Fly Away

We are six years late to the party, but finally into Stranger Things. Over the weekend we finished the first season, and I have little doubt the show will be at the top of our play list until we catch up with all of you fans. 

It's hard to say why I have resisted the series for so long, other than its main hook, that 80s thing, is a little off-putting to me. I did not love the 80s. Gasp if you must, but a combination of challenging personal situations made it a very tough decade for me, and so I don't have much nostalgia for it. 

But if there was one detail in Stranger Things of life back then that resonated with me, it was not the music, or the fashion, or the clunky technology, and even though I love a banana seat bike, it wasn't those either, it was the simple presence of a mix tape. Just seeing the hand-lettered cassette took me back to those pre-playlist days when, if you really cared? You spent hours finding the perfect songs and meticulously putting them in order: dropping the needle on the right track on the vinyl LP while simultaneously hitting play AND record on the tape deck. 

It was an art. And the products of that labor were treasures. In certain situations, you couldn't give a more meaningful gift. Even if the tape was for yourself, listening to it later it was always like a little time capsule, a trip back to who and where you were when you made it.

When we were kids in Saudi Arabia, western music was not readily available to us. We could hear British pop traveling 17 miles across the Arabian Gulf to us from Radio Bahrain, and once a week we might hear American Top 40 on our nearest Voice of America station. In any case, we had to wait until we went back to the States to buy records, but it didn't stop us from making mix tapes. We would record from the radio, or from another tape deck snugged up to ours, or borrow records from our friends, but we had mix tapes. 

And in the late 70s and early 80s? All of our cassettes had at least one song by Olivia Newton John. I was so sad to hear the news that she died today. Maybe it was nostalgia that made me search her discography, but when I did I found the last thing she released, The Window in the Wall, a song she sang with her daughter last year. Even at 72, having battled cancer for decades, her voice was as strong and warm as ever. I will miss knowing she is in the world. 

How Life Goes On

The babysitting request came just as Delaney dropped her packed bag in the dining room. Her dad was on the way to drive her home when Heidi's phone chimed. Would we be available to watch our friends' little girl, Olivia, for a couple hours? 

Would we!

And as it turned out, Olivia's dad dropped her off a few minutes before Delaney's dad picked her up, so our 18-year-old guest got a chance to meet and hold our 5-month-old guest, and so did her dad. 

"I think I'm ready for the next generation!" he smiled, bouncing the baby.

I raised my eyebrows. "Right now?" I asked.

He shrugged, obviously enjoying the infant endorphins. "Whenever it happens," he answered. "Whenever it happens."

Would Go Again

We made it downtown to National Theater, parked, and slipped into our left-aisle row M seats with about 10 minutes or so until curtain on the matinee of the musical Six. Having attended several Broadway shows, Delaney was impressed. "This is the closest to the stage I've ever sat!" she said with a smile. 

And although they were the best seats I could get on short notice, the auditorium was not full; no one ended up sitting to my left, and our view of the stage was excellent. The show itself, a campy musical comedy full of girl power that presents the stories of the six wives of Henry VIII as a pop concert, was also really good. 

"Would you recommend it?" I asked Delaney as we filed out of the theater 90 minutes later.

"Definitely!" she answered. "Some shows are good, and some shows are fun, but this one was both! Thank you for bringing me."

"Anytime!" I told her, and I really meant it.

Priority One

Heidi's goddaughter Delaney is staying with us for the weekend. It's the last time we'll see her before she heads off to college in a couple of weeks, and so we are making the most of it. After we picked her up from the train station we went thrift-shopping and then out to lunch in the Mosaic District, and this evening we had a nice dinner at home, played a few games, and watched some Stranger Things. We have tickets to the matinee of Six tomorrow at National Theater. 

She's been spending time with us every summer since she was born, a fact we were all reminded of tonight when we were choosing games. "Quirkle!" she said, pulling out the bright box. "I remember this!"

"You should!" I laughed. "We got it because you couldn't read, yet. You know how committed we are to having fun around here!"

Location Services

There's a bit of a lag in the weather app that I favor. Not a fan of push notifications, I'm kind of choosy when it comes to who I'll allow to interrupt me with whatever their algorithm deems important. But weather? Eh. 

It's sometimes helpful to know that rain is starting or ending, or that a winter storm warning is in place for our region. But that lag! For days when I am traveling I receive alerts for home, and then when it finally adjusts, I get notifications about the place I've been, not where I am now. 

There is an upside though. When I'm away, I like knowing when my garden has been watered by the rain, and sometimes knowing the urgent weather information for the beach or Maine or Buffalo makes the transition from there to here a little easier. 

Tonight as I drove home from the grocery store through an unexpected downpour, I was unsurprised when my phone beeped, but as the storm let up and I checked the update, I saw that rain was stopping in Atlanta, too. Knowing that my sister was looking out on the same type of weather made me smile.

A Little Lunchtime Poetry

I'm on a lot of mailing lists.

On any given day, I may receive newsletters about cooking, vegetarian cooking, bread baking, cheese making, teaching, teaching writing, poetry, challenging racism, an insider's look at congress, local news, news in Buffalo, news in the Twin Cities, farming in Maine, cheap travel deals, Swiss tourism, my horoscope, some general spiritual advice, Dog Mountain, upcoming performances in nearby venues, and yes, more (!).

I confess that [of course] many days I simply mark most of that type of message to delete without reading, but not always. That subject line and preheader text that writers and editors work so hard to perfect really does help determine whether that day's correspondence stays in my inbox. Whether I actually get to read it is another step, but I'm really glad that I took the time to read the July newsletter from Challenging Racism the other day. Under their recommendations, I followed a link to an online poetry workshop sponsored by the National Museum of African American History and Culture. 

That's how I found myself on a Zoom call from 12 to 1 this afternoon with the poet Anthony McPherson and a dozen other folks from across the country interested in learning about and writing some ekphrastic poetry. The genre is poetry written in response to a work of visual art, often taking the perspective of an individual in the painting, sculpture, photograph, or other medium.

Today we looked at three photos and a watercolor that are featured in the current exhibit Reckoning: Protest. Defiance. Resilience. McPherson shared some of his ekphrastic poetry inspired by the powerful images, gave us some pointers and direction, showed us how to work through the process, and then gave us some writing time. The writing that a few willing participants shared at the end was amazing: so moving and intense for the short time we had to compose. It's a genre and a process I can easily see using in my classroom.

It felt good to be a learner again, too. I'm almost [almost!] looking forward to getting back to school.

When Life Gives You Squash

 It hasn’t been a good year for my garden. 

I suppose I should be prepared for off-times, but the bounty of the last several seasons has spoiled me. This morning, when I returned to my garden after a week away, I had to toss more rotting tomatoes into the compost than I was able to harvest. The birds peck a few holes and the heat does the rest. After some inspection and maintenance, it seemed like the only thing thriving was butternut squash. There must be a dozen full-sized squashes ripening all over the garden where the single vine I planted has spread rampantly. But along with squash? Come squash blossoms, a treat limited only to the growing season. 

And so that is the harvest we are enjoying tonight, stuffed and fried and served with a sauce prepared from the few tomatoes I culled from the birds.

C’est le vie!