It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas

                  It's Friday evening, December 22. By Christmas Day, all decorations should be in place, all baking done, and the house as spotless as I can make it, given the ubiquitous presence of Greye-the-cat, and Billy-the-grandson, whose room is off limits.

                Both china cabinets and the dining table are decorated, as well as the buffet. The living room chairs and sofas are still laden with plastic bins of decorations awaiting last minute attention. Mantel--done in red maroon and sliver. Piano--Christmas music retrieved from bench. Coffee table--that'll have to be the last surface to be “Yule-d.” Bathroom towels are in place, so that’s done. Mincemeat pie  aroma, cheese log waiting for caramel coating, almond-barked pretzels tinned. Fudge on schedule for tomorrow.

              But I CAN’T FIND the BABY JESUS! I had him last year! Four bins of Christmas stuff, but no BABY JESUS. Surely there's another sack or box in the attic. SURELY.

              Using gourds, huge pine cones and large, gaudy ornaments, I filled a large basket for the outside-part of the window AC.

                I hung a Christmas-themed porch flag, and set up a wooden creche of Billy’s –with his permission—on the shelf of my china hutch.

             Oh, and after tripping and face-planting into the tree and table, I had to discard the poor table and find a sturdy oak TV table as a substitute. I'll likely have a black eye Sunday at church. What kind of story can I make up to explain it???

            But now, I MUST find Baby Jesus!

               

Ah! I found BABY JESUS! All is well. Merry Christmas, and thanks to all who read this blog.

c 2017, Pat Laster dba lovepat press

               

Third week of Advent: 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, a few years back, I saw Jesus! Of all places, Jesus was sitting in a booth in 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 said describing 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.

Reference: Carlton Young, editor, Companion to the United Methodist Hymnal, Abingdon Press, Nashville, 1993.

c 2017, PL

               

Advent: What and who are we waiting for? And why?

from Google Images

          There are only two instances of “waiting” listed in the volume, Where to Find It in the Bible: the Ultimate A to Z Resource, by Ken Anderson, published by Nelson:  

            When God made his promise to Abraham, he swore by himself, because he had no one greater to swear by: 'I vow that I will bless you abundantly and multiply your descendants.’ Thus it was that Abraham, after patient waiting, attained the promise. ––Hebrews 6: 13-1

            The other is in Genesis 29:20ff. Jacob waited––and worked seven years to gain the hand of Rachel. The rest of the story is worth re-reading. While Laban surreptitiously sent Leah to Jacob by night, Jacob found out and was furious with his uncle. Jacob had to work––and wait–– seven more years to earn Rachel’s hand. Altogether, Jacob stayed with Laban twenty years, though not all of it was “waiting.”

            How––and how long––do we wait? Do we wait in exasperation while the computer wakes up? Yes. Or when searching for something we put away yesterday and forgot where? Yes.

            Or do we wait in dread when our teenagers are two hours past curfew and it’s senior prom night? Or when we hear sirens and wonder if it’s someone we know and love?

            Or do we wait in excitement because our out-of-state children are coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas? Or because a family member has decided to re-enter the loving fold?

            D. Todd Williamson, of the Chicago Archdiocese office of Divine Worship believes it’s the latter kind of excitement that we are called to during Advent. He also believes we should wait in joyful hope:

           “At Mass, (or during church for us United Methodists) after praying the Lord’s Prayer, we hear “. . . as we await the blessed hope and the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ.” This prayer reminds us that during Advent, we wait in joy, in hope, and in anticipation for the wonderful event we are about to experience— . . . the coming of Christ into our lives in new ways, the return of Christ in glory at the end of time. As the [c]hurch, we wait during Advent and look forward to celebrating the fact that God loves us so much that he sent his Son into the world to save us. This waiting is far from empty; rather, it is full of the hope that God promises us as we prepare for Christ in the feast of Christmas.”

            In the Advent hymn, “Send Your Word,” (Yasushige Imakoma, 1983), page 195 in the UM hymnal., let's substitute the word “wait” and “long for” for the word “seek.”

“We await your endless grace, with souls that hunger and thirst, sorrow, and agonize.”

           “We await your wondrous power, pureness that rejects all sins, though they persist and cling.”

           “We await your endless love . . . we long for your new world.”

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Written for Dot Hatfield's 2015 Advent booklet. The message still stands as we patiently wait. And hope. And love. Peace and joy to you.

c 2017, PL. 

           

           

Sometimes the answer’s right in front of us

            I need an Advent devotional, I said to myself one year while still in the choir at Salem UMC. My BFF Dot collects, edits and publishes an Advent Booklet each year and asked me for an entry. Something/someone––Muse and/or Holy Spirit––hit me between the eyes and said, Duh! You have a folder full of Advent anthems on your lap. Surely …

              “Advent Processional” (words from scripture, music by Anna Laura Page) begins with Isaiah’s proclamation to prepare the way of the Lord. And––anthem-like, prophet-like, parent-like–– the phrase is repeated, drummed, as it were, into our feeble and flighty brains.

But how to prepare lo these many eons from Isaiah’s tongue lashings? Rejoice … sing … give praise to God! Does that mean feed the hungry, clothe the cold, build houses for the homeless?

Who, me?

             “Creation will be at peace,” our director’s favorite Advent anthem, uses scenes from Isaiah 11. In the holy mountain of the Lord, creation will be at peace … all war and strife will cease.

It’ll have to be in the future, because it’ll never happen on this planet! At least literally. Not the way we act today.

                In that blessed day, wolves, lambs, cows and bears will be friendly to each other and they will be led by a child. The child Jesus? The child God? The sick children among us? The beauty pageant child? It defies belief.

          “Come like the snow,” words by Herb Frombach, is a plea from our point-of-view, always about Jesus:

Like the snow … he will wash us clean … he will drift into our hearts (set on earthly concerns) and bring us peace…

There’s that wish for peace again. Surely … that’s to be found only “in the mountain of the Lord,” in the days after Jesus comes again. Surely not here and now!

Unless …  Perhaps another level of Isaiah’s meaning is that today, we are to be instruments of peace––among ourselves, our churches, our neighbors, those we meet in the office, in school, in the market, on the highway, at Fred’s, the bank, the cafe …

You think? … That should be doable.

c 2017 PL

       

               

MEDITATION ON TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 2017

              Said to Mr. Greye Feline, who’s sleeping on the hardwood floor in the far living room as I leave the “office-blue room” to get more weak but tasty coffee, “Isn’t it wonderful to live in a place where we can do what we want to do when we want to do it?”

           And then it hit me: Outside this old house, this historic community that’s rapidly becoming citified—except for the sewer system—with subdivisions next door in our family’s original hayfield, can apparently come and go as it wishes and does: the diesel pickups and roaring motorcycles.
           
           Dan K. of Berryville, a friend, said on a Facebook post, (and gave me permission to use)“Iguess I could catch up on the news of the day...or listen to Alice's Restaurant Decisions...decisions...”
            Then I read the blog post of another friend, Pat D.  of Norfork. Here is my reaction in a cinquain poem: “A crow/ merely sitting/ on the sycamore stump/ reminds me that today, I’m just/ being.” She also gave me leave to use her blog image-as-muse.
            Still no Christmas decorations out: Pat Laster-cum-Scrooge waits till December 1 and promptly goes holiday-wild. Until then, gourds, pumpkins, harvest wreaths, leaf-covered coffee mugs. . . 
            Three more days.

On Thanksgiving Day

  

             Today is Thanksgiving. The Couch clan, including three generations, will once again gather at The Wharf in Hot Springs at a sibling’s condo. Relatives from Arizona, Virginia, New York will be an additional joy. Grandsons Billy and Chris will have to work, son Gordon and family won’t join us until Christmas.

              My “pots” for the potluck will be deviled eggs, a relish tray, pear bread and a mincemeat pie.

             May our Thanksgiving—and all of life—be filled with blessings.

             Remember the poor, the homeless, the despondent and the many war-flood-fire-earthquake disrupted families.

       "Praise God from whom all blessings flow...."

From northwest to northeast Arkansas: a writing retreat

Mike, Pat M., Pat Carr, Pat L., Barbara relaxing after class

Two weeks after leaving Greye-the-cat and Billy-the-the grandson in charge at Couchwood while I went to northeast Arkansas for a few days, I left them again. This time I headed the diagonally-opposite direction—to Piggott in Clay County, for a week’s writing retreat at the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum Educational Center, one of the historical projects of Arkansas State University.

Lodging for many of us was at The Inn at Piggott (formerly the Downtown Inn) bed-and-breakfast. Ownership has changed twice since I began staying there, and the latest owners, Tracy and Joe Cole, natives, both go-getters, have begun and are continuing to update “the old girl who sat empty for so long,” as Joe described the two-story red brick former bank building. It sits on the corner of West Main and Second Street. When I arrived, a folded bath towel rested on one of the window sills in the Safari Room (#3)—my favorite room--because of a leak from an unsealed area around it. During our week, painters worked on the outside of the building.

Trains rumble through Piggott day and night, and for the first time in all the years I’ve stayed there, I felt the bed shake as one lumbered past only a block from the Inn. I was sitting up with writing materials on my lap. Others had said they’d felt the building shake, but I hadn’t—until this visit.

Writers gathered from as far away as Boston, MA, Bowling Green, KY, Springfield MO, Sarasota FL, as well as places in Arkansas: Elkins, Floral, Jonesboro, Piggott, Benton, Fayetteville, and West Fork.

               

Mentor, Pat Carr, Elkins, AR

Pat Carr returned for the fourth time as mentor, but this was my first time under her tutelage.  Monday’s subject was Hemingway’s Paris circle and the dramatic point of view. Our assignment was to write about a couple in conflict who know each other well using the third-person-limited point of view, which means “Don’t go into either one’s head.” Dialogue, action, images; short sentences, no clichés, few adjectives, and adverbs. The piece I wrote needed writing for quite a while. I titled it, “Torrent Unleashed.”

Tuesday’s focus was Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and the Observer in “The Great Gatsby.” Our assignment was a “Let me tell you what happened . . .” The writer could also be a character but write solely as an observer. My story, one that also needed to be written—for my possible clarification—I titled “Why Should It Matter?” I had a hard time ending it as Ms. Carr wished, but other writers checked in with suggestions, and I finally wrote a suitable ending.

By week’s end, I turned in two stories and two poems for the Anthology, a souvenir with some of the week’s work by the writers.

The lessons/ assignments were helpful; the notes I wrote more so, but I had an embarrassing moment that took me down a peg. I’d written an “anaphora”-patterned poem for the state poetry society’s monthly contest. And one of our exercises was to write down your first memory. Mine was moving from the “little house” by horse and wagon up to the “big house” when I was six. Eureka! I was able to tweak the original poem for use as this assignment. My mistake was mispronouncing the form. I said “anna-FOR-uh,” having not ever heard it pronounced. My neighbor at the table quickly corrected me, “an-EFF-er-uh.”

Oh, well, at 81, it’s still not too late to learn something. And learn something I did.

Pat L.'s coffee table decoration, fall 2017

               

Finally, Chihuly In The Forest, plus a delightful dinner

First stop on the forest trail

In late October, I packed the car for a 4-day trip to Eureka Springs. BFF Dot-from-Beebe  took vacation days to go along. A poetry "do" was the instigating motive, but I'd discovered that the nearby Crystal Bridges' CHIHULY IN THE FOREST exhibit was still in place. Bucket list!

Parking was a problem and we finally drove to the upper lot and hailed a shuttle. After standing in line for quite a spell, buying tickets, getting directions, we rode down (or up) an elevator that showed the workings of the thing. Finally, we were on the trail. We took our time and stopped to snap photos of the glass installations.

Dot

Pat

We caught the shuttle back to the car and drove back to Eureka Springs to rest and refresh before a drive to Berryville for dinner at Dan and Susan Krotz’s home. Warm hospitality for strangers-cum-friends, a delicious dinner with delightful conversations about all four of us and our creative activities and output made for a wonderful experience.

Once again, back to Eureka Springs for our second night. You know how it is the first night away: not such a sound sleep. But this night, we slept soundly, partly because of how tired we were from all that walking. What a great day. Two--TWO--great experiences in one day. How lucky can one get at our ages???

               

Sharing a refrigerator with a millennial

Millennial on the left, me in the center, friend/former student on the right

         Syndicated columnist Jim Mullen’s recent piece in the Saline Courier titled “It’s Alive!” inspired this week’s thoughts. His first line read, “My refrigerator is where cucumbers go to die.” He humorously noted all the soft things that had gone hard, all the hard things that had gone soft, plus lots of examples of outdated sauces, multi-type mustards, etc. Funny, funny—and so true for a lot of us.

                I have my—our—own story. Since my 27-year-old grandson moved home from a nine-year stint in Arkadelphia, we’ve shared the fridge. He moved back the first of August and soon bought a sack of orange, apples and “baby” carrots, which went into the right crisper. Most of those are still there.

                After that, the man-turned-health-nut, brought sacks of green grapes and fresh cherries. They landed on the top, right-hand shelf of the fridge. For the longest time, they sat where he placed them. Oh, I'd eat a few of both now and then, until they dried up. I threw them to the squirrels and ants. A bottle of schnapps behind the gallon of whole milk hasn’t been touched. But the milk has—for dry cereal. In fact, he’s on his second gallon.

                As for “my” side, there are two large containers of fresh pears--to eat, to make pear cake and pear bread. My skim milk, cranberry and tomato juices take up more than half the space. Here and there are empty spaces for Billy’s store-made-and-purchased salads.

                In the left-side crisper—I shouldn’t talk—for a long time, I’ve left three different-colored sweet peppers in there. I discovered something Jim Mullen needs to know: Peppers left in the plastic bag from the store stay good for a month!

          As I write, I realize Billy’s food takes up a lot less space than mine does, but he’s not so good at eating what he’s purchased--except for the salads. Perhaps those oranges will rot, the apples will spoil and the carrots will dry up and turn black.

                At some point, for both our sakes, I MUST do something with those fresh pears. I don’t think I could eat them all by Christmas, even if I ate one at every meal between now and then. When can I manage to bake for the holidays? I guess after a trip to Eureka Springs, and before our Thanksgiving get-together. Yes, that’s it. That’s when I’ll get to it. OR, perhaps I could use Billy’s blender and make pear smoothies using his Herbalife powder and ice. I’d better check with him first.

               

Billy in earlier years

Blogging about my reactions to the news

                 How many times a day do I shake my head, or sigh, or make a derisive sound (harrumph!) while reading the daily paper? I’ll refrain from adding those figures to my journal. But what follows are snippets of my notes as I read.

                Janet Carson’s beginning answer to a reader spawned this parody from The Sound of Music, “Black spots on roses. . .” Another reader sent in a photo—black and white—of a plant that looks and sounds a lot like what I’ve called “wild coleus.” Mrs. Carson calls it ‘wild perilla’ and tells the inquirer that it will spread. I can attest to that. It’s all over a section of the back, west property line near the shed. This year, the plants grew taller than I am at 5’2”. The seedpods are long and slender. Shallow-rooted, and purple, they are easy to pull up and add to the burn pile. Next year, I'll be more aware of the nuisance.  

                “. . . the vine that ate the South,” is, to A. Higgins, of the Washington Post via the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, kudzu. Quite an apt description, right?

                There goes my ATRS check—downward! Why? QualChoice is increasing rates from 9% to 25%!! And the drug insurance is going up from $17.70 this year to $41.10 in 2018. The good news, NOT? Social Security is rising by 2% at last count, about $25 per month.         

                 I didn’t know that Cain’s place of exile was "East of Eden in the land of Nod." The Super Quiz on “Lands” said so.

                In 1911, there was a town in Scott County named Oliver. The post office closed in 1932—this according to Hanley’s Postcard Past.

                Hmm. Praying around the flagpole is merely a protest, according to a reader from Cabot, in a recent letter-to-the-editor. “Jesus said not to pray in public,” he said.

                “Defiance can be a good thing,” says H. Long, in another letter-to-the-editor.

                A poetic phrase from a member of the press: “. . . the slow drip of sordid revelation.” Listen to all that assonance penned by John Brummett.

                Mexico has 32 states, MSM online tells me.

                Russell Baker, writing in William Zinsser’s Inventing the Truth, referred to the 1960s as “that slum of a decade.” (p.29) That’s the decade of my marriage and birth of three children. ‘Twasn’t a slum decade in my view, but my view was parochial; his was cosmopolitan.

                Odd, except to a word nerd: “Gunn fired her gun. . .” by S. Carroll, AD-G. Another: “stymieing,” from a news wire article. An odd form of the root word, but it IS a word.

                A second hmm: Imported marble from China is (supposedly) better and cheaper than Oklahoma-quarried marble. (In the news, AD-G)

                Finally, three quotes from David Brooks, one of my favorite writers, from the New York Times via the AD-G, in a recent column: “. . . Americans have always admired those who made themselves anew.” And, “[America is] not a fortress [but] a frontier.” Lastly, “Where there is division, there are fences.”

                Oh, there were things that made me smile, too, but that's another post.

Reading: Oh, the people you’ll meet and the stuff you will learn

An earlier stack of reading material: some finished, some not

 Lately, two of my blogger/ writer/ reader friends have posted photos on Facebook books they’d read, or were reading, during a given time—a month, say. Except for the one who was reading MY latest book, I didn’t bother to investigate their comments or reviews. I’ve also read where many writers interviewed by the New York Times Book Review read several books at a time.

            With all the books available here, I decided to read one chapter in each of five books during the late evenings before retiring. Since I don’t read in bed, I made a sitting place on the loveseat in front of a tall table lamp. A coffee table holds the books, plus a stack of newer ones to begin as I finish one of the five. All of the ones on deck are by friends.

My eldest child is a voracious reader. At first, he devoured Civil War books. Then he moved to other wars; heavy stuff.

One day, David Shribman, of the Post-Gazette, whose column runs in the Saline Courier, listed the latest and newest books about presidents of the past. I emailed Gordon the list and offered to give him two for Christmas. He chose William Henry Harrison, and Coolidge. I ordered them posthaste.

The Coolidge tome was T-H-I-C-K; I knew a little about him, but I’d never learned about President Harrison. It was T-H-I-N, so I decided to read it.

Oh, the likenesses of the 1840 presidential campaign compared with the one we just lived through: name-calling, protests, riots, fake news and all. Author Gail Collins will surely allow me to quote from her book the following two instances.

If tweeting were possible in 1840, Horace Greeley’s analysis of the Jacksonian Democrats would have sounded like this: “[Blarney [tweet] Before Election] “Dear People! Nobody but us can imagine how pure patriotic, shrewd and sagacious you are. You can’t be humbugged! You can’t be misled! . . . You are always right as a book and nobody can gum you. In short, you are O.K.” (218 characters-- it would have taken two tweets to say it all.)

 But after the American Whigs and 67-year-old William Henry Harrison beat the Democrats and foiled Martin Van Buren’s second term, Greeley’s “tweet” to his party members went like this: "[Blarney After Election] You miserable, despicable, know-nothing, good-for-nothing rascals. . . Led away by Log Cabin fooleries! Gummed by coonskins! . . . Dead drunk on hard cider! Senseless, beastly, contemptible wretches! Go to the devil!”

I wonder what President Trump might have tweeted if he’d lost to Mrs. Clinton.

The American Whig Party, not directly related to the British Whigs, originally formed in opposition to the policies of President Andrew Jackson and his Democratic Party. The Whigs supported the supremacy of the U.S. Congress over the Presidency and favored a program of modernization, banking, and economic protectionism to stimulate manufacturing. It appealed to entrepreneurs, planters, reformers and the emerging urban middle class, but had little appeal to farmers or unskilled workers. It included many active Protestants, and voiced a moralistic opposition to the Jacksonian Indian removal. Party founders chose the "Whig" name to echo the Whigs of the 18th century who fought for independence. (Wikipedia)

So much stuff I didn't know. Thank goodness for books. Oh, and I reviewed this book on Amazon.

The day the "girls" came for breakfast

The "girls" at an earlier breakfast

At six a. m. the alarm sounded—on a Saturday!! “No, no, no . . . I don’ wanna get up,” my retired—and tired—self whined.

“You gotta get up!” my logical, practical self answered. “Remember, you left cleaning the bathroom till this morning. Plus, sweeping the dining room and kitchen. GET UP!”

“Yes, Master Self. Move outta the way then.”

Nine o’clock was three hours away. Surely . . . Yes! By 8:30, I was sitting in the swing on the front porch reading the AD-G—all last-minute tasks accomplished.

Shirley brought a cheese-egg-artichoke casserole and a loaf of blueberry bread. Barbara brought monkey bread. Beverly and Shari brought a bowl of cut watermelon and cantaloupe. I provided the venue and the K-cup, Keurig coffees—decaf, regular, hazelnut and cappuccino. Six of us around the old pedestal table covered with a fall-leaf-motif, ivory cloth. At the table’s edge closest to the windows I’d placed a tall cut-glass vase with reddening (and green) sassafras leaves.

Seconds all around for the casserole and the fruit. I ate two slices of the blueberry bread, while others went for the monkey, pull-apart bread.

After a leisurely repast and visit, I suggested we move to the living room. Cleaning up the dishes meant leaving the plates and silver in a large bowl of soapy water. (Where they stayed till Sunday morning.)

Did I say leisurely? We six women friends and long-ago classmates sat away from the table (which we cannot do in a restaurant) in the “front” room until 11:30! Before breaking up, we were invited to Shirley’s in October and we called out our contributions to the meal.

I said to Barbara, who was the first to arrive, “Don’t let me do this again!” We laughed, but I’d do it in a heartbeat if it meant keeping the group together.

c 2017, PL dba lovepat press

One more day till a personal D-Day arrives

 I wrote a version of this post last Saturday when the world didn’t end, as someone predicted. Eight p. m. Finally, an idea. . . But wait, I needed to refresh my iced root beer. . . Passing into the living room, I realized it was Saturday night, and I always “practiced” the music for the next day’s church service. I turned on the piano light and the overhead one, pulled the bench out, opened the lid and went over the music. I was ready. I moved the hymnal to the door-side table and slipped my offering check inside.

Now, into the kitchen to . . .  I felt hungry. The poets’ group had eaten snacks at 2:30, but it was supper time. Fresh pears, Cheetos and white cheese hit the empty spot in my body, and while typing, I filled the empty spot on this page.

This scenario sets up my modus operandi: I go from room to room and project to project. Friends say they start something and stick with it till it’s finished. Not me! I didn’t refresh my root beer, choosing to save it for later when I would make a float with the frozen yogurt in the freezer.

D-Day is Saturday: The small group of ’54 Bryant High School girls who get together once a month for breakfast grew tired of our latest local venue. The server was harried; folks staying at the motel for the Amplify! concert, made the crowd larger and it included tween-agers. We discussed going back to each other’s homes, but instead of the hostess doing everything, we would “potluck.” I offered Couchwood for September 30.

But during September, I had eight writing-related, time-consuming happenings. Add an eye appointment (scheduled for a year), a monthly Bryant Bunch lunch, and an unplanned-but-must-attend funeral service.

My office, emptied for a ceiling repair, was mostly back in order. DALLYING NO LONGER DEEMED de rigueur! GET IT DONE—NOW!!

Okay! Okay! After I’ve read another chapter in each of the five books on the coffee table, and after I finish reading the day’s state and local papers.

This week, I bought K-cups of decaf and cappuccino, just in case any of the girls preferred them. Also, a new fall-color throw rug and a new runner for the buffet. I redressed the tops of both china cabinets, adding two new pitchers to one and a fall-ish cookie jar to the other.

Today, I’ve swept cat hair and cobwebs from under every piece of furniture, washed throw rugs, moved a plant to a bathroom shelf and made the living room presentable. Saturday morning, I’ll blow (or sweep) myriad oak leaves from the front porch so that the new pots of mums at the driveway will shine as the “girls” arrive.

The only other project there’ll be time for is to straighten up the top of the handmade library table that’s been passed down from Granddaddy Noah Couch. No telling what I’ll discover at the bottoms of the stacks of papers, clippings, and other writing detritus.

Wish me luck.

c 2017, PL dba lovepat press

Fast fiction - MUSIC

MUSIC

         In the aftermath of the thunderstorm, the wind chimes play a tune–– an actual tune. Following my method of teaching sight reading, it sounds like this: “one-five-one-five-two-five.”, then back to “one-five-one - five- two.” Now, a “two-three-one” plays like a cadence. Then “one-one-one-one” followed by four and five together, then four and five an eighth note apart.

        This reminds me of the PBS ad where Andre Previn, symphony conductor, is shown at his piano He is composing.  Looking out the window, he sees a flock of birds sitting on a staff of wires. As he watches, he one-fingers a melody, which, obviously, is to become a great piece.

        Suddenly, the chimes are mute. The sky darkens, a rooster crows. It is only 5 pm. The black cats await their food that I dispense with a mixture of chagrin and guilt. These cats, children of feral descendants, resist my touch, but demand––in kitten-like meows (though they are grown)––any food I choose. As I pour it into the feed box, they dance around the edges, crazy to taste it but not be touched by the giver. These four identical felines we have named the Moors. They are silent now, like the wind chimes.

c 2017 PL dba lovepat press              

Responsibilities of the coming season

Amid the pear harvest, 2017

         What does it mean, I wonder, when the oldest sibling of seven—the matriarch, so to speak––fails to want to attend every gathering with extended family (and sometimes with friends of the host.)? That would be me. A recent Sunday’s gathering on the Arkansas River was for a sibling’s husband’s 70^th birthday. The one I missed on Labor Day was in Little Rock. And this week, one sib asked the others,“How about lunch today?” I declined, saying I was wrung out from the day before.

                Let’s see if I can make a case for myself. As owner of an acre of yard and a Depression-Era home, I am never, ever finished with “to-do” items. No sooner than I cut back the privet in the north yard and leave that area for a while, when I happen back by it, the privet has thumbed its collective nose and is as high as when I cut it last. If privet were a cyborg security system, I’d be the safest one on this street. Maybe. The only property line where privet is NOT, is the north where roses, redbud, crape myrtle and Russian Olive live and thrive. Okay, so with any spare time, and when it’s cool enough, I work in the yard.

                The house is about the same thing. I still have not replaced the furniture in the office where the ceiling repair happened. I HAVE washed the windows and all the blue glass, and have gone through SOME of the books that I dusted and replaced. So, give me that.

                Then, there’s the pear crop that’s winding down. I try to work up at least one batch a day. The quart baggies of boiled fruit are gradually filling up the second chest freezer in the shed. At one time, four large pans in the fridge held fruit ready to cut up and bag. That's been cut to one.

                If that weren’t enough, there’s the writing projects I’ve bought into. Well, no money changes hands, but you know what I mean.

                Like the planets sometimes do, three deadlines aligned the second weekend: a quarterly, small press poetry column, a monthly writers group piece and a weekly newspaper column. See why I couldn’t spend five or so hours fifty miles north for a relative’s birthday party?

                On to another subject . . . [did I hear you say ‘thank goodness’?] It’s time for the hummingbirds to fly south, some experts tell us. But yesterday, a tiny green bird I’ve ever seen drank from the feeder.

               Spiders also have been showing up in various places. “At dusk, / weed-eating grass/ around the roses, I/ look up: nose to nose with a black/ spider.”

                And always the birds: “Juvy/ redbird, robin/ visit Couchwood today:/ one in the purple shrub, one in/ the grass.”

                And then today, a praying mantis appeared on a window screen.

                Enjoy nature’s gifts and be thankful those gifts do not include hurricanes, fires or earthquakes.

Cut-up pears cooling on the counter

c 2017, PL dba lovepat press

                                

Lest we forget—September 11, 2001

              Several years ago, before sister Barbara retired from her career as a church musician and moved back “home”—to Little Rock, she began a community chorus, the NoVA Lights Chorale, in Arlington, Virginia.

                The group’s inaugural performance was on Sunday, September 11, six years ago. In honor and memory of this date in history, the chorus prepared a program, “The World Sings for Peace.”

                A partial listing of the music follows by title, composer, history and, where necessary, a translation. I have permission to share this in hopes that the selections will engender your own thoughts with hymns that mean something to you.

                “Da Pacem Cordium,” a traditional Latin text meaning ‘Give peace to every heart.’

                The reading of a hymn written especially for the Tenth Anniversary of September 11^th by Carolyn Winfrey Gillette, “O God, Our Hearts Were Shattered.” Her hymns can be found on the websites of many denominations.

                “For Peace,” text and music by Jane Marshall and composed for the World Council of Churches’ Decade to Overcome Violence (2001-2010)

“Ose Shalom,” traditional Hebrew text; music by J. Leavitt. Translation: ‘The one who makes peace in the heavens, may he make peace for us, and for all Israel, and let us say Amen.’

                “Workin’ for the Dawn of Peace” combines two Civil War songs arranged by R. Jeffers.

                “Like Rain Upon the Mown Field” is based on Psalm 72; music by K. Lee. Sung in Korean.

                “Prayer of St. Francis,” the text attributed to St. Francis of Assisi; music by R. A. Bass.

                “Amani,” text and music by A. Snyder. Swahili translation: ‘We are singing our song. This is our song of peace.’

                “Iraqi Peace Song,” is a traditional Iraqi lullaby arranged by L. Tennenhouse. English interpretation by K. Iveland: ‘Peace to the world. Peace to my country, my love. Peace to your dreams. Peace to your children. Underneath the whispering trees, where our sons and daughters are free; in the beauty, we will see through your eyes of peace.’

                “Pacem,” traditional Latin, music by L. Dengler. Translation: ‘Give us peace. And on earth peace to all of good will.’

                “Sing for Peace,” words and music by J. Papoulis & F. J. Nunez.

                The final piece was the beloved hymn, “Let There be Peace on Earth.”

                For my service music tomorrow, I’ll play “For the Healing of the Nations,” “Weary of all Trumpeting,” and “O Day of Peace That Dimly Shines” – all from the United Methodist hymnal.             

                May your thoughts and mine be on ways to promote peace beyond merely singing and listening.

Also, let’s not forget Harvey and Irma’s myriad victims, and concrete ways (money and/or brawn and prayers) to assist them. UMCOR, Salvation Army and others are trusted places to send funds. Or perhaps, as Salem UMC is doing, send a love offering to a known church official who’s in the affected area and with whom you have communicated.

                 

               

I lost only one plant this summer, a fuchsia

The rain, an occasional a dose of nutrients and the air-conditioner water ––prompted a healthy bloom of the flora that surrounds Couchwood. The multi-colored pansies lasted longer than usual, but had to be pulled up earlier last month. In one empty space, I plunked down a pot of sweet potato vine salvaged from last year.

Plus, for the first time in my gardening life, new shoots of Mom’s old fern that folks call asparagus fern, (by going online, I discovered “asparagus” covers many types of plants), have grown up in the make-do, marble-rock patio. I have been able to root many of those for sharing. Some are in the larger pot with the sweet potato vine

Showing WHITE are abelia blooms, tiny airplane-plant blossoms, two out-of-season spirea clusters, and, way out in the edge of the north hedge, a few asters.

Different shades of PINK turned up in the Encore azaleas, the long-blooming crape myrtle, oxalis, and Mom’s old hanging begonia that I set in the other planter where the pansies were.


BLUE wandering jew, PURPLE monkey-grass stalks and beautyberries, RED dianthus, and YELLOW (with orange) lantana and cannas, completes the rainbow of colors. Bronze and yellow tiny mums add to the palette.

After one rain, a community of white tent-capped toadstools sprang up in the back yard. I counted (yes, I did) one hundred such circles when I went out to weed-eat the west property line. Facebook friends –when I posted a photo—reacted variously: fairy path, dancing fairies, and a potential poem.

For the second year running, the property-edged plants on the west and north thrived. Roses, spirea, forsythia, variegated privet, Rose of Sharon, and red bud still show strength and health. Even a few stalks of Japanese kerria have out-of-season blooms.

Grandmother Mabel Couch’s rock garden/our pet cemetery under a three-tree sassafras grove on the north, was severely neglected this summer. Perhaps this fall, I can remedy that.

The pear tree was so loaded-- with branches where each pear touched another all the way down—that when a wind and rain storm blew in earlier, many fell. Talk about a fairy ring on the ground. This tree does its thing without benefit of pruning—except what nature does––or spraying. Two gleaners have already stopped by wondering if they could have some.“You can have what’s already fallen,” I said.

Twice, I’ve taken the cooler and a cardboard box to the tree, filling them both and then filling the spaces between. The fruit with the least rot/ spots I toss into the wagon, take them around to the side door, lift and shove the heavy containers into the old breakfast room. From there, I’ll work them up.

The late summer colors are the same as those in spring. The next two months will bring the oranges of sassafras leaves and mini nandinas, pots of bronze ‘mums, the multi-colors of oak and maple leaves and the maroon of yellowbell.

Always plant for color, Janet Carson says, but isn’t GREEN a color?