Beatrix just pushed one button and erased my entire blog post. I feel downcast, especially since I'd paused twice to stand up and help the children with various tasks. Good deeds are not always rewarded. There you have it. Solomon was right all along.
Once, in the dark ages of computers before "Autosave," I was typing an enormous research paper for a college class when the electricity blinked. In one terrible instant my entire paper vanished. All those polished, carefully chosen words--gone. I shook with anger, tears streamed down my face, and I cried the entire time I rewrote the paper. Determined, not broken, but deeply grieved.
Now why would Blogger set things up so that one mislaid finger from a three-year-old whom you've just convinced NOT to sit in your lap so you can read a Richard Scarry book yet again would ruin everything? That's what happens when you're all full of your own rhetoric instead of vacuuming the house before your mother comes to visit.
Well, here's the summary of my last blog post, just the bare bones with no embellishment:
It was hot and humid
It rained
I slept
Martin's in Louisville with thousands of penniless English professionals grading GREs and sampling bourbon
I wish I could sample bourbon
I forget the names of things (such as the Bird Tree and the black and yellow birds)
I think that's it.
O, wow. A beautifully patterned, solitary robin stands calmly on the low porch roof, his black beak in the air. Occasionally he turns his head as if to assess the change in the air after the storm. No feathers ruffle; he is strangely unaffected by the screams of the girls and the rumbling of Bea's ride-on bus as she rattles through the dining room. He looks wise beyond worms or nests, a bird guru. Maybe I'll ask him a question. He will show me the way.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Sweat and Mulch in Your Eyes
Our living room clock permanently reads a quarter to twelve, but I know that it's ten o'clock here at Wazoo Farm, and the night is still and warm. If I could listen over the steady whir of the window fans, I'd hear the sound of rocks clunking and the soft murmur of the radio. Now, the cough of the pick-up's motor--Martin must be packing up for the night.
It's been a terribly hot day, but the garden called us nonetheless. Martin finished his rock wall, and it is beautiful. I planted six rough-leaved verbena and four large yew bushes, which will grow into a lush, brightly-berried hedge between the main garden and the children's garden. As far as evergreens go, the yew is pretty, with finely textured frondy leaves. They've been sitting in our garden ever since we bought them, and I knew the bell tolled tonight as the heat became less intense. The bell tolled for me, because Martin was so wiped out by then that he stopped transplanting trees, stripped down to his boxers, and sat in the kiddie pool with Bea.
The hapless trees Martin began digging up are three ornamental plums, which flower so promisingly in the spring but which we realized would someday grow behemoth and swallow our garden with their glossy purple leaves. I looked up from fighting the earth with the spade to see Martin, entire plum tree shouldered like a fishing pole, striding down the side yard toward our "prettyish bit of wilderness" down at the foot of the hill, where we plant trees that shake our confidence for one reason or the other. (This last paragraph I give to my sister and her husband. Heather and Luke, there are two things here that will please you immensely. What are they?)
Planting in our garden means swearing at the layers of clay, which your shovel hits almost immediately. You must import significantly better soil from elsewhere and then heavily layer newspaper and mulch so roots don't bake like pots in a kiln.
I have almost decimated the load of undyed mulch in the bed of the pick-up truck; now I have to stand at the edge of the bed, shovel in my hands like I'm holding a canoe paddle, and shove the mulch to the end of the bed so I can fill a gargantuan bucket with the utility shovel. Then I carry the load up paths littered with project bits and pieces to my final destination, where I dump it with unbecoming grunts.
Needless to say, it's good exercise. I too joined the girls in the pool today, where I sat as water spread up my shorts, chatting with Merry about our holiday plans this summer and reminiscing of past summers. Elspeth picked us a basket of strawberries and we were very mellow together. And besides the fact that a critter (maybe Grassy Sam the Groundhog?) topped two more tomatoes last night, we're pretty content with garden. Too bad we won't be around to enjoy it; we leave for our sojourns soon. Come by, then, and cut yourself a bouquet of herbs, roses, and yarrow. And the zinnias are up, too.
It's been a terribly hot day, but the garden called us nonetheless. Martin finished his rock wall, and it is beautiful. I planted six rough-leaved verbena and four large yew bushes, which will grow into a lush, brightly-berried hedge between the main garden and the children's garden. As far as evergreens go, the yew is pretty, with finely textured frondy leaves. They've been sitting in our garden ever since we bought them, and I knew the bell tolled tonight as the heat became less intense. The bell tolled for me, because Martin was so wiped out by then that he stopped transplanting trees, stripped down to his boxers, and sat in the kiddie pool with Bea.
The hapless trees Martin began digging up are three ornamental plums, which flower so promisingly in the spring but which we realized would someday grow behemoth and swallow our garden with their glossy purple leaves. I looked up from fighting the earth with the spade to see Martin, entire plum tree shouldered like a fishing pole, striding down the side yard toward our "prettyish bit of wilderness" down at the foot of the hill, where we plant trees that shake our confidence for one reason or the other. (This last paragraph I give to my sister and her husband. Heather and Luke, there are two things here that will please you immensely. What are they?)
Planting in our garden means swearing at the layers of clay, which your shovel hits almost immediately. You must import significantly better soil from elsewhere and then heavily layer newspaper and mulch so roots don't bake like pots in a kiln.
I have almost decimated the load of undyed mulch in the bed of the pick-up truck; now I have to stand at the edge of the bed, shovel in my hands like I'm holding a canoe paddle, and shove the mulch to the end of the bed so I can fill a gargantuan bucket with the utility shovel. Then I carry the load up paths littered with project bits and pieces to my final destination, where I dump it with unbecoming grunts.
Needless to say, it's good exercise. I too joined the girls in the pool today, where I sat as water spread up my shorts, chatting with Merry about our holiday plans this summer and reminiscing of past summers. Elspeth picked us a basket of strawberries and we were very mellow together. And besides the fact that a critter (maybe Grassy Sam the Groundhog?) topped two more tomatoes last night, we're pretty content with garden. Too bad we won't be around to enjoy it; we leave for our sojourns soon. Come by, then, and cut yourself a bouquet of herbs, roses, and yarrow. And the zinnias are up, too.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Spring Harvest
Spring Harvest
photo arranged and captured by Elspeth (subjects picked and eaten by artist)
Merry, after a long afternoon weeding
(I took this one)
Advanced June Cooling System(photo by Elspeth)
Friday, June 3, 2011
Spring Journals
Martin just finished stacking enormous rocks near posts that will become our short, side garden fence. These rocks are HUGE, each one won with sweat and a great deal of grunting last summer when he and my brother-in-law heaved them out of a state forest (they had a permit, of course, likely the only 'rock-picking' permit issued last year).
After a day of newspapering and mulching beds, I was covered with a fine layer of black dust, which I finally and gratefully washed down the drain. Showers must be one of life's finest pleasures. And now I am listening to a maddening fly and trying to build up enough gumption to fit in a little more work tonight--this time on the computer on a story that was just accepted provided I revise a few things. I would have had it done by now if it weren't for the long beautiful sunny days.
Here are a pictures of a few journals I've received this spring with my work printed inside them. The links to the websites are below right under "My Scribblings."
No. Gumption.
After a day of newspapering and mulching beds, I was covered with a fine layer of black dust, which I finally and gratefully washed down the drain. Showers must be one of life's finest pleasures. And now I am listening to a maddening fly and trying to build up enough gumption to fit in a little more work tonight--this time on the computer on a story that was just accepted provided I revise a few things. I would have had it done by now if it weren't for the long beautiful sunny days.
Here are a pictures of a few journals I've received this spring with my work printed inside them. The links to the websites are below right under "My Scribblings."
No. Gumption.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Up the Garden Path
This morning was so cool that we wrapped ourselves in sweaters for tea, but it quickly warmed. In fact it was so lovely that the girls inaugurated a new blow-up pool. I hope the raccoons don't rip this one to shreds. If weeds are the frat boys of the plant world, raccoons are the irresponsible partiers of the animal world. Once I gazed through the dusty window of a handsome historical house downtown; the old pocket doors were punctured, as if a person had been thrown through one, the rooms were in chaos, and all that was once elegant was destroyed. "Football players lived there," Martin muttered in my ear. Not all college football players are destructive, irresponsible maniacs, and maybe not all raccoons are raccoonish, but I have my doubts. Something about their eyes makes me suspicious, as well as the fact that their idea of a really great time is to nose through diapers and rotten meat in our trash. Not ideal weekend guests.
Martin has been incredibly, happily busy on his latest project: creating a brick and stone path leading into our garden. While I have endured the chaos that is our children as he feels each rock with his hands, making lifelong friends before he eases it into place in the puzzle of sand and gravel, I am not bitter. Rather, I am delighted with his progress and his prowess at this art. . .
Above, see the area before the path, in early spring a couple years ago.
First we had to move a garden bed; then the really hard work began. From a heap of clay, which Martin dug out to level, he lined it, lay gravel, then sand, and then finally began painstakingly tapping in each brick, equipped with his handy level. He is a perfectionist. One day I'll show you a "path" I've made, and you can compare.
The proud goof-ball with his path, completed late last night. I'm afraid the lighting this morning was incredibly harsh, but we'll get a better photo soon. I love the steps!
Leveling is no simple job in our part of Pennsylvania. For instance, I meant to take this photo straight, but our garden slopes up, up and away!
Some of my favorite flowers are blooming--roses, so unashamed to be bright and splendid, the intricately patterned heads of yarrow, maybe my all-time favorite.
Yellow yarrow and white yarrow. . .
No, like a jittery Mennonite forced to hold a creed just for a second, I don't want to exclude anything. The hedge of russian sage, reliably flood our front path with tiny blue flowers, is a close second. They're growing strong and will flower soon. And look at our peach tree. We'll have our first peaches this summer!
Alliums. Blue flax. Feverfew. Cosmos. How could I forget zinnias, the swirling skirts of summer? Lavender.
And look how the rose has climbed right over our porch wall. You can climb over the porch wall, too, and take tea. Or be conventional and come through the front gate. Karibou, welcome.
You don't even have to wear a hat.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Hot Days and Poetry
Remember how I waxed eloquent about open windows and breezes and the scent of peonies? Well, folks, that was before the weather turned ballistic on us. August temperatures and as humid as Pennsylvania can be.
I went out last night and when I returned the house felt like an oven, so I finally pulled down the attic stairs and installed all the fans. Usually late May and early June peak in the high 70's. This season, we're peaking in the low 90's. Yes, it's a little warm 'round these hills. I waffle between loving the garden and wishing it were a little bug I could flick off my arm. It would help if it were a bit more in control, less glutted by mid-May rains followed by the scorching temperatures that made the weeds think they were at a frat party. They're having a grand old time.
I kept about a dozen tomatoes alive--brought them back from the brink, no less-by watering, and then this morning I found them all topped by deer. Arg.
Enough of that. Martin's just had some wonderful poetry published at Connotation Press. A few of my all-time favorites appear. . .Photograph, Arizona, 1914 begins:
The well is dry, and the women
who once drew water are stones
silent as those who lived before them
A few months ago, Martin and I were charged by a friend of ours to write poems sparked by the image of a woman at a well. I dove right into the task, writing multiple poems of varying uneveness over a course of weeks. Martin waited until the last minute, sat down and wrote that jewel of a poem, with simple, spare language, rounded images, and startling, haunting lines. . .I almost shiver when I read this poem. Sometimes you get lucky. Martin gets lucky quite a bit; it must have something to do with more than luck.
Then there's "A Day of Mourning." Reading this poem is like hiking through a desert and finding bleached bones laid in the sand in a perfect pattern.
Finally, get your groove on by reading "Proposal." I LOVE this poem--Martin read it some months ago at a local poetry reading and I enjoyed it even more out loud, so read it to yourself, but not silently. Even better, read it to someone you love. The last lines are magnificent:
For these investments we must have a proliferation
of pockets: pockets for money,
for marbles and mice and other small things.
We all must give a little.
Please note the borrowed "mice and other small things," which Martin scooped up from this blog. "Marbles and mice and other small things--" who doesn't want a "proliferation of pockets" for all such lovely things?
Read Martin's poetry by clicking HERE, and visiting CONNOTATION PRESS. If you find some gibberish at the top, just scroll down until you find a hilarious James Bondish photo of Martin, and then enjoy his poems!
I went out last night and when I returned the house felt like an oven, so I finally pulled down the attic stairs and installed all the fans. Usually late May and early June peak in the high 70's. This season, we're peaking in the low 90's. Yes, it's a little warm 'round these hills. I waffle between loving the garden and wishing it were a little bug I could flick off my arm. It would help if it were a bit more in control, less glutted by mid-May rains followed by the scorching temperatures that made the weeds think they were at a frat party. They're having a grand old time.
I kept about a dozen tomatoes alive--brought them back from the brink, no less-by watering, and then this morning I found them all topped by deer. Arg.
Enough of that. Martin's just had some wonderful poetry published at Connotation Press. A few of my all-time favorites appear. . .Photograph, Arizona, 1914 begins:
The well is dry, and the women
who once drew water are stones
silent as those who lived before them
A few months ago, Martin and I were charged by a friend of ours to write poems sparked by the image of a woman at a well. I dove right into the task, writing multiple poems of varying uneveness over a course of weeks. Martin waited until the last minute, sat down and wrote that jewel of a poem, with simple, spare language, rounded images, and startling, haunting lines. . .I almost shiver when I read this poem. Sometimes you get lucky. Martin gets lucky quite a bit; it must have something to do with more than luck.
Then there's "A Day of Mourning." Reading this poem is like hiking through a desert and finding bleached bones laid in the sand in a perfect pattern.
Finally, get your groove on by reading "Proposal." I LOVE this poem--Martin read it some months ago at a local poetry reading and I enjoyed it even more out loud, so read it to yourself, but not silently. Even better, read it to someone you love. The last lines are magnificent:
For these investments we must have a proliferation
of pockets: pockets for money,
for marbles and mice and other small things.
We all must give a little.
Please note the borrowed "mice and other small things," which Martin scooped up from this blog. "Marbles and mice and other small things--" who doesn't want a "proliferation of pockets" for all such lovely things?
Read Martin's poetry by clicking HERE, and visiting CONNOTATION PRESS. If you find some gibberish at the top, just scroll down until you find a hilarious James Bondish photo of Martin, and then enjoy his poems!
Sunday, May 29, 2011
I'm in the garden. . . .
Where have I been? In the garden, drinking mojitos, unloading small mountains of topsoil, planting seeds, handing out popsicles to children, in the garden. . . .well, you get the idea. Gardening weather wreaks havoc on writing, as do the company of good people, cold minty mixed drinks, good food(as at our dear friends' house tonight) and hot days when the LAST thing you want to do is sit inside and stare at a computer screen. Winter is far better for writing.
I must fill you in soon about the small flood in our bathroom as well as the inauspicious preparation for our gig/poetry reading the other night. All to do with inexplicable things children do.
Two things. Sal took this photo of our little preschool graduate. Look at that snaggletoothed beauty. Hopefully she will not be missing any front teeth in any of her future graduations.
And happy birthday, Josiah. Many happy returns, dear one.
I must fill you in soon about the small flood in our bathroom as well as the inauspicious preparation for our gig/poetry reading the other night. All to do with inexplicable things children do.
Two things. Sal took this photo of our little preschool graduate. Look at that snaggletoothed beauty. Hopefully she will not be missing any front teeth in any of her future graduations.
And happy birthday, Josiah. Many happy returns, dear one.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Racquetball and Peonies
Beside me, Martin studies racquetball techniques. I glance over once and a while and catch phrases like "Crotch Serve," "Blast Rule," and dense labyrinthine passages about three-foot lines.
The day was hot as summer but now the ceiling fan is picking up enough cool night air to make me feel like finding a blanket. We have no air-conditioning, and while one week every summer typically makes us feel like crawling on our hands and knees, we prefer our open windows to the blast of cold air. We can hear a distant train, smell the sweetness of the peonies. Oh, those peonies are so sweet--I prefer their delicate, thin smell to lilacs, which are so heady they almost make you blush. Peonies make me think of old women dressed in aprons, opening their arms to grandchildren. I wonder if such a woman planted these same bare roots one autumn, dreaming of these huge ruffled white blooms. Lilacs and peonies both seem like they should always be heirloom plants, and it's magnificent to think of the first people who lived in this house in the early 1900's sitting in this front room, pausing to close their eyes and breathe in the scent of these peonies under the window.
I wonder what they would think of our huge rambling garden in their side lot. Apparently some of the first owners allowed horses to run about and later, when times were rough and food scarce, sheep were allowed to graze on our grass, sheep that would supply the college nearby with food, or milk. . . I'm unclear what they actually provided. Maybe some really warm sweaters.
Martin's watching racquetball now, young guys in baggy athletic shorts furiously slapping a little rubber ball around. I like racquetball, but I prefer a more leisurely game, serves you can actually return while chatting or hooting to your opponent.
Why is the audience booing so vehemently? Never mind. I'm going to shut my computer, shut my eyes, and enjoy the peonies and a cup of tea. Peace.
The day was hot as summer but now the ceiling fan is picking up enough cool night air to make me feel like finding a blanket. We have no air-conditioning, and while one week every summer typically makes us feel like crawling on our hands and knees, we prefer our open windows to the blast of cold air. We can hear a distant train, smell the sweetness of the peonies. Oh, those peonies are so sweet--I prefer their delicate, thin smell to lilacs, which are so heady they almost make you blush. Peonies make me think of old women dressed in aprons, opening their arms to grandchildren. I wonder if such a woman planted these same bare roots one autumn, dreaming of these huge ruffled white blooms. Lilacs and peonies both seem like they should always be heirloom plants, and it's magnificent to think of the first people who lived in this house in the early 1900's sitting in this front room, pausing to close their eyes and breathe in the scent of these peonies under the window.
I wonder what they would think of our huge rambling garden in their side lot. Apparently some of the first owners allowed horses to run about and later, when times were rough and food scarce, sheep were allowed to graze on our grass, sheep that would supply the college nearby with food, or milk. . . I'm unclear what they actually provided. Maybe some really warm sweaters.
Martin's watching racquetball now, young guys in baggy athletic shorts furiously slapping a little rubber ball around. I like racquetball, but I prefer a more leisurely game, serves you can actually return while chatting or hooting to your opponent.
Why is the audience booing so vehemently? Never mind. I'm going to shut my computer, shut my eyes, and enjoy the peonies and a cup of tea. Peace.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Owl Creek Farm
A big thank you to Eric Coffman, who took these lovely photos.
This past weekend, we considered standing on a hill top waiting for the heavens to part like curtains. We thought about waiting for the fire to pour from the sky. But we opted to spend two beautiful days at Owl Creek Farm instead.
Elspeth spent her entire weekend at the pond, perched at the end of the pier, where she caught a whole slimy pile of gorgeous salamanders. At the most, she said two words to me all weekend. Martin and I hollered out our tent mesh to make sure the two older girls were in their sleeping bags in the other tent; we spent an interminable night with Bea, who had a rocky transition to tent-sleeping, to say the least. As Martin said, it was like trying to share a tent with a bobcat. At another low point, I heard him mutter, LEGION! That might have been one of the times when she was flinging herself at the tent walls, clawing at her stomach and howling. No, I am not joking. The other twenty-two campers in the hay field would testify that I am telling the truth.
The next morning, she popped out of her sleeping bag, pointed at the mesh roof of the tent, and announced, "It's morning time! Look! The sun!" And she was perky and happy to be riding on the farm golf cart with Torin and the other kids.
We walked to an enchanting little waterfall and drank tea on the porch of our hostess' historical cabin. After the endless rain, the days shimmered.
And today, home again, I finally tackled the garden with a will. When I close my eyes, weeds and gnarled grass dance on the backs of my eyelids. Welcome, sun.
This past weekend, we considered standing on a hill top waiting for the heavens to part like curtains. We thought about waiting for the fire to pour from the sky. But we opted to spend two beautiful days at Owl Creek Farm instead.
Elspeth spent her entire weekend at the pond, perched at the end of the pier, where she caught a whole slimy pile of gorgeous salamanders. At the most, she said two words to me all weekend. Martin and I hollered out our tent mesh to make sure the two older girls were in their sleeping bags in the other tent; we spent an interminable night with Bea, who had a rocky transition to tent-sleeping, to say the least. As Martin said, it was like trying to share a tent with a bobcat. At another low point, I heard him mutter, LEGION! That might have been one of the times when she was flinging herself at the tent walls, clawing at her stomach and howling. No, I am not joking. The other twenty-two campers in the hay field would testify that I am telling the truth.
The next morning, she popped out of her sleeping bag, pointed at the mesh roof of the tent, and announced, "It's morning time! Look! The sun!" And she was perky and happy to be riding on the farm golf cart with Torin and the other kids.
We walked to an enchanting little waterfall and drank tea on the porch of our hostess' historical cabin. After the endless rain, the days shimmered.
And today, home again, I finally tackled the garden with a will. When I close my eyes, weeds and gnarled grass dance on the backs of my eyelids. Welcome, sun.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Today I pulled out a thick manila envelope with two copies of Louisville Review's latest issue. And my poem "Juniper Tree" was inside! I'll include a link once the site is updated.
Check out the seven boys (one is taking the photo), out at a Pittsburgh Pirates game. Around five, they stood in our driveway, chatting like college freshmen with their bright faces and excitement quivering in every muscle. Finally I said, "Go!" and they piled into the silver minivan, limbs hunched and folded up next to each other, and grinned.
The available mothers stayed behind, drank mixed drinks of questionable quality (I hate to follow a recipe), ate pizza and chocolate, and watched the children spread out over Wazoo Farm during the first clear, sunny evening in a cow's year. Foam noodle fights and all kinds of mischief occurred, including some that landed Bea in the kitchen sink for a bath and Elspeth in bed.
And Merry carried out her electoral process, in which Lily was announced president by vote, with Asher as vice-president until Lily moves, when Asher will assume the presidency. It was all very civilized; the children sat cross-legged in a ring on the lawn by the blue shed and listened to campaign speeches and then marked their ballots. I wondered at the possibility of a coup, but Merry had everything well under control.
And now I must go tackle the downstairs before sitting on the couch, watching junk TV, and folding laundry. It's a glamorous life but someone has to live it. . . .I've barely had time to think about my short story, "Empress Chicken" lately, but then again, perhaps that's a good thing, since I think I may have killed it. It may be dead, and you know what they say about dead things over time: they begin to STINK.
Check out the seven boys (one is taking the photo), out at a Pittsburgh Pirates game. Around five, they stood in our driveway, chatting like college freshmen with their bright faces and excitement quivering in every muscle. Finally I said, "Go!" and they piled into the silver minivan, limbs hunched and folded up next to each other, and grinned.
The available mothers stayed behind, drank mixed drinks of questionable quality (I hate to follow a recipe), ate pizza and chocolate, and watched the children spread out over Wazoo Farm during the first clear, sunny evening in a cow's year. Foam noodle fights and all kinds of mischief occurred, including some that landed Bea in the kitchen sink for a bath and Elspeth in bed.
And Merry carried out her electoral process, in which Lily was announced president by vote, with Asher as vice-president until Lily moves, when Asher will assume the presidency. It was all very civilized; the children sat cross-legged in a ring on the lawn by the blue shed and listened to campaign speeches and then marked their ballots. I wondered at the possibility of a coup, but Merry had everything well under control.
And now I must go tackle the downstairs before sitting on the couch, watching junk TV, and folding laundry. It's a glamorous life but someone has to live it. . . .I've barely had time to think about my short story, "Empress Chicken" lately, but then again, perhaps that's a good thing, since I think I may have killed it. It may be dead, and you know what they say about dead things over time: they begin to STINK.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Hail, Heather!
Well, Heather my sister,
Remember, in Bangladesh (and then in the half-dozen other places we grew up), when the sky would begin to darken, and you'd say, with your eyes half-full of hope and half-full of a wild light, "I think it's going to hail!"
Well, I wish you would have been here, sister mine, for I just witnessed the most impressive hail storm known to my own memory. Of course, the one in Bangladesh would have been even more dramatic with its tennis size balls, but I can't remember it well, if at all. I'm sitting in the sunroom, looking out on the garden, which seems to be covered in snow--but it's not. Thunder still rumbles across the hills and lightning stitches the white sky, though the storm seems to be retreating.
I was out in the garden for the first time in a while (we've had days upon days of rain and it's all mud and too wet to fool with the soil, though it's a good time to weed), and I was enjoying some quiet time whipping a bed into shape. I didn't even mind being scratched by a rose bramble, nor the fact that my shoes were deep in mud. . .
Ah! Did I say the storm was retreating? I think that was the eye, the calm before the next onslaught. Thunder just crashed so near and loudly I can feel it reverberating in my chest.
Anyway--I sensed the sky was darkening, and I heard low grumbles, but I was so engrossed I just ignored it until rain started to fall, and by the time I was settled on the porch, the drops were so huge I began to wonder if they were actually rain or not.
Inside, Bea and her friend, E, were still fast asleep, and they slept through the racket of grape-sized ice hitting the metal roof of the sunroom and ricocheting off the windowsills. Our table outside was covered in piles of ice balls; it swept down the driveway among all our mud and debris. I so wish you had been here to sit down and have tea with while we watched it all. It was such a good show.
Can you spy the yellow cat? She scrambled like a crazy thing until she finally reached the calm of the old truck's underside, where she slunk until the storm was over.
Can you see her hind legs and tail? She may be there, still. . . .
Flooding downtown; ankle-deep water; the creek is about to foam over its banks. Glad to live on a hill!
Wish you were here,
Kimby
Remember, in Bangladesh (and then in the half-dozen other places we grew up), when the sky would begin to darken, and you'd say, with your eyes half-full of hope and half-full of a wild light, "I think it's going to hail!"
Well, I wish you would have been here, sister mine, for I just witnessed the most impressive hail storm known to my own memory. Of course, the one in Bangladesh would have been even more dramatic with its tennis size balls, but I can't remember it well, if at all. I'm sitting in the sunroom, looking out on the garden, which seems to be covered in snow--but it's not. Thunder still rumbles across the hills and lightning stitches the white sky, though the storm seems to be retreating.
I was out in the garden for the first time in a while (we've had days upon days of rain and it's all mud and too wet to fool with the soil, though it's a good time to weed), and I was enjoying some quiet time whipping a bed into shape. I didn't even mind being scratched by a rose bramble, nor the fact that my shoes were deep in mud. . .
Ah! Did I say the storm was retreating? I think that was the eye, the calm before the next onslaught. Thunder just crashed so near and loudly I can feel it reverberating in my chest.
Anyway--I sensed the sky was darkening, and I heard low grumbles, but I was so engrossed I just ignored it until rain started to fall, and by the time I was settled on the porch, the drops were so huge I began to wonder if they were actually rain or not.
Inside, Bea and her friend, E, were still fast asleep, and they slept through the racket of grape-sized ice hitting the metal roof of the sunroom and ricocheting off the windowsills. Our table outside was covered in piles of ice balls; it swept down the driveway among all our mud and debris. I so wish you had been here to sit down and have tea with while we watched it all. It was such a good show.
Can you spy the yellow cat? She scrambled like a crazy thing until she finally reached the calm of the old truck's underside, where she slunk until the storm was over.
Can you see her hind legs and tail? She may be there, still. . . .
Flooding downtown; ankle-deep water; the creek is about to foam over its banks. Glad to live on a hill!
Wish you were here,
Kimby
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Concerned Citizen, Age 9
Merry, our oldest, became distraught when she heard about the governor's budget cuts to education. They are distressing--the budget was cut by 50% and the money was reallocated to prisons and to huge incentives for corporations--many of which, by the way, are bleeding our counties dry of their natural resources and not paying any taxes. There's talk of laying off teachers, closing schools, cutting kindergarten, increasing class sizes, slashing benefits like free lunches for kids. Pennsylvania's future, especially for the large percentage of children from less privileged backgrounds, looks bleaker.
We hadn't talked to Merry about the budget cuts, but she found out about them at school and during the week that followed, she became more and more convicted that she should do something. So she wrote this letter, without any help from us. I helped her correct spelling and punctuation errors, and she wrote a final draft, sealed and addressed the envelope, and sent it to our governor. (To read the letter, click on the photo to make it a bit easier on the eyes).
"Do you think he'll read it?" she asked.
"I hope so."
"Well, he should," she said staunchly. Merry, I think he should, too.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Sunday Night Musing
After a day accomplishing many things, it was wonderful to rest my chin in my hands in the silence that settles over the house when all three girls are in bed. I'd just left Merry and Elspeth in clean sheets, their noses in books and lamplight flooding their freshly showered faces. Bea had shown me her last trick for the evening ("I do it for the Show," she promises me every night, arching her back). Martin was outside mowing in the last of the daylight, and I hunched over my desk at the second floor window and studied the garden. Sky blue spires of lupines rose next to glowing dark plum trees; spiky purple alliums popped by the budding tea roses. How long will it take until our pears and apples bear? How big will the oak and maple trees grow, and what will they hide with their dense leaves? When they are so huge I can barely remember when I planted them, where will Elspeth, Bea and Merry be? Far away, I'll warrant, if their independence is any indication. And good adventures I wish to them, too!
Take courage, heart: the weeds will always be with us. Did I mention the weeds? So many, many weeds, growing in profusion after endless rain.
Still, I'll not be twisted over some crab grass; soon I'll be out there armed with piles of newspaper and shovels full of mulch.
And now I've got to beat Martin to the shower.
Take courage, heart: the weeds will always be with us. Did I mention the weeds? So many, many weeds, growing in profusion after endless rain.
Still, I'll not be twisted over some crab grass; soon I'll be out there armed with piles of newspaper and shovels full of mulch.
And now I've got to beat Martin to the shower.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Take Me Out [to my own couch] to the Ballgame[s]
If you sat in the brown chair near to me here in the living room, you'd hear the clock ticking. In the far distance, the faint, ever-present whine of the coal mine. The sound of car wheels on a wet street. But no baseball.
Baseball has created a new white noise in our house every night for the past month. Martin discovered he could order the entire MLB season on our Roku, and this translates to more games than one person could possibly watch. Baseball players never take a night off, apparently. Every night Martin tucks the girls in and then almost falls over his feet on his way to the TV, where he flips on yet another Astros game. Ah, the sound of the crowd; the sonorous voices of the announcers; the applause when Pence Whathisname makes yet another fabulous base hit.
I am being a good friend to Martin, and I have watched quite a few hours of baseball at his side, even though I have no natural interest in the sport or in any sport. I've eased into the rhythm of the pitchers, hitters, RBIs, the catcher signalling pitches into his crotch with two or three fingers. There is a certain narrative quality to the sport, and this I respect and even enjoy. But let me ask you all a question. Why is it that baseball players feel feel compelled even to engage in socially unacceptable behaviors? I'm not referring to the occasional yelling between coaches and referees on the mound. I'm talking about the endless clothing adjustments (particularly to one sensitive area), and the eternal spitting. Who needs to spit that much? In what world is scattering the hulls to sunflower seeds along with your own saliva okay? And as for the scratching, the pulling, the shaking of the crotch, why? I started to wonder, do the uniforms just not fit anyone? Are they made badly on purpose? Or is it all just part of the glorious baseball tradition?
I have a favorite player, though I can't remember his name. Hold on, let me ask Martin. Brett Wallace. I like his face and his boyish eyes; he always looks like he's trying to be serious as befits the occasion.
Baseball is back on. Martin was out with our friend Kevin, checking out some flooding in our county. They didn't get very far because an emergency vehicle that was blocking a flooded road. Martin reported briefly that the roads were deserted and the fog made the countryside eerie, and then he returned to baseball.
It's like we have a house guest who will never leave. And Baseball season is not particularly brief. It ends (wait for it) in EARLY OCTOBER!
And then comes the playoffs. Good times. There's a lot more crotch grabbing in our future. Guess what? David Wright just hit a homer. The Mets are ahead, 5-4. We're on the edge of our seats. Ooo, my man Brett Wallace is up to bat. (According to the announcer, Wallace's legs are like tree trunks). He swings. . .gotta go.
Baseball has created a new white noise in our house every night for the past month. Martin discovered he could order the entire MLB season on our Roku, and this translates to more games than one person could possibly watch. Baseball players never take a night off, apparently. Every night Martin tucks the girls in and then almost falls over his feet on his way to the TV, where he flips on yet another Astros game. Ah, the sound of the crowd; the sonorous voices of the announcers; the applause when Pence Whathisname makes yet another fabulous base hit.
I am being a good friend to Martin, and I have watched quite a few hours of baseball at his side, even though I have no natural interest in the sport or in any sport. I've eased into the rhythm of the pitchers, hitters, RBIs, the catcher signalling pitches into his crotch with two or three fingers. There is a certain narrative quality to the sport, and this I respect and even enjoy. But let me ask you all a question. Why is it that baseball players feel feel compelled even to engage in socially unacceptable behaviors? I'm not referring to the occasional yelling between coaches and referees on the mound. I'm talking about the endless clothing adjustments (particularly to one sensitive area), and the eternal spitting. Who needs to spit that much? In what world is scattering the hulls to sunflower seeds along with your own saliva okay? And as for the scratching, the pulling, the shaking of the crotch, why? I started to wonder, do the uniforms just not fit anyone? Are they made badly on purpose? Or is it all just part of the glorious baseball tradition?
I have a favorite player, though I can't remember his name. Hold on, let me ask Martin. Brett Wallace. I like his face and his boyish eyes; he always looks like he's trying to be serious as befits the occasion.
Baseball is back on. Martin was out with our friend Kevin, checking out some flooding in our county. They didn't get very far because an emergency vehicle that was blocking a flooded road. Martin reported briefly that the roads were deserted and the fog made the countryside eerie, and then he returned to baseball.
It's like we have a house guest who will never leave. And Baseball season is not particularly brief. It ends (wait for it) in EARLY OCTOBER!
And then comes the playoffs. Good times. There's a lot more crotch grabbing in our future. Guess what? David Wright just hit a homer. The Mets are ahead, 5-4. We're on the edge of our seats. Ooo, my man Brett Wallace is up to bat. (According to the announcer, Wallace's legs are like tree trunks). He swings. . .gotta go.
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