Happy New Year

The new year sneaks in 

Past the old 

And lays claim to 

All that is 

And is yet to be.

Unwritten Thoughts

Sometimes when you are reading other people's material, and you make a connection . . .

like, "yeah, that's totally happened to me",

or  "hey, I'm with you on that one, dude". . .

but you never wrote it down . . .

Unwritten thoughts

Spilled and are lost

All for the want of my pen

Gone to the wind

Float to the sky

Never my musing again

Someday they will

Drift back to earth

Finding some other like soul

With pen in hand

They’ll scribe those thoughts

Claiming a notion they stole


Check out more poetry topics for Friday on Poetry Friday hosted by Julie at The Drift Record

Carrot Pudding Angel

Funniest thing - just before I this happened, I read Christy's posting about the train wiring directions! Goose bumps.  I just had to post!

My husband and I went to RI for a couple of days last week on business.  As we were driving down, I received an email on my phone from my sister.  She had come across my grandmother's recipe for Carrot Pudding, hand written by our mom, on a little piece of paper tucked in an old cook book. Loving the sweetness of seeing it written in our mom's handwriting, she scanned it and shared.

A couple of days before getting the recipe email, I had been thinking about making my grandmother's Carrot Pudding for Christmas, but didn't know where to find the recipe.  Then, here it shows up in my inbox in Mom's handwriting!  I hadn't even told my sister...  I asked my sister if she might also have the copy of the recipe for the White Sauce for the pudding, but all she'd found was the pudding recipe.

On our return home, we discovered that our boiler wasn't working. To avoid steep charges for an emergency call, we waited until morning to call the repairman.  There would be no heat for the night without a nice fire in the wood stove. 

The next day, after the boiler was repaired and was again heating our home, I searched a few of my cookbooks and the Internet for the sauce recipe.  I finally found one that sounded close.  It had most of the ingredients I remembered, so I decided I'd use that.

Today, as I was doing some cleaning in my daughter's old bedroom, getting it ready for Christmas company, I heard what sounded like a low rattling coming from the basement.  I had heard the funny noise yesterday, but ignored it, thinking I'd mention it to my husband later.  Maybe it was the boiler again?  I decided to be a big girl and go check it out, just in case I needed to call the repairman.   But the everything was running smoothly.  I couldn't hear any unusual noise anywhere.  There was no more rattling.

A bit perplexed, I turned around to go back upstairs.  I went by some of the racks with boxes my husband had been going through, cleaning and repacking.  I stopped to look at a toy case with a fairy doll and a little stuffed dolphin that my daughter had when she was 6, over 20 years ago.  I didn't need those upstairs, but they made me smile.

I continued to the stairs.  As I did, I caught a glimpse of a pile of boxes off to the right, next to the basement wall.  The boxes were behind some fans and miscellaneous treasures on the floor.   There on top of the pile was a thick, faded red, familiar looking book.  The page edges were yellowed and the binding frayed.

"No," I whispered, "it can't be." (I really did.)

I shone the flashlight I'd brought down with me, but hadn't needed to use, on the book's cover where I was pretty sure I knew what it said. In large white block letters was "The Good Housekeeping Cook Book"  with a picture of a white baker's hat outlined below the title.
Mom's cookbook!  I didn't even know I had it.

I pushed fans and small boxes aside, and squeezed between them, reaching for the faded red cookbook of my childhood. As I opened it up, there were a few recipes cut from newspapers, and some other cards with recipes in handwriting I didn't recognize, but one scridge of paper was in Mom's pretty handwriting.  I don't know why, but seeing her handwriting is such a comfort to me.  It is something so personal in her absence, like a whisper.   And such a whisper it was.  On the little piece of paper was written my grandmother's Carrot Pudding Sauce recipe.

I'll probably never hear the rattling again.
I hope I do, though.

Guess what? There's going to be carrot pudding this year for Christmas!

First Glove of the Season

I looked down.  And there it was.  Sad, lonely, waiting.
The first lost glove of the season.

It had followed its owner to Starbucks, riding quietly along in the car in the front seat.  Gloves had been very helpful in the chilly air as Mr. started up the car.  But it got warm in the car, so Mr. took off his gloves and laid them on his lap for the drive to Starbucks before doing a bit of Christmas shopping with Mrs..

Mr. and Mrs. had talked about what to get the kids.  New mittens, of course, would be on the list.  Having a basketful of mismatched mittens at home from prior seasons of cold, meant it was time to adopt a couple more pairs from LL Bean or Reny’s.

When they reached Starbucks they pondered whether they should go in or just get a drive-thru coffee vente.  Mr. thought they had plenty of time, so they decided to go in and enjoy a few minutes of Starbucks magic.

As Mr. got out of the car, the inevitable happened.  One glove fell to the floor of the car, while the other fell out on the cold, wet ground in the dark. 

Free at last! The glove was ecstatic!  The only thing better would have been if his partner had made it out too.  

The car door closed, Mr.’s feet just missed stepping on Glove’s thumb as he turned to go into the coffee shop.

It seemed hours in the darkness before they returned to the car.  Perhaps they will see me here, Glove thought.  But it was too dark.  The shadow from the car beside them, hid Glove from the light of the lamp post.  

Mr. opened the car door for Mrs. and then stepped over Glove as he got in himself.  They drove away without seeing, remembering or wondering.

They bought new mittens for their kids and even a couple more pairs to donate to the school for children who might forget their mittens on a cold day.  And then they drove home.

It wasn’t until the next morning, heading for work, that Mr. couldn’t find his gloves.  He searched the closet and his coat pockets thoroughly before remembering having them the night before in the car.  He raced to the car, fearful of what he might find...or NOT find.  

There on the floor was ONE glove.  Not two.  Not zero.  Just one.  

A quick search of the car confirmed it.  One of the gloves had escaped.  

Having one glove was senseless.  If they had just gone together, there was a chance they’d have found a good home...some cold hands that would welcome a nice warm pair of gloves.  But this, sadly, was not the case.

Remaining Glove was sentenced to the mitten basket with the other mismatched hand coverings.  Who knows, maybe those wanderers will return someday and again will be paired, left with right.

But I’ve seen Glove out on the street.  It isn’t coming home.

Is That You, Santa...Mrs. Claus?

Mr. Claus?

Mrs. Claus?

'Tis the season. Visions of sugar plums, hopes of glimpses of that jolly old elf...that's what's going on.
Last year in December, someone mentioned in passing that my husband and I looked like Mr. and Mrs. Claus. And this year, this week, out of the blue, on Monday, we were at our local Starbucks, and the staff exclaimed, "Here come Mr. and Mrs. Claus!" as we entered the shop.
I do not know these people. They are not welcome to sit on my lap, nor my husband's.  No one but me is going to sit on my husband's lap...although that hasn't happened since the time he said he couldn't feel his feet.

This morning we got on an elevator heading for the rooftop....well, the top floor, anyway. A woman was already on the elevator as we got on. We rode in silence to the fifth floor where the elevator stopped for her to get out. "Have a nice day, Mr. and Mrs. Claus!" she called back as the door closed.
Our bellies shook as we laughed. I didn't think to lay a finger aside of his nose as up the elevator we rose to the sixth floor, but we got there anyway.

So I'm beginning to think it is either time for us to get some color for our white as snow coiffures, or to get our round little bellies gone with that treadmill in the loft.

What's to dread, though? It's only one month of the year. I'm leaning toward just shopping for a sleigh, getting some warm, red, fur outfits and taking this show on the road. That would surely be easier than losing weight and coloring our white locks, AND you get to eat cookies.
Springing to the sleigh will probably be the toughest part.

The Star

Linked to Dori Reads blog, hosting Poetry Friday for December 23, 2011.  Go there to read more great poems posted by others!

I am thinking about getting into the Christmas spirit.  This year Christmas comes on a Sunday.  I hope that doesn't interfere with celebrating Christmas...

now what was it I was supposed to be remembering on Christmas?

There's so much to do, 

with fruit cakes to make, 

Decorations to strew,

and cookies to bake.

There should be some stockings

to hang with some care,

And a tree to install

or the house will look bare!

The manger must grace

the uppermost shelf

Where it will be safe from

Cat, Grandson and Elf.

The turkey once bought

will have to defrost,

But first I'll buy presents

no matter the cost.

Lights will adorn

the windows and more,

And a wreath will encircle

our humble front door.

Put out the NOEL mat

To scuff off all shoes.

Get out the Santa mugs;

there's no time to lose,

For Christmas is coming,

It's most certainly near,

But let's not forget

Why our hearts should have cheer.

It isn't the presents.

It isn't the throngs.

It isn't the lights,

Nor the Rudolphy songs.

Remember that Jesus

to this earth was sent.

Remember the reason is

what His birth meant.

My 150th post!  Yea!

Love Grows

My 15 words for today...

For my husband.

Just when I think

Our love

Is fully

grown -

New shoots

On old branches

Appear.

Note to self and others: I wrote 379 words to come up with these 15.  Sometimes you just have to write a lot to get a little.

Quinzaine for Cold Rain

 

Quinzaine comes from the French word quinze, meaning fifteen. 

A quinzaine is an unrhymed verse of fifteen syllables. There are seven syllables in the first line, five in the second line and three in the third line (7/5/3).The first line makes a statement, and the next two lines ask a question relating to that statement.

I used the Quinzaine format, to make a longer poem of 8 stanzas.

My husband killed a spider last night...and we all know what that means for the weather. 

And of course the dog got alerted to something...probably the rain. 

She usually does that when my husband isn't home.  I love that. 

Don't get me wrong; I'm happy that she lets me know about dangers

and such, but she usually goes and hides, barking from a distance. 

And then when all quiets down and you're all cozy and comfy, don't

you just hate when you have to uncozify and uncomfyize to wake up

and go to bed???

The dog growls low and then barks.
Did she hear something?
Is she scared?

Such a cold and rainy eve.
What would comfort you?
What would warm?

Grab a good book from the stack.
Do you consume books?
Do they you?

Flames from the logs rise and flicker.
Are they comforting?
Do they dance?

Embers are mesmerizing.
Might they hypnotize?
Do they glow?

Warmth emanates from the hearth.
Does it caress you?
Does it seep?

The cold and rain seem distant.
Are you comforted?
Are you warm?

Drowsiness soon overcomes.
Will you crawl to bed?
Will you stay?

267 words today

To Great Grandparents

The eyes don’t have the depth of color

But twinkle just as nice.

The ears don’t hear the quieter sounds

But listen for them twice.

The legs don’t move as fast as once

But make a comfy lap.

The arms don’t hold the weight they did

But hug you while you nap.

The lips don’t always speak as quick

But hum a happy song.

The heart doesn’t seem to beat as loud

But loves you just as strong.

*I know some of these should have 'ly' at the end, but I don't care...poetic license, doncha no.

We

We may be older

We may be slower

But only because we have

Lived long.

We may be more sore

We may be more stiff

But only because we have

Lived fully.

We may be more deaf

We may be more blind

But only because we have

Lived aware.

We may be more reserved

We may be more discerning

But only because we have

Lived watchfully.

We may be more loving

We may be more forgiving

But only because we have

Lived with faults.

We may be wiser

We may be happier

But only because we have

Loved truly.

A New Child

A new child

Untold tale

Nothing’s been scribed

Or erased

Tabula rasa

A blank slate

Nothing’s been etched

Or traced

 

Beginning now

No regrets

Nothing’s been tried

Or tossed

Newness of life

Fresh new start

Nothing’s been won

Or lost

Life beginning

Script to come

Everything’s planned

And known

Guided soul

From the start

Something once hidden

Now shown

Best Friends

I was cleaning today and found this poem I'd written in 2008.
I remember feeling this way as a kid.  I had a few "best friends", depending on the day and the situation - what I felt like playing that day, where I was in the neighborhood, who had come to my house...
As a teacher, at recess duty, I always tried to imagine myself at play again with the imagination and enthusiasm of these charges that are "off duty" from the classroom.   I treasure the glimpses into their world.

Swinging, sliding,
Playing tag with a friend,
Laughing and racing
Every day without end.
Best friends forever,
I looks like we might
Be best friends forever.
Who cares if we fight?
The next day we're back
To share a new day
Ride on our bikes and
Run off to play.
Best friends forever,
It's our goal to be
Best friends forever
Just you, you and me!

Oct. 21, 2008