Forgot My Topic

No, no, I totally had an excellent topic to write about. Alas, it has flown from my head, along with time to do anything about it. Tomorrow.
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Humor Inheritance

As I talk and sing to my daughter, bits of rhyme and song rise to the surface like long-buried treasure.

Walking rhymes: I left my wife and forty-eight children alone in the kitchen in starving condition without any gingerbread left! left! left!

And walking songs: Sing your way home at the close of the day/sing your way, home drive the shadows away...

Hand games: Johnny johnny johnny johnny Whoops-johnny! Whoops! Johnny Johnny johnny johnny

Songs for which I know no source: In the Vinter in the Vaudeville when the vind blows 'round the vindersills...

And humorous rhyming shtick from the 1940s: A Petunia is a flower like a begonia. A Begonia is a meat like a sausage. A sausage and battery is a crime. Monkeys crime trees. Trees a crowd. The cock crowed in the morning and made a noise. A noise is between your two eyes.... (it goes on from there ending with You go to bed with a colt and wake up in the morning with double petunia!),

Sweet old songs: Shine on, shine on harvest moon up in the sky. I ain't had no lovin' since January, February, June, or July...

And German ditties: Ein kleine Mann sitz im Butterfaß...

Or German jokes: Wie geht es? Wie ein Ganz, aber nicht so waklich. (How goes it? Like a goose, but not quite so waddly.)

Not to mention rhyming wordplay: Fuzzy wuzzy wuz a bear/Fuzzy wuzzy had no hair/ Fuzzy wuzzy wuzn't very fuzzy, wuz he?


Pieces of my childhood lie buried in my brain, planted there by my mother, who got them from her mother and father both. I unearth them and drape them around my daughter's neck like bright baubles of humor and culture. I also give her some of my current culture:

Monty Python quotes: I'm not dead yet! and It's only a flesh wound!

Quirky endearments Kuchelo-muchelo! Hunzy-batunzalonian!

And more silly songs: Little arrows in your clothing/ Little arrows in your hair/ When you're in love you'll find those little arrows everywhere/ Little arrows that will hit you once and hit you once again/ Little arrows that hit every-body/ Every now and then/ O! O! O! The pain!

My husband also contributes.

Mis-sung opera: Celeryyy, celeraaaah, celeryyy, celerah-hahahaha!

Punning exclamations: Geshnuggleheit!

Silly sings: You're my little potato. You come from under the ground.

And jokes to make her roll her eyes in about ten or fifteen years: What's high in the middle and round on the ends? O-hi-o!

We both sing Sesame Street tunes to her: Rubber ducky, you're the one/ Who makes bath time so much fun...


Every family has its in-jokes and common culture. Every family has its values and watchwords. These silly rhymes and songs are part of our bond, the things that collectively form a family culture, even a relationship culture, just as my husband and I have our common songs, jokes and catchphrases.

Somehow, remembering each quirky little detail from my own childhood culture feels intensely important. It's part of my inheritance, and it will be part of our daughter's. Already, we are exposing her to our finest stuff. Humor, musicality, light-heartedness, consideration, appreciation. I'll pass on how to make pie crust and some of my grandfather's really wonderfully bad jokes. Sure, some of it is an acquired taste, like Vegemite or British humor, but it's our responsibility to pass on as much quirky culture-art-knowledge as she can bear! Who knows what else she will pick up from us and store away in her own brain. It's a treasure trove, I tell ya.
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Despite the Driving Rain

It's been raining for about three days straight now. The first day, I didn't have anywhere to go, so we stayed in and stayed cozy. The next day, though, I was scheduled to meet one of my friends for lunch. She called me that morning and asked it I wanted to reschedule because "the rain was really coming down." It's true that I don't often take the baby out in wet weather, and it's windy too. I considered, and looked at the radar, but it was still a good day to meet her, so we braved the rain. I thought I might as well try out some of my transporting-baby-in-downpour strategies before an occasion in which I absolutely had to. And so off we went to eat some delicious Persian soup, thick with noodles beans, and savory herbs, perfect for the wet weather.

Then today, I went over to my mother's house some quilting and visiting. This is a regular occasion for us, so I wasn't motivated to put it off. I did think the rain had tapered off, but as soon as I started driving, I discovered I had been mistaken! Thus ensued more shuffling of baby and gear and umbrella.

It would have been easy enough to put off my events, but why? It started me thinking about how sometimes one prefers to persevere to do the thing you'd like to do regardless of the conditions. A little discomfort or inconvenience doesn't necessarily get in the way of having a good time.

And it also gets me thinking that sometimes a little challenge can make the enjoyment that much sweeter. Why should we even expect that everything be comfortable? Granted, there are some types of discomfort I find more discouraging than others. We are still wearing fleece jackets to help keep us cozy. But still, a little challenge can hearten us for a larger effort. Hah! We did it! We went out despite the spitting, driving, chilling rain. And we liked it!
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Weaving and Dodging

Hi, I'm erthsister, and I'm a judgmental driver.

Yes, I am, and so what? Is it too much to ask to keeping your attention on what you are doing?

You, the Packers fan in the small red Mercedes, did you think I didn't notice that you pulled right through that stop sign without stopping? Hello, honey, you in that grey SUV, you are being an idiot tailgating. I'm sure they'll move soooo much faster with you right on their tail. Oh you in the faded blue sedan, I know you are probably just lost. I know that feeling; take your time. But you over there in the silvery car? Stop that weaving about right now. Are you trying to tempt fate to deal you an accident? Both you and the other dark car need to cool it. And you in the Prius, puh-leese stop doing other things while you are driving, especially when I am in the car with you. You're weaving all over the road. Multitasking is not worth risking your life! Or mine, thank you. And while I'm at it, you and you and you need to put away the cell phone-palm pilots and drive. You do know that all that huffing and puffing and swearing won't get you there that much faster, don't you? Yes, the Universe is conspiring against you. Try to not take it out on other drivers. And pay attention because the woods are crawling with deer on this end of the county.

I need one of those zappers to issue citizen's tickets for obnoxious and unsafe driving. Okay, calm down, erthsister. You know you've had your moments.

*No accidents were actually witnessed during the writing of this post. Erthsister is not actually agitated, but she is rolling her eyes at the little red Mercedes.
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Vignettes: Rain-Kale-Nursing

The rain patters, drips, drops, runs down the gutters with gurgles and rattling, flows shushingly down the streets, hissed by passing tires, roars through leaves and branches, sweeps across the landscape in waves of wind gusts, flurries and taps across the roof tiles, splats on the pavement, rustles the grass, slaps against other wet, streams and pours and sluices and dapples.

The leaves of green kale froth in a profusion of branchings, sharp edges, greens crenelated, shiny front and matte back, articulated veins, curls run riot, bound, spilling, escaping, rustling, pungent, releasing bitter sharp scents, promising a meal, carotenes glistening.

Suckling, sighing, the baby nurses, pulling, compelling, chewing, demanding, nestled snug, remarking, groaning, satisfaction of a belly filling, warm and contented, mother's scented, drowsing, lazy, then alert, searching and finding, fitting, reclining, earliest memories wrapped in warmth, contented, relenting, sleep descending.
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And The Wall Came Down

I saw the Wall some twenty-four years ago, riding on the train between Frankfurt and Goettingen, en route to a Summer spent soaking up German culture and language. Off in the distance, I saw the pale gray line, peeking in and out of the hills. I didn't have to ask anybody; I knew it had to be the Wall. I wondered what it was like, living near the Wall. And how the forest felt with the Wall wending through it.

I saw the Wall at a little village near Wolfsburg, the pavement cut in two, even a house walled off at the back. The Wall cut through people's lives. And the village looked just as sweet and quaint as any with brick and cobblestone streets, neat houses with white and red and dark green cutely arranged, flowers in the petite shoebox gardens, as if it didn't have a scar marking across its face. We drove to where the road ended and sat on a bench in front of the Wall to take pictures. My friend mugged for the camera; he wasn't about to take this seriously in front of a foreigner. I could see the glint of guards moving inside the tower directly across. I wonder if they tired of tourists gawking at them, if they thought their job was a worthy one.

I saw the Wall in Berlin extending past the Reichstag to either side, covered in graffiti and paint. The paint ended at the ground. The green grass and neat pavement came right up to the wall on the West side. The base of the wall on the East side was a barren no-mans land of raked earth and barbed wire. The wall seemed like a piece of modern art, bending and angling seemingly at random. Who decided it would bend *there* and angle *there*? On that lovely Summer's day, we walked under the shady trees and out onto the plaza, into the museum that occupied the Reichstag building. My friends treated me to some ice cream in the cafe. No laws or debate in those halls those days, just velvet ropes and lump-sugar packets. They had seen it all before.

I saw the border where the lines of cars met the checkpoint booth, where lines of barriers threaded pedestrians through a convoluted path across stark concrete, which lead us through a prefab building where we presented our passports and told our story. I was going to visit as a tourist, yes, just for today, a few hours. Then I could go, and I wondered at the lack of ceremony. I was going behind the Wall, das Mauer. My West Berlin friends would pick me up in a couple of hours. They couldn't understand why I couldn't just take a tour bus.

I saw the divide when I went into East Berlin shops to look for books, children's toys, postcards, candy. The pages were slick and the ink was muddy and dark, the illustrations forbidding, the humor, dark. I casually said goodbye to the woman in a shop, and she stared at me oddly as if to wonder why I was so friendly and cheerful. I walked down sidewalks trying to find an art museum that was, of course, closed the exact day of the week I was there. Trying to find another bookshop, I strolled past a university and concrete bridges over a coffee au lait-colored river, and stumbled on a burnt-out synagogue with a plaque afixed to an ironwork fence: Vergiss es nie! I found the bookshop but they were inexplicably closed with an official paperwork fluttering on the door. I took a wrong turn trying to find my way back to the Centrum plaza and found myself on the greyest street, buildings crumbling and pocked with mortar wounds and time. I felt lost in this grey and dismal place. I glimpsed a small courtyard with laundry and bicycles parked inside, but there were few people about about to wonder who I was or what I was doing. Off in the distance, the radio tower "Alex" gleamed gold and silver. I stumbled back across the neighborhood into the comparative glitz of the central plaza and passed a man in military uniform, shyly averting my eyes hoping he wouldn't wonder too much about this young tourist wearing jeans and sneakers. I never did find the avenue of Linden trees before I ran out of time.

And then I asked where I could exchange the remains of my East German money. The lady at the bland border bank was a little stunned at the question, and tried to explain to me that I was not allowed to exchange money back to West German Marks.

I don't remember when the Wall came down. I'm sure I watched it on television back home from my own isolation of a remote corner of the state. I'm sure I rejoiced and cried tears to see people jubilant and emotional, hefting sledgehammers and shouting and crying. I'm sure I felt an oppressive cloud lift as the earth under the Wall groaned from the release. I'm sure I did not know how challenging the long divide would continue to be.

I see a footprint of the former wall cutting across cobblestones, delineated with brick and brass. The Wall says: I was here. I remain here a ghost. I am gone, but you cannot erase me.



On the twenty-year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.
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Autumn Afternoon Walk About

Lately we've been taking excursions in the afternoon. Sometimes it's grocery shopping, or to the library and then grocery shopping. Or a walk in the neighborhood. Last week we managed to combine several things by taking a walk down the road to go shopping.

That day, the air was perfect - a slight nip in the late afternoon - and the sun was shining golden and warm as we set out. Down the street, over the bridge with its very scary traffic passing underneath at top speeds, down the block, and around the corner. The area is not a walker's paradise, although there are nice sidewalks the length of our route. But most people who have cars, use them. The only people out walking are those without transportation of which there are many, and a few, like me, who would rather use this an excuse to walk. Still, it is a bustling area, where several neighborhoods and commercial development intersect.

The little girl's pink hat stands out like a beacon, announcing: Small Cute Person Here. Several neighbors and random passing strangers beam at her as we pass. Nice day for a walk, one woman notes with a smile. One driver waiting to turn magnanimously waves us across the street, refusing my offer for him to go first. I wryly mime that we will have to walk slowly across the wider intersection, and he just grins and waits for us to pass.

We make our way down the sidewalk and the wheels of the stroller click along with each seam of concrete, bump ity bump ity bump with the occasional hiss and scratch of an autumn leaf caught in the wheels. I pause at another corner and bend down to check on the little girl. She is quiescent, taking it all in, snug in her cozy hat and fleece jacket tucked around her legs. Pink, pink and more shades and patterns of pink war with each other. Even her cheeks are pink out in the air.

We angle in across a parking lot into the grocery store, then make our way inside. I don't shop much here any more, but I know they have anise extract, unlike any other store I would rather shop. Having found that, I buy two, enough to make pizelles and other Christmas goodies for a few more years. I look for chili powder, but am disgusted that none among the seven varieties available leave out salt. The little girl looks at displays and listens to me mutter about food additives. I take a little walk down the seasonal aisle with its cans of pumpkin pie filling and Christmas ornaments and candy, telling her about what we are seeing.

Off we go again. On the way home, we cruise into the local pet supply store. I don't need to buy anything, but it's my best source for showing the little girl live animals. We look at colorful finches and budgies, then at some mice, though the mice are all snoozing. The hamsters make her exclaim in astonishment. One brown and white female busily chews down a long stalk of hay. There are no bunnies today, but plenty of fish in various sizes and colors. The little girl seems to take note. As a bonus, a couple of small puppies pass closely by as we leave.

Off we go into the near sunset. The shadows are lower than I expected, the return sidewalk now in shade where I expected us to face full sun. Leaves skitter and dance as cars pass by, and the traffic below the bridge is even heavier. I briskly pass down our long, quiet street, finally, worried that it is getting too chilly for the baby, although when I tuck her hands into her fuzzy sleeves, they don't feel cold. The woman who knitted the pink hat isn't home yet, so I can't show her how well the little girl wears it, but I make a note to check back later.

At last, home is in sight beneath the slowly turning colors. Our neighbor's children stand off in the distance wheeling their scooters through the leaves on the street until they recognize us coming, and all five of them come streaming towards us.

I recite their names and they wiggle and smile in pleasure when I remember them, each one. How cute she is! Lily cries. She has your cheeks, Henri says. I know he means it as a compliment! Marisol notes, Aww, look at the hat!, and I tell them that one of our neighbors down the street knitted it for her. We discuss who she is and they recognize that she is the small woman who walks with the taller woman who has the big white dog. This is how we know our neighbors.

How old is she now? they want to know again. The littlest child, Joseph, leans forward as if to kiss her, and I caution him that he has not washed his hands. You know how they tell you in school to wash your hands, I appeal to the group. I don't know this for a fact, but I guess that the schools are being very cautious with the flu this year. Yes! another neighborhood boy affirms. And babies can get sick!
Yes, and you can you, too, I confirm, so it's good to be extra careful. In fact the little girl has been sniffly all week, but it appears to be a little allergy from the changing weather. Then she starts starting to whimper and cry from the press of faces around her, and we take our leave and go in to have some dinner.

How pleasant it is to not only walk but to enjoy interactions with neighbors and strangers on a fine Fall afternoon. We come inside flushed and alert from the walk into the house that now feels excessively cozy. I pull off the pink hat and the little girl's hair springs up from the static.
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