Costco is selling a Backyard Bug Cake Pan:
“Imagine a table full of edible and adorable bugs! Enjoy these delightful cakes sprinkled with powdered sugar, or have the kids (and adults!) decorate their own cakes with icing, frosting or colorful candies. Durable cast aluminum ensures sharp detail and uniform baking, and a premium non-stick interior provides quick-release and easy cleanup.”
I think I’ll pass…
My daughter has discovered The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. I knew she would at some time or another — I’d assumed they still taught it in schools, then I saw it in a poetry packet that she brought home from school and felt a long forgotten excitement in my chest. When I initially asked her what she thought about it, she said they had not gotten to it yet in a bored teenage voice.
Just before spring break she said, “Mom! I LOVED Prufrock!” in a not-so-bored teenage voice. She was animated and excited and quoted lines from the poem to me. We discussed the meaning of stanzas and wondered who the women were who were discussing Michelangelo.
I vividly remember reading Prufrock for the first time. I was a Freshman in college. I remember loving the rhythm of the syllables in the poem. I remember loving the pictures the words and lines painted. I remember wondering how coffee spoons could measure time or how eating a peach could be something daring to do. I was young with my whole life ahead of me. I was not going to be like this middle-aged man. Ever. I’d never be afraid like he seemed to be. I’d never regret missing out on things, because I knew I’d do it all. I had plans. Our professor was a middle-aged man. He tried to explain the poem to us from his perspective.
Reading the poem again, now in middle-age, is much more painful than it was when I was 19. At 19 I thought the man a fool for his regrets. I felt no pity for J. Alfred Prufrock. But now, I see where he is coming from. There are days that I have similar feelings to this man. Days when I regret things I’ve not done, and some that I have done. I’ve been shy all of my life and sometimes dealing with strangers has been frightening to me.
Mostly I think I’ve lived a good life so far — I’ve taken some risks — as a young adult and again as an older adult. I’ve faced a few fears and conqured them. My mom and aunt seem to think I can do it all, while my daughter seems to think I should have done more.
Some days I feel like giving in to my fears — staying home when I don’t want to face strangers. Having someone else make phone calls for me. Driving far out of my way to avoid having to drive in a city (yes, NYC, I’m talking about you). Other days, I take a deep breath and just DO. I go to meetings I’d rather not attend. I make those phone calls I was avoiding. I take the shorter route to Sarah Lawrence which goes through Manhattan (so say the signs).
What’s next? Eating alone in a fancy restaurant? Applying for a new job? Going birding with a bird group?
“And how should I begin?
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?”
–From The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Elliot
When I was in high school several of my parents friends began building houses in the small Wisconsin town of Hazelhurst, just south of Minocqua — a popular vacation destination for people from Illinois. One friend of my parents, Neal, had a brother-in-law who lived in a small cabin on a tiny lake off County Road D in Hazelhurst. This lake had plenty of open lots that were for sale in the mid-1970’s and Neal, my parents and the Pasholks all decided to buy land and build vacation homes there. Their plan was to someday retire in these homes.
The first to build there were the Pasholks, Marcia‘s parents. They bought a motor home or two and set them up on their property, built an outhouse and began building. Jack, Marcia’s dad, was a man-of-all-trades if there ever was one. He could build you a house, lay your carpet and build your furniture without consulting a book or expert. He also knew how to organize a group of people to help build that house. Some would say he was bossy. He’d say he was efficient. Either way, he got the job done with the help of his friends. Even Jeremy helped hammer drywall.
While the friends helped build Jack’s house they stayed at Neal’s brother-in-law’s house, Jack’s motor homes or in tents. It was like a barn raising that I’d read about in history books. The women made breakfast, lunch and dinner for the men. The teenagers helped out how they could some of the time but mostly enjoyed the lake or the lure of Minocqua. This was Wisconsin, where the drinking age was 18. Three years younger than the drinking age in Illinois.
The next house to be built was Neal’s I think. I don’t remember being there for the building of it, but I remember camping out on my parent’s property. We borrowed a camper from a friend and a tent from someone else. We showered at Neal’s brother-in-law’s house or bathed in the lake (using the only biodegradable shampoo available at the time — Clarol herbal essence shampoo). My cousin Bob, who was living with us a the time, came along and helped build the house. He also met a local girl and had a week-long romance. Jeremy was also along this trip.
When it came time to build my parent’s house, I’d broken up with Jeremy and met Dean. In between I dated a roofer who put the roof on my parent’s house. Dean came along to help work on my parent’s house one summer. We stayed in Neal’s house this time. Again all the friends helped with the building of my parent’s vacation home.
Before Habitat for Humanity and that house building show on ABC right before Desperate Housewives, when I told people about the house raisings in Wisconsin, they were impressed that I got to witness such strong friendships as to help each other build their homes. They thought this only happened in the past. I feel lucky that I was part of it. I only hammered a couple of nails, but was there in other ways. When I visit the homes that my friends and family built, I feel a strong connection to them. I remember the land before it was disturbed, I remember seeing the huge holes in the ground, the foundations being laid, the skeletons of the houses, the walls being erected, the roofs being constructed. I’ve slept in all of these houses, eaten meals in each of the homes, played games, drank wine, and had deep conversations in them all. Some of the people I remember from these homes are gone from my life, some are gone from this world. But the memories remain.
