The strawberries came from the Saturday morning market at the lake.
I put them on a dainty rose-spattered china plate and smiled. The plate was bought for my mother by my dad. One Saturday morning about 34 years ago my dad and I went shopping in a farmers market in PA. There was a side building that hosted an antique/flea market each week. On an impulse we went over to it after getting our market goodies. We found all kinds of treasures! But at one point, Dad came to me with this small oval plate with scalloped edges and said, "Do you think Mama would like this?" I was charmed by it as well as his thoughtfulness and assured him she would indeed.
She did.
A very short time later, Dad died in five minutes of a heart attack. The shopping excursion turned out to be our last time together.
When Mother died, I picked the plate from the pile of dishes.
Now each time I pull it out, I remember the whole history of loving.
And the strawberries melted in my mouth.
Along with my tears.
Saturday, June 11, 2016
Friday, May 6, 2016
Hully Gully
sometimes words from a poem just jump off the page and land in your heart.
yesterday was such a day.
Rita Dove was on NPR and I was so inspired by the interview that the minute I hit the library I headed for the 811's and pulled off a volume of her poems called Grace Notes.
This is the last stanza of a poem called "Hully Gully"
"daughters floated above the ranks of bobby socks.
Theirs was a field to lie down in
while fathers worked swing shift and
wives straightened oval photographs
above exhausted chenille
in bedrooms upstairs everywhere...."
"exhausted chenille"! How I cherish/covet those words. I cannot think of a more succinct, panoramic combination.
I remember back to the chenille spreads of my childhood and there wasn't a one that wasn't exhausted! Perhaps it was a concept of softness that should have stayed in its creator's mind because it is synonymous with a world of tackiness in my young mind!
Beyond that, the bobby socks of the fifties, the soft world of the boomers, the hard work of the parents, the generations before looking out through stern oval lens - Rita Dove, you are masterful!
yesterday was such a day.
Rita Dove was on NPR and I was so inspired by the interview that the minute I hit the library I headed for the 811's and pulled off a volume of her poems called Grace Notes.
This is the last stanza of a poem called "Hully Gully"
"daughters floated above the ranks of bobby socks.
Theirs was a field to lie down in
while fathers worked swing shift and
wives straightened oval photographs
above exhausted chenille
in bedrooms upstairs everywhere...."
"exhausted chenille"! How I cherish/covet those words. I cannot think of a more succinct, panoramic combination.
I remember back to the chenille spreads of my childhood and there wasn't a one that wasn't exhausted! Perhaps it was a concept of softness that should have stayed in its creator's mind because it is synonymous with a world of tackiness in my young mind!
Beyond that, the bobby socks of the fifties, the soft world of the boomers, the hard work of the parents, the generations before looking out through stern oval lens - Rita Dove, you are masterful!
Thursday, May 5, 2016
letter perfect
The sun rises, the newspaper, double-bagged lies beyond our front wall, and inside is ---- the crossword puzzle! Oh, sure, the world is aflame with misery on the political, economic, social, environmental levels, but what settles my soul for the day is to do the puzzle.
Why is it delightful to poise above those small squares, pondering the correct letter, the correct definition, the correct nuance of the clues. Some squares I fill in boldly with assurance, almost contempt! Others I niggle. Could it be this? That? This morning there was a clue "Mercedes-Benz category" and I had "ac----". My mind started down the path of accura or something similar and I couldn't divert it! But I shaved nearby letters, and honed the edges and all of a sudden "aclass" popped into being. Voila!
And there it was - a small, satisfying, early victory of mental tumbling! And perhaps ridiculously, I felt ready to begin the day that would hold lots of research, questions, answers, conversation because I had carved out Mercedes Benz into aclass!
But maybe not so ridiculous after all.
Why is it delightful to poise above those small squares, pondering the correct letter, the correct definition, the correct nuance of the clues. Some squares I fill in boldly with assurance, almost contempt! Others I niggle. Could it be this? That? This morning there was a clue "Mercedes-Benz category" and I had "ac----". My mind started down the path of accura or something similar and I couldn't divert it! But I shaved nearby letters, and honed the edges and all of a sudden "aclass" popped into being. Voila!
And there it was - a small, satisfying, early victory of mental tumbling! And perhaps ridiculously, I felt ready to begin the day that would hold lots of research, questions, answers, conversation because I had carved out Mercedes Benz into aclass!
But maybe not so ridiculous after all.
Friday, April 29, 2016
Daily bread
An extensive time at the Information Desk on a quiet afternoon yielded four conversation with long-time patron friends, and each one expressed pleasure at the interaction. And that's what life is all about. Finding your niche.
I'm sure many people wonder why I don't retire - and one of these days I surely will - but to have been given the gift of a natural fit, occupation-wise, I consider such an enormous gift and I'm not ready to relinquish it.
When a patron comes in and says, "I need a book for this weekend - you always know what I like" - to me it's the Oscar of the library world!
And beyond the matching books and people is the life line of birth, illness, joy, successes, children, marriage, divorce, death. The confidences ebb and flow. It is the bar-tender phenomenon because I don't know these people beyond the desk. And yet I have a stake in their happiness.
In looking back, what could be better than lending someone a book, your ear, your heart?
I'm sure many people wonder why I don't retire - and one of these days I surely will - but to have been given the gift of a natural fit, occupation-wise, I consider such an enormous gift and I'm not ready to relinquish it.
When a patron comes in and says, "I need a book for this weekend - you always know what I like" - to me it's the Oscar of the library world!
And beyond the matching books and people is the life line of birth, illness, joy, successes, children, marriage, divorce, death. The confidences ebb and flow. It is the bar-tender phenomenon because I don't know these people beyond the desk. And yet I have a stake in their happiness.
In looking back, what could be better than lending someone a book, your ear, your heart?
Monday, April 18, 2016
feathered friends
I am always amazed when I compare the "Judy, Judy, Judy" song of the tufted titmouse to the actual body of the bird! It is such a teeny little creature, but it just belts out it's reverberating song through the entire woods. Talk about a PA system! What are we mortals missing? If we all had vocal cords like that we could do away with things like "Match.Com"!
And my other avian observation of the morning - a large crow kept landing across the street and pecking, very skittishly, at a filled white garbage bag waiting for pickup at the curb. I had never seen that before and I always thought that birds' sense of smell wasn't highly developed. Even vultures I thought relied heavily on sightings. And whatever was inside the garbage bag was all wrapped up tightly. Was there advanced avian word out that the Japanese neighbors had exotic leftovers?!
Other than that, I'm just kicked-back lolling in this spring-shot morning.
And my other avian observation of the morning - a large crow kept landing across the street and pecking, very skittishly, at a filled white garbage bag waiting for pickup at the curb. I had never seen that before and I always thought that birds' sense of smell wasn't highly developed. Even vultures I thought relied heavily on sightings. And whatever was inside the garbage bag was all wrapped up tightly. Was there advanced avian word out that the Japanese neighbors had exotic leftovers?!
Other than that, I'm just kicked-back lolling in this spring-shot morning.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
frock time
We had a tea for our library volunteers yesterday, always a delightful Spring ritual to thank all the lovely people who oil our organizational joints throughout the year! And as we were preparing for it I quoted this poem to the colleagues I was working with - a poem from my mother's 2nd grade reader with the brown cover and the pages that were shiny and cracked with turning -
You're going out to tea today
So mind your manners well,
Let all accounts I hear of you
Be pleasant one to tell.
Don't spill you tea
Or crumb your bread
And don't tease one another,
And Tommy mustn't talk so much
Or quarrel with his brother.
Say "If you please"
And "thank you, ma'am"
Be home at eight o'clock
And, Fanny, do be careful
That you do not tear your frock!
At least that's how I remember it being quoted to me! I suppose I read it for myself one day too, but I can hear my mother's voice reciting it over and over upon request.
Just the language of manners, frocks, pleasant accounts.... ah, another era...one I know that had its own problems, but oh the civility of it all!
You're going out to tea today
So mind your manners well,
Let all accounts I hear of you
Be pleasant one to tell.
Don't spill you tea
Or crumb your bread
And don't tease one another,
And Tommy mustn't talk so much
Or quarrel with his brother.
Say "If you please"
And "thank you, ma'am"
Be home at eight o'clock
And, Fanny, do be careful
That you do not tear your frock!
At least that's how I remember it being quoted to me! I suppose I read it for myself one day too, but I can hear my mother's voice reciting it over and over upon request.
Just the language of manners, frocks, pleasant accounts.... ah, another era...one I know that had its own problems, but oh the civility of it all!
Sunday, April 10, 2016
Safety
if I was a jewel
my dad was the box
lined with the softest cotton
if I was a seashell
he was a rounded mound
of sand that kept me
from washing out
to sea
if I was an egg
he was the woven strands
of hair, grass and twigs
hollowed out
holding me
if I was a child
he was always there
at the edges
quietly
encircling.
and so today.
my dad was the box
lined with the softest cotton
if I was a seashell
he was a rounded mound
of sand that kept me
from washing out
to sea
if I was an egg
he was the woven strands
of hair, grass and twigs
hollowed out
holding me
if I was a child
he was always there
at the edges
quietly
encircling.
and so today.
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