By the end of this day I will be somewhere over the Atlantic, landing tomorrow morning in Bologna, Italy..where we expect to wine and dine, enjoy art, architecture, and a Bolognese festival. We will be training it to Milan (hoping to see an opera at La Scala and a soccer game), Lake Como (hoping to see George Clooney, or is he still in jail in Africa?), Cremona (the town famous for its luthiers such as Stradivari), Verona (thought to be the setting for “Romeo and Juliette, and there is a balcony), and Padua. We have an early train to the latter next Tuesday AM, so I don’t expect to be posting that day. We’re looking forward to seeing Giotto frescos in a chapel there, and just like the Last Supper, we had to have reservations made weeks ago. At the appointed time of your reservation you spend a half hour dehumidifying so that you don’t facilitate the further deterioration of these artistic masterpieces–which you then have 15 minutes to view.
At least that’s the plan. Other than abiding by these reservations, we may have other inspriations and take off in totatlly different directions…following our noses and palates, eyes and ears.
And now to clean out the fridge before going out the door.

Chiao.

I applaud Sheila’s thoughts about all that was going on theatrically last weekend–and incidentally continues through this weekend.
Have to comment on that there was also much to do musically last weekend…a Reading Symphony concert where David Kim of the Philadelphia Orchestra was the soloist, playing a Saint Saens’ violin concerto with beauty and sensitivity, and a Reading Philharmonic Orchestra free concert on Sunday that introduced a teen-age conductor to the community.
Can only stress that we are quite fortunate in the Reading area to have a wonderful tradition of good theatre and music performances.

There seem to be a myriad of illnesses making the rounds these days. I joined the crowd. And so at 4 AM…when I was still awake…and having nothing better to do, I began to listen to some rather strange noises coming from somewhere deep inside. The first I noticed reminded me of old tree limbs sighing in a breeze. Then there were some little growls–no, more like mews, but no ordinary cats make these–had to be at least lion cubs, but very young ones. Next, furniture moving, metal against wooden floors. Then finally some little puffs. Now that’s a lot less disquieting. Guess the antibiotic has a lot of work to do. I applaud its efforts and am hoping for some peace and quiet soon.

Many of us have thought we have a book in us somewhere, with a little extra time and some luck. In my case it is a children’s book about the invention of the light bulb, complete with hands-on activities so can kids invent along with Edison and the men at Menlo Park. I got bogged down upon learning of all of the stumbling blocks to being published, including the self-promoting and personal financial investment.
Laurie Lynch, a wonderfully talented writer with many tales to tell, whom I met when she rented out chicks at Easter time, has just returned from a writers’ conference in San Francisco.
What she learned is that 80% of American families did not buy a book in 2011, and 57% of new books are not read to completion. These are very sobering thoughts for any of us who dreamed that someday….
And yet, she says, a writer cannot NOT write.
And so we have faith in that 20%.

I admit that I know little about Siberia. Once a long time ago I shivered through reading “One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich”; I remember dismal references in “Doctor Zhivago”, and recall the scene in “Fiddler on the Roof” when the second daughter tearfully said good-bye to her father and followed her revolutionary fiance into the Siberian wasteland. In my mind it has always been the ultimate frozen exile. What do people do there? Slave in salt mines, I’ve supposed.
Last Saturday I went to see the opera “Ernani”, performed at the Metropolitan Opera in NYC, but transmitted live in HD to the Reading IMAX theatre. Certainly this is a testament to the times we live in, when something so magical can happen. It is always a thrilling experience.
At the first intermission (yes, opera-goers get their money’s worth–four acts and two intermissions, and this one is no record setter) the baritone was interviewed. He is a handsome hunk of a man named Dmitri Hvorostovsky (I can type that but am still having trouble pronouncing it) with a gorgeous, rich voice and much charm. He commands the stage and the hearts of the audience, even if he is the bad guy. With him during the interview were two of his own little children who happily commandeered the mic and jabbered away in a language I couldn’t understand. Dmitri explained they were talking to their far-away grandparents who were watching his performance for the first time, via the live in HD transmissions.
So I went home and googled Dmitri. He grew up in Siberia. I am making some assumptions here, but knowing that mobility is still limited in the former Soviet Union, it would seem that his parents are probably still there and were watching this opera from New York in a Siberian theatre with capabilities similar to our IMAX. It didn’t jive with my concept of Siberia. They have come a long way since the rattling train chugging across the continent was the only connection to the outside world.
For me it was a lesson in the wonders of technology and how it has made us a global community.
Can you imagine the delight Dmitri’s parents must have felt in seeing their son perform so magnificently before thousands in New York and millions all across the globe? And then hearing their little grandchildren sending a message half way around the world…just for them.

The weather has been spring-like and pitchers and catchers have reported for spring training, so maybe it isn’t such a bad idea share some baseball-related thoughts in mid February. Among the obituaries of last week was one for baseball catcher and Hall of Famer, Cary Gary. It may have been overwhelmed by the glitter of celebrities celebrating the life of Whitney Houston, but it merited much sadness and sympathy on the part of his teammates, sports writers, and baseball fans…particularly Mets fans such as I who remember 1986.
It is certainly not appropriate to whittle the substance of Gary Carter down to one at bat. His whole life was a spiritual journey, one that had to bring him peace when he passed as a result of brain tumors at the age of 57. He approached every day thinking that he was blessed to be living this life. Even though he already had bad knees when he was in high school and was overlooked for that reason by most scouts, he was a catcher for 19 years with professional teams. He played with enthusiasm and intensity–and thus his nickname of Kid–always running on and off the field, welcoming every at-bat as though it was his opportunity to make a difference in a game. And in that, he truly did.
It was that one at-bat in the tenth inning of game 6 in the World Series of 1986 that made the last World Championship of the New York Mets possible. This is not only a baseball moment, but in that sports can be a metaphor for life, it can be an inspiration and a lesson for us all.
Boston was leading the Mets in the best of seven series by three games to two. So if the Red Sox won this one, they were World Champs. The score was tied in the ninth, and in the top of the tenth the Red Sox had scored two. There were two out in the bottom of the tenth and no one on base when Carter came to the plate. To paraphrase “Casey at the Bat”: the outlook wasn’t brilliant for the New York Mets that night. We have all witnessed games where that situation was a death knell. But Carter laced a single. A ray of light shone through, and it was enough to turn the tide. In a climatic ending (more singles, a balk, and then Bill Buckner booting Mookie Wilson’s grounder) the Mets won that game…and the next. Championship! Jubilation! Ticker-tape parad! Heroes to millions!
This may seem ho-hum if you are not a baseball fan, but let me share something that I gleaned from children’s author Betty Bao Lord: baseball is the truly American sport because at any moment an individual can make a difference. With no clock, there is always time and a glimmer of hope.
I’ve told this to many classes of fifth graders, and I hope that some have taken it along with them. Gary Carter believed it, and it should be a touchstone for each of us as we face the odds in our lives.
Ron Darling, one of his pitchers, called him “one of the great gladiators of the game”. May we each have the spirit that it is possible.

One would like to say “Happy” Valentine’s Day to all, but then I have to consider something that my son Tom just pointed out to me. This morning he was listening to a favorite radio station while he worked, and they were playing a Valentine’s Day program. What struck him was that most of the love songs were about broken hearts. Could that be so…are our songs about love mostly about the unrequited sort? Not being up on pop music, I cannot say otherwise. And then I turned on my favorite station, WRTI in Philadelphia, and they were playing their Valentine’s Day program which at the time was Tchaikovsky’s “Romeo and Juliet”. Well, even though the music is glorious, you cannot find a more heart-breaking love story than that one.
So I’ve thought back to my own Valentine’s Days, and most of them–although happy occasions at the time–blend in with life’s many forgotten days. One that does come to mind was probably the first time I realized what this holiday was about. I was about 5, a pre-schooler, anyway. My mother kept an album of the Valentines cards she had received, mostly from my father. I loved looking at those lacy, flowery, velvety cards and didn’t quite understand that they had been delivered over many years. On Valentine’s day I greatly anticipated the arrival of my own treasure trove of Valentines, signaled by the sound of the mailman putting our mail in the door slot. When I finally heard it, I ran to gather up the many envelopes that would be addressed to me…and… there was one…from my grandparents. My mother was perplexed when she saw my disappointment and asked from whom had I expected to get cards? I couldn’t think of an answer to the question–perhaps our family doctor who always made me feel better when I was sick and whom I thought of as my first boyfriend? Perhaps the neighbors and family friends whom I had thought loved me and would want to show it with a beautiful card like the ones in my mother’s album? Ah, yes, it was my first broken heart, but it was a small one and quite resilient. This is the first time I have written about it at all, and please notice that I haven’t done it in song.
May your day be of the forgettable, lovely sort.

The first sign that this should be a good day is that it did not start with an alarm clock.
Second– I actually woke up. In others words I had slept, which is not always the case. If younger readers do not relate to either of these signs of a good day, just wait. They will come.
Third–the sun is shining (another sign of advanced years–I don’t have to get up before the sun). But I hear that we may have light snow tomorrow AM, and I’ll think that a good sign, too. We need some snow in our winters…providing Chirstmas-card-like scenery and something to bemoan and complain about.
Fourth–there were no stink bugs in the sink.
Fifth–my hair was standing on end but it was workable. Not exactly a good hair day, but not a bad one either.
Sixth–the barn cats are sunning next to the stone barnyard wall. They are content, all is right with the world.
Seventh–there is an abundance of woodpeckers at the bird feeder, both Downy and Red-bellied (which looks more Red-headed to me, but what do I know since we are not on intimate terms?)
Seventh–from the emails I’ve gotten today it looks as though we have a good team for Quizzo tonight. We’re still looking for our first night in the money.
Eighth–I got an email from my sister with a subject line of “it was a good day”.
Ninth–No horrid crimes on page 1 of the Reading Eagle, unless you live in Reading and think the mayor asking for $115,600 for aides is a crime.
Tenth–my bag is packed with all of my math-teaching stuff (protractor, compass, ruler, lots of scratch paper–funny name–should I scratch and sniff or scratch that answer?)and I am ready for tutoring this afternoon.
First sign that it might not be a day to measure up to last week’s Tuesday–we will not be doing That’s What She Said this week. Hopefully soon.
Ellen

I’m posting on Martha’s turf because I was on the road yesterday, having gone to VA to see our 8-year-old grandson, Baylor, compete in a County Spelling Bee. He did very well, finishing 7th out of 48, smiling through it all.
There are no closed doors in our son’s house, so when I got up this morning and was doing my ablutions, the door to the bathroom opened, and in came Baylor who needed to brush his teeth before catching the school bus. And with him came the puppy, Fenway, who needed to have his belly rubbed. And then came our 4-year-old granddaughter, Ellen, who needed to help me with whatever it was I was doing. She took the top off my makeup base and then…”Ooops, sorry”…spilled it down the drain, got the tops for the lipstick and concealer mixed up, had questions about everything, wanted to put in my earrings…etc. She’s very helpful!!! Meanwhile I was taking my morning pill, a little yellow oblong one for hypo-active thyroid. Only after I had taken it, I saw that there was still a little yellow oblong pill in the container. I had taken a sleeping pill instead…and was then going to be driving home, a 3 and a half hour trip, mostly on routes 95, including the dreaded beltways around DC and Baltimore. This is challenging on a good day, and this was not going to be one of my best. What do you do to stay awake behind the wheel? Well, I did that, too–I guzzled coffee, ate chocolate mint patties, chewed gum (the jaw motion keeps the blood circulating to the brain, they say), sang along with Sammy and Frank, bit the insides of my cheeks, opened the windows alternately with turning on the AC, paid very close attention to speed limits in construction zones (having been photographed and warned the last time I made the trip)…Hey, the pills don’t always work and here I am. One must pay close attention to those little yellow pills.

They’re just popping up or rather down everywhere. And they seem to operate contrary to the laws of physics, which would tell us that there should have been a lot of freezing water becoming expanding ice in cracks in the roadways, and as traffic pounds upon the surfaces, they break apart, forming holes. Did I sleep though those wintry days of ice and snow wreaking this havoc this year? And yet here we are in the season of the annual reoccurrence of potholes. Some could swallow up a small car, or at least one of the tires, so you either swerve to miss them (fellow travelers, beware) or grit your teeth, gun the engine, and hope to become airborne.
So far, I think the West Shore By-Pass has the best potholes and the least chance of their being repaired!
Any other nominees?