Sunday, August 31, 2014

august morning in the city


traffic lights are flashing
above the dark streets -
gold. gold.
red. red.
a man drives by
thinking man thoughts.
a single summer cloud
is drifting -
dark gray against
the pale before dawn.
the cafe lights are dim -
there will be no coffee
for another hour.
a chain clinks
against the metal flagpole.
i sit in my car,
windows open,
playing solitaire.

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Wash and save the glass jar next time you run out of mayonnaise. Next hot summer day, put a couple of scoops of your favorite ice cream in the jar - add some milk. Tighten the lid on the jar and shake vigorously until the ice cream has mixed and foamed with the milk. (They call this treat 'shake' for a reason.) Pull a couple of chilled glasses from the freezer, pour the mixture into the glasses and share.

You can add mashed fruit, or a spoonful of powdered malt to the ingredients to vary the equation. Life is good.


Friday, August 29, 2014

the mouse and the money

Once upon a time, a mouse named Hal was heading home through the little woods in the back of a neighborhood. He clambered over leaves and the roots of trees, and he stopped to eat a tiny wild strawberry nestled in the varied grasses. He foraged on and thought he should have found another berry, or maybe an acorn, to carry home to share, but there were none. But, lo and behold, he saw something new and unusual ahead on his little trail. It was smooth and flat and cornered and had a pungent, unfamiliar scent. The markings were in greens and beiges and a few colorful lines and curleques. One pattern was repeated on some of the corners. It looked like this : 1000. He tugged the leaf-like rectangle toward home.

Maybe this was money. He had heard of money but none of his friends had ever seen any that they knew of. Still, the wife - Opal - she would know what to do with it. He dragged it further and it flapped a little in the breeze and it got caught on thorns and under vines, but he set it free and got it to the opening of their nest.

Fortunately, it was soft enough that its shape bent and folded as he tugged it down the tunnel into the living room they had carved out beneath the root of an elm. Opal's shiny dark eyes lit up when she saw what he had brought in. She walked all over it, then walked under it. Would it attach to the ceiling? Was it good underfoot like a rug? She didn't know.

Hal walked away to get something to eat. He looked up from the wild onion root he was nibbling on, and stopped in alarm. Wait! But Opal already had the bill half chewed up into tiny strands and flakes and curls of fiber.

She lined the cubbyhole in the back with the debris, packing it snug here and there. She curled up, and, after all that work, took a nap atop the new bedding. Hal tentatively put his paws onto the stuff. It was good insulation for their cubbyhole. Warm and soft - not bad. He crawled in and fell asleep, too, curled up next to Opal.

Thursday, August 28, 2014

the summer table

pleasant peaceful days
flow quietly in the past -
unfiled unflagged memories
the details blurred and distant
but i can make my own little flags,
and remember the calls of the chickadees
to mark what's gone by -
the blue glass pitcher
is filled with cool water
from the limestone aquifer
the voices of kids
echo from the front patio
a pair of does
amble through the backyard
a half-grown fawn
peeks into the living room window
the black and white cat
stares right back
it's growing darker
we clear the summer table
Venus glows in the dusk
of the western sky

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

There's an episode of the television program 'Northern Exposure' (1990s) where Maggie O'Connell, the prop-plane pilot, meets a man out in the Alaskan forest who is fishing in a wild creek. He stands poised and motionless. In a blink, he captures a fish from the sparkling water - perhaps salmon? - with his bare hands. Astonished, Maggie approaches him and the two of them talk, and he shows her the cave where he lives. She comes searching for him at a later time, and cannot find him. But there is a great bear at the creek, poised and motionless, among the rocks at the creek's edge. A sudden movement - he catches a fish. He glances at Maggie and she - and the viewer - become aware that the man is the bear, that this is his true self.

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

I heard a man's voice yesterday. He spoke Hamlet's line to Ophelia, 'Get thee to a nunnery!' I thought that was amusing, and, having no other plans for the late afternoon, I thought - where are there nunneries around here? (meaning Austin, Texas, and surrounding area.)

Four different Catholic churches came to mind - but as far as I know, none are associated with convents. I am familiar with some convents, but they are in Houston and south central Louisiana. (And there may be one east of here that raises miniature horses?)

Then - ding! - of course! Two enthusiastic nuns founded and ran a very small school in our neighborhood in northeast Hays County in the 1980s and 90s, kindergarten through third grade.
(This was good - as close as I could get to the concept of nunnery on such short notice.) Our sons went there. The school closed around 2001, after the sisters retired. 

I know they no longer live there, and the school is boarded up by a different owner. But I'd just completed knitting a scarf, so I took it and the one I finished a day or two earlier as offerings of appreciation even though the nuns are not there.

No one was on the property when I drove up. I walked around the old parking lot and driveway where we once dropped off and picked up our kids, and where festivals were held. It was very hot and very dry and peacefully overgrown. Though the place looks woefully abandoned, decorated with this and that debris, it somehow still rings with the voices of children and teachers who grew gardens, and brought their sandwiches and carrots and cookies to school and went to Mass and stuck paper signs with Spanish vocabulary words on everything that stood still, and colored and wrote poems and played basketball and learned about distant countries, multiplication tables, and famous writers and composers. Still, there is a big contrast between the tidy little school when it was active and its state of deterioration today.


I hung the scarves on the broken railing of the covered walkway with a note - 'Dominican Academy lives on in the students who learned here.'

Somehow, I know the good sisters got the message.

Monday, August 25, 2014

to water a tree

It doesn't take much to water a tree. A bucket can work, or a hose. Any time of day or night - the tree won't complain. If you have a hose, you can spray the tree up and down and all around its branches and trunk. Trees like that. You can bring it water until you are tired, or happy, or both. The tree will be happy too.

Saturday, August 23, 2014

Everybody has a heart. Everybody has a capacity to love.

Some of us just don't wish to be forced into acknowledging that love exists for them. Some, for many reasons, do not feel any inklings at all of that kind of stuff yet.

The experience of love is your yes or your no, it's your not now or your forever, or your not ever. You are not to be forced.

I think of love as a seedling. It responds to sun and darkness and water and breezes and the company of animals and other plants. It blooms on its own joyful timing, without thought or worry, and not by force.

I think all love and God are the same. The love we experience in our lives comes in many shapes and from many sources; the Greater love comes in smaller packages so that we can find it, we can be drawn to it, we can digest it. That love quenches our thirst; it helps us thrive in peace and happiness; it flows through us like light through water; it brings light to others.

I'm thankful for the love I've received from my parents, my kids, my cats, kin, lovers, and teachers, my friends old and new, the scrubby shrubs and birds and clouds, the music-makers and comedians, and the occasional stranger in a grocery store line.

Friday, August 22, 2014

old moon

deep in the summer months
we have no rain
but before the blazing
heat of day
there's this poetry
in the dark before dawn
written against the sky

the old crescent moon
thin as an orange whisper

glowing in the east
before the sun

is even out of bed

the speeding cars
their eye-lamps burning
ride the dim over
and under passes
near the humble moon

Thursday, August 21, 2014

One of my favorite books is the classic, 'Kim', by Rudyard Kipling, published in 1901. An elderly monk from an isolated Tibetan monastery in the Himalayas is on a journey to find The River of the Arrow. He has walked many miles for many days before he meets up with an orphaned Irish boy named Kim who lives on the streets of a busy city in India. The book is about the journey, and it is about the friendship between the young kid and the old man. The lama (teacher) is gentle-spirited and naive. For being a deep elder, the man knows little about city life and social expectations. The kid is street smart, knows people around town, and easily finds food for the monk and safe places to sleep.  It's the kid who takes care of practical concerns, who bargains for good rice and vegetables for himself, and to fill the monk's bowl. In general, this is not difficult because many people consider feeding a monk on a journey an honor, or good fortune. Kim sees himself as a caregiver for the monk and takes satisfaction in this new role in his life. The monk calls him his chela, or student.

There is a lot of political activity and subterfuge behind this thread. While traveling with the lama, the boy comes into contact with various characters who are a part of a network of everyday espionage and strategy. He is also rediscovered by some of his father's contacts in the British army. Years pass by as Kim is turned over to obtain traditional schooling, but he maintains contact with his friend the lama who seems to grow no closer to finding the object of his journey.

Kipling creates many colorful scenes that introduce the reader to the romance of life in India, to trading, magic, to the poor and the well-to-do. As a four-time reader of the book, I have a bit of a blind spot regarding the political intrigue, and am always surprised by its existence within the book. The storyline of the relationship between the boy and the lama, of the boy's natural reaching out to learn from this teacher he has found, however, glows throughout and give the story its wholeness.


There was a movie based on this book. The only scene I remember is the ending where the lama has been ill and given up hope. He makes a slow effortful walk outside of the home where he is being tended, and finds epiphany at a stream running at his feet.

Wednesday, August 20, 2014

communion of souls

So many categories and dividing lines in the human life. What color are you, what is your religion, what nationality do you claim, what side of the freeway do you live on?

Our souls know none of these dividing lines. Souls don't drive cars - fancy or cheap. They don't wear shoes, worn or shiny new. No color is visible, nationalities perhaps are not relevant - that's how I like to think. That when a kindred spirit approaches, our souls recognize that connection, and feel a passion in that union, however momentary, however different or at odds we may be in the physical world, even however different the species, like a boy and his dog.

Sometimes, though, kindred souls may be hesitant or even avoidant. Our minds have their prejudices, or may obsessively cling to earthly memberships, statuses and rulebooks. Sometimes our minds get in the way of the greetings of our souls.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

home

a light above the door,
the tablecloth set -
we're hoping to find home

Monday, August 18, 2014

The first thing that caught my attention watching curling yesterday was the shoes on ice. There were no skates. The second thing was the rocks in motion. They are so symetrical that without the handles, one might not know how their position shifts when the thrower sends them flying on the ice. But the handles are relatively large and bright colored, and you can see how the rocks sway from side to side as they speed forward by the movement of the handle.

Watching the handles, I noted an odd little quirk. As the end of the handle swung my way, there was a gap in the handle's location as it rotated - like a blink, or like a portion of a second was skipped. It was like watching a second-hand smoothly circling a clock and abruptly skipping a beat. Either a glitch was occurring in my perception, or something was happening physically, some interaction of the stone, the earth's pull, the rock's speed, and the rock's spin (and perhaps the perception of the viewer). I've seen videos of hi-speed jets taking off where it looks as though as much as 2 seconds were skipped as the jet broke a certain speed. Onlookers are suddenly in a slightly different location.

Sunday, August 17, 2014

Curling

Watching the winter Olympics on television back in the 1990s, I discovered curling, the funniest-looking sport I'd ever seen. And here at an ice rink in Austin, Texas on this Sunday morning in August, 2014, I got to see curling live, in person, for the first time in my life.

There were people all over the ice, not in ice skates, but wearing shoes. They were a range of ages, from middle-school to upper-middle-aged adults. These lozenge-shaped rocks, like granite hockey pucks the size of a small watermelon, were sailing down the rink. Two people carrying small brooms, or fabric mops, met each rock and started fast-walking backwards, sweeping the ice immediately ahead of the rock - without touching it - as it moved toward a target behind them. They were synchronized-sweeping as fast as they could! This odd activity can increase the stone's distance and affect its direction. I was entranced.

There was a fellow watching from the sidelines, and I asked if he knew anything about this sport. He told me this is the Lone Star Curling Club, of Austin. He shared with me some of the details of the game's history, how it is played, and the strategies used. The vocabulary for the game was new to me - for example, there's the skip, the button, and the guards; the hammer, the house, and the hack. 

Curling dates back at least to the late Medieval period, to the 1500s, in Scotland, and more recently, rose to great heights in Canada.

I watched quite a while. The goal of the game is to get the most points by landing your rocks as close as possible to the button - the target. This sounds like other games - from bocce ball to horseshoes. But curling is on ice, and as I watched the players in their different vigorous roles, it was as though there was more going on than points as the broom-wielders shuffled, and the heavy granite rocks with their spigot-like handles swung and rotated as they skidded across the ice. We weren't so far from the players and stones and onlookers of a distant time.

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

There are little eras where curly hair is popular, and others where straight is the thing. Dry and fluffy or oiled and sleek. Short or long, wild or restrained. Humans can become obsessed with hair trends, products, colors.

When I was a kid, the ladies and girls leaned toward curling their hair. There were a number of at-home techniques that were popular. To make pin curls, a damp strand of hair was twirled into a ring and attached to the scalp with two bobby pin that were crossed to hold the curl together. You waited until the hair was dry, removed the pins and voila - a head covered with soft curls. Rollers and curlers were popular (and still are used today). The older models were coiled wires shaped like little cylinsers and covered with stiff netting (or something like that). You wound the damp hair like thread would be wound on a spool. The later models, which are still available today, were lightweight plastic cylinders with tiny teeth or prongs to catch the hair and keep it from slipping off. Bobby pins were used to attach the curlers to the scalp. The little rollers produced loopy curls, similar to the pin curls. The big rollers (in my era, some of us used cardboard lemonade/orange juice cans) paradoxically produced  smooth, straight hair with a little bounce to it.

I don't know if spoolies are still around. They were made of rubbery material - usually pink - and looked like little toy trees with a disk at the bottom, a short stem, and a conical cap. You spooled the hair around the stem and then snapped the cap over the stem and base. To be frank, the pin curls and rollers were fine. The spoolies were entertaining but more effort, and equivocal results. (Curling irons or tongs were around, but they were limited mostly to the beauty parlors.)

As you spun your damp hair in these various ways, many would dip their fingers into sticky gel products - so that the curls would hold their shape longer once dry. Dippity-Do was the gel of the mid-60s. It came in glass jars of dangerous shades of green, pink - and maybe blue or purple goo? The ads ran on TV with frequency matched only by the local car dealers. 'It's Dippity-Do!'

Sleeping with a head full of pin curls or rollers was not uncommon. But - ouch - not a good night's sleep. The verdict was mixed about whether a person should venture outside of the house with the head full of curlers. For some, that was a strict no-no. However, on Saturdays (date night), it wasn't unusual to see teenaged girls out and about with their heads arrayed with the big plastic spools. Older women might be seen at the corner grocery, hair pinned or in curlers, wearing a favorite scarf for cover-up. There was something a little sci-fi-looking about it - and there was something a little vulnerable about it. An act of hope that these repetetive, time-consuming practices would transform one's appearance into something romantic, or exotic, or sophisticated - or just acceptable.

I've had a lot of fun writing this, but why I'm writing this, I haven't a clue.

Monday, August 11, 2014

corn and cows

I just ate half a little bag of Fritos corn chips. The change I got from the vending machine included a 2004 Wisconsin quarter. An ear of corn is part of its design. There is also a cow, a big wheel of cheese, with a wedge missing, and a banner reading 'FORWARD'. I studied the quarter a bit, still bright and shiny. To make the cheese, milk was needed, and in Wisconsin, the milk probably came from the cow. The cow probably ate corn as part of her food intake, especially during freezing winters with prairie grasses covered with snow. Maybe they eat alfalfa, too.

In the early 1960s, a neighbor (who happened to be a traiteur) had a corn field next to our pasture in south Louisiana, and one fall, he told us to help ourselves. Within an hour of picking, half a dozen ears were cooking on the stove, and then served with butter (thank you, cow) and salt. The fresh corn was very very good.

The Fritos weren't bad either.

Sunday, August 10, 2014

hammocks on ships

My dad was in the US Navy during World War II. He went on active duty when he was 19 years old in 1943. His time was spent on ships called LSTs that delivered supplies, and, at the end, brought prisoners of war back to their homes.

The oceans can get quite choppy.  He told us the crew slept in hammocks. While the ship tossed about, hammocks stayed relatively stable. The ship rocked even on calm seas, but the men in the hammocks did not.
All I wanted to know was 'How to Grow Alfalfa Without Irrigation'. But my machine, my beloved little laptop, balked and spit and spun its wheels without going anywhere and I finally gave up and took a nap.

Friday, August 8, 2014

Sonnet 116

Love 'is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark...'


William Shakespeare
from Sonnet 116

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Moose

The moose is the biggest species of deer. The word moose comes from the Algonquin languages in North America. However, they have inhabited northern climes around the world, and are known as elk in other continents.  The males, called bullmoose, grow magnificent antlers each year as mating season approaches, and they shed them by winter. The antlers are broad and curve upward, like open hands or giant lettuce leaves. Moose are kinda like the Great Horned Owls of the deer - they tend to be loners while other deer gather in small flocks. They eat grasses and shrubs and new shoots on trees - and also eat vegetation from streams, ponds, and swamps. Because of their largeness, they require lots of food. They can eat under water and they can swim, and will seek water to cool down in the heat and avoid stinging flies.

There is much evidence to support that moose once inhabited a large range in the US and Canada. This is much reduced due to drought, climate change, and human encroachment over the past couple of centuries.

Their unusual, almost humorous, appearance, however, attracts affection from many humans. A moose was mascot for the TV program 'Northern Exposure', and 'Bullwinkle' is a cartoon character who, along with his best friend 'Rocky the Squirrel', has amused viewers for several decades. 'Nothing up my sleeve!'

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

afterglow from this day's thoughts


wild cherry
Eric Clapton
the flower and the fly
the cameras in my former knitting needles
green tea
turtle sketch
birds in the rivulet
Henriette Wyeth and the portrait of Pat Nixon
man with dreadlocks
home for pregnant moms
man with cologne
skinny Ma'am with her breakfast on a styrofoam plate
candle with no match
tamping
fortune cookie
a carport view, open as a window
day like an oven
knitting the curly brown and blues yarn with the soft thin deep paprika yarn
thin summer blouse with pale grey stripes
list of guitarists
sesame seeds and blackberry seeds
cow chewing grass
paradise in a rundown farmhouse

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

unfettered

Sunlight is trembling
like someone is beckoning
from the end of the tree-shaded sidewalk.
Cares are shedded
like the falling of leaves.
Old friends tug at your sleeve.
'Come on! We'll show you the way!'
and your feet fly faster, unfettered,
toward the brightness -

Monday, August 4, 2014

it was a story of missed connections.
there was a glove near the tracks at the local train station.
no one looked familiar.
the text was dated '6 hours ago'.
'where are you?' it read.

Sunday, August 3, 2014

the store
is in a crumbling strip center.
it's like a storage locker
stuffed with tall stacks
of dust-caked stuff
in danger of falling
or like an old barn in a shambles -
more junk than anything useful or pleasing,
so full, things spindly and scarred and unidentifiable
push out through the open door
to park on the hot and cracked walkway

like a blockade.
but i stop by now and again.
with 99 broken and deranged sights before me
the hundredth is a gem -

Saturday, August 2, 2014

in synch via television

'Same time, same station' they used to say on regular network television some decades back, an invitation to return. The idea was that if you were enjoying a program tonight on NBC, Saturday at 8 PM, you could find the same program (new episode) on the same channel the next Saturday at 8. It was anchored in that time slot, and that network.
 

Also, everyone watching it, regardless of location, took part in an experience at the same time together, a shared reality. People a great distance apart could be reacting to the same story at the same time, connected through television without being in the same location, without being visible to or aware of each other. If it was 'Sing Along with Mitch' time, people might also be synchronized, singing 'Let me call you sweetheart...' together at the same time without knowing who was out there.

Then there are fascinating times when people some distance apart are synchronized without the prop of a television or radio program.