Archive - Staff Blog
February 23rd, 2016
The other day, my daughters were playing on the brick patio that constitutes the backyard of our rental house in Berkeley, California. As two of them scooted around on toy cars belonging to our landlords’ son, I observed the following exchange:
Bringing their vehicles to a sudden stop at right angles to each other, one daughter said, “You go ahead.”
In Honor of Shakespeare’s First Folio
Visiting the Middlebury College Museum
Inside the box, under glass,
the air ‘s 1623 again. The paper
we’re told, woven from a pauper’s
shirt. Each folio a worn fingerprint.
I’m standing behind a class
of fidgeting Cornwall boys wanting
to touch the glass. To not be told
when to open their lunch boxes.
About nine months ago, my husband and I decided to start looking for a place to live during our sabbatical in Berkeley, California. Sitting at home in Vermont, we assumed it would be no problem to find a furnished rental home for a family with four young children and a dog, within walking distance of UC Berkeley, on an assistant professor’s salary.
In November, I announced in this blog space that I would be making more of an effort to go to at least a few of the many interesting events I come across as the community calendar editor at the Addison Independent. I hoped to attend one event every 1-3 weeks.
I was so naïve back then.
Our first two days in Northern California were filled with palm trees, rainbows, and loving grandparents. On the morning of the third day – the day we would leave the comfort of the grandparents’ house and move into our rental house in Berkeley – I fell down the stairs.
As Mick Jagger said (or was it Richard Nixon?): “The honeymoon don’t last forever, kid.”
“Wait, people are just allowed to have palm trees in their yards?” my eldest daughter marveled on our first day in California’s Bay Area.
I won’t cast one vote for a camel-
haired coat. I’d rather be thrown-out
in the snow and live in my state
of standing up, saying no.
It doesn’t know my neighbors
and I love sleeping in the cold
like an electable deer. I could
say doe, if I was sure what I saw
stepping in next March to our school
gym. Where we stand up to speak
our Johnson-milled minds in our
December 30th, 2015
Last week, the woman behind me in the Hannaford supermarket check-out line asked if I knew where Salon Déjà vu was located. She wanted to get a gift certificate for somebody, she told me, but the address that she’d been given led her to the wrong place, and nobody answered the phone at the number she’d found online.
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