Fish Tales

Many times when I run into someone I haven't seen in awhile, the first question I'm asked is "Do you have any trips planned?"  Traveling extensively has become a 21st century habit.  Earlier in life, Gary and I were getting by as many younger couples do.  We'd save our tax refund to pay for a car trip.

 

We covered New England from Bar Harbor, Maine, to the shores of Lake Champlain in Vermont.  We would stay in a vacation cottage near Arcadia or in the Green or White Mountains. Sometimes we would find a motel instead.  We always packed a camera, and as time went by, fishing gear and bait.  Gary put together a chart of the best fishing holes along the Kancamagaus Highway.  No, I can't share.  Fishing hole locations are secret, of course. 

 

We would find that zen quiet when sitting by a trout stream, line in the water, waiting for that little jerk telling us our bait had been taken.  With the sun peeking through the leaf cover, and the warm dry air of the mountains, we didn't care that it was the middle of summer and humid at home.  Work worries just melted away, and flowed down the Swift River.

 

These photos are from July, 1992.  Here we are, twenty years younger, thinner, and with much more hair.  We may have gone to more exotic places later, but none were any more fun than sitting by a river, catching fish and scenery, and letting the day flow by.

 

This Wednesday would have been Gary's birthday.  People have  been correct.  The hard edges of loss have softened with time.  I can look back and treasure those lazy summer days and be thankful that we had so many of them.  I can also look forward to more summer days, and making more good memories with the people in my life.

 

The one lesson I think I've learned is that the connections with people and the memories we make are what we can keep over time.  And are the things to be most valued.

 

 

 

Father Christmas ghosts.

The holiday season and the end of the year is typically a time of reflection.  I've been thinking of all the good Christmas's and family get togethers I've attended over the years.  And there's been lots.  For example, there were Christmas mornings when Santa was still real.  The biggest kid my house that morning turned out to be my dad.  He would wake us up and tell us that Santa had arrived, and would sit and watch with a smile as we opened presents.  He was a man of very few words, but his actions would often speak volumes.  He was a hard working, blue collar guy.  He didn't have a profession or career, but a calling.  He was the provider, as my mother was the homemaker.  Different times and different roles, but still important.

As I said, he didn't talk much.  He was often tired, sometimes grouchy, but he did work a zillion hours a week.  Once he retired, though, he opened up a little.  He was more relaxed, I was older and had learned men's small talk (did you see yesterday's game?) and he would sometimes share stories.

He told me one story of when he was a teenager in Saugus, and had a job pumping gas on Route One.  This was before the days of the major interstates, so anyone traveling from New York to Maine had to use "the pike" as all highways were called then.

He had a pair of famous customers who had a summer home in Maine  stop at the gas station one day, Bette Davis and her husband Gary Merrill.  It must have even more impressive back in the 1940's to see a movie star.  Without a 24 hour news cycle, instant tweets, and not even television, stars lived in a different universe than they do today.

He had a more homespun story that makes me smile even now.  Here he was, first generation American, born of Lebanese Catholic parents.  He had been set up on a blind date by his brother and his girl, who had a friend.  The friend was first generation American, the child of Sicilian immigrants.  Things were going well.  And of course, he was invited home for dinner to meet the parents. 

My poor mother was mortified by what her mother served.  Lentils, of all the greenhorn things to serve to someone my mom was getting serious about.  What would he think?  Immigrants back in the early twentieth century did their best to Americanize themselves.  Sofia became Sophie, Caterina became Kitty, and Rosa became Dolly.  The sisters had pride in their American style.  Oh, but the horror of serving lentils was not to be imagined.

My father laughed when he told the story.  He had been brought up on lentils and other similar Mediterrean food.  The subtext he didn't mention was his probable nervousness at meeting the family.  Whether intentional or not, my grandmother Lena put him at ease by serving a dish my grandmother Nady had served him his whole childhood. 

And then Sophie and George in turn served those dishes to their children, my brother John and I.  And keeping the tradition going, John has requested that I bring something Lebanese to dinner Christmas day.  So in a little bit I'll be cooking up some kibbee, and his children and grandchildren will have a little.  Sophie and George's legacy, and their parents' as well, are the dishes we still eat, and the memories we make around them.

Merry Christmas, dad.

French Fairytales

A Librarian's Pilgrims Progress

I've been around libraries all my life, starting with my mother bringing me to the bookmobile in Lynn when I was very small.  Our whole neighborhood would walk together, mothers and children, and it would be an outing for the ladies as well.  They would have a chance to catch up and speak with other adults, and the kids could skip along around the edges.  These households would have had just the one car for the father to take to work, so it was a special occasion for all involved to go out to the bookmobile.

When we moved to Salem, my mother brought both my brother and I to the library on Essex Street as soon as we could sign our names to get a library card.  I spent many hours there, so much so that when I entered high school, Mrs. Tomlinson in the Children's Room asked if I wanted to work there. That's where I started my profession, 14 years old, a page in the Children's Room.

After college I tried a variety of jobs, and none really seemed to fit.  Ten years after graduating from UMass/Amherst, I saw a posting for a Children's Librarian I at the Lynn Public Library.  I filled in the application, went for the interviews, and started shortly after.  Finally, I had found something that fit.

In the years between being a page at 14 and now, I had the chance to work in all departments at the public library, and now at an academic one.  I made my way to the big office with the ornate, antique furniture as library director, and then stepped back into the role that I have enjoyed most through my career, reference librarian.

But this time of year brings back a memory of my first days, and when I worked primarily with children.  I was at the Houghton Branch in West Lynn, and we had 16mm films we would show once a week in addition to craft making and story times.  There was a very popular book that had been made into a short film in the 1980's.  The hero was a girl whose parents had immigrated from Russia for religious reasons.  She had a Thanksgiving homework assignment, to dress a doll as a Pilgrim, with a capital P.  One of those people with the black clothes, and silver buckles on their hats.  She was having a terrible time of it, and went in tears to her mother.  The mother sent her to bed, and made a pilgrim, small p.

The costume she crafted was of a Russian peasant.  The teacher was upset, and told the girl she had missed the point of the assignment.  When the girl told her mother, they talked about the reasons the Pilgrims had come to Plymouth, and the reasons her own family had come.  The little girl then realized she also was a pilgrim, even without the silver buckle.

The Houghton Branch Library was situated in an incredibly diverse neighborhood.  We had families from all over Europe, Asia and the West Indies coming in every day.  What I remember most about my stay there is that after showing this movie, a Cambodian girl came up to me in tears.  She said, "Nadine, does this mean I'm a pilgrim too?"  Yes, I answered, you are.  She was a struggling student, both academically and socially.  That day, at least, she felt she belonged somewhere.  She fit in.

To all my fellow pilgrims, small p, Happy Thanksgiving, and may you find your special fit also.

Falling out of Fall

Well, I'm still trying.  Trying and trying to maintain that good attitude towards fall
that so many people have.  The pumpkin's on the balcony, the autumnal centerpiece is on the dining room table, the cheery sign is on my door.

Today is everything I would want fall to be:  sunny and warm.  Today I can putter and clean and read and enjoy my home.  I even had a nice walk along the beach before the wind blew me back into my car.  But we've had too many days this October with clouds and rain.  And darn it, I had to put the heat on. 

With the days growing shorter, I begrudge any bit of sunlight I'm deprived of.  I don't walk in the rain.  Naturally curly hair makes that a disaster.  I believe exercise is better out of doors in the fresh air and sunshine.  There's that vitamin D, and balancing all those serotonins and melatonins makes for a better night's sleep.

As we're sitting here smack in the middle of October, I have to take stock.  Yes, the foliage is great this year.  But the flowers are dying.  Mums just don't do it for me.  While they are colorful, those colors aren't in my preferred palette.  Like Sweet Baby James, deep greens and blues are the colors I choose.

So I've rejoined the Y, will continue to order the pumpkin spice latte, maybe bake some pumpkin bread.  Just let it stay sunny, not gray.  I'll keep savoring the sights and smells of autumn.  And I'll try not to think of the white and gray season that follows.

Falling into Fall

I have to admit that Fall is not my favorite season.  As the days shorten, all I can think of is the Winter that is coming.  The thoughts of those dark evenings, that cold, and gosh, snow! all bring my mood down.

All of which means I'm living in future, not the present.  There's no telling what kind of winter we'll have on the North Shore.  It could be mild and snow free, like last winter.

No, this year I'll live in the Autumn.  I'll focus on the good points of the season.  The cool nights are better for sleeping.  The warm, sunny afternoons perfect for being outdoors.  The season shines in New England, with trees sporting a vibrant palette.

Baked goods smell of cinnamin and clove, and hot drinks are appreciated in the nippy air of morning.  The farmers markets are full with local harvests, and there's lots of good cooking to be done with fresh fruits and vegetables still.

It's time to change wardrobes, and time to put on shoes.  Time to check out last year's sweaters, and corduroy pants.  Time for a pumpkin on the balcony, and a new welcome plaque on the door. 

It's a good day so long as there is a chance to get outside.  I'm going to stop thinking of Fall as an ending, but as a continuance of good things to be enjoyed.  Sometimes the snow and ice is more attitude than weather.

Beach times

The beach has been the setting for this summer.  Whether I'm walking along, sitting by or on, or driving by, I've spent a lot of time on the beach and by the ocean.  And since I've spent the summer home and not vacationing, the beaches I've been visiting this summer are the ones I've been going to all my life.

I remember traveling by bus or taxi, or by an auntie's ride, to Revere or Lynn or Salem Willows when I was small.  At the Willows we would vary sitting on the beach and sitting on the grass.

Later, as a teenager, there were bike rides to Devereaux beach with other Salem Library pages, and long, lazy afternoons.

My husband and I would go to the Willows early in our years together.  We'd play skeeball and pacman, have ice creams and chop suey sandwiches, and walk the park.  Later we mainly walked  along Lynn Shore Drive.  And lastly we would go and sit, watching the Boston skyline and Nahant.

What I've noticed especially this summer is how quiet beaches have become.  In the 1960's and 1970's, each blanket would host a transister radio.  As we would walk along looking for a "spot" we'd hear WMEX playing music, or WHDH's Ned Martin and Curt Gowdy giving play by play reports for Red Sox games.

The 1980's and early 1990's featured boomboxes playing loudly, with FM stations ruling the air.  They'd be carried on the shoulders of skate boarders speeding past.  The beach still had a soundtrack, and a boisterous feel.

Then Sony developed the Walkman and Apple the iPod, and pesonal listening devices became the norm.  The beach has gone back to natural sounds; waves break, gulls cry, and children laugh and play.  Everwhere else technology dominates our lives, but not at the beach.  Having a soundtrack is now a personal choice. 

Walking along the beach has become one of my favorite ways to excercise.  I'm hoping for another mild winter so that I can continue to do so.  The beach is a place I go to to find a sense of quiet, of timelessness, and renewal.  If I want music, I put the ear plugs in.  This year, though, I've gone without, and listened to the beach sounds, and felt like they're one of the constants in my life.

Oh, la.la, Paris.

This is a summer of day trips and short getaways.  I've been exploring Essex county with my camera in hand, or have hopped on the train to New York City for a couple of nights.

But last year I was packing for Paris right about this time.  I had seen the Woody Allen movie with Owen Wilson and Gene Kelly's American in Paris, and read The Paris Wife.

Then I got there.  There's a line in Midnight in Paris where the vapid fiancee complains about it raining again.  She was right.  It rains.  And while that misty, moisty mysteriousness adds oh so much atmosphere to a plot line, it wreaked havoc on my wardrobe and mood.  Thank goodness for hotel laundry services. 

I also found that the guide provided by the tour company had rather elastic ideas about distances.  I became suspicious when everything was just half an hour away.  I was encouraged to take Le Metro, but didn't feel comfortable doing so.

A group of us went and the subway was clean, clearly marked and inexpensive.  But I had only one good arm last year, so hanging onto a pole and my belongings was a problem.  That not so minor fact made it walking or taxis for me.

I realize my trip experience was probably colored by having had surgery just three weeks before.  But still, it rained.

I had loved the south of France the year before.  The bright light dazzled the colors, the sun was warm, the small towns were friendly, and it didn't rain.

I've offered the advice that every experience is a learning experience.  And in retrospect, what made all those books and movies interesting were the people in them.  The Paris Wife talked mostly about the cast of characters that made the city interesting in the Twenties.  Owen Wilson's character raved about meeting Hemingway and Fitzgerald. 

Perhaps if my hotel had been in a different area I would have been more charmed.  I loved Isle St. Louis and the Left Bank.  The Place my hotel was located on also had a MacDonald's, KFC and a pizza place.  It could have been Kenmore Square without the jet lag.

I had been warned about traveling in August that it would be crowded, and it was.  And being urban, the people weren't as warm as in the south.  But I have been in other cities, and live in a small one, so those factors shouldn't have been as overwhelming as they were.  I was jet lagged and in minor pain, niether of which are mood enhancers.

So maybe, just maybe, I'll try Paris again another time.   I'll just be more careful of the hotel location and the time of year.  And, of course, try to go when it doesn't rain.

Garden hopes

Each spring the gardener looks through the catalogs, wanders the aisles at garden centers, makes and breaks plans, and purchases what she hopes will be the plants that will make the season.  Brave souls start with seeds. Others, like myself with a container garden, go for the plants, those six packs of annuals that promise color quickly and constantly throughout the summer.

We all know that we are at the mercy of the growers and the weather, and the plant choices we make.  Yes, I have a southern exposure with no shade, but pansies may last longer than spring (no, they never do).  But each year I plant my flowers, my herbs and my one patio tomato, hoping for a bumper crop and no aphids or mites.

My one signature plant I use each year is blue lobelia. The window boxes up in Bar Harbor were full of them back when we visited in 1986, and they made an obviously lasting impression. I can usually plant so that they have some shade and make sure they are well watered so that they last as long as possible.

Gardeners are optimists.  Yes, there will be enough sun, the temperature not too hot or cold, I'll remember to water, and yes, I will have a garden to enjoy.  And those annuals whose flowers keep coming all summer seem to agree with me.  This year's early spring had me starting weeks before Memorial Day, my traditional start date.  I've had to replace those pansies with begonias that love that sunshine.  And also my pinks  that somehow over-wintered and came back this spring finally petered out and needed replacing. 

Heading back to the garden center is no hardship in mid-July.  Plants are now on sale and there's no sign yet of mums.  I have to say I hate mums.  They are the signal for fall and the end of gardening.  I'd rather have the last of my summer flowers than plant mums.

But we're still at the height of the growing season.  I'm still enjoying my flowers, harvesting tomatoes and herbs for cooking, making notes of what has worked and what hasn't.  A seed, a plant, seem to be nature's promise that life renews.  It doesn't always stay the same, but it stays.  I just keep that watering can handy and keep tending my garden.

Travels with my dad

I seemed to have spent my spring retracing the footsteps of my youth.  In early May, I headed west to Amherst for a short stay at the Lord Jeff Inn.  I remember thinking while attending UMass/Amherst that if I ever "made it" that would be something I would do.

Whatever "made it" really means.  There's no point where I could ever have said I'm all set.  What I've discovered since then is that it's all a process.

Above is a picture of the chapel. I probably should have included the library, but it's this square, utilitarian looking structure.  It's supposed to be the tallest in the world, or was when it was built.  But it really has no grace.

Those rides back and forth between Salem and Amherst were the first time my dad and I really bonded.  He was a "man's man," a John Wayne type.  Not much on converstation, and really had no idea what to do with a small, curly headed girl.  He attempted wrestling matches when I was little that just made me cry.  And for most of my childhood, there was an awkward silence between us any time we were alone together.  He was the master of one word answers, which doesn't make for very good conversation.

But once I was a young adult, and we were traveling miles and miles, we started opening up much more.  And it wasn't just the trips to Amherst.  I spent a semester living in Park Slope, Brooklyn, for an internship in the city, and I think expanded both of our horizons by doing so.  It was 1975, and wonder of wonder, he had to stop and ask directions.  Once he got them, he had to give the helpful New Yorkers an earful about the Red Sox, and we were on our way.

Years later he was telling stories about the rides we made.  He worked details at Kappy's to help with my college expenses, and transported empty liquor cartons to New York to help me pack up.  He memtioned how he was stopped by a state trooper after going through a toll booth, and showing the empty boxes.  He would always have a grin on his face when he told the story, like he had put something over on the statie.

There was another time when his car wasn't working well, and we used my Uncle Ed's to get me back to Amherst.  Of course Ed came along, and he was probably quieter than my dad was, if possible.  We came up to a big rotary near Palmer, and had to stop abruptly because of four horses galloping through.  Neither man was quiet after that.  Their idea of country was Saugus, where they grew up by the river.  We all felt like we were in Wyoming or someplace.

As the years passed, we learned how to talk with each other.  One gift he gave me was the ability of making small talk about sports.  I'd try to catch the end of a game (any kind!) to be able to compare notes with him.  In turn, that skill became helpful in my work life when I was at city meetings where I would be one of two or three women in a room full of men department heads.

He bonded differently with my brother.  The wrestling matches were fun for them, as was hitting balls out to the Little Leaguers.  They butted heads a lot, but you could see underneath the tie was strong.  (I do have to thank John for teaching me how to throw a football.  Though like algebra, I haven't had much need for the skill.)

It took my growing up for us to know each other as people, not just as father/daughter.  We may not have always agreed, and sometimes didn't like what the other said or did, but we did love each other.  I just hope now I have some of his strength and tenacity, but a heck of a lot more patience. 

Lessons learned

I recently revisited an old stomping ground from my senior year of college.  I spent the fall of 1975 working in and for the city of New York.  My internship was with the NYC Department of Civic Affairs and Public Events.  I learned a lot that semester, not all having to do with my major or my internship.

I joined an organized tour of Greenwich Village the first Friday of this June.  It was not the Village I remembered.  Now you have to be a movie star to afford to live there.  And the bars old beatniks, hippies and yippies frequented are now tourist traps.

But back in 1975, a place called Max's Kansas City catered to both a disco and rock crowd.  Andy Warhol was rumored to be seen there, and Patti Smith performed.

So on weekend nights my housemates and I took the subway from Park Slope into the city, to the Village, to catch glimpses of the famous.  What we found were other students doing the same.  Boys from Pratt looking for glamor laughed at us for not knowing how late the club stayed open.  Three or four am--that wasn't tonight anymore.  That was tomorrow.

Another difference was the drinking age:  18.  Don't anyone be jealous of that fact.  The trade off was the draft and Vietnam.

The most striking people I remember from those evenings was the line up of ladies seated at the bar.  All had sequined cocktail dresses, long hair and nails, and adam's apples.  And none of their dates were free.

So as I said, I learned many lessons that fall.  The most important being that my long held daydream of moving to Manhatten after graduation to work all by myself wasn't going to happen.  There was a recession, after all.  And I think I finally was figuring out all I really hadn't learned yet.  I wasn't ready to leave the nest for that much uncertainty.

Sunday Garden

A Sunday afternoon, with the sun out
And tempertures lift to the 70's with a shout.
A walk through a garden, where greenhouses and grounds lay
Makes for a perfect day and a perfect way
To spend some time.

Spring rains have lent a lushness to all the plants,
While sunlight causes shadows to slant.
Light plays on the greens, the purples, the gold.
Everything here new, nothing old.
Spring is the real start of a new year.

Rainy Start

Such a rainy way to the start of May,

With a drizzly, grizzly gray day.

After weeks of brightness from the sun

We knew such a day had to come

To fatten up the buds.

Trees are green and full of leaves.

Grass is growing and flowers no longer tease

But have burst into full color.

Between warmth, sun and rain duller

Is banished.

New Days

Days are lengthening, and the sun

Reaches higher into the sky.  We are done

With early nightfalls.  The sky lightens

And below the earth brightens

with spring flowers.

Gone are the grays that blurred our eyes.

Now pinks and purples and yellow flies

Across our landscapes.  Bulbs have grown

Through the warm earth and shown

Us the renewal of spring.

Winter's Bone

I read this as a library loaned Kindle book, often sitting with my Blackberry in coffee cafes to catch up.

And it is the sort of book a reader wants to catch up with. The heroine, Ree Dolly, young as she is, is as tough as any Clint Eastwood character. She's left in a hard place when her father goes missing after putting up the family home as bond.

The setting is the Ozarks, and for an East Coast urbanite like myself, it could be a foreign country. The area and the culture are vividly described. The characters and their code of living come from a different time as well as place. The story of Ree dealing with keeping her small family together and the code of silence surrounding her is astounding. She's "just" a teenager, but tougher than many of the flinty people in the communities around her. This toughness is what wins the respect of her neighbors, and she is able to overcome the obstacles put in her path.

The Ozarks are displayed as a place where the law is the enemy, where meth is cooked instead of moonshine, where a name can mark the path a boy will take for his manhood. And God help you if you're female.

This book is a wonderful balance of character and plot development. I highly recommend it.

Rainy Old Day

Pitter patter, pitter, patter,
I hear from upstairs the tap of tiny feet.
Spitter, splatter, spitter, splatter,
The rain ouside my window makes my den a treat.
It's inside for me today.

Gray, cold, raw sky greets me when I look
Out my window.  It's a day for inside pursuits.
A sputtering candle and a choice of book
To read.  While upstairs small feet are thrust into boots.
Outside is new and beckoning.

Tumbling into Friendship -- Part One

On a sleepy Saturday with snow
Slipping through the air without touching the ground,
Herry skidded down the lane
Not making a sound.

A creature different from you or I,
Herry was a hairy thing, bright sky blue.
His days were full of hurrying
Giving each task its due.

Checking off the lists he made
Every morning with zeal.
Never bothering to savor anything
Even a tasty meal.

This morning proved different
From other mornings past.
Herry skidded, slipped
And almost made one giant step his last.

For that day at least.
He lay in the lane in a jumble,
Called loudly to his neighbors
"Help, I've had a tumble!"

Herry's neighbors peeked out windows
Looking through the fallen snow.
No quite sure what to do
Because Herry they did not know.

They always saw him bustling
With never time to stop and greet.
This change in routine, this tumble
Might force someone him to meet.

One brave and tiny Tunny creaked open her door.
She peeked and saw poor Herry slumped
All across the lane.
Tunny gathered up her courage and up to Herry bumped.

"Hey, you," she said, not even knowing his name.
"You're blocking all the traffic, can you move,
Are you lame?"  "Help me!" demanded Herry.
"Help you!" Tunny replied.  "Why you've made your own groove."

Together they slipped and slithered and settled
In Tunny's tiny house.
Ice applied to ankle, tea applied to mouth;
While in a corner eating crumbs sat a little mouse.

"Who are you?" asked Herrry.  "I have lived here all my life."
"So have I," replied Tunny.  "And I've seen you
Bustling back and forth.  Eyes on the lane,
Not on the neighbors, nor on the view."

Tumbling into Friendship -- Part Two

"We have all wondered what all about you."
Herry sat, and sipped, then said, "I have been
Busy with my business.  I have contacts worldwide.
My life is so hectic, all I hear is din."

Tiny Tunny, curly haired and sprite,
Brought out more cookies.  "But we're right here,"
She said, "Neighbors and would be friends.
Stop a moment, sit awhile, left life become clear."

So Herry and Tunny passed the afternoon;
Mouse in his corner, listening to the talk.
Between the conversation by the fire, the company and the tea,
Herry's mind stopped its hectic run and slowed to a walk.

Evening came without any check marks on lists.
And when Tunny turned on the lights
Herry found he could again rise and stand.
He stood up tall and hit the heights

Of Tuny's tiny ceiling.  He stretched
And said, "Thank you.  I think you've saved me.
You must come to my home for dinner
For conversation, and for tea."

"What about your lists and contacts?" Tunny asked,
Though through a happy smile.
"They'll wait, they'll wait," said Herry.
"Let me linger awhile."

This tumble on a snowy day, unplanned and upended
Became the start of Herry's friendship
With all his neighbors.  Although he started late
He found his most inportant travels had started with a trip.

Sunday Afternoon

Late sunday afternoon, sun slipping down.

Jazz playing softly as evening starts to own

The day.  Tasks completed, next day to plan.

But now evening descends, and we're left to stand

As night creeps in.

Sunday, the day to restore our peace.

Tidy our homes, our lives, our needs.

Tomorrow we will charge ahead.

Today there's movies to be seen, books to be read

Until it's time for dinner.

Winter Ocean

The winter ocean, swirling spray
White as it climbs the breakwater, gray
Ripples between the waves.  Just
Constant motion of the water, as it must
Surge against the shore.

Unbroken by clouds, clear blue sky
Above, a quiet contrast to the water by
A lonesome shore.  Few people see
The movement or hear the roar of the sea
Pounding all the more.

New Year

January is the time for fresh starts.
Days get longer, lengthening the parts
Of living in the wider world.  New plans
Develop, new schemes unfold, nothing stands
Between life and living.

Though winter still holds a grip
On outside actions, there is a slip.
As that sun lingers longer, burning
Orange in the west, turning
Evening into a later event.