,
The glorious sun’s life giving ray,
The whiteness of the moon at even,
The flashing of the lightning free,
The whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks,
The stable earth, the deep salt sea
Around the old eternal rocks.

I bind unto myself today
The power of God to hold and lead,
His eye to watch, His might to stay,
His ear to hearken to my need.
The wisdom of my God to teach,
His hand to guide, His shield to ward;
The word of God to give me speech,
His heavenly host to be my guard.

Against the demon snares of sin,
The vice that gives temptation force,
The natural lusts that war within,
The hostile men that mar my course;
Or few or many, far or nigh,
In every place and in all hours,
Against their fierce hostility
I bind to me these holy powers.

Against all Satan’s spells and wiles,
Against false words of heresy,
Against the knowledge that defiles,
Against the heart’s idolatry,
Against the wizard’s evil craft,
Against the death wound and the burning,
The choking wave, the poisoned shaft,
Protect me, Christ, till Thy returning.

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself the Name,
The strong Name of the Trinity,
By invocation of the same,
The Three in One and One in Three.
By Whom all nature hath creation,
Eternal Father, Spirit, Word:
Praise to the Lord of my salvation,
Salvation is of Christ the Lord.

Post-Buzzard Day Post

My friends Phil and Margaret are famous for fine singing, good humor, bad jokes, and horrid puns. They got such a kick out of the northern Ohio ritual of welcoming the buzzards back to the town of Hinkley that they wrote a song about it. They tend to preface it with the story about the buzzard couple who were stopped from boarding a plane because they were each carrying two very dead critters, one under each wing. They didn't see what the problem was, because they were clearly told they could bring two pieces of carrion.

Kate and Phil being Mr & Mrs Buzzard,
while Margaret does the color commentary:













The song "When the Buzzards Come Back Again to Hinkley (my dear I'll be carrying on with you)" is the audience participation event for those who can't sing on pitch or in correct tempo. The more off pitch /tempo the better. The band sings:
"When the Buzzards Come Back Again to Hinkley"
The audience is to sing back:
"HINKLEY!"
with gusto, and who cares what key. I recall one particularly enthusiastic audience who had great fun with it. A song or two later, something pretty, and from the back of the hall comes a "HINKLEY!" from, I suspect Pete Z. The band lost it, entire. It was a great moment, ya shoulda been there, yah you bet. I need to cajole a recording of this for local use and edification.

Blizzard on the Heights

It wasn't a blizzard on an epic scale, no, but it was a more snow in a short period than we're used to getting. I'd stocked up on Friday, heeding the weather warnings, and by late in the afternoon folks were canceling events & trying to leave work and schools early, if they were smart. Only about 3 or 4 inches of new snow covered the frozen couple of inches in my driveway by Friday night, but ohhhhhh Saturday morning was another thing entire! With the way I get crazy drifts, it's difficult to tell perzactly how high it got, but a few dips of the metal yardstick convinced me that it was two feet, more or less.
I had to push the back door open against drifts. The wee dog just looked at me as if I'd lost my mind in expecting him to go out there and Do what Needs to be Done. (And me with no Powdermilk Dog Bisquits, darn.) I shoveled a path for him, but by the time I got past the edge of the house, the 8°F and 30 mph sustained winds suggested to me that I reconsider. The dog took advantage of the path, but with lack of canine conviction. An hour later, everything I'd shoveled was drifted back in again. Listening to all the cancellations of dances and concerts announced on Saturday radio was clue that it wasn't just Siberia On the Heights that the storm had inconvenienced. What gave me pause was when WRUW decided to "end our broadcast day" at the end of Bill Kennedy's Irish show at 1:30 in the afternoon, for the safety of their volunteers. I enjoyed having a fully stocked larder, a couple books to read, plenty of tea, heat, water, and electric, knowing that I wasn't going ANYwhere anytime soon.

Sunday Morning was gorgeously sunny & it felt so peculiar to be sleeping in rather than up and tuning the 'harp for church. The snow smothered landscape was gorgeous, deep, and a challenge to shovel. I hacked out a path for the dog, but didn't last too long and figured I MIGHT be able to get the drive done by Tuesday morning, then a neighbor took pity on me, and had my drive cleared by snowblower. The street hadn't been plowed till Sunday, though the driveway plow guys had been busy. I'd watched the guy doing the drive next door with more enthusiasm than skill, after I heard the first BAM!!! of plow hitting the stone edging to their drive. Not learning his lesson, he scraped the snow down, then back toward their lawn with another BAM!! At that point, I figured he'd demolished part of the two steps & wingwall bit of masonry by their sidewalk. The thaw has shown this to be the case: He uprooted a 16 inch boulder and bits of brick from the wingwall are peeping out of the snowbank that is filthy with the turf and topsoil he scraped off my treelawn. It's going to be ugly, but I'm still ready for a full thaw. Meanwhile, what a lovely difference a week makes:
Saturday, March 8th:

Saturday, March 15th:

Darn, I missed it!

In browsing links to the music I love, I came across a resource for Celtic festival listings & started looking at all the events I'm not likely to get to, but would love to see. This past January there was one I think I'd have taken a pass on that still fascinated me in a "truth is stranger than fiction" sort of way, billed as "The Most Glamorous Irish Festival in the World," the Dubai Irish Festival. Yes, that's Dubai in the Middle East, not a poorly spelled Dublin. They have a flashy web page, but glamorous isn't how I usually think of traditional Irish musicians, unless it's one of the programs aired during a PBS fund drive - they do get tarted up for those. Held in January, the Dubai Irish Festival at least has the attraction of warm place during the cold in the north. The astonishingly green golf course they advertise as part of the whole shebang makes me wonder how much of their GNP went to water bills.

In Like a Cliche

Oh Joy. It's March. In my world that's where all the Irish cliches, especially the music ones, come out of the woodwork. I've a deep joy in the traditional music, and in some of the contemporary performers who come out of the folk tradition who write splendid new songs. One of my favorites is Robbie O' Connell. For the only peripherally aware who ask "whozat?" saying he's the Clancy Brothers' nephew usually suffices. I fell in love with his singing decades ago when he performed in a trio with Mick Maloney and Jimmy Keane. In those years I was actively involved in promoting folk music concerts, and Celtic-flavored artists in particular. For a few years I was behind a "NO Danny Boy and NO Green Beer" concert on St. Patrick's Day, featuring traditional performers.

To perhaps explain why I get cranky about the music one hears in March, I offer you, gentle reader, the lyrics to one of Robbie's songs:

You're Not Irish

When first I came to the USA with my guitar in hand
I was told that I could get a job
singing songs from Ireland
So I headed up to Boston,
I was sure to be alright
But the very first night I got on the stage,
I was in for a big surprise

they said;
(Chorus) You're not Irish you can't be Irish
you don't know Danny Boy
Or Toora loora loola, or even Irish Eyes
You've got the hell of a nerve to say
you came from Ireland
so cut out all the nonsense
and sing Mcnamaras Band

To tell the truth I got quite a shock
and I didn't know what to say
So I sang a song in Gaelic
I thought that might win the day
But they looked at me suspiciously
and I didn't know what was wrong
The all of a sudden they started to shout
now sing a real Irish song
(Chorus)

The next day I was on my way for Chicago I was bound
I was ready to give it another try
and not let it get me down
From the stage they looked quite friendly,
but I hardly sung one word
When a voice called out from the back of the room,
and what do you think I heard? (Chorus)

Now I've traveled all around the country,
but its always been the same
From LA to Philadelphia and from Washington to Maine
But sometimes now I wonder if its a secret society
And it doesn't matter wherever I go
they'll be waiting there for me,

saying;
You're not Irish you can't be Irish
you don't know Danny Boy
Or Toora loora loora or even Irish eyes
You've got a hell of a nerve to say
you came from Ireland
So cut out all the nonsense and sing McNamara's band