Red Umbrellas at Faneuil Hall Boston

Boston summer’s don’t always hold the heat and humidity of other cities. The bay offers a breeze, while shadows are lowered to the streets within the irregular mixture of buildings. With Faneuil Hall only blocks from the waterfront, susceptible to these cooling winds, it draws an outdoor crowd looking for a casual stop during the day. The choice of restaurants only equals the variety of shops. And on a sweet summer’s day, sitting outside with friends or family, is like a picnic for the urban dweller.

Woven into the mix of vendors, performers and strollers, many of the restaurants and cafes provide outdoor dining as varied as the visitors. Families, children scribbling with crayons on paper, babies lulling in a pram or young teenage girls fiddling with their hair, don’t feel the restraints of the formal atmosphere indoors. Young couples, leaning in, speaking with that hint of a tease, stand out more than they’d like to think. Good friends linger over a beer and the sky is blue.

When the heat does arrive, up go the outdoor red umbrellas of Faneuil Hall. A birds-eye view must look like a sea of red lollipops have snapped to attention. Could the choice of color have anything to do with the intense feelings this old historic site stirs up?

Autumn can come quickly to New England, but to give up summer....oh, it’s only let go with a sigh and then a resolve to bear out the winter. And the red umbrellas retreat again. But with a bowl of Anthem’s award winning chowder to stir and sip, sitting outdoors at Faneuil Hall will always be one of the joys of Boston.

As the Artist in Residence at Faneuil Hall, Randi Jane Davis has been painting as long as she can remember. Throughout various professional endeavors, her commitment to painting has remained a constant. As a plein air painter, Davis examines objects and their surrounding, transferring her impressions to the canvas in fluid, gestural strokes.

To compliment Davis's exhibition at Faneuil Hall will be a book of her paintings, with accompanying essays, enhancing not only the painting, but the readers experience as they visit this historical landmark. Priscilla Whitley will author.

Some excerpts follow.....

www.randijanedavis.com

HAYMARKET II AT FANEUIL HALL

Less than a block away from Quincy Market, on the north side of Faneuil Hall Marketplace, is Haymarket Square, a constant presence since the early 1830s, almost a hundred years after the opening of Faneuil Hall. Here an open-air fruit and vegetable market is held each Friday and Saturday, rain or shine, all year long. This produce market is a compliment to the more upscale offerings of the various food shops, restaurants and boutiques adjoining the marketplace. For visitors it offers rich photo opportunities.

Located on the short, narrow Blackstone Street most of the costermongers, or vendors, are the old timers from Boston’s North End Italian community. Many have worked the market for decades, while some of the families have done it for generations. The culture of the merchants, with their bantering street talk, adds to the appeal of this robust market making it not only authentic but vibrantly colorful.

Haggling over price is possible, though buying from the market is still less expensive than most places. Dropping by late in the date, prices fall as the costermongers would rather sell than pack up and cart home. Haymarket is a place linked to the past but now also infused with relative newcomers from Asia, North Africa and the Caribbean expanding the rich variety of produce. Here one can find peppers, mangoes, citrus fruits, an assortment of berries. tomatoes and squash, plus foods and exotic spices, all within one marketplace.

Haymarket is an institution for the foodies of Boston, where quality and price are mixed in with the history and culture of Faneuil Hall.


“Friends, Brethren, Countrymen! That worst of plagues, the detested TEA, has arrived in this harbour. The hour of destruction... stares you in the face.”
George R.T. Hewes, A Survivor of the LIttle Band of Patriots Who Drowned the Tea in Boston Harbor in 1773...

Magical Balloons at Faneuil Hall, Boston

It’s the special ones who find the joy in giving to others. It’s not about adulation or fame, that’s left for the ambitious. The smile is the reward. The laugh. The first look of astonishment turning into glee. And in the case of Rami Salami, it’s all accomplished by the twisting and turning of a balloon which, as if by magic, he transforms into a gift for a delighted child.

Rami Salami’s been entertaining in Boston, particularly at Faneuil Hall since 1993. After serving as a volunteer in the Israeli army in 1988, he began performing in hospitals there, as well as army bases, before returning to his home ground of Boston to undergo an experimental heart procedure. Along with it’s success came his desire to make the world a happier place.
Rami Salami, who calls himself, the “real deal” has entertained children all over the world, stretching from the Nagasaki Holland Village in Japan, the Carnival in Caiz in Spain and to Israel where he hosted a children’s party held by then President Ezer Weizman at his residence in Jerusalem. The Israel Museum in Jerusalem became the home of SalamiLand during the Purim Holiday.

In the tradition of great entertainers his mission is to delight the youngest visitors in the most simple way. He needs nothing more than a a balloon and a rhyme to coax a giggle. Rami’s joy is his love of giving. And his specialty is the smile he puts on each little face.

"Ideals are like stars; you will not succeed in touching them with your hands. But like the seafaring man on the desert of waters, you choose them as your guides, and following them you will reach your destiny." ~Carl Schurz, address, Faneuil Hall, Boston, 1859


Snorkling in Roatan, Honduras

Roatan, an island off of Honduras is the location of my latest "travel adventure." It is a snorkelers paradise, and it's how paradise might be imagined for many. At the end of the pier, only a short snorkel away, we found yellow and purple coral along with varieties of fish found in pet store aquariums. We had to follow a rope sunken in the reef in order to stay in the "safe zones." Some areas became very narrow and it was easy to get cut on the sharp coral. In other places the floor descended 50-60 feet while the water remained crystal clear. A black ominous drop was seen at the edge of the reef. No one went over to the “dark side”. I kept thinking something huge was going to pop up from the depths of the abyss. I still however, want to go back. The allure of the white sand beach, visions of palm trees billowing in the gentle breeze and the excitement of what "lurks" below the Caribbean will lure me back again, I know for sure, to explore more of this fabulous island!

The Skirt!

Emma finally put it on! She went into her closet and chose it on her own. The top's not the best match, but she insisted. :)

The History of Love Written by Nicole Krauss

I hesitated with this book. The title didn’t appeal to me. The History of Love
Certainly not my kind of book. A book of love, a book about love, the reading of others bound within the glories of love? No, I’ve been in love and love, that kind of love, the romantic love, swept away love, the one which makes you sigh leaving all cares of the real world behind, that kind of love doesn’t seem to fit within my life anymore. So I don’t care to read about others and their joys.

But a friend encouraged me to read this and since I trust her, I decided to have an open mind. And within the first few pages the story of Leo, the immigrant Russian Jew, now living in Brooklyn, hoping to survive his life, oh, just a little bit longer, took me to a place I thought I never visited, but found out as I went along, this love certainly was a love I knew very well. It’s the love of the meaningful few who make your life unique. I was reminded there are surprises still around every corner.

Nicole Krauss is the author and from her tiny photo on the back, she looks to be a somewhat young woman. Almost immediately I wondered, and still do, how she found this voice of Leo. How did she put down into words his dialect, his inflections, for I can hear Leo speak as if I’d sat next to him, day after day, on the Number 4 line into Manhattan. Krauss’s imagination must be a joy for her and those who know her, for she’s immersed herself within the life of Leo and hidden behind her lovely looking face, I think there hides an old Russian Jew.

The book takes off in a somewhat curving line, but then makes a sharp right angle and fourteen year old Alma Singer suddenly enters. She too is from Brooklyn; bright, sassy, and seeking some sort of hope for her mother’s loneliness. It’s her love for her mother and her quirky brother...who thinks he can fly...which leads her to seek out the author of a book her mother is translating...a book on the history of love...and its elderly Russian author. And so another side of Krauss is revealed, for she too occupies Alma.

This novel is heartbreaking as well as delightful. It’s devastating within the character’s losses, yet, funny and charming. It’s poignant and even suspenseful. Like all the elements of life itself. A life of love. And not just a passing love, but the deep love one has for those closest to them. A love born out of hope, for hope, after all, is all anyone really has.

The writing is gorgeous, the story touching and Krauss handles it all gracefully.

The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss

Shoe Sale

Inspired by "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens.

10%
Among throngs of crazy shoppers
The only idle person
Was the dude in the luggage department.

20%
Flats, heels, sandals
Sneakers
All crying for takers
While Converse makes yet another comeback

30%
I do not know which to prefer
The comfort of frumpy loafers
Or the glamour of stilettos.

40%
A woman and a pair of size eights
are sole mates
Two women and the last pair of size eights
are potential cell mates.

50%
Once upon a time
a young woman found the pefect
glass slipper
And lived happily ever after

60%
The husband is yelling
The Visa bell must be singing.

70%
Somewhere in the world
a shopper is setting out
with a coupon and a dream.

My Sanctuary

After a long stressful day, I longingly anticipate the soothing effect my garden provides. I gather my trowel with its elongated smooth wooden handle, happy a splinter is nowhere to be found. I consider it to be an old friend; always nearby, dependable and willing to lend a hand. Hum, I thought, all that from a trowel. As I meander through the tall grass with its emerald fingers reaching for the sky, I spy a robin happily pulling worms from the soft ground and the graceful dance of a hawk drifts far above me on an unseen current. Invigorated by the fresh air, I am grounded by my connection to the earth.

I reach my sanctuary and all my cares float away like a feather blowing in the gentle wind and reminisce the times the wind sent me soft caresses on bare skin, ruffled my clothes and played with my hair. Opening the tall latticed wooden gate, I lovingly glance at the tiny plaque hanging by a piece of torn and tattered twine, “Mom’s Garden” it reads. I smile to myself and enter. As I kneel to till the soft earth, slightly damp from a spring shower earlier in the day, a musty earthy aroma enters my nostrils. I throw my trowel to the side and sink my hands directly into the soft, moist dirt twirling the earth around my fingers. “Wear gloves.” my husband always says. “No way.” I lovingly reply. Planting and tilling a garden with my bare hands allows me to spend time with nature in a very personal way. A true healing garden, I feel.

My relationship with nature is close as I understand what is needed for life to thrive. Lingering over seedlings to observe their growth is as if I am watching my own children from birth to adulthood. Surrounded on one side by tall dark green foliage that supports the roundest, reddest fruit, the tomato. So perfect, in its own way. Red and smooth as the finish of a newly waxed car. On the other side of me, jalapeño peppers, some long and thin like fingers of the wicked witch of the west. Others, not round, not square, a shape only known to the bell pepper. The gnarly sting of thistle burns my hand as I gently and delicately pull weeds from between the plants so as not to disturb their home, but to give them more room to expand and thrive. I pull a few lettuce leaves, wilted from the hot day in the sun and place them aside for tonight’s salad. A cucumber here, a carrot there, completes the bounty the earth provides.

Creating beauty through the creative use of space, and giving myself over to the possibilities of birth and growth connects me to the basic force of nature by being in the moment and allowing nature to sooth me. Nature’s power is as close as my breath, and I breathe deeply once again before returning to the world around me.

"Hide not your talents. They for use were made. What's a sundial in the shade?"

~Benjamin Franklin

Wonderful quote for all writers from John Leggett:

A story teller, like a travel agent, can help us up from wherever we are,

and put us down in another setting.

Oh, the delicious freedom of Saturday morning. Fridays are fine but Saturdays are sublime.

I linger in my bed, seeking then savoring the silky coolness of the laundered-a-hundred-times sheets. Thus begins the decadent dilly-dallying of Saturday morning. A toe, a foot, and ankle creep toward the the mattress edge and beyond into thin air, slowly preparing myself to shrug off the covers and rise.

"Are you going to stay in bed? I'll start the coffee if you like."

"No, I'm getting up. Just another minute or two." The choice of how I spend the day equals the lusciousness of remaining horizontal for much longer. And soon the aromatic waves of beans grown on shady Andes slopes reach me. Perhaps it is the promise of "sweet caramel notes and floral overtones" from my favorite "medium bodied brew," but I'm ready now. Grabbing my housecoat, I head to the kitchen.

Picking the Precious Moments coffee mug with my name on it from among the assortment in the cabinet, I pour in cream, then add the steaming brown elixir, watching mocha swirls rise towards me. Inhaling deeply, with a practiced yoga breath, I hold this moment for a heartbeat or two, my hands warmed by the mug, my nostrils cuing my taste buds for the delight which awaits.

Saturday, oh sweet day, I raise my mug in a toast to you.

Which is witch?

"Hi Sweetie, how are you," said one.

"Oh, it's you," said the other.

"You're engaged! That's wonderful," said one;

"That's courageous," said the other.

"I wish you both years of love," wrote one.

No mention of our wedding from the other.

"No daughter could be dearer," wrote one;

Seldom a call or a note from the other.

Which one's the in-law?

Which one's the mother?

Teaching My Son to do Laundry

Teaching My Son to do Laundry

Age 4

“Zach, let’s sort these piles of clothes into different colors.”

“Like this?”

“Yep, blues go in this pile. Nope, put those blues in the jeans pile.”

“Here?”

“Yep.”

“Ok, you can sit on top of the dryer, but don’t kick the door or it’ll break. Wait, I’ll lift you”

“Mumma, can I put in the soap?”

“No, I’ll put in the soap and you can toss the clothes in the washer.”

“Now Mum?”

“No, wait until a little more water gets into the washing machine.”

“Now?”

“Nope wait. I’ll hand them to you when we’re ready. Try not to kick the dryer.

Ok, here’s daddy’s jeans toss them in; ok, put mine in next. No, no, no don’t lean over any further or you’ll fall in. Zach, lean back. I’ll push the jeans down so all of them will fit in the washer.”

“Anymore?”

“Nope all done.”

“Can I close the lid?”

“Yes, gently.”

BANG!

“Good job buddy.”

Age 17

“Zach, it is simply time ~ you’ve got to start doing your own laundry. You’ll be going off to college next year and you really need to know how to do this.”

“I’ll get a cute girl to do it for me.”

“Trust me; no cute girl is going to do your stinky laundry.”

“Mom, I don’t know how to do laundry.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve been doing laundry since you were three, four years old.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Zach, how can you not remember sitting on top of the dryer kicking your Nikes into the metal door? You don’t remember sorting all of those clothes with me in the basement at Angelo Drive? The basement had that cold cement floor. You used to lean over so far I was convinced one day you’d fall right in the washer. Zach, that’s how you learned your colors. I always felt like we were getting two life lessons out of one chore; learning colors and how to do laundry.”

“MOM, I WAS FOUR!!”

“I swear you had so much fun helping me; we did it everyday! Do you remember the time we pulled all of our jeans out of the dryer and every crayon in your pocket had melted all through the whole load? For days I tried getting that wax off. Finally I gave up and bought everyone new jeans. You always had stuff in your pockets, rocks, Nerds candy, and Ninja Turtle weapons. Make sure you check your pockets.”

“MOM! STOP. I don’t know how to do laundry!”

“Zach you took Home Ec in 8^th grade. There was an entire marking period dedicated to laundry, whites in hot water, and colors in cold water and ironing. We practiced ironing shirts together with Niagara spray starch! I know you know how to do this!”

“Mom, can’t you just do my laundry?”

“No. It’s time for you to do this yourself. I’m typing-up the instructions and posting them on the laundry room door.”

“FINE! Annie, Mom’s going crazy! Will you sort my laundry?”

Age 22

“Mom, is there a way to get white clothes brighter?”

“Yeah, why?”

“All of my white clothes are so…dingy.”

“Where are you doing your laundry?”

“In the basement of my building; I swear there are dead bodies down there. I pretty much throw the laundry in the machine, run upstairs and hope the clothes will still be there when I go back down.”

“Oh, gross. Maybe it’s the Brooklyn water. There’s a product called Oxi Clean—it’s a booster for your laundry detergent. You put a scoop of Oxi Clean in with the detergent and it brightens whites and takes out stains. It really works. What kind of laundry detergent do you use?”

“Downy.”

“Downy? Downy’s not a laundry detergent.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a fabric softener. Why did you start using Downy?”

“Downy’s a client so I thought I should support them and use the samples.”

“How long have you been using Downy?”

“For months.”

“Oh, God. You need to get a good laundry detergent and Oxi Clean. Go to a clean laundra-mat and wash all of your whites on HOT.”

“Really? Do you think that will work?”

“I do. Really”

“OK.”

Age 23

“Zach, what’s your new address?”

“East 61^st Street.”

“Is that considered the Upper East Side?”

“Hmmm…sort-of. Well, not really, but its close.”

“Do you have a laundry room in your building?”

“Nope.”

“Where are you going to do your laundry?”

“I’m not. I found a great laundry/dry cleaning service one block down from my apartment; it’s 70¢ per pound to wash and fold. They charge $1.50 to dry clean my shirts. I drop off my laundry in the morning and it’s done in the afternoon.

“How many pounds do you usually have?”

“About forty.”

“Forty pounds! Does that include wet towels?”

“No Mom, just clothes.

“How much does this cost you?”

“About $30 bucks.”

“Do you like being able to drop off your laundry?

“I love it! It saves so much time.”

“Good for you, Zach; makes sense.”

“The only thing is my cleaning bag is ripping so much that any day now my clothes will be all over Second Avenue. So this story is to be continued.”

“I’ll stay tuned.”

≈

Our Chipoupine
Weekly Writing Challenge Winner
is Tracy Dunne-Derrell!


We challenged you to create an inventive story inspired by this picture in 150 words or less. The catch? You had to mention the beautiful, ribbon-adorned skirt she's wearing in your piece. (Afterall, we're skirt! girls right?)


Read the winning entry here:

You don't know it yet, but you will be President someday. Not president of a bank or PTA, though those are certainly worthy, but THE President.
But today, you can revel in little girl-ness, the weight of the world carried by someone else. Despite your tomboy tendencies, you love pretty things, and this will be held against you as you make your way in the world, as if a woman can't be pretty and competent. A belief some won't release, even in your lifetime.
The rain has run its dreary course, leaving behind sunshine. You put on a beautiful, ribbon-adorned skirt. Your mother protests that it's too muddy outside, but marvels at the perfect outfit you create.
You're ready to run about in the sunshine, mud be damned. Your stubborn streak has earned you another win. Someday, you will thank your mother for not squashing that part of you. - Tracy Dunne-Derrell

Here's to Tracy and Beth.....

Our Writer's Group is beginning to garnish some glory. First, Tracy wins a competition on Skirt.com. Not a small feat, for Skirt is highly regarded and the submissions, I imagine, are many. To top it off, the word count was small, making each word count. She wrote a great piece and I'll see if I can post it here.

Now it's Beth's turn as she's in the final count for a new Chicken Soup book, due out towards the end of the year. We know those submissions are many...to get this far is quite an accomplishment. Beth turned in a story very much in her own voice....it's full of humor...Beth's humor...yet spot on honest...very true to who Beth is. With so many trying to get into Chicken Soup, I believe her unique take on the topic...which is health and fitness...made her story stand out. I can't imagine how many, "I lost weight" stories they received? Take a chance...dig deep into your creativity....no matter the immediate out come...whether it's personal or publishing success, it will happen.

Having other people read you work...offer thoughtful comments...as well as encouragement... is a win-win situation for a writer. Taking those comments and making the decision to either change up the story or not, makes for a writer who is willing to take chances, be creative, stay true to themselves and improve how they choose to be expressive. There's nothing like a group working together for every ones benefit.

If you send it out, yes, you stand the chance of having it turned down, but, ahhh....you also have an opportunity of being published. That's a rush for any writer who wants their work out there. Oh, and don't diminish the fact you also end up feeling you've accomplished a personal goal...doesn't get any better than that.

Here's to Tracy and Beth.....