Anniversary

photo credit: Robert Janz, Lago de Atitlan, Guatemala 1928

Robert Janz, Sr.
Born: October 11, 1903
Died: January 31, 1985 of leukemia
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~~~~~~~In the Moon of Frost on the Omaha
my father died,
not of a chill wind
but of a long brave life.
The blood that ran from his veins
had little left;
it had been spilt in behalf
of his peoples over and over
again in droplets since he first
discovered the need.
And, oh! What a need he
stumbled upon.
The oldest son, then chief of our
ragtag family--no one
can succeed him: our tribe dies out.
But goodness goes on.
Kindness is never overwhelmed.
His words from the books are remembered.
His magic dance of power is handed down.
The Great Spirit receives him
with a slap of thunder
to a place beyond the stars.
Goodnight, my father.
Your obedient daughter weeps for you;
the mighty oceans catch her tears
and toss them to the clouds.
In the Moon of the Red Grass Appearing,
they will bring fresh rain to the earth
you loved so well.
The land will bloom once more for you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Christine (1985)~~~

Meditations

Someone was always reading aloud in my childhood and I figure that's why I like listening to meditations. It's like being read to, cared for. The Inner Child recreates the Outer Fun. There are several meditations on Beliefnet, the Daily Dalai Lama, and Carolyn Myss. I particularly like her "Corridor of Chaos." Dr. David Illig has updated his old cassette series to cd collections with spiffy covers. When my dad went blind, a Braille organization would telephone each day. His choice was having the NY Times read to him. My favorite company is L'Occitane which employs blind chemists and sends blind children to summer camp near lavender fields in Provence. The other senses are enhanced when the sense of sight is lost. Can you imagine what that would do to a blind child--the feel of the summer breeze, the clean washup scent of lavender? I think perhaps all my senses are enhanced through these meditations which I listen to at odd moments but don't necessarily follow the instructions such as, "Close your eyes." However, I get results. Instead of Hear No Evil/ See No Evil/Speak No Evil .... I come away with Hear All Good/ See All Good/ Speak All Good, courtesy of the leaders. This is probably why I like messages left on my cell. They are snippets of being read to, which I can choose to repeat any time. A song can be a meditation. This one, used with permission, comes from Micah.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3udhLHqbbt8
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........the blessings of "walking in beauty" be with you...

Cafe Shire

Sometimes the most obvious thing right under my nose takes awhile to come to my attention. I should have read more Arthur Conan Doyle. It wasn't till I was streaming WVRU on Randy Walker's recommendation, that it dawned on moi, "KHSU! Humboldt State! Instead of missing my favorite programs from Eureka days, I could be..." Sure enough. Folks, I may never leave The Shire! I will now not miss Democracy Now, New Dimensions, Foggytown Junction, and the very best in 13th-18th Century music of Spain, France, and Portugal. Speaking of Eureka and commemoratives, (we were, weren't we?) I thought the Blob needed a little jazzing up today. The artwork is courtesy of the postal service without its permission. What does this have to do with Eureka, stamps, and radio? I'll tell you. The walk to the post office by way of Los Bagels (a Jewish/Spanish establishment with a salmon delight called Delilah) was my favorite outing and I would rush back to listen to KHSU. On the Hayride, I heard a song by one of the oldie greats about how radio had shaped her life. I could identify. http://www.khsu.org/

...the blessings of a good tune and pithy book reviews be yours.....

Readings

Uncle Henry could make a grocery list sound like a recitative. He favored long poems such as The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, The Highwayman, and The Pied Piper of Hamelin, but I remember Aunt Stella reading Evangeline the best, during the year Stella worked at the Smithsonian and my family lived in Tauxemont. It was a book length poem by Longfellow and I didn't know if it was fictitious or not. I cried over the tale of Evangeline leaving Grand Pre and searching for Gabriel during what was called The Great Upheaval or The Deportation. When I saw her statue on a small windy plain in Nova Scotia, I marveled at how the sculptor had made her age. On one side of her face, she was youthful and slowly the other side showed the character lines of her suffering. I circled her several times to see how he had done this magical work of art. In case you are not acquainted with Evangeline, here is how the poem begins:
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"THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman?
Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers --
Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands,
Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven?
Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers forever departed!
Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October
Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far o'er the ocean.
Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pre.
Ye who believe in affection that hopes, and endures, and is patient,
Ye who believe in the beauty and strength of woman's devotion,
List to the mournful tradition still sung by the pines of the forest;
List to a Tale of Love in Acadie, home of the happy.
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...the blessings of readings on cold nights and the wind in the pines....

Words & Phrases

TUESDAY......ONE TWENTY SEVEN

I've given you book recommendations and sites to click. Today I have received permission to put one of my favorite poems on for your reading pleasure. It is written by Roanoke musician/poet Randy Walker (aka Randalf). Rather than use his album cover of the same name,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SiiIrlzTejc&feature=channel_page

I have accompanied the poem with my favorite statue, Evangeline. I will tell you about her tomorrow so that I can use one of my favorite, hopeful phrases: "to be continued..."
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LOVE IN THE CITY OF STATUES

............ Randy Walker

In the days before electric light,

the city night was filled with a thousand stars,

and love traveled through the streets

to reach the hearts of men and women.

........

Love seldom rested in shadows, and no one was immune.

Love was awake when the milkman hitched his horse,

when the apple lady tied her bonnet,

when the baker kneaded his dough.

.........

Love filled the washerwoman's tub

and followed the children to school.

At lunchtime, Love met the clerk in the courthouse square,

love fed the pigeons, pushed the pram, swept the cobblestones,

joked with the lawyer and his friend the accountant.

Love was in the sun on the sandwich vendor's face,

and in the shadows under the elms.

..........

When the church bell rang five o'clock,

Love was waiting for the banker, walking home through back streets.

Love was in the smells of dinner wafting through open windows,

in the honeysuckle climbing the fence,

in the summer dresses waving on the line.

.........

After supper, love took the streetcar,

past the great equestrian statues all coppery and new,

to the park at the edge of the city.

Love swelled the blackberries,

love lay thick on grass still warm with the day's heat,

as sunlight drained into the earth.

.........

Love called through the trees,rippled the pond,

reflected the Milky Way,

played tag with shrieking children,

held lovers' hands,

until it was too dark to see.

.........

On the way home, belles nodded on beaus' shoulders,

but love never rested.

As the night deepened,

love pooled in hollows,

glimmered like gaslight on damp shining pavement,

streamed like moonlight through open windows,

poured over windowsills, swirled around bedsteads,

entered the dreams of children.

..........

Such was life in the city of statues,

when love traveled through the streets,

when city nights were dark,

in the days before electric light.
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...may love swirl around your bedsteads and enter your dreams...

Mail Truck

photo: Gillian Shaw-Pichalo at a Post Box in Oxford-------------------->
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As I understood it, computers were supposed to say, "You've got mail" when a message popped up. Mine, instead, has a perky voice which chirps, "Mail Truck!" It sounds as though she is announcing the sale of the decade. During most of my childhood, I was homesick for America. I didn't have a home to come home to; it was a general feeling of wanting to be someplace with tuna melts and milkshakes and Macy's basement. My trusty connections were the Voice of America on the tall brown radio and postcards from my Uncle Henry. He liked the Hudson River School of artists and Indians of the Plains. He worked for the postal service in some way that involved railroads. Therefore, I received the most up to date commemoratives, pre-stamped envelopes, and vistas of Yosemite with numerous National Wildlife Federation stickers. He quoted poetry which he recommended I memorize, "...in case you are ever in prison." When my brother went away to parts unknown, he sent postcards with stamps in languages I couldn't read and sketches of his whereabouts. Sometimes, there would be a mangled photograph of a sunset (in black and white) on the isle of Skye or geraniums in a Spanish garden. I have over 200 of his postcards in my Roberto niche, along with newspaper reviews and art museum programs. I was a horrid correspondent. I never wrote back but perhaps my dad wrote to Uncle Henry and said, "Christine is carrying your postcard around inside her uniform over her heart. It's having a near-death experience. The postcard. Not Christine's heart." For one reason or another, Uncle Henry never gave up. Now, in the age of e-mail, my thrill is that voice from out of nowhere. "Mail Truck!" In Eureka, the mail carrier was delighted I was on his route. He would wave a card and say, "Roanoke Central!" when Dian would send a heavily decorated letter addressed to various people such as, "The best little faerie in all of California." Or when Susan sent one with a drawing of Gone CoCo elaborately enscribed. Snail mail, e-mail. All mail is good mail, except maybe statements mail. Oh! I just heard, as we speak..."Mail Truck!"
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May you have letters full of clippings and your postcards carry a taste of their origins...

Spring Sprang Sprung

photo credit: Douglas Clark Taylor, a Cameron Man
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The Inauguration Day snow has melted and a touch of Spring has come to the Shire. Spring sprang sprung. It's an excuse to quote my favorite Robbie Burns poem on this his birth date. I discovered he did not write it. What am I going to do about the relentless fact-finding Internet?? I am told he revised an earlier version of a soldier's. A quandary. Would the song have been known without Robert Burns? Should the soldier's scribbles be always published alongside? Looking at various sites I see that the fact is not well-known. Should I be the one to provide this educational jolt? I believe in freedom of information. However, I also believe in the world of magical realism. Consequently, here is my take on the quandary:
I have decided to un-fact
and keep the image of my youth intact.
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My love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June :
My love is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I :
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun :
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee weel a while !
And I will come again, my love,
Thou’ it were ten thousand mile.a poem by Robert Burns

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
I send you a Scottish blessing:
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"May the blessing of light be on you, light without and light within. May the blessed sunlight shine on you like a great peat fire, so that stranger and friend may come and warm himself at it. And may light shine out of the two eyes of you, like a candle set in the window of a house, bidding the wanderer come in out of the storm."

On the Eve

photo credit: Robert Janz

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I think of the number 20 as being "on the eve of" because it is my birthday number which fell on the eve of the summer solstice in 1938. Can you believe this is my 20th post? Please do not count. I could be wrong but one thing I know: the Archive is getting longer than the posts. Who would have thunk? Consequently, this post is "on the eve" of something big. Let moi know if something big happens in your writing life as, even though I said to moiself that I would write a special poem for Robbie Burns' birth date (tomorrow), I have yet to come up with something that matches his, "Love is like a red, red rose that's newly sprung..." Speaking of which, I was forwarded Birthday Calculator which happily said, "My Flower" is the wild rose. Neat! There were miniature wild roses outside the Veterans' office/house in Eureka. Each day on my walk, I would bend over one and say, "Hello, Cheerful." I'm sure any vet looking out the window would have muttered,"It takes all kinds. At least she's not a shouter." Maybe that's why a vet came out one day and asked, "How's it goin', Pretty Lady?" I have, by chance (?!) added a flower slide show and that is a reminder to have you take a look at a spectacular slide show on Micah Evans' site: http://www.susannafosterchronicles.com/
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Blessings of good cheer and pretty happenings be yours.

Send the Light

People rate books as Lifechanging or Most Influential. I can say that Teetoncey, a Young Adult first-in-a-trilogy by Scott O'Dell, fits the bill on both those categories. I read it in the early 70's in California and became fevered with seeing the Outer Banks of North Carolina and the lighthouse at Okracoke. Years later, I snapped the photo. One of my prized possessions is a miniature book called, what else, Lighthouses. For a bookmark, there is a teeny blue-striped plastic lighthouse hung on a thin satin ribbon. The photos are luscious and almost every page has a quote. How Moi! I have seen only a few lighthouses: Ockracoke, Hatteras, St. Mark's. However, I have looked up and read about practically all. Their history and symbolism is inspiring. My favorite "light" is not really a house but she is a light and she is a beacon of friendship: the Statue of Liberty. When I saw her up close and personal on the eve of a 4th of July, with a small brass band playing, I was struck by how delicate her power was. The copper alone weighs 31 tons and yet, this statue of a woman with a torch in a star garden had a foot upturned as if she would take flight.

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"The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
a pillar of fire by night, a cloud by day."
--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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The blessings of light and safe arrival be yours.

Paradise Revisited

Call us The Tinkerers. What I've noticed about the friends I have most in common with is that they like to revise. Years ago, I read a collection of short stories by the Irish writer Frank O'Connor (a pseudonym for Michael O'Donovan)after his death. His wife said it would be the final uncut version as Frank wouldn't be around to revise. It turns out that even after his stories were published, he'd go back and tinker with them. You should see my scribbles and scraps! On that note, the URL for Susanna Foster's memorial dvd has been changed to...YouTube - Susanna Foster--- In Loving Memory ..............and the 1/20/09 Blob has new doors...the newest obituary to come to my Inbox: Obituary: Susanna Foster Music The Guardian Perhaps that's why amongst my favorite words are these: update, the latest scoop, breaking news, refresh, ripped-from-the-headlines, and did-you-hear. They share the concept of, "Growing." My best of friends and family don't jell out. They are not, as my Eureka friend used to say, "Stuck in stupid." They grow.

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The blessings of growing things, still invisible, be yours.

Tracking the First Three Minutes

I'm not fond of the term, "Older Posts" any more than I am fond of the term, "Senior citizen." Senior in my dictionary means high school and the harrowing days of trying to get through same alive. My mother's comment on Graduation Day was, "You were supposed to wear black shoes." Where were the gushing glory statements regarding my triumph?? My reply was, "It's too hot for black." Her quick response was, "You think green is cooler?" Yes, way cooler, although I would have phrased it differently. Trying on sophistication at that age, my friends and I would have said, "Trop chiqu-er" as we hobbled around in spike heels and crinolines. How liberating now not to be a senior and to be allowed the freedom of jammies while e-mailing. Since the template on my Blob forbids changing Older Posts, I suggest you plant in your mind such Shire-ish possibilities as Other Scribbles and Formidable Yesterdays. My granddaughter has been drawing a comic strip featuring Tapioca Custard and Dijon Mustard which she calls, "Flustered Verbatim." I'll ask her for suggestions. I enquired what the Japanese might be on the illustration for this post. Her reply: i have no idea what the middle line is, but the first one is talking about a plum tree and a crab (maybe) and the last is literally translated as "mountain, love, alas!" (maybe). This is my kind of answer. Several newscasters, while commenting on the new presidency, mentioned, "generational shift." Isn't that just another way of saying senior? I've never thought generationally. I think whimsically, which keeps the bones a'dancing. Obama began the first minutes of his presidency listening while Yo-Yo Ma, Itzhak Perlman, Gabriela Montero and Anthony McGill played the old Shaker hymn, "Simple Gifts." What symbolically rich first minutes!

The blessings of agelessness, whimsy, and favorite winter slippers be yours.

The Sound of History

What was that?




I heard something!....................Hear that sound?



It's the sound of doors opening all over the world!

They Will Be Heard

Schoolchildren have all heard of Martin Luther King, Jr. I wonder how many of them know who his namesake, Martin Luther, was. Just as MLK, Jr. shook up the world with his dream of equality and non-violence, so did Martin Luther, who made the radical claim that you couldn't buy your way into Heaven with "indulgences." This little heresy shattered the powerful grip of Rome. Church hierarchy it is still trying to recoup that loss. The Reformation hoed the ground for the very hymns Martin Luther King, Jr. sang. There would have been no Abide with Me or Silent Night or Ebenezer Baptist Church without Martin Luther. Spirituals would not have seen the light of day. There's a side, though, to the argument which I find compelling: those songs would have surfaced because of the sheer positive energy of their message. Someone else would have shaken up the establishment and marched. My granddaughter voiced another opinion. She said the messenger was the more important. Without a charismatic messenger, the message would not have caught fire. I think of Wesley, Truth, Garrison, Douglass, Parks, Stowe..... Either way, whatever side of the debate you take, be mindful of your assignment: carry on the dream.
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"Our scientific powers have outrun our spiritual powers; we have guided missiles and mis-guided men."--MLK,jr.

The blessings of peace and endurance guide you on this holiday.

"A Stitch in Time"

My family used to say Aunt Stella was as old as Benjamin Franklin since they shared a birth date. Briefly, before adventuring to the cities of the world, she was a schoolmarm in a one room school. Fond of Franklin, she sprinkled his quotes like Texas bluebonnets to brighten the lives of all ages. I remember particularly this one: "Some are weatherwise. Some are otherwise." Her mother, Mary Leahy Reinhardt, had been so taken with a passing stranger named Stella traveling on a wagon train that the first daughter was proudly christened Stella. My mother, however, didn't see why that would mean giving her the name Della in honor of the same woman just because it rhymed. My grandmother was a reader, though. She had a complete set of the works of Charles Dickens which she had brought over from Ireland by way of England. She had some kind of small organ she played in the farmhouse while other pioneer ladies were quilting and canning. 'Tis said her biscuits were the hardest in Indian Territory. She could have cared less. Eventually, she played for several church services on Sundays and for Saturday night dances as she was the only one round about who could read music. Was this why I became a reader and musician? Possibly. I am particularly fond of David Copperfield, the Charles Dickens version. And I have played on Sundays at churches. Nobody ever asked for a Saturday night dance but kindergarteners routinely requested, "Here We Go to Stomping Land." In honor of Stella now long missed, I quote one of her many poems.

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NOTE WITH A GIFT

I’ll say if you ask why

This day’s selection

That any day’s appropriate

To celebrate affection.

Stella Halit

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The blessings of brave-hearted ancestors and quotable quotes sustain you.

In a Special Category

In the category of Friends I've Never Met: I want to tell you of the passing of Susanna Foster early this morning. In Memory donations can be made to the Lillian Booth Actors' Home:
Lillian Booth Actors' Home
175 West Hudson Avenue
Englewood, New Jersey 07631
Her voice has been stilled but her music and beauty goes on in the hearts of her fans.

A Question of Design

Blogger.com has an option for how many posts to show on a page. I had chosen 7 but then I couldn't "let go" of the first ones. However, last night I had Ae Fond Kiss stuck in my head until it turned into a Sign. Today is the first day of the rest of the Blob! and it will start with a song: "Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sigh and groans I'll wage thee." Achingly, devastatingly sad. It's true. However, this Nelson Eddy clip makes Ae Fond Kiss nae sa bad. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYCF7A2OW7g&feature=rec-HM-fresh+div
The featured photo today, with permission of the author, is the cover art of Carolyn Meyer's latest Young Adult book. If the inserting works I will feature Loving Will Shakespeare, which is my favorite, on Valentine's Day.Did you not think I would still be blobbing by then? I was happy to learn Blogger also gives moi the option of rejecting comments. Be as nasty as you like! I can hit the Reject button. And I will!
In conclusion, I suspect you know I believe in never saying severing forever. There has to be a way around that little problema.
The blessings of fresh beginnings to you and the re-uniting of forever friends.

Gnarly Tree

I told my late husband that he was the only person I knew whose birth date was the title of a play: The Night of January 16th. I never saw the play or the movie (1941) but knew it was a mystery. I decided to put on my Researcher's Cap (aka Google Cap) to find out what the play was about. He would have liked the mystery part but he would not have approved of the writer leaving the conclusion up to the audience. Douglas liked things tidy. Last night in the snail mail came a wonderful program from Summer 2005 of the Nelson Eddy Appreciation Society, the topic of which was The Phantom of the Opera (1943). Now that's a society Douglas would have joined in a New Rochelle High minute. Nelson Eddy sang Gilbert and Sullivan. Douglas sang Gilbert and Sullivan, not to mention oratorio, opera, and heart-melting Scottish songs. Was there ever a song like, "Ae Fond Kiss," a classic "Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" ballad?
When I came across this tree (note photo)on a walk in El Cerrito, I felt it was a memorial. It had a small hand written sign, "God Careth for You." I called it Gnarly Tree: Gnarly, as in the shape of the tree. Gnarly, as in the California term for "awesome."
A feature on the sidebar of the blog about The Night of January 16th: Top Chapel Hill blogs. I looked to see if there happened to be anyone I knew. There wasn't. Of course, I'm not on the list b/c I am a Blob.The blessings of woodland habitats be yours this day and don't forget the cake and candles. He would have been 90. Songs,hymns, and patter welcome.

Abrazame Muy Fuerte

Sophie is missing Lucille. I said, "Sophers, how about we refresh our Spanish?" Sophie dutifully curled up on the arm of the sofa and waited for my commentary. Was I surprised! Telefutura(ironic name considering) was re-running a telenovela I had seen in 2001. I told Sophie, "Abrazame Muy Fuerte translates to, 'I need big hugs.'" She wasn't impressed. Her claim to needs involves better din-din. Her look said, "When are you going to sneak in some Fancy Feast ?" Obviously, the feline rumor mill has been active about certain previous cat-sitting adventures of mine with Cleo and Toni. You probably think Cleo is short for Cleopatra and Toni for Anthony but it's not the case. It's Cleopatra and Marie Antionette, two beauties, very into movies. Watching Pablo Montero, popular singer, and one of the featured stars of Abrazame Muy Fuerte, made me wonder if one of my favorite song of 1973 could be found on YouTube. Yes! "Eres Tu."
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On this special day, a quote:

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"I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality."--Martin Luther King, Jr.
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I wish you the blessings of tolerance, the keeping of animals large and small, and love songs in the still of the night.

The Naming of Rivers

I was delighted when the publisher of Autumn Leaves gave permission to post one her poems. There are so many! This one has certain elements I find especially appealing: I like the naming of rivers. Trees, of course, are impossible to pass up. Singing to the river is the icing(it's freezing out the door of the Shire so I have ice on my mind) on the cake. I'm assuming you know that it should be eaten on a picnic down by the riverside. Parkas, ahoy! I read on the americanrivers.org site that there is a future in energy from old mills. If you've ever been to Mabry Mill on the Blue Ridge Parkway, you will know why I say, "Double yay to that!" Sing to a river today.Sing of the seasons and faraway friends and homework and studying war no more. Sing so I can hear you!

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Early Winter on the Brandywine
by Sondra Ball

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By the edge of the Brandywine

where weeping willows grow,

I find a fallen tree trunk

still clear of snow.

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I sit upon the tree trunk,

watch grey green waters flow

southward towards the Chesapeake

through banks of snow.

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I sing to the Brandywine:
green waters,

clean waters,

where do you flow?

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I hear the river answer:

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over hills,

over rills,

through the white snow.

Spelling Liszt

I have a great affection for Liszt. My signature piece in high school was Liebestraum. Spelling his name was harder than playing his pieces. I tried creating a phrase such as Lazy Icicles Slip...and then came the stalling out. What to do with the z? I was a terrible pianist but a terrific announcer of pieces. I became so impassioned during a contest talking about the rhapsodies that I actually won. Romance was in the air and I had put it there! My teacher said I won on "flourish." I won with Liebestraum and the prize was a trip to North Carolina to perform for the International Platform Association. Platform apparently was an old-timey word for "stage." The best part was that I rode up from St. Pete, Fl. with strangers, one of whom was a blind pianist. I so much enjoyed their company. We stopped at my first Carolina waterfall and I tried to describe it to the blind pianist. He said, "It's sounds like you playing the piano." I was reminded of this when I read entries on the Susanna Foster Chronicles. http://www.susannafosterchronicles.com Among the many musicians and singers named, there was my old friend Liszt. If you happen to think of a reminder phrase, pass it along. Do include icicles in some way as a tip o' the hat to The Shire. And take a listen on YouTube: Evgeny Kissin and Liebestraum. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-kKoHqdImYE&feature=relatede He knows and I always advocate putting a little romance in the day.

Family, All Kinds

I've had a request for a photo of the Blobber. The closest I could come was a photo of the Blobber's brother, the dashing dashabout. There's a resemblance. He has curly hair and I don't. He has straight teeth and I don't. His aura seems to be stripes and mine is sparkly. However, the 'tude is the same. Also, note a photo of Great-Uncle Farmer Ray who pitched a season for the St. Louis Browns. I am posting a poem by my cousin Karen. It was published in Autumn Leaves, the online poetry (mostly Native American) journal. I have permission b/c I am family. I've never met her. I have met her brother, "Chili."I found him on a whitepages.com search. When he answered the phone I heard him say, "It's a relative and she's talkin' to us!" In two shakes of a turkey's tail, he and his wife jumped in their car and drove from St. Louis, MO to Durham, NC to view this wonder.
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Faded Glory by Karen DuChateaux

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Breakers pound, endlessly
heartbeating on the beach;
the Santiago rests quietly,
patiently, oblivious to
winter storms raging.
Waves become calm surf,
barnacles grow. Still
the Santiago waits, serene
in endless dreams of days
when she proudly rode
those same waves now
playing tag through her ribs.

_________________________the blessings of family-- quirky, dysfunctional, absent, or close be yours on this Goodnewsday.

The World of Behind the Scenes

I had intended something altogether different but on the way, I had a calamity. My blob vanished. I have a list of posts on the Edit page but no posts on the site. Can you believe this? Frankly, I can. It is reminiscent of the time I happened to delete my operating system on the mac. Randy B. said that took a lot of talent. I have decided not to post another blob until I find out if indeed I have lost all or might in fact end up with duplicates. It's karma. I got jealous of a friend of a friend's blob which has a quote from the Daily Dalai Lama. My dad had a quote from the daily Buddha, which, naturally being my dad, he made up. It was this green-eyed attempt to have the daily quote which caused the breakdown in communication between Moi and my blob. Stay tuned.

The Writer's Obligation

I might have know it would come to this. I have two Followers and a feature, "Manage." Manage the Followers?I'd like to know how I'm supposed to do that. Both of these Followers are noted Writers and Rebels with Rebel written in bold. What is really worrisome is that I now feel a writer's obligation to come up with something worth following. Oh, the angst of the blank page! Can I take Sundays off? How about a map? That's worth following. Or I could pretend I am the Oprah of the Shire and make book recommendations. How about both? A map and a book. Excellent. The Shire's first book recommendation is a quirky,unforgettable,poignant little tale about an eleven year old girl who writes cowboy poetry. Well, maybe it isn't about her but she is what caught my attention in a big way. How's that for a scholarly review? It's called Peace Like a River by Leif Enger. Her poetry is the best! It's set in Minnesota in the 1960's and...you know what? I'm going to stop writing and see where my copy is. A writer's obligation, according to Randy B, is to cut all the adjectives and sum things up in three sentences. I'm over my limit. The blessings of Sunday to you courageous followers and sensible non-followers!

"In the Bleak Mid-Winter"

I suppose this could be called mid-winter but there's nothing bleak about
it. The temperature was 28 degrees as dawn slipped through the poplars and
pines but the day is as clear and inviting as a summer romp by the sea.
Much like at a summer festival, musicians, artists, philosophers, writers, and
wayfaring strangers are welcome to the Shire as it is a Paradise of the
Arts. I would call it the Palace of the Arts but San Francisco has the
copyright on that name and hobbits lean more towards holes than edifices.
Hole of the Arts. What do you think? The artwork of the day is from Robert
Janz, artist/philosopher/writer/wayfaring stranger but not so great
musician. Well, some people would say it's music.I remember being 4 years
old and asking,"What's that racketo?" The reply was, "Be nice. That's your
brother." I read a piece in Time magazine about happiness. Did you know that someone's happiness can be infectious? Yes! Your happiness can make the friend of a friend of a friend happy. So--banish bleakness (except in a good poem) and change the world. The blessings of the friendship of friends of friends be yours.

Trickle Up

Blobbing is confusing. The newer posts are what the pages open to. Now, how many books, letters, secret memoranda, and love notes start from the bottom? I've heard of reading east to west as in the Chinese version of the San Francisco Chronicle, but the only Read Up material with which I am acquainted is the Amtrak schedule. Did you know I can get from the Shire to New York City easy peasey on the tracks? And I'm not talking about the freight to Carr Mill. I'm talking THE CAROLINIAN! There's one leaving in an hour...if you don't hear from Mirushka for a couple of days, you'll know what she's up to.

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The above is my version of tracks and the photos are what you might see if you were taking the scenic route with Mirushka. May you have the blessing of mir journeys today and everyday.