Elsie's Notes from New England - THEMission edition

When I was a little girl, my mom used to get her hair done every Friday.  She would get it washed and dried and styled and teased and sprayed and set.   All week long, she'd sleep on a satin pillow case to keep her hairstyle intact, and she'd just pick through it to freshen the 'do every morning.  Then, the next Friday, she'd do it all over again.  I loved her hairdressers - Jerry and Larry. They were funny and quirky and kind of outrageous, at least to a five-year-old girl in a mid-sized mid-western town.  Maybe that's where I learned my affection for quirky hairdressers. My current stylist is right up there with the best of them in the quirky department, but in a very different way from Jerry and Larry.  He decided to become a hair stylist while he was serving in the military during the 70s.  He saw the movie "Shampoo," and was inspired by Warren Beatty's flair with women and hair.  So, my stylist is ex-military and straight.  There's som...

I stole someone's parking spot today.  I mean, not technically; the spots are first-come, first-served, but I know that I did and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Parking on campus is complicated.  I think parking is always complicated, sometimes even in my own driveway.  If I can get to work by 7:45 a.m., I can always park in Snively Lot.  That's not its actual name, but it's what we call it because it's the lot next to the old Snively Ice Arena.  Now that that's been converted to the student fitness center, most of the younger folk on campus don't even know the name Snively, but it's still what John and I call the lot.  It's small, so it fills up fast, and it's always been the closest lot I knew of to our buildings. If I miss the 7:45 a.m. cutoff, I have to go to the Alumni Center to park.  It's about a block further out, and a larger lot, so there's always parking there until 9 o'clock or so, unless there's an event going ...

It's taken about thirty years for me to get to tell the end of this story.  Hopefully you've read the beginning already. This is Scarlett.  She is two.  She brought her parents to visit us for Thanksgiving this year. Helping Grandpa decorate the tree. When the turkey was all tucked away in its Tupperware and the pies were half-eaten, we had some time on our hands, so I pulled out a batch of cookie dough I had made and she and I cut out some Christmas cookies.  We put on our aprons and washed our hands and pulled up a sturdy stool for Scarlett to stand on so that she and I were almost the same height, and we began to roll out the dough.  On the counter stood the large plastic container I use to store flour.  It holds about ten pounds when it's full.  In it I keep a 1-cup measure and a scoop.  As I dusted the cutting board with flour and she and I took turns rolling the dough flat, a thought occurred to me.  It was a memory, actuall...

How do oldest kids survive?  Being the youngest of seven, I had it easy.  My parents were broken in; broken down, whatever.  They had learned long before I arrived which battles were worth fighting and when to let stuff slide.  Mellow is a good word for them by the time I came along.  They were tough, but there was a lot of wisdom floating around me, besides the fact that they were just too exhausted after raising the other six to fret about every little thing I did, which worked well for me.  On the other hand, I was not a relaxed parent . . . not at the beginning, anyway.  I was only twenty-two when our first was born, so maturity wasn’t my thing yet. I understood the theory of child rearing, but I hadn’t really internalized that what kids need most is loving and hugging and listening and talking and patience and repetition and stability. Kids don’t really care if the bathroom smells Saturday morning fresh all week long.  They don’t car...

First frost awakes a nesting urge To cast aside the summer’s leisure, Lay in storage all life’s pleasure Readying for winter’s dirge With mindset fixed so foolish, firm I miss the fiery hands that tease My mind, so resolute, to ease And memory store, against the term When winter’s chill tempts to forget That there exists but ice and gray Oh, to recall that crisp bouquet! Instead, awaiting spring’s coquette. November comes and spirit grieves For opportunity expired To warm my soul by tree-bough fire Recalling autumn leaves.

I'm going through old emails today, doing a little e-purging as part of my daily regimen in my new job:  throw away at least one folder of outdated material from the file cabinets in this office and remove from my email items connected to my old job.  I found this email I sent to my dad last year, just a week or so before his 90th birthday.  I had to write it early, because we were planning to surprise him on his 90th birthday by showing up, all six of his living children, to join him for his morning run that day.  If I hadn't sent him something about his birthday before then, he might have known that something was up, so I made sure I got this off to him early.  I should have posted it here then.  He doesn't read my blog, but if I'm going to post things about other people that I love, I should post this, too.  He's the reason I run.  He's one of the anchors of my faith.  I don't think he's perfect, but I would not ever wish to have had a d...

I hate to sweat. It's sticky and uncomfortable and usually means that I've exerted myself beyond natural levels. My face gets all red and my skin turns blotchy . . . it's not a pretty sight.  I don't glow.  I don't shimmer.  If I'm running hard or playing hard, I sweat like  . . . well, like something hot and slimy and sweaty.  Ugh.  It's not an under-arm kind of thing.  My elbow pits sweat.  My knee pits sweat ... actually my knees sweat, too, and it runs down my shins and soaks my socks. Ugh.  Most of all my back sweats, especially the small of my back, and it runs down my back and drenches the waistband of my pants or shorts, which is really unattractive if you're a teenage girl wearing white shorts, playing racquetball on a hot summer day on an outdoor court with a cute boy.  Having your rear end soaked with sweat is not appealing summer date attire. Sweating also means that I have to shower more often.  Exercising daily equ...