BarbaraBeardsley.com

It is part of the human condition, I suppose, to look for perfection. We seek it in many ways, particularly when we are young.We search for the perfect mate, perfect school, perfect wedding dress, perfect dinner plates, perfect neighborhood….all because it seems so very, very important to get it Right. No one ever says “I’d like an average dress for my 10th Reunion, please”. Or, how about ” yes, any countertops will do for my new kitchen renovation”. When did any hairdresser every hear: “cut off as much as you want..it really doesn’t matter”?

As I was walking through my living room, my gaze was caught by the long, winding scratch on the ceiling. It is a peculiar mark because it sort of zig-zags along; it could only have been created by the top of a Christmas tree being moved into a tree holder. Now, my lovely renovated ceiling is imperfect, and that mark will probably be there for a long time. It happened when the Xmas tree was being carried to its appointed spot. I remember when it happened I was annoyed that the ceiling got scraped; now it just brings back happy memories of the Holidays.

That’s the thing about imperfection. Once you get past the need for things to be completely organized, in line, shiny, and in order, there is a whole world of imperfect to enjoy! For example, the kitchen doorway, through which we enter the house, was remodeled 8 years ago. It has lovely divided vertical windows on each side, and  pretty wood molding. Well, it was pretty wood molding. Then came Theodore. My Golden Retriever/Lab/Border Collie mix dog is, shall we say, excitable? Teddy has scratched the molding beyond recognition in his efforts to convey his excitement when we arrive home. He leaps and bounds and shrieks his enthusiasm until  he is happily ensconced in our arms. So, my molding is ruined. But when I look at it now, I have come to see it as a measure of the deep and abiding love that Teddy has for us. It needs to be repaired, but it will probably stay that way for a long time.

There are many such marks and scars in my home. Paint-chipped doorways that have had too much clumsy traffic through them. Screens that succumbed to erratic protests from my Siberian Husky Misha’s claws when squirrels and cats had the audacity to stroll near the fence line. Ceiling water spots that were created by teenage  shower events. Saved pieces of china and glass that need to be super-glued because I dropped them. All things that happen from the imperfect days and nights of a family living here.

The photo of the Organic Tomatoes above is very appealing to me today:it reminds me of warm Summer days on this cold February morning. It also shows the variety of tomatoes available, from blemished and flawed to ideal. They are all full of nutrients and vitamins and juicy, wholesome wonderfulness. Do we choose the quintessential tomato? Can we enjoy the flawed? Can we retrain ourselves to view them as equally nourishing and valuable?

Perhaps in this complicated time of human history, we need a daily experiment. Could we start to modify our own behavior when it comes to perfection? Could we try to see other people as flawed, but still valuable?

Start with your own family and friends. Love them despite their propensity to make mistakes. Things and feelings and relationships can be repaired. But the Love you share with them will probably stay that way for a long time.

I am a wire whisk. My purpose in life is to help people whisk or whip certain foods together. I can help eggs get ready to be omelets, or mix ingredients together for pastry fillings. Basically, I am a kitchen tool for people who like to cook.

My beginning was like all other whisks; I was lying in a display at a fancy shop, waiting for the glorious day when I would belong to someone. I was in a store called SONOMA-WILLIAMS in San Francisco, which was the first store that really specialized in quality cooking items. The location of Sonoma-Williams  was  Union Square, so I got a lot of attention from curious tourists and locals who worked nearby and frequented the store on their lunch hour.

One of the office girls who would come in often at lunchtime was a blonde with long hair and glasses; she looked longingly at all of us in the displays, but never seemed to buy anything. I think she might have been sort of poor, but I know little about such matters.

Then one day a tall young woman with deep auburn hair and a fabulous face came to my display and grabbed me out of the jar. She brought me to the register where the clerk wrapped me in tissue paper and put me in a SW paper bag. I had been purchased! I was so excited, and wondered what was next. Would I be working at last in this lovely lady’s kitchen?

A few days passed, and I languished in the tissue, uncertain of my fate. Then, I was hurriedly stuffed into a large fabric purse, and taken away on a streetcar ride. I had no idea that this was the beginning of my exciting future that would take me on so many journeys.

We rode along for some time, until a girl came and sat next to us. The woman seemed excited and talked and laughed with this person, and shifted the purse around her knees. Then, with a burst of energy, she scooped me out of the purse, said something cheery  about a birthday, and handed me to the girl next to us. The girl unwrapped me, and to my deep surprise, I recognized the blonde girl with glasses who often came to SW to visit! She was my new owner, and she seemed delighted to see me.

I have lived with my owner now for 43 years. She has always taken good care of me, and I have helped her create hundreds of meals. We started out together in a small apartment in San Francisco. She really didn’t know a lot about what I could do, but she used me to mix eggs and these really awful sauces made with soups. There wasn’t much variety in her cooking, but, again, it might have had something to do with money.

As we moved around the country, from those humble beginnings in San Francisco to Boston, Maine, Florida, back to Maine, Alaska, Maine again, back to Florida, and finally to Maine one more time, I have seen and done a lot. My owner matured and read her cookbooks like novels, and  I helped her create interesting vegetarian sauces when she wanted to impress her boyfriends. I worked hard on the crepes when she was really in love with someone. I struggled to perfect the whipped cream for her magnificent pies, which always won over the guests. I have even been held briefly by her sweet little daughter when she wanted to help Mommy with the frosting.

My owner found her permanent home at last. We got unpacked 8 years ago, and haven’t seen a moving box since. Now we are settled into the best kitchen of all: we have gleaming countertops and state of the art dishwashers to keep me clean. I think my owner has succeeded in some ways; she finally has the kitchen she dreamed of all those years ago on her lunch hours in Union Square. Along the way someone lost my plastic end cap; she is not sure who did it, but I know that both of us forgive them. I have become her treasured tool; I have stood by her through two divorces, countless heartaches, and all her triumphs. I may show some wear, but I am always ready to give my best for her.

I have gotten to know my owner pretty well. You can tell a lot about a person when they handle you while they cook. She really likes me; I don’t know if it is because I came to her when she was so young and idealistic, or just because she is such a sentimental person. When she first brought me home, her  dreams were so vivid; all the plans she had were spread out before us like a magical path to The Future.

I can tell every once in a while when she looks at me or holds me, that she thinks of that day so long ago. That moment on the streetcar when I was released into her hands. It might be that she thinks about the boy she loved then, and how she hurried home with me to show him what her friend had given her. Love lost when you are so young apparently never really leaves your heart. But, I know little about such matters.

On Valentine’s Day we buy cards and sweets and flowers and give them to those we love. Every year we can enjoy the romance of it, or we can complain because of the lack of a sweetheart. This day points out, more than most, the need for humans to have a significant “other”, upon whom we can lavish affection. So who’s big idea was this, anyway?

Researching St. Valentine, we find that there are lots of rumors, fables, and myths that surround him. He may have been an Italian martyr who was beheaded by Claudius II. He might have been a compilation of several Saints with the same name. No one seems to be sure of the exact details of his story. Yet, here we are about 1800 years later, claiming him as the patron of love, seduction, and chocolate!

Whatever St. Valentine’s story may be, it gives us the opportunity to reflect upon those who willingly give their lives for a belief. Some people cling to their Religion strongly and will give up all else in defense of it; some people have political ideologies that they stand behind, and, in the end, will sacrifice everything to defend. Certainly anyone in the military has to take an oath to defend the principles of their Country.

There are all kinds of belief systems. Some may seem foolish to us, yet they hold validity for those who espouse them. We, as a species, have such a variety of reasons to get up in the morning. For some of us, it is our family. For others our work. Still others have the motivation to make the World a better place by helping. Almost all of us find a construct that makes life worth living.

For those who seem to derive their motivation from their own super-inflated ego and its demands, I hope today they will take a cue from St. Valentine: his name comes from a latin word that means “worthy”. Maybe they will miraculously see that to be worthy of adulation, one must actually do something for others. We can only hope.

I have read that for people to find meaning in their lives, they have to believe in something. I believe I will have a donut. Happy Valentine’s Day!

 

Being a Woman “d’un certain age”, as the French would say, brings on reflection and more attention to one’s roots. I have been thinking a lot about my maternal Grandmother, Richette Cianchette Frederick, lately. As I remember her, I marvel at the accomplishments and seemingly endless energy of this wonderful immigrant lady.

Richette was born in Italy, and came to America as a child around 1910. Like most women of that era, she married very young and had a large family. Her six children included my Mother, who is pictured here on the right. On the left is my Mom’s twin brother, Uncle Bill, and holding her twins is the beautiful woman who is my Nana, Richette.

Life in the 1920’s on a small farm in Maine was hard. My grandfather worked on a construction crew, so he was gone all week. This meant that my Nana had to take care of six kids, a farmhouse, and the farm hands that were  needed to help with the animals and crops. So, there must have been daily baking of bread and cooking for all those people. There must have been washing and cleaning and mending and general child care. No dishwasher.No dryer. No freezer. No convenience foods. No air conditioning. Wood heat. The enormity of chores and food preparation is, to modern homemakers, unthinkable.Yet, she, and most of the women of her generation, had no choice but to get up each day and do what needed to be done. If I really think hard about what her days were like, I become tired myself!

In addition to raising all these children, keeping them clean and healthy, managing the farm and its workers, and taking care of a large farmhouse, she seemed to find time to create. She sewed, crocheted, tatted, and embroidered; all those needlework projects that exist from the early part of the Twentieth Century were made by Women like my Nana. She never sat down without something in her hands to work on. She would, in later years, be creating dresses and hats for her grandchildren’s dolls; or embroidering table cloths and crocheting potholders. I cannot remember her ever folding her hands or sitting in a completely relaxed manner. The word “chill” was not part of the vernacular of that era.

After her children were grown, she operated a hot dog stand on the Main Street of tiny Pittsfield, Maine. This small enterprise became well known, and there are still people today who tell me that their childhood memories include going to get a hot dog for a treat (if they had behaved well). I can recall standing by her side while she cooked onions on the grill and prepared the rolls,  mustard, and relish, as the hot dogs steamed. It was all very exciting, and I was at eye-level with the grill as those fabulous onions gave forth the intoxicating aroma that lured in her customers.

My Nana was a World Class Cook. I can remember long tables of clamoring grandkids stuffing themselves with her spaghetti and meatballs, fabulous bread, and Italian cookies.There really weren’t any recipes….she just created everything from scratch and remembered how to do it all.

Richette was beloved by her family, her friends, and just about anyone who knew her. She never gossiped, complained, or indulged in self-pity. She was kind, soft-spoken, full of love and light, and laughed easily. This lady who came from the beautiful Abruzzo region of Italy made a new life in her adopted land. Pettorano and Sulmona were far away, and she insisted that her children speak English, not Italian. (We always knew that the topic was not for our ears if my grandparents spoke Italian around us; that was the only time the grandkids heard it spoken.)

I wish that my Nana had lived a longer life. She died of Cancer at the age of 63, and I was just thirteen. I was lucky to have known her at all, but the memories leave me wanting to have known her even better. She had an indomitable spirit, and extraordinary energy. I remember her singing as she washed dishes; she had a sweet voice and a good musical ear.She loved flowers, decorating for Christmas, Nat “King” Cole, and President Kennedy. She was a creative whirlwind.

Lucky me: I have some of her genes.

 

 

 

My friend Jesse and I were talking yesterday about youthful choices and failure. He was telling me that, upon reflection, he felt he was not kind and loving enough to people in his life when he was younger. I guess we were talking about most Baby Boomers in our comparisons of the qualities we now know to be important, and the ones we ignored as kids.

It seems that the story of Redemption is an essential component of our human experience. We base many religions upon it, and we find it easily in many narratives of the lives of our friends.

Jesse had a very rough childhood. He had abusive and neglectful adoptive parents, lonely days and nights, and few examples of love and compassion. He sought answers, because at his core he is a seeker. What he found as a young man often disappointed and confused him. He carried on, married, had children, divorced, travelled, and kept looking for answers to big questions. For a long time, his life was unfulfilled and without purpose.

Then Jesse got lucky. The stars aligned, things fell into place, and he found some answers. He discovered a philosophy that made sense to him, and met a woman that brought him Love and Family. He worked hard, and built up a lucrative business. He connected with biological relatives, and developed happy relationships with them.

Now was this really Luck? Or did he make it happen? I say, the latter. I think his story is full of determination, sweat, struggle, tears, and joy. It’s the story of the Phoenix, rising up from the ashes. It’s that reclamation of meaning and cause and intention.

I have known Jesse since 1976, as is evidenced by the photo of us above. We have been friends since we met in Cambridge long ago.

From my perspective, my friend Jesse is a success. He could have chosen resentment, hatred, and revenge, based on his childhood models. Instead, he chose Life, Love, and demonstrating Good. We can prevail over darkness. I have seen it happen.

You might have been lost somewhere down the line long ago, Jesse. But you found your Way.

Today is Squirrel Appreciation Day. I did not know that there was a day set aside for the furry little guys, but now that I know, things will change. Next year, we should have a party to celebrate! We can serve all kinds of nutty dishes, and wear acorn party hats.        Too much? O.K., but let’s take a moment to consider the positive characteristics of the Squirrel.

As I watch them race around my yard, I am always amazed at their lifestyle. First of all, they have to be constantly aware of predators, from my large dogs to all the flying and creeping beasties in the ‘hood. Second, while watching their backs, they must forage constantly for food and defend their finds from other squirrels, birds, etc. Third, they have to secure lodging for themselves and their offspring. Last, but most intriguing of all, they seem to have a need to stash their food for safe keeping.

Now I understand their need to stay alive and avoid being eaten. I also understand the need to find food on a daily basis; I, myself, am a Big Fan of food. Finding shelter is also a necessity, particularly if you are a Maine Squirrel: our weather is outrageous (except for the one day in July). So, I  feel you, Mr. or Ms. Squirrel.

That being said….what is with the stashing, or squirreling away of the foodstuff? What makes you bury everything? Are you guys masters of delayed gratification? Why not eat it now? What happens when it snows and freezes on top of the ground you just covered up? How can you get at your stash then?

About three years ago I purchased a “squirrel safe” bird feeder. I bought it online, and paid over $55.00 for a large, heavy silver-domed wire feeder.This feeder is pictured above filled with seeds. Also pictured is a Squirrel about to eat those seeds. Clearly I was sold a dream, and actually knew nothing about the persistence or resolve of Sciurus Carolinensis.

I think I need to take a course in Squirrel Behavior. What would it be called? Rodents 101?Nut-o-philia? Anyway, I want to understand these creatures and get the real answers. For lack of the true information, I tend to anthropomorphize my fur bearing neighbors. I imagine them talking to themselves, and to each other, as they fly through the maples in my backyard.

“Hey, Rocky. Keep away from my nest. I just dragged all those branches over it, and I don’t want you messing it up.”

“Yeah, Yeah. I’ve got bigger problems, you idiot. I can’t remember where I buried that freakin’ pile of sunflower seeds! Now, let’s see..I was over by that birdfeeder…..”

Determined, agile, feisty, tireless, entertaining, clever, adaptable, and amazing. Let’s celebrate the remarkable Squirrel. Peanuts anyone?

 

 

It has been almost a year since my Friend and Cousin, Lolly Susi, passed away. I have wanted to write something meaningful since then, but have not been able to quite put into words what I still feel about this particular loss. I think I need to do it now.

Lolly deserves big words. Multi-Talented.Fabulous. Hilarious. Breathtaking. Inspiring. Brilliant. Perceptive. Complicated. Intuitive. Generous.

We were friends from very early days. Our parents were Cousins, so we played together as young kids. In every birthday photo, Lolly is sitting near me. I have scrapbooks of cards from my childhood….Lolly’s cards are there. We went to the movies, dreamed our dreams, and laughed at the antics of our families together. I really can’t remember a time when we did not know each other.

Lolly had special qualities. She was the kind of person who, while humble and self-effacing, commanded attention when she entered a room. She was so full of Joie de Vivre, that it was contagious. You wanted to be in her presence, because you felt more alive being there. You wanted to elicit a laugh, because there was so much exuberance in her laughter. She made each person feel as if they were the most important and interesting person she had encountered. Her gifts were many, but I am sure all her friends would agree that this ability to connect and really listen to people was extraordinary.

Lolly was destined for a Theater and Film career. She became an Actress, Director, Teacher, Coach, Playwright, and Author. Her accomplishments in her chosen industry are many. Her credits in film and television and theater are lengthy and very impressive. She travelled the globe, worked in Hawaii, and made her home in London.

We connected each time we got together as old friends do: common family stories, common small-town grade school stories, and then, as adults, common Working Women stories. We would always catch up on the personal details of our lives, and laugh outrageously at the madness of it all.

Lolly fought Cancer as a brave Warrior three times. She beat it back twice, and lost the last battle. The way she survived it was always astounding to me. She appreciated everything so much; she was grateful for all that came her way, and never complained or played the suffering patient. I remember her always telling me that she “didn’t want the Party to end”.

In 2000, when I was about to celebrate turning 50, I invited my 9 favorite girlfriends to come to Sanibel Island, where I lived, for a celebration. The 9, being remarkable and successful Women, were all very busy; of these, 3 came to help me celebrate. Lolly came from England, Gail came from Denver, and Donna came from Boston. The three friends had never met one another. My favorite part of the week-long celebration was seeing these three Women that I loved get to know each other; it has always been my dream to have my far-flung pals meet and laugh together. (We could hardly drag Lolly from the gorgeous white sands of Sanibel…she loved the beach!)

Because she was an astute listener, she gave me a lovely birthday gift that week: a journal and a notebook in which to write. I had told her I wanted to write again, and she encouraged me in words and by her thoughtful choice of a present. I believe that if she were here today, she would be reading my blog and sending words of support.

The day before Christmas in 2014, I called her and had a good long chat. She told me how sick she had been, but  she was determined to start another round of tests and trials for a cancer miracle drug. She never let me know how really seriously ill she was that day. Knowing her as I did, I think it was her Christmas gift to me: I was able to hang up and be optimistic that she would be cured in the New Year. The last gift. Hope.

The shock of her death came about seven weeks later. It was like a punch to the gut; it actually physically hurt. How could someone with so much incredible Presence be gone?

I miss my Friend. I miss her warmth and charm. I miss the insights, and the laughter. I miss the beauty of her Spirit and the  affirmation of her Being. I hear her voice telling me to join the Party and seize the day. And that is how I shall honor her.

Love You, Lolly. xoxo.

 

 

 

 

I have been watching this tree, which stands a few yards from the edge of my property. It is the only deciduous tree around that still has some leaves clinging to it. Why, in the midst of Winter, are these leaves stubbornly holding on?

Today, January 11, is the commemoration of Alice Paul’s birthday. Alice was a leader in the Suffragette Movement in America, and was one of the most determined fighters for Equal Rights. She continued her work long after the 19th Amendment was ratified, and worked tirelessly for the Equal Rights Amendment, which she lived to see enacted. She died in 1977, five years after it became law.

Alice was one of a group of immensely dedicated people who fought for Women’s Rights in the early part of the twentieth century. It is hard to believe, but my own Grandmothers were among those not allowed to vote until 1920. Those of us who have grown up feeling entitled to vote cannot, perhaps, fully imagine or appreciate what it would have been like to have had no voice in our democracy. Yet, less than 100 years ago, men decided what laws would be in effect for the populace, and who would implement the laws.

Alice Paul’s family had a farm. She grew up with Quaker values, and farm work ethics. Her Mother said to her “When you put your hand to the plow, you can’t put it down until you get to the end of the row”. Alice later quoted this as a metaphor for her unwavering commitment to her principles. She never put down the plow. She, like many of the women of the Movement, gave everything to the cause of Equal Rights. Thanks to her, women like me and my friends can enjoy the freedoms we take for granted.

What makes some people heroines or heroes? What is that genetic mixture that brings such remarkable fortitude and strength of purpose to some humans? Why don’t they give up when being beaten and humiliated? Why do they hang on? What kind of rootedness do they possess?

I don’t know the answers to these questions, and I am always fascinated by the power and resilience of the Human Spirit in the face of such adversity. To possess such courage and have such a fervor for one’s convictions is, to me, such an admirable quality. I guess that’s why I continue to stare at those leaves. Like all my heroes and heroines, they just keep hanging on.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s January, and there is snow in my backyard. Life slows down a bit, and I find myself involved in cleaning and organizing projects. There is no significant flurry of activity like the Holiday month of December. Relax. Take time to reflect and renew.

In Las Vegas, however, there is the big Consumer Electronics Show, where huge corporations annually roll out their latest inventions and devices. These newest creations are touted as making our lives easier and making everything more convenient for us. Today I saw cars that park themselves, drive themselves, and warm up themselves. I witnessed refrigerators that can be accessed from your phone while you are away; now you can check to see if you need more milk while you are at the grocery store. There are washers and dryers that can notify you when your laundry is done. The Smart House has everything to make it possible for you to check all issues from wherever you are. Virtual doormen, stoves that turn on and off by phone apps, and freezer doors that open with a wave of your foot(in case you are actually carrying frozen food and your arms are full).

Now I do admire the ingenuity that has devised all this technology, but I  have a couple questions.

1. What are the folks of the future going to do with all the time these  inventions save them?
2. Will the future generations ever have to remember anything?

Perhaps the time saved by not making grocery lists will allow people to watch more episodes of “Keeping Up with the Kardashians”. Maybe the extra moments garnered from not having to go to the laundry room to check and see if the wash is ready to be put into the dryer will give them time to see how many “likes” they got on their facebook posts. Possibly the minutes they gained from not having to turn on and warm up their vehicle will permit them the opportunity to text more emojis to their friends.

If every detail of daily life is accessible through technology, will there be any reason for anyone to memorize or retain information in the future? Will the parts of the brain that have been traditionally used for remembering just atrophy? What kind of people will the human race become without the need to practice times tables, commit to memory their best friends’ phone numbers, recite Hamlet’s soliloquies, or know the capitals of all 50 States?

Being discontent with the direction of popular culture might be the definition of “old”. Complaining about the way things are done as compared with how they were done might be another definition of “old age”.

9×7=63…8×6=48…239-481-0178….207-892-1670…207-854-1320…818-720-7798.”whether ’til nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune”…. Augusta, Jacksonville, Sacramento, Juneau, Boston.

Now I am going to finish putting away the Xmas ornaments and wrap, and get that closet organized. Later I will go to the supermarket with my list.I will probably have to open the refrigerator myself to check and see what we might need.I also have to go to the Bank to deposit some checks and ask a few questions about my account. Doing it old school.

So, all you who agree with me….let’s see a show of hands…c’mon..raise ’em up. Oh, your bursitis is bothering you? I hear you.

 

 

 

 

When the British Invasion started in February of 1964, I was on the front lines. My girlfriends and I  ate, breathed, slept, and lived for anything and anyone English.We were desperately in love with the Beatles, The Dave Clark Five, Gerry and the Pacemakers, and all the other musicians from Merry Olde. By the Summer of 1967, I had seen the Beatles on their last(1966) tour, and was awaiting the arrival of the Dave Clark Five in Portland, Maine. They had been to Portland before, and I , with the rest of the Devotedly Faithful, had gone to their concert. This, then, would be the second time I had seen and heard them.

Somehow, the Angels of the Adolescent smiled on me that night.

I LOVED Mike Smith. He was, foremost, a wonderful singer; but he was also completely adorable and sexy and charming. I honestly cannot remember the details of how I got there, but the photo above proves that it happened. Yes, that is actually ME and Mike Smith. In some miraculous unfolding of events, I got backstage and was with Mike Smith. It was more than a dream come true for a sixteen-year-old Anglophile girl!

My friends and I loved the music. The performances were solid, and we went home happily dreaming of our future with the Dave Clark Five. (I am not sure how many times I wrote “Mrs. Michael Smith” in my notebook).

Mike Smith went on to live his life and secure his spot in Rock and Roll History. He lived, and loved, without ever knowing the girl in the photo. I never saw him again, and others wore the crown of Mrs. Smith. Mike died, too young, at 64, in 2008.

Blessedly, considering all we forget as we age, there are some memories that stand out in our minds. I will never forget the incredible excitement of meeting Mike:it was some kind of Magic! Whenever I am riding along and a Dave Clark Five song comes on the radio, I am always transported back in time. I listen, above all else, to the strong, unmistakable voice of Mike Smith….and I remember.