I went down to ABQ this morning for the last Sunday morning of my "month of Sundays," trying to determine if I could really host a six-hour classical music show every Sunday. Well, actually...I can't! Two+ hours to drive there and back and six hours on the air equals a day of work (free, I might add, being public radio), not to mention the $15 in gas. Too bad this opportunity is not here in Santa Fe, because then it would be a snap, even with the time commitment. I did realized, though, that doing it in college made more sense; one was already living in segments of hours that varied throughout the week. It has been delightful, however, to get to know Dorothy, the current host; 78-years old, funny and self-deprecating, with 20 years at the controls, and a real wealth of classical music at her fingertips. Although she is not really Mom's generation, I know part of the attraction is the Mom-factor of an older, wiser head. Today, when I programmed my one hour, the last piece I had planned for the finish was Handel's Hallelujah (well, it IS Easter, after all), but the CD player simply would not cue up. I needed a short little piece, and out comes Dorothy with Cesar Franck's Panis Angelicus, yes, that one...thank you, Dorothy, for the gift! For your listening pleasure, with a special nod to Kristen Moir:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1a11YheB2zM
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Easter Blessings
May this season of redemption and rebirth find you in the company of those whom you love! Happy Easter, Moir Family, wherever you may be!
Happy Easter
Thinking of the old days when we all went scurrying through the house looking for our Easter baskets. Is it in the oven? Or behind the chair? The tradition continues in the Mastrangelo house.
Happy Easter to all!
Happy Easter to all!
Thursday, April 21, 2011
More info for the curious
Alzheimer's info from the NY Times:
http://newoldage.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/04/21/a-few-questions-about-the-new-alzheimers-criteria/
http://newoldage.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/04/21/a-few-questions-about-the-new-alzheimers-criteria/
Sunday, April 17, 2011
I'm Not Saying They're Related, But...
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
For Future Reference
No, no Namenda! http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/04/12/alzheimers-drug-_n_848039.html?ref=fb&src=sp
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Sad News
For all those who remember, Phil Zito passed away last week. He was Mom's buddy from the produce department at Heinen's. They exchanged Christmas cards for years after Phil retired. Another reminder of how times have changed and how Mom could make a friend anywhere.
Monday, April 4, 2011
From the Writers Almanac
I don't think I'd wear Papa's boxers, but this poem is very expressive of the feeling of loss...
The Boxers
by Cathy Smith Bowers
When my father, after twenty years, came home
to die, circling, circling, like an animal
we believed extinct, it was my crazy aunt
who took him in, who told later
how the taxi had dumped him
bleached and whimpering on her porch.
And she who had not lived with him
thought his sons and daughters cruel
not to come when he began to call our names.
He died, and soon after, a package in brown wrapping
arrived at my address. My sister, who did not
attend the funeral, kept urging me to open it
and I kept saying I would, soon. Every day
when I came home from work, there it was
sitting at my back door, the remnants
of my father's life—years in the mill
spinning and doffing, then drinking into morning
as he railed at the walls, the cotton
still clinging to his fists. Weeks had passed
when finally my sister and I, after two stiff bourbons,
began to rip the paper, slowly in strips
like archaeologists unclothing a mummy.
And all that was there were a few plaid flannels,
the jacket to a leisure suit, and a pair of boxers,
white and baggy, Rorschached in urine—a smaller size,
my sister said, than the way she remembered him.
Then she offered to drop the things at the Salvation Army
store she passed on her way home. In July
we went shopping for swim suits and I could
see her in the curtained stall across from mine.
She was pulling her slip over her head when I saw
she was wearing them, her thighs like the pale stems
of mushrooms emerging from the boxers' billowy
legs, whiter, softer now, washed clean. I still
can't say why my sister, that day in the Salvation
Army store, glanced up, as I've imagined,
to see if anyone was watching
before she slipped those boxers from the soiled heap
of our father's clothes. Nor why
I took so long to open that package, both wanting
and fearing whatever lay inside. Like a child
huddled by the campfire who cries out in terror
at the story someone just told
and, still weeping, begs for it again.
"The Boxers" by Cathy Smith Bowers, from The Love that Ended Yesterday in Texas. © Texas Tech University Press, 1992. Reprinted with permission on the Writers Almanac.
The Boxers
by Cathy Smith Bowers
When my father, after twenty years, came home
to die, circling, circling, like an animal
we believed extinct, it was my crazy aunt
who took him in, who told later
how the taxi had dumped him
bleached and whimpering on her porch.
And she who had not lived with him
thought his sons and daughters cruel
not to come when he began to call our names.
He died, and soon after, a package in brown wrapping
arrived at my address. My sister, who did not
attend the funeral, kept urging me to open it
and I kept saying I would, soon. Every day
when I came home from work, there it was
sitting at my back door, the remnants
of my father's life—years in the mill
spinning and doffing, then drinking into morning
as he railed at the walls, the cotton
still clinging to his fists. Weeks had passed
when finally my sister and I, after two stiff bourbons,
began to rip the paper, slowly in strips
like archaeologists unclothing a mummy.
And all that was there were a few plaid flannels,
the jacket to a leisure suit, and a pair of boxers,
white and baggy, Rorschached in urine—a smaller size,
my sister said, than the way she remembered him.
Then she offered to drop the things at the Salvation Army
store she passed on her way home. In July
we went shopping for swim suits and I could
see her in the curtained stall across from mine.
She was pulling her slip over her head when I saw
she was wearing them, her thighs like the pale stems
of mushrooms emerging from the boxers' billowy
legs, whiter, softer now, washed clean. I still
can't say why my sister, that day in the Salvation
Army store, glanced up, as I've imagined,
to see if anyone was watching
before she slipped those boxers from the soiled heap
of our father's clothes. Nor why
I took so long to open that package, both wanting
and fearing whatever lay inside. Like a child
huddled by the campfire who cries out in terror
at the story someone just told
and, still weeping, begs for it again.
"The Boxers" by Cathy Smith Bowers, from The Love that Ended Yesterday in Texas. © Texas Tech University Press, 1992. Reprinted with permission on the Writers Almanac.
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Play Ball
Pee Wee Track
Friday, April 1, 2011
Chicago, Chicago...
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