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
Thursday, November 24, 2011
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)