Blogging about the beginning of summer, the end of June

 

from Google Images--

--but except for the flowers, it looks like my view north: the pecan tree and the hayfield beyond

 

What do Helen Keller and Captain Kangaroo have in common?
 

 Last week, I forgot to wish a happy Father’s Day to all my father friends. So, now I’ll say that I hope their Father’s Day celebrations were happy and full of joy and contentment. I did email my sons on the proper day.

 

June the 21^st was also the first day of summer, but not the first day of summer-like heat. And just think, several years ago, the board of the Salem Campground changed the date of the week’s revival meeting from August to June!! Bad move: it’s been hotter in June since that time than anyone ever thought possible.

 

On June 22, 1870, the US Department of Justice was established. For history folks, there is a website that gives interesting information on this subject.

 

June 23 was the birthday of Britain’s King Edward VIII. He was born in 1894. Two other famous folks’ birthdays fall on this day: Johannes Gutenberg was born in 1400 and June Carter Cash, in 1929.

 

This was also National Pecan Sandies Day, National Pink Day, Soap Opera Day, and United Nations Public Service Day.

The first practical modern typewriter was patented on this day in 1868.

June 24 was UFO Day. The first documented UFO sighting was on this day in 1947.

Today, June 25, is Eric Carle’s birthday and LEON Day. The famous children’s book author came into the world in 1929.

 

LEON is NOEL spelled backwards, and tells us that it is six months until Christmas!

 

On June 26, the toothbrush was invented and the bicycle patented. The years were 1498 and 1819 respectively. This date is also National Chocolate Pudding Day.

 

Helen Keller and Captain Kangaroo, Bob Keeshan, were born on June 27--the lady in 1880, and the Captain in 1927. Also, the melody to the Happy Birthday song was composed in 1859.

 

Quickly now, a dash to the end. June 28 is Paul Bunyan Day; June 29 is Camera Day and June 30 is Meteor Day and Superman’s birthday. Whew! TMI?

 

But wait. From the June, 2014 issue of First Electric’s “Arkansas Living” comes an entire trivia feature about . . . about . . . Johnny Cash and his (second) wife, June. Since the recent opening of the Cash home in Dyess, now a Heritage site of Arkansas State University in Jonesboro, we Arkansan’s can claim a closer kinship with the Cash family. Hence, the remainder of this piece is about the Cash mystique.

 

Johnny Cash had 13 number one songs on the Billboard charts, with his first one being “I Walk the Line.”

 

He and his wife June Carter Cash, won a Grammy for best country vocal performance in 1970 for the song, “If I Were a Carpenter.”

 

He hosted his own TV show on ABC from 1969-71.

 

He recorded his hit, “A Boy Named Sue,” live during a concert at San Quentin State Prison on February 24, 1969.

 

Bob Dylan’s adulation of Johnny Cash: “He is what the land and the country are all about, the heart and soul of it personified.”

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When "need-to-do"s become "must-do"s

Google Image: In a Tizzy

 

Have you ever spent an entire day in your pajamas and robe? If you’re in a certain age and career bracket, maybe you have. With a body ache from the previous day’s outside work, I did just that. No place to go, no one coming by, summer-hot—so hot I turned the window ACs on earlier than usual.
 

Inside tasks needed doing anyway: hand-washing the dishes before the new latch on the dishwasher was installed, washing a load of old but useable rugs, catching up on my writing records and submissions—stuff like that. Stuff that, when the day is over, you wonder what you did all day.
 

Does no one else ever feel like staring out the window at the wind in the maple tree, seeing the brown thrasher in the grass, the squirrel on the tree root? Or sitting on the porch swing reading the day’s papers? Surely so.
 

But windows need washing, shelves need rehanging after a year, paneling needs painting. All sorts of “need-to-dos” inside, including emptying the luggage from a 2-weeks-ago trip.” Must-dos” in preparation for a July 4 family reunion AT THIS PLACE.
 

 And yet I stall—checking and answering email and Facebook, trying to get chapter numbers of my finished-but-in-revision sequel to coincide.

 

Oh, today’s the deadline for the PRA monthly: let me see if I can write an Etheree on “ants and other creepy crawlies.” And, by June 30, I must send in haiku and tanka about “stillness-silence-loneliness” to M. Siddiqui for his annual Season’s Greeting Letters. I need to search my files.
 

Finally, on the second day, I dressed. I felt energetic, so I washed the four south windows in the office/blue room, plus all the glassware from the window sills and shelves.
 

One of the upper-paned windows had sagged on one side, leaving an inch gap for the heat and air to escape. Determined to fix that sucker once and for all, I pushed the window closed with a broom handle. Then I found a hammer and a long, rusty nail from Dad’s stash, and by holding the lower pane open with my head, secured the nail under the offending, drooping section. We’ll see how long it holds. It’s hard to get a good smack on the hammer in such close quarters.
 

That done, I reversed the five-tiered bookcase so the short end faced the east wall, replaced the clean blue glass and called it a day. Tomorrow, I would attack the accumulated paper glut on the desk, table tops and in various plastic containers.
 

Jim Mullen’s humor column on downsizing in Sunday’s Saline Courier set me to thinking: If I didn’t want to pack it were I to move, toss it. Yet how can I toss Kid Billy’s school papers on “what lies in my future?”? How can I toss a packet of note cards with epitaphs and good first lines for future stories?
 

Maybe those crates can go in the attic. Along with those that have been there since we moved here in 2006.
 

I guess it’s like Dad’s tools and jars of rusty nails: you never know when you might need something.

 

 



Nearly back in the groove

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Two days home from a slice of heaven-on-earth, and I can’t yet return to the status quo. Really, there’s no “status quo” after one experiences such growth in so many ways. In time, the summer writers’ retreat at the Hemingway-Pfeiffer Museum Educational Center will become part of the new status quo, right?

 

 One of a dozen writers from as far as Sarasota, FL and as near as McDougal, AR, I melded into the group bound by more than geography: we wanted to learn to “write like Hemingway.”

The mentor, a University of Central Arkansas professor with a heavy British accent—a writer himself—deftly led us through five short stories of the “master,” with writing assignments—if we needed or wanted them—for that night’s and/or the next day’s writing times.

 

And if that weren’t enough, one of the writers, a professor emeritus from my alma mater, Hendrix College—across town from UCA—had an even heavier Irish brogue. He is scheduled to further his studies with Garry, the mentor, this fall.

 

Other writers hailed from “out in the country” in Piggott, Rector, Little Rock, Fayetteville, Benton (one other besides me), Jonesboro and Pollard—all in-state.

 

One wrote Christian romance—and had books for sale, one had written a personal memoir and  was working on a family history, one had a manuscript out, one wrote devotionals and was into a novel, one hadn’t written before this week except for herself, one wrote for (and won) contests, one was writing a series of stories based on his work in a homeless shelter, one wrote stories from his experience, one wrote family history and poems, and one wrote plays, skits, dramas for church and Vacation Bible School. I put my sequel out of mind and wrote short stories based on the assignments.

 

Breakfasts at The Inn at Piggott prepared by Beverly Scott, lunches at H-P prepared by Karen Stout and Carolyn Caldwell kept us well-fueled for the days’ work. Supper, ‘scuse me, dinner was on our own. One night, it was Los Compadres, the next, Donna’s (Beverly’s sister), one night at the Piggott Diner and one night, we stayed in and ate our own snacks, etc.

 

On the Sunday before my first trip to HPMEC, during the 'joys and concerns' in church, I asked for traveling mercies, that I was going to Piggott for a week. The minister slowly turned with questioning eyes, like “Why would anyone go to Piggott?” But he didn’t say that. What he said was, “You’ll be the most exciting thing in Piggott.”

 

 Not true! Not true! It wasn’t true then, and it’s definitely not true today. Tracy and Joe Cole bought the former Downtown Inn and began refurbishing it immediately. Already, two of the rooms have Hemingway-related themes: Pauline’s Room (Pauline Pfeiffer was Ernest’s second wife) is one and the Hunter’s Room contains furniture made by Joe Cole. Imagine a  chandelier of animal horns in a circular design.

 The room I usually stay in will be transformed into The Safari Room by the next trip, Joe said. We’ll see how well I sleep with a rack of kudu horns over my head.

 Google Image!

One day's breakfast at the inn in Piggott. 2012, including yours truly.

c 2015 Pat Laster, author of A Journey of Choice, and an up-coming sequel, Her Face in the Glass.



Residual storm talk and wildflowers or weeds

 

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             Several years ago now, my Garland County district-highway-department-maintenance supervisor-son Eric, told me those tall yellow-blossomed weeds in my north yard that I took a hoe to were NOT dandelions, but lanced-leaf coreopsis!

            Dandelions, he said, were short-stemmed and had different-shaped leaves. So I composed a table bouquet containing ligustrum (cultivated privet) and lanced-leaved coreopsis. I love the roadside tickseed coreopsis and have one blooming in the porch flowerbox. I moved it from the north bed because I didn’t tend that one very often.

           On the current subject of flooding, the Great Flood of 1937 was greater than the one in 1927, records-wise. 2011’s floods equaled 1937’s. It remains to be seen how this year’s numbers will compare.

           I was amazed at the chutzpah of several government folks the last time we had such an exorbitant amount of rain—I think in 2011. Three examples are: “So far, we’re holding the [Mississippi] river at bay.” –Desha County judge. I don’t think so.

          “I’ve done nothing at all to prepare to leave here. We are going to be safe.” –a resident of Lake Village. I hope he was correct.

            “...We’re in a flood fight . . . [that] at this point we are winning.” – a Vicksburg District Corps of Engineers person. But I wouldn’t count on it always happening that way.

           A more sensible observation was this one: “Flood control—spillways, reservoirs and lakes are man’s puny little efforts against something as mighty as the Mississippi River.”– C. Sullivan.

          This year’s quotes seem to be more poetic and cautious: “The rhythm to the changes in the river level may be helping the levee system hold up”––R.Stires, Conway County flood plain manager. “We get rain, the river goes up, and then we get a few days to get the river out.” (article by K. Heard, AD-G, 5/28/15)
         
          Another comment the following day by J. Lesko, meteorologist, NLR, follows the same line of thinking: “We are in a pattern where the rivers crest and then begin falling below flood stage when the next system comes and turns the river around.” (also a K. Heard article.)

         Figures from 2011 showed that Arkansas had received eleven disaster declarations for tornadoes, floods, snowstorms, ice storms and remnants of three hurricanes, according to Chad Stover, spokesperson for the Arkansas Department of Emergency Management.

         Early on—before this Memorial Day weekend—I texted grandson Billy please NOT to be on any of the rivers close to Arkadelphia. “Why?” he asked.” “Water’s running high and fast,” I told him. “Ah, okay.” Whew!

         Blooming plants at Couchwood this week included a lone surviving pansy, lamb’s ear—that my brother says are mullein pinks––celosia, oxalis, freesia, abelia, hydrangeas, coreopsis and chrysanthemums. By next week, perhaps the gardenias and Easter lilies will be out with their luscious, intense scents. And also the day lilies.

         While lance-leaved coreopsis may be wildflowers on the roadsides and in hayfields, when they invade yards and cemeteries, I consider them weeds. Sorry, Eric.

 

 

Rain, rain, go away—but be prepared if it doesn’t

 

              Be prepared, they say. Think ahead, they say. During last week’s Memorial Day weekend, meteorologists said to stay away from the rivers, that they were running high and fast. The geologists said to be prepared for an earthquake. The weather people told us how to survive a tornado. Doctors always tell us to either eat right and exercise, or be prepared to live a shorter life.

            I’m prepared if the world DOES explode, implode, burn or however it ceases to be. And, for the first time, I wrote out an earthquake survival guide for each room in my house.

Living room: lie under the piano and hold on to one of the legs. Dining room: crawl under the table and hold on to a leg. Kitchen or the three-windowed breakfast room: brace myself in the narrow space between the fridge and the washer/ dryer. Middle hall area: up against any inside wall, the free-standing mirror perhaps covering my upper body. Maybe not. Pulling glass out of my skull might not be easy—or pleasant.  My bedroom: under the bed.  Billy’s bedroom, ditto. The four-windowed back sitting room with half bath: run for the windowless bathroom.

Sometimes one can be prepared and it’s not enough. Think of the sandbagged houses and businesses that were still ruined during the recent rains and flooding.

 How can row-crop farmers be prepared for unusual weather events? With insurance, I would imagine. And prayer, probably. Even though it seemed the crops might thrive, too much water is as deadly as too little.

A few years back, the Boy Scout troop from out-of-state experienced what they’d been prepared for. One of the rivers spilled over its banks and stranded the group. Over and over, it was reported, they were prepared for survival, even without cell phone reception. And they were.

Many people, including myself, have prepared for our own deaths by purchasing a burial plan with a funeral home, a plot in a cemetery—for which an extra twenty-five dollars is due upon opening the grave. (Can’t you just see the deceased rising up during the final words and holding up the bills for the grave digger?)

True story: After Mom died, a cemetery trustee came by the house and asked the family for the money. Mom had prepared for everything but that.

“He may hope for the best that’s prepared for the worst.” (Treasury of Proverbs and Epigrams, p 101.)

One fellow would not prepare sandbags in front of his house, so it flooded. Another saw no use in boarding up his windows when a Category 3, 4, or 5 hurricane was predicted. “Those guys are never right,” he said. He likely applied for aid when his home was demolished.

Let's hope the rain lessens, but be prepared for whatever is up the road, down the river, or in the air.

Blogging: A literary quote spawns reflections

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                A quote written in my journal on March 30 said this: “Graham Greene felt life was lived in the first twenty years and the remainder was just reflection.” It was written by the late neurosurgeon, P. Kalanithi in an Arkansas Democrat-Gazette article. He died at age 37.

                That sentence was brought into play on May 5, 2015. I wrote, “5.5.15” and thought:

                When the date read “5.5.’55,” I would have been 19 and finishing my first year in college at what was then Arkansas State Teachers College at Conway. The “reflections,” as Graham Greene put it, came upon me fully these 60 years later.

                I had been rushed by the Tri-Delts because (I’m almost positive) older music majors were members—Joyce McClanahan for one-- and I was a freshman music major with both an academic and music scholarship--$90 each. I refused, but it was an honor to be asked. I knew I couldn’t afford the costs, nor did I deem myself sorority material. I joined the Independents.

                My first roommate was Bobbie-something. If I see her name somewhere/ sometime, I’ll remember it. Dorm was McAlister Hall, still standing. Friends were Mary Ann Ritchey Smith (Benton, now of Kentucky), Glenda Martin (deceased) of Concord, Mary Wanda Windham Root, now of Arkadelphia. We are still friends, those of us still alive.

                Classes: English. Mrs. Roberta Clay (deceased) was, in my then-narrow view, a typical old-maid school marm. (She was probably young. She loved Arthur and gave us a piece of frilly-rimmed  pink Fentonware as a wedding gift.) I remember having to write essays and must have done well: I made all A’s.

                Psychology: A real eye-opener, both in the subject matter and as regards the professor, Dr. Gale. He was (as I remember) a tall, pencil-thin man who, again from my small-world outlook, was the oddest man I’d ever seen. Or heard. (Thus began my education.)

                Piano. Having studied piano with Lorene Houston, and with enough theory on the side (one-on-one) to count as a high school credit, I thought I was good. I soon learned that “good” is relative and that I had much more to learn. Chopin’s “Fantasie Impromptu” nearly killed me with its difficulty. Dr. Milton Trusler, (again, one whom I considered old) a wiry little man who looked like pictures I see now of T. S. Eliot, even offered a room in their home if I needed it.

                Theory. Sight-singing and ear-training was one of my favorite courses. I can “see” the band guys in the class, tho’ I can’t name them. I taught my school choirs sight-singing when region Festivals began that practice, and we always made a First Division. Funny, I don’t remember who taught the college course.

                Music History. Dr. Carl Forsberg (deceased) must have taught the class, as well as directed the Conway Little Symphony. It met on our campus, and accompanying it must have been part of my scholarship. During one rehearsal (hard job for me at that stage/age), I got lost and quit playing. Ooh, did I get a chewing out--bad enough to cause tears. But it was a good lesson. Later, working on my Masters, I took a private course in Composition from him.

                So, do I agree with Graham Greene’s purported statement? No. There’s too much life to live beyond the first 20 years. Just ask anyone who’s lived to be 80. Or 90.



My third mission trip to south Louisiana -- to the UMCOR depot

Bayou Teche - Google images.

This is one boundary of the UMCOR Sager-Brown campus

 

                Once again, the missioners from Jacksonville United Methodist Church asked me to be one of their 12 to travel to Baldwin, Louisiana, the home of the Sager-Brown UMCOR (United Methodist Committee on Relief) Depot. It is one of two such depots; the other is located in Salt Lake City. Imagine the largest metal warehouse you can, and add more space to it.

                After an 8-hour drive from Jacksonville (AR) UMC on a Sunday, we arrived safely, were assigned rooms, attended an orientation meeting, then enjoyed a team meal of Italian soup, French bread, salad, lemonade and cookies—all brought on the trip by our very industrious and well-organized team leader, Joyce White. (Each of the 12 had paid $300+ to “volunteer” and to pay for gas and food down there and back.)

 

                Monday morning after meeting the other teams and the staff and eating a sumptuous breakfast, we adjourned to Jubilee Hall for a Safe Sanctuary presentation. While we were there, the sky darkened to pitch black. Thunder rumbled and lightning flashed and it rained. We weren’t in danger, no sirens were heard, but it was an eerie feeling to look through the blinds at 9 a.m. and see nothing.
 

                We stayed in that room until the storm had moved east toward New Orleans. Then we proceeded to our reasons for being there—our work stations.
 

              Our work schedule at the UMCOR depot was from 8:15 – 11:30, and from 1 – 3:30. The country of Jordan had asked for 7,000 health kits for refugees. That’s what five 6-person tables worked on all week in the large, large area of the depot.
 

            People in the sewing room were busy attaching handles to school bags and cutting/sewing baby gowns for layette kits.
 

          Another group was emptying moldy cleaning buckets (formerly “flood buckets”) where something had leaked while in storage. They were refilled with items having a more stable shelf life.

I worked on health kits that had been sent from local churches. Many of them, however, failed to follow the directions, OR the directions had been changed since they were packed.

          Our job was to open each kit, check on the correctness of the items, change them out where needed, then repack. The kits were to include a hand towel, washcloth, comb (with at least 6 inches of teeth), either nail file or clippers (no toenail clippers, no emery boards),a bar of soap (except for Ivory and Jergens, which had too much moisture and sometimes melted), a toothbrush, and six regular-sized band-aids. Wrapped tightly in the towel, these items were pushed into a gallon freezer bag, the air squeezed out to a near-vacuum, then sealed and placed in a laundry basket to be taken to the packers by runners.

      The week’s kits--repacked, boxed, taped, labeled and sealed into shrink-wrapped containers added up to 6500—not bad for 30 folks’ work in four days—an average of 216 kits per person. In addition, we became friends with other UMs from western Oklahoma, Plano and Wylie, Texas, and our own colleagues from El Dorado.

                This is my only volunteer activity. But I’ll go as often as I get the chance. I consider raising a grandson to age 25 my long-range and life-long volunteer work.