Photo Credit: Michael Fenichel

Eureka Christmas Tree Addition: Randy B.

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Last year at this time, I posted a "Person of the Year." Eva Sachtschale was my choice and I'm pleased to update you on her progress. She had a very good year. I'm thinking for this post, instead of a person I would like to suggest a symbol for the coming year. I'm big on positive symbols as you know (like the logo for Save the Children) else why would I have turned various apartments into a Little Red Schoolhouse, a Shire, and a Treehouse? For this last Tuesday of 2010 post, I am ending with a look to the future instead of the past. One of the images that captured my imagination recently will be my new "Metaphor for 2011" image. Remember the post about the 500 Santas in Central Park? Well, on that same day, I was sitting in the Boathouse Cafe. I was struck by the beauty of the view: a rowboat anchored with a small Christmas tree in its stern. I thought of the several times in my life when there has been upheaval and I felt I had been set adrift in a rowboat under a big sky and wondered where I would be led. There had been a feeling of exhilaration at what I might find and a timidity that I might be not up to it, guided though I was. As I was looking at the pond, I thought I would update that image to, The Christmas Tree in the Boat. Yes, our boats set sail for 2011 but they are beautiful boats with all good things in them. In my case, the number 20 is my birthday number (and my daughter's and granddaughter's) and 11 is my dad's and son's birthday number. What a splendid year it will be. Christmas will follow us all of the days. Postcards along the way are in our destiny!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

New moon coaxing stars

To sprinkle bright messages.

Peace, good hopes be yours.

...may the blessings of a New Year surround you and grant you adventure...

Winter in the Shire

Luminaries

Photo Credit: B.E. Hobbs

~~~~~~~~~~~~

My mother used to say that the most important thing in life was to feel useful. She didn't "pursue happiness." It came to her. She wasn't big on presents as, according to her, they put the emphasis in the wrong place and there was the undercurrent of obligation . It tickled me how my dad would buy something he'd like to have and she would buy something she'd like to have and they would exchange those as gifts. I'll never forget the year my dad received a tray with legs. He exclaimed, "I didn't know I wanted breakfast in bed. What a great idea!' and she said, "Big slippers! In the same style and color as in years past. What continuum!" Continuum was the name of a book my brother had a photo in so we used the word a lot. When I said one year that I was going to start a new tradition of only giving Christmas presents to children, my folks heartily agreed, "Such a relief!" My dad was a fan of C.A.R.E. Off would go a package to a different location each year. We were very budget minded as money saved was money that could be shared.

I found such a batch of old Christmas poems here in the Shire that I decided I'd post two from long ago. As you can see, my writing style has not changed over the years and my tender view of life only acquires more patina.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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 sound of tunes quietly harmonious.

I muse on how to wrap

the wishes that it brings--

how to stow away

a thousand crystal moments

of good will 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 Christmases to come.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chrysanthemums lean like choristers

singing an earnest prayer;

measures greet me on the way

up the garden steps as I welcome

happy parcels in...stories all the quiet evening

with the hum of distant carols...

scents of dry jasmine, salvaged

from a summer's scouting,

and fir.

Everywhere, irrepressible joy--

messages, smiles, songs, secrets,

gentle rememberings

and scattered projects

stuffing each moment's fill

exceedingly.

A special time brings

a special wish:

Merry Christmas

~~~~~~~~~~

....may the blessings of a holy night be yours...

The Music of Thanksgiving

WQXR, the classical music station in New York City is hosting, "The Gratitude Project." I'm fascinated by the comments, the little histories. Most of them have to do with the first time the writer heard a particular piece at what age. The variety of pieces is amazing, not much duplication. I can't remember the first time I heard anything. My favorites seem to be part of my childhood, as though I heard them all at once. I thought about what I would choose if I were to comment. I associate different works with different people rather than thinking about the music itself. Pictures at an Exhibition takes me back to Cali, when my brother was sketching a "book" of short poems and I thought he would become a famous artist. The New World Symphony reminds me of Jonesy, the violinist/soldier near the end of the Second World War. Appalachian Spring became very important when I lived in Boone and heard the North Carolina Symphony play it in a summer concert. Un Bel Di is clearly a June Till memory; I never tired of listening to her singing, so powerfully, so lightly, when we were in high school together and she was Most Talented. The Russian Easter Overture instantly takes me to when Daff was studying Russian at Appalachian State and we went to Winston Salem with my mother to see the Lovefeast at Home Moravian Church. The Organ Symphony brings to mind the family visit to EPCOT where in the country of France, the simulated hot air balloon was accompanied by its lush grand chords and sweeping melody. Chopin's Tristesse "belongs" to my dad and The Lark Ascending belongs to Will. Nobody better claim Der Ring des Nibelungen; it's Lucille's! There is a site for old mysteries posted on YouTube. It is a gift to us all from a fifteen year old in Spain who had a grandmother he called Nan. He has uploaded videos she had in her attic. She apparently taped British comedies and comedic mysteries for years. He writes that he doesn't watch them himself but this is his tribute to her. I know now that whenever I hear Capriccio Espagnol, I will think of Nan. Should Gustav Holst's The Planets air, I will think of starman2110 (whoever he or she is) who has brought the uploaded many episodes of Waking the Dead, A Touch of Frost, and Inspector Morse. I don't understand the copyright issues. There should be some and I hope these sharers will not see fines in their lives. Meanwhile, I appreciate their efforts. As for the topic of gratitude, foremost for me is The Moldau. Its rushing river, wedding festivities, optimism, and longing for home never ceases to astonish and gladden me. Tell me what you would choose, or tell WQXR.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of melody reminders uplift you...

Reminder

Posts while in New York may be viewed at http://mimseyinthetreehouse.blogspot.com

Shuttering

Sophie with Will's Flowers

Photo Credit: Lucille Fidler

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is and has been a lot of speculation about Emily Dickinson's life as a poet and recluse. Some say she was a lesbian in love with her aunt. Another book I read said she wore white everyday because of a severe eye condition which is why she had a trip to Boston to visit a doctor about an operation. A recent work suggests she had epilepsy. A writer from Tennessee claimed to read abortion in the lines that include a known potion used in her time for said event. Personally, since I heavily identify with her poetic reclusive nature, I don't delve into the why's. I don't like to think of her dearest friend in the family feuding with an outsider. I let them rest in peace. For all I know she might have worn white after reading Alice in Wonderland. At her bidding, the extensive correspondence was burned after her death and it occurred to me, though I would never compare myself to her, that I wouldn't want my correspondence burned. Today's post is about leaving the Shire. It's time to shutter up, to say goodbye to the Shire for awhile and I thought I'd print part of a message I sent so that people wouldn't speculate about me. I have been a mostly contemplative person but an open one. I treasure transparency. If I start a family feud about what I write, I think that is unfortunate but it would be started anyway for those who do feuds. My friend Dian in Roanoke types me as a faerie and I have always liked that image, touching lightly here and there. I think you'll have a good sense of the identity of the blobber from this portion of an e-mail. Alas, with no mysteries to solve, there will be no book written about me and my poems. A very good thing. Old-fashioned correspondence is rare in this age of the quick, texted note but I'm a harker back. I like the pretty stationery, the time-consuming pace of handwriting which is almost an art form, the wax stamps. Here then is my version of Emily's, "Letter to the World"

"good morning to you. i'll be sleeping as you read this. it was a

lovely outing with daff and b.e. to casa ibarra and then getting

some groceries for the remaining few days. henry was with his indian

friend who had moved to vancouver but is back for a visit. it was

nice talking about b.e.'s next year at app. it will be her last for

band. she hopes to go on the trip the band is taking to spain but

money is tight. even at an instate school, her tuition is

outrageous. it was a rare girls night out. i doubt that there will

be another. times change and she will be involved with her friends

and jobs. i've been lucky to be part of her life. i expected to come

down from boone to babysit when she was one and then go back up to

the mountains but here i am still. we talked about mimsey camp when

i was at woods edge and had the little corner screened porch right

by the woods. i was able to put a lamp out there at night and it was

really like camping. deer would come up and fireflies galore. in her

junior year, she hopes to have an apt which will cost less than dorm

living. i'll bet it will be a lot like woods edge as far as decor

goes. i can imagine her staying in boone the rest of her days."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of old-fashioned correspondence be yours..

Hand-Me-Downs and Pass-a-Longs

Out of the Closet, Housing Works, Angel Street. Those are the names of some of the thrift shops in Manhattan. Ever since I first fell in love with a table (yes, the nine kinds of love such as agape, platonic, romantic, and everlasting don't mention love-of-furniture-with-a-history) at a Goodwill in 1963, I have been a frequenter of thrift shops. I gravitate to the ones whose mission is of particular interest to me. I was delighted to discover that Club Nova in Carrboro--the Town of a Different Flavor next door to Chapel Hill--is patterned after Fountain House in New York City. Mental illness is their focus. I saw The Snake Pit with Olivia De Havilland when I was 12 and it influenced the rest of my life's peace efforts. I felt if something could be done about mental illness, something could be done about interpersonal relations. All good things would come of this! Here is what I found on the web:

"Club Nova is a psychosocial rehabilitation (PSR) program for adults with severe and persistent mental illness (SPMI) that are over the age of 18 and residents of Orange County. As a clubhouse community, Club Nova guarantees members a place to come, a place to return, meaningful work, and meaningful relationships. Membership is completely voluntary and without time limits. Each member decides his or her level of involvement and participation. Club Nova highly values work as part of the rehabilitation process, providing meaningful work during the day, as well as opportunities for employment in the community though the Transitional Employment (TE) Program (see links to the left for more information about employment). Club Nova also provides a social program and community support services, as well as some case management and crisis intervention."

"Fountain House is dedicated to the recovery of men and women with mental illness by providing opportunities for our members to live, work, and learn, while contributing their talents through a community of mutual support.

We are committed, as we have been since 1948, to bettering the lives of people with mental illness everywhere. We do this through the development of innovative techniques, research and sharing knowledge with others."

A new thrift shop which I will have to post at a later date has the clever combination of "thrift" and "Tiffany's" in the name. It's somewhere along 3rd Avenue as I recall. When I get back to the Treehouse, I'll let you know. Meanwhile, my wish is that you take a couple of items from times past to your local thrift shop and remember the advice of my Uncle Halit, "If you buy something, you have to give something away." In this age of Share, passing along your favorite stuff is the ultimate sharing experience.

The photos include a banner from Fountain House, a logo from the New York City Opera, an inside look at the (diabetes research) Cure Thrift Shop, and the Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center.

...may the blessings of the river of giving be yours...

Homes Away from Home

Summer has arrived in its fullest brightness. These sweet sunny steamy southern days remind me of when my dad was assigned to Liberia while my mother and I fanned ourselves in St. Pete before air conditioning in our house was a staple of any month from March to November. I remember going to the movies not so much for the movie itself but for the icicle decorations outside advertising to the world that inside we could be chilled to the bone. Those were the precious afternoons of "double features." I remember coming in from school to see my mother happily ironing (!)while listening to the latest on the radio which seemed to be tuned solely to news of Mickey Mantle. Letters from my dad ran to five or six typed pages. He didn't fade under the heat the way I did. The mail boat went out on Fridays so each letter was diary like. He never skimped on detail and found humor in everything. His postcards, on the other hand, said all we needed to know in few words and a good picture. B.E. said something nice when she came over. She said, "No matter where you move, your place always smells the same." I was surprised. I asked, "What does it smell like?" She said, "Wood and memories."

...may you find old postcards and significant scents to bless your day...

Nearing the Solstice

It was a seashell kind of morning. I expected to walk out of the door of the Shire and find the ocean rolling along instead of the trees. I put on the bracelet I received on my sixth birthday and Diansica's beads from Key West. Daff and Oto gave me a L'Occitane tote which I immediately decorated with a sunflower. I wore my Thomas Tallis skirt (named after the fact that I had sewn it just before singing in the tiny New Hope Presbyterian Church for the first time and the anthem was by Thomas Tallis). Then it was off to Mexican food at Casa Ibarra, the beautifully restored yellow house in Hillsborough. After lunch we stopped in at Goodwill where I gave a little gasp. The Angel of the Day had been a card B.E. made several years ago, "The Angel of Kite Flying." I've never known quite what it meant but as I was browsing the books, I saw The Kite Runner for 81 cents. It's a book on my list to read. I opened it to see how I liked the beginning paragraphs and discovered it was set in Golden Gate Park where some kites were flying, "...a pair of kites, red with long blue tails, soaring in the sky." A blurb review by Isabel Allende stated that after reading this book, everything else seemed bland. Sounds good!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may your special day be either a good memory or sometime in the future and bring you blessings.

"An Actor's Life for Me"

mad hatter art by henry hobbs

****************************

The first movie I remember seeing was Lassie Come Home. I became an instant fan of the movies and, of course, Lassie. The year before, my family had a cocker spaniel but since I was very small, she sufficed as a big dog. Subsequent to Lassie, favorite actors and actresses included James Mason, Juliet Binoche, Jeremy Irons, Julie Harris, Harrison Ford, Theresa Wright, Jane Wymark, Susan Wooldridge, and Jennifer Jones. I gravitated to movies about spies and couldn't resist a good romance. A remaking of a Victorian era novel was a true happening for me. I was intrigued by an interview on the Dianne Rehm show with Simon Tolkien, the grandson of J.R.R. Tolkien. Simon has stepped into the writing field with a "courtroom drama" which begins in WWII in Normandy. My cup of tea and if a movie is made, I hope one of my favorites is in it. Alas, it probably won't be Johnny Depp who is one terrific actor but turns down standard parts. The first time I saw him was in a movie where he was bagging groceries. The next had him making a grilled cheese sandwich by using a steam iron and ironing board. Quirky is also my cup of tea. As a teen I bought two movie magazines in hopes of seeing Jean Simmons or Richard Burton. It was not the gossip I looked for. It was the photos of roles they played. I begged my uncle to draw a sketch of Jean Simmons as Young Bess. It was as good as Hans Holbein any day. My high school days were full of art from the silver screen adorning my room. I also was keen on finding out about the stars' childhoods. How did they get to where they were? So when I read an article last week about Johnny Depp in Boom! (a Piedmont publication) I thought, "I need to put him in a blob and I need to quote this paragraph. It may explain why Johnny Depp has a fund of joy in his acting." I asked permission from the writer of the article, Barbara Perry, and her reply was, "... if you footnote the quote and say something about 'reprinted from the Internet - unverified' it should be ok." So here is the Unverified You Didn't See It Here First choice paragraph:

"'At my house dinner easily could have consisted of a bologna sandwich, and then you'd split. You might come back later and grab a few peanuts, and you'd split again. I would go to my buddy Sal's house for dinner. I couldn't understand what was going on with everyone sitting down together.There was salad and appetizers and soup. I had no idea about that.'" Perhaps he and I have a quixotic childhood in common. Perhaps a quixotic childhood is the training ground for superior acting. My mother thought so. She said I had the makings of a fine actress. I said excitedly, "You mean I could play the legendary tragic heroines--Anna Karenina, Juliet, or Camille?" My mother did the arching the eyebrow thing and replied, "I was thinking comedy."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...may days of theater magic bring you blessings...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pYmtN8aG3zQ&feature=player_embedded#!

Boxes and Boxes

Life after the Foreign Service for my folks was very much like life before; they moved on the average of every two years. Was this out of habit or because of opportunity? The coffee reports my dad wrote morphed into a newspaper column--same wit, detail, and optimism. My mother began a oft repeated mantra, "This is my last move." She described each as, "Boxes and boxes." No wonder. The souvenirs, the books, the writings, the scraps were treasures. I'm glad to have been the family historian even though I had no sense of systematizing, archiving, labelling. Things simply ended up in boxes and boxes. However, these boxes tell the stories of my life and how I held together the evidence of other people's lives in reverent cohesion. Here is the my cross-stitching of an alphabet sampler with peacocks bowing gracefully. Over there is the budding collection of blue bottles. The poster made from a photo of Winston Graham's garden is hung with "The String of Stars," paper stars Barbara Emily and Henry made one summer in Roanoke. An antique jewelry case holds broken halves of earrings but not just any. Nothing is Just Any. A decorated shoe box with Helpers written across it contains letters from friends along the way. A scrapbook is filled with calling cards of people long dead who stopped to visit my parents when they lived in Guatemala, their first post. I have considered scanning and filing objects and drafts and art but what a project! And wouldn't it be missing the tactile thrill of touching something very old and kin? For years the realization that after "I'm gone" most would be tossed, recycled, and worst yet, ignored, has haunted me. Yes, I have been haunted by Proust and Time Passing. My possessions would be kidnapped, somebody else's project, and I worried. It has become increasingly clear to me, though, that the worry was not about me. It was about these things being cared for. A sketch meaning nothing to an outsider has been lovingly protected for decades. A tiny geode which might be overlooked has housed memories no one could replicate from viewing a photo. My connection to inanimate objects began at the age of three when I explained to my dolly that tea would be late. Letting go would be appropriate but not characteristic. The clutter proofing magazines all tell me peace would be healthful. However, my health may be better because of my "friends": the petite Eiffel Tower with its patina harboring the scents of World War II; the wooden camel with the miniature perfume bottle in its cargo, the perfume long evaporated; and what about the "Remember Who You Are" bracelet crafted in Eureka? Or the wreath of fox grape gathered behind the cabin? Must I really dispose of the mint tin filled with my grandmother's buttons? Who would know about the candleholders made in the garage opposite the beach house by the policeman who escorted me to the polling booth? Who's to note the scratched water color set (with some missing) was my mother's when the jungle was her back yard? Lucille writes, "The organizer I follow, Julie Morgenstern, objects to folks who tell you to clear out everything. She does not think that is necessary. You organize to retrieve stuff because you need to be able to find what you want when you need it. You also clear out things that YOU do not want, but not things other people say you shouldn't have. You have to be safe (can't leave the unused bear traps on the floor covered with old laundry--my example) and clean enough to be sanitary, but you do not have to be minimalist. She says that beautifully organized houses on the outside that have organized and kept the wrong stuff are not organized. Nor are houses where things have been where things have been stacked and stored to be out of sight but where no one can get to what they need."

City Song

He has 2 friends and me.

Incredible variety.

My son climbs dreams instead of trees

and leans to swing off rocking chairs

carefully angled to miss by inches

the farthest point

he calls, "Land Ho."

~~~~~~~~~

...may the things that you have bring you the blessings of remembrance of things past...

A Morning Unlike Others

In 1988, while living in a cabin in North Carolina near the Blue Ridge Parkway, I came across a publication from Caldwell Community College. I was impressed with the artistry and layout and decided to submit a poem for Volume Four. This was a jewel of a poetry "magazine," printed on white cardstock style quality paper. The name appealed to me, too. Branches. I was delighted when my poem was included and even more delighted when it was accompanied by a photograph by Peter Morris whose name I knew from Boone's The Mountain Times. It was a photo of an Amish boy peeking around a barn. It captured what I liked most about the publication--clean simplicity like laundry hung on a country clothesline gently flapping in a breeze. This was not one of those pretentious modern poetry (?) concoctions where I would have to weed through a poem to find at least one image I could latch onto. Neither was it sappy in any way. For Volume Five, I decided to submit two more, one an Easter poem. Laurette LePrevost didn't give me any hints so when I saw it had been illustrated with a drawing, my delight was even greater. I didn't know if it had been especially "commissioned" for the poem or she found something she thought would fit. It's one of my regrets that I never took the time to find out or thank the artist. I did meet Laurette when my daughter took me "down the mountain" to Hudson, NC to hear Clyde Edgerton speak at CCC. I hope I remembered to thank Laurette for the sketch by Hannah Hunt. I tried Googling Hannah to see if I could have permission to use her drawing and that took me on another adventure. It's such a name in history. I was glad to discover Hannah Hunt married Thomas Grey. My mother often quoted the lines from his Elegy in a Country Churchyard. "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the summer air."

For your Easter Sunday, here is the poem:

April

Down the road, a child practices

"Rustle of Spring" on her grandmother's Chickering.

The small farmhouse windows are propped

by foot and a half split logs;

the arpeggios reach our cabin as if

a part of the night's programme.

The cats sit on the porch rail

contemplatively, a model audience

grateful for the warm companionly air

which brings a crowd--moles, robins, tree frogs.

Easter here is a sneak-up-behind kind of joy:

red leaf buds suddenly opened,

creek violets in a
"Surprise!" pose,

juncoes twittering at our

slow-to-see handicaps.

I hum along. Spring rustles in

and out of Amanda Beth's fingers

and joins the quiet roar

of the land reborn.

~~~~~

...may the blessings of renewal be yours...

Passion Week

artwork by bobby janz

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stand about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide."

--A.E. Housman

~~~~~~~~~~

This time of year brings many things: rains, flowers, deep-dyed Russian Easter eggs, open windows, plant sales, top to toe cleaning, sneezes, and the kind of optimism which comes from surviving winter. Consumer confidence rises and shopping bags begin to fill. Store windows display comfortable easy-care clothes one might actually be interested in wearing. Not all of these apply to me. For instance, cleaning fits come over me on Tuesdays regardless of the season and I am consistently confident consumers will pay a passel of pennies to eat out. The mortgage may fall behind but a latte a day is the last to go. From whence this confidence? Passion Week is a clue. Pastor Ray gave a sermon on "knowing." "Be still and know that I am God." I've thought in the past that people come to knowing through experience; enough incidents add up to an aha! moment. It happened to Charles Wesley and John Newman that way. But now, I think there is also a brain/visual component. You either "see" it or you don't, the way some people see turquoise and others don't. Maybe faith is akin to cataract removal--suddenly there is clarity. I always feel sad when a person doesn't understand my cosmic connection. It's like someone saying, "I don't believe in quarks." What to do? What to do? Go forth. Do good. Hope. I have a constant need to tell all. "Did you know that at a Moravian Lovefeast the service is all music and the Communion elements are a mug of coffee and a sweet bun? Did you know that in southern Mexico, a church serves 7Up thinking it is a sacred mineral source? Did you know that gossip ranks right up there with murder as a sin? Did you know that the definition of sin is to be separated from God?" The drawing above is my brother's from when we lived in Jerusalem. How did we get there? A miracle plain and simple. I love the exuberance of those sketches which I keep in a special box. I regret that his faith changed as well as his art. Mine didn't. It couldn't. I was there. I had been led there. I knew what there was about. I was healed there. My mother said we were there because I "asked." I wanted to go to the Holy Land more than anywhere else on Earth. The complications said journey entailed could only have been managed by a loving hand. My brother was faster paced than I and yet he took me for jaunts all over Palestine with a running monologue. "Solomon ruled here. Right on the very spot you are standing on. That's Rachel's tomb. It's not as fancy as the pyramids. She was modest and dutiful." I've been walking in that beauty ever since. In high school my friend, June Till, sang what might be called my anthem, "I Know that my Redeemer Liveth." A woman named Clara Scott wrote the hymn, "Open my eyes that I may see" and Fanny Crosby, the blind hymnwriter from New York wrote 9,000 hymns! including Blessed Assurance. Oh, oh. Here I go telling (well, telling it like it is necessitates calling it preaching) again. Bon Jovi says he wasn't born to follow. I, on the other hand, was.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

...may the blessings of knowing that all is known be yours...

FROM THE DESK OF

This is anniversary week at the Blob. On January 7 of last year, I investigated a link sent by a friend. It was a blog called My Manifested Reality. It was quite spectacular with a daily quote from the Dalai Lama, fishes swimming, and a gorgeous sort of brocade green silk background. I noticed a "Create a Blog" sign. I says to myself says I, "Why not?" I was only going to post one time just to see how it worked because Michael Evans had wanted my opinion on what was the best way to mount his memoirs of life with Susanna Foster. Well, my blog didn't come out nearly the extravaganza as his did or Mr. Manifested Reality's but I was hooked after that first post.

It was the ideal format for me and I liked the perky modest look. Then came the "widgets." Instead of fishes, I had a climbing frog. Instead of the Dalai Lama, I showcased Tolkien. I added photography (microscopic and scenes of New York City--how prophetic!) and the front page of the NYTimes. In honor of my father, I tossed Aristotle and Socrates in the mix and a slideshow. On my first "cover letter," I made a typographical error which came out to the whimsical word, "blob." Perfect. Dian of Roanoke suggested Facebook. I says to myself says I, "Why not?" I was only going to try one post to see how it worked. Sound familiar? I discovered I could post Chad Mitchell songs and articles such as the one about Grover's Corners. There were orgs which I could link like Save the Children, Poets, and Oxfam. And quizzes. Did you know I'm a Basset Hound? Somewhere along the way, I spotted Share the blob. Next came "Be a Fan." Why not? I became a fan of so many sites I can hardly keep up on the feed. Ask me anything about the latest in science, San Francisco, gay marriage, farmers' markets, and opera (among other topics) and I can make a good stab at a fairly lengthy conversation. Four days into my Facebook adventure came a Friend Request from someone Dian knew in New York. Why not? After that came Amtrak trips and this is the last post from the Shire because I'm off to the Treehouse by the East River.(http://mimseyinthetreehouse.blogspot.com) There is a lesson in this folks and it's not the one about, "Be careful what you wish for." It's the "Say to Yourself, Why Not?" lesson.

~~~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of little ripples be with you hasta the second anniversary...

Car Talk. Car tips, advice, and troubleshooting. | Car Talk in the Comics

Car Talk. Car tips, advice, and troubleshooting. Car Talk in the Comics

2010

photo credit: Henry Hobbs

Lo and behold. I must have known I was going to be a blobber. I found an old very short poetry column I did for the community newspaper my dad started in retirement. Here is the New Year's entry for 1962:

"January is the time for kings. The Magi brought gifts for the Child, while in the west, the god of gates and doors was being worshipped. Let us be kings in our own hearts and remember our treasuries of blessings this first month of the year.

The beautiful days of my life

Have lost their number

And weave in quiet assemblage

Through endless, lanterned archways.

Clouds and trees and monuments,

Gulls and winds and elegies

Dance with people, passing.

I have seen festive tables

In stately elegance

Shimmer in the sun.

I hum a soft surprise

And step in time with the grand parade."

~~~~~~~~

The following year, there is this entry.

"Don't forget that whoever opens the door and lets the New Year in has its responsibility and must be hospitable to the unpredicted guest.

A whisper of a smile

And January comes.

A year begun on gentle sighs,

A heart that bravely strums

Its song of love.

A whisper of a smile will linger,

Will caress us as we dream."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may the joy of good resolutions, this time kept, be with you...