bday eve before

bday eve before

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

THANKSGIVING DAY, 1981


THANKSGIVING DAY, 1981
by Mary Pat Kane

            I take the Greyhound bus along the road you traveled to see me just a year ago.
            It was a long trip for such a sick man, the grandchild in the back seat with computer football game ‘beeping’ all the way.  You said --- “I thought he’d get tired of it but he never did!”
            The thermostat on my oven had broken and burned the beautiful fresh turkey but you didn’t care.
            You had come to my house, as you would say later, knowing you would probably never come again.  You loved my house which made me so happy; I did too.  The day after Thanksgiving, I found you in my kitchen with all my cupboards open wide --- just checking, making sure your daughter would never starve.

            I think of your nervousness waiting for Jim and Casey to pick you up, your normal nervousness about the weather, would it snow on your way down? --- A long trip, 7-hours at best and you a nervous driver and worse passenger always.  And, you worried whether you brought the right kind of wine (you had spent a long time asking opinions in the wine shop but, still, you worried).  We are such worriers, both of us --- wanting so to please, wanting everybody to be happy, to make it all work.  Yeah, wanting to make it work.
            In the back of Jim’s station wagon, there were so many brown paper bags full of food that it looked like you thought they didn’t have food in Philadelphia, though you were not eating much by now.

            Pumpkins lie sunken and rotting in the fields and I wonder which farm houses you might have seen just a year ago today.  But, I pray that you didn’t see the deer hanging in back yards, you who loved animals so, deer our special family bond.
            The hills are golden beige at this time of year, a bit of snow dusts the leafless trees --- a barren but beautiful landscape.

            Today I wanted to be between where I once lived with you, my only father, and where I now make my home.  I wanted to be between all the turkey dinners and fun banter of jostling tables in both cities.  I wanted to ride the route you took to my home for that one last brave time and to celebrate who you were ---
Your generosity of spirit, your inestimable kindness and consideration, your shyness with affection --- the kind of kiss you gave me the last so many years of your life --- putting your two fingers to your lips, then, putting your fingers to my cheek. 
I give those fingertip kisses to my friends now and tell them why and where it came from.  And, I always add --- “My Dad didn’t go in for big displays of affection but you always knew he loved you; there was no doubt, no, no doubt.”
Thank you, Ollie Kane.  Thank you so.

Mary Pat Kane
As taken from the original, Thanksgiving Day, 1981
Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Have a wonderful holiday, one and all.
mpk

Thursday, October 20, 2011

AN EVENING WITH HARRY BELAFONTE

I went to a talk at the glorious public library on 42nd St. last Wednesday night where Harry Belafonte was the interviewee.  His new book, My Song --- a Memoir, came out last week.  The room is beautiful and the Emcee, Paul Holdengraber is always good, though that night I saw him as superb and, besides for my artist friends, it’s a reasonably-priced ticket --- yey!   
When I arrived, wonderful music was pumping out across the room; I had forgotten the largeness of Harry Belafonte’s repertoire.  I think we tend to remember ‘Day O’ immediately but there’s a lot more.
When the music stopped and Mr. Belafonte was announced, I found myself jumping up immediately to applaud with most of the audience doing the same and when I did, I noticed I was shivering.  It was a profound moment. 
He wore a softly-colored pale yellow sweater, his voice was a bit raspy but the stories that came out were phenomenal --- tough, touching, very funny at times and he so depicted the life of an artist --- you have nothing one second, something the next. 
A few things stand out --- like Harry Belafonte had a 9th grade education and enlisted in the Navy and was in a segregated unit where he was surprised there were so many different types of black people --- their colors, languages, accents.  He hung around with a more formally educated core of men and picked up many reading ideas from them and read and read.  There is a touching library story, too long to include here --- you’ll have to buy the book!
I hadn’t known the extent of Harry Belafonte’s acting career, nor how he hung in the West Village evenings after classes at The New School and heard the great jazz people of his time.  He had long followed Count Basie, Ella, Miles, Thelonious Monk and Charlie Parker.  But, in the old “Royal Roost” near school, he heard many more jazz artists and, in time, they gave him a chance to sing (at first during intermission!).  He had to talk his way into college because he didn’t have a High School degree.  Many of his finest theater teachers there were German Jews, recently escaped. 
In the whole over-two-hour interview, Harry Belafonte came off as fully open to people, interested, and, as such, he received great riches from them.  Some of his colleagues in theater class were Marlon Brando whom he loved, Rod Steiger and Bernie Schwartz who would later become Tony Curtis.  They were just young students in school together and, of course, Marlon mumbled.
I left before the talk was over, I had to.  I was overwhelmed.  As an artist what I can tell you is that Harry managed a building and took out the trash (something I do!);  he had a lot of things go wrong, and he had a lot of people out of nowhere (sound familiar???) support him and, mostly, he heard what they said.  They proffered advice and he was open to it.  Once someone helped him totally change the order of songs for a raucous and unresponsive audience and he did it and it worked.
What a great night at the New York Public Library and there are many more nights to come in this delightful series. 
Mary Pat Kane, October 20, 2011

http://www.nypl.org/events/live-nypl



Monday, October 3, 2011

OF CLEANING --- what do the rich do when the demons attack?



I read this in a class last week and got a positive response, so I'm passing it on to you on this gloomy first day of the week, maybe it will make you smile.  I hope so.  Mary Pat 

I used to feel sorry for Jackie Onassis, no not for what you might think of --- like the tragic death of her husband or her brother- in- law, not that.  I used to feel sorry for her because I wondered what she did when she was upset if she didn't have to clean her house?

I mean there are days I would give anything for help, HELP, help of any kind and especially household help, so much of my time is spent on nitty gritty housey things that I don't have time for much else.  But, when I get down, when I get blue, when I find myself alone on New Year's Eve and about to feel sorry for myself, I go to the greatest therapy. 

One New Year's morning, I awoke with a clean oven, don't laugh, I really did.  The shower curtain was still soaking in its bath of various things and just had to be scrubbed a little more and rinsed.  Then it would be like new and to think I used to throw them out and buy new ones.  Of course, I hate to tell you how much I hate the color of this particular shower curtain and how many times I've wanted to throw it out but now it’s resplendent in its cleanliness, a little too resplendent for someone who doesn't favor an ‘orange crush’ color. But, I love knowing that once it was really really grody and now it’s wonderfully clean and beautiful.  Although, again, it clashes with the red of the geraniums blooming on the windowsill.  Ouii.

Hmm --- yet, another thing to attack --- the plants ---  prune them, water them, soak them from underneath, rid them of ‘toxins’ for the grand new year, oh, there is so much scrubbing to do, so much therapy to be had.  I know I only buy shower curtain liners at discount stores and they only cost a dollar or two but what a feeling of accomplishment on New Year's Eve to clean that baby up. 

New Year's Day will be the floors, a huge closet, more of the insides of the stove etc., etc.  How did Jackie do it???  How does anyone who doesn't clean get through those times when your stomach is sitting on top of your not very well-polished shoes?  How do women who have ‘help’ get through the blues?  I guess they go buy things or have time to jog around the Reservoir (that would help) or go to a really good play and eat at the 21 Club after. I guess there are other things that hold people together but cleaning is a tried and true one.

Many ethnic cultures have long known that when the demons come crying --- work, work, work and scour, scour, then scour some more.

I'm sure it's what happened on farms of yesteryear when people just fell into bed at the end of the day, too tired to be depressed.  Work, work, scrub, scrub, dust, dust, sweep, sweep --- oh, it will all come back again, that’s disappointing.  But, for the time being, the demons sit back down; they leave the pit of your stomach and stop burbling.  Until, of course, you get into bed and remember about them, until you have time to think.  But, while you move around swinging various implements, while you run the water and experiment with various forms of foams and sure-to-work cleansers, they’re quiet, quieted, quelled.


MPKane
Monday, October 3, 2011


Saturday, September 10, 2011

GOODNIGHT --- did I remember to look?

(I wrote this about the night of 9/10/01 a few weeks later.  I just remembered it as I was trying to sort my thoughts about what to do tonight and tomorrow, ten years later!!!  There are so many feelings.  I thought you might want to see this.  I wonder where you were and what you were doing the evening 'before?'  I'd love to hear.  It all seemed so much simpler then, didn't it?; I was just getting emergency checks at the bank until my new checkbook arrived, stuff like that.  MPK)




Did I look at them that last night, did I remember to look out the window, oh, I must have but I’m not sure, there was a time when I first moved here that I couldn’t get my bed close enough to the window, wanted to make sure I could see the view all night long, I don’t know how I thought I could see it while I was sleeping.

I loved that view; I spent hours looking across the river at it; in the beginning I photographed out my windows every morning.

When company came, they were forced to look out and admire, if they stayed overnight, they had to look at the skyline in various lights, shades, mists, by day and night.  If the company wasn’t wildly enthusiastic about the view, they probably wouldn’t be asked back.  (Same as with my cats, a certain amount of attention must be given).

But, over time, as with anything --- if you live on the ocean, if you live in the Alps, you stop noticing.  Oh, it isn’t that the view is any less fabulous but it is matter of fact to you now, sad but true, maybe if you are married to someone very handsome that happens --- “oh, him” you say when someone comments on his good looks, but I don’t know about that.

Eventually, it seems, we take everything for granted.  More than that, we assume we will be able to see it or him tomorrow or the next day.  Ho, hum, oh, look at my beautiful view.  On Lake Como at the top of Italy across from the Alps, people that live there seem shocked at my obsession; my eyes can’t work hard enough.  But, this is what they know, this is their view constantly; they went to grade school up on the hill above the lake.  This is normal to them. 

So, did I look out at them, the tall lonely towers, that Monday night, or, that Tuesday morning before I went to vote? I hope so.  Did I look out with wonder at the skyline of downtown Manhattan, right out there through the trees, past that one splendid church spire on my side, the Brooklyn side.  I loved the shape of the skyline then, the jaggedness of it, the two tall pillars, setting off all the rest, the irregularity of it, in hindsight, was what made the view so powerful  --- now it is so similar, too neat.  I loved it on bright days and more so on pale muted ones; I loved the way the skies changed, wound around, clouds rose and swooped.  In the rain, you couldn’t see at all and then the mists would slowly rise.  And, I loved the view in the dark, all twinkly and jewel-like, winking at me.

But, that last night, I was working on a story in the other room; I answered phone calls there too.  It was late; I was tired and daydreaming about my story, the way I do when I get into something.

Did I just fall into bed across from where they quietly stood or did I remember to look out and say ‘GOODNIGHT’?

by Mary Pat Kane, written somewhere after 9/11/01
posted on the evening of 9/10/11



GOODNIGHT

Monday, August 8, 2011

BEES



            When we were little, we used to catch bees behind the house next-door, bees that sat on pears that had fallen from the tree and were rotting.
            We would quickly sneak up on a bee, lower a glass jar over the whole pear and, if we were lucky, catch it.
            We were only five or so, Jerry Baumann, my next-door neighbor and I.
            The bees would then rush and hit against the sides of the jar, they would try to get out the top, but in time they would crumple up and lay down at the bottom, their wings flapping ever so slightly, their breathing labored, the exuberance of their former flight --- no more to be seen.
            Then, we'd quickly create schemes to save the bees --- punch holes in the top of the jar for starters --- that was always a good idea.  We’d put in bits of grass and flowers and dandelions, things we thought they would like to eat that would make them move again.
            But, invariably the bees would get weaker and weaker ---in spirit if not in strength, and we'd watch as the bright, yellow, fluffy things that had been flying around enchanting us, batted up against the walls of the jar a few more times, then dwindled there before us --- no matter what we did.
            Usually, we were lucky enough to let them out in time and, at first they'd be quizzical, but then they'd gain strength and slowly fly off --- to the sky, to the trees, to the flowers where they belonged.
---
            I've been thinking lately about the catching of bees when I was five or so, thinking of the bees as an analogy to the people we say we love --- how we are attracted to them because they are yellow and fuzzy and free and because they FLY but, then, we try to put them in a glass jar, confine them to a small space, throwing in odds and ends of food and air we think they'll like; how we watch the very person we were attracted to just dwindle away and dry up, laying quietly on their side on top of a few tufts of grass

            Slowly losing the life and the flight that was theirs ---


            The life we said we loved them for.

Mary Pat Kane

Thursday, August 4, 2011

THE ONE MORE TIME KID --- ON LEAVING THE ADIRONDACK MOUNTAINS AS A YOUNG GIRL

On the last day of a 2-week vacation every year in the Adirondack Mountains, a Sunday, we had to clean like crazy for the people coming in.  It was an old family camp and each part of the family had two weeks there.
 
My ritual as a young girl after cleaning was to go down the stairs to the lake and dive in and stay as long as I could with my mother constantly hollering down to me that I should get out and get dry or I’d "catch cold with my hair all wet" while we were driving home.  But, I never got out of the lake early. I’d just dive 'one more time, one more time,' until I would finally have to get out, clamber up the hill behind the camp and get in the back seat of our car.  Then, it was up and down the hills of the driveway, turn left onto the main road, through the small town of Eagle Bay, NY with me crying all the way.  The family story was that I would cry straight to Old Forge, a nine mile trip from Eagle Bay according to the road sign, then I’d stop.
That was until the year after I had stopped crying on entering Old Forge, that there, just outside the town, stood a beautiful deer to the side of the road.  The glorious animal got me started crying again.  I don’t know how long it lasted.

Mary Pat Kane

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

IT’S OKAY TO USE A GOOD BOWL FOR SUPPER


 

I think a lot of us do this, I can’t be the only one --- protect our ‘good’ things so they don’t get hurt or broken.  When I was little and I’d get a new blouse or dress, I’d leave it hanging for weeks, maybe months.  My mother couldn’t understand it; she’d have had it on immediately.  But, I didn’t want to get it dirty, wrinkled, whatever.

But, years later, I’m still doing that --- holding off, not using things that are beautiful because they are beautiful and could be hurt, broken etc.  I will only use my Writing Retreat mug on Sundays as I’m so afraid of breaking it.  Why Sunday should make me any less clumsy is anyone’s guess.

How long is this going to last?  How long do we have to live? --- None of us know.  I’ve lost many friends younger than I am, so, what am I waiting for?

But, if I wear the pale pink tee shirt (instead of the dark gray), it could get stained.  If I use one of Tommy’s bowls (Tommy was a guy in my old neighborhood in Philadelphia who is long dead; he was in his late 80’s when I bought the two bowls from him), I could break it. Every time I see the bowls, I think of him and, though I love them --- the color, the strength, the weight, the age of them, I end up protecting them, for fear I could hurt them and, instead, use the thinner, bright white, no-magic-in-it-bowl left behind by my neighbor.  It has neither the beauty nor character of Tommy’s bowls.

Am I afraid if a bowl breaks that I will break Tommy, break his memory, and lose him?  And, what about the pink tee shirt?  Sure I’m frugal to a fault and don’t want to buy another one and don’t always do too well with stain removal techniques.  But, there is no Tommy involved here, no memories of a sweet older man in his funny little shop, cluttered with treasures.  Who would I be hurting? --- The chain sneaker shop that sells the tees at 5 for $20? 

Once, I threw away a pair of terribly grubby sneakers into a barrel on the West Side Highway as I neared work.  They were gross. But, I then walked back and pulled the sneaks out; it was my 2nd or 3rd year living in New York, ‘pounding the pavement’ as they say.  I stood on the West Side Highway during morning rush hour with tons of traffic whizzing by and held those sneaks and cried.  Look where they had taken me, look where I had come.  I had moved to this wonderful city, I had walked and walked to find my first apartment, and to quickly find another when that fell through a few days after I moved in. I walked to many a temp agency in these sneaks and explored it all --- Central Park, Prospect Park, Coney Island, Jones beach, Oyster Bay, Seacliff, Chelsea, Soho, the Lower East Side, Harlem, the Bronx, Queens and marvelous Brooklyn.

So, it wasn’t just sneaks I was throwing away that day on the West Side Highway, it was a legacy.  They had carried me far, they had been my friends.  The sneaks had helped introduce me to places and people and scenery I would never forget.  They weren’t just old grubby sneaks with not a speck of tread left, though they were definitely that.  They were an institution, they were venerable, they should have been framed, covered with gold gilt like baby shoes and shown in a gallery.
 
Mary Pat Kane

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

a wisp ---THE OFFER

Last night I went to water my plot in the community garden and to help water the many other plots of people who were away.  Outside the fence, stood two men talking excitedly.  I should have invited them in; I don’t know what I was a thinking.
One of the men introduced himself to me through the fence as a resident of the brand new apartment building across the street.  I asked him how it was and he said ‘very nice’.  I had been reluctant to talk with anyone from the building as it had been the subject of a bitter community battle for a few years.  The building was thought to be totally inappropriate to the lovely old architecture of the area.  It was huge and modern.  It blocked out the light from many, many people’s back yards.  The building had taken away our subway entrance and exit for a few years and made it into a myriad of long corridors and many more long narrow stairs to navigate.  Then, there was the mess of the actual building itself and getting around cranes and walking under scaffolding.  It was a long few years but I don’t know why I thought it was the new residents’ fault.  They didn’t build the building.   Still, to be adversarial stayed with me. 
I got real grubby working on my patch (I call it “TARA” but it’s only 3 feet by 3 feet) and I’d forgotten to bring a cloth to clean up with and was on my way out to a street party.
I showed this nice young man who had just moved into the big new modern-fought-against-by- the-community building my hands covered with mud.  And, he did something I wasn’t expecting.  He offered to go get me a towel from his apartment!
“I just live across the street,” he said.  Wow, how often does that happen?  I answered that I’d be fine and could wash off with the garden hose which I did.  But, I remembered the friendly young man and his kind offer this morning. 
Narrow-mindedness, mine and anyone else’s, closes so many doors, cuts off so many opportunities.
Mary Pat Kane
July 11, 2011

Friday, July 8, 2011

THE TALL SHIPS STORY, from the summer of 1976


Memories of another 4th of July

I used to attract negative people and I definitely attracted negative advice --- “you can't move there, it's too expensive, they’ll eat you up and spit you out, they'll knife you in the back,” … --- real uplifting sorts of stuff and in the summer of 1976, I had my share of nay-sayers too.  It seems to be easier to be negative than positive, to fantasize a catastrophe instead of a great joyous undertaking, or, even just a simple nice day. 

In 1976, I still had a ‘normal job’ (i.e. I wasn’t a writer) and worked in an office where there were lots of people to talk to about weekend plans.  It was about to be The Bicentennial Weekend, July 4th, 200 years of our country and I lived in Philadelphia then, a real Bicentennial city if ever there was one. But, the newspapers kept mentioning the Tall Ships Parade in New York Harbor and it stuck in my mind as a most exciting idea.  I would never leave Philadelphia on the 4th itself but I hatched a plot to take the train to New York the day before and see what I could see.  I did not know New York City well then and had no idea how to get to the Harbor but figured there were subways and I would work it out.  I am always scared enough of new things on my own, so I really didn’t need all the nay-sayers.  But, they were there, aplenty

Some people at work told me it was a totally foolhardy idea; they told me I would never see anything.  They questioned me as to my knowledge of the subway system (not much).  They told me scary tales of New York.  They told me that terrorists were going to bomb the Tall Ships.  They said that on the day before the 4th, and they were authorities, most negative people are very authoritarian in their pronouncements --- on the day before, there would be no ships to be seen at all so why was I wasting my time?

Well, to tell you the truth, maybe it was because of the negativity that I got over my fear of all new things and my general inertia and donned my blue and white striped shorts and my red tee shirt and got on a train to New York City early on Saturday morning, July 3.  I had to stand up to the nay-sayers whatever I was about to see or not see in New York.

Once I arrived, I quickly found my way to a subway that went to the Battery Park where the Harbor was and I was on my way.  The subways did not feel at all violent or unfriendly as had also been predicted.  In fact, everyone seemed in a buoyant and expectant mood. People were draped with cameras.  It felt like hope was in the air.

I had never been on the Staten Island Ferry but when I came upon the Ferry Building, it seemed like a good idea.  Why not?  The Ferry cost a quarter then, now it’s free --- once in a while life works for the average person.  I figured I'd, at least, be on the water and see what I could see.  It was a partially sunny day.  Whole families boarded the Ferry, most everybody smiling.  It was the day before the 200th birthday of our country.

Within seconds of boarding the Ferry, a thin sad-seeming widower from Staten Island attached himself to me.  He told me the story of his life and all his troubles, so, though I had traveled to New York, it seemed like every day to me, anywhere.  We rode out across the water together on the left side of the Ferry where we could see huge military vessels anchored.  The widower was pretty enthusiastic about the military ships so I tried to be polite but they were not very exciting to me.  Then, on our return trip, he wanted to stay on the same side of the Ferry.  He wanted to see the military ships again and he was absolutely sure we wouldn't see anything more interesting. 

There I was, attracting negative people, again.  The man tried to convince me that we had no chance of seeing a Tall Ship.  But, I can be pretty stubborn too and, by that time, I would have been happy to see the Statue of Liberty and call it a day but we had to move to the other side of the Ferry to do so.  I hadn’t set out on this journey to see military boats.

So, I said --- "Look, I've really enjoyed talking to you" (he still wore his gold wedding band) "and I’d like to continue our conversation but I’m going to the other side so if you want to keep talking, come along".  He quickly followed.

There, we found that the sky was growing dark and ominous and huge cumulus clouds were stacking up.  It seemed the clouds were rushing in from the outer sea into the Harbor.  Then, just as our Ferry was nearing its docking point --- whooosh --- a ship with purple sails jumped into view --- whoosh --- a ship with red sails and we stood on that deck in shock.  Then, several more of the Tall Ships that were out at sea doing their trial runs for the next day’s event came racing into port to escape the impending storm.  I can't tell you how many, sometimes three and four came in at once and there was this clutter of Tall Ships.  And, what clutter it was!  Our Ferry was stranded, stranded away from docking as we were forced to leave space for Tall Ship after Tall Ship to come rushing through the channel.  I remember one ship with 12 billowy white sails, like something out of a movie. 

As a group we "ohhhed" and "ahhhed" and pointed; we jostled each other to look this way and that.  There were shouts of  ---"There's the Greek Ship” and “There's the Swedish Ship" --- many people knew the ships and I about cried for the joy and beauty and spectacle of it all, enhanced even more by the contrasting backdrop of fierce black clouds and now rough, white-capped waters.  Our Ferry was 'stuck' for half an hour, half a glorious hour and I doubt there was anyone wanting the time to end.  The photos I got from my little Instamatic camera show an eerie-looking like old world battle scene with Tall Ships bobbing against a threatening sky and turgid waters.  (Of course, I sent copies of my snapshots to the widower who wrote me a beautiful note.  He and I would send Christmas greetings for several years.)

Eventually, he and I said our goodbyes and on my way back to get the subway, I spotted a group sitting at an open-air cafe on the side of the Ferry Building.  (I wish that place still existed, I'd move in!)  I sat down, ordered a drink and found everyone in the place talking animatedly to each other.  People across the way bought me a second drink because I was from Philadelphia and it was, after all, the Bicentennial.  So, I bought a huge bag of popcorn and gave it to everyone at the Bar from my city.  A young man next to me was in awe that I had been on that Ferry.  He had come down to the Battery with the same idea of riding it.  But, when he arrived no boats were allowed out and Michael, a lovely and gentle person, looked out to see my Ferry ‘trapped’ out there on the water while the Tall Ships informally paraded by. 

So much for the unsafe streets of New York and my warnings that I wouldn’t see anything.  When the rain finally stopped, Michael escorted me back to the subway.  But, before that, we walked through Battery Park together.  I had never seen the Battery before and found it so softly green and lovely.  People were out walking again, clowns and other costumed people were entertaining children. Life went on.  An old-fashioned ummpahh band swung into gear as we walked on the shiny rain-slicked sidewalks and I laughed out loud.  How perfect --- there were tubas, the whole thing.  The sun came peeking out and caused brilliant reflections in the puddles. The sky was slowly becoming blue again and I knew it would be a beautiful day for the 4th ahead.  I was returning to Philadelphia and friends, parties, fireworks and parades as well as people who told me how stupid I was to attempt this trip, how I would see nothing.  Nothing? How about 20 - 30 Tall Ships just yards away?  And, what if I hadn’t seen any Tall Ships, what if I had seen nothing?  Would it have mattered?

Michael stopped at a street vendor and bought me an apple pin which he pinned to the neck of my tee shirt.  I used to come across it from time to time in my top dresser drawer and I could never part with it, no matter how hard I was trying to get rid of things.  Memories of the day before that Bicentennial Fourth of July came over me anew each time ---- memories of trains and found subways and helpful people; memories of the widower and the Ferry itself and all us Americans and those ships, those gorgeous God-given Tall Ships and the people in the bar.  I can see their faces still --- all wishing each other well. 

Michael said he bought me the tiny apple pin so I would never forget my day in “The Big Apple”.  But, then, how could I?

Mary Pat Kane



WISPS


I live a floor higher up than most of my neighbors so I have lots of light and see the sky.  If I lay flat down on my couch, I can watch clouds journey by.  I love that --- sometimes they muddle along, sometimes they speed or swirl.
My favorite clouds are the little wisps; they look like a part of a larger cloud that has ventured off on its own.  They make me laugh.  They’re so small and determined though they appear fragile.
In my life on the streets, wisps of human, animal, and plant interactions come at me and bring me great joy.  They’re mostly not huge life-changing events, they’re not about jobs or promotions or worldly success.  They’re these precious little wisps of moments of interaction or, often, observation --- of a child, a dog’s sad face while waiting for his owner outside the greengrocer, flowers in my community garden, the white butterfly that greets me there and is totally unafraid. 
Those are the things I intend to write about here --- those beautiful wispy clouds that make my life rich.  (And, sometimes, as in this first piece, I’ll include longer stories.  I couldn’t resist a 4th of July story this week!)
Thanks for stopping by and, please, come again.
And, feel free to comment and to share your own ‘wisps’.
All the best,
Mary Pat Kane