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?