I Have Tea

9:38:28 PM EDT

Last week I posted a link to a poem that kept drawing me back to it, Letters to My Wife by a gentleman who goes by the name of metta5chak (his actual name is Dave).  I commented...the man found my forum and (oh my god) read my scrawlings.  Someone of HIS ilk??  I wanted to crawl under the desk and groan.

His is the first work I've read in quite a while that actually stirred me, made me want to pick up a pen and write like I used to - no matter how badly.  He is concise, powerful, gifted beyond what most people could hope for, IMHO.  He left a comment to a poem I wrote years ago, was quite complimentary.  And I still want to crawl under the desk and groan.

Yet...the stirring is still there.

At the very least, I'm experiencing serious hero-worship for a 78-year-old poet.  And I told him so.  ;-)

 

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8:53:29 PM EDT

Every now and then, I come upon prose or poetry so significant that it begs to be read.  I won't copy and paste it here, but will point the way.  An amazing piece...

Letters to My Wife

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7:04:24 PM EDT

I have been really lazy, computer-wise, for the past few weeks, but life has been extra busy.  Finally got around to the journals and answering emails, and am feeling a bit perky now!

Work has been ... exciting, I guess is the word.  There was a stabbing on one of the units at the institution last week, and we had to stop a transfer so Lieu could get the goods on a gang member (leader?) he had been trying to catch for the last few months.  They knew he was ordering hits on other inmates, but could never prove it - until then.  That's the thing about work...so much happens so fast, there's little time for boredom or dwelling on anything besides work. 

On Friday, we did take a girls morning (Fridays are the slowest day) and have a coffee klatche (or however you spell it).  It was nice - a lot of bonding going on and all that.  And when the men figured out what we were up to, they wanted in on it, too.

Well - that's a portion of life as I know it in a little more than a nutshell.  And now..a meme..

If you came to my house… 

You would see:  A LOT of trees, a couple of dogs, some cats, a horse pasture, my grandson and the rest of my family.  and me.  You would see a lot of books...you could take a few home, if you liked, and a variety of tea pots, a few potted plants.

 

I’d probably feed you:  Whatever you were in the mood for.  Chilie?  Salad? Pork chops? Quiche? Probably the famous Chicken Casserole and a veggie platter, home baked bread and a nutty buddy pie for dessert.

And offer you this to drink: Water, tea (hot or iced), coffee or coke.

I’d undoubtedly ask if you’d read:  Alessandro Baricco, Tanizaki.

I’d want to play this music for you: Not sure...something easy on the ears or something to match the mood.

I’d want to tell you about: The history of the area

I’d probably suggest a game of:  Scrabble, or some kind of card game like gin or canasta

I would definitely show off:  My new patio!

I might get on the computer and show you: Funny emails, the poetry boards. The laughing cat.

If it was a long enough visit, we might watch:  Whatever you'd like to watch.  I have chick flicks, comedies,westerns and dramas and musicals.

Well, that's it.  I won't mention the mess you might see, wouldn't want to scare you away.

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8:56:04 PM EDT

Breast Cancer Patient Protection Act

Spreading the word.  Please visit this blog entry by The Wanderer. 

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9:22:41 PM EDT
Hearing I'm in the mood for poetry

This is one of my favorites by e. e. cummings.

somewhere i have never travelled

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me,i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands

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11:31:50 PM EDT

You could call me a country cousin type.  I have lived my life in rural areas - I'm talking back roads and dirt roads, horse pastures and deer running through the yard at night, having someone come in and clear-cut the forest behind the house, country.  I've never had the desire to live in town, but sometimes...

When I'm riding through a neighborhood that looks hometown, I wonder what it would be like to live there. 

There is a street in Aberdeen that sometimes feels like Sunday morning to me. That could be because you can hear the bells from the Methodist church on Main Street, and there is sometimes a quiet that has the reverence of a prayer. Other times, it has a just-after-the-fair atmosphere - all the pastels of cotton candy, folks walking their dogs or pushing their babies in strollers.  There's a busy hot dog stand on the corner that has a creek running behind it, and on weekends, they have live enterainment by the water.  A bed and breakfast is on the opposite side, and Christmas is always lit up and cheerful. It's a happy street. 

There is no point to this blog, except today, I passed through Aberdeen and was struck by how much I like that neighborhood.  I haven't captured it here by a long shot, but wanted to write it.  That's a good sign.

 

 

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9:12:35 PM EDT

How, when your kids were younger, when you went out in public and heard a plaintive "mommy!" your maternal radar kicked in, ears perked up and you were ready to do battle over your kid, or just knew a grocery store display had collapsed and buried him or her?

I thought those days were over, until today.  The phone rang.  I picked it up, and my son said, "Mom, what are you doing?"  I responded...just sitting here, what are you doing?  He said, "What's wrong?"   Well, nothing, is everything ok with you?

And then he said, "Wait.  Is this the Green residence?"  No...is this Dale?  He laughed and said he had the wrong number, and I told him, you sound just like my son, to which he replied, And you sound just like my Mom!

We had a nice little conversation and a good laugh.  I wished him luck in contacting his Mom.

Dang, he sure sounded like my kid.

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9:12:24 PM EDT

In 1972, my grandmother died.  My father bought her house at auction, remodeled it, and we moved in.  It's a beautiful old house, two story brick.  It was my first home, because Mom and Dad lived with Grandma for a few years after they were married. 

I still remember how it was before it was remodeled.  There was a formal dining room with Grandma's elegant dining room suite, china cabinet and a buffet on which she kept houseplants because the light from the four windows was good for them.  There are French doors leading from there to the living room, which is large and airy and has a built-in ..i don't know what you would call it.  It's like a curio cabinet, but it stretches from two feet below the ceiling to the floor.  The kitchen was plain back then, with a little trolley cart beside the stove, a deep sink nobody used for dishes.  Those were done in white dish pans.  The upstairs is only two rooms, one large, one smaller, and the attic, which I've always been afraid to explore because as a child, I was told if I walked in I would fall through.  I guess that was to keep me out of there, but I doubt I'll ever go into it, anyway.

Last week, Mom and Dad announced they're moving into the house where Steve lived.  It would be better for them, they explained, because it's a little smaller and wouldn't be hard for Mom to get around in.  I can understand that...they deserve ease and happiness in the time they have left.  We all want that for them.  And yet, I was already missing the house where I'd spent such a large part of my life.  I can't imagine what it would be like not to be able to go there again.

Before their announcement, Dad had taken me to the side and explained to me that he doesn't want treatment this time.  He started telling me how he wanted his estate divided, and what he wanted me to have.  I was not prepared for that, but I stayed put for as long as I could because it was something he wanted and needed to say.  I made no comment.  It's not his possessions I want to hear about...I stayed for a while longer and made my escape.  The next evening, he sat me down again to talk to me.  He told me what he wanted me to have and what he wanted me to do with it.  He asked me what my plans were, and I told him I wanted to move back into the area, eventually.  That I planned to build a house on a little less than the fourteen acres I have now, because there's no way I would be able to take care of all of it on my own.  I told him that since it was almost paid off, my son could live in it and pay the taxes on it.  He seemed to approve.  As a matter of fact, he nodded his head a few times with that shrewd look that's still in his eyes...

And today, he asked me to move into his house when he moves out.  I guess I will.

 

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9:13:10 PM EDT

But this recipe is TOO GOOD to keep to myself.  Some of you may already have it, since I'm usually the last person to find a good one, but here ya go.  Garlic bread!

1 can Grands or store brand equivalent biscuits
2 tablespoons margarine
3 cloves garlic, minced
garlic powder, to taste - I use a couple of teaspoons full
1/4 tsp basil
1/4 tsp oregano
2 cups shredded mozarella cheese (you can use less, if you want)

melt butter and pour into a pie plate or 2 quart rectangular pan.  Mince garlic and add to butter, sprinkle spices in.  Tear each biscuit into 4 pieces and arrange on top of butter mixture, top with the mozarella cheese and bake at 425 for 8-10 minutes or until cheese browns slightly.  after you remove from oven, invert on a plate or platter (you might want to loosen the cheesy edges with a knife, first), let cool slightly and serve with pizza sauce.

holy COW is that stuff good.

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9:39:25 PM EDT
Hearing Warrant - Sometimes She Cries

I'm looking at the lump under the blanket on my bed right now. Lacy has twisted and turned and somehow managed to situate herself under the pile she has made of my bedcovers. It doesn't do to make the bed, anymore. The first thing she does is dig with her paws or nose the covers downward until she has found an opening through which to crawl. She then proceeds to burrow herself into a little cave, and it's hard to tell how much is blanket and exactly where she is in the middle of it all.

A mess-maker, that one is. Last night, I called her because she was being much too quiet and I couldn't find her. Suddenly, she poked her little black head up from the loveseat. What a sight - a pleased-with-herself expression on her face, her gun-barrel nose poking up over the white styrofoam plate she had fished out of the garbage clinched between her teeth. She looked as if she was ready for the buffet line.

She does all kinds of crazy things. Most are amusing, some are annoying, and a few are even infuriating (i.e. the stuffing from my sofa littering the living room floor). But many are endearing. For instance, she refuses to go to bed at night unless I go, too. When she's tired and ready, she fixes me in beady-black eyed misery until I finally give in and say - Ok, are you ready for bed, then? Her ears perk, she jumps up and heads down the hall. And if I don't follow, she does a u-turn and stares at me again.

She's much too good to sit on a bare floor, being the princess she is. She drags a blankie around with her, and drops it when she's ready to sit or lay down in the living room. She has a thing for blankets, and I often thank God for the deals Walmart offers on throws, because they are not only her cushions, they are also toys with which she tortures poor, long-suffering Georgie Bear. She somehow manages to throw them over herself and attack poor George, who grabs the blanket instead of Lacy, and the tug-of-war is on between him and a living piece of fabric.

If she's in the room, poor George doesn't have a chance at quality time or attention. If he approaches me, she throws herself in front of him or grabs the considerable hair on his neck and pulls him away. One night, I watched her jump on him as he lay on the floor, grab him by the fur and literally pull him around. And he simply let her do it.

She likes to hold hands. Often, she'll reach out that skinny little paw and crook it over my palm. I've no choice but to hold handswith her. And then she'll throw back that long neck and gaze up at me like, "this is good, mom."

She knows the word cookie in any inflexion of the voice, and if we aren't careful, she will one day be able to spell it. As it is, she can hear a wrapper crinkle from two rooms away, and knows that means cookie, too. At breakfast, she fully believes she is entitled to her own plate of sausage and eggs, and has been known to eat cabbage, blackeyed peas and the handles of hairbrushes.

She does not like pink collars studded with rhinestones- definitely is not a blinging kind of dog,  and she has made her point by chewing off that pink collar in favor of the plain blue and red one. There is nothing pretentious about her at all.

She is a crazy little dog that often stands upright on the loveseat and hangs her head backwards in such a way that she actually does look like a bat (what with those ears) hanging upside down. For all her messy ways, though, she is an enormous source of comfort and amusement. Her personality is vibrant and sometimes poignant, especially when she knows she's in trouble and her little face and big ears droop, and mom, will you please forgive me and I won't promise to never do it again...You know, I wouldn't trade her for anything.

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