You know how sometimes you offer your help and then regret the offer as soon as the task is at hand? Last night Farmer MacDonald stopped by looking for my housemate, RugbyGirl, because there were cows out of the pasture. As I listened to Farmer MacDonald, two thoughts popped into my head: 1. I had never been to this particular field where the cows were now out. 2. The times I've helped get the cows back into the pastures before I've always had fun doing it. So, I thought, "why not?" and offered my help to Farmer MacDonald.
I pulled my hair into a ponytail, pulled on my muck boots, hopped in the bed of the Farm truck and we were off; navigating the windy and hilly road out of town, past the town beach. We pulled off the road, alongside a picturesque field which I have driven past many times before; admired as a spot where the changes in our New England seasons can be viewed at their greatest; a field of tall grasses and reeds, hedged in the back by a row of trees and further back still, the hills.
Stepping into the field, flashlight in hand (as it was approaching sundown) we wondered at how beautiful it all was. I walked with my hands stretched out, palms running over the tops of Queen Anne's Lace and field grasses; stared over the mountains at the sunsets progression, the pale pink and yellow streaks in the darkening sky. Everything was gorgeous. And we had a purpose. Real Farm work. We were like cowboys of old...wrangling cows. I felt amazed at how cool my life was. How cool everything was at that very moment.
...That was until the first (of dozens) HUGE, I MEAN HUGE!! horse fly bit me. We neared the back of the field where the cows had somehow gotten out of the pasture and into the woods and were greeted by an army of flies. It seemed like all at once we were hit with the realization of how hard this work might be: the deer flies and mosquitos were horrible; we had to try and get into the woods by climbing over barbed wire, snagging hands and clothes; we had to make our way through a darkening forest with flashlights, trying to figure out where the cows were by the sound of them running away from us. We searched until it was decided there was nothing else we could do. It was getting late and the cows were probably going to go to sleep soon anyway, may as well let them just sleep in the woods where they'd run off to. And it was too dark for us to be of any use anyway. I was so thankful when the farmers decided these things; so thankful to be climbing back into the bed of the pickup truck.
On the way home I laid back and stared at the stars in the sky; stared out at everything we were leaving behind; at the way that the brake lights made everything red--houses momentarily deepened in color; the road behind us glowing, seemingly reflecting the heat of that day. I closed my eyes and tried to keep track of where we were on the road, a road we travel often. This was a game I played as a child, as my parents drove us on familar routes; sitting, eyes drawn tight, trying to envision the road as it would be when I opened my eyes again; feeling the familiar pull of curves, misshapen potholes, funny bumps in the road. It was this game that washed away the weariness of my day, made me glad that we imitated cowboys for a while.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
another broken promise
I swear I will write soon. About Farm life. And my life. And just plain life. Until then, another poem to pacify. In my attempts to broaden my poetry base I have fallen into reading Gwendolyn Brooks as of late. This poem speaks to me, maybe for no other reason than that it is short and succinct. Enjoy!
"Real cool"
We real cool. WeLeft school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
~ Gwendolyn Brooks
"Real cool"
We real cool. WeLeft school. We
Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
~ Gwendolyn Brooks
Saturday, July 24, 2010
trees in those places
I know I am a total tool for not writing lately, but life and summer are going by so fast these days! More soon--from my own mouth (or mind!), I swear!
Another gem by our newest Poet Laureate:
"Native Trees"
Neither my father nor my mother knew
the names of the trees
where I was born
what is that
I asked and my
father and mother did not
hear they did not look where I pointed
surfaces of furniture held
the attention of their fingers
and across the room they could watch
walls they had forgotten
where there were no questions
no voices and no shade
Were there trees
where they were children
where I had not been
I asked
were there trees in those places
where my father and my mother were born
and in that time did
my father and my mother see them
and when they said yes it meant
they did not remember
What were they I asked what were they
but both my father and my mother
said they never knew
~ W.S. Merwin
Another gem by our newest Poet Laureate:
"Native Trees"
Neither my father nor my mother knew
the names of the trees
where I was born
what is that
I asked and my
father and mother did not
hear they did not look where I pointed
surfaces of furniture held
the attention of their fingers
and across the room they could watch
walls they had forgotten
where there were no questions
no voices and no shade
Were there trees
where they were children
where I had not been
I asked
were there trees in those places
where my father and my mother were born
and in that time did
my father and my mother see them
and when they said yes it meant
they did not remember
What were they I asked what were they
but both my father and my mother
said they never knew
~ W.S. Merwin
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
the green fields where we've been
In honor of our newest Poet Laureate, another poem:
"Green Fields"
By this part of the century few are left who believe
In the animals for they are not there in the carved parts
of them served on plates and the pleas from the slatted trucks
are sounds of shadows that possess no future
there is still game for the pleasure of killing
and there are pets for the children but the lives that followed
courses of their own other than ours and older
have been migrating before us some are already
far on the way and yet Peter with his gaunt cheeks
and point of white beard the face of an aged Lawrence
Peter who had lived on from another time and country
and who had seen so many things set out and vanish
still believed in heaven and said he had never once
doubted it since his childhood on the farm in the days
of the horses he had not doubted it in the worst
times of the Great War and afterward and he had come
to what he took to be a kind of earthly
model of it as he wandered south in his sixties
by that time speaking the language well enough
for them to make him out he took the smallest roads
into a world he thought was a thing of the past
with wildflowers he scarcely remembered and neighbors
working together scything the morning meadows
turning the hay before the noon meal bringing it in
by milking time husbandry and abundance
all the virtues he admired and their reward bounteous
in the eyes of a foreigner and there he remained
for the rest of his days seeing what he wanted to see
until the winter when he could no longer fork
the earth in his garden and then he gave away
his house land everything and committed himself
to a home to die in an old chateau where he lingered
for some time surrounded by those who had lost
the use of body or mind and as he lay there he told me
that the wall by his bed opened almost every day
and he saw what was really there and it was eternal life
as he recognized at once when he saw the gardens
he had made and the green fields where he had been
a child and his mother was standing there then the wall would close
and around him again were the last days of the world
~ W.S. Merwin
"Green Fields"
By this part of the century few are left who believe
In the animals for they are not there in the carved parts
of them served on plates and the pleas from the slatted trucks
are sounds of shadows that possess no future
there is still game for the pleasure of killing
and there are pets for the children but the lives that followed
courses of their own other than ours and older
have been migrating before us some are already
far on the way and yet Peter with his gaunt cheeks
and point of white beard the face of an aged Lawrence
Peter who had lived on from another time and country
and who had seen so many things set out and vanish
still believed in heaven and said he had never once
doubted it since his childhood on the farm in the days
of the horses he had not doubted it in the worst
times of the Great War and afterward and he had come
to what he took to be a kind of earthly
model of it as he wandered south in his sixties
by that time speaking the language well enough
for them to make him out he took the smallest roads
into a world he thought was a thing of the past
with wildflowers he scarcely remembered and neighbors
working together scything the morning meadows
turning the hay before the noon meal bringing it in
by milking time husbandry and abundance
all the virtues he admired and their reward bounteous
in the eyes of a foreigner and there he remained
for the rest of his days seeing what he wanted to see
until the winter when he could no longer fork
the earth in his garden and then he gave away
his house land everything and committed himself
to a home to die in an old chateau where he lingered
for some time surrounded by those who had lost
the use of body or mind and as he lay there he told me
that the wall by his bed opened almost every day
and he saw what was really there and it was eternal life
as he recognized at once when he saw the gardens
he had made and the green fields where he had been
a child and his mother was standing there then the wall would close
and around him again were the last days of the world
~ W.S. Merwin
apps and poetry
Two articles I found of interest:
Top Ten Apps
I already downloaded some of these to my new iTouch.
W.S. Merwin named 2010-2011 Poet Laureate.
This peaked my interest because one of his poems, "Unchopping a tree," has been a favorite of mine since my friend B1 read it aloud years ago.
"Unchopping a Tree"
Start with the leaves, the small twigs, and the nests that have been shaken, ripped, or broken off by the fall; these must be gathered and attached once again to their respective places. It is not arduous work, unless major limbs have been smashed or mutilated. If the fall was carefully and correctly planned, the chances of anything of the kind happening will have been reduced. Again, much depends upon the size, age, shape, and species of the tree. Still, you will be lucky if you can get through this stages without having to use machinery. Even in the best of circumstances it is a labor that will make you wish often that you had won the favor of the universe of ants, the empire of mice, or at least a local tribe of squirrels, and could enlist their labors and their talents. But no, they leave you to it. They have learned, with time. This is men's work. It goes without saying that if the tree was hollow in whole or in part, and contained old nests of bird or mammal or insect, or hoards of nuts or such structures as wasps or bees build for their survival, the contents will have to repaired where necessary, and reassembled, insofar as possible, in their original order, including the shells of nuts already opened. With spider's webs you must simply do the best you can. We do not have the spider's weaving equipment, nor any substitute for the leaf's living bond with its point of attachment and nourishment. It is even harder to simulate the latter when the leaves have once become dry--as they are bound to do, for this is not the labor of a moment, Also it hardly needs saying that this the time fro repairing any neighboring trees or bushes or other growth that might have been damaged by the fall. The same rules apply. Where neighboring tree were of the same species it is difficult not to waste time conveying a detached leaf back to the wrong tree. Practice, practice. Put your hope in that.
Now the tackle must be put into place, or the scaffolding, depending on the surroundings and the dimension of the tree. It is ticklish work. Almost always it involves, in itself, further damage to the area, which will have to be corrected later. But, as you've heard, it can't be helped. And care now is likely to save you considerable trouble later. Be careful to grind nothing into the ground.
At last the time comes for the erecting of the trunk. By now it will scarcely be necessary to remind you of the delicacy of this huge skeleton. Every motion of the tackle, every slightly upward heave of the trunk, the branches, their elaborately reassembled panoply of leaves (now dead) will draw from you an involuntary gasp. You will watch for a lead or a twig to be snapped off yet again. You will listen for the nuts to shift in the hollow limb and you will hear whether they are indeed falling into place or are spilling in disorder -- in which case, or in the event of anything else of the kind -- operations will have to cease, of course, while you correct the matter. The raising itself is no small enterprise, from the moment when the chains tighten around the old bandages until the boles hands vertical above the stump, splinter above splinter. How the final straightening of the splinters themselves can take place (the preliminary work is best done while the wood is still green and soft, but at times when the splinters are not badly twisted most of the straightening is left until now, when the torn ends are face to face with each other). When the splinters are perfectly complementary the appropriate fixative is applied. Again we have no duplicate of the original substance. Ours is extremely strong, but it is rigid. It is limited to surfaces, and there is no play in it. However the core is not the part of the trunk that conducted life from the roots up to the branches and back again. It was relatively inert. The fixative for this part is not the same as the one for the outer layers and the bark, and if either of these is involved in the splintered sections they must receive applications of the appropriate adhesives. Apart from being incorrect and probably ineffective, the core fixative would leave a scar on the bark.
When all is ready the splintered trunk is lowered onto the splinters of the stump. This, one might say, is only the skeleton of the resurrection. Now the chips must be gathered, and the sawdust, and returned to their former positions. The fixative for the wood layers will be applied to chips and sawdust consisting only of wood. Chips and sawdust consisting of several substances will receive applications of the correct adhesives. It is as well, where possible, to shelter the materials from the elements while working. Weathering makes it harder to identify the smaller fragments. Bark sawdust in particular the earth lays claim to very quickly. You must find our own way of coping with this problems. There is a certain beauty, you will notice at moments, in the patterns of the chips as they are fitted back into place. You will wonder to what extent it should be described as natural, to what extent man-made. It will lead you on to speculations about the parentage of beauty itself, to which you will return.
The adhesive for the chips is translucent, and not so rigid as that for splinters. That for the bark and its subcutaneous layers if transparent and runs into the fibers on either side, partially dissolving them into each other. It does not set the sap flowing again but it does pay a kind of tribute to the preoccupations of the ancient thoroughfares. You could not roll an egg over the joints but some of the mine-shafts would still be passable, no doubt. For the first exploring insect who raises its head in the tight echoless passages. The day comes when it is all restored, even to the moss (now dead) over the wound. You will sleep badly, thinking of the removal of the scaffolding that must begin the next morning. How you will hope for sun and a still day!
The removal of the scaffolding or tackle is not a dangerous, perhaps, to the surroundings, as its installation, but it presents problems. It should be taken from the spot piece by piece as it is detached, and stored at a distance. You have come to accept it there, around the tree. The sky begins to look naked as the chains and struts one by one vacate their positions. Finally the moment arrives when the last sustaining piece is removed and the tree stands again on its own. It is as though its weight for a moment stood on your heart. You listen for a thud of settlement, a warning creak deep in the intricate joinery. You cannot believe it will hold. How like something dreamed it is, standing there all by itself. How long will it stand there now? The first breeze that touches its dead leaves all seems to flow into your mouth. You are afraid the motion of the clouds will be enough to push to over. What more can you do? What more can you do?
But there is nothing more you can do.
Others are waiting.
Everything is going to have to be put back.
~ W.S. Merwin
Top Ten Apps
I already downloaded some of these to my new iTouch.
W.S. Merwin named 2010-2011 Poet Laureate.
This peaked my interest because one of his poems, "Unchopping a tree," has been a favorite of mine since my friend B1 read it aloud years ago.
"Unchopping a Tree"
Start with the leaves, the small twigs, and the nests that have been shaken, ripped, or broken off by the fall; these must be gathered and attached once again to their respective places. It is not arduous work, unless major limbs have been smashed or mutilated. If the fall was carefully and correctly planned, the chances of anything of the kind happening will have been reduced. Again, much depends upon the size, age, shape, and species of the tree. Still, you will be lucky if you can get through this stages without having to use machinery. Even in the best of circumstances it is a labor that will make you wish often that you had won the favor of the universe of ants, the empire of mice, or at least a local tribe of squirrels, and could enlist their labors and their talents. But no, they leave you to it. They have learned, with time. This is men's work. It goes without saying that if the tree was hollow in whole or in part, and contained old nests of bird or mammal or insect, or hoards of nuts or such structures as wasps or bees build for their survival, the contents will have to repaired where necessary, and reassembled, insofar as possible, in their original order, including the shells of nuts already opened. With spider's webs you must simply do the best you can. We do not have the spider's weaving equipment, nor any substitute for the leaf's living bond with its point of attachment and nourishment. It is even harder to simulate the latter when the leaves have once become dry--as they are bound to do, for this is not the labor of a moment, Also it hardly needs saying that this the time fro repairing any neighboring trees or bushes or other growth that might have been damaged by the fall. The same rules apply. Where neighboring tree were of the same species it is difficult not to waste time conveying a detached leaf back to the wrong tree. Practice, practice. Put your hope in that.
Now the tackle must be put into place, or the scaffolding, depending on the surroundings and the dimension of the tree. It is ticklish work. Almost always it involves, in itself, further damage to the area, which will have to be corrected later. But, as you've heard, it can't be helped. And care now is likely to save you considerable trouble later. Be careful to grind nothing into the ground.
At last the time comes for the erecting of the trunk. By now it will scarcely be necessary to remind you of the delicacy of this huge skeleton. Every motion of the tackle, every slightly upward heave of the trunk, the branches, their elaborately reassembled panoply of leaves (now dead) will draw from you an involuntary gasp. You will watch for a lead or a twig to be snapped off yet again. You will listen for the nuts to shift in the hollow limb and you will hear whether they are indeed falling into place or are spilling in disorder -- in which case, or in the event of anything else of the kind -- operations will have to cease, of course, while you correct the matter. The raising itself is no small enterprise, from the moment when the chains tighten around the old bandages until the boles hands vertical above the stump, splinter above splinter. How the final straightening of the splinters themselves can take place (the preliminary work is best done while the wood is still green and soft, but at times when the splinters are not badly twisted most of the straightening is left until now, when the torn ends are face to face with each other). When the splinters are perfectly complementary the appropriate fixative is applied. Again we have no duplicate of the original substance. Ours is extremely strong, but it is rigid. It is limited to surfaces, and there is no play in it. However the core is not the part of the trunk that conducted life from the roots up to the branches and back again. It was relatively inert. The fixative for this part is not the same as the one for the outer layers and the bark, and if either of these is involved in the splintered sections they must receive applications of the appropriate adhesives. Apart from being incorrect and probably ineffective, the core fixative would leave a scar on the bark.
When all is ready the splintered trunk is lowered onto the splinters of the stump. This, one might say, is only the skeleton of the resurrection. Now the chips must be gathered, and the sawdust, and returned to their former positions. The fixative for the wood layers will be applied to chips and sawdust consisting only of wood. Chips and sawdust consisting of several substances will receive applications of the correct adhesives. It is as well, where possible, to shelter the materials from the elements while working. Weathering makes it harder to identify the smaller fragments. Bark sawdust in particular the earth lays claim to very quickly. You must find our own way of coping with this problems. There is a certain beauty, you will notice at moments, in the patterns of the chips as they are fitted back into place. You will wonder to what extent it should be described as natural, to what extent man-made. It will lead you on to speculations about the parentage of beauty itself, to which you will return.
The adhesive for the chips is translucent, and not so rigid as that for splinters. That for the bark and its subcutaneous layers if transparent and runs into the fibers on either side, partially dissolving them into each other. It does not set the sap flowing again but it does pay a kind of tribute to the preoccupations of the ancient thoroughfares. You could not roll an egg over the joints but some of the mine-shafts would still be passable, no doubt. For the first exploring insect who raises its head in the tight echoless passages. The day comes when it is all restored, even to the moss (now dead) over the wound. You will sleep badly, thinking of the removal of the scaffolding that must begin the next morning. How you will hope for sun and a still day!
The removal of the scaffolding or tackle is not a dangerous, perhaps, to the surroundings, as its installation, but it presents problems. It should be taken from the spot piece by piece as it is detached, and stored at a distance. You have come to accept it there, around the tree. The sky begins to look naked as the chains and struts one by one vacate their positions. Finally the moment arrives when the last sustaining piece is removed and the tree stands again on its own. It is as though its weight for a moment stood on your heart. You listen for a thud of settlement, a warning creak deep in the intricate joinery. You cannot believe it will hold. How like something dreamed it is, standing there all by itself. How long will it stand there now? The first breeze that touches its dead leaves all seems to flow into your mouth. You are afraid the motion of the clouds will be enough to push to over. What more can you do? What more can you do?
But there is nothing more you can do.
Others are waiting.
Everything is going to have to be put back.
~ W.S. Merwin
Saturday, July 17, 2010
passing time pickling
Best friend L, hubby K and girls: L, A and V left today for saltier air; replaced by my brother A3 and girlfriend R.N. D. I feel like I haven't had time yet to catch my breath. After the bestie's family left I cleaned a little, laundered a little and checked on my cucumbers AGAIN. Already 32 more cucumbers for the picking today, enough to warrant pickle making!
After running in to town for mason jars I began a batch only to realize that I didn't even have enough vinegar to pickle all the cucumbers; the resulting batch consisted of only two quarts worth. However, the batch of pickles (though small) were a good distraction until my brother A3 and his girlfriend R.N. D arrived. Catching up and a pizza dinner down at the Farm's brick oven, then hanging out at B1 & B2s for the evening.
Early tomorrow A3, R.N. D and I head to Boston for a day spent wandering the Freedom Trail. I should be sleeping, but I still have laundry to fold before I can even find the bed in the guest room. The couch is seeming more and more inviting...hmmm...
After running in to town for mason jars I began a batch only to realize that I didn't even have enough vinegar to pickle all the cucumbers; the resulting batch consisted of only two quarts worth. However, the batch of pickles (though small) were a good distraction until my brother A3 and his girlfriend R.N. D arrived. Catching up and a pizza dinner down at the Farm's brick oven, then hanging out at B1 & B2s for the evening.
Early tomorrow A3, R.N. D and I head to Boston for a day spent wandering the Freedom Trail. I should be sleeping, but I still have laundry to fold before I can even find the bed in the guest room. The couch is seeming more and more inviting...hmmm...
Thursday, July 15, 2010
satisfied customers
My best friend L, husband K and their three fun kids: L (8 years), A (5.5 years) and V (8 months) are here. We've hustled and bustled around and seen lots of cool stuff and maybe I will write more about that when I'm not so tired.
My favorite part of today was when we looked at my garden and I was pleased-as-punch to find the girls (L & A) so enthusiastic about it. We tasted things straight from vines; tomatoes green and fattening in the sun were examined and squeezed; questions were asked. The girls particularly liked seeing my cucumber plants, the vines tangling and interweaving--reminding me of my old female relatives for some reason--fruits hidden. I showed the girls how I search for the cucumbers, small 4-5 inch fruits just perfect for pickling and then the three of us were scouting. It's still early yet, but I rubbed our treasures--5 cucumbers--clean on my shirt and we sampled the fruits of our hunt. These pictures show the girls enjoying their fresh snack.
My favorite part of today was when we looked at my garden and I was pleased-as-punch to find the girls (L & A) so enthusiastic about it. We tasted things straight from vines; tomatoes green and fattening in the sun were examined and squeezed; questions were asked. The girls particularly liked seeing my cucumber plants, the vines tangling and interweaving--reminding me of my old female relatives for some reason--fruits hidden. I showed the girls how I search for the cucumbers, small 4-5 inch fruits just perfect for pickling and then the three of us were scouting. It's still early yet, but I rubbed our treasures--5 cucumbers--clean on my shirt and we sampled the fruits of our hunt. These pictures show the girls enjoying their fresh snack. 
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
how does our garden grow?
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Like this:
1. My tomatoes are a go!
2. TSO working on his part of the plot.
3. More of my tomatoes.
4. My cucumber, pumpkins and watermelons--the plot which is all mine; and out of control!
5. First cucumber; pickles here we come.
6. One of my first pumpkins--teeny tiny!
7. Resting after TSO and I put my tomato stakes into the ground; very hot day.
8. View of my tomatoes (front), back to TSO's tented peas (he also has carrots growing inside the base of that teepee).
Monday, July 12, 2010
lovely
In my never ending search to find new poetry I found this gem. Lovely.
"To Be In Love"
"To Be In Love"
To be in love
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things
Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.
When he
Shuts a door-
Is not there_
Your arms are water.
And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth
To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare
Is certain Death!
Oh when to apprize
Is to mesmerize,
To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things
Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.
When he
Shuts a door-
Is not there_
Your arms are water.
And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth
To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare
Is certain Death!
Oh when to apprize
Is to mesmerize,
To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.
~ Gwendolyn Brooks
Sunday, July 11, 2010
returning to that old town
"Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer's day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum."
~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird, (Scout Finch)
"When a child asks you something, answer him, for goodness' sake. But don't make a production of it. Children are children, but they can spot an evasion quicker than adults, and evasion simply muddles 'em." ~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird, (Atticus Finch)
"They're certainly entitled to think that, and they're entitled to full respect for their opinions... but before I can live with other folks I've got to live with myself. The one thing that doesn't abide by majority rule is a person's conscience."
~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird, (Atticus Finch)
"It was times like these when I thought my father, who hated guns and had never been to any wars, was the bravest man who ever lived."
~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird, (Scout Finch)
"Mockingbirds don't do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don't eat up people's gardens, don't nest in corncribs, they don't do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That's why it's a sin to kill a mockingbird."~Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird, (Miss Maudie Atkinson)
For events celebrating the anniversary near you, check this out.
on weeding
Feel like I haven't mentioned library life lately, so:
- Had a job interview for the perfect part time Children's Librarian position ever. Seriously. Reading the posting was like feeling slightly violated that someone had somehow looked at my resume and maybe into my soul just a little. Seriously, that perfect. Really!! And yet, oh, how that whole situation breaks my heart. The library was gorgeous; the whole children's department was almost as large as the entire library I used to work at; state of the art everything; perfect; and oh...nearly two hours away, when all was said and done with traffic, etc.
So, it was with a VERY heavy heart that I said "thank you very much, but I won't waste your time, because I just can't make this drive four days a week." So, needless to say I am still looking. My best friend L says that, "the perfect library job will come along and everything will work out the way it's supposed to." I want to believe that, but I am not the most patient person. - The library which I volunteer at has been great. I am finally moving from some of the more boring work: shelf reading and shelving books, to weeding of the Adult non-fiction section. (For non-Library folks, weeding is going through and pulling off the shelf any old or damaged books, or books which haven't circulated in ages. Depending on the materials, some are replaced, some are not). This is perfect for me because I absolutely LOVE weeding! Seriously, I do. Some of the other librarians whom I've worked with were flabbergasted by this--are my Type A tendencies showing?--but I just can't help myself.
When we were closed for renovations at my old library I spent a good chunk of time weeding the Children's VHS and Fiction collections. Doing that was good practice for this, since it seems that this library has hung on to everything--LITERALLY. I just pulled a book off the shelf today that was from 1898!! Can you believe that?! I am in the mid 600s and still only half way through the adult non-fiction. I have found some great gems; some old books, which I absolutely refused to pull from the shelves; some mystifyingly old, probably now inaccurate books on things like space and science--let's just say that Nixon was still in office when some of these books were last checked out!
You would not believe how amazing the collection is at this library! And for a small city! And a small city of mostly Farmers, no less!! I love it. I love that this weeding project is giving me a chance to A. get to know the collection better and B. find some more great books to check out.
a prickly encounter, part 2
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You might remember that some time back I wrote about my early morning encounter with the porcupine; he/she came back. Apparently this tree, which he/she is pictured in, is fast becoming a favorite--it is after all one of those really great climbing/sitting in trees, so it is obvious that the porcupine has good taste.RugbyGirl and I were sitting outside chatting the other night when I heard some kind of small animal noises; setting off the motion sensor lights allowed us to see the little quilled wonder, who was this time sitting under the tree, chewing on bark and watching us.
Seeing as how this was our second meeting I felt that I could approach him/her again in a friendly fashion and got within about two feet before our neighbor raised quills to greet me. TSO said he wasn't taking me to the vet if I got quilled--how thoughtful--and I guessed he had a point, so I backed away and left the porcupine to continue his late night snack.
Some days I feel like I am living in a National Geographic adventure.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
embers still burning faintly
I haven't written lately partly because it is so damn hot and that makes me cranky; but partly also because things have been busy around here. Work, garden work, yard work, library work. Work work work, which makes way for play--which will be happening soon. My best friend L and K and their three girls: L, A and V will be coming out for a week--next week--followed by my brother A3 and his girlfriend Dayna, who will be here for a few days.
So, in place of anything I could write I will share this poem which feels so familiar to me for some reason.
"Continuities"
Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,
No birth, identity, form--no object of the world.
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.
Ample are time and space--ample the fields of Nature.
The body, sluggish, aged, cold--the embers left from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible law returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.
~ Uncle Walt (Whitman)
So, in place of anything I could write I will share this poem which feels so familiar to me for some reason.
"Continuities"
Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost,
No birth, identity, form--no object of the world.
Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;
Appearance must not foil, nor shifted sphere confuse thy brain.
Ample are time and space--ample the fields of Nature.
The body, sluggish, aged, cold--the embers left from earlier fires,
The light in the eye grown dim, shall duly flame again;
The sun now low in the west rises for mornings and for noons continual;
To frozen clods ever the spring's invisible law returns,
With grass and flowers and summer fruits and corn.
~ Uncle Walt (Whitman)
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