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

Give It Up

Empty

Bowl –

Striding.

Telling looks

Harsh stares

Thinking.

Devising.

Commanding.

You must have what I want.

You must know what I want.

You must relinquish what I want.

Yes.

I have what you want.

I know what you want.

I am busy.

Ignoring.

Resisting.

Aarrgh,  caving.

Relinquishing.

Telling looks

Harsh stares

Striding –

Bowl

Full.

The writing process to this piece, from 1st at the end to 5th and final (above).  It just seemed an interesting process to me and I decided to keep my copies as I revised.

4.

Food

Gone,

Striding to me.

Telling looks –

Harsh stares –

He is thinking.

Devising.

Commanding.

I must have what he wants.

I must know what he wants.

I must relinquish what he wants.

Yes.

I have what he wants.

I know what he wants.

I am busy.

I am ignoring.

Resisting.

Aarrgh,  caving.

Relinquishing.

Telling looks –

Harsh stares –

Striding to the bowl

With

Food.

3.

Hungry

Striding to the bowl

Telling looks

Harsh stares

He is thinking.

Devising.

Commanding.

I must have what he wants

I must know what he wants

I must relinquish what he wants.

I am ignoring.

Resisting.

Caving.

Telling looks

Harsh stares

Striding to the bowl

With

Food

2.

Hungry

He

Strides to the bowl

Gives me 

Blank stares

Speaking stares Telling looks

Harsh stares

He is thinking.

He is devising.

He is commanding.

I must have what he wants

I must know what he wants

I must relinquish what he wants

I am wondering.

I am resisting.

I am caving.

Blank stares

Speaking stares

Harsh stares

From

Me

Fed

1.

Blank stares

Speaking stares

Harsh stares

He is thinking.

He is devising.

He is commanding.

I must have what he wants

I must know what he wants

I must relinquish what he wants

I am wondering.

I am resisting.

I am caving.

Blank stares

Speaking stares

Harsh stares

Purrsee

This evening, while I was sewing, and obviously not paying enough attention to Purrsee, our Maine Coon Cat, he got hungry and bored.
He began sliding a spool of thread off the table, and I caught it about 4 times.  Then I started my camera. You can see at the end he has figured it out and is now teasing me!

 

This morning, he was hungry also, and when he's hungry he likes to get my attention by opening kitchen cabinets (there is no cat food in any of these cabinets and he knows it). In this clip, he has already opened two kitchen cabinets, that you will see him walk by on his way to see if his dish has food in it yet.  I got my camera again, a bit too slowly, but you can see him in action just as the clip starts. When he knows I'm filming, he gets camera shy...or obstinate, perhaps is a better word!

Fine Dining Experience

At a restaurant this morning
We sat down to dine
With mom, dad and baby...
And baby was fine!

Although we had worried
And imagined distress
His first public dining
Was quite a success.

It reminded me though,
As I thought of our son,
Of our first dining venture
Where he came undone.

I ate with one hand
And soothed with the other.
I stood up and rocked
Like every good mother.

I passed him to father,
But that didn't last,
Baby was cranky;
His nap time had passed.

Then strangers appeared
And came to my seat,
And those angels held him
So new parents could eat.

I like how having a grandchild brings back delicious and delightful memories, some of which weren't so delicious or delightful at the time! I wonder if those people at the restaurant still talk about the time they helped out some new parents at a restaurant one day 31 years ago.

Back Seat

Today I'm taking a back seat. For the next 8 hours I'm just sitting in the back seat listening to my two men - father and son - talking about cars, guns, work and other guy stuff. Deep voices back and forth. They don't get to talk like that much. I'm trying to sit quietly in the back seat and let them forget I am here. I don't want them to feel guilty that they aren't including me. I don't want them to include me. It's so comfortable to hear their voices. I feel safe and happy. In my back seat world I'm also texting my daughter about cooking her turkey on Thursday, and about making turkey pie with the leftovers. I'm sending her pictures to keep her updated on where we are in our Thanksgiving pilgrimage. She makes me smile when she says how excited my 3 month old grandson is to see me! We like our senses of humor in our family. It is a comfort to know you don't have to explain that you are joking or explain that what you said really means YOU are excited and that someday he will be when he knows what is going on! I remember as a little girl I sat in the back seat on the way to Nannie's and Gramp's house for Thanksgiving. I'm feeling as happy and excited as I did then! And suddenly I know how excited my grandmother must have been before I knew how exciting it was. The back seat is a good place for listening and thinking. Did I mention that I'm happy?

I Am Sewing

I don't know why I have to make such a big deal of sewing.
I have had this material since my grandson was born.  That will be three months in two days.  And now I am, at last, bravely cutting the material and single-mindedly sewing.

After a few little tweaks...like setting the material all folded up in little squares, then in strips, out on my bed, to see how it might go together; after looking at countless quilting patterns, after downloading quilting apps, after coloring paper strips and piecing them together, after taking everything out and putting it away again about 10 times; and after going to the store and buying ANOTHER larger cutting mat and new rotary cutter,  it just materialized, so to speak.

Two days ago, I came to the realization that I didn't want to put so much work into the quilt that I wouldn't want a baby to use it, and the job became so much easier to start! I began cutting and sewing yesterday.
I am looking at the floor that needs vacuuming, and the laundry that should be started.  I am thinking about the trip to PA, and how my house should be clean when my friend comes to tend to the dog and cat while we spend Thanksgiving with our new family branch that never existed before this year.  But suddenly, I really want him to have this quilt.  I want him to have it for Thanksgiving.

What if something happened to me and he never got a quilt from Nannie?  What if all he got were the pieces of fabric?  Someone else would have to put the pieces together, and then it wouldn't be from my heart and hands to his. 
I have finally started.  Now I have to finish.

It's Come to This

Okay.  So it's come to this. 

I wanted some peanut butter.  It's natural and has an expiration date somewhere on it.  I finally located some writing on the edge of the lid.  I wore bifocals up until I stepped on them...well, no.  They were my new bifocals that I got to replace my "over the counter" reading glasses that cost $9.99.  I did not need to get bifocals.  I just thought it would be easier than continuing to use two different strengths of reading glasses, as my optometrist suggested I could do. Wearing them would save me about $300 but I would have to have two pair of different strength reading glasses with me at all times: one for distance and one for close up.  I decided to go with the bifocals.  However, I broke my expensive bifocals within the first 3 months of ownership, and while I waited to see if I would actually go in to get them fixed, I began wearing two pairs of glasses again. 

My daughter loves when I go out with one pair on top of my head and the other on my eyes...well, on my nose...(however she loves it even more when I wear sunglasses over the glasses I'm wearing AND have a pair on my head.  

So that's the background.  My current reading glasses are starting to get a bit weaker (probably wore out the strength from so much use), especially in low light.  I needed to see the expiration date on the peanut butter, but my glasses weren't strong enough or maybe the lighting was bad.  Yeah, probably that last thing... 

Anyway, I, being the clever person that I am, got out my iPhone and snapped a picture of said expiration date on that peanut butter lid.  And then I could just spread the peanut butter so to speak, and make the date as large as I needed to in order to see it without any glasses! 

Sometimes I am so clever I scare me.

More illows

Today I worked with a teen, teaching her to sew.  We sewed the first of many pillowcases to donate to the women in a residential addictions program.  I started to write about that, but when I started writing the word "pillow" it made me think of other words...

I like the sound of
pillows,
billows
and willows.

I think
there should
more illow words -
millows of them -
**********************************************************

In the lillows of the valley,
the fragrance is so sweet.

In the frillows of the brook
water splashed upon my feet.

In the nillows of the night,
fireflies glowed, and darkness lightened.

In the villows of the tree
many creatures lived unfrightened.

In the sillows of a web,
the dew drops sparkled with perfection.

In the chillows of the winter,
new snow shone the moon's reflection.

In the gillows of the rocks
little mice were nibbling corn.

In the rillows of the mind
is where mighty dreams are born.
***********************************************************

I do not know where this came from today....somewhere in the rillows of my mind.  I have perhaps been up too late in the nillows of the night.

Linked to Poetry Friday hosted by Tabitha Yeats: The Opposite of Indifference.

Little Things

Roadblock?

Take a detour?

We were

A little late;

Now we're

Lots late.

On the island

Detours

Are little things

That mean 

A lot.

Storm a Coming!

We had to run up to Gull Haven this afternoon because a snowstorm is headed this way. We had to drain the water tank just in case it froze tonight. There's no heat in the house, so just in case . . .
The sky was already getting overcast by the time we got there. And now, on our way home, it is starting a slushy rain. We're supposed to get 6 inches of snow tonight.
It was cold getting the house settled in for winter, so we stopped by Moody's Diner and had some good, hot and hearty beef barley soup with hot from the oven biscuits with real butter. Oh, yeah, and wonderful warm gingerbread topped with real whipped cream to go with that hot coffee!
Now, I ask you, is there anything better than battening down the hatches?

The House with the Wrinkled Wall

Posted also on Poetry Friday RoundUp hosted by Random Noodling,
and on Gull Haven, where I put updates on this house.

The house with the wrinkled wall

Stands firmly

And squat

By the sea

The house with the wrinkled wall

Waits quietly

And longs

For me

The house with the wrinkled wall

Wants warmth

And life

To tend

The house with the wrinkled wall

Sleeps still

And gray

Till then

The house with the wrinkled wall

Knows the time

Is soon

To come

The house with the wrinkled wall

Starts a low

But joyful

Hum

Happy Birthday

Today is my birthday! Yea!

I will probably have to make myself a cake if I want one. My husband won't make one.

My daughter doesn’t live here any more.  And my son, well, he is not a mom’s birthday cake maker kind of guy. He may remember that it’s my birthday though.

Whenever I think of making a birthday cake, I remember the time I made Mom a surprise birthday cake. I must have been 12 or 13.

It was summer, so I was babysitting my three youngersiblings.  Mom was working at the store with Dad as she usually did, so I had all day. I wanted to get it made and surprise her with a birthday cake when she got home.

Well, I got out the red cookbook and then pulled out all the ingredients for a cake; there were no mixes back then. I mixed the ingredients by hand.  We did have a mixer, but I didn’t use her beautiful chrome Sunbeam mixer.  I loved that thing.   I knew just how to let the bowl spin and use a spoon to push the batter back down into the bowl without getting the spoon caught in the beaters. Mom had shown me that long ago. You could really ruin your mixer, so I didn’t use it, just in case.

I greased the pan pretty well.  No Teflon or Pam back then.  We always used Crisco on a napkin…no paper towels yet either!

When it looked good and smooth, and my arm was tired, I poured the batter into the cake pan and put it in the oven.  Soon the yummy chocolate cake aroma filled the air.  It was so exciting.  I’d cooked before, but not without Mom home.  She would be so surprised to see this cake, baked by me!  When it was done, I set it aside to cool while I made the frosting.  There were no cans of pre-made frosting in the world yet.  I used my mom’s recipe of confectionary sugar, butter, vanilla, hot water and cocoa powder.   Chocolate frosting for chocolate cake – is there anything better?

I started the frosting.  Pour in sugar, add the butter, vanilla and cocoa.  The hot water melts the butter as you mix it.  The water must not have been quite hot enough though; it almost melted the butter. Little flecks of it, well, lumps of it showed up as little yellow dots, about the size of mini chocolate chips, throughout the chocolate frosting.  I tried adding more hot water, but not muuch changed except that the frosting was getting soupier.  I didn’t have any more confectionary sugar, so I could not get it thicker. So now I had a buttery-lumpy liquid frosting.  Okay.  There was nothing to be done about that now. I’d pour it over the cake. It would look a bit funny, but it would still taste good.

I used a knife to loosen the sides of the cake from the pan so I could turn it upside down on the cooling rack and then rightside up on the plate.

I placed the rack on the top of the cake pan and turned the cake over to release it from the pan. I lifted the pan away from the cake.  It didn’t come out.  I tapped the bottom of the pan, and I jiggled it. Suddenly and quietly it came out…in pieces. Some of it still clung to the cake pan.  I had a mound of cake that could not be pieced together even with frosting that would stick.

I could hear the car tires crunching on the driveway, as I scooped chunks of cake and placed them on saucers.  The car stopped by the door as I poured buttery lumpy frosting over the chunks.  The porch door opened as I shoved candles into each little cake volcano. “Happy birthday!”  we shouted, as I got ready to light the candles. “I made it myself!”  I laughed.  And we all sat down to eat Mom’s surprise birthday cake.

Triple Dog Dare

Why I Write

Writing is not a choice. Writing is a challenge put forth by my inner me. It’s the reason I write. It has always been there as far back as I can remember. Addiction and obsession are too negative sounding but could be factors. Liberation and communication…now those are the results of the addiction/obsession, but they sound much better! Let’s keep this positive!

Writing is a sport: a game of putting the right words together at the right time in the right place.  A challenge put forth by my inner me. “I triple dog dare you,” says my brain.  And then, I have no choice, I have to write it down.

It’s time to pick teams. Let the games begin.

As the coach, I invite the words to come and try out.  I decide which words I want for the team, which words get to play and which ones don’t.

Some words get sent back.  They just aren't playing nicely; they lack sportsmanship and cooperation. Some words just don't make the cut; they’re just not good enough -  no muscle, no stretch, no imagination, no accuracy, no stamina.  They’ll take too much work to fit in with the rest of the team.

Some words are relegated to the bench in case I need them later.  They have potential, but they just aren’t needed yet.  I’ll look for places to use them well and strategically.  They may not play this game, but I keep an eye out in the next game for a place I can use them.

Sometimes, somehow, too many words go out on the field.  I have to send some back because there are too many for the game, too many on the field! Penalty!!!

But when the right words are put together, they flow.   A brain “wave” goes through the reader.  From word to word, the image grows as it is passed around, until, at the end - SCORE!  And a little brain cheer goes up…

Anyone for up for a game?  I double dog dare you.  No, I triple dog dare you!

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

Such a simple question, with so many possible answers! Thursday, October 20, is the third annual National Day on Writing and the Stenhouse Blog will join the celebration by asking you to answer the question: Why do you write?
Here's my comment: 

Why I Write

Writing is not a choice. Writing is a challenge put forth by my inner me. It’s the reason I write. It has always been there as far back as I can remember. Addiction and obsession are too negative sounding but could be factors. Liberation and communication…now those are the results of the addiction/obsession, but they sound much better! Let’s keep this positive!

Shushing

 

For Poetry Friday linked at Jama's Alphabet Soup:

Shush!

The wind outside

Is shushing

Listen to the autumn

Rolling in

Skip to greet the

Incoming waves

Splash

Ankle deep in

Leaves

Scoop and toss

Giggle

At leaf spray

Sprinkling down

On faces and necks

Dive into

The cool

Tidal pool
Of autumn.