The Colors of Fall

Nature

At first glance I am not much of a nature girl. Yes, I went white water rafting in the Pacific Northwest where I also did some hiking in the gorges, I even wore Tevas that summer, but for the most part the closest I get to camping is staying in a 2-star hotel. Yet I love the outdoors.

I love, after a long winter and a usually uncertain spring when the buds have finally opened and trees are full of leaves, when a breeze blows that makes the leaves look like they're clapping, applauding Mother Nature for a banner day.

In the summer I love the way the sun feels on my skin. I loving being on the beach in the late afternoon, when the breeze off the ocean picks up and the sun changes just a little--as if it has decided it has worked long and hard enough for the day and is ready to rest with the rest of us.

Then, once I am done mourning the end of summer vacation, and am in the routine of relaxing in flannel pants and a sweatshirt with the windows open, I love to watch the leaves change colors. I love when the colors are so beautiful and vibrant I want to pull over and take pictures so that I can have proof that they really were a spectacle. Words fall short; simple words like red and yellow and orange don't do them justice. Today I will put my camera in my purse, in case there are scenes I cannot pass without stopping to get proof of their magnificence, because I know that winter will follow.

Welcoming winter is always difficult, transitioning to short days and long cold nights does not compel me to go outside, where for a time things look bleak and unwelcoming. But there is a stretch of tree-canopied road, tall trees on either side of the road who try to touch in the middle, on my way to work that is stunning after a snow storm. The white branches glistening in the sun take my breath away and make me wonder, how can it be so brilliant? When the answer comes to me, I am inspired to pray as I drive along.

Soft Sheets and a Comfy Bed

Until last year, I had carried around lots of furniture hand-me-downs from place to place. Then, after 10 years in the same place, without replacing any of those hand-me-downs, it was time. I was overdue. And I was moving.

In addition to custom ordering a sofa set in red, I bought a pillow-top queen size mattress. My old full size mattress, with broken springs threatening to make Swiss cheese out of me, I left on the street and called Public Works to pick up. The moment was bittersweet. Okay, minds out of the gutter! It had nothing to do with memories in the bed. It had to do with the fact that I had accumulated a linen closet full of wonderful, full size sheets. High thread count, washed and worn sheets. Soft sheets, acquired over time, with a bargain shopper's diligence to indulge my champagne taste on a beer budget. I knew buying new ones would be an expense and getting them worn in, a daunting task....Unless, of course, I only have one or two sets that I wash a lot to get them worn in...and since that's all I can afford...Brilliant. Win win.

Even before the sheets had enough washes to feel worn-in soft, my new bed was infinitely more comfortable than the old one. (Why I wouldn't swap out a few pairs of shoes and dinners out for a new mattress years before, I don't know. My only defense is that my old bedroom would not have fit a larger bed well. Weak argument, I know.) Now that the two sets of sheets I have are perfectly soft, sleep is a new experience. Not only do I wake up feeling restored and rejuvenated, but also I get into bed as if I am doing something beyond decadent--without a bonbon in sight. I look forward to going to sleep: tucking in, turning my TV on and setting the timer to go off in a 1/2 hour or so.

Last night, I caught myself doing something I normally reserve for snow days. (And do I love snow days!) At 5:30 or so, when I am normally getting into the shower, but my call has come down the phone tree that we have a snow day, I get back into bed and giggle like a school girl. Literally. I smile and say tee hee hee as I crawl back in bed. Last night, I closed my windows to keep out the frosty air, set my alarm clock, turned on the TV to watch the last bit of the debate, then got into bed and said tee hee hee. I reminded myself the forecast called for frost, not snow. Then I said it again.

Patent Leather Shoes

Patent leather shoes make me happy. For that matter, so do patent leather hand bags. I have 3 pair of patent leather shoes--boots, open back shoe boots, and loafers. I have one patent leather tote bag, and 2 patent leather purses.

I don't know where my love of patent leather comes from. I think, like any little girl, I must have had standard issue Easter shoes: patent leather Mary Janes in white or black. Yet I can't pinpoint a particular childhood memory that has given rise to my adult love of shiny shoes and bags that make me smile. I do, however, have memories associated with some of my current shiny items. With one pair in particular.

My open back shoes were an acquisition after a long bout with chronic foot pain during which time I could hardly find shoes to fit. Pretty wasn't the goal then. My needs and desires were far more basic. Criteria for shoes at that time in my life were: Can you get them on your feet? Can you walk in them? The fall after my surgery, just months after I walked the streets of London and Florence and Rome--without pain, but mainly in sandals-- I went shopping for new shoes. And there they were: sleek and sexy and stylish. They're pointy, on a stacked heal. From a "Western couture" collection. Expensive, but worth it. Certainly not meant for a wall flower. They represented all the shoes I couldn't have before and the new freedom I had to walk in style, without limping. They said, look at me. Look at my shoes. Look at me go. I have worn them now for 5 years, and they are getting a little beat up. I can't imagine not having them to slip my feet in--to wear with dress pants or jeans, anytime my outfit needs a little something extra, anytime my spirits need a boost.

There will be other pretty shoes, but none will be these and so I will keep them. Even after they are beaten beyond repair and no longer make a positive impression, I will keep them. I will tuck them away in their special felt bag, in their original box. As I reach for other shoes to wear, I will see them and remember how far I've come.

Grammar, Words and Meanings

Lately I am addicted to cable news political programs. Especially to msnbc. This is an historic election, and I want to make an informed choice. I also want to be able to speak intelligently about this presidential race. So every night I tune in and listen, and while I listen so that I might walk away more knowledgeable, I listen also with great pleasure, to professionals who know when to use objective pronouns and when to use subjective pronouns. I revel in knowing, despite signs to the contrary, that there still are people who love facts and words and know how to string them together. I love my daily respite from those who overuse I because they think it sounds smarter and use me inappropriately. I love that the journalists who fill me with important information about the campaigns do not litter the airwaves with adverbs where there should be adjectives. I take great comfort in knowing that people walk amongst us who know when to modify the subject, not the verb, when it is the subject that calls for description. If one more person feels badly I may scream. For God's sake, it is not your act of feeling that is impaired. You feel bad! Repeat after me: I feel happy, I feel sad, I feel good, I feel bad. How hard can that be to remember?!?!??

This grammatical obsession is my cross to bear. I admit it borders on sickness that I cannot simply listen to people without my internal editor rearing her smart-ass head. I long to give her leave, but as long as grammatical errors are made, my editor will take note. Given that some repeat offenders who keep my internal editor well employed are administrators in the school district in which I teach, I fear for the future of America. And I haven't even touched on vocabulary yet.

Since I love words as much as I love grammar, my love of words deserves as much time and space as my rant on grammar. Alas, I haven't enough time tonight to do justice to the topic of words , but promise to get back to them.

Flowers

Lest you think the only thing I love is food, I thought I would share with you that I also love flowers. I will not downplay my passion for food and cooking and wine and dining, but I need you to know that those loves are balanced with others, and I hope eventually to write about them all. Today I turn my attention to flowers.

Whenever possible, I have at least one vase of fresh flowers in my house. Sometimes they are from my mother's garden, sometimes they are from the supermarket. That is, they are always beautiful, and they are never expensive. From my mother's garden and around her house my favorites are lilacs and peonies and hydrangea; from the supermarket, alstromeria.

Obviously my mother, with her green thumb, deserves some credit for my flower habit. (Need I mention that my love for cooking and food comes also from her? Clearly, I am my mother's daughter.) Just as I cannot walk away from her house without a sack of fresh produce during summer time, or a recycled margarine tub full of cold slaw or sauerkraut or pierogi, when flowers are in bloom in her yard, she will follow me outside with kitchen shears to send me home with flowers.

Yet I have loved flowers longer than I have had a place of my own in which to showcase them. When I was a young girl, my grandmother (my father's mother) used to call my sisters and me over to her house, just two houses away, early on the morning of our last day of school to give us roses from her bushes for our teachers. In bloom in June, we would each bring a bunch of roses, whose stems were wrapped in wet paper towels and covered with aluminum foil, to our teachers as a thank you gift. All the way to school I would breathe in their beautiful scent. I can trace, therefore, my love of flowers to my youth, to my mother and grandmother. My desire to surround myself with them I attribute to an unlikely friend.

When I was in college, the mother of my heart's desire, an unrequited high school love, sent me a poem. She was going through a divorce and in a letter she shared a poem, one she probably read daily. The author and origin are disputed. The poem was Comes The Dawn; the line that stayed with me is "so plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to buy you flowers." Any C student would assume from the poem that she was sharing the story of her divorce, the journey of her heartbreak and healing. But somehow, maybe because I was in love with her son who she knew didn't return the favor, maybe because I was a freshman at an all women's college, when I read the poem, she unwittingly implored me to Be a woman who doesn't wait for a man to learn her worth, who doesn't need a man to feel worthy. Years later, when I had a place of my own, I kept the line about flowers alive by filling vases with flowers.

I still do.

Pork Products

I don't think I've ever met a pork product I don't like. I'm a good Polish girl who can eat kielbasa for breakfast as easily as I can eat a ham sandwich on the run for my first meal of the day. I love steak, but could live a long while without it. Do not, however, ever attempt take away my occasional kielbasa--including the one (at least) I always keep in my freezer just in case.

The other day I married my loves of arugula and pork in a pasta dish. I used leftover bacon and a few ounces of bulk pork sausage to start a sauce. I added garlic and diced tomatoes, dried thyme and oregano, a little red wine. When the wine reduced, I tossed in some penne, some romano cheese and--at the last minute--a healthy handful of arugula, until it was just wilted.

Tempted as I was to eat it standing at the stove, I have never been one to eat at the stove. For one, I have never had children tugging on my pant legs (or a husband monitoring my calorie intake) and so I have never developed the habit of eating on the fly (or on the sly). Perhaps more importantly, I love dishes and glasses and have a two-decade habit (that began with part time employment at Crate and Barrel) of collecting them. In fact, I have more dishes than should be legal for a single woman who has never had a bridal shower to blame, and only an apartment size kitchen in which to keep them, so I use them.

I plated some pasta and poured myself a glass of Sangiovese and savored every bite and every sip. The flavors, the textures, the smell made me happy. As I smiled, I thought about how much my meal reflected me...the blue collar Polish American girl who grew up on pork products and simple foods (that I still love!), went on to college in Boston where I graduated from iceberg to romaine and beyond, and was lucky enough to sit at an outdoor cafe in a piazza in Florence a few summers ago, by myself, near the central market (Mercado Centrale) and enjoy a lunch of thin crust pizza with arugula and prosciutto and a mezzo litro of wine.