Goodbye to 2012; hello to 2013

               An early poem of mine is appropriate today: Titled “Farewell,” it is a double-form piece, an acrostic and a Farewell pattern.

                        Galloping swiftly, as on fire; 

                        Over minutes, hours and days,

                        Obeying nature’s agenda,

                        Dashing through time down the

                        Backstretch of December,

                        You daze us with speed – an

                        Entire year gone.”

            Winter has arrived, calendar-wise, and though we usually consider all of December “winter,” we lived through some nice warm days earlier this month and snow at the end. My tubular wind chime pealed a lot.

            Finally, in time for gift-giving and for Christmas, I got to those molasses balls’ ingredients that had sat on the countertop for several days.

After two hours, 77 of them cooled on wax paper and rested in air-tight containers until they were needed. (There would have been 80 but I had to taste one. It was nearly supper time and I was hungry. I ate one more. And it was nearly Christmas, so I ate just one more.)

            Here is Steve Long’s recipe for Molasses Balls that appeared in an Arkansas Democrat-Gazette’s recent Wednesday's Food section. He noted that these store well. If they last that long. I recommend them.

            In a large bowl, sift together 4 cups all-purpose flour, 4 teaspoons baking soda, 1 teaspoon salt.

            In a separate large mixing bowl, cream together 1-and-1/2 cups shortening, 2 cups granulated sugar (you’ll need more sugar for rolling). Mix in 2 eggs.

            Stir into that mixture 2 tablespoons PLUS 2 teaspoons molasses, 2 teaspoons ground ginger, 1 heaping teaspoon ground cloves, 1 heaping tablespoon ground cinnamon and 1 heaping teaspoon allspice.

            Add flour mixture to make a stiff dough. (I used a portable mixer which ran hot before I finished. A wooden spoon might have worked just as well.)

            Roll dough into 1-inch balls, then roll each in a bowl of sugar. Place balls on ungreased cookie sheet and slightly flatten each one with a spoon or the bottom of a glass. (I used a glass with a deep “tread” on the bottom. The pattern was star-shaped, but after cooking, it was not visible.)

            Bake at 350 degrees for 12-15 minutes (I used 13) until light brown. Cool and store in an airtight container.

            Makes about 10 dozen cookies. (I rolled mine out to the size of a large marble and made only about 7 dozen. They are nearly twice the size of a ginger snap.)

            Since Christmas is over, you might bake a batch for New Year’s. Or Valentine’s.

The Paulus-Laster gathering at Couchwood on the Sunday before Christmas was fabulous. As usual. Even with the unusual (Norfolk Pine) tree.

Ready or not, here comes two-thousand-thirteen. May it bring you and yours much joy. # 

Count down to Christmas

Couchwood dining room buffet & secretary, Christmas 2011

by Pat Laster

 

                By the time this is posted, it will be almost too late to think about getting the house clean and decorated, the molasses balls mixed, mashed and cooked, the mincemeat pie baked, the gifts wrapped, and still have enough holiday joy left (or restored) to welcome the folks from Florida. Or from wherever your relatives live.

                A week ago Thursday, my house was a mess. (Wasn’t everyone’s?) Boxes brought down from the attic held ornaments, Santa Clauses—one with a sleigh and a lone deer from the old, old set of three– plastic icicles from the Paulus grandmother and plastic-circles-with-Christmas-figures-inside from the Couch grandmother.

                By Sunday night after the morning choir service of Lessons and Carols and the church’s evening Family Night (Sights and Sounds of Christmas), my molasses ball ingredients still sat on the countertop. The dry ingredients had been sifted three day ago and covered.    

                Our tree this year is not the expensive (at the time) pre-lit job. That one's still in the attic where I hauled it last year after grandson Billy broke it into its three components so I could manhandle them up the stairs after he’d gone back to HSU.

                No, this year, the “tree” will be my late mother’s 6-foot tall Norfolk Pine that has miraculously stayed alive. Never mind that several branches fell off as I was shaking it before deciding whether to use it. Oh, what the heck, I might as well be different this year. Give the family something to talk about and visit over.

              To begin, I spiral-wrapped the three major stalks with silver tinsel. Then, selecting weightless ornaments, I hung them from the branches. Cutting red tinsel into 9-in strips, I draped them over the tallest limbs (a kitchen stepstool was required).

              No lights, of course, but I directed a high-intensity desk lamp upward and it helped. If any more branches should fall before Christmas, I might be left with a large Charlie Brown tree. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?

             On Monday morning, the molasses-ball stuff still sat on the countertop. But I had other fish to fry. I’d “dressed” the dining table but not the buffet and the two china cabinets. So that morning, I kept saying aloud, “Dining Room,” when I’d want to stop for a different project. As I write, the buffet is done as are the two china cabinets--one in reds and the other in blues. And, the molasses balls after baking turned into cookies.

             Gifts are yet in the bedroom closet—or unbought. But I know what I’m looking for and where to find them. One luncheon date today (Wednesday--I received another invitation for the same date but declined) is all that’s on the week’s schedule. That is, until family from Florida arrives Friday.

          Attending holiday programs of the Arkansas Chamber Singers, the Horace Mann Arts and Science Magnet School, the Hendrix College choir, and singing in a church choir presentation of Lessons and Carols infused many with as true a meaning of the season as is possible, given the horrible massacre in Connecticut.
                May the God of love and peace be with us every one this Christmas. Amen and amen.
c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton AR

Happy New Year! (the new liturgical church year: Advent)

by Pat Laster

 

In liturgical churches, the four weeks preceding Christmas—called Advent—is a time to celebrate –and prepare for --the coming of Jesus. The following devotional was written last year and published in a booklet of Advent readings collected, compiled and printed by my friend Dorothy Hatfield of Beebe, who does this each year as her gift to the church and community.
           

                                     “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus.”

 Advent after Advent after Advent, we sing this 267-year-old hymn by Charles Wesley.

And Christmas after Christmas after Christmas, we sing “We Would See Jesus,” written in 1913. During the church year, we sing “Turn Your eyes Upon Jesus,” from a poem written in 1922.

                Well, folks, in 2011, I saw Jesus! Of all places, Jesus was sitting in a booth in Benton’s La Hacienda. He was alone and facing us as we were led to our booth behind him. He was young, with kind eyes, straight brown hair falling to his shoulders--he could have stepped out of the picture of Jesus found in nearly every church and in many homes.

 His laptop was open. He looked up and smiled as we passed. I glanced back and saw what appeared to be a screen of emails.

                The waiter took our order, and I goofed by asking for one thing when I meant another.

In a minute or two, Jesus turned in his booth and genially commented about my mistaken order. We laughed.

                Once during our meal, I looked up and Jesus was gone. Had he vaporized or “vibrated to another level,” as a friend described a disappearance? The word we use is “ascended.”

                No, Jesus was visiting with people at a nearby table. He might have been preaching, but I doubt it. He returned to his booth and laptop. As we left, I caught his eye and waved. He said, “Have a nice day.”

                J. Edgar Park, nearly a century ago, took the first line from another person’s hymn, “We Would See Jesus, for the shadows lengthen,” and wrote his hymn to express “youth, promise and sunshine and an inner glimpse of the Young Man of Nazareth living and moving among us.”

                What if? Some believe angels live among us, why not Jesus, whom this young man resembled?

Why not? Crowds weren’t flocking around. I wish I’d passed my napkin to him for an autograph. I wish I’d asked him if other folks had mentioned his resemblance to Our Savior. Sigh . . .

This experience led me from pray-singing “Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus,” through “We Would [hope to] see Jesus,” to “I’ve Just Seen Jesus,”  to the mantra, “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus, and... find that the things of earth” are mere trifles.

During this Advent season, this run-up to Christmas, will we see Jesus in others? Will others see Jesus in us?

 

c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton AR

Whether and whither the weather

by Pat Laster

                “Goodness, how we’d like to know/ Why the weather alters so.” –Ford Madox Ford (1873-1939) from “Children’s Song”

               How many years has December arrived in Arkansas with temps ranging from 54 to 72? On December 2 in 1982, it was 79 degrees, a record at that time. In 1918, in February, Little Rock’s high temp was 87 degrees.

                Why is it, I wonder, that I seem to equate December with winter, though winter doesn’t actually begin until near the end of the month. But, the climatological winter season, according to the National Weather Service, begins December 1 and lasts through February. Maybe that’s why.

                Last Saturday and Sunday were warm enough to work outside and neighbors on three sides blew or raked, then burned leaves.

On Sunday afternoon, I took all the cuttings that had rooted—begonia, epesia, a lantana sprig and three African violet leaves—to the porch and potted them.

                Then I snipped off all the frozen chrysanthemum blooms, leaving a second set of buds. Don’t oak leaves in flower beds make good winter mulch? I went online and found different opinions, but most recommend shredding oak leaves.

                It was still warm on Monday, so I texted local Daughter to see if she would come over and saddle the red Troy-built Pony and ride over the yard to shred the leaves, thus helping my grass—cur and mutt grass, not like the back neighbor’s fancy stuff.

                While she did that, I blew as many leaves as I could from the foundation/flower beds. By the time Annamarie finished the front yard, there were no leaf pieces to return as mulch to the beds. Heck, I never mulch anyway.

                Lately, weather has been in the news, especially weather extremes. Here are a few items I jotted down:

                * The 2012 Atlantic hurricane season tied as being the 3^rd most-active season since 1851.

                In 2012, extremes—weather-wise—were:

*Arctic ice melt—an area larger than the US (4.57 million square miles.)

*Droughts were “devastating” to nearly two-thirds of the US, as well as Russia and Southern Europe.

* Floods swamped West Africa.

* Heat waves affected much of the Northern Hemisphere.  

* In 1917, Little Rock received 26.8 inches of snow from December – February.

* In 1918, Calico Rock (Arkansas) received 48 inches of snow through February.

* In 1983-84, Arkansas temps were below freezing for 12 straight days, December `9 – January 1.

* In 1889-90, there was NO snowfall.

* The National Weather Service (where most of this information was found and shared by K. Heard, Arkansas Democrat-Gazette) records-keeping began in the early 1800s.

In the final page of “The Old Farmer’s Almanac Book of Weather Lore,” by Edward F. Dolan, is this British School Rhyme:

“Whether the weather be fine, / Whether the weather be not; / Whether the weather, / Whatever the weather, / Whether we like it or not.” #

 

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton AR

Thanksgiving may be over, but …..

 by Pat Laster

 

                It was hard, on the Monday after Thanksgiving, to say/feel or think, ‘OK, it’s over; time to move into Christmas mode.’ Like so many have. Why?

                What follows are some of the reasons.

There were still 5 days of November left. Since I’d made a rule never to begin Christmas (except in my mind—oh, and unless I spot a perfect gift) until December 1, my pumpkins, gourds and leaves, fall table cloths and runners will stay where they are. As long as the trees stay vibrant, it is autumn’s time.

I want to keep the memories of a more-blessed-than-usual holiday weekend-- one that lasted from Wednesday through Saturday—in my mind.

Unusual: A sibling flew in from Virginia on Wednesday. Barb stayed till early Saturday morning when I drove her from west Hot Springs to the Bill and Hillary Clinton National airport in Little Rock. She hadn’t heard of the change of the airport’s name.

Unusual: One of our sisters turned 70 and her daughter-in-law planned a BIG, perfect, surprise celebration.

Unusual: The 50^th anniversary of one of our brothers and his wife was acknowledged and celebrated—by us, if not by them. Celebrated, that is. Both are low key and would not have ever mentioned it. They brought black-eyed peas seasoned as only Janice can do, and some additional dishes—salads and a shrimp soup––prepared by their Mexican friend.

Unusual: Our newlyweds joined the family circle and the family gathered around a computer to view honeymoon pictures taken in the Dominican Republic, a trip made possible by gifts from his parents and an aunt who had time share opportunities.

Unusual: For the first time in my memory, there was no cranberry sauce and no Jell-O salad. But, for the first time in said memory, a brother brought two large pans of “Mom’s and Aunt Erma’s yeast rolls.” They were to fight over. Though no one had to.

                Unusual: The visiting-from-Portland vegetarian prepared collard greens and baked mac-and-cheese. I took a bowl of stewed pears, and my slow-cooked fruit compote was totally forgotten until afterwards. But it was good with ice cream later.

Usual: James (my eldest grandson) drove over from England with slices of pumpkin-chocolate chip loaf, some of which I brought home. Yummy!

Usual: Kid Billy drove up from Arkadelphia, his home away from home. Of course, he needed some moolah. His mother and sister drove over from Benton with a first-time-for-the-Thanksgiving-table dish of au gratin potatoes. Raves ensued. ( a new tradition, perhaps?)

Usual/Unusual: Jenn and family drove down from Conway with her signature dish of sweet potatoes. Grandson Jake, 11, who’d grown a foot since we’d seen him, pronounced this “the best Thanksgiving he could remember.” He plays violin in the middle school orchestra and we saw/heard iPhone videos of part of his first concert. It included “Twinkle, twinkle, little star” (tune by Mozart) and “Ode to Joy” (tune by Beethoven). I did not hear one out-of-tune note in the 80-piece group!

Usual: Our year-after-year hosts, Bev and Judge Buddy Villines, kept the fire going and the dishes in the dishwasher.

Unusual: Their younger daughter and son-in-law announced a future addition to their family.

If all that wasn’t worth crowing about … worth thinking about during the countdown to Christmas …  do you see now why I can’t yet let it go?

 

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton AR

Thanksgiving seemed early this year…

 

 

by Pat Laster

                …but not too early to begin listing, along with every other columnist on the planet (well, on a certain plane) doing the same thing, our Gratitudes.

                Just as I never had to (got to) write an essay on ‘what I did last summer’ I can’t remember ever making a ‘what I am thankful for’ list. Nor do I remember, as a child, making a Santa list, though I probably did verbally. Because my children (as adults) asked, for several years, I did reply to emails about “your list.” But I digress. (I love that phrase.)

                I do remember youthful prayers of ‘God bless…’ lists; even today’s prayers of “God bless…” So here is an alphabetical list, narrative, not poetic. Unless I can’t help making it into blank verse.

                WHAT I AM THANKFUL FOR: written Sunday night after three-and-a-half hour choir and bell rehearsals rescheduled from Thanksgiving eve. With Advent and Christmas programs looming, we couldn’t afford to miss a week of rehearsals.

                A – For the ability to do lots of things—to type, to sing, to write, to read, to read music, to think, to feel, to see, to hear.

                B – For brawn enough to take down cabinet and cupboard doors, remove the hardware, sand them, paint them, then restore the hardware and rehang the doors. But not all in the same day.

                C - For courage enough to flee a stultifying situation, even though it meant breaking a few hearts.

                D – For daughters and daughters-in-law.

                E - For energy and endurance needed to get good things done for the country and the world.

                F – For flashes of insight and ideas leading to great inventions and disease prevention.

                G – For generous folks who give of their time, talent and resources without expecting anything back.

                H – For Habitat for Humanity. (See G.)

                I – For instruments of music and mercy.

                J – For journeys of every kind.

                K – For kinfolk with whom we’ll share the Thanksgiving season.

                L – For lessons that keep us informed and humble.

                M – For mailpersons and their dedication.           

    N – For newspapers—no matter how much they cost.

   O – For obligations that keep our feet to the fire.

   P – For pastimes to keep us from becoming too serious.

   Q – For quiet times.

   R – For restful opportunities. May we take them when they are offered.

   S - For sages and poets who see through to a deeper plane and tell us about what they see.

   T – For times of togetherness—like Thanksgiving.

   U – For urges to be useful.

   V – For voices to proclaim love.

   W – For women friends and colleagues.

   X – For XOXOX, shorthand for hugs and kisses.

               Y – For yesterdays and yonders – the past and the future.

               Z – For zest and zeal in approaching the rest of our lives.

 

c 2012 by Pat Laster, Benton AR USA 

Impressions of a poll worker

by Pat Laster
  [all names below are altered]

 

                At 7 a.m. on Election Day, all precinct workers showed up with a contribution to the “potluck,” and knowledge that it was to be a very l-o-n-g day.

              
               My assigned table served those whose surnames began with A through E included Bo S., who handed out ballots after numbering/tearing off the stubs.

At the front of the table sat D. W. B., whom I knew in high school but hadn’t seen since. She handled the sign-in book.

In the middle, as a newbie, I merely wrote a continuing list of voters, a backup to the official roll, being sure that my numbers and Bo’s stub numbers matched.

Three other tables spread across one-half of the hall handled other sections of the alphabet.

Three banks of tables holding cardboard tri-folds for privacy and pencils for voting filled the other half of the long room.

The ballot box table stood between, with an official always on hand to guide folks on how to insert the ballot. He also gave out “I voted” stickers, even to the children of the voters.

Besides being a civic duty and opportunity, the voting event often became a social, reconnecting time. I saw--for the first time in a long time--my former niece, Andi, and Rob, a former student during the years I had another name; Nell, a neighbor from teenage years, plus one I hadn’t seen since I retired from teaching: Coach B.

We were excited to see the “first-timers,” who came to the table saying. “I don’t know what to do.” One young man, 18, looked to be 12! I heard the ballot monitor say to each, “Don’t let this be your last vote!” Amen to that.

All ages, all classes, many handicapped (two nearly blind); some with babies and children (all well-behaved) came through the lines.

Workers with names and/or company logos on their shirt pockets; be-hatted college students, school-shirted high school students and teachers—all took advantage of their right to vote.  

One youngish Goth (dressed in black) came in to vote and on his way out, he pushed his trousers down, showing his blue shorts. Otherwise, we’d have been mooned!

One woman had to borrow a worker’s reading glasses to see to vote.

One young man took his ball cap off inside; we complimented him (to his delight) on his manners. He gave credit to his parents.

Most were willing to provide ID, though I heard one fellow on the next line saying he thought that was illegal. Folks reckoned they had to provide it everywhere else, so why not at the polls. Some showed drivers licenses and/or voter cards. One young woman handed us her passport.

             Several people could not vote, even though they swore the revenue office told them they were registered. Some hadn’t updated their (changed) names or residences. Even a 10-years-in- Baghdad veteran couldn’t vote though he was told he could. That was heart-breaking.

                Several voters were at the wrong precinct, but it was a quick drive to the other one.

                All four tables of registrations saw—during the 12-hour period—a thousand voters.

    Is this a great country, or what!!!

 

c 2012 by Pat Laster

Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow - guest column

L. to R. Talya, Pat, Tom, Joan, Dorothy before a scrumptious dinner meal at WCDH

 

 Food for the soul

Guest blog

by Talya Tate Boerner

 

For one week, the Writer’s Colony at Dairy Hollow becomes my home. Cocooned within a brilliant autumn forest, I write. There are five of us; each pondering a different project, all with the same objective—to create.    

             Day and night we edit, revise, think, drain our thoughts onto paper, and spend hours wrestling with one phrase, one word…

In need of fresh air, I walk along Spring Street, while mentally rearranging thoughts into paragraphs. A rusty gate inspires a poem. A shop owner becomes the protagonist in a short story. Musings stir among the trees.

In the evenings, we are lured to dinner by kitchen aromas. Chef Jana (pronounced “Yana”) spoils us with gourmet meals worthy of “Bon Appetit.” Stick-to-the-ribs, yet surprisingly healthy and organic. Squash mixed with Gruyere, fresh kale and slivered almonds, pan-seared chicken, tarts made from Pat’s freshly stewed pears (gluten-free for me!).

As writers we can only dream of stringing together book chapters as skillfully as meals are spread night after night. Nurturing, these meals provide a time of relaxation and reflection. Sustenance for writing.

Early in the week, our discussions are sparse “how-do-you-do, nice-to-meet-you, where-are-you-from” chats. Polite and courteous, barely scratching the surface. Exchanges between near (or complete) strangers.

By week’s end, conversations are rich, the laughter familiar as we delve deeper, call each other out, poke fun. Our souls poured onto paper, we’ve come to know one another. Like kids at summer camp, we hate to see our time at Dairy Hollow end.

Dairy Hollow Butternut Squash and Mushroom Tart. This amazing dish was served during our week at Dairy Hollow. I badgered Chef Jana until she gave me the recipe… (modified from “Cooking Light”)

Crust:

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour * ¼ teaspoon salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * ¼ teaspoon baking powder * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 3 tablespoons ice water * cooking spray.

Filling:

3 cups peeled cubed butternut squash * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided * ¾ cup chopped onion * 2.5 ounces aged Gruyere cheese, shredded and divided (about 2/3 cup) * 2 large eggs * ½ teaspoon salt, divided * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, divided * 1 ½ ounces chopped pancetta (or bacon) * 5 ounces white button mushroom caps * ¼ cup dry white wine

Preparation:

    Preheat oven to 425°.

    To prepare crust, weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup and spoons; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients (through baking powder) in a food processor; pulse 2 times or until combined.

       Combine 1/4 cup oil and 3 tablespoons ice water in a small bowl. With processor on, slowly add oil mixture through food chute, and process until dough is crumbly. Sprinkle dough into a 9-inch pie plate coated with cooking spray.

       Quickly press dough into an even layer in bottom and up sides of pie plate. Place crust into preheating oven, and bake for 10 minutes. 

To prepare filling, place squash in food processor (do not clean from dough), and process for 1 minute or until squash is finely chopped

       Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add 1 tablespoon oil to pan; swirl to coat. Add squash and onion to pan; sauté for 9 minutes, stirring occasionally.

      While squash cooks, combine half of cheese (about 1/3 cup), eggs, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper in a large bowl; stir in squash mixture. Remove crust from oven; spoon squash mixture over crust, and spread evenly. Return tart to 425° oven; bake 9 minutes.

     Return pan to medium-high heat. Add remaining 1 tablespoon oil to pan; swirl to coat. Add pancetta; cook 1 minute or until beginning to brown. Add mushrooms; cook for 7 minutes or until browned.

     Stir in remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Add wine; cook 1 minute or until liquid almost evaporates. Remove tart from oven. Arrange the mushroom mixture evenly over top of tart; sprinkle with the remaining 1/3 cup cheese.

     Return tart to 425° oven. Bake 3 to 5 minutes or until cheese melts.

     NOTE: Gruyere cheese has a strong flavor, if you prefer use half Gruyere and half Monterey Jack. Serves 6. Calories=368, Fat=21.8 grams, Protein=11 grams, Fiber=2.8 grams. #

View Talya's blog, gracegrits&gardening.blogspot.com

I never tire of time in the Ozarks

Porch of Spring Garden Suite, Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow,
Eureka Springs Arkansas

by Pat Laster

 

Who but an over-achieving writer would take such pains to bundle up and go outside on a below-freezing Ozark morning? (With coffee, of course, even though a stronger roast than my usual half-caff.)

Answer: For one, a back-packed mountain man walking an ubiquitous incline toward downtown. For another, a dog walker. She looked over. I “Good morning”-ed and in response, she said, “I just saw a red fox go across the road. Beautiful! ”

So I’m in good company here in Eureka Springs, in Spring Garden Suite, my usual stable  at Dairy Hollow. I did ask for a room in the new “505” building next door, but Ms. Director forgot and instead, scheduled a writer who wanted to stay a month. I didn’t mind, especially when I discovered it was Tom S. from New England who was a co-resident several years ago.

MY MUSE

One leaf,
large and tattered, 
followed me inside, like
a cat waiting for the door to
open.

 “Hello
there! Come on in!
You’ll be safe from Jana’s
leaf blower. Here, join the ones I
picked up

as I
crossed the parking
lot yesterday. Right up
here under the lamp where I can
see you."

Behind me, cars and conversation. A writing workshop was scheduled for all day in the main house. If someone parked in front of “my” place, (six feet from the street) I’d have to move inside!  Or complain.

VIEW FROM THE STREET AT THE WRITERS COLONY FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF A DOG WALKER

Would you
 look at that! A
cleverly stuffed strawman
posing as a writer on this
freezing

morning.
No gloves, though. Life-
like hands, even holding
a Razorback pen! It IS a
writer!?!

Vehicles began parking on “our” street. But no one exited an SUV. Might it be a photographer? After all, there were now three papers in this town, though two of them seem to have the same information—written by different folks.

No newspaper photog, alas, but Tom walked by with a basket of breakfast and lunch fixings “so I won’t have to ‘bug them.’” He gestured toward the main house soon-to-be-awash with paying, workshopping writers. “Oh,” he continued. “Mind if I take a picture of you writing? I’ll send it to my wife and email or text you a copy.”

“Oh, no!” I said, followed immediately by, “Okay.” How did he know that at that very moment I was writing about a photographer? Karma?  Indeed, I DID look like an obese straw person!

Later, I went inside to refill my coffee mug—a leaf-motifed one from home. As I turned back to the door, sure enough, there was a vehicle immediately between “my” walk and the street. An older man with a knitted head covering carried his supplies down the stone slab steps to the entrance of the main house. The antique-car license also showed a Vietnam Veteran sticker. I forgave him immediately.

TWENTY SIX DEGREES

Colder,
but the maples
aren’t yet as vibrant as
last year, or hickories quite as
yellow.

 Turns out that the area’s prime color peaked last week. Maple, hickory and cottonwood leaves were now underfoot. Except the ones I brought in to grace my writing space.
 

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton Arkansas

On not being prepared to “be sick”

 

by Pat Laster

 

                “I’m NEVER sick,” I often boasted, knocking on the nearest wood—or my head--especially after others went on about their troubles.

After last Saturday, I can no longer brag. At the last contest announcement—the one-thousand dollar prize from the Sybil Nash Abrams family trust—of our Poets Roundtable of Arkansas's National Poetry Day meeting--which our branch hosted--I felt a fullness in my stomach, which soon turned into knowledge that I was about to (ahem) “be sick.”

By the time I zigzagged around the poets preparing to leave and reached the bathroom’s paper-towel garbage bag … there soon was ‘way more than used paper-towel litter therein.

I’ll spare you the details even though our speaker for the day urged us to “go deep,” “take chances” while using active verbs and specifics.

I cleaned up the area as well as I could, and then headed out the back door of the hall toward the safety of my Taurus. I drove the five miles to Couchwood. My overnight guest had already left with her group for the Ozarks.

At home, I immediately turned on the firelogs, warmed my rice-filled neckpiece and stretched out on the sofa. Though wrapped in a fleecy blanket, I had chills all that restless hour.

Both phones rang, but I didn’t dare move. I figured folks were checking on me—and, sure enough, they were, for which I am grateful.

What does one who is never sick do when (s)he becomes “sick.” I thought of Pepto-Bismol, Kaopectate, and antacids.

            I beamed a flashlight into the under-the-bathroom-sink cabinet and discovered a bottle of Maalox. Aha!

Oh, dear. We’d moved to Couchwood in June of 06, and the expiration date was “12/06.” I took a dose anyway from the previously unopened bottle, and soon, the remainder of my stomach contents came up. I’ve been OK since.

 BTW, the Maalox went into the topsoil of this rocky hill. Note to self: Next time at the pharmacy, get a bottle of antacid with a far-in-the-future expiration date.

I think the episode was caused by stress and anxiety. My friends are not so sure. But researching, I find that indeed it may be so. To wit:

For a week before the meeting—a guest was overnighting—I checked off in my head all the things I had to do beforehand. I copied and folded the programs, I cleaned—slowly—each area where my guest would be, I gathered information for the memorial-to-the-poets-who-had-died and typed most of the presentation.

The final thrust on the last day included vacuuming --a hard-enough job with Mom’s old Electrolux—and finishing my speech. No time for a nap, but by the time Diane arrived, I had rested from my labors; my house was as spotless as it would ever get as long as I lived here.

We ate in, retired early, but I didn’t get to sleep until the wee hours. She said it took her six minutes to summon sleep. Next morning, we were up early, breakfasted and arrived at the meeting site early to “set up.”

A good meeting ensued: my speech was well received, catered lunch of bar-b-q was delicious, the awards of 23 contests called out and bestowed.

If it wasn’t stress and anxiety, why did the incident happen at exactly the last thing on the program?

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

Have other presidential campaigns seen such shenanigans?

Words said about or to presidents of the past

by Pat Laster

 

                Ever wonder if all the name-calling, mud-slinging, false-claims-accusations of this presidential campaign and even during a regular term is a modern phenomenon? Indeed not.

              Dean Acheson, Secretary of State under President Truman said in June, 1952, on the presidential candidacy of Dwight D. Eisenhower:

           “I doubt very much if a man whose main literary interests were in works by Mr. Zane Grey, admirable as they may be, is particularly well-equipped to be chief executive of this country, particularly where Indian affairs are concerned.”

             Abigail Adams, wife of John Adams in a letter to her husband in 1777 wrote:

“In the new code of laws which I suppose it will be necessary for you to make, I desire you would remember the ladies and be more generous and favorable to them than your ancestors.

Do not put such unlimited power into the hands of husbands. Remember, all men would be tyrants if they could. If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.”

Henry Adams, historian, from The Education of Henry Adams, 1906 opined:

“That, two thousand years after Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar, a man like Grant should be called—and should actually and truly be—the highest product of the most advanced society, made evolution ludicrous. One must be as commonplace as Grant’s own commonplaces to maintain such an absurdity. The progress of evolution from President Washington to President Grant, was alone evidence enough to upset Darwin.”

              Nicholas Biddle, banker, said in 1831 about President Jackson soon after Jackson’s attack on the Bank of the United States, which Biddle headed: 

“This worthy President thinks that because he has scalped Indians and imprisoned judges, he is to have his way with the Bank. He is mistaken.”

Ambrose Bierce, writer and wit, in The Devil's Dictionary (1881-1911) said:

“Presidency, n. The greased pig in the field game of American politics.”

            Daniel J. Boorstin, historian, wrote in The Image, 1962:

“Our most admired national heroes—Franklin, Washington, and Lincoln—are generally supposed to possess the ‘common touch.’ We revere them, not because they possess charisma, divine favor, a grace or talent granted them by God, but because they embody popular virtues.We admire them, not because they reveal God, but because they reveal and elevate ourselves.”

           John Branch, senator from North Carolina and secretary of the navy (sic) under President Andrew  Jackson, said in a letter to him in 1828:

“If elected, which I trust in God you will be, you will owe your election to the people, Yes Sir, to the unbiased unbought suffrages of the independent, grateful yeomanry of this country.

“You will come into the Executive chair untrammeled, free to pursue the dictates of your own judgment.”

             The following accolade by Heywood Broun, journalist, calls FDR

“The best newspaperman who has ever been President of the United States.”

             Roscoe Conkling, senator from New York and a corporation lawyer, is supposed to have said this in 1883:

 “I have but one annoyance with the administration of President (Chester) Arthur, and this is, that, in contrast with it, the Administration of Hayes becomes respectable, if not heroic.”

Pat Laster here: Times haven’t changed much regarding presidential politics, have they?

NOTE: Information from THE MORROW BOOK OF QUOTATIONS IN AMERICAN HISTORY by Joseph R. Conlin (Wm Morrow & Co. Inc., 1984). Regarding copyright, this book is also available for reading online.            #

c 2012 as a column and blog by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

 

Yes, Virginia, there was a Verna Lee Hinegardner

by Pat Laster

 

                She was Arkansas's Poet Laureate for many years. She lived in Hot Springs, Arkansas a long time before she had to move closer to her daughter in Conway. As she aged, she needed more help than her daughter and son-in-law could give--they were OTR truck drivers--so she moved to a nursing facility.

                After we heard she'd died, we waited and waited for an obituary, but one never appeared in the state paper. Then we heard from another poet in Conway who talked with her nephew that she wanted no obit, no services, nothing except cremation. A poet who knew her well said, “It’s as though she never lived.”

                But another poet had the forethought to check online all the funeral homes in Conway. Sure enough, he found a long obit and a nice picture. You can find it at www.rollerfuneralhomes.com. (Conway AR) I’d advise you to print or save a copy to your desktop or documents.

                After I heard of her death, Virginia, I found the three poetry books of hers, and as I sat at the computer, I read through all one-hundred-twelve of her poems in The Music Grows Louder, published in 1983 when she was 64.  They were numbered with Roman numerals, not titles.

                This book was dedicated to “Litchfield (Illinois) Community High School, Class of 1936”—that’s the year I was born, Virginia—and to 6 other entities, one of whom was: “to those who might enjoy a nostalgic glance at farm life in depression days.” That was me.

                She was a Linxwiler by birth, with older and younger siblings, and in one of her poems she expressed the hope that when she married, she would have a simple name. Not to be; she married “Pete” Hinegardner. Can’t you just see the wedding announcement: “Hinegardner – Linxwiler”?

                A great gift of Verna Lee’s is her autograph on my copy of her latest book, Mosaic,  published in 2011 when she was 92. In wobbly script, she wrote “For Pat Laster/ my poet-friend,/ Verna Lee Hinegardner.” I read this volume that summer in Florida and wrote several poems that were inspired by hers.

                Keep your eyes open, Virginia, for her poetry books in flea markets and used-book library sales. Look for these titles: Magic Moments, The Ageless Heart, Mud and Music, One Green Leaf, Seven Ages of Golf (For Women), Life is a Poem, My Ships Will Sail, Christmas is a Medley, Hearts of the South, People Poetry, and I Own One Star, along with the other two I’ve mentioned.

                Verna Lee invented the “Minute” poetry pattern. It has 60 syllables in particular line lengths and rhyme schemes. She told of asking her husband what she should name it, and after describing it to him, he reportedly said, “Why not call it a minute?”

                Here is one of her Minutes, number XXIX from The Music Grows Louder. [I could not get the formatting correct in this post. Slashes mean a new line.]

"This year it was my turn to pray/ Thanksgiving Day. /Each head was bowed. /I felt so proud/
that all my relatives were near /--all home—all here/
so proud that I /began to cry'
and could not speak my gratitude /for love and food./
I stuttered then, /‘Thanks, God. Amen.’”

                And I add, “Thanks, God, for Verna Lee’s life. May we never forget her, even though at times she was hard to love, according to some who knew her well. None of your children deserves to leave this world without some mention of her and her contribution to your creation. Amen.”

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press

Authors’ Fair –gains and losses

by Pat Laster

 

                A writer/friend sort of pooh-poohed those at signings who decorated their tables and themselves to match the color of their book covers. Yet, because a writers’ newsletter recently suggested doing just that, that’s exactly what I did. Even to the coffee cup.

                This event was held at the Faulkner County Library in Conway last Saturday. I had asked the librarian to buy both a hardback and softback copy of my book. Instead of answering yea or nay, she invited me to an Authors’ Fair from one till five-- part of the larger arts-doings in the town.

                I gathered things in all shades of blue to match the vibrant patterned cloth I’d had for ages, even a candy dish and colored Hershey’s kisses that included blue ones. Of the 18 authors, three of us had decorative cloths, two of us had candies, one of us had a video going all four hours and one had a replica of a skull for her book subtitled A Zombie’s Memoir.

                We were arranged in two sides of a wide space at the back of the library; a hall intersected leading farther down into the room where computer stations were installed. The librarian-in-charge changed her mind and instead of arranging us from front to back in the order we accepted—which would but me near the back—she decided to put all the college/ university people on one side and “the real world” folks on the other.

                Colleague Freeda and I were the first tables one could see coming down the long hall from the entrance of the library. Our names were pinned on the front of the black cloth provided, and book-cover posters on easels stood on our tables.

                John had an elegant and complete display for his $45, very-detailed book on the USS Independence. He wore a T-shirt with the information.

                Will was hawking his In Yankee Doodle’s Pocket: The Myth, Magic and Politics of Money in Early America.

                Linda and Adrienne and their children were selling various books self-published by CreateSpace “for free.” Except that they had to pay “a little bit” for each copy they bought.

                Carroll, next to us, had several books for sale, plus information about his publishing company.

                Except for a Mr. Colclasure, that included the “real world” people.

                Across the wall-less hall were UCA and Hendrix folks--one originally from England, one from Minnesota, and one from Hot Springs. Sherry and I traded hardback copies of our books, and I bought one of Mark’s poetry volumes for $5.

                Mark had promised his creative-writing students extra credit if they showed up, and several of them did. Professor and students fist-bumped when the latter arrived.

                Poor publicity was cited by the few folks who happened to make it down the length of the huge room. Our loss. And theirs.

                The gains were learning new folks, networking among ourselves, hearing their stories, and being seen. Perhaps a seed for a future purchase was planted when the few who came by, stopped, looked at back covers, took bookmarks and cards then moved on.

                Not much money changed hands; I gave two books to the library since she didn’t answer my request for a purchase. In return, she must provide me with a tax-deductible form. “Remind me,” she said. I certainly will.

Believe it or not, the four hours passed quickly. I would do it again, but I was glad to get home.

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press