tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2327653840866194802024-02-19T11:16:35.792-05:00One Hundred Things from MemoryA Brain DigestLinda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-38623875324096413482013-02-27T22:07:00.001-05:002013-02-27T22:59:56.465-05:00I Was Her Last Car <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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She bought me and brought me home
with great pleasure.</div>
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She thought, If I can have a yellow
door and a yellow dress, can I not have – as my last vessel of exploration,
ship of independence, proud, moving glowing house – a yellow car?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so in 1971 I arrived home with her.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This
is my last car,” she always said, and she was happy about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was swift and sleek and my doors
opened wide so that an old man on a walker, and dogs with short legs, and the
cleaning lady could all get in and ride my smooth ride.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hid things from her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the
stirrings and whirling gears in the drive train were separated from her by
impervious black upholstery and carpeted floors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My spinning wheels whispered on highways and complained
loudly on ice, but she was confident in me and my heavy weight and progress. She said I was as big and yellow and easy to open as a banana! </div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Is
it always progress to go to the grocery store and back to the garage?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My odometer said so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it always progress to go from 49,999
miles – clickclick click – to 50.000?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And then on to 100,000?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(And have her and her husband of 60 years pretend to pour champagne into
the gas tank while her son watched?)</div>
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Is it progress to be
forced – with cruel and frightened wrenchings of my drained-dry steering to
turn where Providence wouldn’t have chosen me to go?</div>
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One last time, she
drove my darkening, bug-smeared body to the grocery, and she couldn’t remember how
to drive me home and we hit a tree and her daughter (who had filled the – <i>my</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – garage, </span><i>my</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> room in the house, </span><i>my</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
manger in the stable with her junk), had to walk to us and drive me and my
shaken lady home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I probably
didn’t want to turn in at that too-familiar long driveway, to wait all night
for morning and another excursion.</span></div>
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All night,
leather-winged buzzards shat their limey excretions on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My cooling engine ticked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My tires sagged with my weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dog-torn carpet behind the
passenger seat was hidden. I had been with her now for 28 years. Sometimes the daughter took us all over the mountain and back, to "blow out the pipes" said the mechanic. The daughter said driving me was like driving a Sherman Tank.</div>
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After my lady died, the
daughter gave up driving me and gave $25 to a man who had one like me and wanted some parts. He took me away for the operation; surely better than to be dragged to stockyards full
of the fallen, the crashed, the old, the worn out and the dead. </div>
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Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-60240923223313487552013-02-27T19:41:00.004-05:002013-02-27T19:53:02.102-05:00Sore Throat & Croup<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>As a child, I (like my brother) had frequent ear aches and sore throats. Mummy would unfold the bound-off blanket samples that her own Mamam had used on her, and take the beautiful cobalt glass jar of <i>Vicks Vaporub</i> from the medicine closet. She would unscrew the metal lid (which I can still hear) and dip her fingers in the jar and then spread a layer of Vicks on my chest and neck. It warmed my skin and the mentholatum made my breathing cool and easier. Then she would lay the small blanket sample across my chest, fasten my pajamas back across the blue and gray woolen stripes of the blanket, and pull the covers up. <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"> </span>Vicks was a salve, a linament, something of a magic potion, something a witch doctor would have loved to have in his leather bag of cures. It dates to 1905, and was first <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">called <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 16px;"><i>Vick's Magic Croup Salve</i>, and when my mother was born in 1908 it was still <i>Croup Salve</i>, and then four years later they renamed it <i>Vicks Vaporub</i>.</span></span><br />
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<!--StartFragment--><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>I can't imagine that it didn't work for any of us. If I close my eyes, I can feel Mummy's cool fingers spreading the salve across my chest, rubbing it into the base of my throat, and I can feel the scratchy wool blanket. Seventy years later I still do it, to myself. All the things she did to make us well -- they work! </div>
Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-17239096174607987722009-02-13T13:39:00.000-05:002009-02-20T12:51:35.687-05:00Snow Falling on Pine Forever?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9HIWm8W62v5yXYm4jWLEdayFG0cuWTyFn_Nxx9aOgvMBYwSrPQnxg2odBNykIpwisuJUZpDmUDI5lH4Z1m2CR-6YHHDdBx9jr6mVX_GN756yAC7v1zOAD1_jMqAdsPf8aqScE5O1BnBo/s1600-h/snow+globe+for+100+thngsIMG_0031.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 162px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9HIWm8W62v5yXYm4jWLEdayFG0cuWTyFn_Nxx9aOgvMBYwSrPQnxg2odBNykIpwisuJUZpDmUDI5lH4Z1m2CR-6YHHDdBx9jr6mVX_GN756yAC7v1zOAD1_jMqAdsPf8aqScE5O1BnBo/s200/snow+globe+for+100+thngsIMG_0031.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302355013569696514" /></a> Now I can see the snow from above, from eye level, from below. As a child, I could only gaze up at this snow globe on top of the high chest by the living room door. This I remember from the late 1940s. <br /> We lived on a farm in Toledo, and had plenty of snow every winter. Daddy took me and my brother Robbie sledding at Ottawa Park, but I remember icy slush more than snow. I remember the feeling of danger, the suspense of the sharp runners; my cold fingers. I remember the smell of wet wool mittens and the creakly sound of galoshes flapping. I remember dusk-toned glee and weary shouts: "Children, it's almost dark! Just once more . . . this time I mean it." <br /> I remember what could have seemed unfair, but didn't: the way it took moments to get to the bottom of the hill, but minutes to drag the sled back to the top. Did Daddy do that?<br /> In Ottawa Park was an upside-down tree, some kind of pine. Robbie and I would ask for a detour so we could see the upside-down tree. I wanted to hide under it. When it was summer. <br /> Meanwhile, Mummy was cooking dinner. At home, where it was warm. And when we got there, after we took off our buckled boots and wet snowpants, we would eat.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-48907146455639576382009-02-13T13:36:00.003-05:002011-09-23T13:24:52.327-04:00Rope<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcUXDFl-h3Z6KWco35yZGwARzMWf6pqgMqafNzcEFb-NnxcSe8rwNDQZtmdxcY0oHGNifL4KRVNQXz1nbD9vQabld4jlugrrJDoyGeteew1V5H6hQd-hOyO2sh-C1rUG30d4g2qOV_xE/s1600-h/daddy's+rope+IMG_0038.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcUXDFl-h3Z6KWco35yZGwARzMWf6pqgMqafNzcEFb-NnxcSe8rwNDQZtmdxcY0oHGNifL4KRVNQXz1nbD9vQabld4jlugrrJDoyGeteew1V5H6hQd-hOyO2sh-C1rUG30d4g2qOV_xE/s200/daddy's+rope+IMG_0038.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302353256983886274" /></a><br /> I didn't save much from Daddy's last garage. A few flowerpots, some tools; one big printed sign "BE CAREFUL" and another "TODAY." I saved the idea of drilling a bird-sized hole in the garage door, so that never again would a bird die inside because it couldn't get out. And I saved the old rope.<br /> This is the best rope anybody ever had. It is about 40 feet long, and at least 70 years old, probably more. It is still as strong and flexible as it ever was. It is like a live thing, like a pliant and pleasant snake -- ready to coil and uncoil. It is like a beautiful gold necklace, that lies close to each hollow and rise in the wearer's neck -- not that this rope would ever be used by a hangman. <br /> This rope has pulled cars out of the snow. This rope has fastened big things to car roofs. This rope has slept in many car trunks and on a huge nail in many garage walls. This rope has hoisted 4x4 lumber up three stories outside my neighbors' house so that he could build a deck.<br /> This rope feels good to the hand. Nothing pricks your palm, nothing sticks your fingers, nothing burns. I dreamed one night that I used it to slide down from the roof to the ground, it was as smooth and cool in my dreaming hands as a yellow silk scarf, a banana, or a bannister rail!Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-57268014924873114682009-02-13T13:35:00.001-05:002011-09-23T13:59:32.680-04:00Piano Lessons<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5REGHHt4HQUVMwy0dUlMdYa7KdRj5WxRkTrWVbio5cqlAqLg5yc-nwL07ZzQFI667k55krzffmhPUzK_TGFWL-GTQR2wgpsdRzsbVCfTLoKsqHY7RU7DzKr8onCb0H4J2eOtLbW-iYYA/s1600-h/piano+bank+better+shadowIMG_0014.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5REGHHt4HQUVMwy0dUlMdYa7KdRj5WxRkTrWVbio5cqlAqLg5yc-nwL07ZzQFI667k55krzffmhPUzK_TGFWL-GTQR2wgpsdRzsbVCfTLoKsqHY7RU7DzKr8onCb0H4J2eOtLbW-iYYA/s200/piano+bank+better+shadowIMG_0014.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302352415533281538" /></a> <br /> This little white plastic piano bank now sits next to my real piano. I got it as a present about 60 years ago. It was made by Plastic Masters in the United States, and the design is registered with the Patent Office. When I was given this bank I had one other plastic toy -- a Viewmaster. The Viewmaster was a family toy; this piano was mine, just mine. I could put pennies and nickels in the slot behind the sheet music stand, and by unscrewing the back leg I could get the money out.<br /> I gave up taking piano lessons in 1950 -- even this toy didn't help me practice. I had a choice: playing in the yard and field, or staying in and practicing two hours a day. How I wish I'd kept playing. Picking out a tune by ear isn't the same as reading music or writing it. Having perfect pitch allows me to harmonize with my voice, but I can't sit down and amaze my friends.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-49430533743734307652009-02-13T13:03:00.001-05:002011-09-23T14:06:08.646-04:00This Is What a Phone Looks Like<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIY1tm209hgd0Qvcx9lKhrk3cDIWGU8i_vnhpT5eyslq894CkMFNk9ZYy_Fe2Gfd7xwrIl457DlBqsdgkdb3E7cU0NCfzVSqpFT0l5qtMSs0CbvlLhV0Zwn1oyS-llYfUoZ65f39mCbk/s1600-h/green+phone+head+on+IMG_0047.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIY1tm209hgd0Qvcx9lKhrk3cDIWGU8i_vnhpT5eyslq894CkMFNk9ZYy_Fe2Gfd7xwrIl457DlBqsdgkdb3E7cU0NCfzVSqpFT0l5qtMSs0CbvlLhV0Zwn1oyS-llYfUoZ65f39mCbk/s200/green+phone+head+on+IMG_0047.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5302346276597380450" /></a><br /> A WWII veteran, a black man from way out in the country in Georgia, came home from the war and tried to make things that would show his family what he'd seen in the army. The dealer who sold me this carved wooden phone refused to give me the name of the man -- no matter how I begged. This is an army phone, and shows the buttons that would let the user call different offices. I imagine the man used it often. I can pick up the receiver and almost hear his voice through the line. I can almost say "Yes, Sir, I'll call him right now," and hear the buzz and static. I wish i could call the artist on his phone and tell him that his message got through, clear as could be, sixty-five years later.Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-11516981124004104872009-02-12T13:03:00.002-05:002013-02-27T22:21:03.082-05:00Welcome Home!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjCL81dRd58wjoMfHbEJvwRm9KLe6m33uLngx3Sr8oW5uaznuIcvIXZYgi5tISwFVMRlpEymGjXtZX8PdtB4HNYSTCeHKuYNpjzsRQ9UKrLSDRrlomWDqVEelR6pMk8K16l2558z4oKQ/s1600-h/blackboard+100+things+IMG_0003.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301973494027038386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjCL81dRd58wjoMfHbEJvwRm9KLe6m33uLngx3Sr8oW5uaznuIcvIXZYgi5tISwFVMRlpEymGjXtZX8PdtB4HNYSTCeHKuYNpjzsRQ9UKrLSDRrlomWDqVEelR6pMk8K16l2558z4oKQ/s200/blackboard+100+things+IMG_0003.JPG" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 166px;" /></a><br />
I've had this blackboard, made with real slate, since 1975. I had it on 20th Street in NYC; I moved with it to Third Avenue, and one time while I was away my friend Mickey Lee Donaldson wrote me a message on it. That was thirty years ago, and I haven't erased it. One time, here in Baltimore, when it was leaning against the wall, one of my dogs rubbed against it with his tail, but either I was lucky, or the chalk marks were so old that they hardly smeared at all.<br />
Can chalk marks, meant to be erased over and over and over, get old and permanent? Can shadows become permanent? Can reflections? Write in the dust, and slowly the marks fill up with new dust. Write in the dirt, and quickly wind or rain will wash your words away.</div>
Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-54927867093114395282009-02-12T13:00:00.000-05:002009-02-12T13:02:35.238-05:00Overdue<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5_XzCa17AmlzkaaGHQxIC_aTUjhcp4JG8h2X8QtIkcttY8JBMqD7r09dZg7nGrMOpFP5xxX5kXqX4n-6YiBLdyZUWo2Zsp-4WzMR6zvPkO7YL-X1ccaUIgwaSDI9Nckb7ffsNO_k9qw/s1600-h/library+due+sticker+100+things+++IMG_0009+copy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 122px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5_XzCa17AmlzkaaGHQxIC_aTUjhcp4JG8h2X8QtIkcttY8JBMqD7r09dZg7nGrMOpFP5xxX5kXqX4n-6YiBLdyZUWo2Zsp-4WzMR6zvPkO7YL-X1ccaUIgwaSDI9Nckb7ffsNO_k9qw/s200/library+due+sticker+100+things+++IMG_0009+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301972819214503906" /></a>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-17722302193546378312009-02-11T21:04:00.003-05:002013-02-27T22:33:23.052-05:00I Was 40, He Was 36<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZux8ExdeDhFrbQC6xNOQvXGLirjI5Nu4EXnV3RcC8Y_dv_XZV2HOvoDwfMcyGBGNHsiLdr5iWTMmlKozem5lSXo2XUdwCVl082yUH6ZSKLybz8YngCqa8WI9v07X18AmhdkZ6KyQbOoU/s1600-h/soap+wrapper+bermuda+100+things+IMG_0015.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301726537593337266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZux8ExdeDhFrbQC6xNOQvXGLirjI5Nu4EXnV3RcC8Y_dv_XZV2HOvoDwfMcyGBGNHsiLdr5iWTMmlKozem5lSXo2XUdwCVl082yUH6ZSKLybz8YngCqa8WI9v07X18AmhdkZ6KyQbOoU/s200/soap+wrapper+bermuda+100+things+IMG_0015.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 192px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a> <br />
At the end, he wrote me a note that said "I never liked you anyway." It took me a while, but I realized I never liked him either -- I liked the idea, a man who took care of animals, was a veterinarian! A veterinarian who loved plants -- succulents and cacti. And all that time, looking back, it was me he didn't like. <br />
One time he took me to Bermuda. I guess he didn't want to go alone. I had a good time riding a scooter, scuffling through pink sand, smelling night-blooming cereus and spotting a century plant in a dark back yard. I never wanted to go to Bermuda, but I did get to go, didn't I? And I did see pink sand -- that was worth the trip. <br />
The day before we flew back to New York, I bought two things: a dish towel printed with a Bermuda Onion and a bottle of hot sauce; and I took a bar of soap from the little tourist hotel where we stayed. After thirty years, I'd given away the unused towel, used up all the hot sauce, and found the bar of soap in the back of a bathroom cupboard. I took the paper off so I could start using it. <br />
First, though, I think I need to find a spell, a little voudou, maybe a potion -- either that, or throw the soap away.</div>
Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-67428767273050851972009-02-11T15:15:00.000-05:002009-02-20T12:45:48.182-05:00No Man Is an Island<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNueL5uQjHWz_IeSg2rVPVsdIcyEnJfb0mq7TGEyyMqFSbw11_7eV-T5vNRBEP0ChGyVPP8jYL0xCXSpY5k8ijRdEjsZTwlmbB8SUbg4SQ5R8CseDanzLTZfydJKC_im0PFpDNZDFgTYE/s1600-h/isle+of+man+plaque+100+things+IMG_0016.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNueL5uQjHWz_IeSg2rVPVsdIcyEnJfb0mq7TGEyyMqFSbw11_7eV-T5vNRBEP0ChGyVPP8jYL0xCXSpY5k8ijRdEjsZTwlmbB8SUbg4SQ5R8CseDanzLTZfydJKC_im0PFpDNZDFgTYE/s200/isle+of+man+plaque+100+things+IMG_0016.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301639377750740578" /></a>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-42995254198232560812009-02-11T15:04:00.000-05:002009-02-20T12:46:13.476-05:00Mechanical Curls for Little Girls<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40LbJGQJLzjkY3Zp9KMkp4812AB_jM8XGAM1e2xtQOHQ5G0dUsd3RSEuZYyROqHFQr5P9vswaVvjsrSpgLD2aMmMs5tfBTkcIlPI_9gCpRril2AvoC4ExAagHh-9XhIe5KgfSwh_dkJI/s1600-h/box+and+curler+100+things+IMG_0040.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj40LbJGQJLzjkY3Zp9KMkp4812AB_jM8XGAM1e2xtQOHQ5G0dUsd3RSEuZYyROqHFQr5P9vswaVvjsrSpgLD2aMmMs5tfBTkcIlPI_9gCpRril2AvoC4ExAagHh-9XhIe5KgfSwh_dkJI/s200/box+and+curler+100+things+IMG_0040.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301635407655594306" /></a>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-44022485817552625322009-02-11T15:00:00.000-05:002009-02-20T12:46:47.091-05:00Combs Wrapped in Velvet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFP6WU8DSi9uPeVokdCHBXanZBvYx4_8TAKee2PZljMASP7v2CnpR2XDY-ypsUHvuKWoD_uSorl8UiCHttbccp_rRPaebYFNQCmQxixIBM18PIjNaD8-9trYNy5J6dhYusPpV5eB-_Bow/s1600-h/combs+in+velvet+from+top+IMG_0038.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 136px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFP6WU8DSi9uPeVokdCHBXanZBvYx4_8TAKee2PZljMASP7v2CnpR2XDY-ypsUHvuKWoD_uSorl8UiCHttbccp_rRPaebYFNQCmQxixIBM18PIjNaD8-9trYNy5J6dhYusPpV5eB-_Bow/s200/combs+in+velvet+from+top+IMG_0038.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301632889265046914" /></a>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-25150985349451177812009-02-11T14:42:00.000-05:002013-02-27T22:38:06.438-05:00Canned Heat No. 4006<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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When we moved from Memphis to Toledo, in 1945, we had never before seen snow.<br />
Throughout the late 1940s, terrible winter storms brought down wires and trees by<br />
coating them with up to an inch and a half of ice. I think of the hearts of trees pounding<br />
and trying to keep their limbs from freezing and bending to the ground and breaking.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pu66eD2qNOQRzKHDq1e9AC2b6sAy4xule6ma2gMQybr_HCCHdDvGKfZ0ZK3CUt7nKqbnvbNV1lIpQ3a5TMHzQ4VGssHQcpvKGRM-JZ-Mu5dgm60t_8Uk-NoTweaepns92FOgingDk2g/s1600-h/sterno+can+100+things+icy+doghouse+roof+IMG_0006+copy.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301627986592887234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5pu66eD2qNOQRzKHDq1e9AC2b6sAy4xule6ma2gMQybr_HCCHdDvGKfZ0ZK3CUt7nKqbnvbNV1lIpQ3a5TMHzQ4VGssHQcpvKGRM-JZ-Mu5dgm60t_8Uk-NoTweaepns92FOgingDk2g/s200/sterno+can+100+things+icy+doghouse+roof+IMG_0006+copy.jpg" style="float: left; height: 154px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>The electric stove was rendered useless. My mother got </div>
a Sterno camp stove, and a carton of canned heat, and she<br />
cooked candlelight dinners on the Sterno.<br />
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Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-30694919429195842552009-02-11T14:37:00.000-05:002009-02-20T12:47:39.528-05:00Holes in the Heart<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQecYJ3k7BtuKHTFoDGIOMi8YdA6s6LEhH0Ez7DzKxm5frti1x2JnabSA6IfUPzD0-KtIqW_bedleE9bEci6JHtIH5jBhvjpDi-J3nizzyf7XZU9g5NmrlI_96CH86UXSGNDstmF34gOo/s1600-h/daddy's+holey+rock+heart+shape+100+thgs+squareIMG_0050.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 182px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQecYJ3k7BtuKHTFoDGIOMi8YdA6s6LEhH0Ez7DzKxm5frti1x2JnabSA6IfUPzD0-KtIqW_bedleE9bEci6JHtIH5jBhvjpDi-J3nizzyf7XZU9g5NmrlI_96CH86UXSGNDstmF34gOo/s200/daddy's+holey+rock+heart+shape+100+thgs+squareIMG_0050.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5301974904645501298" /></a>Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-232765384086619480.post-20912738564073163632009-02-06T12:14:00.001-05:002013-02-27T22:42:51.436-05:00Sammy Eats Birthday Cake & Candles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6J8M5fvK5YKXXHK13OZzJKoQ4llHyO7RuDeI_KYdB2KKDrYoY0gnkvniQNLyoaoCr1PzgGYt55CL0EDcMUTAYcr-o2gwdRS5nEtj0dcjIqA-mw_Qn0QVMKetGq0uVQbvwTlMtBZhvzs/s1600-h/Birthday+candles+on+cake+turn.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299734141987899266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL6J8M5fvK5YKXXHK13OZzJKoQ4llHyO7RuDeI_KYdB2KKDrYoY0gnkvniQNLyoaoCr1PzgGYt55CL0EDcMUTAYcr-o2gwdRS5nEtj0dcjIqA-mw_Qn0QVMKetGq0uVQbvwTlMtBZhvzs/s200/Birthday+candles+on+cake+turn.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 177px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a> In the school year 1946/1947 there were seven of us in the first grade, and seven birthday parties. We all went to every party. After the flurry of coats off, ribbons yanked, tissue ripped, a mother would call us to the dining room table and we would sit and wait for the cake. At my house (as at everyone's house), Mummy dressed the table in printed paper that reached almost to the floor, and set each place with a favor, a fork, a milk glass and a pull cracker. We vibrated, we jiggled, and a fleet of mothers stood just offshore.<br />
Then the cake was carried in, with six or seven candles lit, while we sang Happy Birthday. (At our house, the cake was placed on a windup music box that plays the song.) The birthday child blew out the candles, a mother plucked them from the frosting and laid them on the table, and one boy, it was Sammy, collected them in his fist and retreated under the table to eat the colorful little twists of wax. In those days, wasn't candlewax as edible as gobs of white paste?</div>
Linda Campbell Franklin/Barkinglipshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02163942205260927937noreply@blogger.com0