Seasonal preparations continue

by Pat Laster

Little by little, slowly but surely, Couchwood is beginning to look more like Christmas and winter. Sunday night I washed the last two windows and laid “blankets of snow” on the frames where upper and lower sections meet. On the “snow” are freshly washed pieces of cobalt blue glass--the light-weight ones ballasted with marbles.
Monday’s task was to organize the loose papers from the library table, one end of the buffet-cum-cabinet and the work table in the middle of the room. My BFF Dot (dothatfield.com) wrote on her blog last week about kudzu. My flat surfaces are kudzu-ed for sure.Here it is Thursday and those papers are still a mess.
When I told people that I was taking a break from church, one person said, “But the Christmas music! You don’t want to miss the Christmas music, do you?”
My CD and cassette players, the radio, the two bell symphony music boxes Billy (and his mother) bought me, the Christmas VHS movies, the piano with all the Christmas songbooks out of the bench and onto the ledge—how can I miss Christmas music? (OK, writer friends, I know I used Christmas five times in two paragraphs, but…)
Oh, and I was lucky enough to get invited to ride along to the River City Men’s Chorus Christmas concert last week. Talk about beautiful music! But a downside: the next morning, I had a fresh cold, a sore throat, as well as all-day sneezing and dripping, the first such malady to hit in many years that lasted longer than 24 hours.
Alas! My paperback dictionary finally came apart at the “o”s. (If I were on Facebook, would that be the kind of information I’d post?) Keeping to the trivial, I have something in common with Taylor Swift, who at 21, is the same age as grandson/ward Billy: “I love a good flea market,” she told Parade magazine.
Parts of Arkansas woke up to a surprise snow last week Check out my blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com to read some poems that developed from it.
Records for a one-day rainfall fell in five Arkansas towns on December 5. Amounts at Adams Field in Little Rock broke the record set in 1936 (my birth year). In North Little Rock, the last record was set in 1984. In Hot Springs, in 1996. At the Jacksonville/Little Rock Air Force Base, rain shattered the old record set in 1984. And in Batesville, the record set in 1943 was broken. I still haven’t dared look in my basement to see how high the water is.
Billy auditioned for next semester's Henderson State University Chamber Singers and “made it,” he told me last week. Color me proud, again. I missed their concert a Sunday or three ago. It was raining and I didn’t want to drive in it. Color me cowardly. He said me there was a link to viewing it, but he’s yet to show me where.
Hot Springs’ son Eric “didn’t get even one shot off” during this deer season, he said. None he saw was large enough to produce a “trophy.” But his 10-year-old niece (my granddaughter) Emma killed two in Mississippi. There should be enough venison to go around in the Paulus-Laster family in 2012.
May it be so with you and yours.

Another report card from the gas company

by Pat Laster

One day last week, I made a quick trip to Arkadelphia. Kid Billy had left his choir folder on the piano when his Thanksgiving break was done. It was my suggestion to leave it there, thinking I would play over some of the music while he sang his part. Never happened.
On the way through Benton, I stopped at Goodwill to see if they had a solid blue tie and a solid red tie, which he said he could use. I forgot until just now that he also asked for a gold long-sleeved dress shirt, or I would have looked for that, too.
Next stop was Payless, where I purchased two pair of brown shoes—one less dressy but laced, one darker but slip-on. Because his socks in the wash were such rags, I also selected a 6-pack of tube socks and a like amount of low-cut ones. Making arrangements with the clerk to return with the pair of shoes and pack of socks that he didn’t want, I drove off south.
Just so happened that when I got to the Caddo River—our traditional calling landmark—I found him in Caddo, the HSU cafeteria. He directed me to a meeting place. But, saying he had food waiting for him, he politely took all the purchases without even looking at them, thanked me kindly and directed me off the campus. So much for returns. It’s a good thing I had a $15-off coupon!
While that close to Bismarck, I called a writer friend who is soon to move to Durham, NC, and asked her if she could meet me at Cracker Barrel for lunch. “I’ll see you in a couple minutes,” she crowed, but it turned out to be a few more than that. I browsed at the lovely (expensive) items while I waited.
We had the best visit, the longest visit, the most personal visit in all our friendship, which dates back to when KB and I lived in Arkadelphia during the late 1990s and early 2000s.
On the way out of the restaurant, we passed a young serviceman sitting alone. I stopped, stuck out my hand—which he took—and said, “Thank you for your service.” He smiled and thanked me back.
Remember the chide from the gas company about my using waaaay more gas for heating than my “efficient neighbors?” I emailed them, but got nowhere. Last weekend, I received another letter giving me a “GREAT” and two smiley faces. I had used 80% less gas this month, only two CCF. “Efficient” neighbors averaged ten CCF and “All neighbors” used 19. My rank—out of 100 neighbors—was #6. Their suggestions for energy saving: check air filters each month, seal air leaks, be smart about dish washing—only full loads, use air-dry setting, avoid special cycles like ‘rinse only.’
Happy 49th birthday (on December 3) to my second son Eric, a career highway department employee, who lives in Hot Springs with wife Lisa and daughter Lainee. His son James lives in Little Rock. Color me proud, proud, proud.
Final note on the lentil-sweet potato fiasco: even the outside cats wouldn’t eat it! Am I gonna gripe at that gal who submitted the recipe in the first place!

A lull between Thanksgiving and Christmas

by Pat Laster

I love the Fridays after Thanksgiving. No Black Fridays in my activities. I rested, listened to the Razorback-Tiger game as I added journal jottings to the book-in-progress.
Collegian/grandson Billy watched the game from his air-conditioned bedroom, snacking on Doritos, dip and flavored water. On Thanksgiving, he was one of five young men and two young women at our family gathering—an unusual happening. One baby and a ten-year-old added more spice and flavor to our event.
I didn’t hear anyone groan because of over-eating, but here’s such a complaint I wrote two years ago for our local poets’ contest.

I Did it Again! An Overeater’s Complaint

As men of old did, so I bring
my thanks—for Alka-Seltzer! Sling

--or hide—leftover turkey. Take
me to the bed; my stomachache,
with time and darkness, should abate.

Do not disturb. I loathe myself
each year. With this much food, the elf

and waif within insist I eat
three platefuls: broccoli and sweet

potatoes, dressing, gravy, beans,
cranberry sauce and rolls. My jeans!

Unzip my jeans before I burst!
Ah -- aah. That’s good. I get immersed

in savoring the tastes of pies.
The mincemeat, pumpkin testifies

to culinary skills of those
among us. Cakes and fudge impose

their calories. Today, if I should die,
please bury me with spoon and apple pie.

An item in Joey Green’s book, Contrary to Popular Belief (Broadway Books, 2005) will cover the period between the last of November and Christmas.
In an entry titled, “The Mayflower did not land at Plymouth Rock,” he says that none of the diaries of the Pilgrims mentioned Plymouth Rock. “The Mayflower landed at Provincetown on Cape Cod on November 25, 1620, but deemed the spot unsuitable.”
So a scouting party headed by Captain Miles Standish took an open boat, stopping at Eastham on December 10 and Plymouth on December 26.
A follow-up on last week’s Lentil-Sweet Potato Salad. BAD FLOP. Tasted OK if one likes lentils, but it looked as pitiful as anything I’ve seen. First off, I cooked the entire package of lentils, but I measured out half of them which equaled one cup.
Without weighing, how much potato is two pounds? Its dressing—all of the ingredients I had to buy new—was too sparse for the veggies. I will turn it into either lentil soup or into outside-cat food. The five feral felines will eat … should eat it if they’re hungry enough.
I will spend the week between now and December 3 cleaning floors and windows, moving papers off table tops and organizing them—or tossing toward the recycle box. It is amazing to me how five flat surfaces in this office can gather so much stuff. Surely your office space is neater.
May your early run-up to Christmas be full of dust cloths and window cleaner and wax and furniture polish. And may all of your strings of Christmas lights work at the first plug-in. May your hoses and lawn furniture be out of sight until spring, and don’t forget to add Stabile to your lawn mowers and boat motors.
Welcome to December.

Another November winding down

by Pat Laster

As of November 1, I am no longer employed at any church. As of November 1, I have been away or have chosen not to attend services. Though I haven’t yet written about the new-found freedom from the organ, I did write something that reflected the same situation during the early 1990s. It still fits, except I don’t live close to a park now. Oh, yes, and I don’t power walk any longer.
Here’s the poem called Early Church.
“The park becomes my church this Sabbath day;/ no cloistered walls to keep the sun at bay./ Three robins practice trills to vocalize/ while gurgling brook accompanies with grace./ The grackles try their best to harmonize,/ and peckerwoods show skill with figured bass./ No cloistered walls to keep the sun at bay,/ the park becomes my church this Sabbath day.”
However, I still volunteer as director of the Wednesday Morning Bell Choir. I tried to resign, but if I want to keep my friends’ good will, charity and amity, I will continue leading the group of eight who are dedicated beyond belief—some say they live for Wednesday morning—and who try harder than any child or youth to play their parts well.
Last week, the pastor came by to pray over the group, and he and I exchanged the greatest hug that any two non-blood-or-marriage-related people could. Of course, he’s the same age as my youngest child, so there’s nothing suspect there. “I miss you,” he said. “You’ve got to come back.” I answered, pitifully (I hope), “Please give me a break. Just a little while longer.”
Of course, I’m pleased at his plea. But now that a new choir director and a new organist are in place, they can lead worship and I can take a short vacation.
Thanksgiving looms. As usual, since I don’t have a signature dish (except for the relish tray), I will concoct a dish in honor of our vegetarian who is coming from Portland OR for the holiday.
I found this recipe in the Northwest AR Democrat-Gazette while in Eureka Springs. Stephanie W. Sedgwick of The Washington Post is the source. The title is Warm Lentil and Sweet Potato Salad.
I have arranged the ingredients and the directions together. “Prick one pound of sweet potatoes several time with a skewer or fork, then bake at 375 degrees until soft—45 to 90 minutes. (I will likely microwave the two I purchased--without weighing.) Let cool 25 minutes.
“Meanwhile, place one cup lentils, rinsed and picked clean of any foreign matter, in a 3-to-4-quart pot, adding enough water to cover by one to two inches. Place the pot over medium heat, cover with the lid ajar. When the water begins to boil, adjust the heat so the water stays at a low boil. Cook 25 minutes, until the lentils are tender but not falling apart. Drain.
“Whisk together one-and-one-half tablespoons apple cider vinegar, the same amount of maple syrup, 2 teaspoons Dijon-style mustard, one-fourth teaspoon nutmeg (she says freshly grated, but I will use ground), 2 tablespoons finely chopped chives and salt to taste in a large bowl.
“Slowly add 3 tablespoons olive oil, whisking to incorporate. Add the lentils to the dressing.
“Carefully pull away sweet potato skin. Cut into one-half inch chunks; transfer to the bowl with the lentils. Gently toss to coat evenly with the dressing. Serve warm or at room temperature. Makes 6 servings.”
There will be more than six at our table, but there will be scads of food. I doubt many of the younger folks will even taste the dish, but that’s OK.
I hope you have enjoyed a blessed Thanksgiving.

c 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press

Sixty-five and older—are we the rich or the poor?

by Pat Laster

The one bud on the Thanksgiving cactus turned out to be four. They are now in full pink bloom. If holly berries count as blooming plants, then add two more. The beautyberry (French mulberry) is bereft of its yellow leaves, so arcs of purple clusters bend in the wind.
Pansies now grace places around the porch. A yellow one is in memory of Uncle Rolla Scott, Mom’s brother, a Marine, who returned home from dangerous missions during World War II, stayed in the Reserves and was called back to Korea.
I planted another pansy in memory of cousin David Pelton, my Dad’s sister’s oldest boy, a Navy veteran. Two more are in memory of Wathena and J. A. Bard, Mom’s sister and husband—my aunt and uncle. She was an Army nurse and he was a pilot.
The newspaper reveals this information: The typical US household headed by a person 65 or older has a net worth 47 times greater than a household headed by someone under 35, according to analysis of census data.
The median net worth of 65- or-older households is $170,494, 42% more than in 1984. Value is considered a home, possessions, savings, investments, bank accounts, land, cars, and boats. Not me—only one car, no land and no boat!
Young adults are facing the highest unemployment since WWII. I’m likely to have a grown grandson living at home for quite a while.
Social Security accounts for 55% of elders’ income. Not mine—I’d be on the dole if that were so.
In a later issue, facts seem to conflict. First, I read this: Americans 65-and-older sustained the largest increases in poverty under the revised formula—one in six—because of rising Medicare premiums, deductibles and expenses for prescription drugs.
The next entry of my journal seems to contradict the first: Because of Social Security, only nine percent of seniors -- or 3.5 million -- live in poverty. Two different articles, two different subjects. Whom to believe? Maybe I’m missing something.
Also, the poverty line equals $11,139 for an individual and $22,314 for a family of four.
“Summer is a-comin’ in, loudly sings cuckoo,” is the beginning of a Middle English round I’ve known for a long time. Let’s parody it with “Winter is a-comin’ in,” but use a poem I wrote-–not a song to be sung.
“A Poem for the Coming Winter” (a Dorsimbra pattern) by Pat Laster: The hardwoods, during autumn’s rain and frost/ and wind, surrender, drop their leaves on earth/ to blanket, nourish, turn—the greenness lost./ Those leaves blow free until they find a berth.//
Knowing winter lurks/ voles and mice scurry to find shelter. / Geese gather, their/ pilgrimage imminent.//
While breezes vagabond through valleys, hills,/ all humankind—inside, nest-warm—prepares/ to feast, give thanks, and watch for changes in/ the hardwoods during autumn’s rain and frost.//
© 2011, lovepat press

Chided by the gas company

by Pat Laster

Here’s yet another heavy metal story.
In Centerton AR, scrap iron thieves made off with 55 manhole covers @110 pounds each, and 70 water-meter lids @ 50 pounds each.
With the going price for scrap metal at eleven cents per pound, officials estimated a potential $13,000 worth of goods. Wouldn’t you hate to be the salvage-yard operator when these came in to the business? Stay tuned.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY today (November 10) to my older daughter, Jennifer Lynn (nee Paulus), who was the first girl to be born in either family for many years. She is one of my four––five counting Kid Billy—“prides-and-joys.”
She is an occupational therapist in the public schools, mother of fifth-grader Jake, wife of Brian, and part caregiver to three dogs. She “does” house and yard plants, too, (like her mother, ahem) and collects Kurt Vonnegut novels. She was a foreign exchange student to Germany during the mid-1980s.
Plants in bloom as I drove around the house after two weeks away, were wild asters—both blue and white—abelia, several large bushes of mums, oxalis, a bright pink gerbera daisy, the yellow zinnias, Encore azaleas, purple jew, one lamb’s ear, several Wave petunias revived after I cut them back, and occasional dianthus rounds. Inside, begonia, African violets, Mandevilla bloom, and there are four buds on the Thanksgiving cactus. Blessed am I with living things—in addition to cats.
SOAP BOX: If this doesn’t beat all, as my sainted mother would say. I arrive home to two weeks of “held” mail only to find this piece from CenterPoint Energy: “Last winter, you used 53 percent more natural gas than your neighbors.” Which I took (again, like my mother), as a chide, a shaming technique, a “naughty, naughty!” First of all, my parents taught us that we didn’t have to be like the neighbors. “Keeping up with the Jones” was an anathema at our house.
“Who are your neighbors?” the document asked. Answer: “Approximately 100 occupied nearby homes that are similar in size to yours (avg.2497 sq ft) and have gas heat.” My questions: how does the gas company know how large my house is, and how did they decide which homes were that size? Mine was built in the 1930s, and all homes around here that size were built after that. Waaaaay after that.
On the back side of the page was a comparison chart—mine was in a solid blue line; theirs were muted, dotted lines very far below mine. A second shame technique! And their suggestions to “help me” were:
1. Program your thermostat. I use space heaters, ergo, no thermostat.
2. Weatherstrip windows and doors. I do that.
3. Install efficient showerheads. They told me they knew that about 40% of my hot water usage is because of showering. Well, I’ll let them know, ‘t’ain’t so!! With KB in college and my occasional shower (in favor of sit-down baths), there’s no way.
A way to “outperform your neighbors this winter” is to (ahem) purchase (aha!) and install (aha!-doubled) a qualifying high-efficiency natural gas heating system.” And on and on. They are going to hear from me!!
I mustn’t rant to the exclusion of Veteran’s Day tomorrow: Here is a thought or three. “military parade/ so many of them marching/ behind the flag” and “the little girl/ and her doll/ among the veterans” and “crisp autumn winds~/ praise all veterans who fought (fight)/ for our liberty”.
Amen and amen.

In addition to writing . . .

by Pat Laster

Besides writing at the (ahem) writers’ colony this year, I decided to add another activity: a daily walk. With the ups and downs, hills and valleys, twists and turns in this town, I was pretty sure I would work up (walk up) an elevated heart rate.
DAY ONE: Dress: bluejeans, t-shirt, old walking shoes. Route: up the rocky eroded path across from the Colony to the Crescent Hotel parking lot, thence to the street winding down in front of St. Elizabeth’s Church to Spring Street, down Spring St. to #515, my home-away-from-home. Huffing, puffing up the hill (noticing rocks and roots I’d like to take back to Couchwood), catching my breath downhill and on the level street to “home.” Time: 25 minutes.
DAY TWO: Dress: knit tapered pants, a long-tailed, long-sleeved Henderson Reddie t-shirt that showed stomach/hip protrusions. Goal-within-a-goal: by the end of two weeks, no protrusions. Shoes had sprung a flapping sole; jury-rigged with a rubber band for the moment. Route: the reverse of yesterday, except downward on Spring Street instead of the rocky decline. Huffing and puffing on the upward climb, jogging on the downward stretch. Time: 25 minutes.
DAY THREE: Dress: same as yesterday; I didn’t even look for the aforesaid protrusions; I knew they were still there. Route: Of all the times I’ve been a resident here, I’d never ventured further down Polk Street--on the back side of the Colony--than to the Farm House across Dairy Hollow Road which at one time sheltered three more writers.
So, I decided to walk down Dairy Hollow Road which I calculated as north. Good. Not much traffic. Level. Nondescript dwellings, unkempt yards, and then a pasture-like area. Two deer bounded across the road from the forest to the green space.
On and on I walked. I knew there was a private or church school not far. Sure enough, there it was, at the T in the road. Dairy Hollow turned right and climbed severely. The other way climbed more gently so I took it. Besides, it was the direction “home.”
Anderson Road, it was, and it led to the ubiquitous incline, so I slowed. By that time, the rubber band had popped off and my right sole was flapping.
Folks, this was hard climbing. Especially for a 70-something who only walked to the mailbox or the pear tree or to the shed during the day. I’d been walking for thirty minutes. Ahead, I heard dogs and hoped against hope they were penned. They were, but my! they were large. And loud. I slogged on up and around a bend. Houses appeared. I finally saw a human and hailed him. “Any shortcut to the Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow?” I asked.
He pointed as he talked. “Up here a’ways is a street to the left; it jogs more to the left to Tad’s, then to the Joy Motel . . . Don’t go to the highway,” he said. I thanked him, said, yes, I knew my way now, but lawsy me! I was at the junction of 62W, 62B and Scenic Route 62. I was mile upon curvy mile from home!
But at least I knew where home was. And it was still daylight though nearly six p.m. I walked on sidewalks not two feet from some houses. The autumn/Halloween decorations and chrysanthemums were everywhere. A white bush-flower that I knew but couldn’t put a name to except “Aberystwrth” (the Welsh tune to “Jesus, Lover of my Soul”) grew alongside the paths.
Finally, 45 minutes into my daily walk/slog, I remembered the plant name: ageratum. I had grown the blue kind many years ago.
One hour after I began walking, I stepped onto Writers Colony grounds. I’d made a complete circle. I deserved a treat, I did. So I gathered up food from the residents’ fridge (pre-ordered) and made the last few steps uphill to my suite. My treat: ice cream.
Forget losing the protrusions. I deserve this. #

c 2011 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press. Check out my poetry blog, pittypatter.blogspot.com, and my first novel, A Journey of Choice, on Amazon, etc.