My friend and the fritillary are both broken, both determined, and both beautiful.Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Broken Wings
Still recovering from a stroke, after which she had to learn practically everything anew, including speech, an elderly friend now has to learn to live with a lower leg amputation and with pain but without free movement. Yesterday, I saw her photograph. She smiled widely despite the bandages and the huge facial bruise she had earned when she fell out of bed. Later I saw a beaten butterfly, a Gulf Fritillary, fighting for balance and nectar in a powerful, chilly wind. Surely the butterfly can't live much longer with much of wing torn away, I thought. But it persisted and fed and held to the blooms.
My friend and the fritillary are both broken, both determined, and both beautiful.
My friend and the fritillary are both broken, both determined, and both beautiful.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Skippers
Until this summer, I thought skippers captained boats or Navy vessels. Now I know them as members of large family of butterflies. And on Monday, I learned that not all skippers are variously shaded brown.
The Common Checkered-Skipper (Pyrgus communis), according to Butterflies and Moths of North America, has not been sighted in Tennessee. I sighted one on University Avenue in front of The Lemon Fair, flitting about from flower to flower, working against the wind to gather food from flowers complementing his fine hue. The Northern Butterfly Association wasn't there with me, but it confirms that others have seen the little charmer here, too.
My skipper, a male with a hairy bluish-gray stripe down his thorax and fringed hair fluffing from his hindwings, was a furry fellow with smartly striped black and white antennae, charmingly culminating in a little shoe-shaped knob pointing smartly downwards and backwards and tinted red (think Medieval fools' shoes). He spent much of the afternoon with me just beyond the door, enjoying the twin bursts of flower and sun after too-much rain.
His "tree of life" offers a distinguished, widespread, and enormously prolific family: the little fellow is but one of millions of individuals among 3500 species in the family Hesperiidae and super-family Hesperioidea, some 250+ species of which can be found in North America. When I first paid attention to his cousins this summer, I made what appears to be a common mistake: I took the fliers for moths. One source says, "Skippers are not considered to be 'true' butterflies, but are more closely related to the true butterflies than are the moths." (They sometimes sure look like moths, though.)
After watching and photographing this little fellow, I was happy to read that he may live up to a year, giving pleasure to all members of my species whom he may happen to visit. Fair warning: should you be lucky enough to see a Common Checkered-Skipper, be patient: he's a fast flyer, a skipper of the aeronautical kind, and he'll make your heart skip a beat.
The Common Checkered-Skipper (Pyrgus communis), according to Butterflies and Moths of North America, has not been sighted in Tennessee. I sighted one on University Avenue in front of The Lemon Fair, flitting about from flower to flower, working against the wind to gather food from flowers complementing his fine hue. The Northern Butterfly Association wasn't there with me, but it confirms that others have seen the little charmer here, too.
My skipper, a male with a hairy bluish-gray stripe down his thorax and fringed hair fluffing from his hindwings, was a furry fellow with smartly striped black and white antennae, charmingly culminating in a little shoe-shaped knob pointing smartly downwards and backwards and tinted red (think Medieval fools' shoes). He spent much of the afternoon with me just beyond the door, enjoying the twin bursts of flower and sun after too-much rain.His "tree of life" offers a distinguished, widespread, and enormously prolific family: the little fellow is but one of millions of individuals among 3500 species in the family Hesperiidae and super-family Hesperioidea, some 250+ species of which can be found in North America. When I first paid attention to his cousins this summer, I made what appears to be a common mistake: I took the fliers for moths. One source says, "Skippers are not considered to be 'true' butterflies, but are more closely related to the true butterflies than are the moths." (They sometimes sure look like moths, though.)
After watching and photographing this little fellow, I was happy to read that he may live up to a year, giving pleasure to all members of my species whom he may happen to visit. Fair warning: should you be lucky enough to see a Common Checkered-Skipper, be patient: he's a fast flyer, a skipper of the aeronautical kind, and he'll make your heart skip a beat.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
A Certain Slant of Light
There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons --
That oppresses, like the Heft --
Of Cathedral Tunes
wrote Emily Dickinson in her poem, whose last stanza begins
When it comes, the Landscape listens --
Shadows -- hold their breath --.
Today the certain slant of light said light and shadow, and I listened and held my breath.
Winter Afternoons --
That oppresses, like the Heft --
Of Cathedral Tunes
wrote Emily Dickinson in her poem, whose last stanza begins
When it comes, the Landscape listens --
Shadows -- hold their breath --.
Today the certain slant of light said light and shadow, and I listened and held my breath.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Obituaries
In the last several years, I have had to write two family obituaries, one for my father and one for my sister-in-law of 43 years. Painful as the writing was in each instance, I saw the obituary not just as a way to note family members' deaths, but as a way to celebrate what made him and her special and loved.
The same can be said of my cousin Carl's obituary, which I assume his sister Donald wrote. The death notice shines a light on his great kindness and generosity, qualities I noted even as a child.
We grow old, but we grow as well into the selves we have always been.
ANDERSON, CARL ELDRIDGE, well known Birmingham business man and civic leader, died at age 62 on September 20, 2009. Carl was born in Birmingham October 7, 1946. He grew up in Mountain Brook with his father, James, a former Navy Captain and his mother, Bertha. After attending the University of Mississippi, he returned to Birmingham where he was owner and manager of Ciao restaurant in Mountain Brook until his recent retirement. His love of children and enthusiasm for their development had led him, for the past several years, into active volunteer leadership in Boy Scouts where he has positively influenced many Birmingham youths and the Scouting program. Since 2003, he has been a committee member of Pack 95, a District Committee member and most recently served as a council employee overseeing camp food operations. Carl is survived by siblings: Donald (Richard) Roth, Jim and Currin Anderson; two sons: Gregory, Carl, Jr. and numerous other family members and friends who mourn his passing. A Memorial Service will be held on Thursday, September 24, 2009 at 5:30 p.m. at Shades Valley Lutheran Church. In lieu of flowers, memorials can be made to The Greater Alabama Council Boy Scout's of America, 516 Liberty Parkway, Birmingham, AL 35242.
The same can be said of my cousin Carl's obituary, which I assume his sister Donald wrote. The death notice shines a light on his great kindness and generosity, qualities I noted even as a child.
We grow old, but we grow as well into the selves we have always been.
ANDERSON, CARL ELDRIDGE, well known Birmingham business man and civic leader, died at age 62 on September 20, 2009. Carl was born in Birmingham October 7, 1946. He grew up in Mountain Brook with his father, James, a former Navy Captain and his mother, Bertha. After attending the University of Mississippi, he returned to Birmingham where he was owner and manager of Ciao restaurant in Mountain Brook until his recent retirement. His love of children and enthusiasm for their development had led him, for the past several years, into active volunteer leadership in Boy Scouts where he has positively influenced many Birmingham youths and the Scouting program. Since 2003, he has been a committee member of Pack 95, a District Committee member and most recently served as a council employee overseeing camp food operations. Carl is survived by siblings: Donald (Richard) Roth, Jim and Currin Anderson; two sons: Gregory, Carl, Jr. and numerous other family members and friends who mourn his passing. A Memorial Service will be held on Thursday, September 24, 2009 at 5:30 p.m. at Shades Valley Lutheran Church. In lieu of flowers, memorials can be made to The Greater Alabama Council Boy Scout's of America, 516 Liberty Parkway, Birmingham, AL 35242.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
First Best Friend
Overnight
for Carl Anderson (1946-2009)
On the flat grass patio above the creek
we posed once for a parent’s camera
Indian-style, on either side of a pup tent’s
bowed center pole: legs angled over bare feet,
camp tools in mirroring hands, right-over-left --
I held the hatchet, slippery with 3-in-1 oil,
he, a rough-hewn pine tent stake.
Before us, our knives thunked upright,
kerosene lanterns, wicks lit against dusk.
Androgynous pioneers –
wiry girl, too thin and long
for T-shirt and dungarees;
plump boy, a loose lump of flesh poured
into faded shirt and triple-rolled jeans.
After beanie-weanies scooped from tin plates,
after pines swallowed fireflies and moon,
after midnight snuffed thick air,
we sneaked inside the house,
its blue carpet safe for sleeping like spoons.
for Carl Anderson (1946-2009)
On the flat grass patio above the creek
we posed once for a parent’s camera
Indian-style, on either side of a pup tent’s
bowed center pole: legs angled over bare feet,
camp tools in mirroring hands, right-over-left --
I held the hatchet, slippery with 3-in-1 oil,
he, a rough-hewn pine tent stake.
Before us, our knives thunked upright,
kerosene lanterns, wicks lit against dusk.
Androgynous pioneers –
wiry girl, too thin and long
for T-shirt and dungarees;
plump boy, a loose lump of flesh poured
into faded shirt and triple-rolled jeans.
After beanie-weanies scooped from tin plates,
after pines swallowed fireflies and moon,
after midnight snuffed thick air,
we sneaked inside the house,
its blue carpet safe for sleeping like spoons.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Sunflower
Botanica
by Eve Alexandra
They are everywhere--those sunflowers with the coal heart center. They riot
without speaking, huge, wet mouths caught at half-gasp, half-kiss.
Flowers she promises I’ll grow into, sweet gardener,
long luminous braids I’d climb like ladders, freckles scattered
across our shoulders in a spell of pollen. She’s sleeping there--on that table
with its veneer slick as a glass coffin. She’s fed us fiddleheads, the tine fists
of Brussels sprouts, cupcakes, even the broken song of the deer’s neck. Singing.
Flowers everywhere. In my bedroom chaste daisies and the vigilance
of chrysanthemums. Dirt under my nails, pressing my cheek to the shag rug
with its million fingers. You could lose anything: a tooth, Barbie’s shoe,
this prayer. She loves me. She loves me not. I stare at my reflection,
a posy of wishes. Morning glory, nightshade, tulip, rhododendron.
In this poem I would be the Wicked Witch and she Snow White. Waiting.
My father talks to me about their lovemaking. My mouth empty
as a lily. I try to remember the diagram. Which is the pistil?
Which is the stamen? Roads of desire circle our house: Lost Nation Severance,
Poor Farm. Branches catch the wings of my nightgown.
There is a crow and the smell of blackberries.
by Eve Alexandra
They are everywhere--those sunflowers with the coal heart center. They riot
without speaking, huge, wet mouths caught at half-gasp, half-kiss.
Flowers she promises I’ll grow into, sweet gardener,
long luminous braids I’d climb like ladders, freckles scattered
across our shoulders in a spell of pollen. She’s sleeping there--on that table
with its veneer slick as a glass coffin. She’s fed us fiddleheads, the tine fists
of Brussels sprouts, cupcakes, even the broken song of the deer’s neck. Singing.
Flowers everywhere. In my bedroom chaste daisies and the vigilance
of chrysanthemums. Dirt under my nails, pressing my cheek to the shag rug
with its million fingers. You could lose anything: a tooth, Barbie’s shoe,
this prayer. She loves me. She loves me not. I stare at my reflection,
a posy of wishes. Morning glory, nightshade, tulip, rhododendron.
In this poem I would be the Wicked Witch and she Snow White. Waiting.
My father talks to me about their lovemaking. My mouth empty
as a lily. I try to remember the diagram. Which is the pistil?
Which is the stamen? Roads of desire circle our house: Lost Nation Severance,
Poor Farm. Branches catch the wings of my nightgown.
There is a crow and the smell of blackberries.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Bees at Work
It's all I have to bring today (26)
by Emily Dickinson
It's all I have to bring today --
This, and my heart beside --
This, and my heart, and all the fields --
And all the meadows wide --
Be sure you count -- should I forget
Some one the sum could tell -- This, and my heart, and all the Bees Which in the clover dwell.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Frogs
This summer, I tried to photograph frogs. I was completely unsuccessful. My camera doesn't have a long lens for good telephoto shots, nor could I photograph the little devils quickly enough. I got them either in motion or just after having jumped.
A friend today emailed a remarkable photograph of a frog surfacing, eyes bulging, water rippling. After laughing at and admiring the photograph, I followed the link to a wonderful website: BetterPhoto.com. Just look at the 300 frog photographs, and you'll know why I feel like such a klutz.Oh my. What can one say!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tomato Sestina
Tomato Sestina
by Ruth Eisenberg
August again, the tomatoes are plump
and squirt with each bite.
In my kitchen, I measure redness
and think of Pop standing in the garden
with a salt shaker in one hand,
in the other, a tomato ready to split.
He needed no knife to split
that red skin. He would heft the plump
fruit with his hand,
polish it on his shirt, salt, then bite,
and seeds would spurt all over the garden.
In a ripe tomato there is redness
that nothing else can match. The redness
is not of the skin alone, for split
the fruit is just as red. In the garden
he grew beans too, and radishes, plump
as Christmas balls which he could not bite
when pulled. Instead he'd hand
them to Mom to wash. She'd hand
them back, their dark redness
shining, stems and roots cut, and he would bite
into their white sharpness, his teeth splitting
each radish leaving a plump
half moon. Back he'd go to the garden
the 8 by 20 victory garden
in which with his suburban hand
he grew vegetables. Plump
he'd bend over the weeds, redness
flooding his cheeks. We thought he'd split
his pants, but no. There was no bite
in him then, a joy of earth. No bite,
no malice. A business man in his garden
growing tomatoes 'til they all but split
their skins. He'd lift them with his hand
as they turned from green to pink to redness
that outshone the sunset. That red and so plump.
From such plump memories, I take nibbling bites
in ripe redness the best of my garden
fondled with time's hand, whole memories not to be split.
by Ruth Eisenberg
August again, the tomatoes are plumpand squirt with each bite.
In my kitchen, I measure redness
and think of Pop standing in the garden
with a salt shaker in one hand,
in the other, a tomato ready to split.
He needed no knife to split
that red skin. He would heft the plump
fruit with his hand,
polish it on his shirt, salt, then bite,
and seeds would spurt all over the garden.
In a ripe tomato there is redness
that nothing else can match. The redness
is not of the skin alone, for split
the fruit is just as red. In the garden
he grew beans too, and radishes, plump
as Christmas balls which he could not bite
when pulled. Instead he'd hand
them to Mom to wash. She'd hand
them back, their dark redness
shining, stems and roots cut, and he would bite
into their white sharpness, his teeth splitting
each radish leaving a plump
half moon. Back he'd go to the garden
the 8 by 20 victory garden
in which with his suburban hand
he grew vegetables. Plump
he'd bend over the weeds, redness
flooding his cheeks. We thought he'd split
his pants, but no. There was no bite
in him then, a joy of earth. No bite,
no malice. A business man in his garden
growing tomatoes 'til they all but split
their skins. He'd lift them with his hand
as they turned from green to pink to redness
that outshone the sunset. That red and so plump.
From such plump memories, I take nibbling bites
in ripe redness the best of my garden
fondled with time's hand, whole memories not to be split.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Isn't S/he Lovely?
Last night's visitor clung to the splash back, just visible between hand soap and dish soap dispensers.
Jill says s/he was a wasp. Notice the waspish waist, she emailed.
Of course, I thought. Blinded by its surface, I never noticed, and I never wondered if s/he had a stinger.
Wasps are aggressive. I know that firsthand. Once, in Nashville years ago, I opened my front door at the top of rickety fire-escape stairs and was stung five to six times in the face and neck before I could scramble back down.
I didn't know wasps are so beautiful. The little bumps like embossed pebbles, the smiley face emerging above the joint of thorax and abdomen; the lemon yellow stripes; the Tiffany-glass-like amber wings; the stylish cropped bolero jacket like the kind Mother wore in the 1950s just covering the shoulder and upper arms; the graceful legs in yellow stockings though not cross-gartered like Malvolio's in Twelfth Night: isn't s/he lovely?
I thought s/he was dead at first until I saw her/him flutter a leg and try to crawl upwards. I cupped the little beauty in a glass and moved her/him outside to the deck, thinking the wasp wanted escape.
Probably not, Jill said. Probably was in the process of dying.
I have of late had too much of dying and death.
But witnessing the wasp's beauty reminds me of the fight of living and life.
Jill says s/he was a wasp. Notice the waspish waist, she emailed.Of course, I thought. Blinded by its surface, I never noticed, and I never wondered if s/he had a stinger.
Wasps are aggressive. I know that firsthand. Once, in Nashville years ago, I opened my front door at the top of rickety fire-escape stairs and was stung five to six times in the face and neck before I could scramble back down.
I didn't know wasps are so beautiful. The little bumps like embossed pebbles, the smiley face emerging above the joint of thorax and abdomen; the lemon yellow stripes; the Tiffany-glass-like amber wings; the stylish cropped bolero jacket like the kind Mother wore in the 1950s just covering the shoulder and upper arms; the graceful legs in yellow stockings though not cross-gartered like Malvolio's in Twelfth Night: isn't s/he lovely?
I thought s/he was dead at first until I saw her/him flutter a leg and try to crawl upwards. I cupped the little beauty in a glass and moved her/him outside to the deck, thinking the wasp wanted escape.
Probably not, Jill said. Probably was in the process of dying.
I have of late had too much of dying and death.
But witnessing the wasp's beauty reminds me of the fight of living and life.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Pie
In my childhood home, Mother treated each of us to a special birthday dinner -- our choice of complete menu, including dessert. I always asked for roast beef, rice with lovely clear gravy, a green vegetable (often Le Sueur Petit Pois Peas and canned mushrooms), biscuits, and chocolate icebox pie. She made two pies -- one to share with the family at the birthday dinner and one just for me.
To this day, I love pie.
photograph source: http://www.sfgate.com/blogs/images/sfgate/sfmoms/2009/07/02/IMG_9079624x416.JPG
Another NOLA pie master or mistress, in this case, is Tee-Eva, who has a shop on Magazine Street. Despite the fancy website (http://www.tee-evapralines.com/pies.htm), she dispenses all kinds of goodies, including melt-in-your-mouth cream cheese pecan pie and sweet potato pie, from a tiny add-on extending from her garage. She makes whole pies and miniature, personal-sized pies, which in my case I snarfed down with a wash of strong chickory coffee.
photograph source http://www.funtripslive.com/new_orleans/tee_evas/images/tee_ev2.jpg
Sometimes, I dream about the 30+ pie selections at an Amish restaurant in Ohio, where my brother took me and one of his close friends. I no longer remember the restaurant's name or even where it's located (Berlin? Millersburg?), but I remember the list of pies given us by the waitress. Impressive doesn't begin to describe its depth and breadth of offerings. The three of us very nearly swooned, both at the list and at the taste of the three different choices we made. Mine was a berry combination, served warm with homemade ice cream.
I also remember my friend Al Pugh's homemade apple pie. A lifelong bachelor and southern gentleman of a time long gone, Al had particular tastes: fine literature, southern antiques (especially Alabama-made furniture), and homemade pie. His apple pies, made from scratch, spilled over with apple slices and convinced me that the cliched American pie just might be worth eating, on occasion.
There are local pies, like the blueberry pie I ate Friday at The Blue Chair, and the delicious French silk pie at Shenanigans.
None of these, however, compares to my mother's chocolate icebox pie, which I sometimes make for myself. I have her recipe still, written in her hand, stored in a document box. Its ingredients and directions -- refined simplicity at its best. No photograph can capture the promise of palatable delight and joy of birthday memories.
(A friend emailed to ask if the Amish restaurant was Der Ducthman in Walnut Creek, Ohio. I think it might have been: http://www.dhgroup.com/en/seg/restaurants.php.)
To this day, I love pie.
Since leaving New Orleans, I have often dreamed of The Camellia Grill's coconut cream pie, a delicious icebox confection with tall meringue. Service is impeccable with silver and china, a straw popped and offered by the waiter, the wait staff in white with black bow ties, the counter a friendly place for strangers and old friends. What a lovely restaurant.
photograph source: http://www.sfgate.com/blogs/images/sfgate/sfmoms/2009/07/02/IMG_9079624x416.JPGAnother NOLA pie master or mistress, in this case, is Tee-Eva, who has a shop on Magazine Street. Despite the fancy website (http://www.tee-evapralines.com/pies.htm), she dispenses all kinds of goodies, including melt-in-your-mouth cream cheese pecan pie and sweet potato pie, from a tiny add-on extending from her garage. She makes whole pies and miniature, personal-sized pies, which in my case I snarfed down with a wash of strong chickory coffee.
photograph source http://www.funtripslive.com/new_orleans/tee_evas/images/tee_ev2.jpgSometimes, I dream about the 30+ pie selections at an Amish restaurant in Ohio, where my brother took me and one of his close friends. I no longer remember the restaurant's name or even where it's located (Berlin? Millersburg?), but I remember the list of pies given us by the waitress. Impressive doesn't begin to describe its depth and breadth of offerings. The three of us very nearly swooned, both at the list and at the taste of the three different choices we made. Mine was a berry combination, served warm with homemade ice cream.
I also remember my friend Al Pugh's homemade apple pie. A lifelong bachelor and southern gentleman of a time long gone, Al had particular tastes: fine literature, southern antiques (especially Alabama-made furniture), and homemade pie. His apple pies, made from scratch, spilled over with apple slices and convinced me that the cliched American pie just might be worth eating, on occasion.
There are local pies, like the blueberry pie I ate Friday at The Blue Chair, and the delicious French silk pie at Shenanigans.
None of these, however, compares to my mother's chocolate icebox pie, which I sometimes make for myself. I have her recipe still, written in her hand, stored in a document box. Its ingredients and directions -- refined simplicity at its best. No photograph can capture the promise of palatable delight and joy of birthday memories.(A friend emailed to ask if the Amish restaurant was Der Ducthman in Walnut Creek, Ohio. I think it might have been: http://www.dhgroup.com/en/seg/restaurants.php.)
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Another Reason to Love Upton Tea
I love Upton Tea. Its extraordinary range of teas from all over the world; its lovely accessories; its detailed, informative, and beautifully designed quarterly; its helpful website -- all are admirable. Now this -- packing peanuts!
These peanuts not only protected my new cheerful Chatsford teapot, but they are also biodegradable.
On the bottom of the packing slip and invoice, this statement appears: "Our packaging fill is made from FDA approved corn starch and is 100% biodegradable. The 'peanuts' may be safely washed down the sink or disposed of as compost."
I threw some in the sink, turned on the water, and away they went. They simply disappeared!
Now I have another reason to love Upton Tea.
These peanuts not only protected my new cheerful Chatsford teapot, but they are also biodegradable.
On the bottom of the packing slip and invoice, this statement appears: "Our packaging fill is made from FDA approved corn starch and is 100% biodegradable. The 'peanuts' may be safely washed down the sink or disposed of as compost."I threw some in the sink, turned on the water, and away they went. They simply disappeared!
Now I have another reason to love Upton Tea.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Connections, Virtual and Otherwise
Friday: a day filled with visitors.
First, Devon, a former student about to begin his fourth year at The University of St. Andrew's. Three years ago, when he took a reading elective with me, he read all of an epic in Scots about Robert The Bruce. Now, he's living in and loving Scotland. What a good young man he is.
Then, a young woman with two mutual friends. In town for a wedding, she, her husband, and her mother came to the shop for gifts. Somewhere in the conversation, I realized that she was here for Lori Beth's wedding. At that moment, our mutual friend called, and the young woman handed me the cell phone. I challenged Lori Beth to identify me, which she did, and in the middle of our conversation, I realized I didn't know the name of the young woman in front of me. When I asked, she said "Ebba." I laughed and said I know your old camp friend Whitfield. Ebba completed the phone conversation and then said, "Are you Dr. Hood?" Next, she called Whitfield, so I could chat with her. Almost as soon as we finished, Lori Beth walked in the door. What fun!
Third, Catherine and Florence, who arrived, as planned, from Bell Buckle for lunch and a visit. Such delightful women -- funny, smart, kind, active, interested, and interesting. Lunch at the Blue Chair preceded our visit to the university gallery. They enjoyed Julie's Cloudmapping show as much as I did. We moved on to the Community Garden, where they spent time bending and remarking on this plant and the next. (Both are master gardeners.) They agreed that the garden is a local treasure. Finally, they consented to one photograph in front of The Lemon Fair's garden, which they had admired upon arrival.
By the time I got home later in the evening after my weekly movie night with Boo, I was reminded of the power of connections that surprise and extend over time and place and break down the barriers of age in ways I could never imagine.
Ain't life grand! as my father used to say?
First, Devon, a former student about to begin his fourth year at The University of St. Andrew's. Three years ago, when he took a reading elective with me, he read all of an epic in Scots about Robert The Bruce. Now, he's living in and loving Scotland. What a good young man he is.
Then, a young woman with two mutual friends. In town for a wedding, she, her husband, and her mother came to the shop for gifts. Somewhere in the conversation, I realized that she was here for Lori Beth's wedding. At that moment, our mutual friend called, and the young woman handed me the cell phone. I challenged Lori Beth to identify me, which she did, and in the middle of our conversation, I realized I didn't know the name of the young woman in front of me. When I asked, she said "Ebba." I laughed and said I know your old camp friend Whitfield. Ebba completed the phone conversation and then said, "Are you Dr. Hood?" Next, she called Whitfield, so I could chat with her. Almost as soon as we finished, Lori Beth walked in the door. What fun!
Third, Catherine and Florence, who arrived, as planned, from Bell Buckle for lunch and a visit. Such delightful women -- funny, smart, kind, active, interested, and interesting. Lunch at the Blue Chair preceded our visit to the university gallery. They enjoyed Julie's Cloudmapping show as much as I did. We moved on to the Community Garden, where they spent time bending and remarking on this plant and the next. (Both are master gardeners.) They agreed that the garden is a local treasure. Finally, they consented to one photograph in front of The Lemon Fair's garden, which they had admired upon arrival.
By the time I got home later in the evening after my weekly movie night with Boo, I was reminded of the power of connections that surprise and extend over time and place and break down the barriers of age in ways I could never imagine.Ain't life grand! as my father used to say?
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Silver Lining
Julie is an Artist with a capital A -- skillful, imaginative, resourceful, strong-souled, intelligent, blessed with good humor and kindness. 
She is a life force of playful goodness.
Her Cloudmapping paintings and her collaborators' work (written narrative, animation, original music), on view now at the university gallery, delight the visitor, who lingers and listens, looks and watches, marvels and enjoys the living picture book of images and sounds and words.I am proud to know her and her work and to call her a friend.
See more and learn more here:
www.turtlenosedsnake.com
www.unlessanduntil.info
www.blurb.com/user/UnlessUntil
She is a life force of playful goodness.
Her Cloudmapping paintings and her collaborators' work (written narrative, animation, original music), on view now at the university gallery, delight the visitor, who lingers and listens, looks and watches, marvels and enjoys the living picture book of images and sounds and words.I am proud to know her and her work and to call her a friend.
See more and learn more here:www.turtlenosedsnake.com
www.unlessanduntil.info
www.blurb.com/user/UnlessUntil
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Poetry of Earth
28. On the Grasshopper and the Cricket
The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's -- he takes the lead
In summer luxury, -- he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
John Keats
December 30, 1816
The poetry of earth is never dead:When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's -- he takes the lead
In summer luxury, -- he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.
John Keats
December 30, 1816
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Serendipity
Today, serendipity is spelled o-r-a-n-g-e-a-n-d-g-r-e-e-n.
A butterfly tried to anchor himself to a bloom for a rest and couldn't fight the breeze.
A grasshopper lay still and rode it out.
I know serendipity when I see it.
A butterfly tried to anchor himself to a bloom for a rest and couldn't fight the breeze.
A grasshopper lay still and rode it out.
I know serendipity when I see it.I asked my friend Jill about this grasshopper, whose wings were tiny and why deposited something out of its rear. Here's what she said: "Grasshopper. Nymph. Yes. Known as frass. Insect poop is frass. Immatures are eating machines in between molts. Wing 'buds.' Isn't that cute? Just like plants.
"Insects are of two kinds. Those that undergo:
"A)
Complete metamorphosis, in which the creature hatching from the egg looks nothing like the adult, but is wormlike. It is a larval form. E.g., butterflies, beetles. (The segmented larva found in many groups of insects relates the Order Insecta to the annelid worms, also segmented.)
"or B)
Incomplete metamorphosis, in which the hatchling looks like a miniature adult, but does not have complete wing development. They are nymphal forms, or nymphs. E.g., grasshoppers & relatives, true bugs. Tiny wings is a sure indication of a nymph."
"Insects are of two kinds. Those that undergo:"A)
Complete metamorphosis, in which the creature hatching from the egg looks nothing like the adult, but is wormlike. It is a larval form. E.g., butterflies, beetles. (The segmented larva found in many groups of insects relates the Order Insecta to the annelid worms, also segmented.)
"or B)
Incomplete metamorphosis, in which the hatchling looks like a miniature adult, but does not have complete wing development. They are nymphal forms, or nymphs. E.g., grasshoppers & relatives, true bugs. Tiny wings is a sure indication of a nymph."
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
A LONG Time Ago
That's what Miggy said today on Facebook when I told her I still have a painting she gave me at the end of her senior year in high school more than 30 years ago.
Although I have left art and books behind with friends and family every time I have moved (New Orleans, Washington DC, Minneapolis, New Orleans, Nashville, Denver, Birmingham, New Orleans, Sewanee), I have always taken Miggy's painting.
I love it: for the vibrant color, the spontaneous energy, the balance, the image of falling, the mystery of the figure.
I don't need explanations or answers in art, but I do need to feel the exuberant joy of the maker in line, shape, color. And that's what I feel every day, many times a day, when I pass this painting on my way into the kitchen.
Thank you, Miggy, for the gift of a lifetime.
Although I have left art and books behind with friends and family every time I have moved (New Orleans, Washington DC, Minneapolis, New Orleans, Nashville, Denver, Birmingham, New Orleans, Sewanee), I have always taken Miggy's painting.I love it: for the vibrant color, the spontaneous energy, the balance, the image of falling, the mystery of the figure.
I don't need explanations or answers in art, but I do need to feel the exuberant joy of the maker in line, shape, color. And that's what I feel every day, many times a day, when I pass this painting on my way into the kitchen.
Thank you, Miggy, for the gift of a lifetime.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Distant Thunder
Distant thunder rumbles, beckoning me to the porch. The air thickens with just-fallen rain, mildew, virgin's bower clematis blossoms, buzzing of bugs and flitting of birds, greening the trees.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A New Take on an Old Poem
My niece forwarded a poem to me today in celebration of something we both love: the birds who visit our feeders. Read the poem and hear the birds call.
Thirteen Ways of Looking: Poems about Birds
by
In honor of the poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
-- from "Hope is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson
II. As Freedom
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, --
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings --
I know why the caged bird sings!
-- from "Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dubar
III. As Nature
I will never give up longing.
I will let my hair stay long.
The rain proclaims these trees,
the trees tell of the sun.
Let birds, let birds.
Let leaf be passion.
Let leaf be passion.
Let jaw, let teeth, let tongue be
between us. Let joy.
--from "The Birds" by Linda Gregg
IV. As Exile
The Himalayan legend says
there are beautiful white birds
that live completely in flight.
They are born in the air,
must learn to fly before falling
and die also in their flying.
Maybe you have been born
into such a life
with the bottom dropping out.
-- from "In Flight" by Jennifer K. Sweeney
V. As Muse
Away! Away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
-- from "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats
VI. As Music
Tuwee, calls a bird near the house,
Tuwee, cries another, downhill in the woods.
No wind, early September, beeches and pines,
No wind, early September, beeches and pines,
Sumac aflame, tuwee, tuwee, a question and a faint
But definite response, tuwee, tuwee, as if engaged
In a conversation expected to continue all afternoon,
Where is? -- I'm here? -- an upward inflection in
Query and in response . . .
-- from "Birdcall" by Alicia Suskin Ostriker
VII. As Ecstasy
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, -- the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
-- from "The Windhover" by Gerard Manley Hopkins
VIII. As Wisdom
Look! Look! he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.
-- from "Evening Hawk" by Robert Penn Warren
IX. As Patience
Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time.
And sets it down just beyond the other,
no splash, breath of a ripple, goes on
slowly across the silt, mud, algae-
throttled surface, through sedge grass,
to stand to its knees in water turning
grayer now that afternoon is evening.
Now that afternoon is evening
the gray heron turns blue, bluer than sky,
bluer than the mercury blue-black still pond.
-- from "The Blue" by David Baker
X. As Poet
My mother would be a flaconress,
And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist,
would fly to bring back
from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize,
where I dream in my little hood with many bells
jangling when I'd turn my head.
-- from "My Mother Would be a Falconress" by Robert Duncan
XI. As Omen
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he muttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
-- from "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe
XII. As Pest
Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.
-- from "Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens" by Jack Prelutsky
XIII. As Dinner
CHICKEN
Alas a doubt in case of more go to say what it is cress. What is it. Mean. Why. Potato. Loaves.
-- Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein
Thirteen Ways of Looking: Poems about Birds
by
In honor of the poem "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird" by Wallace Stevens
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
-- from "Hope is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson
II. As Freedom
I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore, --
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings --
I know why the caged bird sings!
-- from "Sympathy" by Paul Laurence Dubar
III. As Nature
I will never give up longing.
I will let my hair stay long.
The rain proclaims these trees,
the trees tell of the sun.
Let birds, let birds.
Let leaf be passion.
Let leaf be passion.
Let jaw, let teeth, let tongue be
between us. Let joy.
--from "The Birds" by Linda Gregg
IV. As Exile
The Himalayan legend says
there are beautiful white birds
that live completely in flight.
They are born in the air,
must learn to fly before falling
and die also in their flying.
Maybe you have been born
into such a life
with the bottom dropping out.
-- from "In Flight" by Jennifer K. Sweeney
V. As Muse
Away! Away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
-- from "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats
VI. As Music
Tuwee, calls a bird near the house,
Tuwee, cries another, downhill in the woods.
No wind, early September, beeches and pines,
No wind, early September, beeches and pines,
Sumac aflame, tuwee, tuwee, a question and a faint
But definite response, tuwee, tuwee, as if engaged
In a conversation expected to continue all afternoon,
Where is? -- I'm here? -- an upward inflection in
Query and in response . . .
-- from "Birdcall" by Alicia Suskin Ostriker
VII. As Ecstasy
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, -- the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!
-- from "The Windhover" by Gerard Manley Hopkins
VIII. As Wisdom
Look! Look! he is climbing the last light
Who knows neither Time nor error, and under
Whose eye, unforgiving, the world, unforgiven, swings
Into shadow.
-- from "Evening Hawk" by Robert Penn Warren
IX. As Patience
Then it picks up one stem leg. This takes time.
And sets it down just beyond the other,
no splash, breath of a ripple, goes on
slowly across the silt, mud, algae-
throttled surface, through sedge grass,
to stand to its knees in water turning
grayer now that afternoon is evening.
Now that afternoon is evening
the gray heron turns blue, bluer than sky,
bluer than the mercury blue-black still pond.
-- from "The Blue" by David Baker
X. As Poet
My mother would be a flaconress,
And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist,
would fly to bring back
from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize,
where I dream in my little hood with many bells
jangling when I'd turn my head.
-- from "My Mother Would be a Falconress" by Robert Duncan
XI. As Omen
But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he muttered -- not a feather then he fluttered --
Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before --
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said "Nevermore."
-- from "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe
XII. As Pest
Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.
-- from "Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens" by Jack Prelutsky
XIII. As Dinner
CHICKEN
Alas a doubt in case of more go to say what it is cress. What is it. Mean. Why. Potato. Loaves.
-- Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein
Saturday, September 5, 2009
A Morning Nap
Dr. Seuss wrote The Cat in the Hat.
If I were inclined to clever rhyme, I'd write The Marmalade in the Pot or Tabby Among Leaves or Miss Frieda at Home or Planted in the Pot or Potted Cat or Flowering Cats! or What's the Pot Got? A Cat, of Course! or . . . .
Being not so inclined, I offer this photograph instead:
Enough said!
If I were inclined to clever rhyme, I'd write The Marmalade in the Pot or Tabby Among Leaves or Miss Frieda at Home or Planted in the Pot or Potted Cat or Flowering Cats! or What's the Pot Got? A Cat, of Course! or . . . .
Being not so inclined, I offer this photograph instead:
Enough said!Friday, September 4, 2009
Genius
Albert Einstein said "Imagination is more important than knowledge." Imagination is what Dan Phillips has, in large quantities. And soul.
He builds low-income housing from found materials and makes art of living and his life.
Genius, pure and simple.
He builds low-income housing from found materials and makes art of living and his life.Genius, pure and simple.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Classifieds
Sewanee is a delightful place to live, especially when a discussion gathers steam on the classifieds email system, as it did this morning with a post that made me laugh out loud.
What followed was even more amusing: some folks thought the original writer was serious; others knew he was being Swiftian in his satire; still others were incensed that some wanted all riders off the sidewalks; and still others suggested everyone get off the classifieds.
Here are a few of my favorite posts, beginning with the original:
Is there any way that, for safety's sake, we can get the university to erect signs on Sewanee's sidewalks (or at least those on University and Tennessee Avenues) designating them "for bicycles only"? Too many pedestrians are crowding the paved walkways, endangering bikers and impeding the cyclists' progress to class, McClurg, and social engagements. I worry that a biker is going to get hurt, maybe even seriously, colliding into an irresponsible pedestrian who is mindless of the danger that she or he poses by walking recklessly on the sidewalks. Does anyone in Classifiedsland share my concern?
. . . and another
Back in the days when Sewanee traditions were taken seriously, getting to work in a car down Tennessee Ave. resembled tourist posters for rural Greece. Just substitute students for the flock of sheep.
. . . and another
There is no need to worry! As soon as fraternities open 75% of the bikes on campus will get "borrowed" and never returned. As soon as rush begins, it will become uncool for anyone to ride a bike to class. Finally, for those still biking, it will become way too cold for anyone to ride a bike. Then, Classifieds can begin to worry about something else.
. . . and another
We need more bikes, fewer cars - if our roads were freed of unnecessary motor traffic, cyclists of all ages would be less loath to use them. There's no really convincing reason why a college student should be driving to and from class, given the relatively short distances inSewanee. And the excuse that "Sewanee class dress" requires skirts (which I have heard from young women) strikes me as particularly silly. Surely we can look serious about our academic pursuits without the assistance of sundresses?
. . . and the piece de resistance . . .
Awake! for Morning in Sewanee Town
Unveils a Disputation of renown
T'wixt Cyclists and those who go on Foot,
And some there are who jest, and some who frown.
As hurrying hither, thither, Wheels flash by,
And scurrying willy nilly others cry,
Let each the other greet, and pass in Peace.
And Classifieds some other Fishes fry.
With apologies to Oma and Old Fitz
P.S. No intention of disparaging a valid discussion, while hoping for peaceful existence. ("Fishes fry" was just too good to pass up -- blame it on the pain)
On days like this, who wouldn't want to live here!
What followed was even more amusing: some folks thought the original writer was serious; others knew he was being Swiftian in his satire; still others were incensed that some wanted all riders off the sidewalks; and still others suggested everyone get off the classifieds.
Here are a few of my favorite posts, beginning with the original:
Is there any way that, for safety's sake, we can get the university to erect signs on Sewanee's sidewalks (or at least those on University and Tennessee Avenues) designating them "for bicycles only"? Too many pedestrians are crowding the paved walkways, endangering bikers and impeding the cyclists' progress to class, McClurg, and social engagements. I worry that a biker is going to get hurt, maybe even seriously, colliding into an irresponsible pedestrian who is mindless of the danger that she or he poses by walking recklessly on the sidewalks. Does anyone in Classifiedsland share my concern?
. . . and another
Back in the days when Sewanee traditions were taken seriously, getting to work in a car down Tennessee Ave. resembled tourist posters for rural Greece. Just substitute students for the flock of sheep.
. . . and another
There is no need to worry! As soon as fraternities open 75% of the bikes on campus will get "borrowed" and never returned. As soon as rush begins, it will become uncool for anyone to ride a bike to class. Finally, for those still biking, it will become way too cold for anyone to ride a bike. Then, Classifieds can begin to worry about something else.
. . . and another
We need more bikes, fewer cars - if our roads were freed of unnecessary motor traffic, cyclists of all ages would be less loath to use them. There's no really convincing reason why a college student should be driving to and from class, given the relatively short distances inSewanee. And the excuse that "Sewanee class dress" requires skirts (which I have heard from young women) strikes me as particularly silly. Surely we can look serious about our academic pursuits without the assistance of sundresses?
. . . and the piece de resistance . . .
Awake! for Morning in Sewanee Town
Unveils a Disputation of renown
T'wixt Cyclists and those who go on Foot,
And some there are who jest, and some who frown.
As hurrying hither, thither, Wheels flash by,
And scurrying willy nilly others cry,
Let each the other greet, and pass in Peace.
And Classifieds some other Fishes fry.
With apologies to Oma and Old Fitz
P.S. No intention of disparaging a valid discussion, while hoping for peaceful existence. ("Fishes fry" was just too good to pass up -- blame it on the pain)
On days like this, who wouldn't want to live here!
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