August 16th, 2010
…and I’ll cry if I want to… . Actually, there’ll be no crying today (or will there?), as it’s Earth to Holly’s two year anniversary. We’ve nothing special planned…there’ll be no giveaways, no contests, not even a cake (or will there?). Nope, no hoopla, at least not in the sense of this photo taken at my fourth birthday party, which was, I might add, a few years plus before Lesley Gore would sing that iconic tune. As for the attendees…that’s me, peeking through from the other side of the table, in the house I mentioned here and here. That’s my second cousin (on my dad’s side), R, standing beside me, who is now a successful indie film editor, as well as a musician with his own group. I’m glad that all those “productions” he put me and the neighborhood kids through, in my grandmother’s backyard, paid off. His interest in film, even at a very young age, carried on, and I’m so happy for him. Across the table from me, eying the camera, is my first cousin, M, whom we lost some years back and way too soon. Only two years my senior and the eldest daughter of my dad’s sister, she was the life of the family…crazy, quirky, funny…boy, how we all miss her. And that’s my mom in the background there, in a daze…a sugar stupor of sorts, but from kids. Thank you, and Daddy, for the party and for saving the four tiny pink candles from my cake, which I recently found in a box with my letters, to you, from college. Details on the correspondence, however mundane, are forthcoming.
Although it’s our party, it wouldn’t be if not for all of you who’ve faithfully visited here and left your heartfelt comments over the past year. Especially in mind is the passing of my father and the surrounding angst. Believe it or not, you all helped me handle that. One of you wrote that “…we are here for you and…we do not judge…” Thank you, L. I took all of your words to heart, and it’s better now, or at least my perception is that it’s better, and maybe that’s what’s important? So, thank you…I may not “know” y’all in the traditional sense, but I love ya anyway. Love ya…however, you haven’t seen me at your place in a while, right? I know, I know. I’m awful in that respect, but vow to do better. Often, for me, commenting is as intricate as crafting a post, and I get terribly lost. Not an excuse, just my modus operandi, but like I said, I’ll do better.
And, of course, thank you to Lucy and W. Without them, there probably wouldn’t be an Earth to Holly. While Lucy’s contributions are out there and in your face, W’s are more behind the scenes. His blogging skills were put to the test, though, while I was with my dad, and he excelled, which was no surprise. He’s the brains and voice of reason in these here parts.
So, again, thank you all so much for sharing the year with us, and here’s to another one, and…maybe another blog? Hmmm…
June 19th, 2010
Can you stand another reference to my grandmother?
Here is a blossom from the silktree mimosa (Albizia julibrissin) which is more commonly called Chinese silk tree or just mimosa. My first encounter with one was—you guessed it—at my grandmother’s house. Again, I’m speaking of my dad’s mom, whom I most recently mentioned here. The tree is quite memorable because of its unique blossoms and their mildly sweet fragrance. The blooms are very soft, like tiny powder puffs, and their scent is delicious. (For the sake of Lucy and all her brethren, though, I must point out that despite my glowing review, I found a toxicity warning that says there is “…a neurotoxin in seed pods that can cause seizures and even death upon ingestion. Pets especially susceptible.”) As much as I loved the tree, my grandmother hated it. I know because I remember her saying, “I hate that damn thing.” (No shrinking violet was she.) Apparently the tree can become infested with web worms, and she hated the mess they made of her yard. So, eventually the tree went, but not before both it and I were captured together in the first and only photograph in my modeling portfolio. *intense sarcasm*
This was taken in the summer of ’66. Although Tuesday’s child is full of grace, not so much that I wasn’t a candidate for Montgomery Ward’s Wendy Ward Charm School, which was popular in the 60s. I don’t recall how I came to end up there, but my guess is from too much Glamour magazine and/or Girl Scouts. Is there a Prissy Badge to be earned? Here I am standing in front of the “damn thing” sporting the same embarrassed grin as here. In a blue polyester outfit complete with cotton gloves and patent leathers, I think I’m a little reminiscent of Jackie O…except for the anklets…eh?
A shout out to my cousin, R, whose house is behind me there. Unlike the poor tree, it still stands. :o)
June 14th, 2010
As strange as it sounds, hearing of Jimmy Dean’s death reminded me of my dad. In the 50′s, outside a Washington, DC, bar, which my dad and mom had just walked out of, Dean, who had had a little too much to drink, made an obnoxious advance toward my mom. A scuffle almost ensued between him and my dad, but a few of Dean’s entourage (maybe his Texas Wildcats?) pulled him back, apologized for his behavior and shuttled him away. Around that time Dean was hosting a popular DC radio show, Town and Country Time, on station WARL. Wow…to think that my dad almost decked the Sausage King.
This is my dad’s pickup truck, surrounded by dandelions and buttercups. He drove it to and from work for years, 60 miles a day, Monday through Friday, a good part of the way over country hills full of hairpin turns and deer lurking around every curve. Thankfully he never had any serious run-ins with the area wildlife. His faithful truck now resides with my sister.
If you’re new to the blog, you can read a little about my dad here.
June 7th, 2010
Mmmm, huckleberries, or what I also call wild blueberries…another happy reminder of life at my grandmother’s house that, until a few years ago, sat just a mile or so up the road from where I now live. Yep, the same grandmother I spoke of here and more recently, here.
Before the 70s, her house, along with a handful of others—including the right-next-door home of my grandfather’s brother—were completely surrounded by heavy woods. They were thick with pines, with needles that would turn a rusty color and blanket the forest floor with a cushiony layer. Above, the canopy of treetops was so dense that it practically darkened the woods in a Hansel and Gretel sort of way. Cousins and I, as well as neighborhood kids, would play there for hours…visiting that old woman whose small house sat alone in the middle of the woods…running, screaming and laughing, from the large, barky doberman who lived not far from there…just being kids. Soon we’d emerge from the deep woods, finding ourselves in an open thicket, squinting from the bright sunlight. This is where we’d find the huckleberries…deep blue and plump and warm from the sun, clumped on shin-high shrubs. We’d pick as many as we could hold, not even brushing them clean before gobbling. At the end of our day, stained hands and mouths were all we had to show… .
The huckleberries here were found in Mason District Park, which borders my grandmother’s post-70s neighborhood.
April 29th, 2010
I think I can put the whole homecoming thing to rest with this photo, which is a total mess in more ways than one. I’m sure it’s seen better days and has probably just suffered the ravages of time.
So let me see what I can remember about this awesome portrait. It was the day after homecoming and I, Alan and our family dog, King, a springer spaniel/shepherd mix, are standing in my backyard. We’re holding on to King because the yard wasn’t fenced, and he couldn’t be trusted off-leash. Come to think of it, half the time he couldn’t be trusted otherwise, either. Having grown up together, there was plenty of sibling rivalry, and I’ve always considered King my brother. (He is another story in itself.) I’m outta the pink, so to speak, from the night before and am back in my standard fare…sweatshirt (of Virginia Beach origins), denim bermudas and black ‘n’ white saddle oxfords—ones with red soles—not white *ugh, and sorry if I’ve offended anyone*. Trust me, I’m in saddle oxfords, which I wore all the time…basic cheerleader stuff. (Which is another story in itself.) I think it’s obvious why one of my dad’s nicknames for me was “Birdlegs.” I can’t vouch for Alan’s cheesy jersey, but it looks like something he fashioned with electrical tape for flag football, which, right there, renders it cheesy. And I see one of my mom’s roses there in the background, which appears to adorn…
The hair. Holy cow. The fallout of a bouffant explosion. My hair is usually straight, give or take an uncontrollable wave or two or at the very worst, humidity havoc, but this was unprecedented. Thankfully, all it needed was a good shampoo. Until then, I’m sure #12 and I had a good laugh then agreed that any talk about big hair and makeshift jerseys was off limits.
April 28th, 2010
Here I am, holding back a giggle, probably embarrassed at my getup. This photo pretty much caught the entire costume (sans corsage) for the homecoming hoopla…pink polyester gown with silver sequined trim, pageant gloves, matching shoes and clutch bag…clutch bag, heh. Believe me, the next time those accessories saw daylight, it was on their way to Goodwill. The really girly things were, and have since been, totally lost on me.
Okay, here are Alan and me. Apparently there were two cameras in operation that night, hence the b&w and color. That hair. Wow. I remember my mother taking me to this beauty school on King Street in Alexandria, and for near-to-nothing the students practiced their skills on ya. Whoever did my hair was a real Houdini ’cause believe it or not, my hair was only a little below chin length. That evening everyone asked, “How’d they do that???” I may have answered with two words…Aqua Net. I’ll have to post a photo of my hair the next day…I couldn’t get it to lay flat for anything.
Poor Alan. I think I was the first in a line of high school gals who didn’t have real dates, i.e., boyfriends, and hit him up as an escort. But he always obliged. Lucky us.
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