Lakes of the Clouds 5050'

Eiza's summer home just below the summit of Mt. Washington.
Serving breakfast and dinner to 90 hikers a night.

Toys

In April, Madelyn, Eliza and I wrote to the prompt of TOYS
Ten minutes, GO!
Here's a three generational response!
What are your memories of toys?

Toys (1996)

I told my mother that all I wanted in the world was a Rollerblade Kelly. Why wouldn’t I want her? Kelly was absolutely cutting edge, the coolest most with-it toy of 1996. The advertisements came on TV every other minute, reminding me (with rock and roll music playing in the background) that she could ‘blade on her own.’ She would giggle and say things like, “This is fun” and “Let’s go!” in the most realistic of voices.

That was it. I would not rest until I had her. Toy store visits would leave me bereft, turning my back on her perky pigtails and neon knee pads. The obsession did not wane, and finally my parents gave in. There she was, wrapped up for my birthday. There was no need to look at any of the wrapped trinkets that surrounded her package. I had studied her so thoroughly that I felt her presence and violently ripped her open, freeing her of her tags and plastic cage and set her down on the floor, ready for loads of instant fun.

I pushed the button on her back that was hidden under her kicky reflector vest. On she came, life pored out of her in a disruptive, loud “mmmmmmm" noise that the commercials had neglected to mention. Her eerily robotic voice echoed through the house, her pebble sized rollerblade wheels dragged mechanically across the floor. She was not at all as I had imagined her.

This was my first lesson in the deception of advertisement.

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Toys (1960)

Cathy had short, straight blond hair. She wore a blue and white checked sunsuit. She had hard, smiling plastic cheeks and arms and legs that moved. She was petite and blond; a vision of what I wished I could be.

Betty had brown, curly short hair and other wise looked a lot like Cathy. Betty’s dress was red with white polka dots. She had white rubber shoes that slid on and off her feet. She was a practical doll, which is why I named her Betty.

Susie was a beautiful baby doll. Although she was younger than Cathy and Betty, she was much larger. She came with an elegant silk coat and hat with lace around the edges. She was a fancy baby with a hole in her mouth where you could feed her a bottle.

Although my dolls came with different clothes, eventually they all wore matching nightgowns made of seersucker fabric covered with tiny red roses. They all had matching red flannel bathrobes with blue silk lining. They had been dressed this way since the early Christmas morning when I found them sitting by the tree, in new matching outfits. This was definitely my mother’s handiwork, but I gave the credit to Santa.

No matter what their ages, my dolls had to go to school. I was their teacher. I lined them up in my room along with a few stuffed animals, in small hand painted Mexican chairs. I don’t remember what I taught them but I know I liked the sense of order. All the different sized students sitting up and paying attention.

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Toys (1920)

My first toy was a doll. I called her Eleanor after my mother. She was incredibly ugly; plaster head (made in Germany) cloth arms and legs and blue eyes (painted on) and I loved her.

My cousin Beatrice was jealous and grabbed her from me, shook her up and down and banged her head on the floor. I couldn’t believe such cruelty and burst into tears and punched my cousin, but not hard enough. I have always regretted my timidity.

My other beloved doll was Jeanine. She was french, pretty, she had real eyelashes and real hair that I lovingly curled and adorned with ribbons. I never tired of watching her eyes open and close.

Where is she now, I wonder? My pretty doll.

Rainy day in New England

Having a dog who is part Australian Shepherd (she needs a herd of sheep to manage, but we don't have one) means going out for a walk even on a rainy day. Not a bad thing, actually.

Driving

95 year old Madelyn and 55 year old me met today to write together as we often do. The topic was driving.
Here are our unedited 10 minute free writes.




Driving (1920) by Madelyn

Oh! the excitement of cars.
Our first one?
A Pierce Arrow; five to six passengers, a canvas, roll down roof, large, wide apart head lights, a fur lap robe, the smell of leather.

It was brown, dusty brown, “ready to blend into the passing landscape,” my father said.
Camouflaged so as not to scare a visiting moose, deer or a bunch of wild grouse.

We would sit in it and wait...camera or hunting gun in hand.
One thrilling moment somewhere near Edgartown, on a quiet road, the
last Heath Hen scampered by.

My father, an ornithologist, was thrilled. He knew there was one and ONLY ONE Heath Hen left on Martha’s Vineyard and here it was.

Oh! valiant bird! No chance to make love or have a family.
Good bye extinct Heath Hen.
You tried.

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Driving (1997) by Barbara

The sight of the white Toyota Camry station wagon disappearing down the driveway gave me a sick feeling in my stomach.

For sixteen years I was at the wheel with Carrie in the passenger seat next to me or in the back. I was the driver. Now, after hours with her at the wheel and with me or David giving instruction, encouragement, warnings and occasional yelps as she veered too much to one side of the road of the other, she was on her own.

As I watched her drive away, I hoped the other drivers on the road would be kind. I hoped Carrie would keep both hands on the steering wheel as we had instructed and not fool with the radio dials. I hoped she’d find her way and not get lost.

Most of all, I prayed she’d return again safely, without incident.

Suddenly cars, which were such a part of our suburban life, seemed dangerous. Each large, metal, gas powered machine is at the whim of the driver; old or young, distracted or careful.

It’s all a game of chance, letting our children go. There’s no guarantee as we loosen our watchful grip and set them free. To have children venture out into the world with confidence is every parents’ goal. To watch it happen is a reason for celebration but not without a bit of trepidation.

Married for 28 years

My parents seemed too old to be hosting a wedding. When I was married at 27 years old, they were both nearing the age of seventy and already had four grandchildren. Being the youngest in a family of four kids, this came with the territory. I was always aware of having “older” parents. When they came to visit me at summer camp, fellow campers ran down to the shores of Lake Champlain to notify me that my grandparents had arrived for a visit! To their credit, Mom and Dad managed to pull off this last wedding in their usual “get it done” style.

Dad took care of buying the liquor. He was generous. We are still working our way through one of the extra large bottles of vodka that he bought at Martinetti’s!

Mom made my wedding dress. From a trunk in the attic, she pulled out the Italian linen fabric with the cut lace dress pieces that had belonged to her grandmother. With her usual combination of skill and determination, Mom created a simple, elegant dress that fit me perfectly. For the final fitting, she elicited the help of Polly Parkman Lissak, her close friend from the Art Student’s League in New York City. Polly was a talented artist and seamstress in her own right. I stood still in the dress while the two old friends assessed the situation with seasoned eyes, pulling in here, letting out there, pinning and unpinning and at times laughing until tears rolled down their cheeks. They were two school girls working on a project.

We were married in the Chapel at Phillips Academy. Being married on the Andover campus just made sense. I had attended countless parents’ weekends as a kid and was even dragged along to some trustee events in my day. I was never able to consider attending PA because girls were not accepted until the year I graduated from high school.

At thirteen I was a bridesmaid in my sister’s wedding in that same chapel. After the wedding, I watched sadly, as Ruth and Jim drove away in her red Volkswagon beetle, headed for the West Coast and a new life. At sixteen, I attended Andover Summer Session. I know I took a writing course, but the best part of that summer was being able to work in the art studio every day. Dripping in the summer heat, I learned how to use an etching press, and printed photos in the state of the art dark room. Assignments required me to pore over drawer after drawer of art slides to create a slide show to present to fellow students. I loved every minute.

When it came time to go home that summer, I packed up my stuff and waited in front of Stinson House for John to pick me up. Tall, thin, tan and alive, he strode up the path beaming. He had just gotten back from Viet Nam. It had been a long nine months waiting for this moment. I could finally exhale and give him a long relieved hug.

So where else would I be married, but Andover? I may not have attended the school but of all places on this earth, it can certainly be added to my short list of soul places.

So here’s to our 28th wedding anniversary on June 14, 2008. We celebrated last weekend in Stowe, Vermont where we were attending the wedding of Graeme and Kelly Saphier. Graeme’s father, Jon, had been David’s best man at our wedding. Amidst the din of the reception, in a barn looking out over the Vermont hills, David, Jon and I toasted the event 28 years ago, grateful for the coincidence of being together here so many years later.

co-pilot

rainy day

Dog

When we didn’t have a dog, I wondered, “why do people bother?” Dogs can be a nuisance. There are the fleas, the ticks, the dirt tracked into the house, and the responsibility. You can’t leave a dog alone for too long and certainly not overnight. Then there is the expense; dog food, chew toys, vet bills, chewed leather leashes that I pay the Armenian shoe repair man in West Concord four dollars to sew back together. Dogs growl at strangers and dig up the garden.

But each morning when I go to get Calley from her crate, she waits while I unlatch the door. She steps out and stands while I bend to pat her, scruffle her furry neck and talk quietly. Then we go to the door where she sits patiently to be let out. Once free, she bounds up the hill, jubilant at the reality of a new day. On a leash, we walk across the street, pick up our neighbor Adeline’s Boston Globe and walk up the steep driveway to deliver it to her door. Then home for breakfast.

With the first sound of David’s foot on the stairs, her head perks up, her tail wags and she is there, waiting at the gate that marks the no puppy zone of upstairs. She knows she shouldn’t but she jumps up on him and we both say in unison, “OFF!” as the trainer has told us do. Then she sits at attention trying to please. We laugh. She is a house spirit bringing love and impishness and calm that seems to bond us all together.

She is also a thief; searching out the most treasured of our possessions on which to sharpen her teeth. She comes prancing into the kitchen, head held high with a roll of David’s architectural drawings securely in her teeth. Pulled right out of his brief case.
Next it is my cell phone filched from the front hall table. Yesterday it was my car keys, now indented with her teeth marks. I went out to my car to see if the remote still works. It does. I hope she will outgrow this phase soon.

But in a quiet moment, when her amber eyes fix on us, and her blond shaggy ears perk up, we lower ourselves to the ground to scratch her neck and tell her what a good dog she is.

passive solar continued

Thanks for these contributions from our viewers!
Don has sent this photo from the Chippewa Cree reservation in Rocky Boy,Montana.
Taken while on a business trip as part of
his work for an Indian bank.
Ruth has sent laundry from Peru.
Don has sent laundry from Beirut, Lebanon.
John has sent laundry from Davis,California.
Recognize those clothes, anyone?

Any more images?
Send them to my email and I'll post.

Eliza writes that everything is wet on Mt. Washington.
But the clouds are beautiful and even a hint of sun
over the mountains is breath taking.
They dry their Carharts in the oven.

passive solar

From Sicily to the Vineyard to our own backyard, we see people harnassing the sun's energy. We can learn from the Italians on this one, every balcony is used on a sunny day to dry any thing that is wet. Here in Lincoln, I use the clothesline and the little dial on the electric meter does not move at all. Free drying service.
As for the Vineyard, drying towels on the line after swimming or an outdoor shower is habit. Can you imagine putting a towel in the dryer after swimming? A wet towel goes right on the line, ready to be grabbed on the next run down the hill to the dock.