Book Club for 2

I noticed some links to another challenge called It’s Monday! What Are You Reading.  I am not participating, but was reminded that I am reading a technically YA book right now...and that I have taken too many days off from reading it!  My daughter is going to be way ahead of me.  Fortunately, with an infant in the house, it slows her down some and I can keep up most of the time.

We started reading The Hobbit after a conversation in Google Chat, where I said something about "my precious".  I have used that expression for years since reading The Hobbit, and thought that the creature in the caves was speaking of and to itself.  She thought the creature was referring to the ring. I was surprised that she had read the book and asked her when she had read it.  She said "No," she hadn't ever read it.  She'd just seen the movie.  I had read the book long ago, when I was in my 20's.  So we decided we'd both read the book, and find out the answer in a little mother/daughter book club for two.
A few "chat quiet" minutes later, we had both downloaded The Hobbit.

So evenings, we sit "together" and read.  It's different than when I would hold her on my lap or snuggle up on the bed with those books with the golden spines, or the "chapter" books as she got older.  But there is still something very special about sharing a book with your child even when they are 449 miles away, with a child of their own...and the books are on your iPads.

Sunday, Sunday

I don't do work on Sunday.  I don't have time to write on Sunday either.  So it's Saturday night and I'm scheduling this to post tomorrow/today.
Sunday is set aside for no work, and even when I was teaching, I made sure lessons were planned and all was set for Monday before going to bed on Saturday.
Sunday is church and family.  All morning.  All day.  All evening.
I may run to the grocery store if we need some chips and dip and dessert, but mostly it is not a day for shopping either.
Remember when stores were closed on Sundays?  Remember when people didn't need to shop on Sunday?  Didn't need to work on Sunday unless you worked at a hospital, a police station or a radio station, or were a minister?
Speaking of things closed...Does anyone out there remember gas rationing and gas stations closed on Sundays?
My husband and I were finishing college and had been married for a year when I got a job teaching in northern Maine.  He finished grad school and then got a job in south/central Maine.  They were good jobs.  We were young.  We could see each other on weekends.
So we lived apart for the better part of a year and met halfway between our two places on Friday nights at a motel where they were giving us a good deal on a room.   
"Smith, two nights." 
 "Yeah, right.  Smith."
And we'd get a nice room at half rate for two nights.
We'd arrived in different cars coming from different directions and headed back on Sunday morning going our separate ways again. 
Unfortunately that was the year there was a gas shortage.  There were long lines at gas stations and many closed their pumps for good.  Stations closed early on Saturday and didn't open again until Monday morning.
On Saturday afternoon, as late as possible, we'd fill up our gas tanks for the Sunday morning rides back to our corners of the state.  We each drove about 3 hours, so we had to make sure the tanks were filled.  We had to find a gas station that still had gas and was open.  And it had to be as close to closing as possible, other wise you couldn't drive anywhere during the day on Saturday and still be certain that you would have enough gas to get back home.
It was an interesting time.  We both quit our first real jobs around March and decided to live together in Wisconsin.  After all, we were married.  It seemed the right thing to do.

Waterlogged

Waterlogged

Gray sky
Gray rooftops
Grayed out day
Rain to stay
Creating
Wet smoke
From airy ashes
Pressed down
On the the ground
Creating
Campfire memories
Of marshmallows
And burned hot dogs
And songs around logs
And doused fire.

Dog's Day Off, My Turn

My cat is quiet and no where to be found when I wake up.  It’s a snowy, lazy day.  The dog is anxious to start her day with a quick trip outside, then a hearty bowl of Pedigree with a side of water.
No cat, until the dog goes outside.  He stretches from behind the TV stand to peer out the window and watch the dog in the snow.

I feed both cat and dog, and everything is peaceful, but not for long.  The cat has something in mind to liven up the morning.  Jump to the table, leap to the railing, squeeze through the open stair treads, bound up the stairs to the loft, run a lap around the treadmill, race down the stairs, streak through the living room, jump to the end table, hop to the half wall, sit for a second, and repeat from the beginning.

The dog is on her bed waiting invisibly for the whole thing to be over.Creak.  Ah, the dog's relieved.  It’s going to involve me today, not her.

The cat reaches to the doorknob and the door pushes open.  The bedroom door wasn’t latched.  Pretty soon I hear plastic rustling.  The bathroom door must have been open, too.  There is a trash bag in there that I am filling with expired products from the linen closet to throw away on dump day.
I stride through the bedroom and into the bathroom.  Yup.  There he is chewing on the red handles of the trash bag.  He has a plastic bag addiction.  I chase him out of the room.  He knows it's going to happen, so he gets to make a quick and skittery getaway.

I work around the house some, and he gets on the table and looks at me.  He tries to slide a stack of mail I have on the table to the floor.  I yell at him.  He ignores me.  He starts to eat a corner of the newspaper that is with the mail.  When he can’t get his plastic fix, he’ll go for crinkly paper.  He’s pretty successful at getting my attention, and I shoo him off the table.

He meows at me and jumps on the chair that I was sitting in before I got up to shoo him off the table.
I sit in the chair anyway and he leans back a bit to avoid me.  Pretty soon he leaves.  He isn’t in this for the pats or the lap.  I still don’t know what his game is.  I think it’s just to see how irritated I can get and still feed him.

I work some on the computer in the kitchen.  I write a nice haiku about snow.  I hear cupboards banging.  Looking up I see four doors already open, and he’s over at the more difficult one for him to open stretching up to grab the knobs, banging it as he gets it partway open and it slams shut again.  The others are easier for him, because the knobs are lower due to the drawers being above them.  This one is a corner one at a strange angle, and it has knobs that are up at the countertop edge.  He loves a challenge.  These corner cupboards have been eating at him for years, and this winter he finally mastered them.  (He’s tried opening the drawers by pulling on those knobs, too, but hasn’t got that mastered...yet.)
I ignore the banging cupboard.  It stops.  I hear funny rustling noises and get up to investigate.
There he is.  New game.

He doesn’t usually get inside and look out.

He likes to watch the toilet flush, but I flush the toilet without him seeing how it was done.  There are plastics in the trash, so I try to throw away trash without him seeing how the lid lifts on the trash can.  If he sees it, he knows it can be done.  He knows that a doorknob opens doors to other rooms, but so far they are too big for his paws to turn.   He also knows refrigerators open, but he as of this moment he’s using the wrong side of the refrigerator door.  He’s trying to open it from the side with the round dot that is a hole plug in case you want to switch the direction it opens. It looks like a door knob to him, I guess. 
Silly cat. 
Everyone knows a refrigerator has a handle, not a doorknob
...but some day.

Dusty Doilies Day

Now my railing is dusty.

Invisible hands

Shaking doilies overhead:

March snow, spring cleaning.

I was going to post on the three books that influenced my life and I even wrote some "stuff".  But then the snow was here out the window as I was writing, and I kept thinking about it.  It's hard not to think about it when you are in a house with a sliding glass door beside the kitchen table on one hand and floor to ceiling windows to the right, in the open living room.  I always get the effect of being inside an inside-out snow globe and someone has shaken the outside, or shaken something outside overhead.
So haiku it is.  No books.

What I Learned From My Mother

I learned from my mother how to
grow carrots as big as my little finger
and how to scrub the dirt off a carrot with my shirt
so I could eat it fresh out of the garden
any time I was hungry.
I learned it’s okay if you laugh at a funeral
because you don’t want to cry.
I learned how to type and sew and knit and crochet.
And I learned how to iron shirts and tablecloths.
I learned that you didn’t want to get
your hands near a wringer washer
or your fingers too close to a sewing machine needle.
I learned not to panic when someone or your
dog got hurt,
and that you could and should
comfort the injured.
I learned how to spell and do my homework and
go to bed when you were making too many mistakes.
I learned that you would do better
with a fresh brain,
than with a tired one.
I learned to make roads in dirt for Tonka trucks
and rivers to drain puddles and how to repair
broken porcelain horses.
I learned how to speak kindly
and share even when it wasn’t what you
wanted to do.
I learned how to pick up a hen
to get an egg from her nest.
I learned how to bake brown rim cookies and use a wet
towel and a glass to flatten them just right
before baking.
I learned that I could be a teacher
if I wanted to,
and that I would be a good one if I did it.
I learned how to draw perspective.
I learned that it was possible to learn things outside of school.
I learned that I could know the names of
butterflies and moths and know any other thing I wanted
to know by reading books or observing.
I learned that reading could take me to the Alps.
I learned that I could dance.
I learned that your family name is important to keep untarnished
not only for you, but for the rest of the family.
I learned that it was expected that you would stand up
for any family member if they were
being criticized or treated unkindly
no matter how much your brother had
just been mean or unfair to you the day before.
I learned that it was okay to make mistakes and
that some of the worst mistakes can
lead to wonderful fixes.
I learned from my mom that you can do anything
for a day,
and that life is made up
of mini adventures that you
can not only handle,
but enjoy.
I learned that no matter
what life has dealt you,
you are the one that chooses to make
the lemonade.
I learned that you never stop missing
a mom.

Sun Feb. 26, 10:19 pm
Donna

When I read this Poetry Friday entry at Dori Reads: Poetry Friday: Julia Kasdorf
I wanted to write What I Learned From My Mother.  It was an enjoyable exercise and took me back to so many great childhood days with mom.

Thanks for this Moment

Thank you Diana at One Literacy Coach for my inspiration today...actually yesterday, but I'd already posted.  It was a quiet rainy morning, and I relaxed and had my coffee, my cat, my dog, my book and a quiet house with a nice fire going in the woodstove.  Could a moment in time be better?

Maybe with chocolate.
But that's for another post.

I'm thankful this moment
For this daily slice
I treasure this minute
So cozy and nice.
As rain hits the rooftop
It patters o'erhead
The dog sleeps so soundly;
The embers glow red.
Its warmth stops the cat
He finishes cleaning
It's time for a nap
For curling, not preening.
So I curl up too
My coffee mug steaming
Reading my book
And so close to dreaming
I'm thankful this moment
For a quiet retreat
This moment of time
When all feels complete.

Be happy I didn't end it this way...like I was tempted...

The quiet surrounds
Thanks for the moment.
Not a creature was stirring
Not even a rodent.

Thanks, MsMac, for hosting Poetry Friday today.

February

President's Day, was a couple of days ago.  I guess it's officially George Washington's birthday that the nation celebrates on President's Day, but it seemed to me, when I was younger, the birthdays of Washington and Lincoln were combined to make Presidents' Day.

In February we celebrate the birthdays of Abraham Lincoln (born February 12) and George Washington (born February 22).   When I was a little girl, we had those two days off, even if they were in the middle of the week. Monday holidays had not been invented yet.
Combine two days off in the middle of the week, Valentine's Day, being short by a few days, my brother's birthday and getting to be closer to spring - well, February was quite a wonderful month.
Oh, and sometimes it was a day longer, but still shorter than the other months....Leap Year!
Which it just so happens to be this year.  Wow, an additional day this year.  Will we be able to handle it?
Still...
One day it is Groundhog's Day...the next it's the kites of March!

Friendship

I am on my way up to Gull Haven...

It just dawned on me as I was sitting at the computer, that the dumpster is there, and the walls are being dewalled.  The wrinkles are coming off.  We are getting our blank slate this week!  So I'm getting in the car and heading north a ways and see if I can get some pictures for the Gull Haven blog.  Yippee!

As soon as I get there, I'll add a photo or two to this page and some to Gull Haven from my phone.
Then grocery shopping and maybe some bead shopping just before the groceries.  Wouldn't want ice cream to melt...brb!!

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

And I am back.  It was a gorgeous February day!  47 degrees and sunny there, although it sprinkled on the way there.  But that's Maine.  There have been times when it is snowing like crazy at our house, and nothing anywhere else...or just the opposite!  Looks funny on the weather map.  Our peninsulas and islands get different weather than a lot of the state.

I went in the house and talked to the man working on the house.  They've filled a dumpster and need to empty it to finish up.  Maybe 3 more days until the walls are opened up.  It was great to hear him say that the house was really well built.  We had hoped that would be the case.  It was a pretty good bet since we bought it from the daughter of the boatbuilder who built it in 1900. 

It was so exciting to smell the fresh air in it.   The walls were holding onto some musty smells from years of being used as storage space.  It was nice to see the sunshine through the walls.  The downstairs windows were opened up to let the breeze through, and it made the view so crystal clear; no viewing through two layers of dirty windows. 

The sky was clearly doing its best to make the water look good!

February 22, 2012

Heart to Heartwood

I spent quite a bit of time writing about this picture, only to have it deleted.   I sat down and tried to remember the poem I'd written.   I think I have it all.  I first tried to think of all the rhymes I used and then tried to remember some of the phrasing.  I'm pretty sure I have all but one stanza.  I think there was one more.  But obviously it wasn't important or necessary or I'd remember it, right?  And I've rephrased some of it now, I'm pretty sure.  And this is the way you edit!  No, this is the way you remember to save it as a draft when you are typing it to yourself as an email on your cellphone and stop to check the date.

I took this picture while I was out on my "summer day" at the beach in January.  It's my second roots picture and poem.  I'm seeing a trend here.  I like roots.  I'd best get my camera refocused for a little variety, though.

Its fingers reach up to the sky -
They once caressed the earth;
It floated to its place of rest
Now sand supports its girth.

As smooth seat or a playground,
Old and young will find
It comforts and consoles them,
Their tight souls to unwind

In heart to heartwood talks
A burden that's revealed 
Becomes embedded in its core
And in its rings concealed

The weight of all those cares
Will keep it in this spot
But should it ever drift away
It would not speak my thought.



Donna Smith
2/9/2012

I See

From Every Day Poems on Facebook

"Can you find a poem in this photo? If I were to find one, it might be in the woman's stance, or perhaps from an imagined figure in the air above her, or maybe in the folds of that voluminous skirt.

Share your poem, or a link to it, right here in this comment box, so we can easily find it and celebrate each other's words..."   

So I wrote this:

I am still here;
I watch from afar,
I see your loneliness,
I see your scar.
It's still alright;
You can still laugh,
You can still love,
Make whole your half.
Step out of the dark
You'll make your way
There's more for your life
Than you see today.
Did you feel my nudge
As I pushed you to go?
I want you to live.
I want you to grow.
Yes, I will be here
While you are still there;
Step forward knowing
I'll always care.

Donna Smith
2/8/2012

Downed and Upended

I drove past this beautiful hemlock blown over in one of our coastal storms. Their root systems being as shallow as they are and their full-time foliage makes them prime candidates for tipping over in a brisk wind.

Downed
Upended
Downhearted
Uprooted
Down trunk
Up roots
Down branches
Up rocks
Down shade
Up dirt
Down nests
Up tunnels
Down squirrels
Up worms
Downfallen
Uplifted

Donna Smith
2/7/2012

Sick or Tired?

Waves overcome;
The spinning
Confuses;
Taking to bed
Before
Sanity
Loses.
Clarity slips;
Tho brain
Pursues it;
Time slips away
Before
One can
Use it.


Is this the second wave of stomach flu that people are getting around here? Others have had it multiple times.  Maybe that's what I'm feeling today.  Make way for my nap... I should know shortly!

Summer Sun

Hey, Jim Hill!  Thanks for hosting Poetry Friday today!

the summer
sun
was visiting
me
on a

winter day

in January

and I went

out to play

and skipped

in sand

and taunted

waves

and said 

good day

to gulls and

spray

before the

summer sun

returned

to gray

Gingerbread, Laundry and Hems, Oh, My...

What's left...

I CANNOT believe what I just did.  I had a post written about my lack of focus the past few weeks...okay month...and I just did something, and the whole thing deleted...speaking of dumb things I've done this month.  Maybe I should be writing this in Word or Pages and saving it.
Let's try again.
First I need to explain that I've been working on getting stabilized on some BP meds, and they have made me tired, nauseous, dizzy and unfocused.  And to top it all off, I was sick last week.  I'm just saying, I don't think this is the real me lately.
A few weeks ago I tried making gingerbread, and left out the baking soda, even after reading the recipe many times and getting all the ingredients out ahead of time.  I just put the baking soda back without using it.  The gingerbread came out of the pan in a nice flat, hard, uncuttable piece; a gingerbread cutting board of sorts.  We did not eat it.  I broke it up so it would fit in the trash better.
I tried baking something else and made a major error, but I cannot for the life of me remember what it was now.  Sigh.  I guess I'm not all the way better yet.
The most recent thing that I did was to change the bedding last week after being sick with stomach flu.  My husband was out of town, so when he returned I wanted to make sure that he would not get sick, and he'd have a fresh, non-germy bed to sleep in.  So I stripped the bed, scooped up the sheets and tossed them into the washer.
At the end of the cycle, I started to throw them into the dryer.  As I did, I noticed that one of the hand towels that I washed with the sheets seemed to have tissue on it.  Great.  I'd washed some tissues that must have been in bed with me.  I hate washing a tissue.  White pieces of paper all over everything!  I looked more closely at the light sheets and noticed that they had the tissue on them also.  I looked in the washer to see if there was tissue on the walls of the washer.  Yup.
But what was that in the bottom of the tub?  A spring?  I panicked.  It was about a foot long and an inch in diameter...a very big spring.   I'd broken the washer!  How could my washer have thrown a spring?
As I looked at it, it looked vaguely familiar.  I'd seen it before.  And then I realized what it was.  It was the ring binder of a book I'd read in bed.  232 pages: 116 sheets plus front and back cover.  118 pieces of paper.  Washed with my good sheets.  The Egyptian cotton 500 count sheets.  My splurge set.
I set the load out on the floor and unenthusiastically vacuumed the inside of my washing machine.  Then I put it through its 3 hour clean cycle.  No more washes tonight.
I picked up the hand towel again to see what could be done.  I took it outside and began to shake it energetically, sending white paper snowflakes into the air, and all over my dark shirt.  When I was out of breath I stopped and examined it again.  The paper fibers were still in the towel fibers, permanently embedded.  Discouraged, I left the mountain of wet laundry on the floor hoping my feeble brain would come up with an answer to the problem.
I remade the bed with my not favorite bedding.
The next day, resigned to the fact that they were going to be way too much trouble to try to de-paper, I picked up the mountain to stuff it into a trash bag.  It was now dried into a nice paper-mache sculpture.   I was pretty sure my decision to discard the evidence was the right one.
Is it any wonder that it took me 3 hours last Friday to work up the courage to hem my husband's two new pairs of pants?  Four legs.  The opportunities were limitless.

Summer in January

It was a great day for the beach yesterday at 51 degrees, and even today at 41 degrees.  The sun was out.  A few people were walking their dogs on the beach, and others were, like me, just meandering around.  But for the most part each of us had our own piece of the ocean to ourselves.  It was a glorious day.

A quiet place to sit

My treasures

I love, love, love the ocean.  It was tough the first few years we lived in Minnesota.  I learned to love it out there too, but it wasn't the same as being near the sea.  I need it.

Soup in the Pot

Kid's View...or mine after passing out on the floor while I was sick.

Oh, my.  I have been so sick this week.  Stomach stuff.  Dizzy.  I still am retaining some of the dizzy and tired.  It seems so long since I've felt well.  I'm afraid I will be quite giddy when I finally feel like myself again.  Anyway,  I started this poem over a week ago while I was feeling good and thought I'd have plenty of time to finish it.  I was thinking about when I was a little kid, and remembering when Mom was cooking on the stovetop (maybe it's all the soup I've had lately), and I had to ask her what she was making because I couldn't see into the pan.  I couldn't even see the stovetop.  Funny that I remember that moment.  I wonder sometimes what makes a moment stick, and so many others get lost in a tangle of dendrites and bits of dandruff.
My goal for February is a poem a day, like I did in April.  Only this time it is going to be only poems that are kid oriented.  Robert Louis Stevensonish or Aileen Fisherish, maybe?... I like them both.

There's something in the cupboard,
There's something on the shelf,
There's something cooking on the stove,
Can't see it by myself.

I cannot reach the glasses,
Nor cookies way up high,
I cannot see what's cooking,
No matter how I try.

Someday it will be different,
I'll see soup in the pot,
I'll easily get my cup out,
For short, I will be not.

I'll be the one to get things
And into cupboards look,
I'll reach into the cookie jar,
And even help Mom cook!

Goldie Locks and the Cat Hairs

Our dog is a Golden Retriever.  So that probably explains everything to anyone who has ever had interactions with such a breed.  Pippi loves people.  She loves cats, in spite of the fact that our cat sees her as a toy.  Hmm.  I'll have to include a picture of Purrsee "loving" our dog. 
Purrsee is a Maine Coon Cat.  If you have a cat with an attitude, you will understand our household dynamics better also.

Purrsee hugging Pippi.

When we leave the house, we put Pippi in charge, but remind her not to tell Purrsee.  We all know who's really in charge, but Pippi likes to think she has some say in what will go on while we are gone.  Twice now we've found Pippi without a tail wag.  We took her to the vet the first time it happened.  He said she had a slight swelling on her tail and to wait a couple of days and see what would become of it.  $175, please.
The tail wag came back in a couple of days.
So this time when it happened, we ignored it totally.  Most of her tail wag has come back.  She kind of twirls her tail in a circle now though instead of back and forth.
When she loses her wag, she looks so depressed.  Her tail hangs, her head hangs.  She eats and otherwise appears normal.  But she definitely needs her tail to wag to be her cheerful self.
Both times this has happened it has been a sudden thing.  One day she's waggy, the next day droopy.  And I'm wondering, as I did the first time, if the cat has anything to do with it.
You see, the cat is large and in charge.  Sometimes the cat will hide around a corner and pop out at the dog.  The dog will go skittering away, feet splaying, and sometimes she falls as she tries to maneuver a corner to get out of the way of the cat.
Sometimes the cat grabs the dog around the neck and bites an ear, or licks an ear (we never know what mood he's in when he starts the game), then runs off.  Purrsee usually only chases her a few feet and then turns around to walk away with an air of superiority about him.  The dog goes to her bed to play with a stuffed toy, like nothing ever happened, a cheerful "I wanted to be over here anyway" look on her grinny face, contented that the cat's attention has wandered to something else.
When we leave the house, I see their two faces looking out the window at us.  The cat's face usually is the first to disappear, leaving the dog to stare wistfully.

Pippi with Puppy

Pippi is such a gentle dog.  She loves stuffed toys, preferably ones that don't squeak.  If they squeak she gets concerned about their health and well-being.  When we come home she brings us one of her toys and will let us take it in our hands (like we really enjoy holding a wet stuffed animal) for a few seconds.  Then she gets nervous about never seeing it again and will request that you hand it back to her by opening her mouth and prancing around you.  She takes it carefully by the ear or leg, walks off a safe distance, sets it gently on the floor, and repositions it in her mouth for better carrying.
Pippi is so careful with her "babies", she would have every toy she ever owned if we didn't periodically get rid of some.  She currently has a Winnie the Pooh, a green swan, an elephant, a lion, a green monster and her Christmas puppy - a golden retriever from Cabela's .  As my husband and I manuever around these toys, it becomes apparent that we will have to cut down on her litter some.  It gets dangerous to walk around the house, and I'm getting so that I don't think I want to break a hip, or anything else for that matter.
The cat has one toy excluding the dog.  He is partial to a ring with a ball in it to bat in circles, with a center pad for clawing.  The entire house is his toy though.  We have open stairs and railings that he can crawl through and around and sit atop for surveying.  He has his jester dog.  He has his maid and butler who keep his bowls full and his litter box clean.  There really isn't anything else a king needs, unless you count that mouse he wanted to keep for a pet.  We drew the line there.  I don't mind playing a maid, but I'm not taking care of his pets.
Mouse is gone.

Okay, so are cats related to owls?

My Dreams

Sliding

Floating

Waiting patiently

Careful movements

Quietly entering

This world.

I dreamt

He

Would be

A son.

First born,

A gentle soul;

Fearfully and

Wonderfully made.

I loved him

Deeply

Before

He knew what

Love was.

Kicking

Somersaulting

Arms akimbo

Feet askipping.

Tumbling into

This world.

Before she had

A name

She was a dream

And I named

That dream

So that when

She came to be

She would have

Always had

A name.

True to

Her name,

God has

Graced her

With a son.

Savviniatory Blatherings

I made a book for our grandson's great-grandparents for Christmas.  I ordered late, so they just arrived.  I am really liking them.  It is basically a photo book of lots of the baby pictures taken in the first 4 months of his life.  I had them printed in 8 1/2 by 11 size in hardcover so they are easy to see and handle.  Now when Great Grammie wants to show off her very great grandson, she can easily point to the "coffee table" book instead of trying to bring up the photos on her computer or iPad.
I am readying to compile the next few months of life, and have begun putting in poems and stories for and about him.  I am so excited.  Don't read this, daughter of mine; maybe it will be a surprise gift for his first birthday.
I also burned a DVD of the book as a slideshow set to music as a gift for parents and the other set of grandparents.  They are more computer savvy, so the book isn't as necessary for showing baby pictures.
Isn't savvy a good word.  Where did it come from?  It sounds like a shortened version of some other word...like savvination, savviniatory...something like that, but it was too long and hard on the tongue, so they shortened it to savvy.
They are more computer savviniatory... He has street savvination...
Yeah, you would have to change that to savvy.
No, really, where is that from?
Okay. Nevermind. It makes sense.  I should have known:
Per the online dictionary:

W. Indies pidgin borrowing of Fr. savez (-vous)? "do you know?" or Sp. sabe (usted)"you know," both from V.L. *sapere, from L. sapere "be wise, be knowing".
There.  I've learned another new thing, sabe?
Wouldn't that make a nice word for Grandfather?  Sapere.  I'll have to tell my husband.  Maybe he'll want to be Sapere.  He's already savvy.

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