Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ category

Robert Pattinson’s Hair – This Blog

September 22, 2009

This blog was found by some unknown person today through the search term “how to do my hair like Robert Pattinson.”

I view this as a significant achievement.  (Not doing one’s hair like Robert Pattinson—that’s not just significant; that’s amazing.)  No, what I’m talking about is the fact that my blog would show up as the possible provider of an answer to a question of this kind.

My own hair-manipulating experience is pretty much limited to braids.  (So far, not Pattinson’s style.)

I’ve hardly even had my own hair “done”.  The only times I can remember are as a pre-teen (a member of the other age group so fascinated by RPatz.)  Hair was “done” back then for Junior High School dances.

The Junior High School “dos” were the coiffure equivalents of the corsages our pre-teen dates bought us for these events.  These were typically carnations (baby roses, if the guy was willing to shell out), which were wired together into a bunched but spacious array, gaps filled in with tangles of baby’s breath and leaf.  Green paper wrapped the stems in back; very sharp pins (with pearl tips) were used to keep the whole thing affixed to budding chests.

Even so my long blonde hair was curled, teased, smoothed, and sprayed, shaped and volumized, until it ended up a combination of beehive and Marie Antoinette’s wig.  (Now that I think about it, it also looked something like Pattinson’s hair in the Prom scene at the end of Twilight. Only mine also had ringlets.)

Those days are long long gone.  (And there were only a couple of them to begin with  – the Valentine’s Day Dance, and later the Spring Dance.  Eighth Grade.)

Which makes it hard for me to believe that I could be allowed some small measure of authority on this subject:  the way to Robert Pattinson’s hair.

The magic of the Internet never ceases to amaze….

Check out  1 Mississippi on Amazon or at link above.

More on Unwinding – Sonnet

September 22, 2009

Yesterday, I posted about stressful Mondays, and the unwinding of that stress (or at least of some of it) by a view of sky and river.   That post was somewhat comic (I hope), but I realized I also had written a sonnet, Shakespearean,  of a slightly more serious nature on the same subject.  The poem doesn’t actually deal with Mondays, but it does describe some of the unwinding offered by the flow of sky and water.

Post-Eden

Before the sky, a lovely pale, a boy,
tall on glistening grass, tosses a ball,
and I wonder why it is that joy
is not simply inhaled.  Is it the Fall
that keeps us from feeling how it lines
the air we breathe?  Is it that first loss
that keeps us toiling within the confines
of our skins, unheeding unhidden cost?
A soft haze, like a blessing, nestles on
the sea, mutes the horizon, brings the far near.
So much within reach.  The brain wrestles on
its hardscrabble way, yet slowly fear
unwinds, diminished by sky, sea, view.
An inner hand makes the catch, more too.

(All rights reserved.  Karin Gustafson)

(I am linking this sonnet to Gooseberry Garden’s poetry picnic.  They have a very active and supportive poetry community.)

The Burden of Childhood Specialness – Firefly

September 20, 2009

I really am almost done with writing about The New York Times September 14, 2009 article by Alfie Kohn, “Mind:…” about the hazards of parental praise and punishment.   (You may be sick of it too.)

However, one fellow mother and blogger recently commented on the issue of praise as discussed in the article and my posts.  She found it hard to think of praise for children as problematic.  (Sorry, I’m oversimplifying her comment.)   She worried that not praising children might cause them to feel bad, particularly in the context of praise given to others.

I didn’t mean to condemn all praise for children!  But I do think parental praise can become problematic when it conditions a child into a reliance upon a sense of specialness.

Yes, of course, every child is special.  (Unique, God’s creation, like a snowflake, etc.)

The specialness I am talking about is not a child’s uniqueness so much as his or her “bestness,” “gold-star-ness,” “very very good-girlness or boyness.”

A security blanket of parental praise, especially combined with precocity, can be a potent combination for a child.  While the parent, in praising, may mean simply to acknowledge the child, and perhaps, excite and exhort him or her into making continued efforts (and, unwittingly to continue being a great reflection of the parent), the child may confuse this specialness as a condition for parental affection, and even for his or her own validity.

As the precocious child grows up, the child’s sense of specialness can shift from glow to burden.  The world has many many many special people.   (Thankfully!)    Someone who is used to the repeated confirmation of their sense of specialness by well-meaning, compliant, eager parents may have a hard time achieving plain old contentment (i.e. sufficiency) as they move into a heap whose top can hardly be seen.  The failure to feel special may feel like failure itself.    (My fellow blogger, kindly commenting, suggested self-awareness could help with this;  but feelings are feelings; they are not always mitigated by rational thinking.)

Anyway!  I realized today that I had a poem about this very issue:

Firefly

As a child, I was told that I was a star,
whose brilliance would light up the world like a jar
filled with fireflies.  In the place I grew up,
we’d crouch in dark grass, catching them in the cup
of a hand that they quickly transformed into heart,
a roseate, luminescent, star part.
From palm, we would pour them into our glass,
so we could catch more, faster than fast.

Then, everything changed. Maybe it was the time
when the man I had loved would no longer be mine,
or when all the freedom I’d anticipated
could no longer be fully emancipated.
Jobs couldn’t be quit, hours must be put in,
the soiled re-washed, the fanciful shut in.
My erstwhile fresh talent now seemed like old rot,
I had to be happy with what I had got.

Now, when I think back to that life as a star,
I see less of the firefly, more of the jar,
the air holes on top we made with a pick
used to pry nuts from shells, a sharp metal stick.
It tore holes that were cutting, jagged beneath,
and could easily pierce an insect’s bright sheath.
I think of those holes, the sharp underside
that ceilinged that glow, that unreasoning pride.

(All rights reserved.  From Going on Somewhere, by Karin Gustafson – available on Amazon.)

PS – I am relinking this post to Victoria C. Slotto’s blog liv2write2day, to answer her prompt about singing one’s self.

PPS – for a much more lighthearted view of young adulthood check out my comic teen novel, NOSE DIVE.

Pa…Pa…Pa….

September 19, 2009

Looking at clips of the Papageno-Papagena duet from the Magic Flute.   (Here are some links:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yz8suhKilcQ (poor quality tape, but Met production) and  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87UE2GC5db0.

I remember as a child watching the movie made by Ingmar Bergman, how amazed I was that an aria could have “pa” as its primary word, and be so joyously silly.   Ah Mozart.

More on Conditioned Parental Love- The Magic Flute

September 19, 2009

Still thinking about the New York Times Article “Mind:  When Parent’s ‘I Love You’ Means ‘Do As I Say’, by  Alfie Kohn (published September 14, 2009) now in the context of Die Zauberflote (The Magic Flute), by Mozart.  (I saw a dress rehearsal today of the Met’s wonderful production, designed by Julie Taymor.)

The story does not make much sense:  there is the romantic prince hero, Tamino, and the pragmatic everyman hero, Papageno, the conniving, deceptive, alluring, mother, the Queen of the Night, and the wise but endlessly testing father figure-cum-holyman-cum wizard guy (with a very deep voice) Sarastro, and too, the beautiful soprano Pamina who is a bit of a pawn swapped among them.

There is much that is supernatural:  the Queen’s helpers who in Taymor’s production sport oversized (almost Mayan looking) mask faces; the Three Spirits, little boys in underwear with bleached spiked hair and long wispy beards, who ride on a puppeteered flying bird, the birds themselves, dancers with flamingo heads, and ballet-slippered stilts.

There are slaves and betrayals and endless, seemingly arbitrary tests of character, meant (a) to purify the suitors, and (b) to separate the wheat from the chaff—that is, the strong, manly, silent types from chatty pragmatic everymen but more importantly from deceptive wiley women.  Wisdom and love, and some really great robes and headgear, are the prize.

While the story highlights the importance of steadfastness, bravery, self-discipline, the ultimate savior is music.  The power of music is represented by the magic flute given to the princely Tamino (oddly by the bad Queen of the Night), the magic bells or glockenspiel, given to Papageno, the pure songs of the Spirits.  But, overwhelming all of that is the sublime, beautiful music of the opera itself, composed by Mozart towards the end of his life.

This time, watching the opera, looking at the subtitles, trying (a teeny bit) to make sense of the story, I could not help but think of the New York Times article about parental love, and the effects of negative and positive conditioning, particularly, negative conditioning;  described in the article as parental withholding of affection to make children mind.

Die Zauberflote, which, of course, is in German, is a model of positive and negative conditioning (mainly negative).  Love is repeatedly withheld, both by authority figures, and even lovers themselves; punishment is meted out. Papageno, at the opening of the Opera, gets a padlock attached to his lips to teach him not to tell lies;  the Queen of the Night curses her daughter to make her try to kill Sorastro;  Tamino himself, must withhold affection from Pamina to pass his wisdom test;  the wizardly Sorastro says that vengeance does not live in the temple of wisdom, but also orders his bad servant, Monostatos, to get one hundred lashes; Papageno is threatened with a life of bread, water and imprisonment if he doesn’t give his hand to the withered old lady who is the disguised Papagena; Papageno is also nearly struck by lightening for chattering;  and even Tamino’s whole testing regimen is a bit of a punishment, arising from his original distrust of Sarasto and allegiance to the Queen of the Night.

It’s hard to come up with the positive conditioning–it’s mainly there in the form of false promises, I suppose, the promises of the Queen of the Night in particular.  (Praise and offers of rewards which should not be believed.)

In short, the path to love and wisdom and truth winds in and out of punishment, withheld affection, and artful alluring deception.   It’s a path that can only be negotiated through discipline, and with the help, the wondrous, miraculous help, of music.

Okay, it’s a cliché.  (And yes, I did see Amadeus)  But I couldn’t help thinking of the young Mozart, practicing the harpsichord  under the stern eye of his father, then overcoming all obstacles in his path (the crowned heads of Europe, but also that very same father) with the marvelous music he played and created.

In the opera, there is a bit of an exemption from all the discipline for the less high;   Papageno, the everyman, who says he doesn’t need to inhabit the exalted halls of wisdom for happiness, but is content with a glass of wine and a little turtledove wife, has slightly lesser trial.  These are passed by energy, good humor, loyalty, and, of course, the miraculous power of music;  in this case, the magic glockenspiel.

I sure wish I had one.

Spenserian Sonnet (Still Not Keats)

September 18, 2009

Last night (well, very early this morning), I posted an example of a Shakespearian sonnet, which is probably the most common form of sonnet in English.   Another variation is the Spenserian sonnet, named for Sir Edmund Spenser, (author of the wonderful wondeful Faerie Queene.)

Spenser (1552-1599) was born and died a little before  Shakespeare (1564-1616).   Although their lives overlapped, my very brief research has informed me that the group of Shakespeare’s sonnets were not published until 1609 well after Spenser’s death.  They were apparently without Shakespeare’s permission.   Two were published a bit earlier, but likely also after Spenser’s death in 1599 (also without Shakespeare’s permission.)  (And this was well before the internet.) 

Spenser’s form is slightly more strict than Shakespeare’s.  A more limited rhyme scheme requires the poet to stick to the second set of rhymes of each quatrain in beginning the next quatrain.    This makes for a series of couplets throughout the poem and not simply at the end:

A
B
A
B
B
C
B
C
C
D
C
D
E
E

 

The couplets interspersed in the poem can create a beautiful echoing effect.  However, as in the case of the Shakespearean sonnet, that darned couplet at the end can be a real problem.   (See yesterday’s post concerning the difficulty of ending a sonnet without sounding like you are neatly “summing up” all that came before.)

Even so, a sonnet is a fun, flexible, form. 

A couple of pointers:  (I pass these on, not as a sonnet expert, but as a sonnet lover.)  

The rhymes (and meter) make music.   I believe this music works best, however, if it subtle,  almost a kind of murmuring, rather than a series of “bada-bings.”    (Remember you are writing a sonnet, not a limerick.)

The subtlety can be achieved by using run-on lines; these are lines in which the thought or sentence does not end with the rhyme at the end of the line, but in which the thought or sentence runs over.  This means that these is no pause at the end of each line, unless it is called for by a comma or period.   

 The use of run-over lines requires that some care is taken with respect to punctuation.  (Readers! please follow the punctuation.) 

Additionally, I like NOT to capitalize each new line as I feel that encourages a kind of pausing at the end of the line, and to discourage a more flowing read.   

Spy Games

We played spy games galore in the basement.
Running spy games with the boys, our bent hands
guns, till sweating we lay down on cold cement,
shirts pulled up, chests hard.  Not much withstands
the leaching chill of earth, the deep down sands
beneath a childhood basement, except perhaps
the burn of nipple, the future woman’s
breasts.  Our spy games just for girls had traps–
some of us played femmes fatales, poor saps,
while the leader girl was Bond–0-0-7.
She hung us ropeless from the bathroom taps,
then tortured us in ways that felt like heaven,
the basement bed our rack, what spies we were,
confessing neither to ourselves nor her.

 

(All rights reserved.  Karin Gustafson)

 

 P.S.  Check out 1 Mississippi.  (It’s neither Spenserian or Shakespearean, but it will teach your child to count.)

Sonnets!

September 18, 2009

Sonnets have fourteen lines.

Count ’em.

Sometimes they are combinations of eight and six; sometimes four and four and four and two; sometimes strange intersections of four and six, eight and two (only adding up to fourteen.)

I have been thinking about them since hearing about Bright Star, the new Jane Campion movie about Keats.  (I haven’t seen the movie yet, so can make no recommendations.)

Keats wrote great sonnets, even developing his own form.

Even so, I tend to stick to Shakespeare’s form.  (Shakespeare, of course, wrote really great sonnets.)  His form is extremely easy to remember, and relatively easy to write, as it uses a broad assortment of rhymes.

If I’m feeling more ambitious, I’ll try Spenser’s format, which is similar to Shakespeare’s, but uses a more limited rhyming pattern.  (I’ll explain each in the next few posts.)  I have never written a sonnet in Keats’ form (though I intend to try.)

Shakespeare’s form is set forth below.  Remember, under conventions of poetic notation, a rhyme ending a specific line is denoted by a capital letter, so that the first set of rhymes is denoted as “A”, the second set of rhymes as B, the third set “C”, etc.

Shakespeare also uses iambic pentameter.  (More on that later.)

A

B

A

B

C

D

C

D

E

F

E

F

G

G

The biggest problem with a sonnet is often the final couplet.  It tends to have a very pat, “summing up” quality, that is hard to escape.

I do not to want my final couplet to sound like the “moral of the story”. Breaking the lines up so that they run over and do not pause at the end of each line can help in this regard.  Humor is also useful.

A subject matter which is not easily summed up, also creates a certain tension that can temper the patness of the final couplet.   Here’s one, for example on a self-administered, informal breast exam.

In the Stairwell

Descending the building’s stairs, she feels her breast,
fumbling beneath her bra to get to skin,
palpating (as they say) but in a mess
of here and there and not all within
the confines of an organized exam.
Silly to do it here, not time or place,
someone else might come, have to move her hand,
and yet fear seems to justify the race,
as if by checking each time it crosses mind,
especially checking fast, she can avoid
ever finding anything of the kind
that should not be found.  And so, devoid
of caution, but full of care nonetheless,
she steps slowly down the stairs, feeling her breast.

(All rights reserved, Karin Gustafson)

Check out 1 Mississippi at link above.

More on Minding

September 17, 2009

At a certain turn in the blogging cycle or maybe it’s the Manic-D cycle, you get to the point where you are willing to be way too honest.  (Perhaps it’s the urge for more views.)  This is not the kind of honesty that writes about obsessions with Robert Pattinson.

It is a particularly dangerous turning point if you have already started telling family and friends your blog address.

This type of brink is a reason why many writers really would rather write fiction and poetry than a daily blog.  Fiction and poetry are both more intimate and more removed;  they are “fiction”, “poetry”;  they are classified as “art” (or at least an attempt at art), rather than “reportage”, something made rather than experienced.

I was brought to this brink by thinking about the New York Times article by Alfie Kohn  (“Mind: When I Love You Means Do What I Say”) discussed in yesterday’s post;  the article talks about the inner compulsiveness that sometimes arises from positive and negative conditioning in children; i.e. blankets of praise and/or punishment.  The neediness seems, according to the studies,  to be particularly strong in the case of so-called positive conditioning, that is, praise (praise applied with an overly thick brush).

Achievers are apparently produced by this praise, but they are compulsive achievers.

Symptoms of this type of internal compulsion seem to me to include the craving many achievers have throughout their lives for continuing pats on the head, even artificial pats.  This craving can in turn lead to a kind of self-deception that feels somehow like success, but is known not to be , or at least probably not to be.  (A good example is the willingness to believe, or to try to believe, in weight loss after an adjustment down of the bathroom scale.)   Ironically, this same willingness to accept what is known to be a dubious milestone is often combined with an absolute skepticism over any genuine achievement, particularly if the acknowledgement of such achievement comes from a loved one.    It’s as if, to the achiever, the opinion of someone loving and beloved has little worth;  only the opinions of one’s enemies, detractors, or ignorers have any validity.

Strange, huh?

Then, in the midst of trying to figure out how to write about this, my mind turned instead to John Keats, about whom there is a new film by Jane Campion.  I decided that as trivial as sonnets may seem in the modern world, I would really rather write about them, and write them, than about neediness.   Although Keats admittedly does seem a bit on the needy side, he was not a blogger.

So, stepping back from any brink, but oddly satisfied to have sketched out a glimpse of it,  I’m starting a new series on the making of a sonnet.   As a separate post.

“Mind” – Parental Love – When “I Love You” Means Doing as Haim Ginott Said

September 16, 2009

The New York Times published an article on September 14 about unconditional love by Alfie Kohn “When a Parent’s ‘I Love You’ Means ‘Do As I Say.’  The article is about the difficulties in sorting through conflicting parenting advice  –  the older advice from Carl Rogers (and also Fred) promoting unconditional love, and the newer advice from people such as talk show host Dr. Phil, and Supernanny, promoting a more manipulative parental approach, one that directly involves the granting of praise and acceptance for good behavior and the withholding of affection for bad.

The article comments on a series of studies done in 2004, and also more recently, by Drs. Avi Assor, Guy Roth, Edward L. Deci, that imply that more manipulative parental love, particularly one that incorporates positive conditioning of praise and approbation, can be effective at promoting academic achievement and achievement of parental goals, but can also carry a price of inner compulsion, lack of long-term satisfaction.  (The conditional love that focused on punishment and withholding of affection seemed mainly to create resentment of parents.)

I have to say that I definitely fall into the unconditional love camp.   (I prefer Mr. Rogers to Dr. Phil.)   First, I can’t really imagine withholding love from my children (even when angry).

However, I also understand that parenting that is overly heavy on the praise can be very burdensome, creating a lifelong need for specific approval and acknowledgement.   In addition to the problems noted by the studies, I believe that this kind of “positive” conditioning (and the resulting need and compulsion) while perhaps helpful in promoting academic performance, can become very problematic outside the academic world where good grades are not awarded for one’s conduct, and where the hurdles for achievement are not clearly delineated.  (In the non-academic world, the hurdles on the road to achievement can often not even be located, much less jumped.)

But if both negative and positive conditioning are problematic, what are parents supposed to do?

As a young child, I used to frequently see Dr. Haim Ginott on the Today Show.  (He was a child psychologist who seemed to be a regular guest.)

Now there was a guy who knew about parenting.  I don’t think he had children of his own, so he may not have had the parents’ perspective down pat, but he definitely understood the child’s perspective.   (He happened to be a very short man, who spoke English as a second language.  Somehow all of this made me feel, back then, that he knew just where we stood.)

He also looked to me like a child’s drawing of a psychiatrist, with glasses set low on a slightly intrusive nose; a small goatee bisecting his chin.   But instead of carting around the pomposity of expertise (or a couch), he sported a palpable sense of humor and compassion and an odd childlike simplicity.

He definitely fit into the unconditional love school.  As part of this, he was very specific about not praising; and not blaming.

It is not correct to say that Ginott let everything slide or that he would not condemn;  he believed parents should be quick to make their feelings about bad behavior known and to let that behavior have consequences,  the natural ones, including, for example,  the parents’ irritation; but he (like Christ) condemned the sin, not the sinner.  The method of expressing disapproval was extremely important; it was to be an expression of facts and feelings.

For example, if a child’s room were a mess, the parent was not supposed to say “you are a pig!”  but something like, “it makes me so upset to see a room like this—I think of all the living creatures it could harbor, germs, mice, even pigs!”   Or “someone with a room like this doesn’t have time to go out and play yet.”  Or simply “rooms like this must be cleaned IMMEDIATELY.”

As a child, I would marvel at his approach.   How could he fool any kid, I’d wonder.  Wouldn’t they know he just thought they were piggy?  Or that his folks were keeping him inside?

But I’d also feel, well, that the dirty room better get cleaned up soon.

His approach to praise seemed very severe to me back then, but as I’ve grown older, I’ve recognized its genius.  Telling a child he’s done a great drawing, a masterpiece, can be absolutely paralyzing, he said.  The danger of a fall from grace (a failure to produce another masterpiece) is so immediate the child may not even feel able to continue.

As a result, instead of praise, Ginott advocated actually looking at the child’s work, commenting on specific details, such as “that color blue makes me think of a summer sky.”  Or “I can see that you spent a lot of time working on that airplane.  Look at all the little rockets.”  Or “when I see a drawing of apples like that, it makes me hungry.”  (I’m sorry if I am misrepresenting Ginott’s theories by the way;  I am relying on childhood memories and also books I read years ago as a young parent – his Between Parent and Child, and the books by Elaine Mazlish and Adelle Farber, two of his followers.)

The same theory applied to honoring good conduct:  “when children sit so quietly, the room feels like a beautiful oasis.”   He would not say, for example, “what a good boy,” “what a nice girl.”  (Again, I am making up these examples!)

While Ginott’s techniques allowed for positive and negative reinforcement of types of behavior, the child him or herself was separate from the behavior, deemed capable of exerting some control over it, allowed and expected to exert some control over the behavior, but not defined by it.  As a result, the child and the love of the parent were not caught in the vagaries of behavior and consequences, but could maintain that constancy and unconditionality which seemingly (or at least according to these studies) helps lead to a lasting sense of self-worth.

Mother’s Tea

September 15, 2009

Distance from the manic environs of New York City leaves me so enervated I’m not sure that I can be “daily” any more.

Still the New Yorker in me persists.  (After all, I only left Saturday morning—the New Yorker in me has got to be stronger than half a week!)

Still, it’s amazing to me how quick routine/structure/discipline gives way.  (Though I’m not sure I can really call blogging a discipline!)

What fades I guess are the constructs you have built up as parts of yourself.  I don’t think it is Florida that rubs them away so much as entry into the parental home.

Your parents genuinely don’t notice these constructs.  (My parents, for example, persist on offering me chicken salad, even though I’ve been vegetarian for thirty-five years.  I mention that to them, they say, yes, but that it’s really low-calorie.)

When I used to come home from college, the first thing I would do would be to go to our kitchen counter, pour out a bowl of cereal and stand there eating it.  It seems to me that it was usually Special K, possibly Grapenuts. (Although we did have cereal at college back then, it was always cornflakes, stale, and served in large glass jars.)

Eating the Special K, or possibly Grapenuts, was a way of transitioning back to childhood.  I’d usually have at least a bowl and a half.

I don’t do that now.  But then, the main cereal my parents have here are laden with fiber and artificial sugar.

Also, when I come to my parents’ house now, it is important that I remain an adult.  There are things to be done, helped with, organized.  (No counter bowls of cereal for you!)

They are certainly still as caring, still as parental.  As I type this blog, my mom ghosts out in nightdress, to ask me whether I wouldn’t like some decaf tea.

I don’t particularly want any decaf tea.  ( I actually kind of dislike decaf tea;  it usually tastes just one remove from dishwater to me.)  So, I say, well, thanks, but you don’t need to bother, but she says she already has the bag—she is of the generation that reuses tea bags.   I say well, fine then.

She gently brings over the cup of tea in a nice cup, nice saucer, holding a small carton of milk from their Meals on Wheels delivery earlier in the day.  She does not use milk, but she remembers that  I usually do.

“Would you like milk?”

“Sure.”

She pours it in.

And then, feeling truly sad that I am leaving, I think, she says I can just put it down on the freshly varnished coffee table next to me.

Whoa, I think to myself, knowing how she feels about freshly varnished tables.  So, despite what she says,  I  look for something I could put the saucer on, something to serve as coaster.  Unfortunately all the books on the coffee table seem to be photo albums.

“Oh here’s something,” she says suddenly, picking up a placemat from another table.  “They did just redo that table,” she goes on, as she puts the placemat down on my coffee table, “so I guess it’s just as well to take care of it.”

She steps gently back to the kitchen where I hear her moving about.  Then, after a moment, there is a sudden beep, which I realize is the microwave announcing the water she has heated for her own cup, the cup she is making after mine, the cup which in fact will be the second use of the tea bag.

I take a quick sip of the tea which for decaf really tastes quite good, the microwaved water almost scaldingly hot.   I do not use a microwave at all, and certainly not for heating water;   still, that hot hot tea tastes really very good just now.

But I remember how, as a child, anything from my mother’s hands tasted good.