Saturday, November 28, 2020

Grateful

Today was a sunny cool day here in Southern Illinois, at least our swath. We walked, we watched some football, wrestled some cats, watched birds and I read poetry. This afternoon I called my Mother and we sang Happy Birthday. Then we did something we haven’t done in quite awhile we ordered take out (in Europe, take away) from a Mexican restaurant about five minutes from us. And it was good! We haven’t had much luck finding places, so a pleasant surprise. Tonight, we are just lazing, both cats are with Jerry on the couch and I am slightly jealous. We watched a “mockumentary” about a Frybread competition called More Than Frybread which was silly and fun. And before I sleep tonight, I see Claudia Rankine is the New York Times By The Book interviewee, so I’m looking forward to that.

Here’s a picture of a Little Free Library we pass a few times a week, the people that host it change the sign often and this is their latest:



Friday, November 27, 2020

Bird Court

The sky was scarlet this morning. The trees, that last night held the moon like a crystal ball, reached for the clouds scuttling away but only caught woodpeckers and flickers and some small brown wrens playing in the breeze. The birds did not avoid their neighbors or hold their songs. Later a young hawk crossed the road in front of me and landed on a wooden fence, looking carefully at the leaves scattered on both sides while the sparrows talked about him; no feelings were hurt; no one was eaten. The birds know when to call and when to fly and when it’s best to stay put. I learn from the birds though earthbound, though I crave more than seed and worm. I’ve lost more songs than I’ve ever learned though none that were explicitly about territory -- though just now, thinking back, yes, explicitly about territory and conquest and conquering. And the birds don’t get an out for conquest, having witnessed a Magpie hunting nests in a thick hedge. But they haven’t set up the bird government or the bird military or the bird courts to go after what they want. They aren’t working on a complicated plan to move us out of the way; they’re happy to let us do that ourselves.



Thursday, November 26, 2020

As Thursdays go

I placed an extra portion of peanuts out today for the Blue Jays and the squirrels and Otto and Olive. The cardinals pick at them but don’t really eat many. A Carolina Wren hopped about and tackled one but just seemed to wrestle it before flitting off.  When the Jays find the bounty, they call in their friends and the peanuts are gone quickly. Once we came back from our walk, I put more peanuts around calling this the feast for our family and friends. We had a small feast as well: lasagna, caprese insalata (using the last of my tomatoes), dressing, deviled eggs and for Jerry, a very small portion of Tater Tots. Later we will have dessert, cheesecake, and that will be it. Much more than so many have right now, much less than in years past when we had family and friends join us and much different from a lot of years when we could get to Barcelona or Madrid, Berlin or Dublin in a few hours over a long weekend.

Last night I was reading movie descriptions for Jerry. He likes Zombie movies or giant Lizards and much running and screaming. So many start with: “During a pandemic”, “because of a Virus”, “a virus and political upheaval” and my favorite “during a pandemic, zombies roam the streets”. I finally made a connection:


And tonight I go back to reading Albert Camus's The Plague. I've taken a break from it but it is time to pick it back up. I read it so many years ago that the entire novel feels like a dream I can just remember having. It's actually a good thing to read during a pandemic, I didn't think it would be but it feels right.

Be safe, be kind, you are appreciated and loved. 😷💗

Monday, November 23, 2020

Have yourself a merry little

During a pandemic it is a strange thing to say I think this year’s Christmas will be better than last year’s by a lot. Last year’s, was wearisome and sad. Top ten worst in a lifetime? Top five. Not willing to dig deeper than that right now. Leave those worst of times for other meanders. Suffice to say a lot of miles were logged through twelve states, while trying to see our errant boy. An errant man? All I want for Christmas is a whole heart. My son will be thirty this year, Christmas Eve. Holding out for a secular humanist Christmas miracle, that Grinch heart growing till the box breaks.

After the long trek West, we came back to our little house and then drove some more to meet our future in-laws in Ohio. O-HI-O!! A nice calm, a lovely time, and we were able to touch and talk and spend time with the Bambina and her love. How endlessly comforting it is to see your child loved (and loving) someone who appreciates and makes them happy. Someone who offers balance and light. A woman, a man, two cats and endless creativity and care.

The other day we drove through Belleville, their downtown has a big traffic circle which is already filled with holiday decorations, including the standard Christmas creche. I tried to get Jerry to pull over so I could take the Christ child, I’ve got your Jesus! I want to write in cut up magazine pages. A little magical thinking for the season. I wrote a poem a long time ago that made it into a Christmas anthology:


I also have a mad desire to hang a sign around Mary's Neck: #metoo .


Sunday, November 22, 2020

That's what dreams are made of

There are those dreams where you’re writing and you think, I need to remember this gem! And when you wake up and really think about the lines, “the poem”, which will make your name – the Diving Into the Wreck, The Naturalist, The Tyger, Casey at the Bat type fame – and then you realize that the image and ending to this great poem included watching a hawk reflected on the bald head of some man. I laughed then. But what was the beginning of the poem?

 Here’s a snoring cat, what kind of poems is she dreaming?



Thursday, November 19, 2020

News of the world

 
U.S. death toll surpasses 250,000 as hospitals strain under the dramatic rise in cases
 
12 Million To Lose Jobless Benefits The Day After Christmas Unless Congress Acts
 
COVID-19 Denial Still Rampant In Some Coronavirus Hot Spots
 
WHO: One European dies from covid-19 every 17 seconds
 
Justice Dept. Plans 3 Executions Before Biden’s Inauguration

   AND: Sign of the times, he kept his mask on because the man he was talking to insisted.

Wednesday, November 18, 2020

All the stars in the sky

We got up early at the House of Hope hoping to catch a few meteors flash; no luck this year.  I remember getting Issac up when we lived in Italy to watch from our balcony (Justine wouldn’t join us, “too cold” she said). We wrapped up and sat in our camp chair and watched the stars fall. The mountain behind our town was looped with small villages so it seemed from time to time something fell and joined the lights sparkling on the sides of the hills. We also huddled under blankets in our backyard in Groton watching hundreds of meteors before we froze out. In Klamath I know there were many times out in the yard, watching for meteors and eclipses, full moons and so many stars. I do have this poem from one year, we had two dogs then so it was quite a while ago:

Falling Dogs
 
Here before light, the cusp
of dawn brings meteors;
falling stars though it is too cold
for wishes. I listen to the dogs
patrol the perimeter of the yard,
their tags chime to the coyotes’ song.
These dogs are old,
and from juniper ringed hills,
they pay no attention to this music.
Their noses are alive to every creature
that has passed overnight, their last
throwback to wild. Their ears
pick up the nuanced yelps
and yips, the lone awoo
that fills the darkness with laughter;
they are unconcerned with the other,
their sameness separated by millenniums
by houses and filled bowls and a hand
that knows how to rub an ear.

This morning though, though the sky was clear and there were a lot of stars, we were greeted only with cold. We stood quietly in shadows as one of our neighbors came out her backdoor and did something by the porch. I have certain voyeur tendencies I adore walking at night and stealing glimpses into people’s homes. When I use to ride Greyhound, I loved the late night ramble through small towns, wondered at the few lights on and reveled when I could peek inside and see someone reading or talking or lit only by the blue of a TV screen. Just a quick flash into those homes, that life. Because we live in a neighborhood full of houses the moments as dusk is settling offer these glimpses often. I always want to stop and watch, I want to measure the warmth in the house by witnessing. I know that most if the “action” will be mundane. Some will be very boring; there is always the fear of some horror or hurt. Sometimes a quick view is all that is needed. As my neighbor went back in, I saw her husband walk past and touch her arm. 

And then we turned away, walked toward the front of the house, shivering a bit and holding hands.




Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Don't fear the reaper


Today the sun made shadow and light throughout the house. The cats spent the morning moving from room to room catching rays. Ursula is a connoisseur any sliver of sunlight is hers. Zora prefers something more full-on sunny. During lunch I watched one of the resident groundhogs, Olive (O’Fallon Olive) out on the deck scavenging bird seed. She’s very golden and broad and has a kind looking face. Her child, Otto, has darker fur and a mean little mug. When I see them out at the same time, often one is around the deck and the other is across the yard, an escape route close. Our neighbor’s cat sometime comes over and chases them even though she is about the same size as Olive. Ursula has a deep hatred of this cat; I think it is because she thinks the groundhogs are hers. When I put out peanuts it’s a race to see what creature gets them first, bird or marmot. If the blue jays are close, they usually take them. Monday morning four jays were at my office window rioting because no feeders were out yet. Like all Corvids they are loud and demanding, but also smart and beautiful.


On our walk this afternoon we passed a tree which is totally leafless but has three small blossoms. The picture doesn’t do it justice, it’s actually a soft pink flower. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try another photo. It feels like another metaphor. Every moment seems to hold more meaning than it should. The riots over the election will not be well attended because we’ve lost interest. America has failed at the surviving a pandemic because we’re tired. The states going back into lockdown are facing back lash because people want to eat out or kill Grandma during the holidays. There are restaurants in our area under new restrictions because infections and deaths are off the charts and these restaurants are refusing to close. I told Jerry we need to get our grime reaper outfits (we might have them, you don’t know) and stand out selling time shares to Bellefontaine Cemetery with our signs that says: “You’re tired? Come rest here!” or “Mask it or casket” Bah.

 

Out to look for meteors tonight. Something real and lasting.

Be kind, be safe, wear your mask.

 

 

Sunday, November 15, 2020

What's coming

Today we needed to get out. The rain all day Saturday washed in sun and hard wind. Not walking weather when there are so many trees, so we took a drive down through Casey and Collinsville up the Interstate for a bit and then chose a random exit and began looking for downtown New Douglas. This is a little farming community that is about forty miles from Saint Louis. The landscape at this time of year is bare and I’m always lost when we drive like this, the lack of landmarks (couldn’t you put some mountains somewhere, Illinois?) throw me. The little towns here seem to go in two directions, some are just adorable and some are sad. New Douglas falls into the sadder category, a lot of dilapidated houses, a couple of boarded up businesses, but it’s par for the course with this economy and the pandemic that no one wants to address. The uniting theme of New Douglas seems to be the Trump signs and flags. It reminded me of a poem I wrote in May while taking a workshop with James Crews (a Zoom workshop, which I did not care for, the platform, not the workshop). The assignment was to write a praise poem to something you wouldn’t normally praise. And we had just taken a Sunday drive to go look at a little country church that was for sale, always looking for the next house of Hope. 😊 So here’s the poem, here’s a couple of pictures out near New Douglas where the sky is deep and wide and you’d think you could see what was coming for you.

Praise Song
            ~after Barbara Crooker
 

Praise the cracked silo and the vine
covered John Deere. Praise the algae
filled pond and the plate-less Pontiac.
Praise the brown headed cowbird
the most perfect colonizer.
 
Praise the sagging porch, the tarped
roof and the woman too tired to wave.
Praise the Dollar General, the Dollar Tree,
the Dollar Store and Maurice’s Five ‘N Dime.
 
Praise the yard sign Make America Great Again.
Praise the rebel flag, praise the lost cause of it all.
Praise the patriot and the common folk.
Praise those that persist in shadow. Praise
whatever it takes for them to look down on me.
 

 


Saturday, November 14, 2020

Mid November



It rained all day here, the birds gathered fluffed and fat at the feeders and spent the day eating and complaining. Because of the random thunderstorms that came with the rain, we didn't go out for a walk. So at the beginning of Illinois's next lockdown, we locked ourselves in and did odd things here and there throughout the house. The cats participated until we bored them. 

I spent part of the day working on a special gift for Jerry (don't tell him!) that required a close examination of some of my many, many pictures from Europe. I came across this which seems so lovely and apt for this November of 2020. If not 2020 entirely. 

“Why they cast me from heaven" metal sculpture by Spanish artist Julio Nieto outside "Villa Del Arte Gallery" in Barcelona Spain


Be safe, be kind, wear a mask.

 

Wednesday, November 11, 2020

11 11 2020

 



The Dead

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
      Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
      And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
      Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
      Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
      Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
      Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.


Monday, November 9, 2020

A small grace

Along Engle Creek the birds were singing so loud and in such numbers all I could do was pause, look up and listen. High up above the ruckus a skein of geese stitched the dark clouds. The leaves are playing opposite of the birds: abandoning the trees in showers of color, silently gliding toward earth. What happens every year is happening again, on schedule and, yes, as expected. Everything in the background overrides this expected time and mutes the sounds and the colors: the added noise of the pandemic, the never-ending election cacophony. It’s like a soundtrack you don’t really notice until you see a replay without the music. Or, until something spectacular overrides it: birds, leaves, the way the sun catches the now bare tree behind my house where a lone cardinal rocks slowly in the breeze. I would have missed her completely if Ursula and I hadn’t been watching sparrows at the feeder and she rose out of the leaf scatter. A small grace blessing the branch.




Sunday, November 8, 2020

And then there's Ursula

 


I’ve been remiss, I meant to write about Ursula (Ursa Minor, Ursa Major, Urs, Little Checkerboard Face) shortly after the Zora File. Because her personality is so strong, she’s harder to capture. She trills and talks and insists. Her purr is loud and she does a tuck and roll, sort of what Phil use to do, except where he did a solid shoulder down and roll, she leads with her head. Which is awkward and seems it would hurt, but she doesn’t stop. She is at once cuddly and loving and then, suddenly, distant and cold. She loves to play catch the laser, attack the ribbon and runs as fast as she can through the house even though she has no brakes on the hardwood floor. In early August it seemed as though she had hurt herself and after a visit to the vet, she had three days of anti-inflammatories. After the rest and the meds, she seemed fine. About a week later I noticed a huge bump on her head, I thought maybe she had run and hit a wall, a chair or the edge of the bed. When it didn’t go away, she went back to the vet where they took a biopsy, that didn’t look right so it was sent off to their lab. A week later Dr. Jen, told me that she had an aggressive and quick moving cancer. I told her the lump had completely disappeared (which made Dr. Jen, go hmm, that's really odd, wow, hmmm) and she was feistier than ever. So, we agreed to hold off on anything else, watch Ursula for any lumps or changes in diet, weight loss or behavior, etc. As far as Ursula is concerned (if a cat is ever concerned) the indignity was being taken to the vet twice since she’s been with us. Her appetite is beyond reproach. She spends a great deal of the day patrolling the house, checking windows and walking on keyboards. She’s always up for a game of throw the cat on the couch (something Jerry discovered she likes). Jerry tosses her, she runs back to him for another throw. We’ve also discovered she does not want you on the phone, anytime. And when we were talking to the Bambina and were on speaker, she bit me three times trying to get me to put the phone down. As I like to ask both cats, “What’s the deal, weirdy?”


Cat drama. Cat care, Fur hearts.

Be safe.

And farewell and good night, Alex Trebek. 💔

Friday, November 6, 2020

Pickled

I was looking for a little story I wrote about pickles. Just a memory that seemed a good thing to wander through today, but while meandering through my folders I found this poem. I think it pairs well with the Mr. Connery post, because it contradicts and heightens it. Enough said. Have a safe day. (Have we ever thought this much about Georgia and Pennsylvania and Nevada and North Carolina? Have we ever thought so much about the 235,000 plus who don’t get to ponder these numbers? Sorry, this was just a pickle post.)

         Comfort food

Every once in a while, I just want sweet pickles, buttered
crackers, potato soup. I long to fall asleep
in my grandfather’s old rocker. Slowly
pushing my foot on the ottoman as voices drift from the kitchen
mixed with baking bread and pie and the near saddle sweetness
of the leather chair. There I am small enough to slide
most of my body over the seat, pipe smoke has marinated
the afghan, my head rolls back and forth and the voices
grow more and more distant and then what I really want
happens, and my dad says Hey Turkey Lurkey,
the sky has fallen, wake up. W
ake up.


Thursday, November 5, 2020

Only take as directed

Today, to stop the noise and worry, I cleaned the raised beds, untangled vines, turned the soil, a little light maintenance on the frames, and put the hog wire back in place. Safe from the freeze, deep inside the jungle of the plants, I found ten or so tomatoes that should ripen. I also cleaned my sunflower bed, pulled up all the marigolds (sigh), moved birdfeeders, trimmed some shrubs. I could have spent hours in the backyard raking and trimming but I need to pace myself; when I came in there was still no election results. So, I had Jerry go with me to the commissary to get away from the news. I threatened him last night with a dose of NyQuil if he was up at all hours. He doesn’t have my superpower, stress sleeping, and so was up most of Tuesday night and into Wednesday morning. NyQuil, or anything like it, would knock him out for a good ten hours but anxiety and exhaustion did the trick last night. I think the five-mile walk helped too. Now we’re in a holding pattern like so many others. Nothing new. I do notice that most of the Trump signs are off peoples’ lawns. Most of the Biden signs, mine included, are still up.

On top of all the waiting for election results (and listening to the (new) lies spewing from this administration) in local news, over in Missouri, a poll worker who had COVID-19, (who had tested positive on October 30 and was told to quarantine) still chose to go to the polls, still worked closely with nine people, and maybe helped some voters, has died. The county has to notify the 1800 plus people who came to vote at that location. It’s just beyond the pale.

Here’s a little video I shot this morning, yelling at the plane “Get out of the air space over my lawn!” The Air Force never listens. I didn’t watch this until hours after I shot it and then it just felt so appropriate for today.


 
Be safe.

Wednesday, November 4, 2020

The bear offers metaphor

       Make of it what you will.

I want to say the hundred blackbirds landing
on the golden tree and the too bright half-moon
hung over the pine and the breeze that feels
new and fresh over the world are positive signs.
 
I would be lying.
 
The air is still filled with disease and hate,
hopelessness twitches in my left eye
and dread is the shadow fluttering in my heart. 



 

Tuesday, November 3, 2020

Hold onto your butts

Election Day. I have a pot of end-of-the-world chili cooking. The apocalypse shopping is done. Every Tuesday the tornado alarm is tested at 10 AM, quite fitting for the dread hovering about right now. Contrast that with the weather. It is bright and sunny and will be warm today after yesterday's killing frost. Sunday, I brought in every tomato that seemed it might ripen. I also got the final two green peppers (about the size of the end of my thumb) and with the first, which was the size of my thumb, used them in eggs for breakfast. Today the bed that held the garden is a tangle of black vines. I have now dubbed it Trump’s heart.

I want to rerun something I wrote in October, right before I started this blog. Something sent to a couple of people but it hasn’t seen the light of day since. I think it feels right to revisit it today of all days. So, I’ll post it and a photo of my last harvest and a quick meme from Jurassic Park.

Be safe.






Monday, November 2, 2020

Sunday, November 1, 2020

That will be Mr. Connery to you

There are a number of meanders that I’ve been on since yesterday. The first started when I heard that Sean Connery had died. I’m not a James Bond fan, and don’t think that 007, as embodied by Connery, was interesting, but as he aged and took other roles, I became interested. One of my favorite memories from the Navy was the day my colleague and friend, Darla, and I led “The Hunt for Sean Connery”. It was during the filming of The Hunt for Red October bits and pieces which were being filmed on Sub Base San Diego where I was then stationed. There were men in our command, submariners, who were helping with consultation and as extras in the film. One of the officers, Lieutenant Mark Draxton, actually had a speaking role (showing up in the pivotal scene where the Dallas has to draw off the Russian sub) and was sent on temporary duty to LA while the filming was going on. He was already a blond, blue-eyed, cleft in the chin surfer dude who drove a Porsche; he looked like he had stepped out of a recruiting poster; I teased him terribly after he came back. But the day of the hunt, because it was secret as to where the crew might be, we were calling in favors, stopping known over-sharers and generally having a good time. We never found the crew, or Mr. Connery, and what would we have done anyway? No one had a cell phone to take that selfie; would it have really happened?

I realized, yesterday, that I had a greater (emotional) connection to Mr. (Thomas) Sean Connery who died at 90 than Mr. Keith Wortman, my father, who died at 90 July 4, 2019. One man I’d never met, but thought a lot about these past thirty years, and the other had shut me out of his life thirty-five years prior. Alright. There you go.

And then, I was thinking about parents and how in Jerry’s family the mind goes but the body stays strong and on my side the body goes and the mind is clear (for the most part, we both will add).  So that I am hoping we will be able to continue together and make one being, a Fankenberry or some such hybrid. I say this as both our fathers passed in 2019, months apart, his father didn’t know anyone and my father didn’t know his body. Both deceived.

And then I was wondering if we could teach our bodies to sleep in the cold like hummingbirds in the Andes. One species has been reported to go into caves during very cold weather and not come out for days. Of course, that’s a short hibernation, something I do on a weekly basis. I’d still like to get to the 12 on, 12 off sleep schedule just to kill time. Working toward the ‘see you in the Spring’.

And, then finally, I was back to Sean Connery and The Hunt for Red October. Sam Neill was also in this movie and as far as actors go, I have had an ongoing appreciation of him since 1979’s My Brilliant Career where he had his heart broken. I loved the movie, the character played by Judy Davis, Sybylla: “A young independent woman who lives with her grandmother and aunt in the countryside rebels against being pressured into marriage and chooses to solely focus on having a career as a writer.” I was twenty when I saw it on Masterpiece Theatre. So, there’s that.

                      

And then finally, today, I wanted to sit beside Seven Hills Road where it goes along the corn fields and film the blackbirds murmuring, back and forth, landing on the electric wires and then dancing back to the fields. Or just sit and listen to their wings and songs. Or just imagine my own arms allowing flight.


 

Enter freely and of your own will

Classes were scheduled to start on Tuesday, January 16th, unfortunately, that first day saw the school closed due to cold and snow. So all c...