First Yesterday, Then Today

As sometimes happens, yesterday I started writing a post that I didn't finish, so today I'll show you what I wrote yesterday, and then I'll write what I want to say today, which is actually based on something I read yesterday. Tomorrow I'll write something about tomorrow...maybe. Who's on first?

Before I go any further, I need to set the record straight (so to speak). I didn't provide a lot of details about my short stay in Edmonds because, as you may recall, I've taken a vow not to whine/complain/gossip, etc. But if I gave the impression that I was staying with Rick Steves, I need to disabuse you of that notion. I just dropped his name because Greg told me Mr. Steves lives in Edmonds, that's all. Now that we've cleared that up...

Last night (which was actually night before last, are you with me?) I had dinner with my charming new host, Diane, of the lovely garden. I brought to the feast a baking potato and fresh cherries, which are all the rage in Washington this time of year (cherries, that is, not potatoes). Diane provided leftover chicken thighs that she baked using the Pillsbury Bake-Off-million-dollar-prize-winning recipe, invented by a woman she knows! Here's the recipe:

(This is where I stopped yesterday because Diane wasn't home and I couldn't get the recipe. I just called the house to see if I could come in and get it now but the machine picked up so I still don't have it. But it's a good one and it's coming, I promise.)


So here's what I just wrote today:

Wednesday, July 1, 2009
What I want to share today is inspired, once again, by The Writer's Almanac by Garrison Keillor, for June 30, 2009, who writes:

"On this day in 1936 Margaret Mitchell's (books by this author) novel Gone With the Wind was first published.

"In 1920, Mitchell fell off a horse and suffered terrible injuries. She sort of recovered from the fall, but she kept reinjuring herself in different ways, and a few years later she had to quit her job as a reporter with The Atlanta Journal and stay in bed. Her husband, a newspaper editor, would go to the Atlanta library and bring her back piles of books to read so she could occupy herself while bedridden. One day, he came home and said, 'I have brought you all of the books that I think you can handle from the library. I wish you would write one yourself.'

"He then went out and got a Remington typewriter. When he presented it to his wife, Margaret, he said, 'Madam, I greet you on the beginning of a new career.' She asked him what she should write about, and her editor-husband gave her the famous 'Write what you know' line.

"So she wrote about Southern belles, and she expanded upon family stories and the stories she'd heard from Civil War veterans while she was growing up in Georgia. The one-bedroom apartment that she and her husband lived in was cramped, and she called it "The Dump." She would sit and write in every nook and corner of the tiny place, working in the bedroom or the kitchen or the hallway.

"She told almost no one except her husband that she was writing a novel. When friends came over to their place, which happened often, she'd hide the manuscript under the bed or the couch.
But one of her Atlanta friends, Lois Cole, had found chunks of the manuscript lying around that cramped apartment. Cole was now living in New York City and working in the publishing industry. Cole told her boss at Macmillan, Harold Latham, that her witty Southern friend 'might be concealing a literary treasure.'

"Latham went down to Atlanta to pay Margaret Mitchell a visit and ask her about the novel. Mitchell denied its existence. He spent the day with her, following along on outings with her friends, and asked about the novel again in a car full of her girlfriends. Mitchell changed the subject. But when Latham got out of the car, all of her friends in the car kept up the questioning. One friend was adamant that Mitchell was working on a novel, and asked why she hadn't shown it to Latham. Mitchell said that it was 'lousy' and that she was 'ashamed of it.' The friend goaded, 'Well, I dare say. Really, I wouldn't take you for the type to write a successful book. You don't take your life seriously enough to be a novelist.'

"That did it — Margaret Mitchell was furious and galvanized. She hurried back to her cramped apartment, grabbed the assorted piles of manuscript and shoved them into a suitcase, and drove it over to the hotel where Latham was staying. When stacked up vertically in one pile, the manuscript was 5 feet high. She delivered it to him in the lobby, saying, 'Take it before I change my mind.'

"It was published on this day in 1936, and immediately it was a sensation. Reports abound of people in Atlanta staying up all night to read Mitchell's novel that summer of 1936. It revitalized the publishing industry (italics mine). The next year, Mitchell won the Pulitzer Prize. Her book was made into a movie starring Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh, and when it had its premiere in Atlanta in 1939, Margaret Mitchell was there at the Loew's Grand Theater with the movie stars.

"The cramped apartment in which Margaret Mitchell wrote Gone With the Wind is now the centerpiece of the Margaret Mitchell House in midtown Atlanta, which reopens this weekend after a long period of renovation. There are tours of the apartment, historical performances, and a museum devoted to her life and work."

Now that is a story about a writer who wasn't a writer until she wrote a Pulizer Prize-winner that, for some reason, does not intimidate me, probably because although I never read the book, I didn't particularly like the movie. It makes me think, geewhiz, if Gone With the Wind can be a prize winner surely I can write something as good as that. Well...I could if I wanted to! And if I did, I wouldn't tell you!

Here's a pithy little poem for you while you're waiting for my epic novel.

Tara Revisited

Margaret Mitchell stole a pickle
All on a summer’s day
When Margaret Mitchell ate the pickle
Here’s what she had to say:
As God is my witness,
I’ll never be hungry again!

July 1, 2009
Seattle

(And I suppose she wasn't, damn her eyes.)

Oh Those Lazy Days of Summer

I'm back in Seattle, in a neighborhood known as Columbia City, an older part of town than Madison Park, with little ethnic businesses and people who don't all look alike. I'm staying with my new friend Diane on top of a hill (but flat parking--woo-hoo) with a great view of the city and the Cascade Mountains. It's not a good day for a photo--kinda hazy--so I'll try tomorrow, although the temperature is predicted to be in the high 70s to low 80s so it is likely to be hazy again. I certainly can't complain about the weather. It's been glorious!

Today I took a walk through Diane's garden, which is indescribably delicious so you'll just have to look at the slideshow (sidebar). Then I walked down a really big hill (and back up--ugh) to scout out the local availability of a grocery store, etc. What luck: Safeway, Starbucks (and even better, Tully's Coffee Cafe, which has FREE WiFi), Walgreens, Hollywood Video, Taco Bell...everything a girl could want, including several ethnic restaurants and a tiny grocery store run by a beautiful dark-eyed, caramel-colored woman who would let me take her picture but wouldn't look at the camera.

Here's perhaps my favorite photo of Diane's garden (I love all the little tiny plants growing from cracks and crevices) and a poem that doesn't do it justice either.

Diane’s Garden: Act Two

Walk gently in June
In Diane’s later garden
Tip-toe along the path where
Perhaps
Tulips had bowed fresher cups
In homage to faded Daffodils in the pit
Great golden horns that trumpeted
A silent score
To herald the Awakening
And blasted sunbeams soon lilac-scented
Into spectrum shards that glaze the greens
(Act I following the Crocus Overture).
I arrive late due to a previous engagement
Feel my way between the rows
Excuse myself for stepping on toes
(Oh the Baby Tears they flow)
A tiny orb-weaving usher holds me
Behind a silken rope
While a hummingbird scolds me
From the box seats.
Sans playbill I can only guess
Names of players
The script I know
Characters great and small
Nodding pointing climbing creeping
Across an igneous stage
Wardrobe bright or fading
Buttons and bows
Flounces and frills
Everyone on cue now
Take a bow
Bravo!

June 29, 2009
Seattle

Dykes for Days

I attended the Seattle Dyke March in honor of Gay Pride yesterday. Woo-hoo! The weather was perfect and I met more great Seattle women through my connection with the Over 40s Lesbians group that meets every Tuesday evening. I'm not going to put up the pictures of naked breasts but there was plenty of T&A on full view. There were walkers of all ages and colors.


The nips were all covered with paint or pasties so it was all in fun and very "tasteful."


The Clothesline Project had a display that was very moving, as always. It's a program started on Cape Cod, MA, in 1990 as a vehicle for women affected by violence to express their emotions by decorating a shirt. They then hang the shirt on a clothesline to be viewed by others as testimony to the problem of violence against women.




These women did a great Kung Fu demonstration wherein they tossed each other around and pretended to be kicking in knees and poking out eyes--all in self-defense, of course.

Nice banner, huh? I made it myself. A few of our group, including an 80-year-old and a 12-year-old on crutches (and me and my new friend Fai), walked about 8 blocks and then cut out to enjoy some great Mexican food. Now that's what I call marchin' smart. It reminded me of that Stella Artois ad they're playing during movie previews these days where the two Italian brothers in the bike race have a flat tire in front of the little restaurant and never finish the race, just like Papa.

And here's my poem to commemorate the day:

Dyke March

We made the signs
We joined the throng
Amazons
With bare breasts
In the Broadway wilderness
A too brief mingling
Joy
Laughter
Singing
Power
Women together
We told our stories
In the dark
An inner glow
Lighting my way
Home.

June 28, 2009
Seattle

It's A Dog's Life

The Peace Quote for today (see sidebar) is so wonderful I decided to rhapsodize about some of my cool dog friends instead of whining about my current living situation. Let's just say the Edmonds deal didn't work out. But I'm moving again tomorrow so everything's copacetic. (Please excuse the screwy formatting in this post. It's the photos and I can't seem to fix it.)


My newest dog pal is Roger, who is Greg's 14-year-old schnauzer mix. He and I hit it off pretty quickly and I miss him now that I'm not parked in front of Greg's condo, where Roger would come and see me and sometimes leave a little something (which Greg dutifully bagged, like any good dog owner does). Someone once remarked that if the first thing a visitor from another planet spotted was an upright bipedal humanoid following a quadripedal canine around picking up its droppings and then carrying them around in a little bag, the alien would probably assume that dogs rule here on Earth--and don't they just. Roger loves to come into my motorhome to check for crumbs. There's nothing like a dog for keeping your floors clean and shiny.

Then there's my new Houston dog pal Lena, who's also fairly old (sorry Mary Helen, I can't remember). She's a border collie mix who is a sweetheart once you get to know her. She and I used to have good long walks together while MH was at work, and it didn't take long for her to learn just what I wanted her to do (no barking at the neighbors, walk beside me without pulling, ignoring the dogs behind the fences). I miss our daily walks.

My brother-in-law's beagle Gracie (with the heart on her side) is the queen of the food sniffers. She and I didn't spend much time together because she is Eddie's dog and no one else's; wherever he goes, she goes. It didn't take long for my sister Marcia to realize that if she were going to get any dog time she would have to get her own, so along came Trixie, the cairn terrier. Trixie and I also used to take long walks while Marcia was at work, and she's a great ball fetcher.

I've done portraits of everyone except Roger because I've had trouble getting a good photo, but I intend to try again. The portraits are in the sidebar under All In The Family Pet Portraits. Tell your friends.




















I'd write a dog poem, but the comparison with Mary Oliver would be painful so maybe I'll be inspired tomorrow. Besides, I want to get back to my book. Have you read Reading Lolita in Tehran? It's a must for historical background on what led up to the happenings there now.

Hope you are enjoying my Madison Park photo slideshow. I forgot to mention that you can click on a photo to make it bigger, which you probably already knew.

Moving Day

I've been parked on the street near Greg's condo since a week ago Friday, all that time searching for a more "permanent" home, where I can plug into the big grid and juice up: microwave and computer being the really important appliances that make a home a home. I'm going up to Edmonds this afternoon (pop. 40,000; 87% white; median family income $85,000) to check out the home of a woman who is a retired substance-abuse counselor now working as a writer. I don't know what she writes but it impresses the hellouta me that she calls herself one.

So today I took my camera on my last walk in Madison Park. But instead of filling up all this space with photos I'll put them into a slideshow in the right sidebar. I'm also going to see if I can put them into a Picasa link so you can enlarge them for better viewing. A fellow blogger has done that so I am going to her blog and see if I can figure it out.

I will, however, share just a few photos in case you don't want to open the album. One is for my blogger friend Linda who likes flower photos. Here are those lavenders we talked about, and some other purple stuff...

And a photo of a house that's for sale here in the Madison Park neighborhood, which is sandwiched between the Arboretum and Lake Washington. It's really a lovely neighborhood, with homes, condos, apartments, shops (even a hardware and a grocery store), salons, coffee shops, restaurants, bars: just about anything you would need can be found here except a library, a post office and an adult bookstore--which I don't need but you might).

This fine home can be yours for a mere $1,695,000. Taxes: $14,231. (Seattle, in case you're interested, has a population of 595,000 in the city and 3.2 million in the metro; 74% white; median family income $62,000).

This last one is for my older siblings (the "little boys" were not old enough to remember). As I passed this hedge a very familiar scent stopped me in my tracks. This is the species of hedge that was in front of our first home in Davenport, Iowa, where we lived from about 1951-1957. Ours didn't look like this because Dad used to keep it trimmed to about four feet tall and perhaps 18 inches deep, but sometimes, maybe right before the first spring trimming, the flowers would come out. Frankly, they stink, but it's a childhood thing, you know?

Okay, I lied. Here are two more pictures that I couldn't resist showing you, and they need an explanation. If you look near the top of this "tree" you'll see a streetlight poking through the leaves.

Here's what it looks like inside...

Pretty cool, huh? More soon, from Edmonds, WA, home of Rick Steves, the travel guy.

Go To The Laundromat

I started this yesterday and ran out of time...

Sunday, June 21, 2009

According to one website, the Summer Solstice arrived at 10:45 p.m. last night for those of us living in the Pacific Daylight Time zone. But most folks will say it is today, and who's counting anyway? According to Garrison Keillor's The Writer's Almanac, "One of the biggest destinations for the summer solstice is Stonehenge in England; today it is the place for New Agers such as neo-druids, neo-pagans, and Wiccans to gather, along with college-age revelers, wholesome families, romantic couples, and shoestring backpackers. And it's the only day of the year the park service offers free parking, free admission, and the opportunity to stay at the monument overnight."

I hope to visit Stonehenge some day, preferably on the summer solstice, for the free admission, free parking, and overnight stay with all those neo-whozits. It sounds like a great spiritual party. Today, I'm celebrating with a bunch of lesbians at, what else, a potluck.

Monday, June 22, 2009

At 10 a.m. yesterday, as I was writing that post, I got a call from my new friend Fai from the Over 40s Lesbians group to remind me that I had promised to help make a banner and signs for the Dyke March next Saturday in honor of Gay Pride; the big march is Sunday. The potluck was to be at Fai's house, too, so I spent a lovely day with new friends, being creative and getting to know Fai better. At 5 p.m. about 25 more wonderful women showed up with fabulous food. True to form, there was very little meat, just some bits of chicken mixed into a green salad and some shredded salmon tossed with another green salad. We grilled some tofu kabobs and gorged ourselves on a wide variety of vegetable dishes, including a classic potato salad just like Mom used to make. Why are so many lesbians vegetarians? I must research this phenomenon sometime. I'm sure it has something to do with patriarchy. Doesn't everything?

I probably had thought I would write a solstice poem yesterday but today I am uninspired by all that. It's laundry day and something a bit more mundane seems appropriate.

Laundry Day

My brother is moving to a house

Where he won't have to schlep his dirty duds

To a communal laundry room.

For years I lived in a tiny house

Sans hooksup even

Took my two weeks worth

Of underwear and such

To a nearby

Laundromat

Washateria

Launderette

Loaded the washer and practiced my Spanish

Eavesdropping on families of

Short

Brown-skinned immigrants

(In my head)

"Hola. Su nina es muy bonita."

Loaded the dryer and went for coffee

And a Cranberry Walnut muffin

Quarters for the machines

Twenty

Coffee and muffin

Fourteen

Hearing beautiful dark-eyed children

Speaking a foreign language

Just like they knew what they were saying

Priceless.

June 22, 2009

Seattle

(While searching for more synonyms for laundromat I stumbled across this very cool link. Check it out if you would like to know how to spell laundromat in American Sign Language, British Finger Spelling--with animation--Morse code, and semaphores, you know those signal flags.)

And here's an appropriate Laundry Day photo from the Seattle Summer Solstice Parade.

Playing With Blocks

My friend Patti Digh (of the 37 Days blog and the book about what you would do if you knew you only had 37 days to live...I may have mentioned her once or twice) co-hosted a free telecoaching session the other evening entitled "Playing With Blocks." It was about the things that block us from doing the "important things," the life goals that we set for ourselves that are the most meaningful, the things we tend to put off while we are taking care of business. We all have them: the important things and the blocks.

I tried to convince myself that I didn't have to worry about the blocks anymore, now that I'm retired and have all the time I need to accomplish those "important things." I mean, it's just a matter of having enough time, isn't it? You can't do great things if you have a job, or a young family, or a sick dog, or "The Office" is on, or...well, you know. Lucky me, I have the time, no dog and no TV. Problem solved, right?

The blocks fall into three main categories:
1) False comparisons with Others
2) False expectations of Self
3) False investment in "The Story"

I didn't join the teleconference (and I haven't listened to the tape yet) but I know what those three things mean without having heard a word. You do, too, if you have an important thing that you can't seem to get around to doing.

Here's what happened to me today. I read in The Writer's Almanac:
It's the birthday of poet and novelist Vikram Seth, (books by this author) born in Calcutta, India (1952). Seth grew up in India, went to Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and moved out to Northern California to study economics in graduate school. One day got fed up of entering numbers into a computer database. He walked into a bookstore and up to the poetry section. He pulled off the shelf Pushkin's novel in verse, Eugene Onegin. Seth was so impressed and obsessed with the book that he decided to quit working on his master's thesis for a while and write his own novel in verse.

He never finished his graduate school economics project, but he did write that novel in verse, published in 1986 as The Golden Gate. Seth's native language is Hindi. He writes in English, and he's fluent in Mandarin and Urdu, Pakistan's national language. He's also studied Welsh, German, and French. He plays the cello and the Indian flute, and he sings German lieder. His most recent book is a work of nonfiction, Two Lives (2005), a love story about his Indian great uncle and German Jewish great aunt.

Now, I never said I wanted to be a great poet, but if I wanted to, let's say, write a novel in verse, reading this would have stopped me cold (see Block #1 above). What's worse is having a friend who wrote a terrific book and is coming out with a new one next year, and who is now teaching a class on how not to get blocked. I'm so bummed.

On to Block #2. If one wanted to, oh, I don't know, commit to writing a poem every day, but one didn't feel like writing a poem on Saturday, one might decide that one was no better than a slug, and therefore, not even try to write a poem on Sunday, or Monday, and then just give it up altogether.

I'm not even going to get into Block #3 because that is a story I'm sure you don't want to hear.

So let's just look at pictures of naked women, shall we? Greg and I went to the Seattle Summer Solstice Parade today and I took about a dozen pictures of painted naked people on bicycles. Some of them are even men. Enjoy.







At least these young ladies remembered to wear their helmets.

Finally, the Rain

I've been in Seattle rain before. It's not nearly as menacing as Houston rain, which comes down in buckets and fills the underpasses so your car becomes a boat while you're trying to get home through rush-hour traffic. In fact, the Seattle rain I've experienced is such a gentle misting rain that you hardly need an umbrella. It's a small price to pay for the luxuriant foliage that thrives in this climate.

Greg and I didn't make it to Whidbey Island but we went to Kubota Garden, which was started in 1927 by a Japanese immigrant and protected from development in 1981 when the core 4.5 acres were designated a historic landmark. What a lovely spot. I've always enjoyed Japanese gardens (if you go to this link, just press 'cancel' if it tells you to download Japanese language), and even though this one is a bit more...well... more...than I have seen other places, it's unique plantings soon filled up my camera's memory. I'll bore you with only a few photos.

You see what I mean about "more?"

In honor of my visit to the garden, and despite the fact that my sister says Haiku is "cheating," here's another:

Seattle Spring

In Seattle spring

Riotous color abounds

Green both king and queen

June 19, 2009

Seattle

And here's that photo from the living room window (actually the balcony) that I promised. Don't you love the little table and chairs at the end of the dock?

A Wish for Today

Nobody sees a flower - really - it is so small it takes time - we haven't time - and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time.
- Georgia O'Keeffe




Where did yesterday go (or the last 62 years, for that matter)? Never mind. It's today and it's good.

My friend Greg and I are planning a little out-of-town trip up north to Whidbey Island, about which I know very little except that it was once inhabited by members of the Lower Skagit, Swinomish, Suquamish, Snohomish (gesundheit) and other Native American tribes but now hosts some 58,211 "Whidbey Islanders," most of whom I imagine are descendants of a somewhat paler race. It's supposed to be beautiful country but I can't imagine that it's more beautiful than where I am right this minute. If I'd remembered to bring my camera inside I'd take a picture for you of the view of Lake Washington from Greg's living room window.

Speaking of sight-seeing, it turns out I have come to Seattle at the right time, as even the national news is reporting that we have just broken the record for the number of days in a row without measureable rainfall: 29. I will enjoy every minute, rain or no rain.

Here's a poem for you...

Ride, Sally, Ride

On this day
In 1983 Sally Ride took the ride
Of her life
Aboard the Challenger
(The most fun she will ever have
In her life she says)
Why her and not
Christa McAuliffe
Whose time came
Three years later
For 73 seconds
But no more?
What’s it all about?
Planning ahead?
Already there are hundreds
Of millions
Of pieces
Of space trash floating
In our region of the galaxy.
If we’re looking for an upgrade
We’d better increase the fine
For littering.
Sally was my hero
The youngest
The first woman in space
I wish she’d been
The last.

June 18, 2009
Seattle

BTW, I've removed the "On This Day in History" thing from this site because it appears that whoever is "the decider" thinks most of the things that were worth remembering from history had to do with war. How sad.

Bloomsday Revisited

Ulysses
by James Joyce
"O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the fig trees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the queer little streets and pink and blue and yellow houses and the rose gardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

I have read Joyce, but not this Joyce. God knows I've tried (sort of) but it was too much for me. The reputation of Ulysses had preceded it, of course, most recently in a series of NPR interviews a year or so ago. People were asked what fluff they were reading over the summer, and at the end of the interview they were asked what serious book they would read if they had all the time in the world. More than one interviewee claimed it would be Ulysses. So when a free paperback copy presented itself to me I took up the tome and gave it a go. Either those people in the interviews were big fat liars or they didn't really know any more about the book than I did. And I thought Gertrude Stein was a challenge!

Anyway, today is Bloomsday after the hero of the book, Leopold Bloom, and it celebrates the single day in which the entire story takes place, in Dublin, in 1904. "Joyceans" all over the world are celebrating with staged readings and all manner of merry-making. I'm sorry, but I don't get it. Call me a Philistine.

But if you like Joyce, here's a poem for you.

Jimmy I Hardly Knew Ye

O and I am like a cloud kissed dew drop in Seattle all damp and smooth a stone lapped in the shallows of the lake where sun dappled bees dip their tiny feet in pools of cool liquid gold and fire upon a green and pleasant hill where I dreamed of a long ago popsicle banana or possibly grape and how the two halves broke across the middle instead of along the seam and I cried because my brother ran away with the sticks and left me only the melting top half sticky and sweet running down my fingers like watery blood as it was actually cherry not banana or grape and I said no and no again and ran after but he only laughed and I dropped the wet sticky mess on the sidewalk where it melted like like a popsicle on a hot sidewalk.

June 16, 2009

Seattle

This is my friend Greg's condo on Lake Washington, where I am temporarily parked. Not too shabby.

Everything is lush and colorful here. I can't possibly take pictures of all the beautiful flowers. I'd never have time for anything else.

Dig this purple daylily.

I believe this is St. John's Wort, the stuff I used to take in capsule form when I was going through menopause. If you're depressed and irritable you might try some. You'll need it after you read Joyce.

For All the Pilgrims

You have much more power when you are working for the right thing than when you are working against the wrong thing.
- Peace Pilgrim (1908-1981)

I wonder why I never heard of Peace Pilgrim until this Daily Peace Quote came into my inbox? It could be because she died in 1981, a busy year for me, what with a 4-year-old daughter to raise on my own while attending college. I wasn't really into the "peace movement" then. Other kinds of movements were capturing my attention: I came out that year.

I had been fairly active in the anti-war movement of the 60s and 70s, but that's not the same as working for peace. I had to discover that on my own, and not very long ago at that. Peace Pilgrim was a woman who knew it much sooner, and she set off on foot in 1953 to spread the word. What an incredible journey it must have been.

Today's poem honors Peace Pilgrim and also the birthday of Kobayashi Issa, born in Japan in 1763, a master of Haiku.

Toward Peace

To move toward Peace
Study the ways of Nature
The wisest teacher.

June 15, 2009
Seattle

Flag Day

Oh, my, it's 7:30 p.m. and I haven't written a poem. This is going to be harder than I thought. Well...
Flag Day

I am ambivalent about the flag.
When I see it protruding from the house
In the next block
Or, even more suspect,
Hanging on a specially-installed pole
In a circle of concrete
Surrounded by red geraniums,
Blue salvia,
And white flox,
I wonder if the owner is one of those
"Love It or Leave It" people,
And I bristle.
I am from the flag-burning generation,
The ones who marched
And fled to Canada
And stopped the war.
But what about Allegiance? you ask.
What about Liberty and Justice for All? I reply.


June 14, 2009
Seattle

Something For Everyone

My new blogging friend at Wander to the Wayside says she doesn't know how she'll take to the poem-a-day idea (what does it all mean?) but she likes pictures of scenery. Here's some of each.



On This Date

According to The Writer’s Almanac,
On this date in history were born
Ban Ki-Moon
William Butler Yeats
Cristo
And Dorothy Sayers.

And Alexander the Great
Died, or so they believe.

What a cataclysm
Must have been arranged
In the heavens
To spawn
A great Korean statesman
A profound Irish poet
An innovative sculptor
And a first-class novelist.

And to reclaim
The 33-year-old world conqueror
Who slept with a copy of
The Iliad
Under his pillow.

June 13, 2009
Seattle

Ban Ki-Moon and Cristo references here.




I don't know which I like better: the wind turbines or the clouds.



The falls at Great Falls, Montana, are not the highest I've seen but they are pretty impressive, nonetheless.

These old grain elevators dot the landscape in farm country, most of which stand beside the newer round metal ones that are not nearly so aesthetically pleasing.

And for you, who don't care for either poems or pictures, better luck next time.

A Poem A Day...Yes!

Here's what Garrison Keillor had to offer in yesterday's The Writer's Almanac for June 11, 2009:

It's the birthday of poet David Lehman, (books by this author) born in New York City in 1948. One day in 1987, the day after he had moved into a new house, he was driving back to his old rental to get the last of his stuff, and he had a sudden inspiration: to create a yearly anthology that would feature the best poems that had been published that year, and each year a different poet would select the poems. He figured that since he had just moved into a new house, it was a good time to start a new project. Publishers were hesitant because they thought that poetry would automatically lose money. But Scribner finally agreed to publish it, and The Best American Poetry 1988, edited by John Ashbery, was a huge success. David Lehman has served as the series editor ever since, and the Best American Poetry books continue to come out every September and are very popular.

David Lehman was inspired by Robert Bly, who was in turn inspired by William Stafford, to wake up early in the morning and write a poem, one poem every morning. He did that on and off for years, and once he managed to write poems for 186 consecutive days. He published two books of his favorite daily poems: The Daily Mirror (2000) and The Evening Sun (2002).

Today I woke up early, as I do most days, but this time I decided not to try to go back to sleep (okay, I tried for about 15 minutes). The sun rose, officially, at 5:01 PDT in Walla Walla, Washington, where I stayed the night just because I've always loved the name Walla Walla ("W, my name is Wanda and my husband's name is Walter and we come from Walla Walla with a ship loaded down with wallets"). It took me nearly eight hours to drive there from Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, yesterday and I was beat. But I was parked with Michelle's rear pointed toward the east (the head of my bed) and it was impossible to sleep, even with the mask on, which I usually wear at WalMart, their being fully lighted 24 hours a day.

It was already about 70 degrees outside at 6:30, which made it easier to get up, so I took a walk, had some cereal, and enjoyed the warm. I was on the road a lot earlier since I couldn't use my laptop, it being totally out of juice from having watched Meryl Streep in a movie called "Dark Matter" last night ($1 rental at WalMart: they got it all). My review: it was not bad until the end, which sucked.

So here I am in Sunnyside, WA, about 40 miles out of Yakima, at a little coffee shop with free WiFi, juicing up the laptop, checking email, and, while I'm at it, recording my thoughts. I like this poem-every-day idea. Maybe when I'm dead my heirs will find them and publish them posthumously and give them to friends and relatives to remember me by. Move over, Emily Dickinson...not.

I've been taking way too many pictures of stuff that won't translate very well to the blog, the kind of stuff I have always thought would not make a good picture (someone else's idea of beautiful scenery, ho-hum), which is why I didn't take many photos before I got the digital camera: the photo is never as good as what the eye sees, so what's the point? The point, of course, is to be reminded how beautiful or interesting the scenery was, but you, Dear Reader, have to suffer through them, too. Well, you can just skip that part. Tomorrow I'll wake up early and write a poem. You can skip that part, too.

The truck is for perspective. These were some serious hills.


No, this is not a golf course, although that's what it looks like from a distance. Sorry for the poor photo quality: it was taken through the dirty windshield at 60 mph.

I took several pictures of birches, but this one also has an orchard in the foreground so I chose it as representative of the trees (in the background) that Robert Frost immortalized in his poem, which is longer than I remembered it, so be prepared...

Birches

by Robert Frost
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Onward to Seattle! Hope your day is GRAND.

Oh, Woe Is Me

Those who know do not speak.Those who speak do not know.
- Lao Tzu

I was unable to get to the Internet on June 3, so here is what I wrote that day:

I started out from Custer, SD, day before yesterday, heading northwest to meet a new RVing Women contact in Sheridan, Wyoming. As usual, I took my sweet time getting ready to leave and it was past noon when I finally hit the road. My new host said it would take about 4 hours to get to Sheridan. But then I realized that if I drove straight through, I would miss Devil’s Tower, a must-see on my trip through the West ("Close Encounters of the Third Kind" being one of my favorite movies).

So I took a little detour that should have added about two hours to my trip; I would still arrive in Sheridan before dark, just barely. I got to Devil’s Tower in time to see it, photograph it, and be on my way. Where I made my mistake was taking the trail around the Tower. It was great! I got pictures of the wonderfully spiritual monolith from all sides, but I was glad when I approached the sign that would lead me back to the parking lot so I could hit the road. Unfortunately, the sign informed me that I was only halfway around! I had already used up my allotted time for visiting Devil’s Tower and now I was going to be late getting to Sheridan.

To make an already too long story shorter, it was dark and raining by the time I pulled into Sheridan. I was pretty stressed out, having been hypervigilant about avoiding the jumping deer pictured on a series of yellow highway signs. But my new RVing friend, Edith, made me feel welcome and showed me where I could plug into her newly installed 30-amp RV connection on the side of her house. Not only did it fail to light my bedside lamp and radio, it tripped my circuit breaker, so I decided to unplug and try again in the morning.

Next day I reset the breakers and tried again. I knew I'd made a big mistake when I still got no juice and I could smell burning plastic. The radio was fried and when I opened the breaker box a breaker was tripped and the smell was stronger.

Edith suggested that we go to her local RV repair shop and get it checked out. She also called her electrician; since I was the first person to use her new receptacle, we wondered if perhaps it had been wired improperly. Sure enough, the repair shop guy said the converter that allows the motorhome to accept regular 110 current had been blown and that we should definitely look to the new electrical outlet as the most probable cause (they had seen this before, more than once, and had several horror stories to share). The owner of the electrical company came to the house while I was at the repair shop and discovered that his employee had indeed wired the new connection incorrectly. Michelle had received a 220 jolt to her 30 amp system. The Good News: he agreed to pay for any damages.

So Michelle is in the hospital today, to the tune of at least $600-$800 just for a new converter and labor. They also will check out all her systems for damage, which could even include plumbing and gas lines. Then there’s the water heater element, microwave, refrigerator, heat pump, furnace, water pump, etc., all of which could be okay now but break down later from the stress of the power surge. Sheesh.

Meanwhile, Edith and I are in Billings, Montana, enjoying some great scenery and visiting with her sister.


June 8: That was then; this is now. While Edith and I were enjoying beautiful scenery up in northern Montana, including Great Falls, Bozeman, Helena (gotta get that capitol postcard) and Glacier National Park, Michelle was being fitted with a new converter, generator something or other, refrigerator electric coil, and I don't know what all exactly, to the tune of $1,500, mostly for labor, of course. Then we had to find a replacement microwave (which we did find, thankfully, at Sears for $69.99) and a new clock radio. Edith paid for all of it and will be reimbursed by her electrician, whom she trusts. I was so grateful that she did that so I didn't have to worry about getting reimbursed.


Yesterday the weather report was for freezing temps overnight and 70% chance of precipitation but I checked out the situation west of Sheridan and decided to continue on my way to Seattle. I had not even reached the Montana border when the snow started. Before I was through it, the ground all around me was covered in white and huge flakes were coming at me at 60 mph like big wet feathers blown by a giant fan. Fortunately the road was clear, so I plunged on. It's been a long time since I drove in snow but once I got over the shock of snow in June, I enjoyed the beauty and reminded myself that I had lived in Minnesota for seven winters and this was nothing I hadn't seen before. I wish I had remembered to put the camera in front with me before I took off because I could have gotten some really great shots of the only snow I've seen, or am likely to see, since January 2008.


I have lots of pictures of incredibly beautiful scenery but since I'm camped at WalMart, in Butte, without electricity, I'm trying to get this post done before I run out of juice. Here's just a sample. More later.

I'm headed for Missoula and maybe a rendezvous with another RVing woman, although she hasn't called me back yet. After that it's on to Idaho on I-90. I'm told Coeur d'Alene would be a great place to spend a couple of days. I'll let you know.

South Dakota Was Great!

Simplifying our lives does not mean sinking into idleness, but on the contrary, getting rid of the most subtle aspect of laziness: the one which makes us take on thousands of less important activities.

- Matthieu Ricard

I'm anxious to be on the road again but I must get some thoughts down or they'll fly away. First and foremost: I really like South Dakota, a pleasant surprise (reminds me of moving to Texas and finding that it wasn't all cactus and rattlesnakes like in the old westerns). Of course, it's spring and that helps because that green is everywhere. Such beauty, mile after mile. I have nearly run off the road many times while trying to take pictures through the windshield. This is one of the earliest, somewhere around Sioux Falls, where it's still pretty flat. Okay, very flat but not as topographically challenged as Iowa.

And then there was the Corn Palace and Wall Drug, both run specifically with tourists in mind. But Wall Drug was more. Have you seen the bumper stickers for Wall Drug? It's located in Wall, SD, and, to make a long story short, after it opened in December, 1931, and barely got by for about five years, the pharmacist/owner's wife suggested that they start giving away free ice water to motorists crossing the great plains on the nearby highway. So they made up some rhymes, put up some signs (a la Burma Shave) and the rest is history. They still give away ice water and sell coffee for five cents, along with every other thing you could possibly want, from hamburgers and ice cream to original western art--and the first bumper sticker is free (after that they're ten cents). I don't know if he was a good pharmacist, but Ted Hustead was a marketing genius (the signs are everywhere), and the company is still in the family.

Next stop, Pierre (pronounced like pier, for the uninitiated) and a quick visit to the capitol for a souvenir postcard. It's a lovely building and the woman at the gift shop told me it looks the same as the Montana capitol because those frugal SD folks bought the Montana plans for $15. Montana had theirs first, even though it was farther west, because the South Dakotans had a hard time making up their minds what city should host the seat of government. They chose a lovely spot, centrally located, on the Missouri River. When I asked why Pierre was so much smaller than Sioux Falls and Rapid City, I was told that the military bases in the other two cities caused the increase in population. Geography lesson over for today, class.

I won't bore you with my Mt. Rushmore photos. If you've seen them once, you've seen them a hundred times. So I'll share this instead: George Washington taking a bite out of my Buffalo Burger.

And some pretty scenery.

I love how South Dakota makes it so easy for you to give them your money.

Okay, that's about all. Oh yeah, saw some buffalo...

on a mound (stupid mound)...

and on a plain... Sorry, this is a Wells Family joke, or if you were a die-hard Dick Van Dyke Show fan, you might get the reference, from the episode where Buddy and Sally were helping Rob and Laura sort through some old nickels they found in Rob's grandfather's desk (or was it Uncle Hezekiah's, I forget).

I'm off to the great State of Wyoming in a few minutes, location of Jackson County, which I am told by a camper from Cheyenne is the richest county in the nation. Who knew?