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

Old houses must be kept up to “live” longer

Old west window (cracked) in Green Room (plants)

                “Years of water damage stain the walls. Holes in the ceiling expose the second floor to the first. The staircase creaks, boards straining under the pressure of each footstep. A musty aroma taints the air, as if someone was rifling thru’ pages of an old book.”

                This describes the 1870s house in Fayetteville, the Stone-Hilton house, a significant structure in the Washington-Willow Historic District. [To be given this] designation it must be associated with a significant event, person or architectural style, or hold important information about the past. It must be at least 50 years old— (Alexander Nicoll, NWA D-G pg. 1B, 8.6.17)

                Back last year, I jotted down the paragraphs above, added them to a computer document under the heading, “Standard column for early 2018 – old houses.” Early left a long time ago, but circumstances make this a good lede for this post.

                Couchwood (I named it myself after moving here 12 years ago) was built in 1932-33, making it old enough to be historic. However, as far as I know, Saline County doesn’t have a “historic district.” Those of us who’ve lived in the Salem community all—or nearly all—our lives are the only ones who consider it so.

                Only a scant few years younger than this house built of white rock and red brick, I inherited it. The eldest of seven siblings and the only one without a house of her own were two reasons the parents deeded it to me. 

                                             Outside new windows on the north, & old ones

          I’ve improved the inside through the years: new carpets, replaced linoleum with tile in the kitchen and refinished the hardwood floors. Later, unhappily taking down the cracked, and in one place, missing, thick plaster ceilings in the two front rooms. Then painting the 1970s paneling that covered cracking wall plaster—all these were earlier upgrades.

                But when an elder at Ebenezer UMC showed me photos of windows in a house he was renovating, a brain wave zapped inside my head. “Windows,” it said. “He does windows. Your drafty, thin-paned windows have needed replacing for ages.” So, he and I made plans.

Office/ Blue room without any windows

                As I write, all 30 windows now have double-paned, cleanable windows. The outsides are white vinyl and the inside facings are aromatic raw wood until I get around to painting them. Though all windows except the two short kitchen ones (only one was delivered) are in and screens are attached, there is all the debris clean up and repairing the north yard where a forklift dug into the wet ground while hoisting the three mulled attic windows.

                Folks swear I’ll love the reduced heating and cooling bill. But I insisted (with the approval of son Eric) the window ACs be reinstalled, so I had to finagle ways to keep the drafts stopped around all five of them. Thank goodness for wide packing tape.

                It already takes the back rooms less time to heat up to a comfortable temp. And he can’t tell me, but Greye-the-cat will be warmer in the attic now when he chooses to go there.

                Though I hope to live in this more- modern-on-the-inside house at least ten more years, it can never be on a “historic homes” register.

                                                 New Blue Room/ Office windows

         c 2018, PL dba lovepat press, Benton AR USA       

                 

                                        A LOOK AT ADVENT THROUGH HISTORY

             Believers in God are marked with expectation and anticipation. Abraham and Sarah waited for God to fulfill His promise to give them a son. David longed for a temple for Jehovah in Jerusalem. The magi followed a star, expecting the celestial sign to take them to the King of the Jews.

            Since the ascension of Jesus Christ, believers have awaited His return. The Greek word parousia means "coming" or "arrival." The New Testament uses the word 17 times to describe the second coming of Christ.

            Today, however, more and more Protestant and Evangelical Christians are recognizing the spiritual significance of Advent, and have begun to revive the spirit of the season through serious reflection, joyful expectation, and even through the observance of some of the traditional Advent customs.

            According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, Advent began sometime after the 4th century as a time of preparation for Epiphany, and not in anticipation of Christmas. Epiphany celebrates the manifestation of Christ by remembering the visit of the wise men and, in some traditions, the Baptism of Jesus. At this time, new Christians were baptized and received into the faith, and so the early church instituted a 40-day period of fasting and repentance.

            Later, in the 6th century, St. Gregory the Great was the first to associate this season of Advent with the coming of Christ. Originally it was not the coming of the Christ-child that was anticipated, but the Second Coming of Christ.

            By the Middle Ages, the church had extended the celebration of Advent to include the coming of Christ through his birth in Bethlehem, his future coming at the end of time, and his presence among us through the promised Holy Spirit. Modern-day Advent services include symbolic customs related to all three of these "advents" of Christ.

 --Information from online sources, 2018

                                                               An Advent wreath

Deer chili: composite of two recipes––a keeper

 Back story: At bell rehearsal one Wednesday in October, I announced, “I’m taking chili to Carolyn and Lynn tomorrow.” Lynn was recovering from a stroke; Carolyn was a sister, so it stood to reason I should do something.

I texted her: “May I bring chili tomorrow?”

She answered, “I just made some last night.” So much for that.

I texted my brother Bill. “Can I bring you some chili?”

He answered, “I’ll take a raincheck; it’s chaotic over here since we’re planning to move.”

Truth be told, I hadn’t yet cooked the chili, though I’d thawed out a package labeled “deer chili” from son Eric. I’d pulled down cans of tomatoes and beans, herbs and spices to the countertop.

I waited a few days, then decided the meat needed to be cooked at least, and refrozen, if necessary. I browned the meat, cooled it, freezer-container-ed it, but left it in the fridge.

The next Tuesday, I awoke with a yen to finally prepare the chili. I’d pulled out of a collection of cookbooks one called “More Faithful Cooking,” published in 2010 by the United Methodist Women of Piggott, Arkansas, and autographed by Lou Forrest, who was at that time proprietress of The Downtown Inn.

In the section, Soups & Salads, I found on page 25, two chili recipes: one called Santa Fe chili, by Alex Routszong, and the other, Chili, by Leigh Cole. Between them both, I had about every ingredient mentioned. I found the crockpot, a wedding gift in 1960, hauled it up to the range, set it on a burner cover and plugged it in. Originally, I had planned to cook in the cast iron Dutch oven, but both recipes called for a “slow cooker.” Duh!

I transferred the meat to the cooker. I had no onion, so I sprinkled in a goodly amount of dried onion flakes. I didn’t have tomato sauce, but added diced tomatoes, Ro-Tel, and V-8 juice. Drained and rinsed black beans and pinto beans went next. Added a packet of Ranch dressing mix and part of a package of Taco seasoning. Two teaspoons of cumin, which I didn’t know I had, added. Then dash after dash of chili powder. No salt; no pepper.

After the last addition, I tasted it and added more chili powder until I was satisfied.
“Cook on high for four hours,” one said; “five-six hours,” the other recipe said. I chose four.

It was the best chili, I told son Eric, provider of the meat, I ever made and ever ate. He replied, “I hope to have some fresh meat by the end of this week.”

My brother Bill was now ready for some, so I containered a large amount, took it over at lunch time, and we ate and visited while his wife shopped.

I put the remainder in plastic bowls for left-overs. Yum! Yum! What a way to participate in the fall and winter seasons.

                        I've signed up to take a pear cobbler to the family Thanksgiving next week.

c 2018, PL, d/b/a lovepat press, Benton AR USA

I never tire of time in the Ozarks: a look back

 While I'm here in 2018, this post was written about the same experience but in 2012. Perhaps you have come on board since then, and haven't read it. If you read it earlier, perhaps you've forgotten some details--like I had.

2012:
           Question: Who but an over-achieving writer would go to such pains just to get bundled up to go outside on a below-freezing Ozark morning? With coffee, of course, even though a bit stronger roast than my usual half-caff.

           Answer: For one, a back-packed mountain man walking the steep incline toward downtown. For another, a dog walker. She looked over and I “Good morning”-ed. In response, she said, “I just saw a red fox go across the road. Beautiful! ”

        So I’m in good company here in Eureka Springs. I’m in Spring Garden Suite, my usual stable here at Dairy Hollow. I did ask for a room in the new “505” building next door, but Ms. Director forgot and instead, scheduled a writer who wanted to stay a month. I didn’t mind, especially when I discovered it was Tom S. from New England who was a co-resident several years ago.

THE MUSE 

One leaf,
large and tattered,
followed me inside, like
a cat waiting for the door to
open. 

“Hello
there! Come on in!
You’ll be safe from Jana’s
leaf blower. Here, join the ones I
picked up

as I
crossed the parking
lot yesterday. Right up
here under the lamp where I can
see you." 

             Behind me, cars and conversation. A writing workshop was scheduled for all day in the main house. If someone parked in front of “my” place, (six feet from the street) I’d have to move inside!  

VIEW FROM THE STREET AT THE WRITERS COLONY FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF A DOG WALKER:

 “Would you
look at that! A
cleverly stuffed strawman
posing as a writer on this
freezing 

morning.
No gloves, though. Life-
like hands, even holding
a Razorback pen! It IS a
writer!?!”

            Vehicles began parking on “our” street. No one exited an SUV. Might it be a photographer? After all, there are now three papers in this town, though two of them seem to have the same information—but written by different folks.

             No newspaper photog, alas, but Tom walked by with a basket of breakfast and lunch fixings “so I won’t have to ‘bug them.’” He gestured toward the main house soon-to-be-awash with paying, workshopping writers. “Oh,” he continued. “Mind if I take a picture of you writing? I’ll send it to my wife and email or text you a copy.”

           “Oh, no!” I said, followed immediately by, “Okay.” How did he know that at that very moment I was writing about a photographer? Karma?  Indeed, I DID look like an obese straw person!

             Later, I went inside to refill my coffee mug—a leaf-motif-ed one from home. As I turned back to the door, sure enough, there was a vehicle immediately between “my” walk and the street. An older man with a knitted head covering carried his supplies down the stone slab stairway to the entrance. The antique-car license also showed a Vietnam Veteran sticker. I forgave him immediately.

TWENTY SIX DEGREES
Colder,
but the maples
aren’t yet as vibrant as
last year, or hickories quite as
yellow. 

Turns out that the area’s prime color peaked last week. All the maple and cottonwood leaves were underfoot. Except the ones I brought in to grace my writing space.
~ ~ ~ ~

2018: Next post will update to my current autumn visit. PL

c 2018, PL, d/b/a lovepat press, Benton AR USA