Friday, July 19, 2013
Hot.
July 17, Albion.
It's hot. Circus life goes on.
The boys do practice and I do laundry, going back and forth between the loads and landing a hand spotting Dylan (when we first joined back, in May, and started practice again, John commented that I must be the only spotter who's also on the PTA.)
The laundromat is around the corner, oh joy. It's not air-conditioned, they never are, but somehow it's cooler in there than in our car, whose right-hand window cannot go down, and whose air-conditioned system is showing its years, the car in effect a black metal trap for heat. There's Raul and Luis, Sue and Mike, Rebecca and Marshall, but they go away one by one and I'm left alone with my two loads and the oppressive heat, and not a whisper of air.
It's hot. Circus life goes on.
The boys do practice and I do laundry, going back and forth between the loads and landing a hand spotting Dylan (when we first joined back, in May, and started practice again, John commented that I must be the only spotter who's also on the PTA.)
The laundromat is around the corner, oh joy. It's not air-conditioned, they never are, but somehow it's cooler in there than in our car, whose right-hand window cannot go down, and whose air-conditioned system is showing its years, the car in effect a black metal trap for heat. There's Raul and Luis, Sue and Mike, Rebecca and Marshall, but they go away one by one and I'm left alone with my two loads and the oppressive heat, and not a whisper of air.
The book cellar.
July 16, Warren.
I stop by libraries whenever I spot one and I have the time.
In town for errands today I went into the Warren Public Library and stepped down into what they called "the Book Cellar" and into a book lover's heaven. New editions for a dollar, books you don't' usually find at these types of sales, where you encounter the same books over and over again, The Kite Runner, Three Cups of Tea, Oprah Book Club's selections, as if people got sick of them everywhere at the same rate.
I stop by libraries whenever I spot one and I have the time.
In town for errands today I went into the Warren Public Library and stepped down into what they called "the Book Cellar" and into a book lover's heaven. New editions for a dollar, books you don't' usually find at these types of sales, where you encounter the same books over and over again, The Kite Runner, Three Cups of Tea, Oprah Book Club's selections, as if people got sick of them everywhere at the same rate.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Travels.
July 15, Warren.
Travel day and a long drive today, a big detour onto I-90 crossing New York state from east to west and back west into Pennsylvania, a five-thirty in the morning call and six-thirty in the afternoon arrival, a couple of blown-up tires and some other minor stuff on the way and simply a long long way.
It's hot again, another heat wave under way.
Travel day and a long drive today, a big detour onto I-90 crossing New York state from east to west and back west into Pennsylvania, a five-thirty in the morning call and six-thirty in the afternoon arrival, a couple of blown-up tires and some other minor stuff on the way and simply a long long way.
It's hot again, another heat wave under way.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Reality is much more beautiful.
July 13, Dalton.
There was a luncheon with the American Legion sponsors today, as there is every year here, and Carolyn was asked to make a speech.
She recalled her years working in the circus, and capped the speech reminiscing about high school. "My guidance counselor asked me what I wanted to do after school and I told her I wanted to be in the circus. She said, Now, Carolyn, there is a difference between reality and fantasy, and she was right: reality is so much more beautiful than I could have imagined."
Forget fantasy: long days and endless work, an uncertain future and lots of mud on the sole of your shoes, the circus is all that but that's not why you fall in love with it.
It's the beautiful reality of it.
It's much more beautiful. And as with the people you love, the beauty is in your eyes. For me it's the beauty of the ebb and flow, the light on the tent, the sweat on a performer's brow, the places seen from my window, the roundness of the ring.
It's much more beautiful for being lived.
There was a luncheon with the American Legion sponsors today, as there is every year here, and Carolyn was asked to make a speech.
She recalled her years working in the circus, and capped the speech reminiscing about high school. "My guidance counselor asked me what I wanted to do after school and I told her I wanted to be in the circus. She said, Now, Carolyn, there is a difference between reality and fantasy, and she was right: reality is so much more beautiful than I could have imagined."
Forget fantasy: long days and endless work, an uncertain future and lots of mud on the sole of your shoes, the circus is all that but that's not why you fall in love with it.
It's the beautiful reality of it.
It's much more beautiful. And as with the people you love, the beauty is in your eyes. For me it's the beauty of the ebb and flow, the light on the tent, the sweat on a performer's brow, the places seen from my window, the roundness of the ring.
It's much more beautiful for being lived.
Friday, July 12, 2013
A handful of history.
July 10, Hudson.
A rare day off and we're off to downtown Boston, Fridman to see the trove of historical places, I to reminisce on a visit to the same places a quarter of a century ago, or so it seems, as a student making my way around the country checking out arts museum for a dissertation in U.S. civilization.
I remember a quiet place, wandering the streets; we walked for hours amid the bustling of the downtown commerce, the only quiet place the cemetery at Copp's Hill I wanted to see for having missed it back then, Cotton Mather's tomb, all the Puritan figures I had eagerly read about in my history classes, and loved. The kids trudged along courageously, largely ignorant of what all these boring buildings and plaques mean, asking for something fun, finally getting ice-cream.
They'll remember some of it I hope, however vaguely, when they get to study American history and it all starts making sense.
A rare day off and we're off to downtown Boston, Fridman to see the trove of historical places, I to reminisce on a visit to the same places a quarter of a century ago, or so it seems, as a student making my way around the country checking out arts museum for a dissertation in U.S. civilization.
I remember a quiet place, wandering the streets; we walked for hours amid the bustling of the downtown commerce, the only quiet place the cemetery at Copp's Hill I wanted to see for having missed it back then, Cotton Mather's tomb, all the Puritan figures I had eagerly read about in my history classes, and loved. The kids trudged along courageously, largely ignorant of what all these boring buildings and plaques mean, asking for something fun, finally getting ice-cream.
They'll remember some of it I hope, however vaguely, when they get to study American history and it all starts making sense.
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