Inspired

First, Anna posted a posy from her yard, and that made me go check ours.

Then, Aunt Sally's picture from earlier in the week of her teddy bear and Uncle Walter's toy lion reminded me that I should try adding a bit of stuffing to my panda so it could sit next to Phil's bear and not flop over. Tah-dah! She looks much less tragic, now. I tried adding a bow, but that was too much.

And my final project for this damp day is a bit of a left over from last week's yard sale clear out. I unearthed this collage that I believe hung in my senior year dorm room and first apartment -- and has lived in storage since then. Pictured: Mitch; sailboat Blaze; Jamie and Kristin; 1986 CITs; Laurie-Liz and me; Mary Sam; oh look, that's the Galers so that's 1989 or so; Junior Show; a picture from GS Maine trip; Ween and me at Junior Show; Laurie and me in the snow; Claire and Gretchen.

I bought my first string of fairy lights at the Woolworth's in Northampton, Mass., on a solitary trip, a bus ride away from my own college town. I grew up in a lovely/eclectic colonial revival house, in the windows of which we put a single white candle-light each Christmas. Our tree featured a string of big, colorful bulbs. Tiny white lights seemed new, special, mine.

On that same trip, I bought, somewhat sheepishly, some women's magazine or another, telling myself that the cut-out gift tags inside would be Useful for the presents for my family I imagined wrapping at school and flying home to Richmond with. Whether I didn't use them was because I didn't buy presents before leaving, or because I eventually realized that it could be ruinous for the look of wrapped gifts to fly with them, I no longer recall. I think, really, I bought the magazine for a nostalgia for looking at magazines with my mom, especially at Christmas time. There were even a couple she'd saved so we could look at them over and over - and refer to that one that had ALL the good cookie recipes. I remember one one with a sweet cartoon story -- if not by Maurice Sendak, then by someone else with a similar style.

So magazine and lights and other sundries in hand, I felt grow up: I felt like a shopper in "Silver Bells." Nine times out of ten, the verse that begins "city sidewalks," brings Northampton to mind. My new lights hung in our College Street-facing window of Northy Rocky; and they graced the bay window of the room in Abbey. In my memory of my MacGregor single, that bay window is so sunny and dogwood tree-filled, I almost imagine I would have skipped the lights, but I doubt it.

At college, every spring I'd take sweaters to be stored at the dry cleaner's, and I'd pack up books and knicknacks and my fairy lights and flannel sheets and store them in next year's dorm basement. Senior year, even having drawn a rather good number in the housing lottery, I followed the outstanding Noreen to 1837 Hall. The Ramada Inn of dorms needed the help of my fairy lights most of all, and they were up and plugged in most of the year. In December, 1988, they spiffed up my first apartment, a swell place on Park at Strawberry St.

That first strand lasted a surprisingly long time: Mississippi and back, I believe. Maybe it was one of two that hung year-round in the dining room on Mulberry St., making it possible to brighten any gray day, make every party sparkle. I do remember that when it finally stopped working, I thought, Well, that was good long run.

Now I live in the second house I've owned, and for the first time ever I've hung lights outside (in the contorted filbert, visible through the french doors in the family room). They're hand-me-downs from Mom, who decorated outside at the farm where they live now for the parties they threw for several years. I love the way tiny lights make the dark part of the year sparkle, and I love the string of memories they invoke.

(later): Am I in danger of collecting links on Christmas lights? Here's Seth Godin on lights and community.

Nerves

My alma mater uses Facebook to keep current students and alumnae connected via announcements, pictures, videos, and the occasional discussion question. At the beginning of the fall semester, we were invited to recall move-in day. Oddly, one of my strongest memories has to do with breakfast that day. (I shared it more briefly than what follows.) We drove up from Virginia the day before move-in day and stayed at a hotel in Springfield. We had breakfast (in the then-still revolving-roof restaurant?? could that be true?) in the hotel. My nervous tummy lead me to order waffles - nice and bland. The waitress kindly said something along the lines of, You don't really want that - they're just frozen ones. I don't remember what I said as I ordered them anyway. I hope I showed my appreciation, because it was a kind gesture in the face of my - unknown to her - queasiness.

I had another meal on a nervous tummy with the folks, tonight. This time, add in my husband, but the reason is, once again, loaded with potential good. We'd just been looking at some houses Phusband and I are considering buying. I know they are just trying to keep me grounded and sensible, but my parents' talents at pointing out potential drawbacks are enough to make even stronger stomachs than mine sink. I had choked down just one piece of pizza. We started the meal with an unfamiliar waitress, but a favorite waitress checked on us and brought us the bill. Perhaps a good sign?

Pictured: October 9?, 2007, Bath County, Va.



Fall

You know how Seasonal Decor -- tiny banners to stake into the ground by your suburban mailbox, tchotkes to put on the sideboard, the things grade-school teachers put up to cue in students on the month -- assigns yellow and orange leaves to September? Why in the world is that? Admiring the green trees all around me as I drift about town this month, I vaguely imagined it was more of the Northeast's hegemony over the US's view of itself: orange leaves to kick walking to school on the first day back, snow at Christmas, new spring flowers in May, etc. But I have located shocking new evidence that suggests that only the remotest bits of New England (and the far West) hit peak color as early as September! (That's a weather.com map; the one I read was different, but the gist, of course, was the same. I'll just be darned if I can find the other.) Nearly all of us see green leaves all September long!

Of course, I exaggerate a touch. After a dry summer, certain Virginia trees, like tulip poplars, will turn yellow in August; and decorative sugar maples started to show colors a few days ago. But -- most of the first half of September, you could have gone swimming, too. As a Virginian, the idea of equating September with sweaters, scuffling through leaves, and chilly nights misses the mark.

You know what doesn't miss the mark? Mountain Day at Mount Holyoke College! Just seeing the words in my in box (well, on Facebook, this year) raises my spirits, even though I still have to report to work. To celebrate, my walking buddy and I headed to Maymont. Walking up the hill by the bison is sort of like climbing Mount Holyoke, right?

And speaking of The Mountain (as we said at school), I have been thinking about how nineteenth century tourists knew it and the Mountain House well -- as well as Niagara Falls, says a speaker in this Convocation video. Yet now it's an unknown and a quaint bit of history.

And speaking of Niagara Falls, more than once, I have heard voices in "The National Parks" assert that various founding figures wanted to avoid the over-commercialization of the newly protected places -- to be sure that "what happened to Niagara Falls doesn't happen here." Mt. Holyoke, once as well known as Niagara, is now a mild-mannered state park (except today, when it's swarming with students!); Niagara, considered in the nineteenth century too tacky, remains, ah, busy and developed in the, um, best capitalist way. Maybe the lesson is that setting aside land works; certainly my advice for the day is get outside and enjoy autumn, whatever color the leaves are where you live!

Reunion, Part 2

Literally and figuratively, a picnic on the green follows the parade as the big thing on reunion weekends. One of the first meals incoming students get is a picnic dinner. Cookouts on the green appear again for Family Weekend and once or twice in the spring. I like eating outside with a huge community/family. Here's Michelle & Fran:




















Just beyond my lunch bunch, you can see the new addition to Blanchard.














Blanchard houses the student center, the campus store (which no longer sell text books!), offices, and a food court-ish space. The campus store, another Must, was packed, but shoppers were cheery. The store's staff was about as gruff as always. Though, there was a cheerful young woman working who seemed to be telling her line that this wasn't the campus shop she usually worked in -- it was so nice here, and how 'bout that parade?

Of course, I gave Phil and the Teen a tour, with predictable stops like the library:














Then Teen and I joined a large crowd touring the New Dorm.




































I wonder how long the college will wait to see if a donor wants to buy naming rights? How long before we can all vote on something? I would suggest honoring beloved college figures: Kennan, DeLonga, or Calhoun, anyone? Speaking of Liz, I ran into some classmates upstairs in the library where there's a portrait of President Kennan. I was trying to articulate what it was about the breezy pose (striding with academic robe, flying, over a red(?) dress) and the dog at her heels that I didn't like, when one classmate appeared and pronounced it "too Carol Burnett." Yes, that's it.















Here's Ween. She loves to entertain.




















After the tour, we had just enough time to drive up the Mountain. I had not been in the restored summit house, yet. There are sample bedrooms and other displays. It's a great space. P and I climbed to the top deck.

Reunion Part 1

So much happens in twenty years: births and deaths; marriages-divorces-new marriages; careers are launched, impressive new titles bestowed, careers are changed up (several times). Yet, MHC Class of '88 seemed remarkably the same. Even women whose names I never really knew looked much the same: Over there, by Whosit -- the blonde? She looks just the same, only with lines at the corner of her eyes. (Many of us have new lines on our faces and white in our hair, and that's okay.) I'd know her anywhere as a classmate, even though I can't think of her name.

The first classmate I spotted was hot off the road from her drive up from Maryland. SS live in North Rocky, too, freshman year, and we were bio lab partners. Her kids must have been angels for the long drive, because she jumped out of the car fresh and spunky as ever! I had just negotiated my way into two rooms in Torrey because, the alumnae association staffer said, most families have no trouble sharing a dorm room with their children, so of course we had been assigned one room -- I felt less than spunky.

Our Torrey rooms were a let down -- the furniture looked like crap. The rooms always look grim when empty; no matter how often you repeat this, it's hard to be prepared. Luckily, class headquarters was Ham Hall, so we got out of the dorm quick, and strolled just up the hill for a drink.














We saw Sheree there.














Our next stop was town. (What did we say, back in the day? I'm going: Uptown? Into town?) We visited the Odyssey, and found the restaurants packed with people who had made graduation weekend - reunion weekend reservations. . . . We got back in the car and found some pizza.

Saturday, of course, is all about the Laurel Parade (click here for history of).

Getting Close to Posting About Reunion

While in South Hadley, I flipped through Johnny Bunko at the Odyssey. The book, which caught my eye in a book catalog didn't impress me, but Doctorow makes me think I should buy it for my lib. after all.

We walked up to the Odyssey Friday night, after making the Capital City to SoHad drive in just under 10 hours. Dad worried we'd catch Hartford's rush hour -- what we actually got was some crazy slowdown in Waterbury and smooth sailing after that.

Reunion!
















Fran, Sheree and me!

More on reunion, later. I still have the cold I got kayaking: driving 1000 miles, and talking and walking lots probably hasn't helped it.

"I've Forgotten More History Than You'll Ever Know"

I try to be diligent about moving things to a "give to thrift store" pile on a regular basis. Got two new 50s platters for my birthday? The 1980s one must go, to make room. Need a hanger? Find one thing I haven't worn in a year: out it goes. Of course, I often have second thoughts. Today's errands would bring me by a thrift, so I grabbed up two ready bags. I glanced in: a white T-shirt? I put away too many Ts when I switched seasons, let me grab this one. Oh. My history grad school shirt: "I've forgotten more history. . . ." I nabbed it.

At some point in the last two days (as I shift to Student Standard Time, I lose track of actual days), I went on a serious digression, looking for an old notebook. I felt certain I had a whole class at Mount Holyoke on oral history, a topic skimmed in a current class. No sign of it, though, in the box o' notebooks (yes, I am a packrat). My transcript is full of classes with indecipherable abbreviations, none of which seems to be oral history. I guess the project I remember so well, for which I interviewed an elderly alumna, was part of some larger class. I promise I spent less than 20 minutes flipping through notebooks; and I even virtuously pulled out a bunch of photocopied handouts to review and toss. It wasn't a waste of time -- it was cleaning!

I just looked over a couple of inches of photocopied journal articles and book sections: H's African History class; some English class; one of my southern historys; and a huge amount on African-American religion -- did I take a whole class on that? Did I have an English instructor named Ellis, or is this a shared style handout? Look at all this great southern history stuff! Statistics, seminal writings -- *shlush* into the recycling bin, all those things I'd forgotten I had once known. Oh. I always did like that shirt.

Capital City weather: down to 29 over night.

Uncommon Women

I spent the weekend celebrating my fifteenth college reunion. I once more reveled in an intellectual atmosphere, never once hesitating to use the big word or to show how much I know. I also listened to classmates talk of staying home with their children in tones ranging from sheepishness to haughty pride. I marveled at the beauty of the campus that had been home for four years. I enjoyed myself.

No matter where I wanted to go on campus, I felt surprised that I still knew just how to get there, and which would be the prettiest way to walk. I knew just how the library stacks would smell, and the name of an obscure building. How can I get lost trying to get somewhere in metro Richmond that I have been before, yet I can still navigate a place I have visited only five times in fifteen years?

As I have experienced during quiet times at camp, just about everywhere I went at MHC I could replay an old scene or remember a snippet of conversation. LM waxing poetic about the smells of spring on Skinner Green. Ween and I carrying a box of tissues and cups of tea up the garden steps en route to J’s class. SS stopping me by the library to tell me so earnestly about her J-Term internship that I rushed off to sign up for one – at Colonial Williamsburg – myself. Who would I be if I had not fallen to S’s peer pressure and thus launched my first career in museums?

I didn’t visit only old haunts; I went on a guided tour of the new buildings on campus , too. Led by Kate ’04, the tour took us to the music building; past poor Blanchard, under renovation again; briefly to the art museum which some of the older alumnae hadn’t seen before; to MHC’s new pride, Kendade Hall; and finally to the Library. Kate gave us a good picture of how students use and live on the campus today. Her take on post-modern Kendade – which may have been the college-approved spiel – belittled Carr’s 1950ish International Style charm and suggested that the college would not hesitate to change other modern exteriors or indeed tear down buildings in the interest of achieving the same slightly spooky uniformity of the University of Richmond. Engulfing Carr labs, Kendade is a spectacular po-mo college building. It features soaring spaces, chunky details reflecting other bits of campus, and flooring worked into solar system, DNA, and neuron designs. It’s swell.

Modern wonders about elsewhere, too. All of the rooms, even in 1897’s Pearsons Hall where I lived this weekend, have all of the computer hook ups a modern student needs. Pratt features a sci-fi-ish room which, at the touch of a button, adjusts its acoustics so that you can hear yourself speak, or sing, or play as if you were in stadium, a small concert hall, or a small room – about six or eight choices in all. I took a one hour class on creating a web site in a computer lab chock full of matt black Dell computers and with the nicest set up I’ve seen for projecting the instructor’s screen so we could all click along. If I were a current student, the college would provide space for my own page; as it is, you’ll have to wait until I figure out a cheap way to do it in my current world.

Natural “wonders” caught my eye when we arrived on Thursday. It was a clearing, pleasant spring day in New England, so of course azalea, tulips, dogwood, and honeysuckle were all in bloom, together. Outrageous and fun. Friday’s weather continued to be warmer and sunnier than we’d had in Capital City in weeks, and the rain even held off until after the Alumnae Parade. Though shorter and lacking the current graduating class, the parade always stirs indescribable feelings of pride and reassurance. I feel proud to be connected to generations of educated, talented, witty (we carry signs that often convey, amongst other things, our senses of humor) women; I feel both reassured that I can make it and challenged to go out and do my very best. During the Alumane Association meeting, Class of '88 President S. did a fabulous job presenting the two-minute version of our class history.

And all too soon, it was time for S & D to take me back to the airport in Hartford, then as now remarkably similar to Capital City Airport. Indeed, Hartford’s airport seems to have been renovated in the last couple of years, too, and both now sport bold geometric designs in the flooring. The floors and those classic Eames airport chairs foster a feeling that one has just spent hours staying in the same place. But before heading out for more of the same travel experience on Sunday, the Long Islanders and I strolled Northampton, in the rain. We gleefully perused Simpsons toys and other good stuff in Faces (number one on the list at that site; I’d disagree with the card assessment: Mongrel might be a smidge better). Other stores we remembered from those glory days of the 80s still in operation numbered less than six, I’d say: Sweeties, Paul & Elizabeth’s, and Thornes Market. Like Carytown, NoHo lost its useful things: the Woolworths and the hardware store stand out in my mind. My first string of Christmas lights came from that Woolworths; my most recently-purchased ones from Garden Ridge, out by Byrd Airport – and thus we have completed the return trip.