Reverse Resolutions: I’ve GOT to quit doing this!

 

 

One of my projects to complete in 2016

                One New Year’s resolution: STOP going off into the office after putting a pan of eggs to boil—on high heat—then forgetting about them till I hear pops and cracks. Boiled dry, they did, and when I doused the pan/ eggs with cold water, I thought they might explode. But they only sizzled, grumpily and impatiently. Well, it sounded so to me. This is the second time lately that I’ve done this. From now on, I’m staying close enough to hear the water boiling over and sizzling.

                I’ve got to STOP doing this: Thinking that a recipe calling for a pan lined with parchment paper or non-stick foil—which I didn’t have—that waxed paper surely would substitute. Wrong! Or else I used the wrong side of it. Gooey, gooey. My solution? Freeze the concoction and maybe the paper would peel off. YES! In the meantime, I saw—and purchased—some non-stick foil. Didn’t know such a thing existed. Do you reckon I need to get out in the world more?

                I will NEVER AGAIN try to stuff two books into a flat-rate postal envelope, even if the flap overlaps a little and there’s $5.75 worth of stamps affixed. Even if it is supposed to go Priority Mail. Somewhere—either Memphis, Little Rock or Benton—in the dead letter, or litter bin are copies of A Journey of Choice (softback) and Her Face in the Glass. They were intended for a writer friend in Rector. When she checked the post office where she’d forgotten she had a box, only the opened envelope with un-cancelled stamps greeted her. I hope someone rescues the books from the bin and reads them. OR gives them to a library. Or to a homeless person. Chalk that up in the “loss” column. And an expensive lesson.

                I must DESIST in toting the oversized recycling box to the appropriate bin—in the dark. One such task, with oak leaves littering the pathway that I thought I knew, resulted in a knee-fall into a flower-bed border lined with white rocks (See these three punctures? Right here.) Another time, at a different door, the box snagged on something, but this time, I dumped it instead of falling headlong into a concrete porchlet. Of course, I had to pick up the papers that fell, but that wasn’t such a hard task, thinking about what could have happened.

                I must CEASE procrastinating on getting things done—either writing, yard work, fixing up the inside of this older-than-I-am house, reading, writing . . . oh, I repeat myself. Each room has so many things to: find a place for, go through and (perhaps) toss to the recycling box or the Goodwill sack.

                Can I possibly END or at least lessen my penchant for buying more books until I read all the ones I’ve already purchased?

                In my own defense, and for my own peace of mind, let me HALT this list before I think of other items to add.

Happy New Year.

 

Christmas questions to some of my friends

A green Christmas to you!

 

        

 

Using questions from “The Christmas Conversation Piece: Creative Questions to Illuminate the Holidays,” by Bret Nicholaus & Paul Lowrie, 1996, here are some questions and answers.

LYDIA CHEATHAM, You’re the author of a new Christmas novel that you hope will one day become a classic. What would you choose as the setting for your Christmas story?

Lydia’s answer: I would set my Christmas story in an antiquated farm house, far away from the frantic life of the city. The cold winter night threatens to snow. Windows rattle with the frosted winter wind.

NORVAL ZIEGLER and THURMAN COUCH, You are a photographer who is given the chance to go back in history to capture a Christmas photograph. Where would you go and what year would it be?

Norval’s answer: Arlene and I were married on Dec. 18, 1949.  On Christmas day, we were in New Orleans, so I would go back there to, hopefully, find a photo. [Arlene & Norval are my aunt & uncle.]

Thurman’s answer: A frontier log cabin on Xmas Eve…nighttime…the candles are all lighted, maybe a kerosene lantern on the handmade table.  Family gathered round the fireplace in pajamas singing/humming traditional carols.  All this seen and witnessed by the wild creatures of the night…peering in the window at this pioneer family.  So a frontier scene, ceremonial, and upholding the tradition of the holiday. 

 JAN HAMLETT and ZETHA BONE, let’s say you have a beautiful 50-foot pine tree in your front yard that you are allowed to decorate with only one color of lights. Which color would you choose? Why?

Zetha’s answer: “I would choose white! Then add some colorful ornaments.”

Jan’s answer: If white is a color, as "plain vanilla" as it sounds, I would illuminate my 50-foot pine with white lights from its majestic top branch to its strong, sturdy base. 

Beyond the simple beauty of white lights, their presence reminds me of the wonder of a clear, starry night, the elegance of moonlit ice crystals, and the silent, peaceful purity of an evening snowfall. Most importantly, to me, nothing else would bear witness to Christ as "the light of the world" more eloquently than a tall pine tree, ever green, ever lovely, clothed in pure white radiance.

KAREN HONNOLD, you are a painter and have just been commissioned to do a large oil-on-canvas painting that depicts something about the holiday season. What scene would you choose to paint?

Karen’s answer: A few years ago I made Christmas cards.  I a painted simple Christmas tree with a few gifts under it.   On each gift I painted a peace symbol. I think I'd do something similar today.   Although the tree I painted was presumed to be an indoor tree I can now envision a tall pine in the woods, snow-flocked and with the same peace-symbol gifts under it.  My thought being that many different people found the tree and each brought their own hope of peace with them to place under the tree.

DOT HATFIELD, what is the longest period of time you’ve ever left your tree up after Christmas?

Dot’s answer: I think maybe January 10-15. And that's been during the last few years. I often leave it until Epiphany, but then if I get busy . . .  Much easier now that I have a smaller tree. I hope. But I've always made it before Feb 1. 

RHONDA ROBERTS, If you had a miniature Christmas village set up in your home, what shop, building, or other object would be the most prominently displayed in your little town?

Rhonda’s answer: I do have a little Christmas village, though I haven't displayed it for years because of the space required. If I remember correctly, it has two churches, and I would call them the focal point.

                Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

 



Another countdown to Christmas

            We have a few days left to do whatever it is we intend to do before the big day, or eve--clean and decorate the house, bake or mix the half-dozen recipes we’ve collected and have the ingredients for, put up the tree and the outside lights, decide on gifts, wrap them, send cards--with notes in most. There’s still enough holiday joy left to make plans for out-of-town-or-state kinfolk coming for a visit––or maybe for a week.

My Florida son and family came for a week at Thanksgiving because they can’t come for Christmas. Granddaughter Breezy graduated with a Master’s degree in accounting in Tampa on December 12, followed by a week’s cruise with friends.

                Besides weekly bell rehearsals, my first major event of the season was hosting BFF Dot-from-Beebe for a Saturday together before our schedules got too hectic. She still has a five-day-a-week job as secretary at the Wilbur Mills Educational Co-op. Her children come after Christmas due to their church and church-music duties.

We decided to meet the first Saturday of December, and since I’d driven to Beebe earlier in the year, she agreed to drive to Benton for “the day.” We visited for two hours before lunch and two hours afterwards. Subjects? Writings, readings, families, church, writing—she’s working on her fifth book and fourth novel. I’m working on a collection of “short stories and long poems” since my second novel has been published.

                I actually prepared a heavy noon meal, compared to my usual sandwiches and potato salad.  Baked chicken breasts, au gratin potatoes—a new endeavor––steamed broccoli, cornbread muffins and biscuits comprised the meal. Stewed pears topped with a spoonful of frozen yogurt ended it.

                Activities on my calendar this month are fewer than in other years. And I’m glad. This week, I'll meet two men friends who were students of mine 50 years ago at I-Hop for breakfast. Wednesday, I’ll take deviled eggs to the Salem UMC bell choir's brunch. The Fourth-Friday Lunch Bunch will meet on the third Friday, and the fourth-Saturday poetry group will meet on the third Saturday.

                In the meantime, I’ll finish decorating the “tree” which is only the top-most section of a large, pre-lit, artificial one. It sits on a cloth-covered table in front of a window. Easy peasy.              

                 Ringing hand bells in one church’s early-service presentation of Lessons and Carols, rushing back home to play in another church’s late service infused and inspired me with as true a meaning of the season as is possible, given the recent shootings in Colorado and California.

                May the God of love and peace be present within us every one this season.

Amen and amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving DAY may be over, but not the thankfulness

 

  It’s hard, the days after Thanksgiving, to say, feel or think, ‘OK, it’s over; time to move into Christmas mode.’

Nothing doing! Not yet. Not when your older son and family have driven/ flown up from Florida. And have invited you to share a condo at The Wharf in Hot Springs for the rest of the rainy week.

Four branches of the family remained in place until the weekend. Several condos were available, so that our sister—the one with the annual Thanksgiving week—scored other units for those of us who could stay and prolong the togetherness.

For the last few days of November––I’ve made a rule never to begin Christmas (except in my mind—oh, and unless I spot a perfect gift) until December 1––the pumpkins, gourds and leaves, fall tablecloths and runners stayed where they are. November was autumn’s time.

Besides, I want to keep the memories fresh of a more-blessed-than-usual holiday weekend-- one that lasted from Wednesday through Saturday.

Missing at Thanksgiving: A sibling from Virginia, one from California, one from Benton, one from Little Rock, a niece and grandniece from Portland, four nephews and their families—(in-laws?).

Unusual: The warm, sunny weather—all day—decrying a long-predicted, three-day rain event that was to begin Thursday afternoon. Then, rain was to begin early-morning hours Friday. Still no precip until mid-morning Friday––sporadic for a spell––then constant.

Unusual: Two folks in the family circle were newlyweds. Also, an eight-month-old joined his two-year-old brother.

Unusual: For the first time I took cranberry sauce and Mom’s Jell-O fruit salad.
 
Usual: A brother brought two large pans of “Mom’s-and-Aunt-Erma’s-yeast rolls.” They were to fight over. Though no one did.

Unusual: Duck dressing, compliments of a daughter.

 

Usual: Not enough deviled eggs to go around, since some took two the first go-round. NOTE TO SELF: Prepare two dozen eggs next year.

 

Usual: Kid Billy drove up from Arkadelphia, his home away from home, after work at Cracker Barrel. He went back that night, worked Friday, then returned to Hot Springs for another family eat-out at Jose’s.

Unusual: Yours truly—a non-TV-er—watched the Razorbacks beat the Mizzou Tigers, plus other football games. I still detest the repetitious, boring commercials. For the Florida son, a Mizzou graduate, it was . . . he didn’t say much.

Unusual: Driving home on Saturday in incessant rain, only to be slowed near Haskell while two lanes merged into one. Thank goodness, I was in the right lane from the start. Reason: a wreck; the tow truck had one loaded ready for . . . somewhere. After only 15 minutes, we were all back to freeway speed. Some drivers, including moi, drove slower, due to the weather. But some folks--presumably in a greater hurry than I--didn’t.

That isn’t all that was worth crowing about during the Thanksgiving weekend. But when this is posted, Gordon and family will be back in Florida--with my gifts added to their belongings. Billy will still be in Arkadelphia with enough money for December’s rent (thanks to generous tippers), and everyone else will be back in their homes.

 And tomorrow, I begin the countdown to Christmas.

 

 

November and Thanksgiving: always the same; always different

 

 

     My sons, Gordon (r.) and Eric (l.)

November 2015 began at 7:30 on the first day of Central Standard Time with a call time at Bryant UMC. The dozen hand bell ringers were to gather for warm-up before playing “Deep River” as a prelude.

The very next Sunday, the nine Salem UMC women’s bell group––hand chimes instead of hand bells––gathered at 8:15 to warm up for the very impressive Veteran’s Day services––early and late.

As of Saturday afternoon, November 14, the long-awaited and long-planned-for SUMC church bazaar is history. Thanks to co-chairwomen Denise and StefNi, consultant Lydia and go-fer Glenn, the fellowship hall was transformed into a magical Country Christmas. A vintage tablecloth of Mom’s, and a glass milk bottle full of marbles holding live holly and fake poinsettias decorated my table of books.

There was so much to see and buy. So many lookers and buyers. So many folks I hadn’t seen and visited with in ages: Mike, Jim, Sharon, Libby, Ruth, Jan, John and Sarah.

With sales of fourteen books, I turned around and bought a carnival-glass pitcher from Roxie, a gift basket of Jan’s that included her last-available book, and a two-shelf, wooden rolling cart from the yard sale under the arbor.

As if Sundays weren’t full enough, Mondays include trips to the Garland County Library in Hot Springs for a weekly writers group.

A week ago, a group of friends who—for the lack of a better name—call ourselves T5OU (“the five of us”) met at one member’s home for a soup-themed lunch. I took a venison chili, Linda brought taco soup, Annamarie, cheese and crackers, Carolyn, broccoli-cheese and Fran had vegetable soup. Dessert was a plate of apple-butter bars (recipe below) and an apple crisp.

Besides those recipes I printed last week, I had clipped one from The Standard some time ago. I had all the ingredients, so I decided to bake “Apple Butter Bars.” Now, who keeps apple butter on hand, I ask you? I do! I do! Thanks to my uncle John and Aunt Frances, I had a gift jar from them. Here is the recipe. It had no attribution and I failed to date it. But I can attest to its great taste. Perhaps you can whip these up for Christmas.

APPLE BUTTER BARS: 1-1/2 c. all-purpose flour; 1 tsp. baking soda; 1 tsp. salt; 2-1/2 c. uncooked quick oats; 1-1/2 c. sugar; 1 c. butter/margarine, melted, 1-1/2 c. apple butter (or other jam/jelly/preserves/etc.). DIRECTIONS: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In large mixing bowl, combine the flour, soda & salt. [I sifted them.] Add the oats & sugar. Stir in the melted butter and mix well. Press half of the mixture into a greased 13x9x2 inch pan. Top with apple butter. [I had just one c. of apple butter, so I mixed plum jam of Aunt Frances’s in with the butter] Sprinkle the rest of the crumb mixture on top; press gently with a spoon. [I sprinkled it with my hands since it wasn’t very gooey]. Bake at 350 degrees 55 minutes or till lightly brown. Cool and cut into bars.

Hope you are having a blessed Thanksgiving. Remember the starving children. Clean your plate.

 

 

 

                          

 

 

 

 

Easy recipes for the run-up to Thanksgiving

One son's favorite pie: mincemeat

 It’s probably a tad late for a lot of you, but for those late starters, here are some easy Thanksgiving-week recipes you can whip up quickly. They are from the pear-motifed pottery container that I drop any clipped or torn-out recipes into during the previous year. If I use it, I drop it back in.

 If your church or club is planning a pre-Christmas bazaar or bake sale, here are some good-sounding ideas. Or if your out-of-state family is staying the rest of the Thanksgiving weekend, these might be good to bake/ make up in advance. You’ll want to spend all the time possible visiting with them.

 FRENCH BREAKFAST PUFFS: ½ c. butter (softened); ½ c. sugar; 1 egg; 1-1/2 cups flour; 1-1/2 t. baking powder; ¼ t. nutmeg; ½ c. milk. DIRECTIONS: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine all the ingredients & mix together. Pour into paper-lined muffin pans and bake for 20 to 25 minutes until golden brown. SUGAR MIXTURE: ½ c. sugar; 1 t. cinnamon; 6 Tbsp. butter (melted) DIRECTIONS: Combine all ingredients. Roll the still-warm top of each muffin in the melted butter and then into the sugar mixture. [From the Saline Courier, 1/8/’14]

PEANUT CRUNCHY: 1 c. white corn syrup; 1 c. sugar; 2 c. crunchy peanut butter; 1 20-oz. [a different recipe called for a 9 - 10 oz. one] bag of Fritos. DIRECTIONS: In a large saucepan, over medium heat, cook and stir corn syrup and sugar until dissolved—7 to 8 minutes. Do not boil. Remove from heat, add peanut butter and mix well. Fold in Fritos, drop by spoonfuls on wax paper. Let stand for 1 to 2 hours. Store in air-tight container.[Saline Courier, no date]

PEANUT BUTTER KISSES: 2 c. dry milk; 1 c. peanut butter; ½ c. honey; ¼ c. shredded coconut. DIRECTIONS: In a 2-qt. bowl, mix dry milk, peanut butter & honey. Roll dough into balls. Roll the balls into coconut. Makes about 24 kisses. [Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, 10/22/ ‘14]

CINNAMON STICKS: 1 c. butter (2 sticks); 1 c. sugar; 1 egg yolk (save the white); 1 Tbsp. cinnamon; 2 c. flour (sifted); 1 c. pecans (chopped). DIRECTIONS: Preheat oven to 250 degrees. Cream butter & sugar together. Add egg yolk & then add flour sifted with the cinnamon. Pat very thinly on two cookie sheets. Spread the top with the unbeaten egg white. Sprinkle nuts on both trays. Bake 30 to 40 minutes in a very slow oven (300-325 degrees). Cut while hot. This is a very crisp stick. [Sally Yarberry, Saline Courier, 3/ 17/ ‘10]

EASY CREAMY FUDGE: 1 tub chocolate cake frosting; 2 c. crunchy peanut butter. DIRECTIONS: Put into microwave-safe dish for 30 seconds. Mix well & pour into 9” pan. Cut into slices when cooled. [Karen Kirkpatrick, Arkadelphia, from Arkansas Living, Feb. ‘09]

THREE PACKETS & A ROAST: 1 beef roast; 1 brown-gravy mix packet; 1 Italian dressing mix packet; 1 Ranch dressing mix packet; 1 c. water. DIRECTIONS: Place beef in Crock-pot. Pour the three packets over the meat that has not been browned. Pour water over top of package mixtures. Cover and cook on low 8 to 10 hours, or on high 5-6 hours. [Connie Nichols, Saline Courier, 9/ 18/ ‘13]

I hope you enjoy the run-up to Thanksgiving.

                                                                Another son's favorite treat:    parched peanuts

November 15 years ago: my, how time flies!

 

 Several days late, I know, but here are three senryu in honor of Veteran’s Day:

 

the little girl

and her doll

among the veterans

crisp autumn winds ~
praise all veterans who fought
for our freedom

visit to vets’ home
the child asking
Where are the snacks?

 

How time flies. Especially in retrospect.  Please share in a reminiscence of one morning when we lived in Arkadelphia. Billy (grandson) was ten years old.

 

“Monday Morning, November 13, 2000”---At 5:35, the alarm sounded. I punched the snooze button and continued my dream.

At 5:45, I did the same—unusual, because I generally rise and shut off the alarm. At the third buzz, I sat up, killed the alarm, donned the green socks I threw off last night, and the old purple fleece robe I’d worn forever.

 

Yesterday’s schedule left no time to read the Sunday paper except for a quick scan of the obits. Warming up stale coffee, lacing it with diet Pepsi from last night’s return trip from Benton in the driving rain, I began my journal entry.

 

 Forty minutes later--at 6:40—the timer beeped. With it still sounding, I carried it to Billy’s sleeping place on the floor between my bed and the closet. I nudged his leg with my foot. “Time to wake up. Five more minutes,” I said.

 

At the second ring, I pulled all the covers off him. He smiled behind closed eyes. “I’m sleepy. Give me five more minutes.” No wonder: he’d spent all Sunday afternoon at Austin King’s rescheduled birthday party, and after the second trip to Benton for choir practice, it was ten p.m. before he’d gotten to bed.

 

He came to breakfast wrapped in a light quilt. Though he has plenty of pajamas, he chose to sleep without a shirt. He saved his soggy cereal “for tomorrow. I like soggy.” He did eat half a banana.

 

He dressed, but the sandals came off when he discovered how cold it was outside. Neighbor Jesse’s outgrown, low-cut rubber boots fit the bill.

 

Ritalin, teeth-brushing, rubber bands on braces—this was Billy’s toilette. “Can I turn on TV?”

 

“No, get your bedding out of my room; I need to get into the closet today.”

Done. “Can I go outside?”

“No, pick up your dirty clothes, bring them in here, and close the drawers— what if someone came to look at renting the house when we move?”

Done, but not without grumbling. “Can I go outside?”

 

“Yes.” Two minutes remained until 7:25, the time I set to leave home—getting ahead of the school traffic, but not too early for school personnel, who are on site by 7:30.

 

He took his backpack outside, dropped it in the recycling box and picked up a short-handled racket and a tennis ball. 

 

Gathering my walking gear, keys and purse, I exited and locked the house.

 

At my car door, I saw a bed sheet on the floor of the carport. “Billy! Come here and pick this up!” It was part of the covers he took in the car for the early morning drive to Benton yesterday. (I was music director at SUMC. Church in the morning; choir rehearsal in the evening.)

“How did this get here?” he asked--a rhetorical question.

“Drop it on the steps.” He did and entered the car.

We backed out, and saw Byron, our neighbor, tractoring two mattresses to the curb for today’s “big items” pickup. He gave us a thumbs-up. When we’d driven to the Y at Henderson, Billy piped up.

“I forgot my backpack!”

 

Oh, did I explode. “Drat it, Billy.” I spun the car around and gunned back up 15^th Street. I hadn’t reminded him. No, he didn’t say that, I did—to myself. Just how much micromanaging must I do?

 

I tore up gravel on our driveway. “You know how much I hate traffic,” I used as my excuse for such a show of anger.

 

I needn’t have rushed. Nor gotten angry. But when a grandmother raises a child, sometimes it happens.

 

Thanks for sharing the trip down memory lane. Billy now lives in Arkadelphia, works at Cracker Barrel and Game Stop, pays a car payment and rent each month. Has completed six years-plus of college hours. We’ve come a long way together.

Another week in the Ozarks: writing/ critiquing/ basking in autumn’s ambiance

 

 

                OCTOBER 24, Saturday, 9 a.m. – Couchwood.  Leaving—again--for a week at Eureka Springs by way of Beebe to pick up b-f-f Dot. To hit Hwy 65, we cut across Hwy 64 to Conway, stopping in Clinton to “sell” a book, then to Marshall for gas. After a must-stop at Ferguson’s for coffee and a huge cinnamon roll, we rolled into Eureka Springs around 3 p.m. One more leg down the twists-and-turns of Scenic Highway 62 to Spring Street--our home for the next week.

                We settled into our suites, Dot in Spring Garden at the Main House of Dairy Hollow; moi in Muse 1 of 505, the Usonion house in the Frank Lloyd Wright style.

Dot went out with her daughter and granddaughter. They had driven over from Edmond, Oklahoma, to see their mom and grandmother since they hadn’t been able to visit Dot on her recent birthday.

                OCTOBER 25 Sunday. The trio invited me to join them for brunch at Myrtie Mae’s restaurant, after which Linda and Amy headed back west. Dot and I worked separately on our writing goals—her’s was to write a new chapter every day. Mine was to finish last week’s Halloween column, finish “Dazey’s Dilemma,” a short story-in-progress, and to begin on a possible memoir inspired by May Sarton’s “Coming Into Eighty.” I would tentatively call mine “Edging Past Eighty.”

OCTOBER 26, Monday. We met the other residents, Cynthia from Springfield, Judi from Cincinnati, and a new writer from D. C. a young, Jewish man who worked at the Library of Congress.

At 7 p.m., a Haymaker poetry critique session was scheduled across town. At 9:30, the 8 poets who had--as one guy said, “tortured” (critiqued) each other’s work--“limped away” to rest for the “onslaught” of a second session the next morning. All our poems were equally discussed, dissected or divided. Fun, fun, fun!

OCTOBER 27, Tuesday, 8:30 a.m. The poets met at the Forest Hill Restaurant, and then to the Express Inn for another session. The glassed-in breakfast room jutting out from the building had served as a meeting place for several years and most of the group lodged at the Inn. I began the meeting with a “lesson,” or “sharing,” called “Genesis of a Poem.” Then we sparred through another poem from each.

At noon, we traveled to Sparky’s, fortifying ourselves for the final afternoon session. After it ended at 4 p.m., we hugged and kissed those friends we won’t see again until spring.

OCTOBER 28, Wednesday. I revised the Haymaker-critiqued poems as per suggestions, then returned to Dazey. Rain fell gently, confining us to our rooms. Looking out my window, I noticed . . . “a squirrel/ up and down the wet pine . . . sometimes/ lost in the grayness”.

OCTOBER 29, Thursday. We struggled to get enough internet access to check our email. We later discovered that the entire town went down that night. But at 1 p.m., we left for our flea-marketing excursion. First, to the Purple House, the hospital’s thrift shop. Then to The “doggie” store—the Humane Society’s thrift store, then to the Barn Shoppes.

At dinner, we discovered the cook’s faux pas: She served pork. Ahron had to go without meat.

OCTOBER 30, Friday. The last full day. Judi left early, we were leaving tomorrow, Cynthia, on Monday, but Ahron had two more weeks of residency. Dot and I spent two hours at the last flea market, the Echo, whose merchandise is all donated, and whose monies go to the free medical clinic.

OCTOBER 31. We left at 10, stopped in Marshall for lunch and ice cream, then pulled into Beebe at 3, into Benton at 4. It was a thoroughly wonderful week. The two cats even “spoke” to me after leaving them with only an every-other-day check-in.

May November be full of inspiring nuggets for you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ghosties, goblins and haints, oh my!

Resident ghouls one year at the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow,

Pat, Dorothy, Tayla, Tom

 

            When I began this post, it had rained gently all day. I smelled the rain the first thing that morning, even before I knew it had begun. The aroma and the sound of rain have long been some of my favorite sensings. I like the foreboding sound of thunder, too, although that was lacking. A gentle rain should do--if not much to alleviate the drought--some good for the flowerbeds, azaleas and the dogwoods. From the looks of it, it's too late for the lilac in the back dooryard. If I get another one, I should plant it more in the shade, my brother said.

 

            Before leaving for Beebe on Saturday, I'd watered all the plants, put food and water out for the cats, worked up all the groundfall pears, washed clothes and run the dishwasher. What else?   Oh, before long, I need to find LPs of "Danse Macabre" and "The Sorcerer's Apprentice." I must locate "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" to re-read--all in the celebration of Halloween. I won't do the zombie movies or books--those are of a different time and place. I'll remember the Halloween carnival recapped in my newest novel, "Her Face in the Glass."
 

            Some folks remember ghost stories from their childhood told by their grandfathers or other relatives. I don't. Is that a good thing or not, I wonder. A sister remembers that she and some of her siblings used to make masks out of brown paper bags.  Also, that they would sit on the stairs of the basement and tell boogie man "made up" stories along with scary noises.  "I think we also went to the cemetery and roamed around all up and down the road."

         

           We never did the ouija-board thing, either. I wonder why? You'd think with five girls and three boys and lots of friends, someone would have had access to one. Maybe we were too scared. Perhaps it was frowned on by our parents, the preacher or the church itself. Was it even around then?

 

            Speaking of scared, one brother says he donned an old sheet with holes for eyes, and came to our own front door. "I scared the bejesus out of the smaller kids. They  screamed bloody murder and hung on to Mom's skirt tail.

             I don't remember any of us Couch kids trick-or-treating, either. Bryant Schools DID have a Halloween carnival--at least ONE year. I DO remember that.

            Kid Billy ( now 25 years old) remembers that for many years, I made pumpkin pies out of jack-o-lanterns for many. He asked for the recipe. He remembers wearing a Ninja costume, and going with a babysitter through a college dorm in Arkadelphia--the first time he'd collected so much candy. He was 6 or 7.

            As a mother of four, I sewed a rabbit costume for the younger daughter, and a wonder-woman outfit for the older one. They were both drill teamers at the time. No idea how--or if-- the two boys "dressed up."

            No trick-or-treaters have visited Couchwood since long before Mom died in 2006. There weren't and aren't many children in this neighborhood. It's likely to change when the new subdivision goes in directly north of us.

            I have a bag of Halloween decorations and objects that I pull out each year. Kid Billy's papier mache pumpkin from art class has lost its chin but leers at me from its place on a book. Also, a multi-branched "tree" with figures hanging from it, a mug that reads, "It's scary without coffee," a black-plastic mouse, a Jack-o-lantern mug that I do not use and a small wooden witch. Also, a felt tote and a purse-sized, handled fanny pack--or something.

            Today, Halloween is almost as big a holiday as Christmas. Costumed children are already being photographed getting ready for--or attending--church carnivals. When I drove by mid-afternoon, Geyer Springs Baptist Church had a huge carnival set up and operating.

            I'll be doggone! I actually stayed on one subject for most of the column. Hmm. My attention span must be growing.

If you haven’t had a happy Halloween, it’s not because you haven’t had enough reminders on Facebook, or goings-on in your town. Remember to set your clocks back after all the "kiddies" have come and gone.



From pillar to post and back again

      It’s about time for another Dairy Hollow (writers’ colony) residency in Eureka Springs. I’ve been going “to the mountains” every autumn for the past five years. It is as gorgeous now as it is in the spring––only different. For three years, BFF Dot-from-Beebe has gone, too. One year, our planned trip to the Florida panhandle was cancelled due to an incoming severe weather event. We were psyched for a vacation, so we found a haven in The Hollow, where we also wrote. BUT, we visited Crystal Bridges as part of our get-away.           

There is an industry trend toward using fewer commas in the print media. Here is an example of a sentence where a comma would have helped me understand the context. “Masked youth wearing black torched cars...” My thought: how does one wear a torched car, even on Halloween?

            Re-reading, I paused—like a comma demands—and got the gist. “Torched” is a verb instead of an adjective. However, “torched cars” is also a possibility.

            If that weren’t enough, I read another headline that used “... OK—illegal ...” which if read rapidly, might give one an eerie feeling. An oxymoronic conundrum? Perhaps I’d better slow down from now on.

            Slowing down will not change the stupidity of the fellow who walked out of a Walmart in stolen jeans, leaving his old jeans and his wallet in the dressing room.

            What an ignoble way for a noble woman to die, especially at the age of 94. Mrs. Helen Wittenberg was pulled from a burning building near the Governor’s Mansion. She died a few days later of smoke inhalation.

            Sometimes, it’s hard to imagine mothers and/ or fathers naming their babies these unusual (to us) names. But there they are, in black-and-white-and read all over: Corney, Cotton, Lawrie, Oswald (female!), Maitland (m), Paskal, Kell, Arnis, Lonzo and Jewell (1916-era),  Roswald, Sundown, Mallard and Lessie, Chessie, Blossom, Ammer, Shenna and Binnie (m).

            I like the way Bill White (Hot Springs Novel Writers) writes. He’s a real journalist and knows that a good column concerns only one subject. I can’t seem to do that very often. Instead, I bounce from pillar to post, from subject to subject. Wonder if it has anything to do with attention spans?

            That said, here is a list of eponyms—words derived from proper names––that have become part of the language: pasteurized: Louis Pasteur; diesel: Rudolf Diesel (German); volt: Count Allesandro Volta; shrapnel: Henry Shrapnel; bigot: Nathaniel Bigot; lynch: William Lynch (18th century); bloomer: Amelia Jenkins Bloomer; and guillotine: Dr. Joseph-Ignace Guillotin.

Maybe bouncing from pillar to post is one method of making sense of things. Or a way of keeping different projects at the forefront of one’s attention. An example: when I go into any room in this house, there is the temptation to straighten that, check this, finish moving that piece, continue “thinning” boxes of old cards and letters and games and school papers and . . .      Now, why did I come into this room?

           

 

Blogging about the tasks to complete between now and winter

[In searching for pears, Blogger wouldn't let any photo show up here except this one. I have a complaint submitted. Anyway, we need any rain that hangs in any clouds.]

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Several October tasks still loom: working up the small, drought-stricken, windfall pears is an annual October activity. A stranger stopped by last week. “What are you going to do with the pears, and may I have some?” At this writing, I have “worked up” four batches (with one more waiting), each batch resulting in  three containers of stewed, frozen fruit.

Another imminent must-do I've done is rearrange the old breakfast room to host the outside plants. With windows on the east, south and west, including the upper glass of the door, it the lightest place inside the main floor. I lugged in two heavy wooden benches and as many plant stands as I could fit around and in front of them. The small, round table ––with a pad of plastic covering the top–holds the split-leaf philodendron. And inside that large pot, two smaller ones fit nicely.

A nine-year-old dish garden and a new one from a son on Mother’s Day, were separated, ala Janet Carson’s suggestion, and now I have seven pots instead of two. A maranta (prayer plant) is on a bench, and the huge fern of Mom’s comes inside tomorrow before the night temps get to 42 degrees.

Two Boston ferns purchased several years ago had a hard time, both over the winter and during this torrid summer. I’ve groomed them so they look a lot better.

The five kinds of begonias [pictured(finally!) is brother Guy's plant] fared well over the summer. The tall corn plant sits on a bench, and Mom’s Norfolk pine occupies a low table. Smaller plants fit into that large pot, also.

An airplane plant––in an oblong pot––will fit on the sill of the high window in the bathroom. But the mother-in-law’s tongue perished during last winter from its place on the back porch. As did the peace lily, the sheffelera, and a Boston fern given to me from a son’s neighbor. A generous friend shared a part of her sheffelera, which is growing nicely, and my sister gave me her extra peace lily.

I do believe in resurrection, for that Boston fern from Hot Springs––only crisp, brown stalks this spring––came alive again and is a beautiful specimen.

Another thing that needs doing before winter sets in is covering the outsides of the several window ACs. The black things you buy for that purpose are too ugly. I’ll think of something.

Also, I need to put new glass in the top section of the back storm door. One of these days, I’ll have the entire door replaced. Sure—about the same time I have someone repair the living room ceiling, replace all the windows with simulated wood ones. “They look like the original ones, but they are expensive,” my sibling said. I knew that.

I won't put away the hose until it rains. In fact, just tonight--with the aid of the motion light and the front-porch light, I watered the annuals and the mums. Oh, I know watering is supposed to be done in the mornings, but . . .

And there's weather stripping to add around the drafty doors. Always something to do in October, isn’t there?

Enjoy the tasks you've set for yourself. IF you can.
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PL - dba lovepat press, 2015

HER FACE IN THE GLASS now available in e-book and softback from Amazon. Reviews appreciated.

Of October and poets

Northeast flowerbed, Couchwood (Saline County) '15

                The first few days of October have been perfect for a pajama-and-robe sit-out. In fact, one day, cool, breezy temps necessitated both a long-sleeved shirt and a wind breaker––and socks.  Even then, I was cold, so I moved inside to the dining table.

            One October activity has come and gone. The annual National Poetry Day Celebration of the Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas happened last Saturday at the Cox Building in Little Rock. I bummed a ride in return for a book and a bucket of pears. My chauffeur, Dennis Patton, the new president, won not only the Merit Award, but also the $1,000 first-place Sybil Nash Abrams Award. His wife Frieda, a board member, made sure he didn’t dawdle over the board meeting. He and I, Cathy Parker and Don Crowson of the Saline County branch brought home 23 awards—close to 15% of the prizes/ places given.

           Hot Springs poets were well represented, both in sponsoring three contests, judging and winning. Delores Hinde sponsored a contest. Dr. John Crawford, Hinde and Linda Woodbury each judged a contest, while Crawford, Woodbury and Bethel Kymes brought home awards. The family of the late Opal Jane and Harry O’Neal, long-time, dedicated members of the Rountables (both the state and local), sponsored two contests.

           Speaking of Hot Springs poets, here is a poem by the late Nina Tillery that mentions both October and poets. It won a coveted honorable mention in the National Federation of State Poetry Societies contests in 1999, and was published in the Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas’s anthology in 2002.

THE PARADE by Nina Tillery
I watched a parade of poets pass my window
in October. I tried to catch their singing
as they marched briskly by.

Longfellow trailed his garments past
and Whitman sang of blades of grass. 
Frost predicted fire and ice; 
Sandburg traced the prints of mice.

Eliot swayed to and fro
mumbling of Michelangelo. 
Hopkins touted simple sight;
Williams burned fir trees to ash.

Cummings moved through dooms of clowns; 
Roethke and Papa waltzed around. 
Bishop carried a wallpaper fish; 
Sexton chased a twelve-fingered witch.

Giovanni declared the Congo taboo; 
Plath chased about a big black shoe. 
I waved to Angelou, Oates and Moore, 
Bly, Neruda, and all gone before.

Then I fell in step behind them, 
proud and sober,
and I marched past open windows
with the poets in October.
                  
Here’s wishing you pleasant mornings in October. Perhaps with your favorite cuppa and a book of poems.