Goodbye to 2021 and hello to 2022

 

The way 2021 appears now that it's history

 

            

 Farewell 

 (a double-form piece, Acrostic and Farewell patterns.)

 

Galloping swiftly, as on fire;

Over minutes, hours and days

Obeying nature’s agenda,

Dashing through time down the

Backstretch of December,

You daze us with speed – an

Entire year gone.”

            Winter’s arrived, calendar-wise, and though we usually consider all of December “winter,” we lived through some nice warm days earlier this month. My tubular wind chimes pealed a lot and I worked in the yard several days.

 The family Christmas at Couchwood was fabulous. As usual. Even with the missing members. Since last Christmas, Gordon turned 60 and his younger brother Eric’s 59^th birthday happened on December third.

Though 2021 was full of angst, distress, fingernail chewing events, plus social distancing and mask-wearing, we made it through.

 Around here, with a handyman and a plumber, the broken 1932-era iron pipes to the kitchen sink were pulled out and new modern ones installed. A new, deeper sink replaced the old yellow porcelain one hauled off to who-knows-where. Now, I can wash dishes and send the water through the plumbing with no worry. What’s still needed for this coming year is a new roof. I guess I’ll have to bargain Mother Nature for a hailstorm so the insurance company will foot the bill. This roof dates to the last century!

So, onward to 2022. 

When tax time comes, I’ll be able to post a larger writing income than last year’s pitiable $100. With contest winnings, contributor copies of publications, and a pittance of royalties, this year’s writing income is $300! I’ve written over 400 new pieces and published 480, including the monthly haiku booklets I send to friends. But the expenses of writing heavily outweigh any income.

And books? I’ve read many, many books and have many more to read this coming year.

Ready or not, here comes twenty twenty-two. May it bring all of us a more normal year than the previous one, and also much joy.  

 

On a free night at UMCOR, a few years ago.

c 2021, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

 

 

 

Poetry for Veteran’s Day

 

.

                Today is Veteran’s Day.

 the little girl

and her doll

among the veterans 

--(from November Nuggets, 2003). 

Veterans Day 

so many of them marching

behind the flag” 

--(from Connecting Our Houses). 

some have returned

carrying war’s pieces

like shrapnel 

--(from The Last Windfall Pear, 2011). 

crisp autumn winds--

praise all veterans who fought

for our liberty

--(from Before The Frost, 2005). 

Lastly in this section, a cinquain: 

REMEMBERING. 

On this

Veteran’s Day,

I think of two uncles

who served: Rolla—Marines; and Bud--

Navy. 

--(from November Cinquains, 2021).

               

         One year, early in this century, when Poets Roundtable of Arkansas met monthly on second Saturdays, the meeting fell on November 11. Whether or not we each brought a poem to read, or whether we had a contest each month—that detail has escaped me. BUT I did write a poem that I took to the meeting that month. Written as early as it was it does not include many of the last two decades’ wars. Slashes mean new lines; paragraphs mean new stanzas.

                A SALUTE. “It’s Veterans Day, and in my mind/ I see the flags and guns aligned,/ parading down the thoroughfare,/ cheers and chanting everywhere.

                With wholeness gone, but proud and free,/ from wheelchair, an amputee/ waves tearfully, perhaps through pain,/ and hopes it was not all in vain,/ his sacrifice.

                Memories, still vivid, swirl,/ blitzing those who served at Pearl;/ The Rangers now, though all old men,/ smile proudly as they think again/ of Normandy.

                Gunner’s mates, ensigns and chiefs/ remember all their various griefs/ and hells, awaking still to screams/ of slogging through the swamp in dreams/ of Vietnam.

                Returned to glorious accolades,/ the troops of Desert Storm parade,/ proud of their work in blinding sands/ defending Kuwait’s borderlands/ on Persia’s Gulf.

                And in my mind’s projection room/ I hear the drum’s resounding boom,/ reminding me of sacrifice,/ of pain and death; the awesome price/ of freedom.” (published in the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record, November 10, 2001).

                

              Finally, the John McCrae poem written in May 1915, IN FLANDERS FIELDS:

                “In Flanders fields the poppies blow/ Between the crosses, row on row,/ That mark our place, and in the sky/ the larks, still bravely singing, fly/ Scarce heard amid the guns below.

                We are the Dead. Short days ago/ We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,/ Loved and were loved, and now we lie/ In Flanders fields./

                Take up our quarrel with the foe:/ To you from failing hands we throw/ The torch; be yours to hold it high./ If ye break faith with us who die/ We shall not sleep, though poppies grow/ In Flanders fields.”

                God bless our veterans.

c 2021 PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Kid Billy is not a kid any longer; he’s moved to Phoenix

 At Christmas, 2020

 

                Tuesday, Billy, a grandson whom I raised from eight months, now 31, moved with his housemates to a suburb of Phoenix. Why so far away? The wife of the couple is a traveling nurse, and she was in Phoenix when the two men—Billy and Darnell, both Henderson Reddies—with the wife’s agreement decided. They’ve rented an apartment; the rent is $2400+ a month.

                They loaded a U-Haul with their belongings, secured Billy’s car on a trailer behind, and left Hot Springs this week. Saturday night, Billy visited me to say goodbye and pick up some things to take along. Thank goodness, he won’t be driving his 2012 Ford Focus we bought in Arkadelphia.

                While he was here, I asked him to go through a couple of bureaus of his stuff, the attic where more of his “kid” stuff filled another bureau, then out to the shed. He chose to take his punching bag, his trumpet and mute, and various other items he put in a small suitcase. He said I could get rid of his childhood toys and his dress shirts that used to be required uniform at Cracker Barrel.

                Speaking of Cracker Barrel, he said there are eight of them in Phoenix and if he couldn’t score a job at one of them, there were over a hundred fact-food places.

                He’s been to Italy, Greece and Hawaii, so I’m sure he’ll make it in the United States. But as any parent, grandparent or guardian does, I’ll pray for safety and a continued good life. He crowed that his credit score was in the 700s after only two years. He always envied mine in the 800s.

                In my in-progress memoir, I have a collection of poems about Billy, mostly haiku and senryu, but several longer poems.

 In his honor and my emotional state, I’ll share “The Band Concert.”

“My Christmas concert’s in a week,” the teen/

reminded me. “Our teacher said no jeans

or sweats, just slacks . . . and what the heck are slacks?”

he asked, this kid who’d never worn a pair

of jeans until he hit the middle school

and kids began to yank his sweatpants. How

could one so old—a high school freshman—be

so smart, so literary, and not have

a clue to what was meant by slacks. “They’re pants,

for heaven’s sake! Long trousers.” Satisfied, 

he turned to me and said, “My last year’s pants--

those khakis in the closet—they’re OK.”

But since I had to go to Fred’s, I looked

for nicer slacks. A pair of “carpenters”

in charcoal gray, the size his blue jeans were,

would guarantee a perfect fit. My kid

would be the neatest trumpeter on stage.

The time to dress drew near. He pulled the new

pants up and—glory be!—a three-inch gap

between the button and the buttonhole!

Those britches kissed the floor and khakis took

their place. Again, a gap no girdle could

abridge. Now what? The time was running out.

I reached into my closet for some gray,

elastic-waisted slacks. “It’s all you’ve got!”

I said. “Get moving!” He obeyed; they fit.

"I need an undershirt.” Just like a girl--

well, nearly,--budding nipples must be hid.

He pulled my white shell on and wiggled in

to last year’s shirt, still buttoned up. Too tight.

The kid resembled someone middle-aged

who chugged the beer. ”No way,” I said, and grabbed

my only long-sleeved, collared shirt. “The way

this buttons up is backwards!” “Never mind,

it’s time to go . . .” And, sure enough, my boy

looked sharp, as sharp as Christmas tunes he played.

               

I’ll miss him, but he thought he’d make it home for Christmas.

c 2021, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Story of unripe pears from a fallen branch to a fridge full of pear sauce

 

What I collected while son was sawing up the huge limb that twisted off the lone pear tree

        Loathe to let even unripe fruit go to waste, I filled two metal dishpans full; son filled the large flower pot full as or after he'd picked up the others, tossed them in his pickup for possible deer food at his property.

        Needing to find a recipe, I Googled "upripe pears--how to use." I found a crockpot method, but failed to save or print it. I have a crockpot, although it is a 1960s wedding gift version without the third prong. I'd take a chance on it still working. And I have Mom's ricer to move the soft fruit into sauce. Covering the fruit (I finally began counting: 24 would fit in the pot) with a sweet poaching solution of maple syrup, Karo syrup, brown sugar, plus a small bottle of White Zin, a cinnamon stick, whole cloves, I determined it was sweet enough, plugged the pot in and turned it to high. When the liquid looked lower, I poured in some cranberry juice.

The materials needed are a large bowl to put the cooked pears into and move to the work space; tongs, obvious use; another large bowl to set the ricer in and hold the ricing, a wide rubber scraper and a narrow one, plus a saucer or other plate to rest the on. Lastly, you'll need a container for the detritus left after ricing.

                To work up each batch of 24, I put 8 at a time in the ricer, run the round wooden paddle around 20 times, take the paddle out so the ricer won’t be so heavy, then with a rubber spatula, scrape down the sides of the ricer into a glass bowl. Empty that into a container and set aside.

                Bring the paddle back to the ricer, scrape it down, scrape all fruit down into the bottom and repeat twice more. The first “harvest” of sauce is juicier; the second, not so much, and the third squeezes out the very last of the pulp which is thicker and browner. Then, with clean hands, I remove what has riced through, and add to the container. Stir all three ricings into a smooth sauce.

Repeat till all fruit is now sauce or bird food.

With only one more batch of pears to process, it's time to get out the pear butter recipe I found in an old book, gift of a brother.  It’s “The Lily Wallace New American Cook Book, 931 pages, copyright by Books, Inc. 1941, 1943. 

c 2021, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

When it’s your birthday and the plumber is repairing water pipes in the kitchen

 

Depression-era home: Couchwood

 

                Friday, July 9. At ten a. m. I slipped out into the day’s heat to deposit the brand new car-insurance card into the Taurus. I’ll clean out the glove compartment later.

                Then back to the office after having had to ask the plumber’s son to hand me a sleeve of crackers from a cupboard—the unhooked dishwasher in the doorway precluded getting them myself. But, sans coffee, I reached through the doorway to a different cupboard and pulled out a packet of instant tea that I mixed with bathroom-sink water. Ah!

                John and Kyle have been working under the sink area since a little before eight this morning. I was watering the plants outside with water that had dripped from the not-quite-shut shutoff valves under the now-sinkless space during the night. Which meant getting up every three hours to change the container.

                Yesterday, Mark, the carpenter worked in the crowded space sawing out wood that covered the ancient pipes (think1932) that had been leaking long enough, unbeknownst to me, to have rotted out the flooring underneath. Not letting any water escape from the sink faucets had been my modus operandi since November. Which meant closing off the sink drains and handwashing dishes. Not too much of a chore, and it took me back to “the old days” when mothers and grandmothers did that very thing as a matter of course. At least, I didn’t have to draw water from the well!

                Waking from a nap, I went to the roadside to retrieve the mail and the Saline Courier. On the way back, I noticed a basket holding an elegant, healthy dish garden, a gift from my Florida son. Why I hadn’t noticed it on the way out of the house is puzzling. The mail was rife with birthday cards from siblings, children and friends. I’m well loved if that’s any indication.

                Now it’s Saturday, July 10, 9 p.m. Thinking over this post-birthday day brings a smile and a full stomach of leftovers from our Baja Grill meal. My Hot Springs son/wife/daughter treated me to a gift lunch. The Baja Grill on South Street in Benton, occupies the place that used to hold the Palace Theater (before my time), then the Public Library that I DO remember. At one time, pigeon poop weakened the ceiling of the library and it all came tumbling down.

     Recently, after much back-and-forth by the city fathers about what to do with the building space, someone bought it. What is now standing is a marvel of ingenuity and creativity. You can research the place to find out more. The menu surely fits every kind of food anyone has ever eaten or thought about. I had chicken nachos, Lainee had Chipotle nachos, Lisa, a quesadilla, and Eric a Pig Sooie burrito twice as large as those I’ve seen before. We three women took home what we couldn’t eat, and I ate probably a third of what I brought home, hence the full stomach as I write.

                As a friend from childhood posted on my social media page, “They (birthdays) just keep coming around.” “Yes,” I answered, “and aren’t we glad.”

                 

               

My 80th birthday: Billy and James

 

 

c 2021 PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

Out in the wider world after such a long time

 

            Last Thursday, the small remnant of “girls” from Bryant’s class of 1954, ventured out for the first time in many months. Previously, we met at each others’ homes for breakfast, each person bringing an assigned food—casserole, fruit, bread, juice, etc. Our geographic boundaries reach from Vimy Ridge through Bryant, to Benton, Salem and Haskell—all in Saline County.

                At this time, however, we met at Denny’s, formerly Ruby Tuesday, in Bryant. I didn’t even know where it was until the one who planned it said “near Cracker Barrel.” The five of us were seated at the back of one aisle at a table long enough for comfort. We are either already 85 or very soon will be. One of us contracted cancer during our hiatus; she wore a striking blue cloche. Three of us wear hearing aids, but none use a cane or walker.

                Our breakfasts were huge, even the “55-and-older” menu. I had a 2-egg omelet, hash browns and toast. Waffles, red-skins (chopped potatoes) and crepes were others’ choices. And the coffee was STRONG. But the prices for that much food were reasonable, especially when Shirley whipped out her AARP card which the cashier used for all our tickets, giving us each a $2 rebate. The young woman said Denny’s had been in this place for a year or so.

                We agreed to meet in July at the same place. None of us looks forward to preparing our homes for an in-house visit as we did before. Not that we’re getting lazy; we get tired faster. (That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.)

                Last Friday, the writers group met at one member’s home. I’m the only one who belongs to both groups. One writer lives in Beebe, one in Little Rock, and the other two of us live in the Salem north of Benton. The hostess prepares snacks for our gathering-and-catching-up time, as well as goodie bags for us to take home and use. Then, we get down to the business of critiquing each others’ previously submitted (email) pieces.

                Three of us have published books and the other has a first novel ready to end. One is writing “Memories,” one submitted the last chapter of an inspirational book, and I sent the last half of an immersion essay titled, “You CAN Go Home Again” about this Depression-era house and as much history as I could find. It will go into my in-progress memoir.

                Even beginning at ten a. m. we rarely finish critiquing before one or one-thirty. Dot decided to forego lunch and drive back to Beebe. The other three went to downtown Benton to the new-to-me Baja Grill located in an old, old building that once housed the Palace Theater, then the Saline County library. I was stunned. Again, I had no idea of its existence, not having been out to eat for a long, long time.

                Again, the menu was far-ranging. I chose Baja Pork nachos. All three of us left with boxes full of what we couldn’t eat. In fact, I made two more meals from my delicious food. Again, the price was not exorbitant, even with a tip.

                The following day, Saturday, I again went into town to mail an envelope of entries to the Arizona Poetry Society’s current contest, then made a quick trip to the AT&T store to report a broken flip phone that needed to come off my account. Three days out in the real world again!!! And no masks. Wonderful.

c 2021, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA

                 

My turn to teach an essay: “Getting Along With Nature,” by Wendell Berry

    In the last MFA class I took online from UA Monticello, Creative Non-Fiction, each student had to "teach" one of the essays in the text, Touchstone Anthology of Contemporary Creative Non-Fiction. This is my lesson:

            I chose this essay because I own and have read Selected Poems of Wendell Berry. Also, because I must get along with nature to keep privet, sawbriars, English ivy, hackberry shoots and blackberry vines from inching, like kudzu, closer and closer to my house.

            Berry’s first thesis is that neither pure nature nor purely human estates are livable for very long; there must be a shared condition. I agree with poet Edmund Spenser that nature is a “sort of earthly lieutenant of God. . .”

            [Required discussion question for class: Describe one of your battles with nature.]

            Berry comes to see that nature and human culture—wildness and domesticity—are not opposed but are interdependent.” Do you agree? Why or why not?

            The example he gives about what happened to the bird sanctuary after the Papago Indians left shows the need for collaboration. I fight, verbally through the open window, the squirrels eating the bird seed when they seem to disdain the faux corn I attach to the maple tree. Share another example of the cross purposes of nature and humans.

            Berry’s face-to-beak experience with the hawk elicited smiles. Have you ever experienced a close-up stand-off with an animal or bird not counting your pets? I have. Twice—with a neighbor’s dog resulting in a bite each time. I finally learned NOT to go over there!

            His final paragraph describes the difference between animals with primarily physical appetites, and humans, who also have mental appetites that can be “more gross and capacious than physical ones.”

            On page 24, he refers to scale—“If the human economy is to be fitted into the natural economy in such a way that both may thrive, the human economy must be built to scale.” Can you give examples in your area where this is lacking? Mine is the packed subdivision on my north—all houses, small yards, newly-planted trees. But still . . .

            Page 25 is what I want to emphasize: “Every farm (in my case, an acre), should have . . . places where nature is given a free hand, where no human work is done. . .” I’ve decided the southwest corner is the spot that I’ll leave as is. Birds live there. Vines live there. Crape myrtles live there. Do you have a place in your grounds that could be left alone to nature?

[Text: Touchstone Anthology of Contemporary Creative Non Fiction: Work from 1970 to the Present, edited by Lex Williford & Michael Martone, Simon & Schuster, 2007.]

            With the spring rains and warmer weather after the long spell of cold and snow, trees, bushes, grasses and perennials have reacted accordingly. Except for the apparently-frozen gardenias’ brown-leafed limbs, nothing else seems to be affected. Even the loropetalum that I thought had frozen, revived. Even the hydrangeas have put on new foliage, though they may not bloom this year. Thankfully, the lows are predicted to be in the 50s and 60s at night. After that, it should be safe to take any indoor plants (except African violets?) outside for the rest of spring and until October.

            Happy gardening, and enjoy nature. After all, it has the final word, doesn’t it?

 c 2021, PL, dba lovepat press, Benton AR 72-19 USA

It’s definitely soup and cornbread weather

 

When grandson Billy and I lived in Arkadelphia, and when the Daily Siftings Herald had a contest for the best soup recipe, I placed with Pantry Soup. I’ve no idea where the recipe or winning apron is, but I still make soup.

                Lately, especially since the weather turned off cold, I wanted soup. I pulled down a recipe book from Piggott United Methodist Church women, purchased from Lou Forrest when she was proprietress of the Piggott Inn many years ago. I stopped in the soup-and salad-section. And when I read through a recipe submitted by Frances Oxley called Texas Soup, I stopped and read through the ingredients. I had everything except two pounds of ground beef, a can of pinto beans, a can of hominy and a can of kidney beans.

                But—in the freezer was a quart of already-cooked white beans. That would suffice for the three cans I didn’t have. I couldn’t believe what other ingredients called for that I already had. Here’s my experience:

                In a Dutch oven, I was to place the meet and one cut, large onion to brown. Having no meat, that meant I’d have to chop the onion and brown it. I didn’t want to do that. Luckily, I’d bought a box of Lipton Onion Soup Mix but had not used it. Aha! I opened one of the two packages, poured it into the pot and added, as instructed, four cups of water. Here was both onion and water from the original recipe.

                Added to that were the beans which I’d set out to thaw overnight. I let the soup mix and beans simmer a bit before adding another odd ingredient in the recipe that I possessed: a package of Taco Flavoring! Also, in the recipe and in my pantry, a package of Ranch dressing. I added a can of diced tomatoes as per the recipe, also a can of Rotel tomatoes. Finally, lacking meat, I added a can of chili with beans. Mixed all. Simmered, checking and stirring every ten minutes, for half-an-hour.

                Results: very salty and quite hot with peppers and taco seasonings, and thin. Other canned vegetables like black-eyed peas, carrots, and corn could be added easily. It was tasty; definitely a winter soup that I enhanced with a pan of cornbread.

                The soup made a large amount that will last through the winter storm and snow predicted for this week. As will the cornbread.

                And for a sweet treat, I mixed another batch of peanut butter and vanilla frosting into fudge. In case I run out of frozen yogurt before I can drive again, I’ll have the fudge to satisfy my sweet tooth.

   c 2021, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA           

 

 

               

 New Year's table a few years ago

    I spent what seemed like most of every day and evening last week gazing at my computer-cum-television, reading posts from the major news outlets—Washington Post, New York Times, Politico, Business Insider  , MSNBC, the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette—and scrolling through Facebook.

                Oh, I did manage to get most of the Christmas stuff taken down, boxed and moved back to the attic for another year. I also spent an hour most days, reading Barack Obama’s memoir. At this writing, I’ve passed the two-thirds mark of the huge volume.

                Two journals I write in daily—one on the dining room table, and one by my desk—hold completely different writings these days. At the table, where I read the local editorials, work the cryptoquote and the crossword, are these pithy New Year’s sayings:

                “Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson, and “Life’s not about expecting, hoping and wishing, it’s about doing, being and becoming.” –Mike Dooley.

          “We are at once the beneficiaries and the victims of our great technology. What man makes remakes man.” –James Feiblean.

               

          A cryptoquote puzzle was by Origen of Alexandria (c.184 – c. 253). I looked him up. “ . . . an early Christian scholar, ascetic and theologian.” His saying was “The power of choosing good and evil is within the reach of all.”

                The journal by my computer is full of comments, arguments and opinions since the January 6 riot at the Capitol. “Trump’s great virtue as a public figure, is his literalism. . . he is honest about who he is and what he intends. There was no subterfuge from Trump. He called his shots over and over again, and then he took it.”—from Ezra Klein’s debut column for New York Times.

                Words that I once knew the meaning of, or had never heard of, or that kept reappearing in various articles I wrote down and looked up the meaning. “Ersatz” = adjective, of a product made or used as a substitute, typically an inferior one, for something else. As in “. . . ersatz cloak of larger purpose” by George Will, WaPo.

                “Pusillanimity = noun form of pusillanimous, adj = showing a lack of courage or determination; timid.” “Profiles in pusillanimity, more like.” – Nicholas Goldberg, LA Times.

                “Putsch” = a violent attempt to overthrow the government. I read this word in several articles.

                “Ghillie suit” = a type of camouflage resembling background environment such as foliage, snow or sand.” I’ve never before read of such, have you?

                The phrase, “bystanderism” as in “ . . . the disease of bystanderism.” –Virginia senator, Tim Kaine on a Facebook friend’s feed.

                And some new-to-me information: “Only 15 senators have been expelled from the chamber since 1789. Of that number, 14 were expelled for supporting the Confederacy during the Civil War.” –Sarah Polus, The Hill.

                 Finally, a short Found poem in memoriam: (first 2 lines attributed to White House spokesman, Judd Deere)

                        running toward danger/ to maintain peace’/ Officer Sicknick –PL

            Let's hope this coming week will be without violence.

   c 2021, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA