My Almost Famous House

No. 9 dressed for fallA text arrived from my next-door neighbor saying that a “location manager” had just spoken to her about using both her house and ours as the setting for a major motion picture. Could he ring our doorbell too in a bit?

“Sure,” I said, and 20 minutes later he was here.

This wouldn’t be the first time a film crew had chosen our house. Fifteen years ago, a public utility made a commercial here using just the outside. Then, five years after that, some college kids used the inside too, to make a movie that affixed so many wires and cable to our newly painted trim that we had cause to muse on the futility of any and all home-improvement projects.

“Oh, but this is the big time!” said the man, and that sounded true enough to me when I heard the names of two of the actors who have already signed to the project. “When we leave, you won’t know we were here at all.”

“Even with that crew of 80 you mentioned?” I asked. 

“Even with that crew of 80,” he said. All we had to do was (a) agree to be relocated for “seven weeks give or take”, (b) allow all our furniture be relocated too, and (c) give permission for the walls be repainted and the wallpaper be covered with other, temporary, paper as the film’s visionaries saw fit.

But! All would be restored when the project was complete. AND, besides covering our housing costs, we would be compensated for our trouble with a fee to be mutually agreed upon.

He took scads of pictures, talked more to my husband David, newly returned from the office, and left, with the understanding that he would come back in a week with six even bigger bigshots.

When, that evening, I told my cousin about this potential offer, her reaction was swift. “WHY though? Why would you do this at all?” It was a good question.

Over the next few days I began to see that I would say yes to the project mostly to see if we still had wings, as well as roots. Were we still capable of signing up for such radically new “dance suggestions” from the universe?

Because we have been here one very long time: Little House on the Prairie was still airing fresh episodes when we got here. For almost four decades, I have watched the morning sun touch the tops of the tall oak trees across the street.

David, who is equanimity itself, thought it might be an adventure, but I happen to know that he can be happy anywhere as long as he has his books and the daily crossword.

I am not like that.

I got worried about my houseplants, all still at ‘summer camp’ on the screened-in porch? Where would they go, some storage facility in South Boston? And could I actually live in a hotel, even for those seven weeks ‘give or take’?

As promised, the man came back with the bigshots, who spoke not a word but slithered like eels, all silent, around our rooms. As they left, our man thanked us and said he would call in a week with the decision.

And when he did call, it was to say that they had decided to go with an another house in another town.

Was there disappointment around here? 

Not for my houseplants. Not for the two rooms we freshly repainted just last month. 

I walked outside to where I could see those trees that greet me each morning and felt a slow smile cross my face. Because how lucky a thing is it to go from youth to age looking out at the same window at the tops of the same stately familiar trees, not just those oaks across the street, but this ginkgo and her graceful final shedding.


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Originality is Overrated

alka seltzerSpeaking of writing your own poems as I was here, the more I think about it the more I realize how hard it is to be really original. I mean, who among us CAN be original with all, ‘pop pop fizz fizz oh what a relief it is’ buzzing around in our heads? (And if you remember  that jingle, you’ve probably been receiving AARP the magazine for at least a decade.)

Used to be, folks memorized things not accidentally because of commercials and popular songs but on purpose, because our teachers made us memorize. Used to be, every kid with an 8th grade education was walking around with all sorts of lines in his head: The poetry of the ages. Scripture. The second and even third and fourth verses to all the patriotic songs.

Wouldn’t we be better off if we 21st century types had that rich lore at our fingertips today?

We pay too much homage to originality anyway, which I really do believe is mythical in the first place. Example: I once thought of myself as quite the witty one-of-a-kinder; but the then why did I name the journaling manual I wrote The Trail of Breadcrumbs. The reference is from Hansel and Gretel natch, with the subtitle “Journaling to Find Your Way Home”. Pretty UNoriginal that one!

Now I’m wondering if all the titles of the books I brought out were also pretty derivative I Thought He Was A Speed Bump may SOUND original but actually it isn’t at all since I stole the phrase from the little boy next-door who, when he was three years old, ran over his friend’s tummy, not once but twice, with his tricycle. It’s true I haven’t yet heard of a book besides my own called Vacationing In My Driveway but I’m sure people use that phrase in every day life. I mean, that’s why people laugh the minute I give its name: they get its message at once. 

Nope, the real originals are few and far between. I give Francis Scott Key a lot of credit with the Star-Spangled Banner whose lyrics are seriously original even if he used an existing drinking song for his tune. I mean, seriously, who else ever wrote lyrics like this? The “Oh say”  phrase alone, never mind those bums bursting in air as a million little kids so lustily sang? For really original stuff we should look to the lyrics the kids think are the real lyrics to any song or prayer. Theres bound to be some fun in mining that vein: Blessed are the monks in swimming and Round John Virgin” alone, from the Hail Mary – and that’s before you even get to that someone in the kitchen with Dinah strummin’ on the old man’s joe.” ;-)


Posted by on October 2, 2015 in humor


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What a Dope

early autumn morningGrouchy little poems have been writing themselves in my head all month.

It’s the strangest thing. 

Take these lines that were composing themselves behind my eyes when I first opened them one day last week: “The leaves are limp, the grass is dead, I’d like to stay right here in bed. Dawn comes so late, how can that be When birds once sang at half past three?”

What’s wrong with me? How can I be feeling so dark with this kind of beauty greeting us every day, the fog rolling slowly off our inland bodies of water?

I wouldn’t mind if they were good poems, poems of a polite praising nature, like the countless others written for this threshold moment of the year.

 I think of the one called “September” by Helen Hunt Jackson that my Seventh Grade teacher made us all memorize:

“The Goldenrod is yellow, the corn is turning brown, the trees in apple orchards with fruits are bending down.” Nice, right? There are several more stanzas, equally nice, like this one:

“The gentians bluest fringes/Are curling in the sun/In dusty pods the milkweed/Its hidden silk has spun.” Even nicer! So why can’t my silly creations hold even a little of that lyricism?

I think it’s because this particular September doesn’t feel right to me. It doesn’t feel right at all.

For starters it stayed hot for too long, hot enough that in this house, we still have the air-conditioners in. There they still hang, our sad old window units, stuffed into our sad old windows.

By now I hate these air-conditioners, which I have come to believe make each room smell like some old bag of frozen peas. Plus they’re ugly, especially on the outside, the way they lean out the windows like rude boys showing the world their backsides. 

Added to that, birds poop on them, leaving wispy white streaks that fan out from under them.

And then there’s the grass. The grass in our yard looks like somebody seeded it in Shredded Wheat.

Aren’t September’s evening dews supposed to refresh the grass? I thought by now lawns would have begun greening up again and looking like bright chopped salad, the way they did back in the spring.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s my problem. Maybe I’m grouchy this September because I got to thinking it should function as a second spring, almost.

It doesn’t though. It can’t. If the trees and bushes are starting to sport small dabs of crimson, or coral, or amethyst, it isn’t because they are flowering. It’s because they’re dressing up for the farewell ceremonies.

Sooner or later I’ll get on board with this fact I’m sure. But right now what keeps going through my head are the final lines of the Robert Frost poem called Reluctance, which ends with the speaker asking, “When to the heart of man/ Was it ever less than a treason/ To bow and accept the end/ Of a love or of a season?”

But then? Then I look at this image of our deck at the lake, as it looked just after 1:00 yesterday afternoon. I see the new, early shadows, and I repent of my grouchiness and feel freshly grateful each day’s particular beauty. 



Posted by on September 28, 2015 in Uncategorized


In the Museum of the Confedaracy

union & rebel vetsOn that blazing bright day in early August, I stood with my grandson inside a museum housing relics from what some still call “The War of Northern Aggression.” Some call it that in the South, anyway, which is where we had come on this family vacation.

He and I had paused to let our eyes adjust to the dim interior, I holding the flower we had just bought outside, a palmetto “rose,” skillfully woven out of the fronds of that tree. It was then that the elderly lady who took our money began engaging us in conversation.

“Are you back in school yet?” she asked the 11-year-old.

“Not yet, “ he smiled, and I instantly wondered if I should have counseled him to say “No ma’am,” and “No sir,” according to the etiquette practiced in this region. 

But if she noticed the absence of this social nicety, she showed no sign of it.

“When I was a child, school never started until after Labor Day,” she said. “Our children are already back now. 

“Where are you from?” she then asked, and we named our northern state.

Did she stiffen just a little? I wasn’t sure but I think she may have. Did I stiffen a little when my gaze fell on the bumper sticker available for sale? “Heritage, Not Hate” read its text, under an image of the Confederate flag.

Let me extend myself a little more and see if we can find some common ground, I thought. “It’s a beautiful building,” I said, indicating the space inside this 1841 structure.

“Yes,” she said. “Confederate soldiers came here by the hundreds to enlist in 1861.”

“For sure the past is all around us,” I remarked.

“My people fought for the Confederacy,” she replied.

“Oh! Did they all come home?” I asked, mindful of the fact that more American lives were lost in this war than in all our other wars combined.

“Yes they did!” she said, with emphasis. “Oh dear,” I thought.  Was this an insensitive question, coming as it did from a northerner?

I searched my memory for anything I knew about Civil War battles and came up with only one:

“I think of Gettysburg alone,” I said. “All that loss of life!”


I went on. “I think of the accounts – even the old bits of film – of Union and Confederate veterans meeting 50 years later, and even 75 years later, a few of them. I think of the way they greeted one another so warmly, shaking hands in the very spot where so many fell.”

She paused a moment.

“I couldn’t do that,” she then said.

“It’s hard for people, I know!” I said. “My mother used to tell me how, in the years just after the Second World War, many Americans still harbored hostility toward the Japanese.”

“Many still do,” she said, and closed her mouth firmly.

Then it was my turn to go silent, because that has not been my experience at all. The 11-year-old and I thanked her for our tickets and moved in to the exhibit hall.

My sister in Florida tells me that way back, when a hurricane would come, an indigenous person of our southern coastal region would lash himself to a palmetto tree until it had passed. They knew that this short, deeply-rooted plant would never topple.

Maybe we are all “rooted, in this way,” all inclined to maintain the view of the world as it was first communicated to us. I just wish we could start feeing less “dug in” somehow. I wish we could be like those old soldiers and meet across our differences, our hands extended in fellowship.

Now watch these Civil War Veterans on film, from the documentary Echoes of the Blue & Gray 

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Posted by on September 23, 2015 in Uncategorized


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a typical dayThis is an example of the to-do list I have been making every day since I was in the 9th grade..

The 9th grade!

I came upon it this morning on one of my million legal pads and,  because I wasn’t quite awake yet, thought, “Great, it’s my list! Ok, what am I supposed to do first?”

It took me a while to realize it was a list that I had made … when?

A year ago? Two years ago?

I study it and think ‘What a busy girl!’ And also, I wonder if I got it all done?   

Probably not but I I know I sure tried.

Someday, stuff like this is all that will be left of us, besides our acreage-gobbling burial places. 

It’ll be like what we know of the inhabitants of Herculaneum and Pompeii after Vesuvius blew her top: besides our bones-and-dust and a few gold teeth there’ll just be a bunch of old kitchenware and some wall treatments – though hopefully not just the sex-and-phallus-glorification kind like they left. The theory is, this was an oil lamp:

oil lamp

No accounting for tastes I guess. . Right now people rummaging among my things would find a bunch of sample grey damask papers for highly outdated front hall (speaking of wall coverings. :-)

grey damask

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Posted by on September 20, 2015 in humor


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Necessary Roughness

mammogramWhat can we say of the yearly mammogram? 

The glass plate is cold, they make you stand so close to the machine your ribs bruise, and then they force you to hold these contorted positions and stop breathing for like a million minutes while they set up the shot

And then, of course, there’s the vise.

That victim of  the revenge of Joe Pesci’s character in Scorsese’s  Casino comes to mind.

head in a vise

Your eyeballs don’t pop out like that guy’s did, but it feels like two things further down might pop for sure.

Oh I know, I know, you don’t really get permanently disfigured during a mammogram, and it’s a crucial diagnostic.

It’s just that you go in with two rough approximations of this shape on your chest:


And two minutes later they look like this:


I think I was even leaning over like this guy by the time we got done – and though he appears to be almost smiling,  I sure know I wasn’t!


Posted by on September 16, 2015 in health, humor


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You’re Asking ME?

the doctor is inWhat  do you do when someone seeks your advice?

 I ask myself this question every time I read Dear Abby, the advice column written by Pauline Phillips, who, now in her 74th year, is one wise and earthy person.

Take the response she makes to this high schooler who writes in to ask if it’s “wrong” to be put off by the fact that her new boyfriend has just told her that two of the toes on each foot are “webbed.”

“When he sent me a photo one day to prove it, I realized they are almost entirely attached and I freaked out. I don’t know how to feel. Am I being shallow? “

“No, you are being foolish,” replies Abby and I’m betting it’s this kind of candor that keeps people reading her. Plus she offers so many pearls of wisdom: 

“Look within,” is often the gist of her advice. Also, “Examine your motives.”  Not to mention, “Seek counseling” something she will say in the same way that bold people will yell “Get a room!” when they come upon a madly making out couple.

She just makes sense, as in this response she pens to someone going on and on to ask what words s/he should use to tell her/his new psychotherapist that that person “isn’t right for me.”

“The words are, ’This isn’t working for me and I won’t be coming back,’” says Abby, adding only that the therapist probably does deserve to know why.

And then there’s the advice she gives to an angry grandmother who begins her letter by huffing,  “Whatever happened to respecting one’s elders and recognizing grandparents as head of the family?”

Apparently the woman has just come from a visit to the home of her son and his wife where she had  “many disagreements” with her daughter-in-law on how to care for “my grandchild. Instead of respecting my years of experience as a mother and appreciating my help, she chose to ignore my instructions and advice.“

Now, as a result, her son has told her she “will not be welcomed into their home again unless she apologizes for trying to undermine her parenting. I told him she should apologize to ME for not showing me respect as the grandmother! How can I make my son see that it is his wife who is wrong, and not me? “

Oh dear. I do feel for this lady, I do. Her desire is so human. I mean, who among us wouldn’t wish to be supported in the belief that we ourselves are just fine and it’s the other guy who needs to change?

Still, I have to shake my head reading her words: She’s the head of the whole family all of a sudden, just because her child now has a child? I’m a grandmother myself and my feeling is that in most instances my job is to keep pretty much mum until my advice is asked for.

I’m so glad that “Abby” is still out there doing what she does  – and I am dead sure I would never want her job. If I have learned anything in the near 60 years, I have spent as a thinking person it is this:  When people asks questions about the course of action they should take, they often already know, deep down, what that course is.

To my way of thinking, the best thing I can do is ask helpful questions and then listen to the answers, with utter, absolute attention and an open heart.

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Posted by on September 10, 2015 in Uncategorized


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Exit Only

Because one minute you're a baby and the next you're getting the senior discount - and there's no reversing direction!

Flaming Honesty

By James Christopher Darling

Something Like a Storybook

The personal literary blog of Morgan E. Bradham.

Days Like What

There are 24hrs in a day, here are mine.


A blog full of humorous and poignant observations.

The Freelance Retort

Because one minute you're a baby and the next you're getting the senior discount - and there's no reversing direction!


Another Good Day in Rural America . . . . . . . © 2012, 2013, 2014 Ann Aikens ~ all rights reserved

Eating The Week

Week-size morsels of the stuff we eat

Exit Only

Because one minute you're a baby and the next you're getting the senior discount - and there's no reversing direction!

Flaming Honesty

By James Christopher Darling

Something Like a Storybook

The personal literary blog of Morgan E. Bradham.

Days Like What

There are 24hrs in a day, here are mine.


A blog full of humorous and poignant observations.

The Freelance Retort

Because one minute you're a baby and the next you're getting the senior discount - and there's no reversing direction!


Another Good Day in Rural America . . . . . . . © 2012, 2013, 2014 Ann Aikens ~ all rights reserved

Eating The Week

Week-size morsels of the stuff we eat


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