Past Blogs

Spring is a flirt. She comes sashaying in for a day or two and then departs abruptly for places unknown.

The season has arrived on our calendars and our clocks have sprung forward. Primavera, however, is still doing her annual tease. I have lived on the planet long enough to be wise to Spring’s siren songs.

The snow brush and ice scraper will remain under the seat of my car. Even if I leave the house in sandals and sans jacket, a winter coat and boots will be stashed in the trunk. The outdoor furniture will linger under wraps in the garage.

Inside, the quilt will reside at the foot of the bed. The summer clothes will stay nestled in the far back of the closet, and I will still be making those hearty soups in the kitchen.

My advice to robins is “extend your winter vacations”. Chipmunks and groundhogs should sleep in a bit longer. Tulips, daffodils and crocus should all think twice about poking up their tender, green leaves. Contrary to scientific rumor, snow is not the best blanket.

Spring, be warned, you will not be breaking my heart this year. I’ll trust you around May 30th.

March has roared in and with it the annual month long celebration of Youth Art Month, a.k.a. YAM. Delightful exhibits of children’s art have sprung up in libraries, art museums, stores and businesses all across America.

Anyone who is in need of a spring tonic can simply head to the nearest show. Children’s art can be summed up in one word, joyful.

For those of us who teach the arts, this year’s event is poignant. Education in all the arts is under attack throughout America. Our children’s art and music teachers are being fired in record numbers as programs in all the arts are the first to fall when budgets are being slashed. In addition, an alarming number of Americans are gleeful to see their schools gutted and teachers vilified.

It is not hyperbole to say that a great nation must have great schools. Leaders are thinkers, and schools must do more than cram kids’ brains with test answers. Arts educators motivate our children to be creative thinkers, astute observers, problem solvers and innovators.

How sad that the richest nation in the world is denying so many children any education in the arts.

And don’t be fooled. Art events and one time special classes for a few kids that are sponsored by corporations or rich individuals don’t ever take the place of art and music teachers in our schools every week, year round.

The time has come to speak up and demand a quality, all inclusive education for all of America’s children, not just the wealthy, lucky and privileged.

Click here for a short and exuberantly happy tour of children’s art. The first three pictures, the folk art Tree of Life, a Renoir and a Delaunay were inspiration for my students. (And, yes, I seem to be a bit catcentric in my choice of subject matter this year.)

The air reeked when we opened our car doors in the parking lot. There were no vampires to be seen. Another restaurant had gone viral with garlic.

America is a nation that shuns subtlety and abhors moderation. Therefore, when it comes to garlic, ten cloves are perceived to be better than one.

My husband and I have been patiently waiting for the “garlic in everything” phase of American restaurant dining to pass. It’s not, in fact, it seems to be picking up steam or perhaps stink would be a better word.

I have been accused of being a garlic-hater; I am not. But I am against the excessive and pervasive use of the stinking onion.

Garlic is a culinary sledgehammer. Improperly used, it will mask every other flavor in a dish. Perhaps garlic cloves should come with little stick-on warning labels that read, “Caution, use with extreme care”.

Indulge me in one last tirade. People who have just consumed over three garlic cloves should not be allowed on airplanes unless they wear a Hazmat suit.

Flying isn’t a picnic. It’s an exercise in humiliation, subjugation and punishment.

I am not complaining about the screening process. Boarding a plane with a bomb, knife or gun toting fellow flyer is not high on my list of things to do. Walking barefoot and being x-rayed or patted down are acceptable alternatives to having the mad bomber as a seat mate.

My complaints begin after the screening process. All the American carriers (I think we have about 3 left) are trying to make us as MISERABLE AS POSSIBLE so we will buy our way out of their sadistic tricks.

For example, my husband and I forevermore will be the last passengers on the plane. I never check luggage preferring a small carry on that fits under the seat. My husband does likewise, but with longer legs he prefers to stow his bag in the overhead.

In case you haven’t flown recently, here is the new boarding order: Platinum members, gold members, silver members and preferred card members, families with small children (that includes 4 and 5 year olds who are perfectly capable of walking if so inclined), passengers with no bags, passengers with bags that fit under the seat and, lastly, passengers that have bags for the overhead compartments. In other words, “we will punish you for not buying premium tickets, paying bag checking fees or purchasing extra leg room, and we do not care how long it takes to board the plane!”

Since I do not give in to blackmail, I’m doomed to steerage, a word I freely use when communicating with the flight attendants.

The poor do not inherit the earth. They don’t inherit the airspace, either.

I am not attracted to guys in canary yellow suits, but some ladies swoon over them. These ladies would be American goldfinches.

I must admit that the entire goldfinch clan had me tricked for many years. Every summer I enjoyed watching these petite birds which resemble flying bursts of sunshine. Every winter when they “disappeared” I assumed they were languishing in the tropics, soaking in the rays.

Then, one winter day, I was watching the action in our feeders and spotted a drab-feathered bird that bore a striking resemblance to a goldfinch but with his technicolor removed. A quick trip to the bird book confirmed that some goldfinches stay year round while others only move far enough to find food. The guys’ breeding plumage just molts and sober colored feathers are worn for winter when their sex lives grind to a complete halt. Seems like I was the birdbrain.

Last week I saw a goldfinch land on one of our feeders, and he was starting to ripen. His yellow wasn’t glowing yet, but he was already a delicate shade of pale yellow.

“There’s hope for spring,” I said to my husband as I pointed out our sexy, little visitor.

In fairness to male goldfinches, I should add that they are not all about show. They are loyal mates who keep watch over their ladies for the six days the females work in midsummer to build their cup shaped nests. Then they feed the future moms for the two weeks that the ladies incubate the eggs. When the eggs hatch, the dads work tirelessly to help feed their offspring. All in all, stand up guys.

Click here to hear their vocalizing and dream of spring.