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

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.
            It was titled, “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, I thought 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 PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Still appreciating the invention of Willis Carrier

                Musing near the end of summer, I see some gratifying changes within this 87-year-old house, that one person thinks may have been a Sears home. You know, from the Sears catalog, like the Jim Walter homes Dad helped build during part of his career. I’ve actually seen an old catalog, and yes, Sears DID sell homes. I’ll never know whether this house was indeed a Sears home, and I don’t care. What difference would it make if it were?

                With the brick and rock façade it would be difficult to install central heat and air. Six window ACs “live” on the main floor—three in the bedrooms, one in the small back room we originally called the breakfast room, but which now holds a table of African violets, a small round table with matching chairs, a vanity-turned-storage and a west-window AC. The former hallway across from the room itself houses the cat’s necessaries, the shredder and the hamper.

                Before new windows were installed, which meant removing the ACs from the spaces, then replacing them, the sunroom-cum-office AC was moved by the window crew from a south window to an east one, visible from the yard. No problem.

                The living room unit also faces east and protrudes onto the concrete porch about halfway down its length. It’ll soon be time to decorate the protrusion with a large basket of cones, colored corn, dried gourds and silk flowers. But that’ll be AFTER it cools down enough NOT to need the AC. Last night's thunderstorm and rain cooled things down enough that it was pleasant to sit in the swing this morning and continue reading Ciardi's "How Does a Poem Mean."

                With the installation of new windows all around and even upstairs, and with five window ACs running from noon till bedtime, I was surprised at the lower electric bills. Of course, that was one of the reasons for replacing the 87-year-old ones that rattled and rolled in the least bit of wind.

                A smattering of AC history reveals that during 1948, “crude air conditioning systems showed up with . . . hoopla in top-of-the-line Detroit cars.” (Paul Dickson, “From Elvis to E-Mail.”) Reader’s Digest’s “The Origins of Everyday Things” says, “The first true air conditioner, featuring humidity control, powered ventilation, as well as mechanical refrigeration, was patented in 1902 by the American inventor Willis Carrier.” And, “The addition of a dust filter in 1906 to improve the air in textile mills led to the term ‘air conditioning’.”

                Online, I discovered that while most in the U. S. have air conditioning, almost no one in Germany has. At least, not yet. “By letting people in overheated climates concentrate on their work and get a good night’s sleep, air conditioning has played a big part in driving global prosperity and happiness over the past few decades – and that revolution has still barely begun. About half of Chinese households have this modern tool, but of the 1.6 billion people living in India and Indonesia, only 88 million have access to air conditioning at home, Bloomberg New Energy Finance noted in a recent report.” (from Bloomberg News, June, ’19)

                Will climate change affect our need for comfort and our method for achieving it ? We shall see. In the meantime--or at the same time--let's enjoy the changing of the "guard" from summer to autumn.

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

               

               

Going back to college after 40 years--quite a challenge

                                                    Intro to Graduate Studies textbooks

          And that’s just getting approved for an online graduate course, which application called for three things: a 10-page, double-spaced selection of my poetry (which was the easiest thing to do); write an essay about why I thought I’d be a good MFA candidate; and the hardest part: a critical analysis of an aspect or element of a piece of literature. I WAS A MUSIC MAJOR! before turning to poetry and other types of writing! But I researched and cogitated several days before deciding how to frame the piece, which, luckily, was to be only three pages, double-spaced. I chose Robert Frost's "A Tuft of Flowers" as my subject. The effort paid off. I was accepted to the program.

                Then came the act of enrolling in the university, which meant sending transcripts. I’d kept a folder for transcripts, so I picked out one from Hendrix and the other from UAF and mailed them in.  When they hit the Admissions office, Stormy called or emailed saying, no, they had to be ordered from the institutions themselves. So I did, emailing after finding the sites, the particular department. Both places quickly and nicely told me how and where to get them. (Would they even HAVE transcripts back that far???) I ordered PDF copies and paid for them. Two days later, emails said they’d been sent and received. So now I was enrolled with an ID number, a UAM password and University email address.

                An email from the Cashier’s office saying I had till the ‘27^th of August at 3 p.m. to get my bill paid or to make arrangements. She told me where to go: Weevilnet. What to do: put in all my numbers and finish the process. Couldn’t get anything to work. The IT girls laughed at me, but one accessed the cashiers office and told me the amount of my bill. She shocked me by saying the $1200+ cost showed a “senior citizen waiver” and was . . . zero!!   The IT “boss” gave me directions and the email for the cashier’s office for a “finalization.” That figure was verified, though the MFA director told me earlier that graduate classes meant a payment. She emailed her dean, but to this day, I haven't received a notice of payment due.

                With the arrival of my second text for the beginning class, I emailed my professor (as it turned out, the director of the MFA program) telling her that after Labor Day, I'd be ready to "roll."

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the term started last week," the professor emailed. EEK! No one told me! Admissions was "supposed to," she said. So already I was behind--a place I'd never been before.

 On Labor Day, I did host my high school class’s 65^th reunion at Couchwood, and the next day, I began catching up on my three assignments--already late. Thanks to Kathy Boone, I have one of them posted. The second one, a bibliography of  "20 Works Consulted" will go in Thursday, and I'll begin reading the second chapter in the Barry text for the third one.

          A church friend asked me "Why in the world are you doing this?" "Because I can," I answered, partly truthfully. We shall see. It's a 48 credit-hour course. My FB friends have been super encouraging, for which I am grateful.

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

               

A Week on the Gulf Coast

     Youngest and oldest child, Annamarie & Gordon

            The first eight days of June were spent either driving to/from or in Pensacola Beach for a family gathering that hadn’t happened since 2011. That was when the Florida granddaughter graduated from high school. This trip was the choice of another granddaughter who’d graduated earlier this May. Her family of three, my daughter’s family of four (including a boyfriend), and me, with the Florida family and a surprise visit from the celebrant’s brother, made a group of 12, which, in restaurants, usually meant two tables—one for the parents/grandparent, and one for the young adults.

       
          Our place was a Regency Cabana unit with two floors. Turns out my bedroom was on the main floor and the others’ were upstairs. I lucked out for sure. 

Main floor, deck behind us, kitchen in front

           The first place we ate was Flounders--us and a zillion others! A 30-minute wait was softened by a glass of Riesling, watching others come in, register, then find waiting spots—like we had done. Soon, we were ushered to a place on the beach/ Sound side where we could be entertained (as if we needed entertainment) by volleyball players, children throwing sand, loud music, and loud talking.      Three of us split a piled-high plate of nachos, and even then, we only ate half the food. My eldest grandson picked up the tab.

          All but two of our party spent Monday morning on the Gulf beach under a Tennessee-orange tent in lawn chairs.  Several of the young folks enjoyed the water, jumping the larger, pounding waves. The beach was littered with tents of various sizes and shapes, and families, also various sized and shaped.

          That evening, we re-dressed in our white-shirt-khaki-pants uniform for a family photo shoot. The venue changed, which meant a long slog through four-inch white sand to the next boardwalk. I’d worn white canvas “tennis shoes” (the old, old kind) and had bought my clothes at Walmart several weeks earlier. Other white shirts were lace, crop tops, button ups, polos—and pants were short shorts, long shorts, capris.

         The shoot included every possible configuration of family imaginable. Granddaughter had brought her cap and gown, and many poses of her were shot—in the sand, with the Gulf background, etc.

Granddaughter, the graduate. So proud.

               c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

What chefs buy when they visit the grocery store

                               One of my favorite holiday dishes

                Now and then, when there’s a featured collection of something, somewhere, somebodies that require a slide show to navigate, sometimes I bite and oftentimes, I scroll on by. This Saturday night, I bit.
               The ‘come-on’ text was “Chefs Reveal the items They Always Buy at the Grocery Store.” The visual was three rows of rotisserie chickens, something I’ve never, ever bought. I was resting from yard work and it was too early for bed, so I began clicking and reading the few quotes from chefs and  restaurants I’d never heard of. It could be all fake news to me, but I don’t care.
             These chefs bought things, not for their businesses, but for themselves and their families. The second slide showed many triangles of different cheeses. Good. My love of cheese came from Dad I suppose, but I usually stick close to the tried and true; cheddar, mozzarella, provolone. I think I’ll branch out. One of the slides showed a meal of Doritos and Cottage Cheese. I like the idea of that combination.
            Canned tomatoes! Two different chefs admitted to this. I, too, always keep canned tomatoes in the pantry for soups and chili.
           Sauces and salsas, herbs and chickpeas (for hummus, yuck), fancy mayo and mustards, I passed them by.  
           But I stopped, surprised, at a photo of various mini candies—like the ones our bell choir snacks on during break. Nostalgia for a childhood candy bar, this chef said, even though it wasn’t good for you, the chef also said, was a pleasurable experience—to savor and to share (the nostalgia, not the candy). My go-to nostalgia bar is Payday, now in the snack-size package.    
            Chocolate, ice cream, Reese’s peanut butter cups, Oreos, cheese dip with chips, and bacon were items mentioned as not convenient to prepare from scratch.
            Anything on sale, said one respondent. The photo showed bags of Halo oranges, something I also try to keep on hand.
             A potpourri of snacks in bowls was a surprise, coming from a chef. But I guess chefs are people, too, aren’t they, with sweet tooths (teeth), salt urges, calories-be-darned like most of the rest of us. This photo showed popcorn, caramel corn, sweet cereals, pretzels, chips, Chex-mix and various crackers.
             These folks can keep their ramen noodles (I’ve never eaten  any), tofu, hummus, quinoa, farro, and koshihikari sprouted brown rice, cultured salted butter, Sriracha,  avocados, cauliflower pizza crust, kale smoothies--or kale-anything—coconut milk, miso, and fresh herbs.
            I’m content, at 80-something, with tuna, turkey breast, pre-cooked bacon, skim milk, Keurig coffees (Breakfast Blend and Hazelnut), Rotel tomatoes and Velveeta cheese for dip, Scoops, Cheetos, yogurt or Edy’s ice cream, cheap pizzas, Cheerios (no saturated fats), raisins, peanut butter, saltines, rye bread, cinnamon raisin bagels, canned salmon, cranberry juice, and vegetable or tomato juice.
            I did discover two things that I’m adding to my ‘always keep on hand’ list: Reser’s chicken salad and potato salad from the local grocery deli.
           Anyone want the rest of the box of potato flakes I bought, and used once?

                                        A graham cracker concoction that Billy & I really liked

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Deciding I don’t have to eat everything I buy

A younger person I know and love decided that during the month of February, in the name of minimalism, she would give away, or otherwise get rid of as many items in her home as coincides with the days in the month. She last reported that the first nine days were doable, but the double-digit ones were beginning to be a problem.

Which brings me to my tale. It was exactly mid-February or would be in any other month. I decided to do something that was heretofore against my thrifty upbringing: dispose of foodstuffs that 1) I didn’t like, or 2) Christmas leftovers, or 3) things in the freezer that I’d never eat because I bought them for another event and they weren’t eaten, or, in the case of Schwan’s chicken breast pieces, were too old.

1) What I didn’t like were the rest of packaged onion rings used on top of green bean casseroles. Why did I buy them? (Shrug.) How did I use them? Eating them out of the package. Yuck! Grease coated my mouth. Don’t do that again. Out they went in a large bowl I’d set out for the purpose. Next was a package of something-filled-nugget snacks that looked different from what I usually buy. Nope. They joined the onions. Later on, I watered down bottles of half veggie juice and half a too-sharp Bloody Mary mix so I could finish it without tossing. Won’t buy that again. Virgin, but still….

2) Christmas leftovers. Fudge from two sources: a gift from a friend, and a batch brought for the church luncheon and left behind. I’d eaten and eaten more bites than I should have. I even took some to the preacher’s kid who commented on how good it was and that it was his favorite.

The other Christmas confection I ended up throwing out doesn’t have a name, but after altering and adding to it twice, it became so hard that all I could use it for was sweetener (after it melted) for my coffee. Enough, said I. Out it went.

3) In the freezer was most of a package of gluten-free crackers that tasted like pasteboard. I tried to add them to my row of snacks on the back of the countertop and ate a few. But out they went, too. Since I “divorced” Schwan’s, the chicken bites were nearly gone, but out they went. Too old. Dangerous?

That didn’t hurt at all, I decided. Now, should I check all the dressings, sauces, mustards, pickles and olives for expiration dates and do likewise? I know there’s a can of evaporated milk in the cupboard that’s expired.

What else can I give or throw away? Lent is here; perhaps I’ll fill sacks for Goodwill or SCJOHN. It won’t be blue glass, Fostoria or Cape Cod pieces. Perhaps place mats, tablecloths and napkins. Someone could surely use those items.

Happy waning winter days to you.

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Different days call for different words

                                                                      Winter 2018

    The word today is NEGATIVE. Two things I’ll never buy again: toaster strudels and Hot Pockets. Three: single-ply toilet tissue.

     One thing I’ll never do again is freeze a cherry pie. Make Christmas goodies that still, on Valentine’s Day resided in the freezer. Marry again. Believe in “fate” again.

   The word today is PERSISTENCE. Since I live with only a gray cat, I am the one who must put-together, figure out, try and fail, try again and succeed. Thus, persistence. Case in point: As tax deadline looms closer, I needed a space for only tax papers. That precluded the dining table, the office table, the “greenhouse” table, the piano bench and the sofa. Aha! On the back porch was a rectangular folding table I bought for the bell choir back in the day. I’d used it once before for this very reason, but it had lain folded up for several years.

     With a new week and warmer temps—even though it rained for two whole days and nights and was still raining as I wrote—I decided to bring that table in, set it up and begin the tax task. I chose to add it to the dining room area, which would leave a path to both the kitchen and the back rooms.
    After dusting the black plastic top, I lay the table down with bent legs visible. It reminded me of the many times I lie down and immediately fold my legs at the knee in cross-legged fashion. I opened one set of legs. Where the ball popped into the leg I could see they were too short for my needs. Pushed in the ball, extended the leg but the ball wouldn’t pop into the lower hole. Twist, turn, jiggle—nothing worked
.
   So I went to the other legs. They cooperated beautifully. Now back to the recalcitrant one. I could feel the hole with my fingers and could see the ball on the stubborn leg. On the fifth try, CONTACT. VOILA!

Now to find a lamp. DONE: In the corner bedroom was a small one with a measly 15-watt bulb. I didn’t have a 40-watt, only two boxes of 60-watt LED ones. Would that size be too hot for the lampshade? I tried it, and later checked the shade. Nah, no extreme heat at all.

Unable--at first-- to open cans, even with several implements

 The next pressing task was to go through FIVE MONTHS of unreconciled 2018 bank statements. Until nap time, that is. The odd thing, my usually-two-hour nap, thanks to many and active dreamscapes, turned into FOUR HOURS! So now, I was bound to stay awake till midnight. Why? Surely I could handle six hours of activity, even if it was sitting at the computer or at the table with a meal and the newspaper.

 Today’s word is BLESSED. Friend Sally who was in the neighborhood, dropped by. We were close neighbors in Arkadelphia in the waning years of the 20^th century. Then, two children checked in with gifts on Valentine’s Day—one in person, one by Tipton and Hurst of Little Rock. One son had called the night before. After my nap, I returned a 501 call to hear another longer-time friend, Evelyn, who was moving to Fox Ridge at her children’s urging. That she—a choir member from my years at Bryant FUMC during the 1970s—would share it with me was thrilling. Hence, BLESSED.

 I wonder what tomorrow’s word will be.

c 2019, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR U.S.A.

Different ideas about “things”

New windows, office, sans blue glass

On Facebook last week, I saw a post about needing something to give impetus to tackling the things that needed doing. Coffee was the answer. Someone commented about wishing there weren’t things to do. I reacted: “No, without things to do, it would be awful.”

Seated in my office, I had only to look around to see several “things” that needed attention.

One was updating the CALLIOPE scheduling since the general editor gave me leave to add two more poems to each issue. Only then can I answer the poet submitters about when their poems can be scheduled.

Another was revising my latest submission to the writers group for critiques

A third was to prepare my 4th book manuscript–incomplete as it is–for viewing by the editor who agreed to publish it.

Filing is always a thing to be done now that I’ve bought more card boxes. Oh, wait. I bought those way last summer. Geez! Where has the time gone?

And in this same room, the frames of the new windows need painting. And then I can rehang the hardware for the horizontal shelving which will hold the remainder of the blue-glass collection I had to take down (and wash) before the windows installation.

By Sunday evening my weekly newspaper column wasn’t finished. That was one ‘thing’ I had to do before anything else. The second thing was to email the minister next Sunday’s service music for the bulletin.

Monday’s “things-to-do” list included notifying poetry submitters about whether their poems were accepted, and if so, when they would be scheduled (see above).

While the weather was spring-like, I hoped to work more in the yard raking the myriad oak leaves thus re-animating the recently-burned brush pile.

Daffodils are blossoming, japonica is pink with blooms, and the pansies dare the cold weather to bother them. Mr. Groundhog predicted an early spring, and for a few days, he was right. But, understandably, he doesn’t keep up with climate change or even the calendar, so what does he really know? Only we know that more winter is in our forecast.

 Here's a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson: "Do the thing and you will have the power." Where's my coffee?

                                                           Before - a year's worth of detritus

                                                               After---- son Eric supervised

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Snow flurries hurries folks to stock up on necessities

With snow predicted to turn to ice by noon, I'd donned hat, gloves, scarf and car coat on top of my regular fleece togs and headed to the local pharmacy for my hormone therapy, which cost $60-something since Humana wouldn’t pay— “not a medical necessity” they say.

There was a line. Two checkers but only one machine. Customer “Hubert” left, and an older blonde was next. After her purchase, she asked to see the quarters in the register. Mrs. Pharmacist said, “Let’s move over here so Bob can wait on this lady (me). When I left, the two women were picking over the quarters. “There’s Kentucky,” one said. “Here’s Nevada,” the other chimed in.

Vivelle patches in hand, I started home. But since I was already out, I thought, why not pick up a big bag of cheap cat food for the Moors. The Moors are four solid black cats that adopted us. They are outside cats that won’t allow a touch, but the beggars and whiners expect to be fed.

On the far end of the strip mall––the pharmacy was on the other end––I pulled in at Family Dollar. One always hears about folks panicking when a snow event begins. Now I’ve been involved, though I didn’t panic.

Inside, it turned out that several folks were buying dog or cat food. All I wanted was a six-dollar bag. Passing through the store, I noticed another queue of customers, their buggies extending back to the refrigerator-freezer section. I didn’t have anything pressing to do at home, so I picked up the twelve-pound bag and headed to the far side of the store where the line ended. Lo and behold, the waiting folks and their buggies turned down the coffee-tea-cereal aisle.

I stepped in behind a family of females that included a pink bunny-wrapped baby in the buggy. The next time I looked, she sat a-perch her aunt’s hip. The aunt couldn’t have been more than twelve. Her blue-jeaned legs weren’t much bigger than fat broomsticks. In front of her was an older girl—the baby’s mother—with ear buds and her iPod. At the head of the group was the mother of the girls, herself a tiny wisp of a woman. She saw me with my load and immediately offered her buggy for my sack. I thanked her and said if it got too heavy, I would take her up on it.

I listened to them chat. The older girl reached for a case of cokes. The mother said, “Oh, not that; that doesn’t have any caffeine, and I need caffeine.” 

“Amen!” I chimed in. The daughter exchanged the carton. The line moved slowly. Finally, a man rustled in behind me carrying three small bags of cat food. “We’re all taking care of our pets, huh?” I said. I don’t see any reason not to be friendly to strangers.

He said ‘yea-ow,’ that his cat had grumbled at him before he left for the store. His arms held two smaller cheapies and one package of better-quality food—like I feed mine.

Soon, the mother leaned over to me. “It looks like the second line (checker Bob’s) is shorter. Why don’t you go up there?” Talk about being neighborly, she certainly was.

I slowly maneuvered past a couple of shoppers and found myself standing behind a burly woodsman with a bag of dog food as large as mine.

“We’ve got to take care of our pets, don’t we?” I said again, and that was all he needed. He told us—a lady was checking out ahead of us; she added a comment or two as the man told his story about two Texans moving into the Ouachita National Forest “up yonder.” He pointed to the west. I wondered if he lived in or near Paron or out in the country around Mountain View, and, if so, why was he this far away from home? Later, it sounded like he might live around the Steel Bridge area.

“These fool Texans,” he said, “found out that a bear lived in the area, and they put peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the back porch just to watch it up close. Well, one time they were gone and the bear somehow got the door open and ransacked their house. It made me so mad,” he said. “I told the Game and Fish it wasn’t the bear’s fault. They relocated it about thirty miles farther on and in two days, the bear was back. They finally had to put it down.” He shook his long gray hair that fell beneath his cap.

When it was his turn to pay, he presented the checker with a hundred-dollar bill. Bob called over his shoulder to the manager on the next counter, “You got change for a hundred?”

 “No. No I don’t.” It was only a little after nine in the morning. “Punch ‘suspend’,” she said to Bob, and to the man, “Go over to Harvest Foods and get change and then come back.” He left; I was quickly dispatched. I noticed the gaggle of females were now two shoppers behind me. I caught the woman’s eye and mouthed a ‘thank you’. She smiled and nodded.

It was snowing harder, larger flakes, but with the windshield wiper running fast, there was no danger; it was only a quarter-mile drive home.

Fifteen minutes I after I wrote this piece, the driveway had already whitened. Brown leaves showed their tips farther down the hill in the “tennis court.” A blue jay perched momentarily on the beautyberry limb and partook of the wizened berries now capped with tufts of new snow.

Aha! The satisfaction of knowing that everything and everyone under one’s care was safe.
Now, to enjoy the snow.

[This piece was written in 2011 but I couldn't locate it on the blog, so here it is.;]

c 2019, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA