Summers with Alma

   She would sit for hours in that old beat up chair. You know the kind-squared back, squared arms covered in gold-just a big gold square with little knots all over it.  It looked as if it had done battle with a cat or two.  She would usually throw an old, faded green and gold cover with over it.  I don't know why.  It was uglier than the chair.  And it was hardly sufficient.  Every time she sat down it would slip a little more into the crack between the seat cushion and the back of the chair.  Eventually she would have to get up and re-position everything.  The chair always sat in the same corner with the same little table and the same little lamp and the same Naugahyde  foot stool for the nine odd years I knew her.  The house always had that closed-up musty smell common in a lot of old houses.  But hers also had the added bonus of years of floral air sprays and cigarette smoke. The television sat directly opposite her and though 'color' had been around for a considerable time she still used an old black and white set.  When she wasn't watching her soaps she was listening to big band or 'hill billy' music (Box Car Willy was a favorite) on that old phonograph or eaves dropping with her CB radio.  On these occasions she would remove her glasses, close her eyes and put her head back.  She seemed to stay that way for so long I often thought she might be dead.  I would creep over to her to see if she were breathing.  Sometimes she would just be asleep. Other times she'd wait until I got close enough then she would grab me and start laughing that thin dry cackle. Once I honestly couldn't tell so I took her hand mirror off her dresser to put under her nose like they do in the movies.  I had barely got it close to her face when her eyes popped open and she said, "Stop that foolishness! And put that back before you break it!" She scared me so bad I nearly dropped the damn thing on her face!  They didn't do that in the movies.
 
    Her hair was rather thin and very gray and she wore it all teased up in a dome.  For some reason I could never fathom she thought it hid the bald spots.  To me it just looked like some weird spiders web through which you could see the pinkness of her scalp.  I guess being farsighted had its advantages. She really had no idea what she looked like.
    She was kind of sallow from a lifetime of smoking and she wore her skin like an old leather bag.  Her uniform of choice were a pair of stretch polyester pants (cut off for the summer), one of those sleeveless polyester 'shells' and if she were chilly she threw a cardigan over it.  She always had these long, red, dragon lady fingernails.  On each hand were wedding rings, remains of the two loves that had entered and left he life. In the right hand lived an extra long menthol cigarette.  God forbid her breath should smell like the rest of her. The inside of her middle and fore finger were literally yellow, a testament to the years of devotion to the god Nicotine.  Through out my life I have always associated the color yellow with her.
 
    She was a rather thin, bony woman who stood, when she was able to stand fully upright, just under 5'5".  Her back was always a source of complaint for her and in the latter years of her life she walked with the help of a walker.  At one time, however, she wore a belt with an electrical 'box' that sent out currents to stimulate the nerve endings in her lower back.  This was suppose to help her to walk easier and without so much pain.  I guess you could say she never really got the hang of the thing.
    It was summer and  we were sitting in the car waiting for her.  Our little car in the 1970's was not equipped with air conditioning so the windows were down and the radio was on.  We, being kids, were bee-bopping in the back seat.  As she came out of the house we were watching her; out of the door, down the steps and along the sidewalk toward us.  Then it started.  First was a shake in the right leg. Then a little kick. Then another kick.  Then her left hip jutted out and she grabbed her back.  Well we kids didn't know what was going on.  We thought she was dancing.  We started clapping our hands and laughing and having a good ol' time.  We didn't know the damn thing was shocking the hell out of her.  By the time she got to the car the belt was off and words were coming out of her mouth that would make a sailor blush.  Our first stop that day was her doctors office and no, she did not need a "damn appointment! I'm not going there to be fucking congenial!"   When we got there we all stayed in the car.  I never knew what transpired inside that day but when she emerged she had the walker.

    Visual acuity was not her strong point.  She was about as farsighted as a person could be.  Even though she wore glasses she would scrunch up her nose and upper lip so she could focus.  Plus if she were reading something she would hold it so far away form her face everybody else could read it too.  My adolescent and teen years were filled with the National Inquirer, Ellery Queen and a whole host of pulp fiction crime stories.
    The crime stories were a little too racy for us kids so she kept them buried in a baskets under the Good Housekeeping magazines on the side porch.  The side porch was completely enclosed, the three outer walls being screened with crank windows.  If you opened all the screens at once you would get a nice little breeze. Unless it was fixin' to storm.  At those times we thought we had the only tornado in captivity.  This was frowned upon.
    In one corner of the porch she had a fancy cushioned antique lounge chair.  This, of course, was the coveted seat.  However, if you weren't quick enough to get it there were the two metal outdoor chairs that were covered in floral patterned sheets and tons of pillows.  That was suppose to make them more comfortable and appealing.  There were little tables and stands with red geraniums and ferns and in between these were the notorious baskets.  Now we were aware that she was aware that we knew those little paperback 'books' were out there and where they were.  We also were aware of the fact that she knew we read them.   Every so often we'd look up at the window in the door and see her squinting back at us.  Then we would hear, "What cha'll readin'?  Better not be any of my crime stories."  Then we would hold up the Good Housekeeping with the little books tucked inside and usually she would go back to her t.v.  Sometimes, however, she would come out with us to make sure we understood those crime stories were not for kids and then she would precede to tell us all about the latest one she had read.
    The National Enquirer was different. That was breakfast fodder.  While most people were reading about national politics or the latest sports scores with their bacon and eggs we got to hear about the lady in Kentucky who had the alien baby and the man who found the face of Jesus in his grilled cheese sandwich.  According to her this was a pat of our education that the school system was apparently lacking.  It might be best if we didn't mention it though.

   Summer.  Ah, summer!  Summer was the thing.  Now the rest of the school year meant shortened visits and usually on the weekend.  But in the summer we could be there for days.  Which meant no curfew for starters.  As long as we were 'in bed' by the time she went to bed.  The youngest of us kids and the only boy slept in the front bedroom with her which left the back bedroom for us girls.  And being girls, we were all over that room, from the 'really vintage' clothes to the 1950's Bakelite jewelry to a box of really old photos and love letters.  Only once or twice did she ever yell at us from the other room.  Of course we had no idea what she said since she didn't have her 'teeth' in.  We would just look at each other and start giggling 'quietly'  The only light we had came from a small lamp on a bed stand on the far side of the room.  It was there on the floor with our pillows that we read the love letters.
    It was the letters that enthralled us the most.  They were from a Lt. Harris who was very much in love and apparently stationed in England somewhere near the coast.  He kept comparing the beauty of the landscape; the water, the birds, the cliffs to her, his 'dear sweet Alma'.  More often than not his letters would end romantically although a little gross.  In Almas, she would admonish him for something he had said and then do the same thing.  Of course all of this would get an "Awww, so romantic" or "gross" followed by giggles from us.   There were some that we didn't understand.  Things about England or some guy named Gerry.  And she would write about working in D.C. (boring) and 'family' only we didn't know any of the names.  One even had a lock of dark hair.  We didn't read that one.  We were too scared to touch the hair.
    A good deal of the photos were black and white of women wearing hats and gloves and dresses that hung below their knees and men in suits with hats  and baggy pants.  There were a lot of hats.  We never knew people really wore that many hats.  There were some photos of men in uniforms but the one that caught the eye of all of us was of a young man with dark wavy hair.  He had a little mustache, wore a tank style undershirt with trousers and was looking right into the camera.  He was beautiful.  We had hoped it was Lt. Harris but on the back it read 'Robert age 21' and that was all.  There weren't any other pictures of him and no mention of him in any letter. Just the one photo to prove he ever lived.  In later years I would find out the letters were between her and her first husband.  He would survive the war and give her two children.  There wasn't a letter with the lock of hair.  It was just wrapped in paper to keep it safe.  The hair and the photo of the young man were of her youngest brother, Robert who was hit by a car and died shortly after that photo.  She never said anything more about it and I didn't ask.

    The boy being the youngest of us kids always fell asleep before anyone which meant he woke up first.  Usually he would go on in the living room and watch cartoons.  One morning he couldn't get the show to come in.  So he did what any kid would do.  He went to get the only grown-up in the house. A couple of minutes later there was a blood curdling scream that woke everyone! He came running out of the room screaming and crying, speaking gibberish and pointing at Alma.  After a few minutes we realized he saw Alms' teeth in a glass of water and when she started to speak he really freaked. Of course we busted up laughing.  That up set him even more. Eventually we felt bad for the kid.  I mean it was the first time he had ever seen his grandmothers teeth in a glass when normally they were in her head. Now while we did feel bad we didn't feel that bad. All day long we went around with our lips curled over our teeth and kept saying, "Kiss me"  just to get him worked up all over again. (Kids really can be mean).

    While her house was one of the best places to be when I was growing up it could just as easily be one of the most miserable if you were being punished. Especially in the summer.  You see her back yard had only two trees. One was at the back door-a small redbud tree.  There was a little picnic table by it and next to that a small clothes line.  The other tree was in the very back of the yard-a big oak.  Unfortunately, it shaded more of her neighbors yard than it did hers.  In between the two trees was nothing but garden.  All garden.  I believe her son planted it but I never actually saw anyone do it.  We would just show up one warm day and it would be there all lush and green and full of things for us to pick, pull, snap, shuck and shell.  And all of it out in the open under the full sweltering strength of the summer sun.  She probably had the best and fullest garden I had ever seen, unfortunately.  An afternoon with all of us working together wasn't too bad.  A weekend on your own because you were being punished absolutely sucked.  I bought home an 'F' on my report card once and while they all went to Kings Dominion guess where I was.
    On the up side the ice cream man came every afternoon during the week all summer. And of course we heard it several blocks over which gave us plenty of time to convince her that yes, we did hear it. Yes, we did do EVERYTHING we were suppose to and yes, we would get her one too. I don't think I have eaten so many ice cream sandwiches and Nutty Buddies before or since.

    Summers also meant time spent at the river and for us that was the Rappahannock river.  It also meant time at the summer house, all five rooms of it.  She and her late husband, and a few assorted workmen, built the place.  It was a sitting room, two bedrooms, kitchen and bathroom. There were also two screened porches; the front one for the adults and the larger of the two in back for us.  This is were we spent our time when not in the water or wandering the 'neighborhood' which consisted of four dirt roads and one tarred road that led to the marina.  That porch was our domain...well until it was invaded by the adults.  And since she smoked liked an inferno she spent quite a lot of time with us. The station out of Warsaw was all that the radio would pick up clearly.  We had it on what seemed like all the time. Of course we didn't have a t.v. so it was our entertainment.  She would have us out there dancing and laughing and carrying on.  She use to tell us all about the dances and concerts she would go to in D.C. when she was young.  She would try to show us how to do some of the dances like the Foxtrot and the Jitterbug.  We, in turn, tried to teach her how to do the Hustle and the Bus Stop.  Now if we all had been able bodied and of an age where we could remember and follow the steps it might have been a successful and educational exchange between two generations.  That was not the case.  Instead we were five gangly, ungraceful kids and one sixty-two year old half blind, half deaf lady with a bad back and a dodgy hip. What we were was a mess.  There were arms and legs going every where.  We were bumping into each other; tripping over one another. She almost threw her hop out at one point trying to Jitterbug; something that none of us could quite grasp. We were five kids and one old lady doing something resembling the Fox Trot/Hustle/Jitterbug to rock'n'roll at full volume. It failed to produce the desired result.

    At calmer times, when the tide was out she would take us down to the water and show us were to look for crabs clinging to the underside of old logs, pieces of wood and other debris. Moving the logs would send them scurrying sideways and burying themselves into the mud. We could find them hanging out around the base of the post under the pier. Along with the crabs there were tiny shells which we always thought were seed oysters.  Sometimes they would be closed and stuck to a larger shell but a lot of the time they would just be empty tiny shells stuck in the muddy sand.  When the tide was way out you could see these little shells sprinkled across the shore like stars in among bigger shells, bits of drift wood and water vegetation.  At these times she would bring out the nets and we would lay them out near the logs or the pier as carefully as we could trying not to stir up the water. Then we girls would get along the edge of the net and she and the boy would gently roll the log over and 'herd' the crabs onto the net.  Sometimes we would have to wait what seemed like a long time.  If we were lucky she might try to sneak us out a Coke, they came in little bottles back then.  It didn't happen often though. Most of the time we didn't get anything-no Coke, no crab. My favorite thing to do was to take a long string and tie a piece of raw chicken to one end and dangle it in the water off the side of the pier.  She told us to drop it easy as close to the post as possible 'cause that's were the crabs like to hang out. As soon as they grabbed onto the chicken I would gently start to raise the string and slide a pole net under it.  I got more crabs this way than any other. While we sat on the pier she would tell us all about an aunt she had up in Baltimore who taught her how to crab. Of course we being girls wanted to know about all her boyfriends or the kind of clothes they wore. What we learned was that she grew up in D.C., went through the tenth grade and had to wear dresses all the time which we couldn't imagine. She went to secretarial school, got a job in an office in D.C. where she met and eventually married her first husband and had two children.  He ended up running off with someone she thought was a friend. But she had two children so she went back to work, met her second husband who built things like the summer house.  They never had children together but he helped her raise her kids as his own.  He was some years older than her but he was the love of her life. When he was sixty-four or five he had a massive heart attack and died.  She never loved again.

    Once a month we would pick her up and go to the Ponderosa Steakhouse. Going out to dinner with her was something of an adventure.  For some reason she would insist in getting food she knew would be hard for her to eat. Steak and corn were the worst.  They were always getting caught in her denture. She had a habit of 'sucking' her teeth to get the food out and if that didn't work she used the edge of a matchbook. But if it were under her denture that required a trip to the ladies room, a major expedition indeed.  Especially if she had that walker.  Once this was done and all the food she was going to eat had been consumed there was the process of reapplying the lipstick. The dragon lady red lipstick to match the dragon lady red nail polish. This for some reason was done at the table and was quite a production.  Her lips were thin and her hand a bit shaky which made for a very wobbly upper lip. Once it was applied to the mouth she had to go back and remove it from the face. Then finally there was the removal of it from the denture 'cause heaven forbid there should be some red mingled with the nicotine yellow.  Now you might think that was the signal the meal was over for her. You would be wrong. Actually, when all the left over things such as unopened salt, pepper, butter packets, rolls wrapped in her napkin and anything else she thought could possibly be portable went into her purse, then and only then was the meal finished.  Yes, you read that right. Into her purse went the dregs of her meal.  We once found a half eaten piece of fried fish in there. No idea how long it had resided there. It was kind of gnarly. No tartar sauce though. And don't think for one moment your purse was safe.  Oh no. If there was more than she could safely deposit into hers then it went into the next available purse.

    By the time I was nearing my late teens she had not only acquired the walker, which she would run you over with in a heart beat, but she also had started wearing a hearing aid.  Now I say she "started wearing".  I should say "she started wearing a hearing aid on special occasions" 'cause that's the only time she ever wore the damn thing.  She wore it to church, to the doctors office and on Christmas day up until dinner time.  According to her, people would be too busy shoving food in their faces to talk and she didn't need to hear them eat.  I understand that living alone there would be no real need to wear it but if you have a visitor wouldn't that be cause enough to put it in?  If someone comes to visit presumably they want to converse with you and not have to yell the same thing three times over. I mean they may not necessarily want to share their incontinence problem or whether or not someone changed the formula for your denture cream with the guy down the block.  But the worst part wasn't having to yell whole conversations or do it three different times. It wasn't even having to put up with the weird looks from everyone else. No, the worse part was when she did wear it she would inevitably have it up too high so it made this high pitched shriek.   Apparently she couldn't hear it but it sent the rest of us into spasms.  I suddenly understood why dogs howl.

    By the time I was seventeen I had moved on.  I never heard anything more of her though I had often wondered.  I'm fifty now so I wonder no more but despite the walker, the hearing aid, the denture and a whole host of other habits both unpleasant and strange she was an intricate part of my youth, a character who was both surprising and wonderful. She was the one taught me how to make fried green tomatoes: egg wash, flour, salt, pepper and some dried oregano.  She had the largest collection of Harlequin Romances I had ever seen of which I only read one. She was the only one who ever encouraged me to write.  And one of only a small handful of people who ever made me feel as if I had worth.  And to a foster kid growing up in the 70's  it was a big deal. So I raise a cup of Sanka (she is the only person I have ever known who drank that). 'To you Miss Alma, where ever you are'.


*This is a semi-autobiographical story.  Some changes have been made for obvious reasons-partly to protect the people in it and partly because my memory is crap.  However, I hope you enjoyed the story. 

December 17, 2010

 Today is a snow day--well, technically it's an after-the-snow day.  Still nasty out there even though things are warming a bit.  I can hear snow and ice melting on the air conditioner.  It's 'freaking' my dogs out.  They are still not use to the noises here.  It's been almost two weeks since we moved.  Talk about a major adjustment.  Moving is always stressful, divorce is worse--combine the two and through in looking for a job and we are all kind of freaking out.  But for right now, at this moment we are o.k.  I'm sitting here with my cheap hair color soaking into the hair and stinking while Elvis is looking at me from the bed like I have my priorities screwed up.  Maybe he's right--maybe I should just say "Screw the hair, just go back to bed".  But even on a snow day I have things I should be doing.  Our, the dogs and I, little apartment is really nothing more than a basement--in 1970's tradition and fashion--that consist of a small hallway with a pole, a 'laundry room' with an old full size washer and dryer and a pole.  It also has a monster of a water tank that has a separate 'heating system'.  I still haven't figured that one out yet.  The washer is next to a big utility sink.  Good thing because that's were it drains.  The water trickles into the washer--and I mean T-R-I-C-K-L-E--so that it takes almost one and a half hours to wash.  The dryer is a relic and though it works it is so dusty and 'mean' that I'm afraid the thing will combust if  I run it.  However, there is a little room to the side where the stairs are that lead to the main house.  In there is a make-shift clothes line that I use to dry my clothes when it's bad outside.  This is a common area and not part of my apartment and is only separated from my apartment by a tarp.  Yeah, the privacy factor here is not of major importance.  Off the laundry room is the main room which is basically a studio apartment.  You have the kitchenette along one wall-stove, sink, cabinets and roughly a yard of counter.  And there's a full size fridge but it's missing some of it's inside components like a bottom shelf and drawers.  But, hey, it works.  I also have my table there to use as an extra counter whenever that need arises.  It hasn't yet but you never know-it might.  In the middle here is my desk with computer and behind me massive marble top 'coffee' table that belongs to her--Ms. Anderson--along with the yellow crushed velvet settee and tatty brown vinyl recliner complete with duct tape.  Then in the far corner is a bed, my daughters hope chest and fully loaded bookcases--my books.  I also have a EdenPURE  space heater that works pretty good.  It heats the room sufficiently.  The bathroom is the worst though.  It's smaller than the hall but shaped like a hall.  The toilette is at one end.  A rather dark end.  When you flush you are required to hold the handle down until it empties.  Not to do so will cause other problems that I would very much want to avoid.  In the middle of the room is the sink.  This is actually fine.  The light--the only light that works--is above the sink.  So is the switch to turn it on.  Getting up in the middle of the night to pee has been an adventure.  And lastly is that awesomely wonderful stand-up shower.  I say 'stand-up' because you can NOT bend over.  There simply is no room to do that.  If you drop it, it stays there.  This is the smallest shower ever created.  The shower head barely comes out of the ceiling so the water has to hit the opposite wall before it hits you.  Plus the head needs a really good cleaning--I think anyway.  I'm not sure the rust will come off but I got some 'Lime Away' just in case.  Plus, you really can't turn around.  When you get in you stay there.  I have bruises on both my arms from trying to wash and constantly hitting the wall and door.  And now I'm thinking 'crap, I got to get in there to wash this stuff from my hair'.  This was not very well thought out.  There's only one thing for it--hold my breath and jump in.

November 12, 2010

  Take chicken and place in a big pot (once it's cut up) and cover with water, salt, pepper and cut up sage.  Cook until chicken is almost off bones, adding liquid in smallish amounts as needed.  Remove chicken from pot and allow to cool (so that when you remove it from the bones you don't burn your fingers--this is VERY important--I can not stress this enough!).  In the pot with the chicken stock put chopped onion, celery, carrot and fresh garlic.  How much of these things is up to you--I like a lot so I use a lot including the garlic.  Cook over medium heat until the carrots just start to become tender.  At this point add fresh sage, thyme and a sprig of rosemary.  Continue cooking.  While all of this is going on you should have managed to get that chicken off the bone.  Discard bones, grissel and skin.  Return chicken back to the pot and cook until all veg is fork tender but NOT mush.  About six to eight minutes before everything is done add your egg noodles.  Cook until just tender.  Remove from heat and add a quarter stick of butter.  Taste.  Add salt and pepper (if needed).  And that's my chicken soup. 
  Yes, I can make chicken soup.  Very good chicken soup.  I don't usually like chicken and rarely ever eat--until now.  But being broke and unemployed will make you look at the 'chickens' in your life in a whole new light.  Turns out there's a lot of things I can do with chicken that I actually like!   And now that my EBT card has finally arrived  (foodstamps) I will find out how many other 'creative' ways I can cook that bird.  And to think I use to have one as a pet.

October 4, 2010

  Divorce is never an easy thing.  It really is like a tearing of the flesh.  You spend so much time and put so much of yourself into another person then for whatever reason it suddenly isn't enough anymore.  Well, at least that's what it always seems like when starts to fall apart.   The truth is we get so distracted with life that we don't always 'see' or understand what our partner may be missing in their lives no matter how much they try to tell us.  We do, however, become painfully aware of what we are missing.  In fact, we become so side-tracked or obsessed with our own 'need' that we simply refuse to see our partners 'need'.  We just want our 'need' filled.  A lot of people turn to other means of filling that void--some with alcohol or drugs, some with gambling or compulsive shopping.  Others might use sex or have affairs.  Which was the case in my first marriage.  After that ended, I promised myself and God that I would never resort to that again and I haven't.  Odd, I haven't even wanted to.  Honestly, it only fills you with shame and self-loathing.  And if you end up marrying the person whom you had the affair with (I know, it rarely ever happens but it does happen) you pay for it every day of your life.  Even if nothing is ever said there is that constant reminder from the person you are with--that lack of trust and respect.  The cost is always too much.  And for my affair the price was extremely high indeed. In that atmosphere neither of you can really be happy. 
  But I don't regret having married again.  I actually did, and still do, love my second husband.  Though I don't think I was ever 'in love'.  I know after some time this parting my be the best thing for both of us but right now it just feels like a big gaping wound.  And I know in the days and weeks to come we will probably both end up acting like real asses but right now I just feel like my heart and lungs have been ripped out of my chest.  And I'm sure God will help me build a new life, one that He has planed for me, but right now I'm watching mine ride down the road in a bright red pick-up truck.

July 29, 2010

Death is not the end; it is the intermission.

"For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it

may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?"

~Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Requiescat

Strew on her roses, roses and never a spray of yew!

In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too!

Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee.

But her heart was tired, tired, and now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, in mazes of heat and sound.

But for peace her soul was yearning, and now peace laps her round.

Her cabin'd, ample spirit, it flutter'd and fail'd for breath.

To-night it doth inherit the vasty hall of death.

  ~Matthew Arnold

"...One by one they were all becoming shades.  Better to pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.  He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live."

  ~James Joyce, The Dead; The Dubliners

And death shall have no dominion.

Dead men naked they shall be one

With the man in the wind and the west moon;

When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,

They shall have stars at elbow and foot;

Though they go mad they shall be sane,

Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;

Though lovers be lost love shall not;

And death shall have no dominion.

 ~Dylan Thomas, And Death Shall Have No Domion, first stanza

"...Now that she was gone he understood how lonely her life must have been, sitting night after night alone in that room.  His life would be lonely too until he, too, died, ceased to exist, became a memory--if anyone remembered him."

"He turned back the way he had come, the rhythm of the engine pounding in his ears.  He began to doubt the reality of what his memory told him.  He halted under a tree and allowed the rhythm to die away.  He could not feel her near him in the darkness nor her voice touch his ear.  He waited for some minutes, listening.  He could hear nothing:  the night was perfectly silent.  He listened again: perfectly silent.  He felt that he was alone."

   ~James Joyce, A Painful Case, The Dubliners

Safe in Their Alabaster Chambers--

Safe in their Alabaster Chambers--

Untouched by Morning

And untouched by Noon--

Sleep the meek members of the Resurrection--

Rafter of satin,

And Roof of stone.

Light laughs the breeze

In her Castle above them--

Babbles the Bee in a stolid Ear,

Pipe the Sweet Birds in ignorant cadence--

Ah, what sagacity perished here.

   ~Emily Dickinson,  as written in 1859

EPITAPH TO A DOG

Near this spot

Are deposited the Remains

of one

Who possessed Beauty

Without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man

Without his Vices.

This Praise, which would be unmeaning flattery

If inscribed over Human Ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the Memeory of

"Boatswain," a Dog

Who was born at Newdoundland,

May, 1803,

And died at Newstead Abby

Nov. 18, 1808.

{This is Lord Byron's tribute to his dog, "Boatswain," written on a monument in the garden of Newstead Abby.  There is an accompanying poem but it is a bit lengthy and emotional so I did not include it.}

"...Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland.  It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and , farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves.  It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Micheal Furey lay buried.  It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstone, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns.  His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

   ~James Joyce, The Dead, The Dubliners

All the photographs were taken at Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia,

July 2, 2010 by Katy-jean Adams (c)

July 15, 2010

 ~ for Nana

i thank You God

i thank You God for most this amazing

day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,

and this is the sun's birthday; this is the birth

 day of life and of love and wings; and of the gay

great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing

breathing any--lifted from the no

of all nothing--human merely being

doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

e.e.cummings

Happy Birthday Nana!

Miss you!

{And if Saint Francis starts to crowd you

tell him to shove over}

Feds to File Suit Over Arizona Immigration Law

I don't really do political type post but I just wondered what everyone else thought of this and is there other info by another source. Just for the record I do understand Arizona being adamant about immigration because they do take the brunt of all this. I also thought that the Federal Government had promised to so something about this during the Bush administration. What happened? I don't know but I do know if I were a citizen of one of our bordering poverty stricken countries I would be risking my life to get here. Without a doubt.



Feds to File Suit Over Arizona Immigration Law