People of the Year

Hobbs & Sachtschale

I'll spare you a treatise on Time's Person of the Year and tell you instead whom I would like to have seen on the cover: my young friend, Eva. She's 16 and represents to me the spirit of perseverance, creativity, and honesty that make me glad she is on the planet. It's people like Eva who will be the fixers of the world us elders have handed down in a shabby state. She had a sudden, tremendous loss this year and I so loved what she wrote on her Facebook that I asked permission to post it.

"About Me:

I lost my dad over the summer, he died on a hike with my brother, he just got dehydrated. Dying should never be so simple, so quick. Not now. Not my father, my role model, he cannot die while I am but 16. My mom devastated, my little sister still cries herself to sleep, and my older brother who was there to see him die, is stone. It confuses me so why he remains so unemotional, is he scared by what he's seen, by trying to save his father for hours on end without water or a phone in the mountains? I do not know. But how can my father, my ONLY father, leave in a blink. He had climbed the enormous Half Dome mountain and come out smiling. And yet no matter how hard I think it through, how much I want not to believe it to be true, he died on a day hike climbing Mt. Diablo. Mt. Devil as I see it now, the monster whose dryness, and dirt took my father from me. I am strong. I am 16, I am lost, I am old, I am wise, I am withering. Not the typical things you'd find on a facebook page..."

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I would also like to mention some young people my daughter is acquainted with. She does the website at UNC's Physical Rehab. http://www.med.unc.edu/phyrehab/local-global-outreach/rehab-reader/spinal-cord-injury-sci-rehabilitation-reader-2009

The stories will inspire you. I was struck by one man's thoughts after she interviewed him, "What's the point of being negative? How does that help me?" It reminds me of an Emily Dickinson poem:

"Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune--without the words,

And never stops at all,

An sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me."

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....may the blessings of a new year of healing, joy, and cosmic encounters be yours...

Jubilate

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CANTATA

The angel choir at Yosemite

is different from what you might think.

Oh yes--it's there all right

scattered about

a small band at the bridge over Happy Isles

a chorale-sized group near Tioga Pass

a handful of soloists circling El Capitan.

Because of the hidden garden quality of this place

and because the Yosemite were such a

welcoming tribe, the angels assumed

certain of those pagan ways

(good angels can be tolerant, after all,

without contamination; fallen angels, weak,

have left Yosemite as there was too much

backbone to its beauty).

Their wings are not the mighty

unadorned style we've come to know.

These come greatly feathered and decorated

with carved bells,

mica glittery beads, slender dried vine ribbons,

bright cranberry-dyed woven ringlets,

and miniature pine garlands.

Their glory is so rare and charming, as

astonishing as a secret robin's egg

on the valley floor.

Tonight, I strain to hear

the scented wind of Yosemite,

the jubilant, innocent vibrato

of wing-blown angel's hum

shaping the sacred notes,

rehearsing the refrain,

"Venite. Adore."

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...may beauty and peace follow you this day...

"When the Snow Lay Round About"

...The images above feature Christmas in Roanoke, Eureka, at Jan Hus Church, and Fisherman's Wharf...

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Emily Dickinson wrote a poem which begins, "This is my letter to the world." I echo it by saying, "This is my Christmas card posted to the web" from the Shire, where the creek announces to the sparrows that Christmas is coming soon and they sing their carols in return. The starlight trims the skies and the silence is broken only by small creatures (advent)uring in the woods. Yes, I have caught them decorating, too! I am enclosing an old poem but new to most.

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I sit with Christmas on my lap,

my tiny gift encircled by

bits of pine and ribbon,

shy angels ever making music

on sea-blue paper;

hopefully it holds the scents

of a cheery morning,

the memory of snowy childhood years

read about in books darkly illustrated,

the sounds of tunes quietly harmonious.

I muse on how to wrap

the wishes which it brings--

how to stow away

a thousand splendid moments

of surprise and joy

that I should like to place in it,

which when opened would burst

like time-studied flowers

into an exquisite bouquet.

Go, my little messenger,

my packet of good thoughts,

spread dreams of hope and peace

and Merry Christmasses to come.

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...may the wonder of these winter nights keep you warm...

Destinations on the Happiness Road

photo courtesy of Jessica Osborne Stafsnes

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Rosamund calls New York City a "vibrant city." She should know about cities. I've seen her mention London, Vienna, Paris, and San Francisco. What strikes me about New York City is the quiet places, the unexpected suddenly-come-upon tranquil spaces: a meditation pool inside the Frick Collection; the necklace of gardens on Roosevelt Island; the Shakespeare quotations in Central Park; a street of cottages at City Island; the bench at the Statue of Liberty. Perhaps the contrast is part of the vibrancy. If it were all noise, there would be sensory overload. Even the Ring Cycle needs an intermission. This posting is short as tomorrow I will be boarding the Carolinian, Train #80. My next post might be about the newest special contemplative spot I have discovered. Or it might be about the difference in lodgings between the Shire and the Treehouse. It might very well be about Ivan Ivanovich, the hurricane cat. Who knows where the roads goes? For certain, it always goes ahead.

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...may the blessings of the Irish greeting about the road rising up to meet you and God keeping you in the palm of His hand be yours...

May I Quote You?

My mother gave the impression of being a friendly, chatty person but actually she was quite shy and if one analyzed her conversation, it came down to a stringing of quotes which were timely and as decorative as popcorn strung on a garland. She read as fast as a passenger pigeon homing. She didn't write down her sayings or quotes. She had a phenomenal memory for long narrative poems and short rhyming stunners. And she used them. If I wanted desperately to have a dress ordered from the Montgomery Ward catalog, she was quick to say, "Consider the lilies of the field." If I pined for true love someday, she'd pull out the story of Barb'ry Allen. If I procrastinated on practicing, she would intone, "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air." There were quotation books in our house but my favorite was a large brown paper homemade looking collection called Elbert Hubbard's Scrap Book (1923). I've seen quotes in magazines and as introductions to stories but I've never come across any quite like Elbert's. My research into his life has shown me that, what's more,
there wasn't anyone quite like Elbert so it's no wonder! Coincidentally, a documentary about him is being released this month. I still have not made it all the way through the book, the reason being that each time I have returned to it, I am awash in memories of my family--my dad who liked Tennyson, my mother with her quantity of cautionary sayings, and my brother eloquently reciting, Spartacus to the Gladiators. I don't have my mother's memory. I usually quote people I've overheard on the bus or friends. I only remember these gems of wisdom if I take out my pen and jot them down. What I am going to quote today, though, is the inscription my dad wrote to my mother when he gave her E.H's book:

"To my sweetheart and wife;
With the hope that these gentle
Words and kindly verses may be
The inspiration to her that she
Has been to me~~

Your eyes--and a thousand stars
Leap from the heavens to aid me;
I scale the impossible bars;
I mock at a world that dismayed me.

Your voice--and the thundering skies
Tremble, and cease to appall me;
Coward no longer I rise,
Spurred for what battles may call me.

Your arms,--and my purpose grows strong;
Your lips,--and high passions complete me.
For your love; it is armor and song,
And where is the thing to defeat me?
May 18, 1928"
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The blessing this week comes courtesy of George Page:

..."My cheer is with you!"...

Goblins and Ghosties and Hallow to You

I don't get into the politics of Halloween. Yes, I know the origins of Jack o'Lanterns and the sinister side of witchcraft but my pumpkins are allowed dentures during the day and my witches carry buckets of silvery stars to cast as blessing spells, or brooms to sweep away bad dreams.

I only draw happy. AT OUR HOUSE-1979

They come by close sets of five or six,

never too many at once.

It can be counted upon that

there will be a rock star,

a hula dancer, a clown,

an ever-young princess.

In the past, it has often rained here

on this special night.

Generally, though, the weather

joins the masquerade:

fog patches tease and enhance,

swirl and lie low.

The cries of, "Trick or treat!"

echo down the dark back alleys,

echo down to the boundary road.

My little ones grow;

their imaginations flourish.

They refine their old favorites:

the Straw Man and the Wicked Witch.

I send them off with goodbyes of,

"Happy haunting!"

and listen for the echoes

down the streets,

the clear crisp replies,

"Trick or treat!"

magically, ever-fair,

down the lanes, down the years.

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....may the blessings of feathery masks and bumpy gourds be yours...

Ticking Along

1974. I met Julia Miller in a Southern California writing class at a place called Everywoman's Village. It was in the forefront of the women's movement. I was not and that's probably why I liked Julia. I took three buses from Manhattan Beach to the San Fernando Valley wending my way once a week, reading War and Peace. I wore a blue flowered hat to shade my freckles. The bus driver on the last part of the trek nicknamed me Little Blue Riding Hood. Julia was a backup singer on the Mac Davis show and had a quality of beauty I didn't see in most of the feminists who were continually ragging me to get "fulfilled." Julia had an old-fashioned modesty. She was beautiful in so many ways. We became friends quickly and corresponded for several years after the class was done. Her father wrote music scores for movies but I don't remember now which ones. One summer, she sent two clocks manufactured by her husband. She told me to pick one and send the other back as she didn't know which I would prefer. One clock was simply a round mirror with the numbers 1 2 3 and then the word, "etc." The other was a square framed in wood, very solid looking which reminded me of a carpenter's holiday with the same number pattern and the word, "etc." I immediately named the round mirror Donna and the square, Daniel. I name everything. I noticed that Donna ran slower than Daniel. I wrote to Julia and said I was having a difficult time deciding but at the moment Donna was across the room from Daniel and seemed to be trying to catch up to him, like Evangeline and Gabriel in the tragic Longfellow poem. Julia replied that I could adjust Donna's pace on the back of the clock but she suspected I wouldn't. She said, "Keep them both! I can't bear to separate Donna and Daniel!!" Everywhere I have moved since, the two clocks have been across the room from each other. I haven't been able to give them away because I, too, can't bear to separate them. They are a symbol of faithfulness and longing, of endurance and dedication. Plucky clocks. I know Julia would be pleased that they accompanied me in my travels and many, many people have heard their story. I'm certain that thirty years after the gift, Julia is still the delightful old-fashioned songstress she was on the day I met her. When I set the clocks to "fall back," I'll be sure to set Donna a little behind Daniel and thank Julia all over again for these stalwart companions.
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...may the blessings of very special gifts be yours....

The King of Postcards

My first memory of my older brother is of his standing in the corner facing the wall. What a fascinating hobby!--because it did seem to be a hobby. I'm told that when I learned to walk, I was often seen attempting to squeeze in to stand next to him. I kept trying to figure out what he saw there. Later, I discovered this was a punishment for drawing on the walls. I was profoundly intrigued by the fact that he didn't appear to learn his lesson. He still hasn't! as you can see on his voidvisions blog. Ultimately, I was the great beneficiary to having stood by him: postcards. I have circa 200 postcards in my collection. I found one without a drawing but the lettering of the 3 word message and address were the best of letter drawing, of course; the stamps, the tops in art. Another gift was that my brother became my advocate at times during which I stubbornly refused to listen to others. My mother would say to him, "Reason with her!" This worked for I knew He Who Stands in the Corner also was He Who Knows His Sister's Heart.

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...May the blessings of kinship find you and welcome you home...

Older Than Columbus

My dad was born on the day before Columbus Day so the running joke in the family was that he was older than Columbus. Year after year, "The Daddy," an Irish term, was delighted to know how old and sage he was. After he passed away in 1985, I wrote an annual memorial poem. In this one I have included a quote in respect to his mother who was of Apache descent.

IN LOVING MEMORY

"Do not stand at my grave and weep.

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;

I am the diamond glint on snow."

--Chief Seattle

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Was that you I just heard in the veery's call?

"Patchy frost,"he predicted.

"Circle Columbus Day!"

I listen for you these evenings

near this veery's thicket.

Giddily, he is busy in the piney grove

reminding me of your clattering newsroom,

something politic is always

hot off the presses.

His co-workers gather their copy

the length of the woods and back before

Pegasus touches light, square hooves

to the trail of the night sky.

Do you ever tire of their amazement?

Did you? I remember your joy

at a sketch from the Far Flung Correspondent,

the urgency of your passionate editorials,

and your last words:

"You never know when you're going to

learn something new."

I go into the woods in the twilight chill

to catch the latest,

to return the call.

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...may the blessings of remembering the ancient ways be yours...

Cabin Fever

I have adored cabins ever since as a youngster, I cut out a photo from a magazine of a rustic cabin in the Adirondacks with snowshoes hung on the porch. Adirondacks! Such a beautiful word! and snow was something seen only on the distant peak of Mt. Huila. In 1984, a trip through the High County of North Carolina led to a For Rent sign: "FOR RENT: cabin." There was an arrow pointing up a gravel road with the impressive name of Highway 1111. A small wooden bridge was like a border guard, only the appreciative allowed. I knew when I saw it that this place had a story. It turned out to be perfect for me. The owner said it had once been a post office in Tennessee and some folks dismantled it to bring over the mountains to Vilas, North Carolina, home to Frasier fir tree farms. However, it had been a two storey structure and the Some Folks hadn't brought a blueprint. Consequently, it was now a one storey. When I walked in I could feel the energy of pioneer letters, lovelorn letters, happy news letters, and sympathy cards. I knew "snowed in" was a real possibility. There was a 3x5 growing space which you can see from the photo was good enough for me. During the winter, my tabletop pines and hemlocks could be seen by visitors passing far below on the main road, 105. People coming to ski, to attend madrigal dinners, Appalachian alums of various fields, would have the greeting of the cabin to welcome them. Letters have been such a big part of my life. First there were Uncle Henry's and Aunt Stella's. Then letters put on the Friday mailboat from Liberia; college campus notes with no stamps required; ultimately, the same day delivery @earthlink.net. Here is Uncle Henry, my dad's little brother, quoting a poem of my Aunt Stella's, my mom's big sister shortly before he passed away.

ROME

The streets sink drowned in shadows

Night claims all

Save one sun-drenched spot

One weathered wall.

Where last the sunlight gleams

Like burnished gold

In simple lines the passer-by

Is told,

The young English poet, John Keats

Died here,

And nothing more is written

Save the year.

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The first poem I wrote at the cabin was enclosed in a letter, "Chance of Snow." To me, cabin fever does not mean stir crazy from staying in too long but instead, the delirium at the opportunity to nest with stationery and pen, paints and, these days, restickable glue stick.

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...may the blessings of autumn pumpkins and nostalgia trips be yours...

At the Head of the Table

The best introduction to my dad is to use his own words. This is a sample from the Spring 1971 issue of the family newsletter he called, "Lost Causes."

SHOPPING WITH ERIK

A motor car is not a thing

That should be purchased lightly,

We do no buy one every day

Or even every nightly.

So when I go to buy a car,

I take along my grandson.

He spots a lemon every time

And will not let my buy one.

My grandson Erik ( he is receiving private tutoring in preparation for entering pre-nursery school) know cars. He himself has a Volkswagen, with psychedelic flowers on both sides, and he is very glib when reciting its statistics. The chassis length, he will tell you, is five inches, and he will add enthusiastically, "It has a man in it." The man inside is to run the car with assistance from Erik, who winds the motor. If the car does not go fast enough, Erik knows what to do He picks it up and throws it preferably at his older sister. With so much first-hand knowledge about the durability of cars (there are few things harder on a car than being thrown at a sister) Erik is the ideal counselor to take along when shopping for a new one. So when I decided to replace my four-year-old Valiant, I invited him along. Before I had finished the invitation, he was in the driveway waiting for me, attired hastily in his fancy pants and red sweater, but no shoes. If Erik had been born ten years ago he would have been the original flower child. Now he is just another member of the cop-out generation, a member who has, however, a base hankering for the finer thing of life, and who along with his unshorn hair, his unshod feet, and his scorn of material things, takes a morbid interest in Disneyland, MacDonald's, and breakfast at the Pancake House. My inspiration to take Erik automobile shopping came when I decided that something had to be done to get us out of the house. I had been seated on the sofa having my first cup of coffee when suddenly, as I was lifting the cup, a cloth puppy flew towards me and hit the cup in mid-air. Coffee spilled everywhere. Erik, it seems, knows how to throw cloth puppies as well as Volkswagens. While I was sopping up the mess from the sofa, Erik's mother was taking care of the disciplining. She had Erik in her arms and was kissing him over and over, telling him how much she loved him. It's the new child training: give the child plenty of love. It is probably an indication of something to say that Erik is undoubtedly the most loved child in southern California, as well as the most accurate with a cloth puppy from six feet. So Erik and I began looking at cars. In theory, he favored the BMW, with the Audi a close second. In practice it went something like this. With the whole day before us we sauntered into the showroom of every dealer along automobile row, getting the salesman's latest jazz on braking power, luggage capacity and centimeters of torque. In every showroom I dutifully followed the salesman's suggestion to get into the car, twist my spine to conform to the convolutions of the driver's seat, and test the ease with which I could reach the cigarette lighter. (I quit smoking in 1953 when the price of cigarettes soared to 15 cents a pack.) Then I would insist that Erik try out the car, giving me an unbiased opinion, His diagnostic procedure and his opinion were invariable. He would get into the driver's seat, twist the steering wheel, and, forgetting his preference for the BMW and Audi he would exclaim, "Let's take this one!" The lesson to be gleaned from all this is elementary: if one wishes to spend an incredibly enjoyable morning shopping for a new car, take along Erik. If one wishes to do some serious comparison shopping, induce Erik to stay home by telling him he has to wear shoes. I finally decided to end our pleasant morning when Erik, after testing the horn of a bright red Duster (successor to the Valiant--only the name and price have changed), said, "Let's take this one!" I had been making some hasty calculations on my mental slide rule and had decided that by using my charge card I could just about afford the repairs that would enable me to run my old Valiant another year. It was no problem to get Erik headed home. I invited him to the Pancake House where he ordered a child's half plate of pancakes and eggs. I ordered the same, worried only that it would be too much for me. It was; but I need not have worried. Erik ate all of his and was glad to share mine. Allowed that much of a handicap, I was able to break even with him. We returned home and parked in the driveway, Erik looking a bit glum. We had bought no bright-red Audi, not even a BMW in conservative shades of primrose and pale crimson. We still had our Valiant, with no twin-barrel carburetor, no torque, no rally stripe; just a four-year-old clunker that hardly does two hundred miles between periodic major overhauls. As I eased out of the driver's set I invited Erik to slide over under the steering wheel. He did. He sat immobile for about two second, then instinct took over. He twisted the wheel a couple of times and hit the horn a vigorous blast. He blasted it again, and he was sold. "Let's" he said enthusiastically, "keep this one."

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...may the blessings of cheerful helpers and concerned advisors be yours...

Of Stamps and Uncles and Poems, Oh Yes!

I have an unusual stamp collection. No, it's not all neatly set out in albums. It comes on postcards and letters starting when I was very young and my Uncle Henry, who worked on a railroad mail run, took it upon himself to send letters and postcards overseas. I didn't start answering those letters for decades. I don't know why he kept up his end of the bargain because it seemed he was "talking to a wall." My dad must have mentioned how much they meant to me. Uncle Henry decorated his messages with National Wildlife Federation stickers which I thought were the world's best art next to Arthur Rackham. One year, my dad sent for a set of Metropolitan Opera "stamps" I could paste in a scrapbook. That was the extent of my stamp collection. I never finished that project. It wasn't the same as receiving a stamp on a letter. However, I was hooked from the very first encounter of an Uncle Henry stamp and was delighted when he sent a packet of foreign stamps of birds. In the 1960's, he bought a farmhouse he named, "Cardinal Hollow." The National Wildlife Federation sent him a plaque for being a devoted "back yard" naturalist. In a letter:" WOULD YOU BELIEVE IT--I PLANTED OVER 2000 SHRUBS AND TREES ON THE 60 ACRES AT THE HOLLOW WITH THE AID OF AN INDIAN HELPER. I ALSO BOUGHT A TELESCOPE AND BECAME A WATCHER OF THE SKIES, PURCHASED A PAIR OF BINOCULARS AND BECAME A FAIR TO MIDDLING ORNITHOLOGIST FOR A COUNTRY BOY. MY IMMORTALITY WILL BE BACK THERE WHERE I MOSTLY PLANTED VARIETIES THAT WOULD REPRODUCE THEMSELVES FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS AND WHERE MY UNKNOWN, UNSEEN EPITAPH WILL LIE AT THE BASE OF A MIGHTY OAK." I was in my twenties when I began the dedication to commemoratives. I would buy a small batch and put them on my Christmas cards. Somehow, I thought the stamp and the enclosed poem was as Christmassy as I wanted to be. I wasn't a Santa person. Christmas was indeed about joy but a reverent, exhilarating inward kind of joy, a stately three kings kind of joy. I thought gifts should be only for children. After exploring on my first computer and discovering Photostamp.com, I felt I had found my medium. The first one I created had an Uncle Henry postcard in the background. My favorite, though, is of Barbara and her little brother, another Henry. It's a tip o' the hat to someone they never met but would have been overjoyed to know. Perhaps soon, I can write about the King of Postcards, my brother, who faithfully, also didn't mind talking to a wall. I hope I can include one or two photos at that time. Uncle Henry was the poetry reciter in the family, even better than his sister-in-law, my mother. He said once, "You need to learn long poems by heart in case you are ever in jail." I decided to reach in, eyes closed, to the Uncle Henry shoebox with the birdhouse design to see if there was a poem I could share with you. Statistically, it's almost impossible to pick a letter or card without a poem and sure enough, here is the one that found me. I've put it in Uncle Henry capitals style:
"GROW STRONG, MY COMRADE...

THAT YOU MAY STAND

UNSHAKEN WHEN I FALL; THAT I MAY KNOW

THE SHATTERED FRAGMENTS OF MY SONG WILL COME

AT LAST TO FINER MELODY IN YOU
THAT I MAY TELL MY HEART THAT YOU BEGIN
WHEN PASSING I LEAVE OFF,
AND FATHOM MORE."

Typically, there is no author cited. Uncle Henry expected me to know. Or find out.

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...may the blessings of old stamps, old poems to remind you of the best of old times be yours...

"Jerusalem the Golden, with Milk and Honey Blest"

Sometimes I get the dates mixed up. I know I was past five because that was the year I was in kindergarten in Tuckahoe, New York. It must have been very early in the following spring that my mother, brother, and I set out for the Azores to unite with my dad who was on a secret assignment there. It was the beginning of a dangerous time. Even the start of the journey with the ship sailing across a stormy Atlantic, with the possibility of u-boats stalking, was worrisome. My mother remembered jokingly that we had only been on the island a few months when I told the soldiers who visited how I was going to be "sick," meaning that I was going to be having my sixth birthday soon but already, there was something growing on my vocal chords and my voice was husky. I felt well and happy romping around with our cocker spaniel and exploring the old stone fort behind our house. However, the medic at the nearby army base who examined my throat flatly refused to operate. He said he was only equipped to patch up the wounded on the planes which refueled there. He did know of a fine surgeon in Jerusalem, a Russian Jew in hiding. Maybe we could locate him. Was there a possibility of going to Jerusalem? My poor mother! They didn't know about anti-anxiety pills in those days. She had only Camel cigarettes and vino. This story is so long, it would take a couple of months of blobs to tell you all the in's and out's, to cover the geography and the intrigues. I offer this nutshell version in order to show you why miracles are a given for me. Yes, during dangerous time, 1944-48, we took a troop plane which was downed in Casablanca and then a train to Cairo. We found the doctor in Jerusalem and met with him at regular intervals to practice the operation. He used a form of surgery which I can only call a symbiotic sort of hypnosis. I see it all so clearly even now: the little girl sitting on a stool, still as a statue (is this why I love statues?) no anesthesia, while her brother recites a poem and the doctor says a prayer in Hebrew. My voice was saved in the city I most wanted to see, the "holy city," because by then I was a believer in the Prince of Peace who once shared bread in an upper room off a dark alley. And I concluded that my voice was saved in order for me to sing and to tell stories. My mother, who couldn't bring herself to believe in God, believed in what she called, "Christine's miracles." She accompanied me to see all the places I longed to see: despite waiting for the clearing of landmines, we ventured to Bethlehem. Despite the barbed wire detours, she saw me playing the part of an angel in the parochial school pageant. She said of all the places she had traveled, Jerusalem was her favorite and clearly a miracle had gotten our family there. That was neither the first miracle nor the last; there was a procession of them. People question me, "Why don't you doubt? What is the source of your unshakable faith?" I can conjecture and tell of the missionary who comforted my mother during my difficult birthing by singing, "Jerusalem the golden with milk and honey blest." I can quote Scriptures. "Suffer the little children to come unto me." I can give other reasons but I think it simply comes down to the fact that I was a child and when I heard that message, I went on an expedition of discovery to find this child advocate who came into the world as a baby and changed it that very night. What happened next is the story of my life.

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...may you become as little children and find the miracles they find around every corner and beyond the stars...

On a Tuesday

My dad called Tuesdays, "Goodnewsday" after the Gershwin song with the line. "Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day." It must have been my favorite song when I was twelve as he took up the theme thereafter. He wrote letters to me on Tuesdays faithfully for decades. So what I remember about 9/11 is that it was a Tuesday. I was volunteering in the children's section of the Durham Public Library, Revere Road Branch. I liked thumbing through the books quickly as I put them on display or away. There is something magical about children's books--the freedom, the alternative worlds, the improbabilities, the magnificent art. The head librarian came over to me and asked, "Is your brother in New York by any chance?" Yes, for once my brother was in New York. Ordinarily, he could have been in Ireland or Spain, Italy or Germany. He led the life of a visionary artist. I relied on sibling telepathy to know where he was. Every year or so a fabulous postcard would drift in with gorgeous foreign stamps. She asked me if I'd like to go home. Hesitantly, she explained, "There has been..." She couldn't get the words out. A catastrophe in New York involving the Twin Towers. It was the time of the morning my brother would have been walking over there for a muffin from his studio on Duane Street. I said quietly that my brother would expect me to stay with my work and not worry about him. So I stayed, I didn't hear from him till the next day. Meanwhile, I had a message from my son in San Francisco. There had been rumors at Luxor Cab of terrorists around the Transamerica building. He told me a story which will stay with me always. He said there was a cabbie from Vietnam who wore some kind of good luck medal around his neck. On 9/12, he came to do his shift but didn't have his medal. Erik asked what had happened to it. The cabbie said, "I don't need it. I got you, Ewik." In times of trouble, there are those on whom we can depend to get us through. I depended on my faith, my angels, and trust that whatever the outcome, I should do what I was assigned to do and help would be on the way. That was 2001 and I can't enumerate the helpers I have had--so many! These days, my gentle brother thrives with an exhibit in Germany. My son rises through the ranks and keeps everyone's spirits up; he's a natural. And I? I continue with my thank-you's and my assignments and yes, sneak a few glimpses at children's books, my little affirmations.

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ANGELS GUARD

the mountains,

although we no longer give them credit.

Their fanning, lowing wings gently shift

the snow to higher elevations.

Their nodding sighing comments

on our customary pace stir the fat

pine cones to drop.

We gather them for decoration,

heedless of a better purpose.

In very quiet moments, still-hopeful angels

tap our shoulders in greeting.

"We're here

if only you will stop awhile to look.

Long before the dinosaur,

we knew of your coming.

We could tell you how the earth was made!"

It takes a fine-tuned adjustment to

our vision which we have scant time for,

not being inclined to believe,

to see the silver shadows.

Over eons they take up their vigils

at newly-formed crags and river forks.

They discuss metaphysics and cry a little

over the nature of Man.

Brave, good-hearted angels.

They await redemption

more heartily than we,

having known what Paradise was like

that time or two ago.

--CT

published in BRANCHES

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...may you find succor wherever you go and the path lead you

past the narrow places to wide plains...

Perseverance Creek

Zionville, North Carolina. 1985. My father had passed on in the Month of Snow in the Teepee of that year. I wanted to do something to honor him with the savings he had given me. There was an acre of land off Highway 421 North within 12 miles of Boone. I decided I wanted to have a cabin built from a kit. The builder, Spencer Mains, was offering the land and threw in another half acre as part of the deal. He was getting started with his own company. Right in front of where he thought a good place to situate the cabin, there was a trickle of water, barely an inch wide but to me it had all the makings of a creek. I told the carpenters who were setting up the cabin kit on a flat area beside a rocky hill that I was going to call the trickle Perseverance Creek. There were four carpenters and they laughed with glee. I told them I wanted a bridge going over. The next time I went to see the progress, there was a big triangular stake with RIVER QWAI written on it. The carpenters were not stereotypical. One had BILBOA on the license tag of his truck. He was an expert on The Lord of the Rings. Another was a songwriter who when the cabin was finished wrote such a beautiful message that I framed it and wished him much success. In May, Spencer stopped by to see how we had fared during the winter. I pointed proudly to Perseverance Creek. It was a full blown creek with cascades that went on down to the road and had the sound of a rushing stream. He was so surprised. Word got around and people came to see the creek. Wildflowers sprang up around it and climbed the bridge. He said he would put out a brochure with the model we had used to be called Perseverance Creek. What brought this to mind was watching, "Song of the Mountains" with Lucille. The singer, Donna Hughes, came from Randolph County, North Carolina and the story of her career was pure perseverance at work. She sang a song about a bluebird, asking it questions I wouldn't have thought to ask. I was pleased to have the connection to the mountains revived. One of my mother's favorite sayings was, "Perseverance wins." She was delighted when she came to live with us. Indeed it does and there are lovely reminders all along the way to reaching a destination. The last I heard, the cabin still stands. The first little live tabletop Christmas tree now reaches higher than the chimney and the creek perseveres.
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...may the blessings of keeping to a vision be yours these coming September days...

A Different Sort of Civility

Summer 2001. Woods Edge in Durham, North Carolina. I hear an early knock on the door. Gwen Spizz excitedly apologizing tells me that there is a loveseat left at the dumpster. "I know you don't like the killing of furniture so I thought we could bring it over together. It's got couple of casters." No need to ask if it needs repair. Gwen knows I will mend it. Her expression, "The killing of furniture" has stayed with me ever since. It could be considered a subset to my Theory of Inanimate Objects. The Reincarnationists believe souls come back in all manner of living creatures but what if I'd like to return as a washing machine? At a very young age it seemed to me people did not treat their belongings with appreciation and respect which led to their falling apart. I remember reading that Emily Bronte was polishing the staircase the day she died. Now that's a writer after my heart. She took time to attend to objects. I was saddened when living in Eureka in a house built in 1851 and divided into apartments, one of which had been a bookstore, to discover white plastic chairs strewn around the backyard. At one time somebody had planted roses which grew in wild chaotic exuberance. I thought the garden a lovely setting for reading in the afternoon but I wasn't going to sit on something moldy and gross. I didn't know the chairs were white until I started cleaning them up. In a fit of alarm at their neglect, I took some paint from an art project and wrote, "Be Kinde to Chairs" across the top in fancy script. I felt a lot better. The tenants didn't notice but much of what I do goes unnoticed except for the recipients of the attention. The chairs fairly preened. I guess you could call me a Restorationist, a devoted recycler, instead of a Reincarnationist. I have rescued doors, frames, clocks, teapots, sofas, table, laundry baskets, turned a computer into a planter and revitalized a Wonder Horse. It had lost its handle bars and part of the top of the mane was missing. I threaded a wooden spoon through the holes and glued it with Goop, which Ellen Sachtschale, the potter, suggested. I placed a hat with a sunflower barrette of the "brain damage" and festooned her with ribbons and beads. I gave her to Jennifer Brady to hang from the rafters of her house when I moved from Roanoke. That's one of the rules: pass it on. As soon as I was finished with my Intensive Care of the various misfits, I would take them to Goodwill and wish them a fruitful journey. The horse remains only as the profile picture on Facebook and the Blob. A wicker settee found a place with Vietnamese newlyweds with instructions to send it on its way if they ever wanted real furniture. Is this all because of abandonment issues? Or a form of, "Don't bite the hand that feeds you," or is it simply Feng Shui which declares that the placement of furnishings (appreciation) is a stepping stone to harmony. Perhaps, it is the fact that I saw so many with no possessions when I was an impressionable child. I don't analyze it. I just do it. I was pleased when Henry about four years old, proudly told his little pal who was crying over a broken toy, "Mimsey fixes everything." Yes. At least she tries.

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...may the blessings from the Land of the Discarded roost along your path...

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An American Child in a Foreign Field

photo credit: Robert Janz, Sr.

Lake Atitlan, Guatemala 1928

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On August 9th, young adults from Greenwich, CT visited Jan Hus church for Sunday service. Ordinarily, they would have gone to a Central American country but because of economic concerns, New York City was their "mission trip" destination instead. I was moved by the testimonials. Perky Elizabeth said she had been awed by the sheer number of the crowd in need at Times Square, 2:00a.m. I identified with Colin, clearly disturbed by his experiences and struggling to know if he were doing the right thing. I understood the shock and bewilderment. I grew up with missionaries. As a child, I saw the good they did and I observed the harm. I cringed at the hatefulness. The hardships they endured touched me. My Baptist friends took care of dentistry and digging wells; the Methodists taught reading and washing hands; the nuns were examples of piety and discipline; the beautiful people of the American Field Service brought me to vigils. All of them knew, "Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world." The musical education was the best. I learned Leaning on the Everlasting Arms from Marcia, a Texan in Colombia; the prolific Charles Wesley was Marilyn's treat; the Scots Presbyterians "owned" the bagpipe version of Amazing Grace; and Sister Prisca, the Swedish nun in Panama, sweetly sang Dona Nobis Pacem. My brother cautioned me not to be condescending. "They don't want your pity. Who is to say candomble isn't every bit as powerful as what you have?" I smirked, the only believer in a family of non. Personally, I thought what I had was heaps better but still I knew voodoo worked. My folks were heathens which was a problem as they were highly amused and regularly so at my religious bent. My mother called me, "The Little Seeker looking for Somebody to thank." She often exclaimed, "You have the most interesting companions!" but I don't remember her giving them the time of day past a cheery diplomatic, "Hello! How are you??" She didn't like being preached at unless it was about the lilies of the field. She put my interests first, though, and doggedly took me every Sunday to early Mass despite her recurring migraines and tropical fevers. I sorted through the differing spiels. The Jehovah's Witnesses declared there was no Hell but everybody else knew very well there was and who was going there. The Mormons said there were 7 Heavens, whereas Mavis' brother (one of the kindest souls I met, later to die in Vietnam) stated emphatically there was only one and hardly anybody was going. My mother preferred Dante's Inferno to John's end of the world scenario. Like Colin, I often asked myself if I were doing the right thing. I prayed nightly for direction. Ultimately, I decided that it was not possible to know. What mattered was that the missionaries spread a message of choice to people who were unaware there was one, who were not acquainted with the Prince of Peace. ~~~~~~ ...may the blessings of the quest and trying your best be yours and may it find a rich harvest at your table...

Of Things Botanical

photo credit: b.e. hobbs

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To go on an outing to look for birds is called, "Birding." What would you call going for a walk to look at wildflowers? Petaling? I love to petal. In the July, 2002 issue of National Geographic, there is a spread on flowers and how they changed the planet. The photos, of course, were rapturous and I particularly liked this quote by Michael Klesius:

"Flowering plants have conquered more than just the land. They have sent roots deep into our minds and hearts. We know we are passing through their world as through a museum, for they were here long before we arrived and may remain long after we are gone."

Walking on York Avenue today, I spotted a Dayflower. That's what it's called in the North Carolina mountains. The intense blue orchid-like bloom rivals any painting. Folk accounts have it that the flower only blooms for a day; hence the name. A lesson in being mindful of time passing? I tested the theory. I took a sprig on the principle that the patch of ground it was in was full of crabgrass and dandelions, so I didn't think I was harming the environment. I once was going to do a book of flower poems when I discovered that most of the plants (like Solomon Seal and Burdock) on the land at the Zionville cabin were used medicinally by the Cherokee encamped there long ago. I thought a little book of healing flowers would make a nice bedside extra next to echinacea and a box of tissues for winter grippe. However, as in most things Gemini, I got sidetracked. When I saw the Dayflower tenaciously surviving in the biggest of big cities, I decided to find the old Field's guide to wildflowers (on the net, of course,) and think about that project once more. However, I've noticed when I'm given an idea by the Universe that if I don't act on it, the idea is given to someone else, sometimes by me, who does spectacularly well with its completion. I've come to think of this as my role in life, the catalyst's role. I fully expect, therefore, one of you will publish this little book in my stead. I hope you will include a Dayflower and perhaps a packet of wildflower seeds on the inside cover. Who among my poet e-mailers will it be? Harriet, Carolyn, Rosamund,Billie Lu, Karen, Randy, John, Daffolet, Cheryl, B.E., Micah, Jessica, or an Unknown Reader Yet to Be? I await with interest your replies.

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...may the blessings of armchair botany, of Figwort and Trillium in high mountain meadows, be yours...

"How Can I Keep from Singing?"

With Dr. Braxton's powerful, "Just show up!" message echoing in my ears, I decided I wanted to try a church in the 'hood. Looking at the different websites for clues as to what kinds of outreach the choices mentioned, I picked Jan Hus, a progressive Presbyterian house of worship. Jan Hus, the Czech martyr! As Will and I stepped inside, I was struck by the "feeling at home" signs: the Moravian star hanging high, almost fading into the stained glass window behind; the fat candle resting in a bowl of seashells; the sound of musicians practicing, "Down in the River to Pray. The bulletin had these lines: "Since 1888, the doors of this church have been open to those who seek a new way to engage with the Spirit and eat at the welcome table. In those early years, Jan Hus served the needs of the Czech immigrants...We continue to honor our Czech founders by singing our closing hymn in the Czech language." The sermon began with a song which I thought was a sea chantey but then I realized it must be the theme from Gilligan's Island. Not being familiar with the show, I was intrigued by the summary of characters. And where would this tie in with the Scripture reading about the storm on the Sea of Galilee? It turned out that the "well-intentioned bumblers" on the island were very like the "misdirected band of hopeful Christians" which have served as illumination for centuries. "Name" is the Latin word for "boat." She spoke of us as being "in the boat with Christ." By she I mean Elaine Connolly who urged us to " be each other's reminders" of the "tranquility of God." She said we must raise or voices against the storm and cry out, "Peace!" Two of the hymns on that topic were among my favorites. Peace Like a River and My Life Flows On. Other music included a zippy De Colores and a rocked out version of I Can See Clearly Now performed by Christian McLeer (who also plays the accordion). The title for today's blob comes from My Life Flows On.

"Since love is Lord of heav'n and earth. how can I keep from singing?"

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~~~~~~~~~~...may you find blessings in the storms you weather and be assured throughout that the skies will clear, the stars come out....

Pushcart Stories

Who doesn't find hope in pushcart stories, America's best? Pasquale took Will and me on a tour of northeast Bronx where he has made a home for 35+ years. As we crossed the Bronx River Bridge, we stopped for the raising of the draw in order for a barge to pass. Then we went on City Island to go to Sammys (no apostrophe) Fish Box which has been a huge enough success that Sammys Shrimp Box was added across the street. Sammys is a pushcart story as he started out with simple fare and built the cart into an enterprise. Lee, the waiter, happily recounted his odyssey from Thailand as a teen with ten dollars in his pocket. First stop Germany. No, he didn't speak German, only a little broken English. America, the land of dreams fulfilled, came next. He proudly showed us the I.D. cards of his daughters': University of Chicago, MIT, Cal Tech, and UC Berkley. Lee had wanted to be a physician. Instead, he worked seven day/14 hour shifts to help his daughters achieve. His wife stayed home and assisted the family in her motherly, wifely ways. The girls' names translate to Blessing and Peacefulness. The paper placemats had a map of City Island with drawings of signal flags, ships--Yawl, Brig, Sloop, Schooner, Cat Boat--but the map didn't give a hint of the winsome cottages with exuberant window boxes and container laden steps. A church called Star of the Sea captured the nature of the place. Singular and beautiful.

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...May the blessings of good friends ad tucked away surprises be yours...

A Friday in Chapel Hill

I was thinking today of a story in Tom Wolfe's book, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test, about the "Merry Pranksters." In it was a repeated line comparing the bus to Life. You were either on the bus!!!!or not. My excursion to Carrboro, which is across the street from Chapel Hill, involved 4 buses with short rides. It's only about a mile but the bus from Fairoaks goes to town and then I catch the bus to Carrboro around the corner. I knew it was going to be a good day when the two classics profs got on and sat behind me. One of them knows I like to eavesdrop. He was talking to a quieter prof about travels in Italy. The phrase I liked was, "You can get anything at the Vatican pharmacy. The Holy Spirit and all that." Waiting for the bus coming back I started a conversation with a woman who had a page turner mystery in her hand but she wasn't reading it. That intrigued me so I commented on her bookmark, the magnetic kind that saves the place right at the paragraph one leaves. Sure enough, she wanted to talk, not read. We had a lot in common. She liked thrift stores, wondered why we have to hear endlessly about sordid news, asked why people ran for office and why they didn't say, "See this forehead? It's out the door!" when critics circled like sharks. Just as I got on the bus, a woman I can only call Slinky dashed up yelling at a homeless man that she'd be back in an hour. She must have been 5'9" and weighed 105 pounds most of that being the weight of tattoos. She was loud. Her dress was to the floor in shiny fabric unknown in Chapel Hill and backless. She sat opposite me and yelled at the bus driver, "Can we eat on the bus?" Bus Driver said, "No!" Slinky said, "I can't wait for my French fries." I leaned in and sang five words on five notes, "You'll justhavetowait." Her eyes popped open. An audience! She said, "I sing, too!!!!! I have an event on Friday. Can you come? I just got out of jail because when I sang last week my skirt was too short and a wind came up." The police noticed she had no underclothes. This time, though, she was properly attired but admitted she still had no underclothes. Then she said, "I can do pullups, too!" and proceeded to do about 15 on the bar above her. Bus Driver began sighing. A young black woman on the other side of me sat quietly observing. I said to Slinky, "Say! You could join Cirque d' Soleil!" I didn't know if she knew what that was. She brightened. She said, "I could sit on the moon! You have given me a dream! What's your name?" I said, "Mimsey." She said, "I'm Donna. I call myself MyDonna Remax." Suddenly she discovered she was on the wrong bus and tried to get Bus Driver to let her out in the middle of a five lane road. Bus Driver said she could get off at the next stop. I reprised, "You'll justhavetowait." When she sallied off the bus, she waved and said she would see me on Friday. I said to the air, "It's already Friday." I turned to the young woman and commented, "We should have asked for an autograph." Young Woman didn't smile or respond in any way but when it was my turn to disembark, she said, "You have a beautiful day!" as though she also was a friend. One never knows whom one might be influencing. Which reminds me of the car repair shop I saw in Carrboro. The sign read, "Gates of Beauty Body Shop. Peacemaker-Owner."
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....may the road rise to meet you as they say in old Ireland and may the travelers along the way be of good cheer...

Gardens I Have Known

from a 15th century tapestry

Oto's garden

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Lucille noticed something I had not. She took me on a picnic to the rose garden in front of the UNC planetarium. I hadn't known there was a rose garden. I've only been there how many hundreds of times?? When I saw it, I said, "That's landscaping, not a garden." We got into a philosophical discussion about what the definition of a garden is and what our first impressions of gardens were and how these showed the differences in our personalities. My introduction to gardens was in Bahia where I was put out to nap behind the stone house amidst dense foliage, chattering monkeys, songbirds, exotic flowers, and cool shade.There was an element of danger, secretiveness, too. The next garden to impress me was the Garden of Gethsemane when we lived on the Mount of Olives. I told Lucille the cloisters and atriums of the various schools I attended, paintings such as "The Unicorn in the Garden" which was the cover art for a book of poetry by Anne Morrow Lindbergh seem to add up to some kind of clue to why I like small beautiful spaces, set apart places. Lucille needs the freedom of open expanses. I said, "In California when everybody else was marveling at the sunsets on the ocean, I was delighting in the tide pools. Once when at Air Bellows Gap on the Blue Ridge Parkway, Douglas asked what I was doing. He said I was missing the view. I couldn't comprehend such a remark because I was viewing something wonderful--a tenacious tiny wildflower struggling to grow out of a wall of crackling boulders." Lucille mentioned the idea of this being a political bent to see the local rather than the global, to need a purpose as well as a pleasure, to enclose myself to guard against the destruction of beauty. We discussed what I think of as garden material. Yes, I like fruit trees, flowers, and vegetables. Randy Walker of Roanoke asked me to write two lines of his four line poem. He started with a carrot scene. My reaction was, "What in the world could I have to say about this poor doomed carrot??" But we did our assignments. Lucille pointed out two things. One was that, once again, it echoed of a political statement. "It shows what will happen to the other vegetables if they ignore what happened to the carrot." Also, it reflects my contemplative mentality. My gardens have to have a purpose, a boundary; they are guarded in the same way as what I said about being an islander. An island, after all, is the perfect garden. I see now that the Garden of Eden was my most lasting influence--bounded by angels, incomparable, with the purpose of naming the animals and being good stewards of the Earth. I'm back to why I like short stories, aren't I? On the bus today I was thinking about the unicorn and I added something else to my garden definition. It differs from landscaping because of the creatures who live in it--the faeries, gnomes, slitheries, chatterers, and small beings who sing and croak. There is a quality of magical kingdom to my gardens. Whether it's the Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park, the Shakespeare Garden in Central Park, or Oto's garden as seen above, "my" garden is the "detail" in the larger artwork.
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Randy's poem:
The silent scream of a carrot being diced
could be heard from the vegetable bin.
And yet, amid the ruckus and the din
All looked away, left her, unaided, sliced.
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.....the blessings of secret flowery nooks or panoramic vistas, whichever or both appeal to you, be yours....

Under the Influence of Short Stories

How many times have I heard the question, "What book has influenced your life?" My comment is, in reply, "Tell me about a short story." I remember the story which changed my mother's life. The Dream Dust Factory, first published in 1947. Apparently, it was about a man who transported himself to this magical location when the going got tough by pushing an imaginary button in his brain. My mother even had a little hand signal when she was about to drift off from some tedious conversation; it involved touching her face with one finger and shooting me a wisp of a smile. Traveling on the train last week reminded me of a cautionary tale about expectations: a man working on a train route passes a house by the tracks on his run and waves to a woman and a child. Over the years, he begins to think of this as coming home. Eventually, the man retires and decides to go visit the woman. I don't recall whether the woman had also fantasized about the man waving at her through the years; I only remember the disappointment and shock (for the man, for the reader)when the man discovers the woman is not at all what he had hoped. Because of that story, I have been careful not to build up expectations, although generally, events in my life have exceeded the wild white mares of dreams. Another story which influenced me was O'Henry's, The Last Leaf. It taught me that death is an appointment we all have. The story saved me the wrenching, "If only I had..." In the story, the bedridden woman looks out the window at a tree in autumn and knows she will die when the last leaf falls, not before, not later. Nothing can prevent or alter this appointment. Poe's stories testified to the importance of mood and Isak Dinesen's, the spell of place. Arthur Conan Doyle made plotting and deduction as essential as a title. A short story is what my friend, Ellen, calls a "baklava event"--small, sweet, intense... and I would add, the taste lingers. Henry thought of Ray Bradbury's Golden Apples of the Sun and Billie Lu talked about the metaphorical imprisonment of women in The Yellow Wallpaper. Jenny said Gogol can't be beat for understanding the nature and propulsion of "habit" in our lives, that the world could be changed by discarding the pettiness of these daily decisions. Another form of entrapment? Frank O'Connor influenced my writing simply by his love of revision. His widow wrote a preface to a collection of his stories in which she said it would be the final version since he was now dead. I didn't know this about him but applauded when she said he rewrote stories after they were published. Like Mark Twain, Frank was a believer in getting the right word in the right place and having the lightning strike. John wrote: "I know you're looking for a short story by a writer who -- as Joyce might have put it -- succeeded in crafting an epiphany to fit into an economy size package. Perhaps like a small toy box in an animated cartoon. It opens and up pops a gigantic, fearsome clown. Two stories -- both read a hundred years ago and reread from time to time -- helped open a universe-sized door for me. The first was Salinger's A Perfect Day for Bananafish. I didn't know you could do that! It was a just a little grenade, but the shrapnel could have leveled a city. The second was William Faulkner's The Bear. Granted it's really a novel in disguise, but great writers deserve to get away with anything. Let bean counters color between the lines. Faulkner says 'Here is life in a universe that happens to be set in a place called Mississippi.' And it was and am I glad I got in." Will said he was affected by the struggles in Toilers of the Sea. Charlie's vote: "When I was in the Navy I read a Hemingway short story called, I believe, Up in Michigan (or maybe Minnesota). It made me realize how awful a woman's lot in life can be at the hands of a callous man." Perhaps because I am a descendant of the southwestern peoples who sat around fires under starry, expansive skies and told stories complete in one night is why I love a short story. Or it could have come from parables, as I thirsted for sermons using the illustration of a mustard seed or the lilies of the field. This is not to say I don't like novels. They are my favorites but if you list your ten best, one of them will always remind me of a short story. Short stories are the candy eggs with the dioramas delicately constructed inside, fragile ships in a bottle, or geodes cracked in half in a display case. They are exquisite miniatures bringing a particular lesson from the outer world. They are a wink, a blown kiss, a sudden smile, a notebook with extra pages, a tiny gift of prophecy, a brief concentrated glance of recognition. In their brevity lies their strength. They are the poetry of prose.
................
...may the blessings of fleeting golden moments be yours...

Setting the Stage

I was born in the late evening on the eve of the summer solstice, south of the equator(12 degrees, 58 minutes) where summer is winter during the time of the Festa da S?o J?o, a harvest festival.Throughout June, there are fireworks. I arrived to the sound of forro bands (accordions, hand-drums, triangle)and starbursts in the city by the Bay of All the Saints of the Savior. In the short form Portuguese, we called it Bahia. On a map, it's known as Salvador.
Salvador overlooks a bay. There are 38 islands in that bay. I probably never went to one but the view shaped my outlook. I am an islander at heart--enriched by an enclosed environment requiring a different kind of transportation so visitors would have to want to go there. It's not a loner existence but a special, set apart one. The state of Bahia is bigger than Texas.The cobbled streets near our house were steep. There was an elevator, Lacerda, built from the cidade alta to the cidade baixa (upper and lower city). It looks like a construction project in progress jutting out streamlined, modern, a rival to Rio's more famous massive protective Cristo with outstretched arms. I doubt that I rode the elevator or sailed on the bay. I was content to nest and sing in our beautiful house. I was given the name Christine by my father who had seen Greta Garbo in a talkie playing Queen Christina of Sweden. My godmother didn't like it. She had a silver baby cup inscribed"'Irene" and wouldn't change it. How did I get a godmother when my parents were agnostics? Leo Wrench, married to "Big Bob" Wrench, was a good friend and influential. Leo didn't like the name Della(my mother's name) so Della was arbitrarily changed to Judy, which stuck for forty years. My parents were also good friends with the British consul, a Catholic. Within a month of my birth I was christened Christine. The certificate is elaborately embellished. The christening dress could fit a tiny soft animal. It's curious that the agnostics branded me with a destiny-- follower of Christ. The Hindus say the awaiting soul chooses its parents. I can see it. I can see me also choosing that house in that place. The house was stone and, strangely for a South American house, had a large fireplace. It was a lesson in contrasts. There is a picture of me in front of the wintry fireplace dressed in summery batiste with my favorite object, a flyswatter. No blanket or doll for me. Judy said the bathrooms were like Grand Central station. I laid claim to the garden and my mosquito netted nook where I could hear the birds. I was carried about by the cook and her assistants, Alma and Zsa Zsa. My world consisted of music, comfort, my necklace and my flyswatter. My brother's existence was opposite to mine as he was going to a German school where he tackled his work dervishly and was first in his class by the end of the year. He spoke German & English. I spoke Portuguese in a waterfall sort of way. He was very busy and accomplished. Our encounters were friendly but we were already on differing paths. I preferred to sing all day and sew. Except for the times I almost died (of a fish bone stuck in my throat, a tropical fever going too high) my days were pleasant. My observational skills were honed by the visiting dignitaries. My mother thought it significant that Walt Disney was one of them. The Magic Kingdom coming to me.

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.....may the blessings of an island, a summer garden be yours..

ELEGY FOR A HIGHLAND MAN

photo credit: http://healingwoman.blogspot.com

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Douglas C. Taylor 1/16/1919-6/18/1999
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Each year on June 18th, I have set aside a day to do Everything Douglas. I listen to Douglas music (no pop, rap, rock,blues, jazz, or Stravinsky) and play the cd of The Magic Flute which I received as a gift for a donation to WCPE after he died. The Magic Flute was his favorite opera and a highlight for him was when he was cast as a monk in Appalachian State's production. He made a good monk with his beard, basso profundo, and beanpole height. He was amused when at a restaurant someone came up to him asking for a blessing rather than an autograph. My remembrance reading for this day includes parts of a mystery such as something by P.D. James or Tony Hillerman and Psalm 100. I go to a cafeteria. Eureka had a buffet but not a cafeteria so Greek food was the alternate choice. My much loved theory was that Scotland was settled by Greeks rather than Romans. Douglas taught Humanities and was partial to the Greeks. I guess Romans didn't have as good a salad. He was a train lover and said the best part about living in Durham was that one could go anywhere from there. He hated cities. The closest he came to liking a city was Halifax, Nova Scotia. I think that was probably because of his chance encounter with a Greenpeace vessel and the subsequent conversation with a doctor on board. When they became overly animated, I told him that Douglas couldn't be spared as he needed to drive me home to Carolina. It was a close call and a few years later, Douglas was on a freighter going to New Zealand, taking a route very like that of the Rainbow Warrior. As to my attire for this day, I make sure when going out the door that I have my peace earrings and I think about Normandy. How could someone so sensitive and shy and bookish have managed all the horror? He had frequent nightmares about a particular German soldier. I imagine it was his first "kill." He would sob, "He was only a boy!" On the night Desert Storm was announced, we were at choir practice, a small choir at the Presbyterian church in Blowing Rock, North Carolina, as lovely and peaceful a place as one could imagine. I got up and left. I couldn't sing. But I wasn't the first one. Douglas was first. At the end of my remembering day, I try very quietly, Abide with Me, which Douglas sang for his father's funeral, a man who had been "saved" at the Boston boatyards, fresh from Scotland at the age of eighteen, by a Salvation Army quintet and later went to the Philippines to lead the singing at a YMCA. As far as I know, he did not play an instrument and discouraged Douglas from continuing his clarinet after graduating from New Rochelle High School. He didn't play for four decades until I found this out and suggested he return to the stage with the Watauga County Community Band. A lot of no's followed but I could see it was what he really wanted to do so off we went for clarinet buying. When he and my mother and I moved to Durham, he played in three bands and kept three t-shirts for the summer day when there was a gathering of bands. Personally, I thought he should wear his Scottish Country Dance tee. I was overruled. I think now of the evenings at the cabin when the fireflies came up at nine o'clock and the stars shone brighter than anywhere. I pretend he is dong an Amtrak loop or a Friendship Sloop adventure. I expect a postcard to come soon and I say goodbye all over again.

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.....may the years of your life bring joy enough to assuage the sorrow...