Surfacing

from month-long sinusitis, still with a sore throat but with a photographic year-in-review.

January 1, 2014

December 31, 2014

Whatcha doin'?

The cat in the chair offers feedback on my writing.

She has firm opinions and never fails to offer them.

Fierce, Isn't She?

Do not be fooled: this cat was a killer.

Caught in the act, more than once, terrorizing the tiny birds nesting under my porch and the bluebirds nesting in their box. 

She scared those bluebirds away.

But there's hope -- for the bluebirds and the feline.

She has moved a long way away to join her humans, and now she is living the good life. No longer an outdoor kitty with a killer instinct, Buttons is a cuddly bundle of fur. 

I know her humans, especially the children, are happy. She certainly looks happy.

And I am ecstatic for her -- and the birds!

Looking Down

"Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads."
Henry David Thoreau

As beautiful as any Persian rug,

as richly textured as any scultpure,

as soft as a pillow

earth does not sleep in winter.

I'm All About the 'Hood

Here's what I saw down the street when I got home at just-dark.

Despite what my Virginia-Anglican mother always said -- colored lights are tacky -- I thank my professor-neighbors for bringing light into darkness, joy into the season every year. 

From my porch, I look down, see the glow, and remember the thrill of childhood at Christmas.

The Family That Dances Together

makes lifetime memories. 

As my nephew (father of two daughters) said,

before he became Mother Ginger,

"It's their football. We all love it!"

V as a Party Girl and D as Mother Ginger (daughter and father)

E going up as Jack Frost

Drosselmeyer and Jack Frost accepting congratulations

Not photographed, J (sewing mistress of the best Russian costumes ever!) and the family dog Betsy Ross, one of many canines in The Mutt-cracker.

Technicolor Viscosity

I
Saturdays at the paint factory: rocketing pocking of the ball mill, seductive smell of turpentine and linseed oil and mineral spirits, splattered concrete floor, and giant mixing vats. If lucky, I'd be there when master mixer Joe Locascio poured pigment into pigment, swirling color in a vat paddled and tumbled like heavy cream, becoming whipped, only heavier. Childhood never smelled or looked so good.

II
Florence, Italy: paper marbling and marbled paper in generations-old binding shops. One across from the Pitti Palace, Giulio Giannini e Figlio, sixth-generation artisans crafting peacock patterns on hand-milled paper. Mote-dusted light pours over desk sets, flat papers, the air charged with the scent of leather and glue, a veritable toy store for a lover of color and pattern and paper.

click here for the online source

III
The work of artist Mark Lovejoy: photography and glorious color. Tonight, I shall be dreaming in technicolor.

click here for source

Reflection on Being Shut In

Day 12, 
and counting: 
cough, 
dry sinus, 
hot water, 
tea, 
jammies, 
steam,
Ricola.

And nothing
to snap
and
no snap
to snap
it with.

I Confess: I Am Old Fashioned

Among the many things about contemporary American religion I do not understand is the mega-church phenomenon, built on the model of the big box store, I suppose -- something for everyone, but not folks like me.

In this respect I am a fuddy-duddy: I may not believe but I do love sacred spaces for ritual (and don't even get me started on "praise and worship songs").

These two spaces will do for me.

Sewanee's All Saints' Chapel

Exeter College Chapel, Oxford

The Dying of the Light

That Time of Year

when folks drape a lit hairnet over a giant holly and declare it a Christmas tree. I'll leave it to you to judge.

Me, I'd rather just see the holly, or the beautiful flowers folks give those who don't get out much.

'Tis the season.

It's Always Somethin'

Everybody complains sometime about something. 

I complained today to a friend about the ticketing system the College instituted last year for Lessons and Carols, requiring that a person attend a mandatory social gathering two hours before the event (even though theoretically the ticket entitles entry to the Chapel) and turning the service into something very like a performance (I may not be religious, but I know and respect the difference between believing and make-believing).

One person I encountered today complained about the rain and fog, and yet as a resident, she knows it's just weather as usual, especially at this time of year when Mother Nature can't decide whether to be warm or cold (it's been both today).

Plenty of people complain about medical care and its cost -- especially for some reason about dentistry, always suspecting (mind you, these are people of a certain age, that the dentist invents reasons why teeth should be crowned). When I suggest, based on my own personal experience (three surgeries, two different occasions for orthodonture, numerous crowns, four bridges over a lifetime, and plenty of pain in between [one of my parents once said my teeth cost more than my education]) that just maybe a twenty-year old crown is ready for replacement before decay does permanent damage, others scoff and suggest the dentist's daughter needs a fancy wedding or the dentist's husband deserves a great vacation.

One special focus of complaint in Sewanee is The Pig, a local and locally owned grocery store. People say, quite rightly, that the huge Kroger down the mountain has better produce. Well, yes, of course. It also has a much larger population base of shoppers and proximity to suppliers. People say, quite rightly, that the huge Wal-Marts (one in any of three different directions, all half an hour away) are much cheaper. Well, yes, of course, thanks to the company's poor employment record. People say, quite rightly, that both Kroger and Wal-Mart have more variety. Well, yes, of course, they're both much larger stores with much larger turnover, allowing for more frequent refreshment of goods. What I say in return is this: our Pig is locally owned and operated; the folks who work there live up here; and the management has improved it at least a thousand percent in the last four years -- adding locally made bread, locally grown fruit, gluten-free products, vegetarian alternatives, and even growlers for beer.

I have many reasons to love The Pig. In addition to the bulldog I posted the the other day, there's this.

Happy complaining, y'all! 

No Books Were Harmed in the Making of These Trees

The folks at duPont Library know how to de-stress students at end of term: book tree contest, tasty treats, and therapy dogs.

I sure could have used some librarians like this in graduate school!

Unconditional Love

He's just waiting for his master, an elderly man with portable oxygen to whom I said on entering the Pig together, "Your dog just loves you!"

"He loves to travel."

"Nah," I said. "He loves you!"

Yet another reason to love the Pig.

A Little Light

trickled across my computer screen,

just enough to pull me away from my work,

just enough to last one walk around the lake,

shouting joyfully rain!rain!rain! in a sherrrring cresdendo

down the run-off channel, 

creating an ephemeral waterfall.

Often, I am thankful for such small, large things.

And Then Reality Hit

Return journey, heavy traffic, rain, fog, work and more work, errands, veterinary clinic, sinus blockage and laryngitis, doctor's appointment, pharmacy, groceries, and more rain and fog and misery of coughing followed.

Thus I posted nothing on November 30, December 1, and December 2.

I couldn't.

So I hunkered and waited.