by Pat Laster
FAREWELL
(a Farewell pattern with Acrostic)
G alloping swiftly, as on fire;
O ver minutes, hours and days,
O beying nature’s agenda,
D ashing through time down the
B ackstretch of December,
Y ou daze us with speed—an
E ntire year gone.
c 2011 – Pat Laster
~~~
FIND SOMETHING USEFUL YOU CAN DO EACH DAY
(a Villanelle pattern)
Find something useful you can do each day
that isn’t subject to the world’s review,
that alters life around you in some way.
Your friends may need an advocate and pray
for you to light their way and help them through;
find something useful you can do each day.
You’ll make the earth a better place to stay
if you engage yourself in derring-do
that alters life around you in some way.
A smile, a thank-you note, a gay bouquet,
some thoughtful deed to make a life less blue;
find something useful you can do each day.
You need a useful task to lift dismay,
a project you can throw your heart into
that alters life around you in some way.
It may be taking time to read or play,
or dreaming of the things you’ve yet to do.
Find something useful you can do each day
that alters life around you in some way.
c 2011 Pat Laster
~~~
AND THEN I SAW IT WAS JANUARY
(a Laurette pattern sequence)
I looked around
some days beyond
December, found the year
had fled. Instead
the Janus month,
cold January’s here!
Oh, snow and ice
and bitter cold.
The north wind howls apace.
The schools are closed,
some churches, too,
but, oh! Bright winter’s face!
The old cat sleeps
beside the fire,
his paw above an eye.
Before too long,
’Mom Nature will
blow January by.
c 2011 Pat Laster
~~~
I had intended to include William Carlos Williams' "Burning of the Christmas Greens," but thought better of it since I couldn't find who owned the copyright.
May the memories of Christmas strengthen you for the vagaries of the New Year.
God bless us every one.
###
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Christmas letters
by Pat Laster
Dear Gas Company: Before you send me a letter saying my gas usage was way above all my “efficient neighbors,” let me explain.
My college-age grandson/"fifth child”--whom we in this neighborhood call Kid Billy, though he’s definitely not a kid by chronological age—is home for the holidays. That means all the time he’s in his room, he has the window AC, the oscillating fan and the ceiling fan going. (He likes it cold.) Even though his door is closed, there is still leakage of cold air.
Since the gas heater for the three bedrooms and bath is in the hall, and since one bedroom—KB’s “game room,”—is on the northwest corner of the house—the stove runs constantly when it is cold outside.
The second gas heater warms the living/ dining rooms and the office-cum-blue room where I write when I can. The gas log unit pilot is still unlit and while the “fireplace” is pretty, it doesn’t put out much heat—just memories.
I have used the dishwasher a lot this month washing all 125 pieces of Avon’s red Cape Cod glassware that I have collected/been given. And which I intend to use on Christmas.
Plus, I washed all other glassware--which “sat out” collecting dust--on the buffet, the piano, the mantel, the book shelves and in the windows of the blue room. So that is some of the gas usage.
The clothes dryer has not seen any extra work this month; however, I notice KB lugged his bin of (what were--after Thanksgiving--clean) clothes home. He seems to be living out of it.
I hope this letter will explain my place as 95th (or whatever high number you give me) out of a hundred neighbors in gas usage for the month. Fondly, one who went from #6 in November (good) probably through the roof in December, pl
Dear National Wildlife, Easter Seals, and others who send labels and greeting cards without being asked to do so. Sorry, but I’m not as good a person as my mom was. She felt guilty about using the enclosures without sending you at least $5 for your trouble.
I figure you know what you’re doing, giving away freebies. Oh yes, in the past, I’ve sent money for your causes. But now, with a kid in college (at my advanced age), and with the economy like it is, I have to watch my pennies, er, dollars closer than before. Merry Christmas and Happy 2012.
To the folks who prey on seasonal guilt, groups like children’s homes, church food pantries, and all other charities who keep the postal carriers busier than usual this time of year, hear ye: I throw your solicitations straight into the recycling bin. Unless, of course, they contain gift tags, labels, stickers, or notepads.
To the magazine people who keep sending notices to renew at (probably) a great cut rate for a subscription I took out because of a granddaughter’s school’s “gimme” project, cut it out! Save your money. No, wait. Postal carriers rely on junk mail (I was told once by a mailperson). Be it known that your letters also go straight into recycling.
Dear friends and family who have sent greeting cards this season: Thank you for spending your precious funds to wish KB and me a solicitous and felicitous season. May it be also with you.
Merry Christmas—or Happy Holidays—to all.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Dear Gas Company: Before you send me a letter saying my gas usage was way above all my “efficient neighbors,” let me explain.
My college-age grandson/"fifth child”--whom we in this neighborhood call Kid Billy, though he’s definitely not a kid by chronological age—is home for the holidays. That means all the time he’s in his room, he has the window AC, the oscillating fan and the ceiling fan going. (He likes it cold.) Even though his door is closed, there is still leakage of cold air.
Since the gas heater for the three bedrooms and bath is in the hall, and since one bedroom—KB’s “game room,”—is on the northwest corner of the house—the stove runs constantly when it is cold outside.
The second gas heater warms the living/ dining rooms and the office-cum-blue room where I write when I can. The gas log unit pilot is still unlit and while the “fireplace” is pretty, it doesn’t put out much heat—just memories.
I have used the dishwasher a lot this month washing all 125 pieces of Avon’s red Cape Cod glassware that I have collected/been given. And which I intend to use on Christmas.
Plus, I washed all other glassware--which “sat out” collecting dust--on the buffet, the piano, the mantel, the book shelves and in the windows of the blue room. So that is some of the gas usage.
The clothes dryer has not seen any extra work this month; however, I notice KB lugged his bin of (what were--after Thanksgiving--clean) clothes home. He seems to be living out of it.
I hope this letter will explain my place as 95th (or whatever high number you give me) out of a hundred neighbors in gas usage for the month. Fondly, one who went from #6 in November (good) probably through the roof in December, pl
Dear National Wildlife, Easter Seals, and others who send labels and greeting cards without being asked to do so. Sorry, but I’m not as good a person as my mom was. She felt guilty about using the enclosures without sending you at least $5 for your trouble.
I figure you know what you’re doing, giving away freebies. Oh yes, in the past, I’ve sent money for your causes. But now, with a kid in college (at my advanced age), and with the economy like it is, I have to watch my pennies, er, dollars closer than before. Merry Christmas and Happy 2012.
To the folks who prey on seasonal guilt, groups like children’s homes, church food pantries, and all other charities who keep the postal carriers busier than usual this time of year, hear ye: I throw your solicitations straight into the recycling bin. Unless, of course, they contain gift tags, labels, stickers, or notepads.
To the magazine people who keep sending notices to renew at (probably) a great cut rate for a subscription I took out because of a granddaughter’s school’s “gimme” project, cut it out! Save your money. No, wait. Postal carriers rely on junk mail (I was told once by a mailperson). Be it known that your letters also go straight into recycling.
Dear friends and family who have sent greeting cards this season: Thank you for spending your precious funds to wish KB and me a solicitous and felicitous season. May it be also with you.
Merry Christmas—or Happy Holidays—to all.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Seasonal preparations continue
by Pat Laster
Little by little, slowly but surely, Couchwood is beginning to look more like Christmas and winter. Sunday night I washed the last two windows and laid “blankets of snow” on the frames where upper and lower sections meet. On the “snow” are freshly washed pieces of cobalt blue glass--the light-weight ones ballasted with marbles.
Monday’s task was to organize the loose papers from the library table, one end of the buffet-cum-cabinet and the work table in the middle of the room. My BFF Dot (dothatfield.com) wrote on her blog last week about kudzu. My flat surfaces are kudzu-ed for sure.Here it is Thursday and those papers are still a mess.
When I told people that I was taking a break from church, one person said, “But the Christmas music! You don’t want to miss the Christmas music, do you?”
My CD and cassette players, the radio, the two bell symphony music boxes Billy (and his mother) bought me, the Christmas VHS movies, the piano with all the Christmas songbooks out of the bench and onto the ledge—how can I miss Christmas music? (OK, writer friends, I know I used Christmas five times in two paragraphs, but…)
Oh, and I was lucky enough to get invited to ride along to the River City Men’s Chorus Christmas concert last week. Talk about beautiful music! But a downside: the next morning, I had a fresh cold, a sore throat, as well as all-day sneezing and dripping, the first such malady to hit in many years that lasted longer than 24 hours.
Alas! My paperback dictionary finally came apart at the “o”s. (If I were on Facebook, would that be the kind of information I’d post?) Keeping to the trivial, I have something in common with Taylor Swift, who at 21, is the same age as grandson/ward Billy: “I love a good flea market,” she told Parade magazine.
Parts of Arkansas woke up to a surprise snow last week Check out my blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com to read some poems that developed from it.
Records for a one-day rainfall fell in five Arkansas towns on December 5. Amounts at Adams Field in Little Rock broke the record set in 1936 (my birth year). In North Little Rock, the last record was set in 1984. In Hot Springs, in 1996. At the Jacksonville/Little Rock Air Force Base, rain shattered the old record set in 1984. And in Batesville, the record set in 1943 was broken. I still haven’t dared look in my basement to see how high the water is.
Billy auditioned for next semester's Henderson State University Chamber Singers and “made it,” he told me last week. Color me proud, again. I missed their concert a Sunday or three ago. It was raining and I didn’t want to drive in it. Color me cowardly. He said me there was a link to viewing it, but he’s yet to show me where.
Hot Springs’ son Eric “didn’t get even one shot off” during this deer season, he said. None he saw was large enough to produce a “trophy.” But his 10-year-old niece (my granddaughter) Emma killed two in Mississippi. There should be enough venison to go around in the Paulus-Laster family in 2012.
May it be so with you and yours.
Little by little, slowly but surely, Couchwood is beginning to look more like Christmas and winter. Sunday night I washed the last two windows and laid “blankets of snow” on the frames where upper and lower sections meet. On the “snow” are freshly washed pieces of cobalt blue glass--the light-weight ones ballasted with marbles.
Monday’s task was to organize the loose papers from the library table, one end of the buffet-cum-cabinet and the work table in the middle of the room. My BFF Dot (dothatfield.com) wrote on her blog last week about kudzu. My flat surfaces are kudzu-ed for sure.Here it is Thursday and those papers are still a mess.
When I told people that I was taking a break from church, one person said, “But the Christmas music! You don’t want to miss the Christmas music, do you?”
My CD and cassette players, the radio, the two bell symphony music boxes Billy (and his mother) bought me, the Christmas VHS movies, the piano with all the Christmas songbooks out of the bench and onto the ledge—how can I miss Christmas music? (OK, writer friends, I know I used Christmas five times in two paragraphs, but…)
Oh, and I was lucky enough to get invited to ride along to the River City Men’s Chorus Christmas concert last week. Talk about beautiful music! But a downside: the next morning, I had a fresh cold, a sore throat, as well as all-day sneezing and dripping, the first such malady to hit in many years that lasted longer than 24 hours.
Alas! My paperback dictionary finally came apart at the “o”s. (If I were on Facebook, would that be the kind of information I’d post?) Keeping to the trivial, I have something in common with Taylor Swift, who at 21, is the same age as grandson/ward Billy: “I love a good flea market,” she told Parade magazine.
Parts of Arkansas woke up to a surprise snow last week Check out my blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com to read some poems that developed from it.
Records for a one-day rainfall fell in five Arkansas towns on December 5. Amounts at Adams Field in Little Rock broke the record set in 1936 (my birth year). In North Little Rock, the last record was set in 1984. In Hot Springs, in 1996. At the Jacksonville/Little Rock Air Force Base, rain shattered the old record set in 1984. And in Batesville, the record set in 1943 was broken. I still haven’t dared look in my basement to see how high the water is.
Billy auditioned for next semester's Henderson State University Chamber Singers and “made it,” he told me last week. Color me proud, again. I missed their concert a Sunday or three ago. It was raining and I didn’t want to drive in it. Color me cowardly. He said me there was a link to viewing it, but he’s yet to show me where.
Hot Springs’ son Eric “didn’t get even one shot off” during this deer season, he said. None he saw was large enough to produce a “trophy.” But his 10-year-old niece (my granddaughter) Emma killed two in Mississippi. There should be enough venison to go around in the Paulus-Laster family in 2012.
May it be so with you and yours.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Another report card from the gas company
by Pat Laster
One day last week, I made a quick trip to Arkadelphia. Kid Billy had left his choir folder on the piano when his Thanksgiving break was done. It was my suggestion to leave it there, thinking I would play over some of the music while he sang his part. Never happened.
On the way through Benton, I stopped at Goodwill to see if they had a solid blue tie and a solid red tie, which he said he could use. I forgot until just now that he also asked for a gold long-sleeved dress shirt, or I would have looked for that, too.
Next stop was Payless, where I purchased two pair of brown shoes—one less dressy but laced, one darker but slip-on. Because his socks in the wash were such rags, I also selected a 6-pack of tube socks and a like amount of low-cut ones. Making arrangements with the clerk to return with the pair of shoes and pack of socks that he didn’t want, I drove off south.
Just so happened that when I got to the Caddo River—our traditional calling landmark—I found him in Caddo, the HSU cafeteria. He directed me to a meeting place. But, saying he had food waiting for him, he politely took all the purchases without even looking at them, thanked me kindly and directed me off the campus. So much for returns. It’s a good thing I had a $15-off coupon!
While that close to Bismarck, I called a writer friend who is soon to move to Durham, NC, and asked her if she could meet me at Cracker Barrel for lunch. “I’ll see you in a couple minutes,” she crowed, but it turned out to be a few more than that. I browsed at the lovely (expensive) items while I waited.
We had the best visit, the longest visit, the most personal visit in all our friendship, which dates back to when KB and I lived in Arkadelphia during the late 1990s and early 2000s.
On the way out of the restaurant, we passed a young serviceman sitting alone. I stopped, stuck out my hand—which he took—and said, “Thank you for your service.” He smiled and thanked me back.
Remember the chide from the gas company about my using waaaay more gas for heating than my “efficient neighbors?” I emailed them, but got nowhere. Last weekend, I received another letter giving me a “GREAT” and two smiley faces. I had used 80% less gas this month, only two CCF. “Efficient” neighbors averaged ten CCF and “All neighbors” used 19. My rank—out of 100 neighbors—was #6. Their suggestions for energy saving: check air filters each month, seal air leaks, be smart about dish washing—only full loads, use air-dry setting, avoid special cycles like ‘rinse only.’
Happy 49th birthday (on December 3) to my second son Eric, a career highway department employee, who lives in Hot Springs with wife Lisa and daughter Lainee. His son James lives in Little Rock. Color me proud, proud, proud.
Final note on the lentil-sweet potato fiasco: even the outside cats wouldn’t eat it! Am I gonna gripe at that gal who submitted the recipe in the first place!
One day last week, I made a quick trip to Arkadelphia. Kid Billy had left his choir folder on the piano when his Thanksgiving break was done. It was my suggestion to leave it there, thinking I would play over some of the music while he sang his part. Never happened.
On the way through Benton, I stopped at Goodwill to see if they had a solid blue tie and a solid red tie, which he said he could use. I forgot until just now that he also asked for a gold long-sleeved dress shirt, or I would have looked for that, too.
Next stop was Payless, where I purchased two pair of brown shoes—one less dressy but laced, one darker but slip-on. Because his socks in the wash were such rags, I also selected a 6-pack of tube socks and a like amount of low-cut ones. Making arrangements with the clerk to return with the pair of shoes and pack of socks that he didn’t want, I drove off south.
Just so happened that when I got to the Caddo River—our traditional calling landmark—I found him in Caddo, the HSU cafeteria. He directed me to a meeting place. But, saying he had food waiting for him, he politely took all the purchases without even looking at them, thanked me kindly and directed me off the campus. So much for returns. It’s a good thing I had a $15-off coupon!
While that close to Bismarck, I called a writer friend who is soon to move to Durham, NC, and asked her if she could meet me at Cracker Barrel for lunch. “I’ll see you in a couple minutes,” she crowed, but it turned out to be a few more than that. I browsed at the lovely (expensive) items while I waited.
We had the best visit, the longest visit, the most personal visit in all our friendship, which dates back to when KB and I lived in Arkadelphia during the late 1990s and early 2000s.
On the way out of the restaurant, we passed a young serviceman sitting alone. I stopped, stuck out my hand—which he took—and said, “Thank you for your service.” He smiled and thanked me back.
Remember the chide from the gas company about my using waaaay more gas for heating than my “efficient neighbors?” I emailed them, but got nowhere. Last weekend, I received another letter giving me a “GREAT” and two smiley faces. I had used 80% less gas this month, only two CCF. “Efficient” neighbors averaged ten CCF and “All neighbors” used 19. My rank—out of 100 neighbors—was #6. Their suggestions for energy saving: check air filters each month, seal air leaks, be smart about dish washing—only full loads, use air-dry setting, avoid special cycles like ‘rinse only.’
Happy 49th birthday (on December 3) to my second son Eric, a career highway department employee, who lives in Hot Springs with wife Lisa and daughter Lainee. His son James lives in Little Rock. Color me proud, proud, proud.
Final note on the lentil-sweet potato fiasco: even the outside cats wouldn’t eat it! Am I gonna gripe at that gal who submitted the recipe in the first place!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
A lull between Thanksgiving and Christmas
by Pat Laster
I love the Fridays after Thanksgiving. No Black Fridays in my activities. I rested, listened to the Razorback-Tiger game as I added journal jottings to the book-in-progress.
Collegian/grandson Billy watched the game from his air-conditioned bedroom, snacking on Doritos, dip and flavored water. On Thanksgiving, he was one of five young men and two young women at our family gathering—an unusual happening. One baby and a ten-year-old added more spice and flavor to our event.
I didn’t hear anyone groan because of over-eating, but here’s such a complaint I wrote two years ago for our local poets’ contest.
I Did it Again! An Overeater’s Complaint
As men of old did, so I bring
my thanks—for Alka-Seltzer! Sling
--or hide—leftover turkey. Take
me to the bed; my stomachache,
with time and darkness, should abate.
Do not disturb. I loathe myself
each year. With this much food, the elf
and waif within insist I eat
three platefuls: broccoli and sweet
potatoes, dressing, gravy, beans,
cranberry sauce and rolls. My jeans!
Unzip my jeans before I burst!
Ah -- aah. That’s good. I get immersed
in savoring the tastes of pies.
The mincemeat, pumpkin testifies
to culinary skills of those
among us. Cakes and fudge impose
their calories. Today, if I should die,
please bury me with spoon and apple pie.
An item in Joey Green’s book, Contrary to Popular Belief (Broadway Books, 2005) will cover the period between the last of November and Christmas.
In an entry titled, “The Mayflower did not land at Plymouth Rock,” he says that none of the diaries of the Pilgrims mentioned Plymouth Rock. “The Mayflower landed at Provincetown on Cape Cod on November 25, 1620, but deemed the spot unsuitable.”
So a scouting party headed by Captain Miles Standish took an open boat, stopping at Eastham on December 10 and Plymouth on December 26.
A follow-up on last week’s Lentil-Sweet Potato Salad. BAD FLOP. Tasted OK if one likes lentils, but it looked as pitiful as anything I’ve seen. First off, I cooked the entire package of lentils, but I measured out half of them which equaled one cup.
Without weighing, how much potato is two pounds? Its dressing—all of the ingredients I had to buy new—was too sparse for the veggies. I will turn it into either lentil soup or into outside-cat food. The five feral felines will eat … should eat it if they’re hungry enough.
I will spend the week between now and December 3 cleaning floors and windows, moving papers off table tops and organizing them—or tossing toward the recycle box. It is amazing to me how five flat surfaces in this office can gather so much stuff. Surely your office space is neater.
May your early run-up to Christmas be full of dust cloths and window cleaner and wax and furniture polish. And may all of your strings of Christmas lights work at the first plug-in. May your hoses and lawn furniture be out of sight until spring, and don’t forget to add Stabile to your lawn mowers and boat motors.
Welcome to December.
I love the Fridays after Thanksgiving. No Black Fridays in my activities. I rested, listened to the Razorback-Tiger game as I added journal jottings to the book-in-progress.
Collegian/grandson Billy watched the game from his air-conditioned bedroom, snacking on Doritos, dip and flavored water. On Thanksgiving, he was one of five young men and two young women at our family gathering—an unusual happening. One baby and a ten-year-old added more spice and flavor to our event.
I didn’t hear anyone groan because of over-eating, but here’s such a complaint I wrote two years ago for our local poets’ contest.
I Did it Again! An Overeater’s Complaint
As men of old did, so I bring
my thanks—for Alka-Seltzer! Sling
--or hide—leftover turkey. Take
me to the bed; my stomachache,
with time and darkness, should abate.
Do not disturb. I loathe myself
each year. With this much food, the elf
and waif within insist I eat
three platefuls: broccoli and sweet
potatoes, dressing, gravy, beans,
cranberry sauce and rolls. My jeans!
Unzip my jeans before I burst!
Ah -- aah. That’s good. I get immersed
in savoring the tastes of pies.
The mincemeat, pumpkin testifies
to culinary skills of those
among us. Cakes and fudge impose
their calories. Today, if I should die,
please bury me with spoon and apple pie.
An item in Joey Green’s book, Contrary to Popular Belief (Broadway Books, 2005) will cover the period between the last of November and Christmas.
In an entry titled, “The Mayflower did not land at Plymouth Rock,” he says that none of the diaries of the Pilgrims mentioned Plymouth Rock. “The Mayflower landed at Provincetown on Cape Cod on November 25, 1620, but deemed the spot unsuitable.”
So a scouting party headed by Captain Miles Standish took an open boat, stopping at Eastham on December 10 and Plymouth on December 26.
A follow-up on last week’s Lentil-Sweet Potato Salad. BAD FLOP. Tasted OK if one likes lentils, but it looked as pitiful as anything I’ve seen. First off, I cooked the entire package of lentils, but I measured out half of them which equaled one cup.
Without weighing, how much potato is two pounds? Its dressing—all of the ingredients I had to buy new—was too sparse for the veggies. I will turn it into either lentil soup or into outside-cat food. The five feral felines will eat … should eat it if they’re hungry enough.
I will spend the week between now and December 3 cleaning floors and windows, moving papers off table tops and organizing them—or tossing toward the recycle box. It is amazing to me how five flat surfaces in this office can gather so much stuff. Surely your office space is neater.
May your early run-up to Christmas be full of dust cloths and window cleaner and wax and furniture polish. And may all of your strings of Christmas lights work at the first plug-in. May your hoses and lawn furniture be out of sight until spring, and don’t forget to add Stabile to your lawn mowers and boat motors.
Welcome to December.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Another November winding down
by Pat Laster
As of November 1, I am no longer employed at any church. As of November 1, I have been away or have chosen not to attend services. Though I haven’t yet written about the new-found freedom from the organ, I did write something that reflected the same situation during the early 1990s. It still fits, except I don’t live close to a park now. Oh, yes, and I don’t power walk any longer.
Here’s the poem called Early Church.
“The park becomes my church this Sabbath day;/ no cloistered walls to keep the sun at bay./ Three robins practice trills to vocalize/ while gurgling brook accompanies with grace./ The grackles try their best to harmonize,/ and peckerwoods show skill with figured bass./ No cloistered walls to keep the sun at bay,/ the park becomes my church this Sabbath day.”
However, I still volunteer as director of the Wednesday Morning Bell Choir. I tried to resign, but if I want to keep my friends’ good will, charity and amity, I will continue leading the group of eight who are dedicated beyond belief—some say they live for Wednesday morning—and who try harder than any child or youth to play their parts well.
Last week, the pastor came by to pray over the group, and he and I exchanged the greatest hug that any two non-blood-or-marriage-related people could. Of course, he’s the same age as my youngest child, so there’s nothing suspect there. “I miss you,” he said. “You’ve got to come back.” I answered, pitifully (I hope), “Please give me a break. Just a little while longer.”
Of course, I’m pleased at his plea. But now that a new choir director and a new organist are in place, they can lead worship and I can take a short vacation.
Thanksgiving looms. As usual, since I don’t have a signature dish (except for the relish tray), I will concoct a dish in honor of our vegetarian who is coming from Portland OR for the holiday.
I found this recipe in the Northwest AR Democrat-Gazette while in Eureka Springs. Stephanie W. Sedgwick of The Washington Post is the source. The title is Warm Lentil and Sweet Potato Salad.
I have arranged the ingredients and the directions together. “Prick one pound of sweet potatoes several time with a skewer or fork, then bake at 375 degrees until soft—45 to 90 minutes. (I will likely microwave the two I purchased--without weighing.) Let cool 25 minutes.
“Meanwhile, place one cup lentils, rinsed and picked clean of any foreign matter, in a 3-to-4-quart pot, adding enough water to cover by one to two inches. Place the pot over medium heat, cover with the lid ajar. When the water begins to boil, adjust the heat so the water stays at a low boil. Cook 25 minutes, until the lentils are tender but not falling apart. Drain.
“Whisk together one-and-one-half tablespoons apple cider vinegar, the same amount of maple syrup, 2 teaspoons Dijon-style mustard, one-fourth teaspoon nutmeg (she says freshly grated, but I will use ground), 2 tablespoons finely chopped chives and salt to taste in a large bowl.
“Slowly add 3 tablespoons olive oil, whisking to incorporate. Add the lentils to the dressing.
“Carefully pull away sweet potato skin. Cut into one-half inch chunks; transfer to the bowl with the lentils. Gently toss to coat evenly with the dressing. Serve warm or at room temperature. Makes 6 servings.”
There will be more than six at our table, but there will be scads of food. I doubt many of the younger folks will even taste the dish, but that’s OK.
I hope you have enjoyed a blessed Thanksgiving.
c 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press
As of November 1, I am no longer employed at any church. As of November 1, I have been away or have chosen not to attend services. Though I haven’t yet written about the new-found freedom from the organ, I did write something that reflected the same situation during the early 1990s. It still fits, except I don’t live close to a park now. Oh, yes, and I don’t power walk any longer.
Here’s the poem called Early Church.
“The park becomes my church this Sabbath day;/ no cloistered walls to keep the sun at bay./ Three robins practice trills to vocalize/ while gurgling brook accompanies with grace./ The grackles try their best to harmonize,/ and peckerwoods show skill with figured bass./ No cloistered walls to keep the sun at bay,/ the park becomes my church this Sabbath day.”
However, I still volunteer as director of the Wednesday Morning Bell Choir. I tried to resign, but if I want to keep my friends’ good will, charity and amity, I will continue leading the group of eight who are dedicated beyond belief—some say they live for Wednesday morning—and who try harder than any child or youth to play their parts well.
Last week, the pastor came by to pray over the group, and he and I exchanged the greatest hug that any two non-blood-or-marriage-related people could. Of course, he’s the same age as my youngest child, so there’s nothing suspect there. “I miss you,” he said. “You’ve got to come back.” I answered, pitifully (I hope), “Please give me a break. Just a little while longer.”
Of course, I’m pleased at his plea. But now that a new choir director and a new organist are in place, they can lead worship and I can take a short vacation.
Thanksgiving looms. As usual, since I don’t have a signature dish (except for the relish tray), I will concoct a dish in honor of our vegetarian who is coming from Portland OR for the holiday.
I found this recipe in the Northwest AR Democrat-Gazette while in Eureka Springs. Stephanie W. Sedgwick of The Washington Post is the source. The title is Warm Lentil and Sweet Potato Salad.
I have arranged the ingredients and the directions together. “Prick one pound of sweet potatoes several time with a skewer or fork, then bake at 375 degrees until soft—45 to 90 minutes. (I will likely microwave the two I purchased--without weighing.) Let cool 25 minutes.
“Meanwhile, place one cup lentils, rinsed and picked clean of any foreign matter, in a 3-to-4-quart pot, adding enough water to cover by one to two inches. Place the pot over medium heat, cover with the lid ajar. When the water begins to boil, adjust the heat so the water stays at a low boil. Cook 25 minutes, until the lentils are tender but not falling apart. Drain.
“Whisk together one-and-one-half tablespoons apple cider vinegar, the same amount of maple syrup, 2 teaspoons Dijon-style mustard, one-fourth teaspoon nutmeg (she says freshly grated, but I will use ground), 2 tablespoons finely chopped chives and salt to taste in a large bowl.
“Slowly add 3 tablespoons olive oil, whisking to incorporate. Add the lentils to the dressing.
“Carefully pull away sweet potato skin. Cut into one-half inch chunks; transfer to the bowl with the lentils. Gently toss to coat evenly with the dressing. Serve warm or at room temperature. Makes 6 servings.”
There will be more than six at our table, but there will be scads of food. I doubt many of the younger folks will even taste the dish, but that’s OK.
I hope you have enjoyed a blessed Thanksgiving.
c 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Sixty-five and older—are we the rich or the poor?
by Pat Laster
The one bud on the Thanksgiving cactus turned out to be four. They are now in full pink bloom. If holly berries count as blooming plants, then add two more. The beautyberry (French mulberry) is bereft of its yellow leaves, so arcs of purple clusters bend in the wind.
Pansies now grace places around the porch. A yellow one is in memory of Uncle Rolla Scott, Mom’s brother, a Marine, who returned home from dangerous missions during World War II, stayed in the Reserves and was called back to Korea.
I planted another pansy in memory of cousin David Pelton, my Dad’s sister’s oldest boy, a Navy veteran. Two more are in memory of Wathena and J. A. Bard, Mom’s sister and husband—my aunt and uncle. She was an Army nurse and he was a pilot.
The newspaper reveals this information: The typical US household headed by a person 65 or older has a net worth 47 times greater than a household headed by someone under 35, according to analysis of census data.
The median net worth of 65- or-older households is $170,494, 42% more than in 1984. Value is considered a home, possessions, savings, investments, bank accounts, land, cars, and boats. Not me—only one car, no land and no boat!
Young adults are facing the highest unemployment since WWII. I’m likely to have a grown grandson living at home for quite a while.
Social Security accounts for 55% of elders’ income. Not mine—I’d be on the dole if that were so.
In a later issue, facts seem to conflict. First, I read this: Americans 65-and-older sustained the largest increases in poverty under the revised formula—one in six—because of rising Medicare premiums, deductibles and expenses for prescription drugs.
The next entry of my journal seems to contradict the first: Because of Social Security, only nine percent of seniors -- or 3.5 million -- live in poverty. Two different articles, two different subjects. Whom to believe? Maybe I’m missing something.
Also, the poverty line equals $11,139 for an individual and $22,314 for a family of four.
“Summer is a-comin’ in, loudly sings cuckoo,” is the beginning of a Middle English round I’ve known for a long time. Let’s parody it with “Winter is a-comin’ in,” but use a poem I wrote-–not a song to be sung.
“A Poem for the Coming Winter” (a Dorsimbra pattern) by Pat Laster: The hardwoods, during autumn’s rain and frost/ and wind, surrender, drop their leaves on earth/ to blanket, nourish, turn—the greenness lost./ Those leaves blow free until they find a berth.//
Knowing winter lurks/ voles and mice scurry to find shelter. / Geese gather, their/ pilgrimage imminent.//
While breezes vagabond through valleys, hills,/ all humankind—inside, nest-warm—prepares/ to feast, give thanks, and watch for changes in/ the hardwoods during autumn’s rain and frost.//
© 2011, lovepat press
The one bud on the Thanksgiving cactus turned out to be four. They are now in full pink bloom. If holly berries count as blooming plants, then add two more. The beautyberry (French mulberry) is bereft of its yellow leaves, so arcs of purple clusters bend in the wind.
Pansies now grace places around the porch. A yellow one is in memory of Uncle Rolla Scott, Mom’s brother, a Marine, who returned home from dangerous missions during World War II, stayed in the Reserves and was called back to Korea.
I planted another pansy in memory of cousin David Pelton, my Dad’s sister’s oldest boy, a Navy veteran. Two more are in memory of Wathena and J. A. Bard, Mom’s sister and husband—my aunt and uncle. She was an Army nurse and he was a pilot.
The newspaper reveals this information: The typical US household headed by a person 65 or older has a net worth 47 times greater than a household headed by someone under 35, according to analysis of census data.
The median net worth of 65- or-older households is $170,494, 42% more than in 1984. Value is considered a home, possessions, savings, investments, bank accounts, land, cars, and boats. Not me—only one car, no land and no boat!
Young adults are facing the highest unemployment since WWII. I’m likely to have a grown grandson living at home for quite a while.
Social Security accounts for 55% of elders’ income. Not mine—I’d be on the dole if that were so.
In a later issue, facts seem to conflict. First, I read this: Americans 65-and-older sustained the largest increases in poverty under the revised formula—one in six—because of rising Medicare premiums, deductibles and expenses for prescription drugs.
The next entry of my journal seems to contradict the first: Because of Social Security, only nine percent of seniors -- or 3.5 million -- live in poverty. Two different articles, two different subjects. Whom to believe? Maybe I’m missing something.
Also, the poverty line equals $11,139 for an individual and $22,314 for a family of four.
“Summer is a-comin’ in, loudly sings cuckoo,” is the beginning of a Middle English round I’ve known for a long time. Let’s parody it with “Winter is a-comin’ in,” but use a poem I wrote-–not a song to be sung.
“A Poem for the Coming Winter” (a Dorsimbra pattern) by Pat Laster: The hardwoods, during autumn’s rain and frost/ and wind, surrender, drop their leaves on earth/ to blanket, nourish, turn—the greenness lost./ Those leaves blow free until they find a berth.//
Knowing winter lurks/ voles and mice scurry to find shelter. / Geese gather, their/ pilgrimage imminent.//
While breezes vagabond through valleys, hills,/ all humankind—inside, nest-warm—prepares/ to feast, give thanks, and watch for changes in/ the hardwoods during autumn’s rain and frost.//
© 2011, lovepat press
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Chided by the gas company
by Pat Laster
Here’s yet another heavy metal story.
In Centerton AR, scrap iron thieves made off with 55 manhole covers @110 pounds each, and 70 water-meter lids @ 50 pounds each.
With the going price for scrap metal at eleven cents per pound, officials estimated a potential $13,000 worth of goods. Wouldn’t you hate to be the salvage-yard operator when these came in to the business? Stay tuned.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY today (November 10) to my older daughter, Jennifer Lynn (nee Paulus), who was the first girl to be born in either family for many years. She is one of my four––five counting Kid Billy—“prides-and-joys.”
She is an occupational therapist in the public schools, mother of fifth-grader Jake, wife of Brian, and part caregiver to three dogs. She “does” house and yard plants, too, (like her mother, ahem) and collects Kurt Vonnegut novels. She was a foreign exchange student to Germany during the mid-1980s.
Plants in bloom as I drove around the house after two weeks away, were wild asters—both blue and white—abelia, several large bushes of mums, oxalis, a bright pink gerbera daisy, the yellow zinnias, Encore azaleas, purple jew, one lamb’s ear, several Wave petunias revived after I cut them back, and occasional dianthus rounds. Inside, begonia, African violets, Mandevilla bloom, and there are four buds on the Thanksgiving cactus. Blessed am I with living things—in addition to cats.
SOAP BOX: If this doesn’t beat all, as my sainted mother would say. I arrive home to two weeks of “held” mail only to find this piece from CenterPoint Energy: “Last winter, you used 53 percent more natural gas than your neighbors.” Which I took (again, like my mother), as a chide, a shaming technique, a “naughty, naughty!” First of all, my parents taught us that we didn’t have to be like the neighbors. “Keeping up with the Jones” was an anathema at our house.
“Who are your neighbors?” the document asked. Answer: “Approximately 100 occupied nearby homes that are similar in size to yours (avg.2497 sq ft) and have gas heat.” My questions: how does the gas company know how large my house is, and how did they decide which homes were that size? Mine was built in the 1930s, and all homes around here that size were built after that. Waaaaay after that.
On the back side of the page was a comparison chart—mine was in a solid blue line; theirs were muted, dotted lines very far below mine. A second shame technique! And their suggestions to “help me” were:
1. Program your thermostat. I use space heaters, ergo, no thermostat.
2. Weatherstrip windows and doors. I do that.
3. Install efficient showerheads. They told me they knew that about 40% of my hot water usage is because of showering. Well, I’ll let them know, ‘t’ain’t so!! With KB in college and my occasional shower (in favor of sit-down baths), there’s no way.
A way to “outperform your neighbors this winter” is to (ahem) purchase (aha!) and install (aha!-doubled) a qualifying high-efficiency natural gas heating system.” And on and on. They are going to hear from me!!
I mustn’t rant to the exclusion of Veteran’s Day tomorrow: Here is a thought or three. “military parade/ so many of them marching/ behind the flag” and “the little girl/ and her doll/ among the veterans” and “crisp autumn winds~/ praise all veterans who fought (fight)/ for our liberty”.
Amen and amen.
Here’s yet another heavy metal story.
In Centerton AR, scrap iron thieves made off with 55 manhole covers @110 pounds each, and 70 water-meter lids @ 50 pounds each.
With the going price for scrap metal at eleven cents per pound, officials estimated a potential $13,000 worth of goods. Wouldn’t you hate to be the salvage-yard operator when these came in to the business? Stay tuned.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY today (November 10) to my older daughter, Jennifer Lynn (nee Paulus), who was the first girl to be born in either family for many years. She is one of my four––five counting Kid Billy—“prides-and-joys.”
She is an occupational therapist in the public schools, mother of fifth-grader Jake, wife of Brian, and part caregiver to three dogs. She “does” house and yard plants, too, (like her mother, ahem) and collects Kurt Vonnegut novels. She was a foreign exchange student to Germany during the mid-1980s.
Plants in bloom as I drove around the house after two weeks away, were wild asters—both blue and white—abelia, several large bushes of mums, oxalis, a bright pink gerbera daisy, the yellow zinnias, Encore azaleas, purple jew, one lamb’s ear, several Wave petunias revived after I cut them back, and occasional dianthus rounds. Inside, begonia, African violets, Mandevilla bloom, and there are four buds on the Thanksgiving cactus. Blessed am I with living things—in addition to cats.
SOAP BOX: If this doesn’t beat all, as my sainted mother would say. I arrive home to two weeks of “held” mail only to find this piece from CenterPoint Energy: “Last winter, you used 53 percent more natural gas than your neighbors.” Which I took (again, like my mother), as a chide, a shaming technique, a “naughty, naughty!” First of all, my parents taught us that we didn’t have to be like the neighbors. “Keeping up with the Jones” was an anathema at our house.
“Who are your neighbors?” the document asked. Answer: “Approximately 100 occupied nearby homes that are similar in size to yours (avg.2497 sq ft) and have gas heat.” My questions: how does the gas company know how large my house is, and how did they decide which homes were that size? Mine was built in the 1930s, and all homes around here that size were built after that. Waaaaay after that.
On the back side of the page was a comparison chart—mine was in a solid blue line; theirs were muted, dotted lines very far below mine. A second shame technique! And their suggestions to “help me” were:
1. Program your thermostat. I use space heaters, ergo, no thermostat.
2. Weatherstrip windows and doors. I do that.
3. Install efficient showerheads. They told me they knew that about 40% of my hot water usage is because of showering. Well, I’ll let them know, ‘t’ain’t so!! With KB in college and my occasional shower (in favor of sit-down baths), there’s no way.
A way to “outperform your neighbors this winter” is to (ahem) purchase (aha!) and install (aha!-doubled) a qualifying high-efficiency natural gas heating system.” And on and on. They are going to hear from me!!
I mustn’t rant to the exclusion of Veteran’s Day tomorrow: Here is a thought or three. “military parade/ so many of them marching/ behind the flag” and “the little girl/ and her doll/ among the veterans” and “crisp autumn winds~/ praise all veterans who fought (fight)/ for our liberty”.
Amen and amen.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
In addition to writing . . .
by Pat Laster
Besides writing at the (ahem) writers’ colony this year, I decided to add another activity: a daily walk. With the ups and downs, hills and valleys, twists and turns in this town, I was pretty sure I would work up (walk up) an elevated heart rate.
DAY ONE: Dress: bluejeans, t-shirt, old walking shoes. Route: up the rocky eroded path across from the Colony to the Crescent Hotel parking lot, thence to the street winding down in front of St. Elizabeth’s Church to Spring Street, down Spring St. to #515, my home-away-from-home. Huffing, puffing up the hill (noticing rocks and roots I’d like to take back to Couchwood), catching my breath downhill and on the level street to “home.” Time: 25 minutes.
DAY TWO: Dress: knit tapered pants, a long-tailed, long-sleeved Henderson Reddie t-shirt that showed stomach/hip protrusions. Goal-within-a-goal: by the end of two weeks, no protrusions. Shoes had sprung a flapping sole; jury-rigged with a rubber band for the moment. Route: the reverse of yesterday, except downward on Spring Street instead of the rocky decline. Huffing and puffing on the upward climb, jogging on the downward stretch. Time: 25 minutes.
DAY THREE: Dress: same as yesterday; I didn’t even look for the aforesaid protrusions; I knew they were still there. Route: Of all the times I’ve been a resident here, I’d never ventured further down Polk Street--on the back side of the Colony--than to the Farm House across Dairy Hollow Road which at one time sheltered three more writers.
So, I decided to walk down Dairy Hollow Road which I calculated as north. Good. Not much traffic. Level. Nondescript dwellings, unkempt yards, and then a pasture-like area. Two deer bounded across the road from the forest to the green space.
On and on I walked. I knew there was a private or church school not far. Sure enough, there it was, at the T in the road. Dairy Hollow turned right and climbed severely. The other way climbed more gently so I took it. Besides, it was the direction “home.”
Anderson Road, it was, and it led to the ubiquitous incline, so I slowed. By that time, the rubber band had popped off and my right sole was flapping.
Folks, this was hard climbing. Especially for a 70-something who only walked to the mailbox or the pear tree or to the shed during the day. I’d been walking for thirty minutes. Ahead, I heard dogs and hoped against hope they were penned. They were, but my! they were large. And loud. I slogged on up and around a bend. Houses appeared. I finally saw a human and hailed him. “Any shortcut to the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked.
He pointed as he talked. “Up here a’ways is a street to the left; it jogs more to the left to Tad’s, then to the Joy Motel . . . Don’t go to the highway,” he said. I thanked him, said, yes, I knew my way now, but lawsy me! I was at the junction of 62W, 62B and Scenic Route 62. I was mile upon curvy mile from home!
But at least I knew where home was. And it was still daylight though nearly six p.m. I walked on sidewalks not two feet from some houses. The autumn/Halloween decorations and chrysanthemums were everywhere. A white bush-flower that I knew but couldn’t put a name to except “Aberystwrth” (the Welsh tune to “Jesus, Lover of my Soul”) grew alongside the paths.
Finally, 45 minutes into my daily walk/slog, I remembered the plant name: ageratum. I had grown the blue kind many years ago.
One hour after I began walking, I stepped onto Writers Colony grounds. I’d made a complete circle. I deserved a treat, I did. So I gathered up food from the residents’ fridge (pre-ordered) and made the last few steps uphill to my suite. My treat: ice cream.
Forget losing the protrusions. I deserve this. #
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press. Check out my poetry blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com, and my first novel, A Journey of Choice, on Amazon, etc.
Besides writing at the (ahem) writers’ colony this year, I decided to add another activity: a daily walk. With the ups and downs, hills and valleys, twists and turns in this town, I was pretty sure I would work up (walk up) an elevated heart rate.
DAY ONE: Dress: bluejeans, t-shirt, old walking shoes. Route: up the rocky eroded path across from the Colony to the Crescent Hotel parking lot, thence to the street winding down in front of St. Elizabeth’s Church to Spring Street, down Spring St. to #515, my home-away-from-home. Huffing, puffing up the hill (noticing rocks and roots I’d like to take back to Couchwood), catching my breath downhill and on the level street to “home.” Time: 25 minutes.
DAY TWO: Dress: knit tapered pants, a long-tailed, long-sleeved Henderson Reddie t-shirt that showed stomach/hip protrusions. Goal-within-a-goal: by the end of two weeks, no protrusions. Shoes had sprung a flapping sole; jury-rigged with a rubber band for the moment. Route: the reverse of yesterday, except downward on Spring Street instead of the rocky decline. Huffing and puffing on the upward climb, jogging on the downward stretch. Time: 25 minutes.
DAY THREE: Dress: same as yesterday; I didn’t even look for the aforesaid protrusions; I knew they were still there. Route: Of all the times I’ve been a resident here, I’d never ventured further down Polk Street--on the back side of the Colony--than to the Farm House across Dairy Hollow Road which at one time sheltered three more writers.
So, I decided to walk down Dairy Hollow Road which I calculated as north. Good. Not much traffic. Level. Nondescript dwellings, unkempt yards, and then a pasture-like area. Two deer bounded across the road from the forest to the green space.
On and on I walked. I knew there was a private or church school not far. Sure enough, there it was, at the T in the road. Dairy Hollow turned right and climbed severely. The other way climbed more gently so I took it. Besides, it was the direction “home.”
Anderson Road, it was, and it led to the ubiquitous incline, so I slowed. By that time, the rubber band had popped off and my right sole was flapping.
Folks, this was hard climbing. Especially for a 70-something who only walked to the mailbox or the pear tree or to the shed during the day. I’d been walking for thirty minutes. Ahead, I heard dogs and hoped against hope they were penned. They were, but my! they were large. And loud. I slogged on up and around a bend. Houses appeared. I finally saw a human and hailed him. “Any shortcut to the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked.
He pointed as he talked. “Up here a’ways is a street to the left; it jogs more to the left to Tad’s, then to the Joy Motel . . . Don’t go to the highway,” he said. I thanked him, said, yes, I knew my way now, but lawsy me! I was at the junction of 62W, 62B and Scenic Route 62. I was mile upon curvy mile from home!
But at least I knew where home was. And it was still daylight though nearly six p.m. I walked on sidewalks not two feet from some houses. The autumn/Halloween decorations and chrysanthemums were everywhere. A white bush-flower that I knew but couldn’t put a name to except “Aberystwrth” (the Welsh tune to “Jesus, Lover of my Soul”) grew alongside the paths.
Finally, 45 minutes into my daily walk/slog, I remembered the plant name: ageratum. I had grown the blue kind many years ago.
One hour after I began walking, I stepped onto Writers Colony grounds. I’d made a complete circle. I deserved a treat, I did. So I gathered up food from the residents’ fridge (pre-ordered) and made the last few steps uphill to my suite. My treat: ice cream.
Forget losing the protrusions. I deserve this. #
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press. Check out my poetry blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com, and my first novel, A Journey of Choice, on Amazon, etc.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Once more in the Ozarks to write
by Pat Laster
As I type this on a Wednesday evening in Dairy Hollow’s Spring Garden Suite, I haven’t yet investigated Little Switzerland--as Eureka Springs is often called--for its fall foliage.
However, the trip up Highway 65 afforded many sightings of yellow hickory, red sumac and sweet gum’s still-muted variegated colors. I determined to stop somewhere on the way home and buy a hickory and some sumac to go with the sassafras and crape myrtle already growing on Couchwood.
The wind and the change in temperature brought on another bout of sneezing and nasal drip as I drove through Clinton, Marshall, Dennard, Leslie, St. Joe, Bellefonte, Harrison and Alpena. At Green Forest, traffic was stopped across from the cattle-sale barn for ten or twelve minutes while some road overlay happened.
I arrived at the Writers Colony to find a new director, Mary Jo, with bad news: the toilet in my suite was acting ugly. A plumber had been called and was supposed to be on site that afternoon. If possible.
IF POSSIBLE??? But the stars were aligned as some folks describe it. I drove around the curve to the parking space as Mr. Plumber pulled up to my front door. While the young man worked, I carried in case after case (clothes and writing materials/books) and placed them out of the way.
I held the door while he brought in a “John-in-a-box.” I piddled around in the work space/kitchenette—the mini-fridge had not been turned up—and the microwave was uneven on its platform.
Soon, I heard the man say, “This isn’t gonna work,” or maybe he said “ain’t,” and traipsed back through the suite lugging the “cheap—one-hundred dollar,” er, john. “I’ll have to go back to the shop and get another one.”
“Where’s the shop?” I asked in alarm. “Rogers? Bentonville?”
“No, it’s in town,” and away he flew--as fast as anyone can fly while negotiating a hairpin curve and a steep climb from the valley.
While he was gone, I jury-rigged the crippled microwave with a 3 by 5 note card bent six ways to Sunday. It worked, but I added the situation to my evaluation form. The next writer will have the same problem if it’s not corrected.
Soon, the plumber, bald as an unwigged mannequin, returned with a “more expensive, but in these old houses, the only solution” toilet. Installed quickly. Problem solved.
Given my recent experiences, I asked him about recycling. “All but the porcelain—it’s clay—and the plastic.” About once a month, he loads his trailer, he said, and takes everything else to a salvage yard. The proceeds he splits with his boss. “About $200 a month,” he allowed. “Good pay for the likes of me.”
Now, it is Friday evening. Though there are two more residents here—one from Seattle; one from New York--they ate out, so I dined alone at the big table in the Main House. Vegetable-bean soup, tossed salad, cornbread and chocolate pudding left by the cook who leaves as early as she can—the economy has hit the non-profits hard—but not before placing sticky notes to “turn off the stove,” and “salad in the fridge; have a great weekend.”
I’m sure I’ll have a great weekend: no organ to play, no choir rehearsal to attend, no cats to feed, no pears to peel. I can sit on this front porch not six feet from the street, watch and listen as the bikers roar by this curve, the sound lingering, lingering as they maneuver the hairpin and the incline.
Maybe tomorrow night I’ll hear the clip-clop of the horse-drawn carriage rides.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
As I type this on a Wednesday evening in Dairy Hollow’s Spring Garden Suite, I haven’t yet investigated Little Switzerland--as Eureka Springs is often called--for its fall foliage.
However, the trip up Highway 65 afforded many sightings of yellow hickory, red sumac and sweet gum’s still-muted variegated colors. I determined to stop somewhere on the way home and buy a hickory and some sumac to go with the sassafras and crape myrtle already growing on Couchwood.
The wind and the change in temperature brought on another bout of sneezing and nasal drip as I drove through Clinton, Marshall, Dennard, Leslie, St. Joe, Bellefonte, Harrison and Alpena. At Green Forest, traffic was stopped across from the cattle-sale barn for ten or twelve minutes while some road overlay happened.
I arrived at the Writers Colony to find a new director, Mary Jo, with bad news: the toilet in my suite was acting ugly. A plumber had been called and was supposed to be on site that afternoon. If possible.
IF POSSIBLE??? But the stars were aligned as some folks describe it. I drove around the curve to the parking space as Mr. Plumber pulled up to my front door. While the young man worked, I carried in case after case (clothes and writing materials/books) and placed them out of the way.
I held the door while he brought in a “John-in-a-box.” I piddled around in the work space/kitchenette—the mini-fridge had not been turned up—and the microwave was uneven on its platform.
Soon, I heard the man say, “This isn’t gonna work,” or maybe he said “ain’t,” and traipsed back through the suite lugging the “cheap—one-hundred dollar,” er, john. “I’ll have to go back to the shop and get another one.”
“Where’s the shop?” I asked in alarm. “Rogers? Bentonville?”
“No, it’s in town,” and away he flew--as fast as anyone can fly while negotiating a hairpin curve and a steep climb from the valley.
While he was gone, I jury-rigged the crippled microwave with a 3 by 5 note card bent six ways to Sunday. It worked, but I added the situation to my evaluation form. The next writer will have the same problem if it’s not corrected.
Soon, the plumber, bald as an unwigged mannequin, returned with a “more expensive, but in these old houses, the only solution” toilet. Installed quickly. Problem solved.
Given my recent experiences, I asked him about recycling. “All but the porcelain—it’s clay—and the plastic.” About once a month, he loads his trailer, he said, and takes everything else to a salvage yard. The proceeds he splits with his boss. “About $200 a month,” he allowed. “Good pay for the likes of me.”
Now, it is Friday evening. Though there are two more residents here—one from Seattle; one from New York--they ate out, so I dined alone at the big table in the Main House. Vegetable-bean soup, tossed salad, cornbread and chocolate pudding left by the cook who leaves as early as she can—the economy has hit the non-profits hard—but not before placing sticky notes to “turn off the stove,” and “salad in the fridge; have a great weekend.”
I’m sure I’ll have a great weekend: no organ to play, no choir rehearsal to attend, no cats to feed, no pears to peel. I can sit on this front porch not six feet from the street, watch and listen as the bikers roar by this curve, the sound lingering, lingering as they maneuver the hairpin and the incline.
Maybe tomorrow night I’ll hear the clip-clop of the horse-drawn carriage rides.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Friday, October 21, 2011
Just a little more on scrap metal, then to other subjects.
by Pat Laster
I can’t seem to get away from the subject of scrap metal, the term now preferred to ‘scrap iron’. One day recently, the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette ran an article about two scrap metal thieves, ages 48 and 55. Criminy, fellows, get a life!! Oh. They already did.
However, my brother in CA told of a person he knows, a well-careered “suit,” who began collecting scrap on the side. One day, a colleague told him about some scrap in the company’s venue, giving the collector the understanding that he was OK-ing it, so our man took it home and added it to his collection. The rat-colleague then went to his boss, and our man was fired for stealing. Now, collecting is his sole income.
And if that weren’t enough, a recent crossword puzzle contained this clue: “Scrap yard material.” Answer M-E-T-A-L.
Just when I intended to segue into another subject, I see a one-sentence “brief” in Sunday’s paper. Two brothers, 24 and 25, were accused of stealing a western Pennsylvania bridge and selling the fifteen-and-a-half tons of scrap metal for more than $5,000! Geez Louise!
Grandson/ward Billy, 21, came home during Fall Break last week after I sent him gas money. He goes through funds like . . . like . . . like any college kid will if allowed. He insists band students do not have time for jobs; that his survey (as I asked him to do) showed many band students DON’T have jobs. I wonder how many marchers were in his poll.
Kid Billy wanted to see his Papa (his grandfather--my ex) so I told him to call and invite them to meet us somewhere for lunch on Sunday. Ex and long-time lady friend accepted and KB chose Colton’s. As the old newspaper columns about community happenings described events in their area, “a good time was had by all.” KB is back at Henderson with a fresh stash of cash. When I called to see if he’d gotten “home,” he was at Arkadelphia Wal-Mart “picking up some things.” See what I mean?
How about some mind-teasers?
First question: What do Tarwater, Tong, Ye, Push, Fudge, Ertel, Constantino, Seeds and Kyles have in common?
Second question: What do Jia-Li, Jannel, Japan, DeeKotah, Champion, Serif and Hero have in common?
Third question: Who said this? “Death is very likely the best invention of life. All pride, fear of embarrassment or failure, these things just fall away in the face of death.”
Fourth question: What do these words have in common? Twist, Jacinto, Gill, Ladds, Tomahawk, Elberta, Redding, Sage and Swan Lake?
Fifth question: What do these acronyms stand for? UNESCO, GRAIL, STRIVE.
Ready for the answers? First question answered: They are surnames as found in my reading of daily and weekly newspapers that come to Couchwood.
Second question answered: They are all given names from the same family as found in an obituary.
Third question answered: the late Steve Jobs.
Fourth question answered: Places in Arkansas at one time or another.
Fifth question answered: UNESCO = United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. It “tiptoes through diplomatic minefields to maintain consensus.” Its stated mission is “the promotion of peace and human rights through cultural dialogue.” (AP)
GRAIL = Gravity Recovery and Interior Laboratory.
STRIVE = Special Training in Remedial Instruction and Vocational Education, a proposed charter school.
I wonder if Eureka Springs, Arkansas is as delightful in the fall as it is in the spring.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
I can’t seem to get away from the subject of scrap metal, the term now preferred to ‘scrap iron’. One day recently, the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette ran an article about two scrap metal thieves, ages 48 and 55. Criminy, fellows, get a life!! Oh. They already did.
However, my brother in CA told of a person he knows, a well-careered “suit,” who began collecting scrap on the side. One day, a colleague told him about some scrap in the company’s venue, giving the collector the understanding that he was OK-ing it, so our man took it home and added it to his collection. The rat-colleague then went to his boss, and our man was fired for stealing. Now, collecting is his sole income.
And if that weren’t enough, a recent crossword puzzle contained this clue: “Scrap yard material.” Answer M-E-T-A-L.
Just when I intended to segue into another subject, I see a one-sentence “brief” in Sunday’s paper. Two brothers, 24 and 25, were accused of stealing a western Pennsylvania bridge and selling the fifteen-and-a-half tons of scrap metal for more than $5,000! Geez Louise!
Grandson/ward Billy, 21, came home during Fall Break last week after I sent him gas money. He goes through funds like . . . like . . . like any college kid will if allowed. He insists band students do not have time for jobs; that his survey (as I asked him to do) showed many band students DON’T have jobs. I wonder how many marchers were in his poll.
Kid Billy wanted to see his Papa (his grandfather--my ex) so I told him to call and invite them to meet us somewhere for lunch on Sunday. Ex and long-time lady friend accepted and KB chose Colton’s. As the old newspaper columns about community happenings described events in their area, “a good time was had by all.” KB is back at Henderson with a fresh stash of cash. When I called to see if he’d gotten “home,” he was at Arkadelphia Wal-Mart “picking up some things.” See what I mean?
How about some mind-teasers?
First question: What do Tarwater, Tong, Ye, Push, Fudge, Ertel, Constantino, Seeds and Kyles have in common?
Second question: What do Jia-Li, Jannel, Japan, DeeKotah, Champion, Serif and Hero have in common?
Third question: Who said this? “Death is very likely the best invention of life. All pride, fear of embarrassment or failure, these things just fall away in the face of death.”
Fourth question: What do these words have in common? Twist, Jacinto, Gill, Ladds, Tomahawk, Elberta, Redding, Sage and Swan Lake?
Fifth question: What do these acronyms stand for? UNESCO, GRAIL, STRIVE.
Ready for the answers? First question answered: They are surnames as found in my reading of daily and weekly newspapers that come to Couchwood.
Second question answered: They are all given names from the same family as found in an obituary.
Third question answered: the late Steve Jobs.
Fourth question answered: Places in Arkansas at one time or another.
Fifth question answered: UNESCO = United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization. It “tiptoes through diplomatic minefields to maintain consensus.” Its stated mission is “the promotion of peace and human rights through cultural dialogue.” (AP)
GRAIL = Gravity Recovery and Interior Laboratory.
STRIVE = Special Training in Remedial Instruction and Vocational Education, a proposed charter school.
I wonder if Eureka Springs, Arkansas is as delightful in the fall as it is in the spring.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Quite a response to last week’s scrap iron post
by Pat Laster
Chrysanthemums are blooming everywhere. In my yard are various sizes and colors: maroon, bronze and pink. By now, all your houseplants should be inside.I have hauled a money tree, corn plant, schefflera, mother-in-law’s tongue, split-leafed philodendron, Chinese lily and a 6-foot Norfolk pine into the computer/sunroom.
Last week’s column on scrap metal mongering brought several responses about others’ experiences.
One Little Rock friend told that he and his wife decided to clear the clutter under their house and deck––‘a life time collection of car parts, bicycles, water tanks, etc.’
“We too, found the ABC Salvage on Stagecoach Road and hauled the scrap there. My intention was to just get rid of it in an environmentally friendly way. When I got there I found that they actually pay you for the scrap. You segregate it into ferrous and non-ferrous metals, they scan your driver's license, weigh the non-ferrous metals, have you drive over a truck-like scale and drive down into the collection ‘yard’.
“You dump the load and drive back over the scale. All this data is apparently electronically sent to the office where you go to collect your cash. As a result of two trips with my Saturn-loads of scrap, we collected about $300 for our troubles. I thought this was quite good since we were primarily interested in ‘just getting rid of the scrap’."
A Mountain Home reader emailed this reply: “Really enjoyed this column - it covers recycling, getting rid (in a good and useful way and helpful too) of stuff you've had around for ages and would never ever use or need again, and you told it in a most poetic way - I see bits and pieces of poetry and/or poems in this column.” (Blush.)
A reader in Clinton says of her son, “S. has sold scrap copper and brass to ABC salvage, among others in Harrison. He gives away old water heaters to a local man who then carts them to salvage.”
She also asked if the water heater was ever picked up. My answer: “Yes, he brought a helper a day or two later and got it. The copper on top he said would be worth $3.”
Then she replied, “Copper is high. G. [husband] wants S. to take the scrap copper off the heaters he gives away, but do you think that happens? No. And his workers could do that.
“Young folks, who did not live in the Depression Years!!! Nor did I, but I was born then and have heard the stories . . . sometimes, it seems those times may be coming back.”
A Beebe friend and reader responded: “I remember Mother giving out food, with drinks in a fruit jar she let them [the scrap-iron folks] keep. She always found some leftovers or scrambled up some eggs or something.”
Do you also think we might be headed back [oxymoron?] to life and times of the 1930s?
Chrysanthemums are blooming everywhere. In my yard are various sizes and colors: maroon, bronze and pink. By now, all your houseplants should be inside.I have hauled a money tree, corn plant, schefflera, mother-in-law’s tongue, split-leafed philodendron, Chinese lily and a 6-foot Norfolk pine into the computer/sunroom.
Last week’s column on scrap metal mongering brought several responses about others’ experiences.
One Little Rock friend told that he and his wife decided to clear the clutter under their house and deck––‘a life time collection of car parts, bicycles, water tanks, etc.’
“We too, found the ABC Salvage on Stagecoach Road and hauled the scrap there. My intention was to just get rid of it in an environmentally friendly way. When I got there I found that they actually pay you for the scrap. You segregate it into ferrous and non-ferrous metals, they scan your driver's license, weigh the non-ferrous metals, have you drive over a truck-like scale and drive down into the collection ‘yard’.
“You dump the load and drive back over the scale. All this data is apparently electronically sent to the office where you go to collect your cash. As a result of two trips with my Saturn-loads of scrap, we collected about $300 for our troubles. I thought this was quite good since we were primarily interested in ‘just getting rid of the scrap’."
A Mountain Home reader emailed this reply: “Really enjoyed this column - it covers recycling, getting rid (in a good and useful way and helpful too) of stuff you've had around for ages and would never ever use or need again, and you told it in a most poetic way - I see bits and pieces of poetry and/or poems in this column.” (Blush.)
A reader in Clinton says of her son, “S. has sold scrap copper and brass to ABC salvage, among others in Harrison. He gives away old water heaters to a local man who then carts them to salvage.”
She also asked if the water heater was ever picked up. My answer: “Yes, he brought a helper a day or two later and got it. The copper on top he said would be worth $3.”
Then she replied, “Copper is high. G. [husband] wants S. to take the scrap copper off the heaters he gives away, but do you think that happens? No. And his workers could do that.
“Young folks, who did not live in the Depression Years!!! Nor did I, but I was born then and have heard the stories . . . sometimes, it seems those times may be coming back.”
A Beebe friend and reader responded: “I remember Mother giving out food, with drinks in a fruit jar she let them [the scrap-iron folks] keep. She always found some leftovers or scrambled up some eggs or something.”
Do you also think we might be headed back [oxymoron?] to life and times of the 1930s?
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Yes, there’s still a market for scrap iron, er, scrap metal
by Pat Laster
CORRECTION/ CLARIFICATION about an item in last week’s post. My uncle from Oak Ridge reminded me that I should have said “Interstate Forty is 284 miles long IN ARKANSAS.”
New blooms since last week: a blue double African violet from a plant I started with a leaf, a red epesia (sometimes called a trailing violet) that loves food and sunlight, a yellow canna and several red naked-lady lilies along the back circle drive.
An unusual happening: a scrap iron monger/collector came by one day last week. In this day and age? “There’s still a market for scrap iron?” I asked.
“Got any old washing-machines or water heaters that need hauling off?” In fact, I DID have a water heater in the basement.
Shades of the 1940s! As a child, I remember collecting scrap iron for the war effort.
“Time’s is hard,” he said, waving his hands. “I ain’t no criminal,” he assured me, as I still stood behind the storm door.
“Meet me around back,” I said, and I dashed to retrieve my housecoat, which I snapped all the way down (It was time for a nap, so I was dressed in p.j. bottoms and a tee shirt).
We met at the back; I asked his name, where he lived and where he took his load. A backwoodsman (well-enough-fed, it looked like) doing enough business to own an electric metal cutter and a low-sided trailer hitched behind his old-model, windshield-cracked black truck.
We never made it to the basement. I allowed him to take down the temporary barrier at the old driveway made of concrete blocks and landscape timbers so he could drive close to the shed. (Since he drove out the other side of the yard, he forgot to put the barrier back.)
He mentioned he knew one of my Pelton cousins and said he’d always loved this house.
“Built in 1932,” I said. And he nodded.
From the shed porch and the southwest corner of the back yard hidden by privet and honeysuckle, we gathered up a storm/screen door, a HEAVY cafeteria-sized folding table, an old grill, a swing set from Kid Billy’s childhood, a vent pipe from the now-defunct gas water heater, a crippled wheelbarrow, a rusty spring for a baby crib and a child’s lawn chair with rotted webbing.
It was early afternoon and sunny. He puffed and blew and said something about a glass of ice. I dutifully went in while he loaded his unused, but-plugged-in-just-in-case, metal cutter, and found a large Styrofoam cup. I filled it with both ice and water, and took it out, handed it to him—Heath, he said, like the candy bar.
Profuse thanks from both of us ensued. “When is the best time to come by?” he asked, and I told him. His last words were, “Call me.”
Scrap iron collectors. What used to be old is new again? Maybe not.
Online information shows that ABC Salvage on Stagecoach Road in Little Rock has been in business since 1985 with an annual revenue from $5-10 million and employs a staff of from 10-19. Searching further, I learned that many world countries deal in scrap metals.
Are there scrap metal collectors in your town? Ferret them out if you have stuff lying around. It will help others as well as yourself. #
CORRECTION/ CLARIFICATION about an item in last week’s post. My uncle from Oak Ridge reminded me that I should have said “Interstate Forty is 284 miles long IN ARKANSAS.”
New blooms since last week: a blue double African violet from a plant I started with a leaf, a red epesia (sometimes called a trailing violet) that loves food and sunlight, a yellow canna and several red naked-lady lilies along the back circle drive.
An unusual happening: a scrap iron monger/collector came by one day last week. In this day and age? “There’s still a market for scrap iron?” I asked.
“Got any old washing-machines or water heaters that need hauling off?” In fact, I DID have a water heater in the basement.
Shades of the 1940s! As a child, I remember collecting scrap iron for the war effort.
“Time’s is hard,” he said, waving his hands. “I ain’t no criminal,” he assured me, as I still stood behind the storm door.
“Meet me around back,” I said, and I dashed to retrieve my housecoat, which I snapped all the way down (It was time for a nap, so I was dressed in p.j. bottoms and a tee shirt).
We met at the back; I asked his name, where he lived and where he took his load. A backwoodsman (well-enough-fed, it looked like) doing enough business to own an electric metal cutter and a low-sided trailer hitched behind his old-model, windshield-cracked black truck.
We never made it to the basement. I allowed him to take down the temporary barrier at the old driveway made of concrete blocks and landscape timbers so he could drive close to the shed. (Since he drove out the other side of the yard, he forgot to put the barrier back.)
He mentioned he knew one of my Pelton cousins and said he’d always loved this house.
“Built in 1932,” I said. And he nodded.
From the shed porch and the southwest corner of the back yard hidden by privet and honeysuckle, we gathered up a storm/screen door, a HEAVY cafeteria-sized folding table, an old grill, a swing set from Kid Billy’s childhood, a vent pipe from the now-defunct gas water heater, a crippled wheelbarrow, a rusty spring for a baby crib and a child’s lawn chair with rotted webbing.
It was early afternoon and sunny. He puffed and blew and said something about a glass of ice. I dutifully went in while he loaded his unused, but-plugged-in-just-in-case, metal cutter, and found a large Styrofoam cup. I filled it with both ice and water, and took it out, handed it to him—Heath, he said, like the candy bar.
Profuse thanks from both of us ensued. “When is the best time to come by?” he asked, and I told him. His last words were, “Call me.”
Scrap iron collectors. What used to be old is new again? Maybe not.
Online information shows that ABC Salvage on Stagecoach Road in Little Rock has been in business since 1985 with an annual revenue from $5-10 million and employs a staff of from 10-19. Searching further, I learned that many world countries deal in scrap metals.
Are there scrap metal collectors in your town? Ferret them out if you have stuff lying around. It will help others as well as yourself. #
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Autumn in (and about) Arkansas
by Pat Laster
Still blooming on Couchwood Hill are Encore azaleas (spotty—I didn’t feed them), crape myrtle, dianthus, variegated wandering jew, Wave petunias (revived from a spring planter), common begonia, yellow zinnias, pink mini roses, Mandevilla (only a few), 7 yucca torches, oxalis, abelia, mums, purple monkey grass, a lone lamb’s ear and a community of yellow wildflowers.
The beautyberries are so dense and heavy that the bush umbrellaed to the ground, providing a haven for three kittens that magically appeared a few weeks ago.
It’s about time I used some of the information collected in what I’m calling a Compendium of Journal Jottings. The rest of the column includes items collected from my readings under the heading of “Around Arkansas.” Readings include the Arkansas Democrat Gazette, Arkansas Times, The Saline Courier, The Amity Standard, Harper’s and New York Times Book Review.
* The position of the state poet laureate was established October 10, 1923, by concurrent resolutions of both houses of the Legislature. Charles T. Davis was the first person named to the post.
* Camp Magnolia in southern Arkansas was where religious conscientious objectors were housed during WWII.
* William Sebastian, namesake of Sebastian County, began his US Senate career in 1947 as the 30th Congress’ youngest senator at age 37.
* Ten counties (as of April 1 2011) operate with two judicial districts and dual courthouses. Carroll and Clay are two of them.
*2011 is the first time in Arkansas history that counties were split when [congressional] district lines were drawn after the 2010 census. Four are in the northwest counties of Crawford, Sebastian, Newton and Searcy.
* According to the latest census, Arkansas has a population of 2, 915, 918.
*Johnny Cash’s family moved to Dyess in 1935 when he was three.
*Dyess Colony was established in 1934 as an agricultural resettlement community under the Works Progress Administration and the Federal Emergency Relief
Administration. More than 500 homes dotted the 15,000 acres in east Mississippi County.
* Under Arkansas law, the death of someone missing for more than three years may be proved by such circumstantial evidence and a death certificate (ordered by a judge) issued.
* Lake Atlanta in Rogers was built in the mid-1930s as a Works Progress Administration project.
*Since 2008, Arkansas has received eleven disaster declarations for tornadoes, floods, snowstorms, ice storms and remnants of three hurricanes.
* For the next fiscal year (beginning in July, 2011), there will be 76,137 positions in our state government.
*An average (in 2011) of from ten-to thirteen-thousand gamblers visit Southland’s casinos on any given Saturday. The Saturday after the Mississippi casinos closed due to flooding, 20,000 visitors came.
*Interstate 40 is 284 miles long.
* Since 1885, twenty-three Little Rock police officers have died in the line of duty.
* “Mid-way clay” lying 75 feet below Interstate 540 shrinks and swells more than other types of clay. (Talk about shape-shifting!) “The earth is very self-correcting. When it needs to move to relieve pressure, it’s going to move,” said Randy Ort, AHD
* Robbie Tilley Branscum, an Arkansan, won the 1982 Edgar Allen Poe Award for the best juvenile mystery, The Murder of Hound Dog Bates.
At this writing, autumn 2011 entered our calendars in as nearly perfect a seasonal temperature as is possible.
As Elizabeth Lawrence wrote, “Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn.”
c 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Unfinished projects: what am I waiting for?
by Pat Laster
Before I try to talk out the answer to that question, here’s a PS to last week’s “millions” post that moves the ante up to billions.
A letter-to-the-editor in the state daily merits quoting. A. Luck of Maumelle wrote, “As a retired physicist, I’m pretty sure that among 100 billion galaxies, 100 billion stars [in] each, in about 14 billion years it’s very likely that there is or has been life someplace.”
And what about President Obama’s $447 billion jobs bill?
Now, to the title question. It might be more aptly called, “Projects-in-progress.” Same thing, but a less indicting phrase.
The hedge-trimmer with its 100 foot cord rests on the portable plastic box of novels I took from the car trunk when it had to go to the body shop. (A falling oak branch bashed in the roof.) The trimmer has been in the house for at least a week.
Plans were to continue bonzai-ing the boxwood by trimming the umbrella of leaved branches. Maybe it’s not boxwood but some type of non-stickery holly. These other two shrubs--compact, low growing-- beside these three taller bushes from which I’ve trimmed off the bottom branches, are more like boxwood.
The wheelbarrow has stood in the same place for at least two weeks where I worked on the north sassafras grove-rock garden. Darkness fell as I labored. Intending to take up the project the next day, I left all tools out, hidden by snipped branches of privet and sassafras sprouts. Since both species produce runners at the soil line, they appear wherever they find sun and room.
The two brush piles are a different matter. It has been too dry and they are too large to burn safely without several “hands” around to guard against spreading. I don’t want to risk doing what Dad did several autumns. While burning leaves, he set the woods ablaze.
I have thought to ask the nearby fire department officials if they needed to do a practice burn. But I procrastinate. For days and days, weeks and weeks.
One columnist friends reports that he works for five minutes and rests for ten. I work for one day and not again for ten days. He can see the results of his work better than I can.
Then there’s the paint job I began in the kitchen. Do I have the decorative plates and mugs attached to the space above the cupboard doors? No. Do I have a reason? No. The ladder rests on the back porch a dozen steps away. But I have begun collecting the items to be hung. Anyone want to take bets about when I’ll get them hung?
I may have a good reason not to finish these projects yet. Last October, to speed things along at a state meeting, I foolishly volunteered to act as the contest chairperson for the following year’s session. That meeting happens this October 15.
Sixteen-hundred-eighty-eight sheets of paper with 844 different poems have passed my hands several times already in preparation for awarding prizes (money-certificates) in 32 contests. All judges’ selections are in and I’ve begun stuffing the envelopes with checks.
Making out and signing 192 certificates will be the final step of this process.
Perhaps after National Poetry Day, I can finish my other projects.
c 2011, Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Before I try to talk out the answer to that question, here’s a PS to last week’s “millions” post that moves the ante up to billions.
A letter-to-the-editor in the state daily merits quoting. A. Luck of Maumelle wrote, “As a retired physicist, I’m pretty sure that among 100 billion galaxies, 100 billion stars [in] each, in about 14 billion years it’s very likely that there is or has been life someplace.”
And what about President Obama’s $447 billion jobs bill?
Now, to the title question. It might be more aptly called, “Projects-in-progress.” Same thing, but a less indicting phrase.
The hedge-trimmer with its 100 foot cord rests on the portable plastic box of novels I took from the car trunk when it had to go to the body shop. (A falling oak branch bashed in the roof.) The trimmer has been in the house for at least a week.
Plans were to continue bonzai-ing the boxwood by trimming the umbrella of leaved branches. Maybe it’s not boxwood but some type of non-stickery holly. These other two shrubs--compact, low growing-- beside these three taller bushes from which I’ve trimmed off the bottom branches, are more like boxwood.
The wheelbarrow has stood in the same place for at least two weeks where I worked on the north sassafras grove-rock garden. Darkness fell as I labored. Intending to take up the project the next day, I left all tools out, hidden by snipped branches of privet and sassafras sprouts. Since both species produce runners at the soil line, they appear wherever they find sun and room.
The two brush piles are a different matter. It has been too dry and they are too large to burn safely without several “hands” around to guard against spreading. I don’t want to risk doing what Dad did several autumns. While burning leaves, he set the woods ablaze.
I have thought to ask the nearby fire department officials if they needed to do a practice burn. But I procrastinate. For days and days, weeks and weeks.
One columnist friends reports that he works for five minutes and rests for ten. I work for one day and not again for ten days. He can see the results of his work better than I can.
Then there’s the paint job I began in the kitchen. Do I have the decorative plates and mugs attached to the space above the cupboard doors? No. Do I have a reason? No. The ladder rests on the back porch a dozen steps away. But I have begun collecting the items to be hung. Anyone want to take bets about when I’ll get them hung?
I may have a good reason not to finish these projects yet. Last October, to speed things along at a state meeting, I foolishly volunteered to act as the contest chairperson for the following year’s session. That meeting happens this October 15.
Sixteen-hundred-eighty-eight sheets of paper with 844 different poems have passed my hands several times already in preparation for awarding prizes (money-certificates) in 32 contests. All judges’ selections are in and I’ve begun stuffing the envelopes with checks.
Making out and signing 192 certificates will be the final step of this process.
Perhaps after National Poetry Day, I can finish my other projects.
c 2011, Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Thursday, September 15, 2011
From dimes to dollars to hundreds to millions ...
by Pat Laster
When I was a child, the oldest of eight, at Christmas we would be given a whole dollar and allowed to shop in Sterling’s, a five-and-dime store. One dollar, at a dime each, was enough to buy every member of the family a special gift: A hankie for Mom, comb for Dad, barrettes for sisters, marbles for brothers, and writing paper for the teacher.
As we got older, we were given a dollar per gift. And after I began teaching school, I sometimes gave my college-age siblings a hundred dollars for Christmas!
Nowadays, spending a hundred dollars or more for two weeks of Schwan’s frozen foods is nearly a given, especially when Kid Billy is to be home from Henderson. Monthly expenses that top a hundred dollars are the tithe, the electricity bill, car- life- home insurance premiums, dental checkups, and the AT&T wireless statement.
Though no one I know claims to be worth a million dollars, it is not uncommon to see—in many news articles––figures of so-many million this or that. I haven’t yet taken an entire page of news and underlined every “million(s),” but I have jotted down many instances where the word is used–– either in a headline or in the body of the article.
Like not being able to fathom the ozone layer extending twenty miles, I can’t imagine anything in the millions except grains of sand, stars and gallons of water in each ocean. What follows are some sentences/statements that use the m-word.
• Wal-Mart employs 1.6 million people. Americans spend $36 million at Wal-Mart every hour of every day.
• In 1942, the Progressive Farmer had one million subscribers.
• Millions of Americans are out of work . . .
• A savings of $200 million will accrue by closing 3700 post offices.
• Construction on an $11 million apartment complex in west Little Rock began August 8 2011.
• The US sends $100 million in food aid to Africa.
• Twenty-four million people are receiving food aid in Kenya.
• The Arkansas Education Department is planning to carry over $36.2 million from last year’s budget to this year’s.
• Thirty-five million “unique” users in the US every single month come to MySpace, according to T. Vanderhook, CEO.
• There were 25 million landline telephones at June 2011’s end, down from 26 million at the end of 2010.
• Here’s a lottery prize of $99 million in Ohio.
• A man is accused of sending 27 million spam messages to Facebook users.
• Two million people lost power recently in the Southwest.
• A $1 million lottery prize was worth only (only??) $680,000 after state and federal taxes.
• A California woman won $9 million in the Super Lotto. . .
• Jon Huntsman, a 2012 presidential candidate, owns assets of between $16-$71 million.
• A header in Sunday’s paper: “Vikings lock Adrian Peterson into long-term deal; could be worth $100 million.”
About as many articles deal with figures in the billions of dollars, so that soon, perhaps, sports figures and presidential candidates will pull down and/ or be worth billions of dollars.
Unless, of course, a Depression occurs and the dime is once again the measure of wealth.
c 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Check out Laster's first novel, A Journey of Choice, at online book sellers.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Lest we forget-- one attempt to remember 9/11
by Pat Laster
One of my sisters is also a church musician, but in Arlington, Virginia near DC. She makes lemonade out of lemons. In her new position at a Presbyterian church in the area, she has begun another community chorus, the NoVA Lights Chorale.
The group’s inaugural performance is this Sunday, September 11. In honor and memory of this date in history, the chorus will present a program entitled, The World Sings for Peace. Preceding the concert, the NoVA Lights Community Handbell Choir will play Michael Helman’s “Prayer for Peace.”
Mr. Helman concludes his program notes with this paragraph: “The four opening chords of this piece represent the four planes that crashed that day. The chords include all 12 tones of the chromatic scale to symbolize the effect that terrorism has on everyone. My hope is that this composition may be a prayer for an end to terrorism, and for peace throughout the world.”
The northeastern section of our country is more diversified than the central part of the nation. Thus, musical programs are broader in depth, width and breadth.
A partial listing of the music follows by title, composer, history and, where necessary, a translation. Barbara has given me permission to share this with you.
“Da Pacem Cordium,” a traditional Latin text meaning ‘Give peace to every heart.’
The reading of a hymn written especially for the Tenth Anniversary of September 11th by Carolyn Winfrey Gillette, “O God, Our Hearts Were Shattered.” Her hymns can be found on the websites of many denominations.
“For Peace,” text and music by Jane Marshall and composed for the World Council of Churches’ Decade to Overcome Violence (2001-2010)
“Ose Shalom,” traditional Hebrew text; music by J. Leavitt. Translation: ‘The one who makes peace in the heavens, may he make peace for us, and for all Israel, and let us say Amen.’
“Workin’ for the Dawn of Peace” combines two Civil War songs arranged by R. Jeffers.
“Down by the Riverside,” with “I Got Peace Like a River” arranged by B. Adams.
“Like Rain Upon the Mown Field” is based on Psalm 72; music by K. Lee. Sung in Korean.
“Prayer of St. Francis,” the text attributed to St. Francis of Assisi; music by R. A. Bass.
“Amani,” text and music by A. Snyder. Swahili translation: ‘We are singing our song. This is our song of peace.’
“Iraqi Peace Song,” is a traditional Iraqi lullaby arranged by L. Tennenhouse. English interpretation by K. Iveland: ‘Peace to the world. Peace to my country, my love. Peace to your dreams. Peace to your children. Underneath the whispering trees, where our sons and daughters are free; in the beauty we will see through your eyes of peace.’
“Pacem,” traditional Latin, music by L. Dengler. Translation: ‘Give us peace. And on earth peace to all of good will.’
“Sing For Peace,” words and music by J. Papoulis & F. J. Nunez.
The penultimate selection is a reading by Rabbi Lia Bass, Etz Hayim Congregation of a selection from “Between the Fires,” by Rabbi A. Waskow. Rabbi Waskow directs The Shalom Center.
The final piece is the beloved hymn, “Let There be Peace on Earth.”
May your thoughts and mine be on ways to promote peace beyond merely singing and listening. Amen. #
Thursday, September 1, 2011
An experience in fostering community
by Pat Laster
About this time of the summer when Kid Billy was seven, I served as choir director at a Presbyterian church. A retreat at Ferncliff Camp in southwestern Pulaski County had been planned for spiritual renewal of the attendees.
The weekend event featured a labyrinth painted (or attached) on the floor of the outdoor pavilion. Each participant was supposed to walk the labyrinth asking two questions: What do I seek? Where goeth this community (church)?
[A little background on the labyrinth: an online source says it dates back to prehistoric times; another says the Middle Ages. One Presbyterian Church’s website says a labyrinth is a path of prayer, a walking meditation, a crucible of change, a watering hole for the spirit and a mirror of the soul.]
In the early morning of the first full day, I left Billy abed—I’d told him the night before I was going to leave him sleeping and that I would leave the door unlocked.
Dr. P. was already on the path and I thought far enough away that it would be safe to begin. I folded my arms under my armpits. Others clasped their hands behind. I tried letting mine hang, but that didn’t feel right.
Walking, I concentrated on the markings on the floor. I didn’t have the freedom to gaze around at the flora as I did while on Feaster Trail in Arkadelphia where we lived.
I was aware of the questions but only in a corner of my mind. I don’t seek more than day-to-day experience. I don’t want to consider any farther than my/our own schedule—practicing the organ before Sunday; how to get Billy to his Papa’s birthday party this afternoon,etc.
As for the direction of this church (the best kept secret in the town), it can raise $73,000 in two or three months, but it won’t—we won’t—set media and attendance records because we won’t—will we?—succumb to the popular, evangelical stream of taped “Christian rock.”
With Bob’s (minister) studied,restrained persona and sermon delivery, folks won’t flock to hear him. And I’m thankful, because in this church setting (sanctuary) there’s a respectful, quiet,and introspective atmosphere, one conducive to worship. (Yes, Debbie, we do read prayers someone else has written.)
I can come closer to communion here—the conversation, the enveloping care of God and his people--than anywhere.
Back to the labyrinth. Sorry, but it didn’t help me center. I was concerned about running into Dr. P., which I did—unaware that the path was not quadrantly graphed; that at several junctures, it wandered into another quadrant. Also, I didn’t realize you had to—at the center—retrace your steps back to the outside.
I (cynically) see this as another fad, like in the schools through the years, something else to try, hoping those who’ve not tuned in to the status quo can barnacle on to one of them for a catchhold--a spiritual rope to keep in touch with God or to find whatever they seek.
What do I seek in this community? A place for Billy to grow, learn, to love and be loved and accepted; to learn the“holy acts.” For me, I seek to act out my thankfulness from the organ, through the organ.
Billy and community. Already today,he’s run to Dr. P, his “surrogate grandpa” with whom he sits in church, with whom he is learning to center, to listen, to sit still during children’ssermons.
Community or village, I’m thankful it is helping me raise Kid Billy.
And I hope the labyrinth experience is a watering hole for the spirit for other walkers. #
c September 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
plpalaster21@gmail.com
About this time of the summer when Kid Billy was seven, I served as choir director at a Presbyterian church. A retreat at Ferncliff Camp in southwestern Pulaski County had been planned for spiritual renewal of the attendees.
The weekend event featured a labyrinth painted (or attached) on the floor of the outdoor pavilion. Each participant was supposed to walk the labyrinth asking two questions: What do I seek? Where goeth this community (church)?
[A little background on the labyrinth: an online source says it dates back to prehistoric times; another says the Middle Ages. One Presbyterian Church’s website says a labyrinth is a path of prayer, a walking meditation, a crucible of change, a watering hole for the spirit and a mirror of the soul.]
In the early morning of the first full day, I left Billy abed—I’d told him the night before I was going to leave him sleeping and that I would leave the door unlocked.
Dr. P. was already on the path and I thought far enough away that it would be safe to begin. I folded my arms under my armpits. Others clasped their hands behind. I tried letting mine hang, but that didn’t feel right.
Walking, I concentrated on the markings on the floor. I didn’t have the freedom to gaze around at the flora as I did while on Feaster Trail in Arkadelphia where we lived.
I was aware of the questions but only in a corner of my mind. I don’t seek more than day-to-day experience. I don’t want to consider any farther than my/our own schedule—practicing the organ before Sunday; how to get Billy to his Papa’s birthday party this afternoon,etc.
As for the direction of this church (the best kept secret in the town), it can raise $73,000 in two or three months, but it won’t—we won’t—set media and attendance records because we won’t—will we?—succumb to the popular, evangelical stream of taped “Christian rock.”
With Bob’s (minister) studied,restrained persona and sermon delivery, folks won’t flock to hear him. And I’m thankful, because in this church setting (sanctuary) there’s a respectful, quiet,and introspective atmosphere, one conducive to worship. (Yes, Debbie, we do read prayers someone else has written.)
I can come closer to communion here—the conversation, the enveloping care of God and his people--than anywhere.
Back to the labyrinth. Sorry, but it didn’t help me center. I was concerned about running into Dr. P., which I did—unaware that the path was not quadrantly graphed; that at several junctures, it wandered into another quadrant. Also, I didn’t realize you had to—at the center—retrace your steps back to the outside.
I (cynically) see this as another fad, like in the schools through the years, something else to try, hoping those who’ve not tuned in to the status quo can barnacle on to one of them for a catchhold--a spiritual rope to keep in touch with God or to find whatever they seek.
What do I seek in this community? A place for Billy to grow, learn, to love and be loved and accepted; to learn the“holy acts.” For me, I seek to act out my thankfulness from the organ, through the organ.
Billy and community. Already today,he’s run to Dr. P, his “surrogate grandpa” with whom he sits in church, with whom he is learning to center, to listen, to sit still during children’ssermons.
Community or village, I’m thankful it is helping me raise Kid Billy.
And I hope the labyrinth experience is a watering hole for the spirit for other walkers. #
c September 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
plpalaster21@gmail.com
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Funny anecdotes from a century ago
by Pat Laster
For those of us who delight in nostalgia, as well as the changes noticeable in journalistic reporting, here are some one-hundred-year-old (or more) items from the old Arkansas Gazette and the newer Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.
OTHER DAYS, (Arkansas Gazette), May 27, 1989--TEXARKANA, May 27, 1889. “For the last month or so the women of ill-repute and other characters, both white and black . . . have made the nights hideous and life a burden to the residents of the surrounding neighborhood . . . Marshall Edwards succeeded arresting twenty-one soiled doves, and it was quite an amusing sight to see him march them in single file and take them to the calaboose . . .”
Here is a poem I wrote based on this item and published in my first chapbook in 1992.
"Soiled doves, both black and white,/ Marching to the calaboose./ Neighbors joyful at the sight,/ Soiled doves, both black and white./ "Good riddance to a dreadful blight!/ Wonder if they'll get the noose?"/ Soiled doves, both black and white,/ Marching to the calaboose. "
A second such item, datelined HOT SPRINGS, October 24, 1939 is the basis for another poem published in my second chapbook in 1994, reads:
"In an effort to reduce stealing of bird dogs, Police Lt . . . . Kauffman began taking the noseprints of such animals in an effort to reduce stealing of bird dogs, police LT. Kauffman began taking the noseprints of such animals.
Here is my poem: “The sheriff proposed/ that printin’ dogs’ noses//will cut down on thieving’/ and keep us from grievin’.// Let’s stop all our riddlin’/ and fork out a piddlin’// four bits (fifty cents)/ to cover expense.// We’ll keep those illegals/ from stealin’ our beagles!”
A third such item—with a poem not yet published follows:
OTHER DAYS, (Arkansas Democrat-Gazette) March 27, 1911: “Something like a near riot occurred on Main street between 3 & 5 o’clock yesterday afternoon when a young woman, attired in the first harem skirt ever worn on the streets of Little Rock or in the South, walked with an escort between the Leader store at 2nd and Main street up Main to Errett Hamilton’s confectionery at Capitol Avenue and back again on two occasions. The young woman’s name was not given.”
In researching this online, I found a NYTimes article dated Feb. 5, 1911, which described a similar event. The description of the skirt was: “an adaptation of the Turkish lady’s trousers to the bobble skirt.”
My poem is: “Oh, look at that!/ The nerve of her/ to wear that costume out!”/ I’d never wear/ one out like that—she’s positively stout.”
And the last one datelined August 4 1911: "TEXARKANA--"One hundred and ninety pints of bottled in bond whiskey were poured out on the ground on East Broad street yesterday afternoon by Deputy Sheriff John Strange, acting under the direction of Justice Higginbotham's court. The event had been quietly heralded about town, in advance, and about 200 persons were mute if not disgusted witnesses of the waste of ‘booze.’ A few groans were heard and, it is believed there were many other groans that were not audible, when the precious fluid was rained upon the dry earth."
My new poem follows: “It rained upon the parch-ed ground/ that precious home-made brew./ And groans were heard from all around./ “You wretched wastrel, you!”/ was likely on the lips of those/ whose salivary glands/ were working overtime; whose toes/ were soaking up the sands.”
Huzzahs to the old days.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
For those of us who delight in nostalgia, as well as the changes noticeable in journalistic reporting, here are some one-hundred-year-old (or more) items from the old Arkansas Gazette and the newer Arkansas Democrat-Gazette.
OTHER DAYS, (Arkansas Gazette), May 27, 1989--TEXARKANA, May 27, 1889. “For the last month or so the women of ill-repute and other characters, both white and black . . . have made the nights hideous and life a burden to the residents of the surrounding neighborhood . . . Marshall Edwards succeeded arresting twenty-one soiled doves, and it was quite an amusing sight to see him march them in single file and take them to the calaboose . . .”
Here is a poem I wrote based on this item and published in my first chapbook in 1992.
"Soiled doves, both black and white,/ Marching to the calaboose./ Neighbors joyful at the sight,/ Soiled doves, both black and white./ "Good riddance to a dreadful blight!/ Wonder if they'll get the noose?"/ Soiled doves, both black and white,/ Marching to the calaboose. "
A second such item, datelined HOT SPRINGS, October 24, 1939 is the basis for another poem published in my second chapbook in 1994, reads:
"In an effort to reduce stealing of bird dogs, Police Lt . . . . Kauffman began taking the noseprints of such animals in an effort to reduce stealing of bird dogs, police LT. Kauffman began taking the noseprints of such animals.
Here is my poem: “The sheriff proposed/ that printin’ dogs’ noses//will cut down on thieving’/ and keep us from grievin’.// Let’s stop all our riddlin’/ and fork out a piddlin’// four bits (fifty cents)/ to cover expense.// We’ll keep those illegals/ from stealin’ our beagles!”
A third such item—with a poem not yet published follows:
OTHER DAYS, (Arkansas Democrat-Gazette) March 27, 1911: “Something like a near riot occurred on Main street between 3 & 5 o’clock yesterday afternoon when a young woman, attired in the first harem skirt ever worn on the streets of Little Rock or in the South, walked with an escort between the Leader store at 2nd and Main street up Main to Errett Hamilton’s confectionery at Capitol Avenue and back again on two occasions. The young woman’s name was not given.”
In researching this online, I found a NYTimes article dated Feb. 5, 1911, which described a similar event. The description of the skirt was: “an adaptation of the Turkish lady’s trousers to the bobble skirt.”
My poem is: “Oh, look at that!/ The nerve of her/ to wear that costume out!”/ I’d never wear/ one out like that—she’s positively stout.”
And the last one datelined August 4 1911: "TEXARKANA--"One hundred and ninety pints of bottled in bond whiskey were poured out on the ground on East Broad street yesterday afternoon by Deputy Sheriff John Strange, acting under the direction of Justice Higginbotham's court. The event had been quietly heralded about town, in advance, and about 200 persons were mute if not disgusted witnesses of the waste of ‘booze.’ A few groans were heard and, it is believed there were many other groans that were not audible, when the precious fluid was rained upon the dry earth."
My new poem follows: “It rained upon the parch-ed ground/ that precious home-made brew./ And groans were heard from all around./ “You wretched wastrel, you!”/ was likely on the lips of those/ whose salivary glands/ were working overtime; whose toes/ were soaking up the sands.”
Huzzahs to the old days.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Friday, August 19, 2011
Things my eldest child continues to teach me
by Pat Laster
First, my second-born teaches me that what I thought were dandelions are a type of coreopsis.
Next, the youngest teaches me about reusing fan blades rather than buying a new fan. The third-born teaches me how to text. Except for Kid Billy, my “fifth-wheel,” there is one child whom I haven’t yet mentioned in this context.
I have inherited (!) from my first-born, Gordon--the one who turned fifty last month--the tendency to make lists. When he was a teen, he would sometimes sit in his room, listen to the radio and make a log of what songs played and when and how often. If my in-progress compendium of journal jottings (lists) ever hits the printing press, he might be the one to do it.
Gordon sends me bundles of the weekly New York Times Book Reviews. I read/skim them, have ordered books, and learned new words. So my first-born has taught me to broaden my reading horizons. Thank you, son.
Speaking of new words, picture this. Six women, two in their eighties, two in our seventies and two in their sixties, standing or sitting before a table holding six music stands, six copies of music, and with a tone bar in each hand-- what we refer to as bells.
Before we begin, one woman comments how she enjoyed reading Roy Blount, Jr.’s Alphabetter Juice: the Joy of Text, which I lent her at her request. Before long, the word “copacetic” escaped someone’s lips. Another said, “Oh, I haven’t heard that word since my husband died. ‘Copacetic’ was one of his favorite words.”
Readers, this was astounding! I had seen the word in print; in fact, that very night, I read an essay that ended with “copacetic.” Next morning, I emailed the group to see who actually used that word in the air we were breathing. No one admitted it. One said, “Unless it came out of my subconscious.” It means excellent; first rate; fine.
I will have to say, the bell rehearsal that day was copacetic.
Trying my best to learn (and use, perhaps) new words has been a project since I began serious journaling. I keep a document called “Unknown Words and Phrases.” And their meanings—why else? But some words just don’t make it deeply enough into my gray matter at first, and I have to re-look-up the meanings.
“Misanthrope,” for example. “A person who hates or distrusts all people.”
And “scrum.” I’ve seen that twice lately. And without context, I’m at a loss. It is too new for both of my dictionaries, so I go online. In rugby, Wikipedia says, a “scrum” refers to the manner of restarting the game after a minor infraction.
In another context, “Scrum is an iterative, incremental framework for project management…” Math teachers probably called it “show-the-steps-in-your-solution.”
Aha! Scrum is already in my list of unknown words, but with this definition: “a disordered or confused situation involving a number of people, as in a “scrum of photographers.”
I pretty well know the words, “ennui,” “angst,” and “genre.” If I learn one or two every now and then . . . well, that will be copacetic. #
c 2011, Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Thursday, August 11, 2011
A do-ahead column gone awry
by Pat Laster
By now everyone who regularly reads the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette knows that Jay Grelan’s Sweet Tea column is history. Too bad. He knew how to hook the reader at the very first sentence. I often thought “I wish I could write like that.” Many letters-to-the-editor have ensued and one of them caught my notice. It said, “His column is not always about him.” She meant the thrust of the column, I’m sure, since he wrote pieces about other people. Of course, he did have a connection to the subject of each column.
Anyway, nearly every other columnist I read writes about him/herself. But since my last several pieces have been about myself, I’ll give both me and thee a break. Of sorts.
For my 75th birthday, my sis Carolyn not only gave me a gorgeous music-motifed scarf, but also a Hallmark gift book, “GREAT at any age: who did what from age 1 to 100…and beyond.”
How interesting, I thought, and after I'd finished a column listing one name/accomplishment for each year up to 21, I looked on the back of the title page. "No part of this book can be reproduced, etc. etc."
I emailed the web site requesting permission for using what I had typed. "Unfortunately, we cannot......" So you'll never know that toddler Mickey Rooney was a part of his family’s vaudeville act. Or that as a 2-year-old Judy Garland began her stage career.
Or you may already know that Albert Einstein didn't speak until he was three. Or that Andre Agassi--at age four--impressed tennis great Jimmy Connors as they rallied for a quarter of an hour. And every one of a certain age knows--or has heard--that five-year-old Charlie Chaplin performed with his mother on the vaudeville stage.
And who doesn't remember that at six, Ron Howard began his run as Opie Taylor on the TV classic The Andy Griffith Show. We don't need a book to tell us that, now do we?
I won’t go on. For one reason, I can’t access the finished column (computer woes). Instead, I’ll continue with journal jottings from the first few days of August. How about a paragraph or two of trivia, called BY THE NUMBERS?
130 million = the estimated number of books that exist worldwide.
A $1.6 million Missouri lottery win is only worth (ONLY?) a cash payout of $800,000.
96 = the age Katharine Hepburn died.
12= the number of Oscar nominations for Hepburn.
4= the number of Oscars won by her.
3,280 feet tall=the height of the planned Kingdom Tower to be built in Jeddah, a port city on the Red Sea (Saudi Arabia), making it at least 563 feet taller than the world’s tallest building, Dubai’s Burj Khalifa.
76=the age of Dame Judy Dench, one of my favorite British actresses.
115=degrees of temperature around parts of our (and surrounding) state(s) with more to come.
It’s awfully hard to write a column without bringing yourself in to it.
Folks, stay inside while this heat prevails. #
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Learning from your children, part two, plus...
by Pat Laster
When the bottom end of a flag pole met two blades of a whirling ceiling fan around July 4, the thin tin of the pole wrenched off the thick metal of two fan blades. They clattered to the floor and at the same time, the one-sided fan whomped drunkenly from its position on the ceiling until I could get to the off switch. Did not mar the pole or break the light globes!
Oh, dear! In the heat of the summer, no fan to assist the old window air conditioner in the living room.
That made two fans that needed "fixing" or replacing. I called an electrician, left a message, never heard a word. If they were on vacation at the time; if their message machine malfunctioned, if they saw my name on Caller ID--for whatever reason, they haven't called back.
When Kid Billy's mother, my baby child aged 41, came over, she looked at the fan and listened to my tale. Bending over the detatched fan blades, she proclaimed, "You can replace these blades, Mom. I'll bet Habitat Restore has some." When she left, the had one blade under her arm.
A few days later, she returned with four new blades the same size but with a different rattan pattern. Using a screwdriver, she removed the other two blades and the broken parts of the others, and with the aid of a flashlight that I held, soon had the new blades on, tightened, and the fan humming smoother than it did before.
And all for $4. I would never have considered replacing the blades because I didn't know it was possible. What the younger folks have learned! And thank goodness.
My other daughter, Jennifer, taught me how to text on my phone. While standing on a step stool painting the upper reaches of the kitchen cabinets, I heard the phone in my pocket jangle. I put down the paint tray and brush and pulled out the phone. It was my Florida son, Gordon, answering my text sent last night. We "talked" (texted) back and forth a time or two, and then I finished painting.
Oh, I know an old person should not be on a step stool alone, but Kid Billy had taken his little sister Emma swimming. And the second coat HAD to go on today. After I pronounced the painting job thus far as good, I cleaned off an upper shelf, taking a coal oil lamp, a copper-looking spittoon, vases and other odd-a-ments, down. I washed years of accumulated dust from the bare board, and painted it, too. The other five boards already have one coat of white paint, so it won't be hard to slap on another coat of beige to match the kitchen.
Perhaps soon, I'll be invigorated enough to tackle the dark brown cabinets.
~~~
c 2011 by lovepat press
Also check out my novel, A Journey of Choice, on Amazon/B&N.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Summer vacations are now great memories
by Pat Laster
Two-weeks-ago’s column ended with an intro to the saga of the Jacuzzi AFTER the water—with the plug over the drain—reached the vents. It was never hot enough, but that didn’t matter.
Of all the shape shifting that went on to fit four women into the tub. Before Carolyn stepped in, Barb said, “Oh, set the timer on my camera so you can be in the picture.” Back Carolyn went, took directions about how to do it and then set it and quickly stepped into the water. We smiled obligingly at the digital camera on the ledge.
We waited. And smiled. Then we laughed. The rare kind of laughter that twists the face into contortions and brings tears to the eyes. After four attempts, we gave up and vowed to learn the correct method before the next time.
The next time never came. The three of them DID swim once more, but I was piled up in the bed for a nap after a hard day of shopping.
Most mornings while Bev and Carolyn were walking the neighborhood, Barb and I were on the deck reading and/or writing. And visiting. The only shade was behind a tall arborvitae. Like the air in Florida—or anywhere, I suppose—if it seemed hot and humid at first, it usually cooled enough to sit out.
“Early morning/ a screechy bird/from downriver.”
Only downriver was really Lake Thunderbird, one of the five or six lakes in Cherokee Village, a Cooper Community like Bella Vista and Hot Springs Village.
One evening, leaving from the marina, we took a two-lake tour (at $6, another bargain) on The Queen and learned a lot about the history of the community and the people who built/live in the area.
The map showed no lakes’ contiguity, but there is a canal under a roadway with just enough room for one party barge at a time to access a smaller lake. Saw no snakes, heard few dogs, and learned that many of the lake houses that look spacious and palatial from the lake look to be small insignificant dwellings from streetside.
In the evenings when it was either too hot or too “buggy” to sit outside, we gathered in the sitting area with our books and watched a DVD. The Debaters, Last Chance Harry, The Kings Speech, and one other (forgotten).
Jane Austen’s Persuasion was not their cups of tea, so after too long a time, I said, “Stop this; I can watch it at home.” They gladly complied. (You had to have read the book, which I had done.)
One morning, I discovered that a mouse had been in the drawer with the packaged oatmeal, sunflower seeds, crackers and teabags. We saw it skitter under the cabinet and immediately reported it. As in lots of businesses, there is bureaucracy, and though it was reported to the office, the word didn’t get sent on to the maintenance folks.
That night, Bev and I were awaked by a gnawing inside the bedroom wall. Those folks hadn’t gotten the mouse yet, drat it!
Lesson: plastic or paper bags aren’t good enough to store grains and seeds; store them in plastic containers with lids.
The final night, we endured the heat and the bugs, sat on the deck and played eight rollicking hands of Uno. And finished the wine.
The next morning, after repacking to include all our purchases and without all our foodstuffs, we three locals hugged our northern sister whom we wouldn’t see for another year, and began our trip home.
At the junction of Hwy 175 S, we parted ways, beeping and waving. Another great sisters’ vacation. #
Two-weeks-ago’s column ended with an intro to the saga of the Jacuzzi AFTER the water—with the plug over the drain—reached the vents. It was never hot enough, but that didn’t matter.
Of all the shape shifting that went on to fit four women into the tub. Before Carolyn stepped in, Barb said, “Oh, set the timer on my camera so you can be in the picture.” Back Carolyn went, took directions about how to do it and then set it and quickly stepped into the water. We smiled obligingly at the digital camera on the ledge.
We waited. And smiled. Then we laughed. The rare kind of laughter that twists the face into contortions and brings tears to the eyes. After four attempts, we gave up and vowed to learn the correct method before the next time.
The next time never came. The three of them DID swim once more, but I was piled up in the bed for a nap after a hard day of shopping.
Most mornings while Bev and Carolyn were walking the neighborhood, Barb and I were on the deck reading and/or writing. And visiting. The only shade was behind a tall arborvitae. Like the air in Florida—or anywhere, I suppose—if it seemed hot and humid at first, it usually cooled enough to sit out.
“Early morning/ a screechy bird/from downriver.”
Only downriver was really Lake Thunderbird, one of the five or six lakes in Cherokee Village, a Cooper Community like Bella Vista and Hot Springs Village.
One evening, leaving from the marina, we took a two-lake tour (at $6, another bargain) on The Queen and learned a lot about the history of the community and the people who built/live in the area.
The map showed no lakes’ contiguity, but there is a canal under a roadway with just enough room for one party barge at a time to access a smaller lake. Saw no snakes, heard few dogs, and learned that many of the lake houses that look spacious and palatial from the lake look to be small insignificant dwellings from streetside.
In the evenings when it was either too hot or too “buggy” to sit outside, we gathered in the sitting area with our books and watched a DVD. The Debaters, Last Chance Harry, The Kings Speech, and one other (forgotten).
Jane Austen’s Persuasion was not their cups of tea, so after too long a time, I said, “Stop this; I can watch it at home.” They gladly complied. (You had to have read the book, which I had done.)
One morning, I discovered that a mouse had been in the drawer with the packaged oatmeal, sunflower seeds, crackers and teabags. We saw it skitter under the cabinet and immediately reported it. As in lots of businesses, there is bureaucracy, and though it was reported to the office, the word didn’t get sent on to the maintenance folks.
That night, Bev and I were awaked by a gnawing inside the bedroom wall. Those folks hadn’t gotten the mouse yet, drat it!
Lesson: plastic or paper bags aren’t good enough to store grains and seeds; store them in plastic containers with lids.
The final night, we endured the heat and the bugs, sat on the deck and played eight rollicking hands of Uno. And finished the wine.
The next morning, after repacking to include all our purchases and without all our foodstuffs, we three locals hugged our northern sister whom we wouldn’t see for another year, and began our trip home.
At the junction of Hwy 175 S, we parted ways, beeping and waving. Another great sisters’ vacation. #
Friday, July 22, 2011
Last peek into vacation days must be postponed
by Pat Laster
Upon returning from north central Arkansas where four of us spent our sisters'
week, my laptop grew slower and slower like a lumbering elephant (rest in peace,dear Ellen, lately of the Little Rock Zoo). It finally would not even move. Except for my Up-link email, which is local. I took it to Office Depot where it had been twice before on recommendation of a former high school technology instructor. The first two times, it was repaired.This time, it wasn't.
To be sure it wasn't an AT&T problem, I called them on Saturday morning.
Afterall the rigmarole of the robot asking me to punch this, or say this, I clicked on "0" as I'd been told to do by someone else. But even then, Mr. Robot had to know some things so he would know where to "put" me.
I was connected to a man whose name sounded like Josh. I did what he asked me to do and he determined it was NOT in the DSL modem or the lines. When he asked me where I was calling from, I said, "Arkansas, Benton." Then I asked him where he was talking from. "I'm working from the Philippines," he said. "What time is it there?" I asked.
"Eleven-thirty p.m." He suggested I take it back to Office Depot for another shot at repair. We said our goodbyes.
Before I could decide what to do or whether to try something else, the phone
rang. An AT&T man from St. Louis was on the line. By that time, Grandson Billy was over my shoulder whispering to me and pointing to the screen. I handed him the phone and fled the room. (I had tried to get him to contact AT&T himself since he had good experiences with them in the past, but nooooooooo.)
Mr. St. Louis agreed with Mr. Philippines that it needed another trip to the
repair shop. Billy said to me, "Take it down to Office Depot and get your money
back, then take it to the Geek Squad at Best Buy." Instead, I took a nap. Like
Scarlett O'Hara, I'd think about it later.
But I had to remember that Monday was the STANDARD's deadline, and what would happen if I couldn't access my original column that I'd finished and checked earlier today? I'd better have a back-up. Hence, this substitute piece. I take copious notes with each day's readings; surely I had something appropriate in my journal; that is one reason I keep such a notebook.
For instance, did you know that opposite sides of a dice cube always add up to
seven? I didn't. Or that there is a shade of green paint called "split pea"? Makes
sense.
I wonder what the difference is between being "treated right" and treated
fairly," as US Interior Secretary Ken Salazar was quoted as saying about the
[Indian] Tribes.
Of the fourteen different shoe brands in a Dillard's ad, I have heard of only
Naturalizer, Clarks and the name Calvin Klein. What does that say about my fashion
sense? Just like I didn't know about Coach purses until my daughter-in-law went to
Destin from Pensacola Beach because Coach purses were on sale. She bought a
regularly-priced $300+ bag for $132--or something near that.
And what is an electronic cigarette? My computer browser is not functioning so I can't "google" it to find out.
Terry Wallace, retired announcer at Oaklawn Park in Hot Springs Arkansas, called 20,191 consecutive races during his tenure.
Is it a Southernism to omit the "'ve" from "you"? Ernie Passailaigue (South
Carolina/Arkansas) and Mike Malone, Fayetteville, both lottery "men," said these
things quoted in Friday's Arkansas Democrat-Gazette: "You got to get..." (EP) "You got to have..." (MM) and "You got to take..." (one of them).
Maybe next week, 'ye ol' laptop will be working like new. If not, I'll have a
new one!
My first novel, A Journey of Choice, is available at Amazon and BN.
Upon returning from north central Arkansas where four of us spent our sisters'
week, my laptop grew slower and slower like a lumbering elephant (rest in peace,dear Ellen, lately of the Little Rock Zoo). It finally would not even move. Except for my Up-link email, which is local. I took it to Office Depot where it had been twice before on recommendation of a former high school technology instructor. The first two times, it was repaired.This time, it wasn't.
To be sure it wasn't an AT&T problem, I called them on Saturday morning.
Afterall the rigmarole of the robot asking me to punch this, or say this, I clicked on "0" as I'd been told to do by someone else. But even then, Mr. Robot had to know some things so he would know where to "put" me.
I was connected to a man whose name sounded like Josh. I did what he asked me to do and he determined it was NOT in the DSL modem or the lines. When he asked me where I was calling from, I said, "Arkansas, Benton." Then I asked him where he was talking from. "I'm working from the Philippines," he said. "What time is it there?" I asked.
"Eleven-thirty p.m." He suggested I take it back to Office Depot for another shot at repair. We said our goodbyes.
Before I could decide what to do or whether to try something else, the phone
rang. An AT&T man from St. Louis was on the line. By that time, Grandson Billy was over my shoulder whispering to me and pointing to the screen. I handed him the phone and fled the room. (I had tried to get him to contact AT&T himself since he had good experiences with them in the past, but nooooooooo.)
Mr. St. Louis agreed with Mr. Philippines that it needed another trip to the
repair shop. Billy said to me, "Take it down to Office Depot and get your money
back, then take it to the Geek Squad at Best Buy." Instead, I took a nap. Like
Scarlett O'Hara, I'd think about it later.
But I had to remember that Monday was the STANDARD's deadline, and what would happen if I couldn't access my original column that I'd finished and checked earlier today? I'd better have a back-up. Hence, this substitute piece. I take copious notes with each day's readings; surely I had something appropriate in my journal; that is one reason I keep such a notebook.
For instance, did you know that opposite sides of a dice cube always add up to
seven? I didn't. Or that there is a shade of green paint called "split pea"? Makes
sense.
I wonder what the difference is between being "treated right" and treated
fairly," as US Interior Secretary Ken Salazar was quoted as saying about the
[Indian] Tribes.
Of the fourteen different shoe brands in a Dillard's ad, I have heard of only
Naturalizer, Clarks and the name Calvin Klein. What does that say about my fashion
sense? Just like I didn't know about Coach purses until my daughter-in-law went to
Destin from Pensacola Beach because Coach purses were on sale. She bought a
regularly-priced $300+ bag for $132--or something near that.
And what is an electronic cigarette? My computer browser is not functioning so I can't "google" it to find out.
Terry Wallace, retired announcer at Oaklawn Park in Hot Springs Arkansas, called 20,191 consecutive races during his tenure.
Is it a Southernism to omit the "'ve" from "you"? Ernie Passailaigue (South
Carolina/Arkansas) and Mike Malone, Fayetteville, both lottery "men," said these
things quoted in Friday's Arkansas Democrat-Gazette: "You got to get..." (EP) "You got to have..." (MM) and "You got to take..." (one of them).
Maybe next week, 'ye ol' laptop will be working like new. If not, I'll have a
new one!
My first novel, A Journey of Choice, is available at Amazon and BN.
Monday, July 18, 2011
SIT long, TALK much, LAUGH often ...
... so says a favorite coffee mug. We four sisters certainly did all three during our week in north central Arkansas. We also traveled the highways looking for flea markets and antique shops.
The final sentence in last week's entry told about two sisters buying magnetized bracelets that inadventently picked up dinner forks.
How about a mystery entitled, "The Case of the Missing Dinner Forks"? I can just imagine a lady villain with a magnetized bracelet picking up several expensive objects unnoticed and stowing them in various pockets of her clothing/handbag.
Oh, but expensive things generally have a beeper attached so that the perp would set off alarms when she exited.
Did you read about the Brazilian boy who "seems to possess magnetlike qualities?" He demonstrated on a TV network how "forks, knives, scissors, cooking pans, cameras and other metal objects seem drawn to his body and remain stuck on his chest, stomach and back." Sounds like a possible story to me.
Speaking of walking off with things without paying, I did just that our first foray into flea-marketing. Oh, I eventually paid, never fear. On the highway north of Hardy were three different places that Barb had spotted on her way down.
Usually, there is one checker for all booths, but in this one, each booth had its own, as I soon discovered AFTER I'd walked away from the first booth. I clutched a glass flower frog ($3.95--a steal as they are usually ten dollars) and a dollar pair of brightly-painted wooden fish earrings for Barb's friend Glenda, who has a "fish" room. I continued down the row of vendors' stalls.
Before leaving the premises, I moseyed back to the first booth. The man minding this particular "store" sat in the shade of his RV. The items I had picked up were on the opposite end, so neither of us saw the other. When I returned, he laughed at my confession in a laid-back, no-problem manner and took my fiver with affability.
After we returned to the condo and cooled off, we decided to go swimming in the nearby pool. TO BE CONTINUED
c July 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Look for my novel, A Journey of Choice at Amazon or Barnes & Noble
The final sentence in last week's entry told about two sisters buying magnetized bracelets that inadventently picked up dinner forks.
How about a mystery entitled, "The Case of the Missing Dinner Forks"? I can just imagine a lady villain with a magnetized bracelet picking up several expensive objects unnoticed and stowing them in various pockets of her clothing/handbag.
Oh, but expensive things generally have a beeper attached so that the perp would set off alarms when she exited.
Did you read about the Brazilian boy who "seems to possess magnetlike qualities?" He demonstrated on a TV network how "forks, knives, scissors, cooking pans, cameras and other metal objects seem drawn to his body and remain stuck on his chest, stomach and back." Sounds like a possible story to me.
Speaking of walking off with things without paying, I did just that our first foray into flea-marketing. Oh, I eventually paid, never fear. On the highway north of Hardy were three different places that Barb had spotted on her way down.
Usually, there is one checker for all booths, but in this one, each booth had its own, as I soon discovered AFTER I'd walked away from the first booth. I clutched a glass flower frog ($3.95--a steal as they are usually ten dollars) and a dollar pair of brightly-painted wooden fish earrings for Barb's friend Glenda, who has a "fish" room. I continued down the row of vendors' stalls.
Before leaving the premises, I moseyed back to the first booth. The man minding this particular "store" sat in the shade of his RV. The items I had picked up were on the opposite end, so neither of us saw the other. When I returned, he laughed at my confession in a laid-back, no-problem manner and took my fiver with affability.
After we returned to the condo and cooled off, we decided to go swimming in the nearby pool. TO BE CONTINUED
c July 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Look for my novel, A Journey of Choice at Amazon or Barnes & Noble
Monday, July 11, 2011
From Florida to north-central Arkansas
by Pat Laster
Florida is old news now and North Central Arkansas is front and center.
I type this on the last full day of our annual sisters’ week as I balance my laptop on a throw pillow on my lap, my feet resting on the coffee table. We live in unit 29, Los Indios, the only condos allowed in Cherokee Village. There are fourteen units. Why the discrepancy between the number of units and our unit number was not known by our contact. “Good question, though,” she allowed.)
The Couch sisters, from youngest to oldest, are Beverly, Barbara, Carolyn and me. Fifteen years separate us. I remember, because when I was 15, I was s-o-o-o-o embarrassed that Mom was pregnant again. Beverly lives in Little Rock and has worked at Blue Cross Blue Shield since she graduated from Hendrix College (the fifth Couch kid to do so). She is gaga over her six-month-old granddaughter, Hqzel Rose.
Barbara, presently a church musician, began her working life in the FBI in Washington, then moved to Gardner-White, insurance brokers for hospital employees, and from there into the foster care program and church music. She/ husband adopted three of their fosters, all now grown.
Carolyn is a retired kindergarten teacher, a volunteer, church woman, wife, mother of two grown sons, and grandmother to Marlee.
And you know about me.
The three Arkansas sisters loaded (really!) the small hatchback with clothes, food, coolers, purses and laptops. I rode in the back seat with the extra baggage stowed in the adjacent passenger area. At Bald Knob, we missed the turn toward Batesville—none of us saw the exit signage––so at the edge of Newport, we took H’way 14 west through Oil Trough, Rosie and Salado until we hit H‘way 167. At Ash Flat, we turned west again toward Horseshoe Bend on 62-412—the wrong way—then backtracked to 289, thence to 175-S where we finally found our Virginia sister (Barb) smiling and waving. What did we ever do without cell phones to guide us to the exact address? The Hoochie Mamas were together again!
The place was palatial––to have only one floor! Anyone belonging to RCI and wanting a quiet get-away should certainly consider this retirement community if you haven’t already done so. Fishing, golf, a swimming pool and tennis courts, plus all the accoutrements—restaurants, country clubs, parks, lakes—are found down one native- American-named road or another.
For flea-marketers and antique hunters, this is a prime area: Hardy is nearby, Mammoth Springs is farther, then there’s Salem, Ash Flat and Highland––as well as businesses on the highways between towns.
Beverly looked for baby clothes, Carolyn for toothpick holders, Barbara for sheep-motifed items and I looked for books. Of course, bargains in Fostoria American saucers for $1.59 each were not to be passed by. Nor were pear-motifed Corelle bread-and-butter plates.
Two bought magnet bracelets to soothe their aches and pains. Unintentionally, they often picked up dinner forks.
Look for more adventures in this space next week.
Florida is old news now and North Central Arkansas is front and center.
I type this on the last full day of our annual sisters’ week as I balance my laptop on a throw pillow on my lap, my feet resting on the coffee table. We live in unit 29, Los Indios, the only condos allowed in Cherokee Village. There are fourteen units. Why the discrepancy between the number of units and our unit number was not known by our contact. “Good question, though,” she allowed.)
The Couch sisters, from youngest to oldest, are Beverly, Barbara, Carolyn and me. Fifteen years separate us. I remember, because when I was 15, I was s-o-o-o-o embarrassed that Mom was pregnant again. Beverly lives in Little Rock and has worked at Blue Cross Blue Shield since she graduated from Hendrix College (the fifth Couch kid to do so). She is gaga over her six-month-old granddaughter, Hqzel Rose.
Barbara, presently a church musician, began her working life in the FBI in Washington, then moved to Gardner-White, insurance brokers for hospital employees, and from there into the foster care program and church music. She/ husband adopted three of their fosters, all now grown.
Carolyn is a retired kindergarten teacher, a volunteer, church woman, wife, mother of two grown sons, and grandmother to Marlee.
And you know about me.
The three Arkansas sisters loaded (really!) the small hatchback with clothes, food, coolers, purses and laptops. I rode in the back seat with the extra baggage stowed in the adjacent passenger area. At Bald Knob, we missed the turn toward Batesville—none of us saw the exit signage––so at the edge of Newport, we took H’way 14 west through Oil Trough, Rosie and Salado until we hit H‘way 167. At Ash Flat, we turned west again toward Horseshoe Bend on 62-412—the wrong way—then backtracked to 289, thence to 175-S where we finally found our Virginia sister (Barb) smiling and waving. What did we ever do without cell phones to guide us to the exact address? The Hoochie Mamas were together again!
The place was palatial––to have only one floor! Anyone belonging to RCI and wanting a quiet get-away should certainly consider this retirement community if you haven’t already done so. Fishing, golf, a swimming pool and tennis courts, plus all the accoutrements—restaurants, country clubs, parks, lakes—are found down one native- American-named road or another.
For flea-marketers and antique hunters, this is a prime area: Hardy is nearby, Mammoth Springs is farther, then there’s Salem, Ash Flat and Highland––as well as businesses on the highways between towns.
Beverly looked for baby clothes, Carolyn for toothpick holders, Barbara for sheep-motifed items and I looked for books. Of course, bargains in Fostoria American saucers for $1.59 each were not to be passed by. Nor were pear-motifed Corelle bread-and-butter plates.
Two bought magnet bracelets to soothe their aches and pains. Unintentionally, they often picked up dinner forks.
Look for more adventures in this space next week.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Alone together in Florida––a perfect combination and setting
by Pat Laster
“Writers, like other dangerous criminals, should come to know solitary confinement.” – Paul Greenberg, Arkansas Democrat Gazette.
Since I was in Florida during the annual Arkansas Writer’s Conference, I missed Herr Greenberg’s speech, but he used it (double duty) in his next Sunday column.
The sentence hit me like a dirt clod. For each of eight mornings, some days as early as 6:15, I sat in solitude (not solitary confinement, but still...) and read and wrote. It was like being at a writers’ colony with Gulf breezes and doves as a background for creativity.
Never mind that I had to look out over a parking lot as large as a football field. I tried to look up and beyond to the little patch of Gulf across the street and behind a row of ubiquitous condos fenced in against any but the owners/ guests. Public beach access parking areas were plentiful, however.
Here is an example of my journaling that recounts a not-so-pleasant arrival at our condo.
Thursday: 10:10 pm: (We’d left before six that morning.) “The air conditioning laboring, but gets no cooler than 74°. Alone in room 2C of Tristan Towers since Billy can’t stand the heat; there were NOT 3 queen sized beds as advertised (unless they meant a blow-up mattress and/or a sleeping bag. All the others in our party, Billy, his mother, his sister and a friend—have “jumped ship” and are staying at Js’s place tonight. “An emergency,” I’m told, until a definite complaint to the lessors can be made tomorrow. “Earlier tonight, my four children, their spouses and children gathered here. Local son Gordon—the one turning 50 in July––ordered pizza, breadsticks and pasta. His wife/daughter brought 2-liter drinks, crusty bread/dipping oil-spices. We visited amicably (how else?) until time for Gordon/Breezy to drive to Destin (an hour away) to pick up his dad/lady friend from the airport.
“So here I sit in a big bed in a big room with the oscillating fan Billy traded for my small face fan. Tomorrow night, we’re eating at Peg Leg Pete’s. By then, we should either be living as originally planned at J’s –with his relatives/friends—or in a different place/room. Meanwhile, I’m sleepy—again—so what’s keeping me awake? Nothing!”
The AC was repaired later the next day, but at 6:15 Friday morning, I was “on deck” again.
Myriad doves with a different sound than those at home—a 3-pulse motif: coo-coooooo-cuk ––called over and over.
Sights included the horizon––the curved edge of the earth––a cloudless sky, dog walkers, joggers, swallows, palms, oleanders, river gravel, ornamental grasses and CARS! A business man, satchel in one hand, lunch in the other, purple shirt, taupe trousers, walked to the farthest vehicle in the parking lot––a slate gray hatchback. Before exiting, he pulled over to the concrete barrier/fence and hosed off the car and then headed into the gate’s eye and disappeared. He must be one of the 90 families who live in the Towers. (I counted the mailboxes in the lobby!)
Can you stand another episode next week? Good.
“Writers, like other dangerous criminals, should come to know solitary confinement.” – Paul Greenberg, Arkansas Democrat Gazette.
Since I was in Florida during the annual Arkansas Writer’s Conference, I missed Herr Greenberg’s speech, but he used it (double duty) in his next Sunday column.
The sentence hit me like a dirt clod. For each of eight mornings, some days as early as 6:15, I sat in solitude (not solitary confinement, but still...) and read and wrote. It was like being at a writers’ colony with Gulf breezes and doves as a background for creativity.
Never mind that I had to look out over a parking lot as large as a football field. I tried to look up and beyond to the little patch of Gulf across the street and behind a row of ubiquitous condos fenced in against any but the owners/ guests. Public beach access parking areas were plentiful, however.
Here is an example of my journaling that recounts a not-so-pleasant arrival at our condo.
Thursday: 10:10 pm: (We’d left before six that morning.) “The air conditioning laboring, but gets no cooler than 74°. Alone in room 2C of Tristan Towers since Billy can’t stand the heat; there were NOT 3 queen sized beds as advertised (unless they meant a blow-up mattress and/or a sleeping bag. All the others in our party, Billy, his mother, his sister and a friend—have “jumped ship” and are staying at Js’s place tonight. “An emergency,” I’m told, until a definite complaint to the lessors can be made tomorrow. “Earlier tonight, my four children, their spouses and children gathered here. Local son Gordon—the one turning 50 in July––ordered pizza, breadsticks and pasta. His wife/daughter brought 2-liter drinks, crusty bread/dipping oil-spices. We visited amicably (how else?) until time for Gordon/Breezy to drive to Destin (an hour away) to pick up his dad/lady friend from the airport.
“So here I sit in a big bed in a big room with the oscillating fan Billy traded for my small face fan. Tomorrow night, we’re eating at Peg Leg Pete’s. By then, we should either be living as originally planned at J’s –with his relatives/friends—or in a different place/room. Meanwhile, I’m sleepy—again—so what’s keeping me awake? Nothing!”
The AC was repaired later the next day, but at 6:15 Friday morning, I was “on deck” again.
Myriad doves with a different sound than those at home—a 3-pulse motif: coo-coooooo-cuk ––called over and over.
Sights included the horizon––the curved edge of the earth––a cloudless sky, dog walkers, joggers, swallows, palms, oleanders, river gravel, ornamental grasses and CARS! A business man, satchel in one hand, lunch in the other, purple shirt, taupe trousers, walked to the farthest vehicle in the parking lot––a slate gray hatchback. Before exiting, he pulled over to the concrete barrier/fence and hosed off the car and then headed into the gate’s eye and disappeared. He must be one of the 90 families who live in the Towers. (I counted the mailboxes in the lobby!)
Can you stand another episode next week? Good.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Vacation observations and poems
by Pat Laster
While vacationing in the Florida panhandle, I did two things for the first time in my seventy-something years: I ate classic Eggs Benedict and drank a pint of raspberry-tinged ale. Not on the same day, you understand.
Friday, the first full day, 7:50 am on the deck with coffee. A Mom and small boy—she with a cooler and a racket, he with a zippered racket following docilely. Here they come back. Was the tennis court “temporarily” closed, like the pool?
A hot-rodding, old-model convertible passes, noisy even from this distance. A local insulation installer leaves in a logoed panel truck. And there goes another business man carrying only a satchel.
Here they go again—the mom carrying only a racket, the son lugging both the water jug & his racket. The boy walks back toward this building, his Athletics hat nearly covering his eyes. The mother seems to be looking for a way into the tennis area. Now, the boy follows behind a maintenance man who will be “fixing” the problem. Sounds like one needs a code to open the tennis courts gate, too. Whatever he did must have worked—they are on the court and the employee is ambling back to his post/ area.
NOW, the brassy blonde mother, also brassy voiced, is teaching Son how to play tennis. That’ll drive me inside: I don’t need a human voice to adulterate the doves’ sounds. I will read Kathy Craig’s poetry book, Kindling. Her mother, Pat Craig of Bismarck, gave her poet friends copies of her daughter’s first collection. Kathy lives in the Raleigh-Durham area.
From inside, I see that the tennis lesson is over. A poem comes to mind, thence to the journal: Tennis/ lesson over. / I can resume my seat/ in the warming sea-air breeze of/ the Gulf.
Back out on the deck, I continue reading Kingling. One of Kathy’s poems, “Loss” hits a chord with me. I reprint it here:
“I had two ceramic terriers once, / Both fit in one palm. / They stood guard/ on my cherry dresser, / the one my mother had as a girl.//
“I never played with them––/ they were just for show. / Yet I kept them/ all through the years. / Now I don’t know how/ or when they disappeared, / like the last pages of childhood.”
That poignant poem engendered my own reminiscences about something I lost. “Whatever Happened to...?”
“As a young wife,/babe in arms,/I visited my first flea market./A green frosted-glass/ perfume set/captivated me./Mine now, I determined/to decorate our room/with purples, greens and blues/even going so far/ as to create a baby quilt/in those colors.//
“That’s as far as my project/went. Except it began a life-long/love of frosted-satin glass.
Whatever happened/to the green perfume bottles? Whatever happened/ to the life I once had?”
As many times as we moved from 1960 till 1980, it is no wonder the velvety glass bottles disappeared. But I still have the baby quilt. Somewhere.
I’m off again, but only to Los Indios Escapes in Cherokee Village. See you soon with more stories.
c 2011 Pat Laster, author of A Journey of Choice, dba lovepat press
While vacationing in the Florida panhandle, I did two things for the first time in my seventy-something years: I ate classic Eggs Benedict and drank a pint of raspberry-tinged ale. Not on the same day, you understand.
Friday, the first full day, 7:50 am on the deck with coffee. A Mom and small boy—she with a cooler and a racket, he with a zippered racket following docilely. Here they come back. Was the tennis court “temporarily” closed, like the pool?
A hot-rodding, old-model convertible passes, noisy even from this distance. A local insulation installer leaves in a logoed panel truck. And there goes another business man carrying only a satchel.
Here they go again—the mom carrying only a racket, the son lugging both the water jug & his racket. The boy walks back toward this building, his Athletics hat nearly covering his eyes. The mother seems to be looking for a way into the tennis area. Now, the boy follows behind a maintenance man who will be “fixing” the problem. Sounds like one needs a code to open the tennis courts gate, too. Whatever he did must have worked—they are on the court and the employee is ambling back to his post/ area.
NOW, the brassy blonde mother, also brassy voiced, is teaching Son how to play tennis. That’ll drive me inside: I don’t need a human voice to adulterate the doves’ sounds. I will read Kathy Craig’s poetry book, Kindling. Her mother, Pat Craig of Bismarck, gave her poet friends copies of her daughter’s first collection. Kathy lives in the Raleigh-Durham area.
From inside, I see that the tennis lesson is over. A poem comes to mind, thence to the journal: Tennis/ lesson over. / I can resume my seat/ in the warming sea-air breeze of/ the Gulf.
Back out on the deck, I continue reading Kingling. One of Kathy’s poems, “Loss” hits a chord with me. I reprint it here:
“I had two ceramic terriers once, / Both fit in one palm. / They stood guard/ on my cherry dresser, / the one my mother had as a girl.//
“I never played with them––/ they were just for show. / Yet I kept them/ all through the years. / Now I don’t know how/ or when they disappeared, / like the last pages of childhood.”
That poignant poem engendered my own reminiscences about something I lost. “Whatever Happened to...?”
“As a young wife,/babe in arms,/I visited my first flea market./A green frosted-glass/ perfume set/captivated me./Mine now, I determined/to decorate our room/with purples, greens and blues/even going so far/ as to create a baby quilt/in those colors.//
“That’s as far as my project/went. Except it began a life-long/love of frosted-satin glass.
Whatever happened/to the green perfume bottles? Whatever happened/ to the life I once had?”
As many times as we moved from 1960 till 1980, it is no wonder the velvety glass bottles disappeared. But I still have the baby quilt. Somewhere.
I’m off again, but only to Los Indios Escapes in Cherokee Village. See you soon with more stories.
c 2011 Pat Laster, author of A Journey of Choice, dba lovepat press
Friday, June 17, 2011
Back from ten days on the north Florida beaches
Welcome sights at Couchwood upon our return at 7 pm on a Saturday:
--The collected Saline Couriers, the collected mail and the day’s Arkansas Democrat-Gazette -- all as scheduled.
--The 43-year-old hydrangeas (facing north) behind the porch swing—even in the heat--are an exquisite show with enormous blue and pink clusters.
--The gardenias are in bloom; one now graces a kitchen window. Tall white tansy blossoms loom over the other plantings.
--The neighbor vet came over and asked if we wanted our boarded cats home now. “No!” I said, “Unless you need the room.” He said he had to make another trip to the clinic and thought surely we would be dying to see our “kitties.”
--Inside plants and porch plants in good condition, thanks to my sis Carolyn. Bedding annuals—pansies, celosia, zinnias were pretty much parched. But it’s time for the pansies to die of the heat anyway.
--The first lilac flowers of the beautyberry are showing.
Unwelcome animals on our return:
--Two black cats/one black kitten. They must eat somewhere else.
--Soon-to-be-gone fleas, this time, real biting, jumping critters which, once the cats were gone, had nowhere else to feed.
Other unwelcome sights and situations:
--A six-inch high lawn, which is already mowed by my daughter.
--The heat. While it was also hot in northern Florida, there was a (nearly) ubiquitous sea breeze. Not so in central Arkansas.
Now, for the vacation scenario.
Our condo was on the second floor of the high-rise Tristan Towers on Fort Pickens Road, the last tall building before the actual fort. The Bay was behind us, but we couldn’t see it. We could, however, get a far-away glimpse of the Gulf from our windows.
A daughter’s family stayed a few blocks away in Starboard Village on the Gulf side, which is where we had family pictures made. We were to wear white shirts and tan/khaki pants/shorts. Those colors blend in well with the sand and water.
A visiting son’s family stayed in “the pink house,” a cottage rebuilt after Ivan, which belongs to friends of the son/d-i-l who live in Gulf Breeze.
Gordon, the one whom we visited, my first-born, will turn fifty next month. (His mother will turn seventy-five the same month), two of the three reasons the entire family caravanned down there at this time. The other was a high school graduation for the Florida granddaughter, Breezy.
There were twenty of us altogether. Dining out as a group, which we did several times, meant finding adjacent tables.
Peg Leg Pete’s (first day and last day), Flounders and McGuire’s Irish Pub were our venues, the latter a long narrow room where we could all be together for our birthday(s) celebration.
I’ll continue describing our family frolic in Florida next week.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Check out A Journey of Choice at amazon.com and barnes&noble.com
--The collected Saline Couriers, the collected mail and the day’s Arkansas Democrat-Gazette -- all as scheduled.
--The 43-year-old hydrangeas (facing north) behind the porch swing—even in the heat--are an exquisite show with enormous blue and pink clusters.
--The gardenias are in bloom; one now graces a kitchen window. Tall white tansy blossoms loom over the other plantings.
--The neighbor vet came over and asked if we wanted our boarded cats home now. “No!” I said, “Unless you need the room.” He said he had to make another trip to the clinic and thought surely we would be dying to see our “kitties.”
--Inside plants and porch plants in good condition, thanks to my sis Carolyn. Bedding annuals—pansies, celosia, zinnias were pretty much parched. But it’s time for the pansies to die of the heat anyway.
--The first lilac flowers of the beautyberry are showing.
Unwelcome animals on our return:
--Two black cats/one black kitten. They must eat somewhere else.
--Soon-to-be-gone fleas, this time, real biting, jumping critters which, once the cats were gone, had nowhere else to feed.
Other unwelcome sights and situations:
--A six-inch high lawn, which is already mowed by my daughter.
--The heat. While it was also hot in northern Florida, there was a (nearly) ubiquitous sea breeze. Not so in central Arkansas.
Now, for the vacation scenario.
Our condo was on the second floor of the high-rise Tristan Towers on Fort Pickens Road, the last tall building before the actual fort. The Bay was behind us, but we couldn’t see it. We could, however, get a far-away glimpse of the Gulf from our windows.
A daughter’s family stayed a few blocks away in Starboard Village on the Gulf side, which is where we had family pictures made. We were to wear white shirts and tan/khaki pants/shorts. Those colors blend in well with the sand and water.
A visiting son’s family stayed in “the pink house,” a cottage rebuilt after Ivan, which belongs to friends of the son/d-i-l who live in Gulf Breeze.
Gordon, the one whom we visited, my first-born, will turn fifty next month. (His mother will turn seventy-five the same month), two of the three reasons the entire family caravanned down there at this time. The other was a high school graduation for the Florida granddaughter, Breezy.
There were twenty of us altogether. Dining out as a group, which we did several times, meant finding adjacent tables.
Peg Leg Pete’s (first day and last day), Flounders and McGuire’s Irish Pub were our venues, the latter a long narrow room where we could all be together for our birthday(s) celebration.
I’ll continue describing our family frolic in Florida next week.
c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press
Check out A Journey of Choice at amazon.com and barnes&noble.com
Monday, June 13, 2011
An Allegory: They Promised it Wouldn't Interfere
Once upon a time during the early years of the 21st century, there was a church, I mean a family--mostly functional--with two Parents, an Older Son, and two young Kids, who will hereafter be known as OS, Kids, Parents. This family had advantages that some of their neighbors didn't. The Parents provided experiences for their children that would help them grow and be creative. In fact, all their children were encouraged to do their best in whatever they attempted. And perhaps do it a little better than the neighbors.
One day, the Kids, who played instruments –an electric guitar and drums-- gathered some friends and organized a garage band that met--where else?--in the garage. To help their children "grow" their friendship base (which might--incidentally--be beneficial to them in the future), the Parents suggested getting more of the neighborhood kids involved. They did, and soon there were more kids and instruments than the garage would hold.
So the Parents said, “Y’all all come on in to the Great Room. We’ll move the furniture to the walls; there’ll be plenty of room.”
The night before OS had both a term paper and a debate team presentation due--and you know how infamous older children are about waiting until the last minute to finish their assignments--the Kids invaded the house. Plugged into speakers, enhanced decibels of electronic wailings slithered under doors, wiggled down halls, and pounded through wallboards.
Smiling at the precocity of their young offspring, the Parents watched through the open louvered doors from their barstools in the kitchen.
OS suddenly emerged from his room down the hall and screamed over the din. “Stop! Stop! How can I study with all this going on?” The sound died out.
The Parents looked at each other. They had not thought of this. “Go to another room,” one said. “Go to the garage,” said the other.
“My computer’s in MY room! And I need my computer.”
“But Son, this is a one-time occurrence.”
“So is this term paper. So is this debate.”
How to resolve this ticklish situation. The Kids and friends and instruments were already set up; it took an hour just to find enough multiple outlet strips to plug everyone in. It’s a wonder the fuses didn’t blow. The Kids’ gig had become the centerpiece for the evening.
“Why don’t you stay around and enjoy the Kids’ music?” one Parent said. “Gee, Son, we didn’t see this coming. Sorry. You’ll have to do the best you can. Maybe you can wait until they’re through” OS stalked off, seething at the injustice of getting pushed out of his comfort and quiet zone, and with no possibility of changing the situation.
Finally, OS solved his own problem. He flipped up his iPhone. “Joe? O. here. Hey, I’m in a jam. Could I come over and use your computer for an hour or two. It’s crazy wild at my house.”
“Sure, O,” said Joe, and in a flash, OS jerked his stick drive out of its hub, gathered his papers and note cards and tripped noisily down the back stairs to Joe’s.
One day, the Kids, who played instruments –an electric guitar and drums-- gathered some friends and organized a garage band that met--where else?--in the garage. To help their children "grow" their friendship base (which might--incidentally--be beneficial to them in the future), the Parents suggested getting more of the neighborhood kids involved. They did, and soon there were more kids and instruments than the garage would hold.
So the Parents said, “Y’all all come on in to the Great Room. We’ll move the furniture to the walls; there’ll be plenty of room.”
The night before OS had both a term paper and a debate team presentation due--and you know how infamous older children are about waiting until the last minute to finish their assignments--the Kids invaded the house. Plugged into speakers, enhanced decibels of electronic wailings slithered under doors, wiggled down halls, and pounded through wallboards.
Smiling at the precocity of their young offspring, the Parents watched through the open louvered doors from their barstools in the kitchen.
OS suddenly emerged from his room down the hall and screamed over the din. “Stop! Stop! How can I study with all this going on?” The sound died out.
The Parents looked at each other. They had not thought of this. “Go to another room,” one said. “Go to the garage,” said the other.
“My computer’s in MY room! And I need my computer.”
“But Son, this is a one-time occurrence.”
“So is this term paper. So is this debate.”
How to resolve this ticklish situation. The Kids and friends and instruments were already set up; it took an hour just to find enough multiple outlet strips to plug everyone in. It’s a wonder the fuses didn’t blow. The Kids’ gig had become the centerpiece for the evening.
“Why don’t you stay around and enjoy the Kids’ music?” one Parent said. “Gee, Son, we didn’t see this coming. Sorry. You’ll have to do the best you can. Maybe you can wait until they’re through” OS stalked off, seething at the injustice of getting pushed out of his comfort and quiet zone, and with no possibility of changing the situation.
Finally, OS solved his own problem. He flipped up his iPhone. “Joe? O. here. Hey, I’m in a jam. Could I come over and use your computer for an hour or two. It’s crazy wild at my house.”
“Sure, O,” said Joe, and in a flash, OS jerked his stick drive out of its hub, gathered his papers and note cards and tripped noisily down the back stairs to Joe’s.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Been to Florida for 10 days
As soon as I get my newspaper column finished, I'll get back to blogging. pl
Friday, May 27, 2011
Memorial Day 2011 ala poets and historians
“The dead make the living dearer.” –Thomas Lynch, from Treasury of Proverbs and Epigrams (Avenel Publishers, 1954) p. 110.
“For the whole earth is the/ sepulchre of famous men and/ their story is not graven/ only on stone over their/ native earth but lives on/ far away without visible/ symbol woven into the stuff/ of other men’s lives.” –translated from the Greek from the Oration of Pericles over the dead in the Peloponnesian War and delivered at Athens in 430 B.C. Pericles made this appeal to the pride of his countrymen and praised the warriors who had fallen in their country’s service.—from The Joy of Words (J. G. Ferguson, 1960), p. 136.
SOULS AND RAIN-DROPS by Sidney Lanier: “Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea,/ Then vanish, and die utterly. One would not know that rain-drops fell/ If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.// So souls come down and wrinkle life/ And vanish in the flesh-sea strife./ One might not know that souls had place/ Were’t not for the wrinkles in life’s face.” (Ibid) p. 137.
A poet friend sent me the following poem with this explanation: “One of the poems I had to memorize in school—when I was too young and ‘unaware’ to know what it meant. Now there are many, many such places, and I know what they mean—and wish I didn’t.
IN FLANDERS FIELDS –“In Flanders fields the poppies blow/ Between the crosses, row on row,/ That mark our place; and in the sky/ The larks, still bravely singing, fly/ Scarce heard amid the guns below.//
“We are the Dead. Short days ago/ We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,/ Loved, and were loved, and now we lie/ In Flanders fields.//
“Take up our quarrel with the foe:/ To you from failing hands we throw/ The torch; be yours to hold it high./ If ye break faith with us who die/ We shall not sleep, though poppies grow/ In Flanders fields.”--Lt. Col. John McCrae, MD
Finally, Edgar A. Guest’s MEMORIAL DAY. “The finest tribute we can pay/ Unto our heroes dead today,/ Are not rose wreaths, both white and red,/ In memory of the blood they shed;/ It is to stand beside each mound, / Each couch of consecrated ground,/ And pledge ourselves as warriors true/ Unto the work they died to do.//
“Into God’s valleys where they lie/ At rest, beneath the open sky,/ Triumphant now, o’er every foe,/ As living tributes let us go./ No wreath of rose or immortelles/ Or spoken word or tolling bells/ Will do today, unless we give/ Our pledge that liberty shall live.//
“Our hearts must be the roses red/ We place above our heroes dead;/ Today beside their graves we must/ Renew allegiance to their trust;/ Must bare our heads and humbly say/ We hold the Flag as dear as they,/ And stand, as once they stood, to die/ To keep the Stars and Stripes on high.//
“The finest tribute we can pay/ Unto our heroes dead today/ Is not of speech or roses red,/ But living, throbbing hearts instead/ That shall renew the pledge they sealed/ With death upon the battlefield:/ That freedom’s flag shall bear no stain/ And free men wear no tyrant’s chain.” ––from Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest (Reilly & Lee Co. 1934), p. 269-270.
Amen and Amen.
Pat Laster, author of A Journey of Choice
“For the whole earth is the/ sepulchre of famous men and/ their story is not graven/ only on stone over their/ native earth but lives on/ far away without visible/ symbol woven into the stuff/ of other men’s lives.” –translated from the Greek from the Oration of Pericles over the dead in the Peloponnesian War and delivered at Athens in 430 B.C. Pericles made this appeal to the pride of his countrymen and praised the warriors who had fallen in their country’s service.—from The Joy of Words (J. G. Ferguson, 1960), p. 136.
SOULS AND RAIN-DROPS by Sidney Lanier: “Light rain-drops fall and wrinkle the sea,/ Then vanish, and die utterly. One would not know that rain-drops fell/ If the round sea-wrinkles did not tell.// So souls come down and wrinkle life/ And vanish in the flesh-sea strife./ One might not know that souls had place/ Were’t not for the wrinkles in life’s face.” (Ibid) p. 137.
A poet friend sent me the following poem with this explanation: “One of the poems I had to memorize in school—when I was too young and ‘unaware’ to know what it meant. Now there are many, many such places, and I know what they mean—and wish I didn’t.
IN FLANDERS FIELDS –“In Flanders fields the poppies blow/ Between the crosses, row on row,/ That mark our place; and in the sky/ The larks, still bravely singing, fly/ Scarce heard amid the guns below.//
“We are the Dead. Short days ago/ We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,/ Loved, and were loved, and now we lie/ In Flanders fields.//
“Take up our quarrel with the foe:/ To you from failing hands we throw/ The torch; be yours to hold it high./ If ye break faith with us who die/ We shall not sleep, though poppies grow/ In Flanders fields.”--Lt. Col. John McCrae, MD
Finally, Edgar A. Guest’s MEMORIAL DAY. “The finest tribute we can pay/ Unto our heroes dead today,/ Are not rose wreaths, both white and red,/ In memory of the blood they shed;/ It is to stand beside each mound, / Each couch of consecrated ground,/ And pledge ourselves as warriors true/ Unto the work they died to do.//
“Into God’s valleys where they lie/ At rest, beneath the open sky,/ Triumphant now, o’er every foe,/ As living tributes let us go./ No wreath of rose or immortelles/ Or spoken word or tolling bells/ Will do today, unless we give/ Our pledge that liberty shall live.//
“Our hearts must be the roses red/ We place above our heroes dead;/ Today beside their graves we must/ Renew allegiance to their trust;/ Must bare our heads and humbly say/ We hold the Flag as dear as they,/ And stand, as once they stood, to die/ To keep the Stars and Stripes on high.//
“The finest tribute we can pay/ Unto our heroes dead today/ Is not of speech or roses red,/ But living, throbbing hearts instead/ That shall renew the pledge they sealed/ With death upon the battlefield:/ That freedom’s flag shall bear no stain/ And free men wear no tyrant’s chain.” ––from Collected Verse of Edgar A. Guest (Reilly & Lee Co. 1934), p. 269-270.
Amen and Amen.
Pat Laster, author of A Journey of Choice
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