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
Thursday, June 23, 2011
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
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