Current Posts

Photo Credit: B.E. Hobbs

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Current posts may be seen at http://christineintheshire.blogspot.com

"Saturday in the Park"

Last Saturday in Central Park I saw several sights I had never seen before. One of them was at least five hundred Santas jogging and strolling along yelling, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" At one point I decided to give Daff a "transportation call" to tell her about this. When a robust elf saw me on the phone, she dashed over and shouted into it, "She's on the naughty list!!!!" I started laughing so hard I could hardly get on with the call. Someone remarked that it was the Santas Union on strike. In actuality, it was Santa Con, a gathering of Santas each year for festivities to ready them for the big event. Further along, under a bridge, a small choir of young people were singing devout carols. It was so encouraging to see something with a reminder of what this time of year is all about. In the Overheard Dept, earlier in the week, I was surprised when a man at the Barking Dog Luncheonette ordered, "Two cokes, two coffees, and an egg cream." I thought he was going to be having company. But no. Instead he started punching numbers on his phone and screeching, "I want a person! I want a person!" When he finally reached a person, he said, "You are being very obnoxious to me!" 'Twas not the season to be jolly for him.

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All is quiet in the teepee

but she catches the sight of wee eyes peeking at the night sky.

Will Grandmother Bear meet the Holy Child and sing a lullaby?

There are what her daughter calls artifacts by the bedroll,

items found or made at school: an Ojo de Dios charm; a pebble;

a drawing, not so crude as might be expected from one so young, of an angel

with a feather crown rather than a halo.

It is a scene of domestic tranquility, everything tidily in its place

all cherished because of not being of great number.

"Goodnight, my little one. Christmas comes soon."

"Goodnight, God bless." is whispered in the chill air.

Across the great prairie, exultation hangs from the dark canopy like

large golden ornaments spinning peacefully,

prophesying,

the Morning Star less distant here.

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...may the blessing of anticipation be yours...

St. Labre Indian School supplied the gift wrap.

The Gone CoCo Cap

Appalachian December

Photo Credit: B.E. Hobbs

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The weather outside is wonderfully winter this week so I decided to tell you the Gone CoCo cap story. I had just moved to Roanoke, Virginia which welcomed me with a big snowy, blustery first outing day. However, the buses were running and I decided to go down to City Market and see what Roanoke was all about. There was little open so I thought I'd browse as I was well bundled up and spiffy with my red ear muffs. I was looking at the window of Seeds of Light when suddenly a forceful wind almost knocked me down. Forceful? I'll say. It blew my ear muffs right off and around the corner! When I went to retrieve them, I saw a notice about Sufi Dances of Universal Peace. As I was reading it, a fluttering caught my eye. There were dresses outside a store called Gone CoCo Boutique. Open! A sign! I went into the store and said to the charming person behind the counter, "If you have a cap with ties, you have a sale." She had some caps from Peru and there was one with six ties. Nothing would blow that away from me. We talked a long time as there were no customers. I told her about my apt. and how I had met the landlord, Jim Fulghum, online in Durham, had called him up and ventured sight unseen to Roanoke. He was a distant relative of Robert Fulghum who had written a story I loved, the one with the mermaids. Susan, the owner of Gone CoCo was a fan of his and we talked about how I as a writer had been led to this place with a connection to a writer I liked. I spent a lot of my Roanoke days at her store and sitting upstairs eating Zorba's Greek salad. There was a man who waited on me I called The Regular Guy. He was replaced by someone I called The New Regular Guy. I understand Zorba's has moved to Salem and I wonder if there are any regulars in attendance. Today I was wearing my Gone CoCo cap as it was a windy day in Central Park. I stopped to listen to the Children's Aid Society chorus. This is an organization that supplies 50,000 children with such things as hearing aids and braces. I was toasty as the wind tore down Madison Avenue. Every time I wear my cap, I am instantly back to the magical Roanoke days.

Christmastide on the #51

"Happy Holidays" scrolls on the destination box.

There is talk of the Farmers' Almanac with its

predictions for tall tale snows; the early bird sales good for finding "something nice" to leave the paper carrier;

the schedule of events at Haven of Hope, and Kwanzaa.

"It's not religious. Each day for six days starting the 26th

you give a homemade gift'" reminiscent, I think, of

Twelfth Night and the festive, undulating journey of the Magi.

When did the "partridge in a pear tree" go out of fashion?

A quiet greeting. A wave. A young man laughs at my socks.

He is conversant on many topics. I tell him what I need fixing.

He smiles and suggest, conspiratorially, "I ask Santa."

I know about asking. I have asked before, of Someone else.

Long ago, in a stone sanctuary where ancient plaques hung

written in languages unfamiliar to me lit by flickering votives

in a country seeping from war, I asked. I asked

for companions to exhort and encourage me.

One prayer. One recurring answer.

The bell rings, "Stop Requested," lights up the screen.

and echoed cheerfully by an anonymous voice.

On. Off. Rejoice. Giving, receiving, asking,

we travel along. Emmanuel. God with us.

For diverse believers and non-believers alike,

Christmas rides the #51.

...may the blessings of the landscape be with you now...

Advent*ure

...from the St. Labre Indian School newsletter...

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My favorite gift as a child was a songbook. I received one a year: Stephen Foster, Burl Ives, Chad Mitchell, 51 Songs You Like to Sing, opera arias, and Thomas Moore are among those I remember. In

one of these was The Indian Christmas Carol. Having a part-Apache paternal grandmother and an Irish maternal grandmother, it was natural that had a bent for blending Native American imagery with Christian. I wrote my first Christmas poem when I was 16 to go in a card and never stopped. Often there was a thought that brought to mind that blend. I think the reason St. Labre Indian School captures my imagination is the little children not discarding the Crow/Northern Cheyenne way while learning the Jesus way. In the Christian calendar, Advent, the season of the Coming has begun. The first candle of four has been lit all over the world. Coincidentally, I found a poem written in 1983. A sign! So here in The Treehouse, I begin my Advent journey. Walk with me!

...from The Indian Christmas Carol...

" Twas in the moon of wintertime When all the birds had fled,

That mighty GitchiManitou

Sent angel choirs instead;

Before their light the stars grew dim,

O children of the forest free, O sons O sons of Manitou,

The Holy Child of earth and heav'n

Is born today for you. Come kneel before the radiant boy,

Who brings you beauty, peace and joy."

Entreaty (1983)

"With our hearts quiet before God, amidst the world's anger, " he prays.

Head bowed, I think of the earliest hours of human history

and try to recapture the awe , the spaciousness, the hope.

"We are called to belong to Him.

Go out this week, and compile

a catalogue of good news;

turn away from the rocky ground

on which no seed will sprout."

How easily it seems I can forget this long view.

How easily I am ensnared in the

trivialization of beauty and goodness.

How often I have used the word "wonderful"

without remembering its companions:

Councillor, Prince of Peace.

Renewed by this prayer,

I attempt once again to bring myself

with a quiet heart before God.

Stay with me, small moment of meditation.

I am in need of thee.

...may the Great Spirit guide your advent and bring you peace...

On the Road

My post this week can be seen at http://christineintheshire.blogspot.com/

"There Be Monsters"

Abraham Ortelius 1570

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"Armand Gamache was the explorer. He went ahead of the rest, into territory unknown and uncharted. He was drawn to the edge of things. To the places old mariners knew, and warned, 'Beyond here be Monsters.'"

--Louise Penny

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There was an interview on npr about the Grand Canyon and the artists who have painted it. I was particularly impressed with one who has lived with his wife and three children at the bottom of the canyon tending to the park's water supply for nigh on thirty years. What I really appreciated were the remarks about how modern art critics reject beauty. "They don't take a beautiful painting seriously." How sad that beauty is not serious. How differently the "Walk in beauty" Navajo prayer speaks to that!

With beauty before me I walk

With beauty behind me I walk

With beauty above me I walk

With beauty around me I walk

It has become beauty again

Today I will walk out, today everything negative will leave me

I will be as I was before, I will have a cool breeze over my body.

I will have a light body, I will be happy forever, nothing will hinder me.

I walk with beauty before me. I walk with beauty behind me.

I walk with beauty below me. I walk with beauty above me.

I walk with beauty around me. My words will be beautiful.

In beauty all day long may I walk.

Through the returning seasons, may I walk.

On the trail marked with pollen may I walk.

With dew about my feet, may I walk.

With beauty before me may I walk.

With beauty behind me may I walk.

With beauty below me may I walk.

With beauty above me may I walk.

With beauty all around me may I walk.

In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, lively, may I walk.

In old age wandering on a trail of beauty, living again, may I walk.

My words will be beautiful.

It strikes me that the Grand Canyon artists are a courageous bunch, very like the explorers of old facing a cruel tide. But is it courage that makes an explorer? Is it curiosity? Perhaps it is transcending love. I am not a risk taker. You won't find me on ski slopes or high in the skies in a hot air balloon. However, I have definitely been an explorer. Places call me and I go, no questions asked. For me, setting out on an adventure, stepping onto unknown land, has no element of fear; it is all joy of living. Experience has taught me that danger is everywhere so whether or not I venture timidly or boldly, something can always happen. Consequently, my choice is Boo! to fear. The Grand Canyon artist is right. Choose Beauty. Choose Example. Phooey to the betrayers, the stab in the backers. Piffle to those who let cynicism reign, depravity rule, who claim a sophisticated superiority. Bah! to realists who unbalance the real world by forgetting the very deep seriousness of goodness. An explorer is one who lets his or her passion overwhelm fear. My mantra: Watch out, Monsters, here I come!

...may the blessings of true spirits be yours...

A Lucky Pearlies Day

I passed by a pumpkin in an entryway which, instead of the usual variations on a Jack o' Lantern face, had a perfectly rendered kanji. I wondered what the translation would be and if Halloween is celebrated in Japan in some fashion not having anything to do with All Souls. I was on the walking route to my new dentist. My childhood experiences with dentists have been thrown into the Pit of Non-Recollection. The first memory I have isn't until high school when braces were part of what was known as a coming of age. This involved several extractions. I prefer teeth pulled to teeth drilled and agree with a friend who compared drilling to the sound of jets landing on the Hong Kong runway. My best times were at the UNC Dental School in the '90s where I gave would-be dentists and technicians a lot of practice. Last week I went for an initial cleaning to a dentist in New York. I feared the worst because I hadn't been checked since 2003. "Seven years? I have patients who average every fifteen years." He seemed overjoyed at the condition of my teeth and enquired about where I had various procedures done. He praised no end the excellent UNC Dental School work and asked so many questions about Chapel Hill I suspected he might want to retire there. For example: "That's university town, isn't it? Beautiful campus? Did you go to basketball games? How about football games? Did you take a bus to get there?" Fortunately all these questions could be answered with a slight nod of the head. It's not considered polite to talk with a mouth full of toothpaste. He told me the history of my teeth such as, "Root canal through a crown, braces as a teen" but missed on one point. He said it didn't look as though I was big on sugar. That brought a laugh. It made me nostalgic thinking of rationing Milky Way bars with Marcia, and Marge Hamilton's deluxe Hershey brownies. As I was leaving, he mentioned almonds. I told him that I love nuts, too. He asked, "Any particular kind?" I said, "Yes. The ice cream topper kind!"

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...may the blessings of good news checkups be yours...

Smiles courtesy of St. Labre Indian School

"I Voted"

I liked the year when the small "I voted" stickers came along to be worn throughout the day as a reminder for others to get out to vote. I wasn't always pleased with the choices but I remembered my mother's stories of suffragettes. Having grown up in a family in which unconditional love was the norm, I couldn't fathom that women had been treated so chauvinistically, although I didn't know that word at the time. I am currently reading The Help and since the setting is one I'm familiar with (Jackson, Mississippi 1962) while I was at Louisiana State University (where I had gotten myself branded as an outside agitator), I am really enjoying the perceptive, humorous, heartbreaking, detailed nature of the book. Coincidentally, on the Sojourner's site, I read this very moving passage. I don't ordinarily put such a long segment on my posts but there wasn't anything I wanted to cut out of this one.

Voting in Honor and Solidarity by Valerie Elverton Dixon 10-28-2010 When my children were young, I took them with me to vote. Before we went into the polling place, I said to them, “We vote because somebody died so we could have the right to vote.” Now I think the reason we vote is because somebody lived so we could have the right to vote. This year I will cast my vote in honor of Fannie Lou Hamer. Fannie Lou Hamerwas a hero of the civil rights movement. She was a sharecropper in Mississippi in 1962 when she attended a meeting on voter registration held at a local African-American church sponsored by the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC). After hearing the presentation, she knew she wanted to vote. She remembered the occasion: ”Whey they asked for those to raise their hands who’d go down to the courthouse the next day, I raised mine. Had it high up as I could get it. I guess if I’d had any sense I’d a-been a little scared, but what was the point of being scared? The only thing they could do to me was kill me and it seemed like they’d been trying to do that a little bit at a time ever since I could remember.” Her decision had profound consequences for her and for her family. The plantation owner ordered her out of her house. The family that took her and her family in was targeted with gunshots in the night. She and others were taken to jail where she was beaten so badly that complications from that beating, along with breast cancer, took her life a few years later. Despite all this, she was a founder of the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party, and in 1964 challenged the credentials of the all white Mississippi delegation. They refused a compromise that would give the MFDP two seats. She said: ”We didn’t come for no two seats when all of us is tired.” Not only did Fannie Lou Hamer work for voting rights, but she wanted to see African-American history taught in schools; she worked with Dorothy Height and the National Council of Negro Women to start day care centers, and she was active in a Freedom Farm Land project. She traveled throughout the United States telling the story of the struggle for freedom, including speaking before Malcolm X’s organization. One of her more famous quotes is: ”I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.” But not only will I cast my vote in honor of Fannie Lou Hamer and her lifelong commitment to the struggle for human dignity, I will cast it in solidarity with men and women across the globe who do not have the privilege of going to the polls to help select the leaders of their countries. I will cast it in solidarity with this year’s Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, Liu Xiaobo, who sits in a Chinese prison. The Nobel committee said: ”Through the severe punishment meted out to him, Liu has become the foremost symbol of this wide-ranging struggle for human rights in China.” I will cast it in solidarity with Aung San Suu Kyi, 1991 Nobel Peace Prize Laureate, who is scheduled to be released from house arrest after Burma’s November 7 election. I will cast it in solidarity with the people of Zimbabwe, still suffering under the leadership of Robert Mugabe.

Our politics is often ugly to behold, but our right to vote is a sacred privilege and duty. Somebody lived and somebody died so we could have the privilege. And, it is our duty.

Dr. Valerie Elverton Dixon is an independent scholar who publishes lectures and essays at JustPeaceTheory.com. She received her Ph.D. in religion and society from Temple University and taught Christian ethics at United Theological Seminary and Andover Newton Theological School.

I vote as much to honor the past as to steer the future. I often hear, "What should we do when the choices seem equally disagreeable?" For example, in today's election, I had to choose between one candidate whose moral values are not mine but whose affiliation is, or another whose party I endlessly decry, or a third whom I like a lot but who can't possibly win. However, if I "made a statement" by voting for him, that's one more nail in the coffin for seeing my opinion count. Another statement would have been to not vote. I'm going to let you guess what I did! One thing for sure: I voted. I didn't want my mother following me around with a whole bunch of poetry.

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...may the blessings of thinking through what needs to be done and then doing it be yours...

Visitors' Guide

"O God of Truth, we recognize that violence is part of our life, and we name this violence as sin. We confess that for a long time we have called this violence by names we could tolerate.

We have called physical abuse, discipline. We have called violence, a family fight. We have called isolation a need for privacy."--from the Riverside Church bulletin comes this prayer from John de Gruchy of South Africa

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I caught the M4 bus after taking a friend to St. Patrick's Cathedral and went on out to Riverside. I was going to read my Japanese mystery, all about a woman who lands in trouble because of personal bankruptcy after running into heavy credit card debts. However, right away a woman sat down with a city touring guide so I thought I'd chat instead of reading. She was from Norway in New York for a conference. She is a researcher specializing in bipolar and schizophrenic disorders of adolescence. We had a great discussion about Norway, disorders, and her outings. She was on her way to the Cloisters. I pointed out various landmarks such as the grand piano statue near the north end of Central Park and told her about the peacocks at St. John the Divine's. I asked her what her plans were for the next couple of days and suddenly she asked, "But where would you go?" I explained I was no authority and had very limited experience, mostly with alpacas at the zoo and the boardwalk of Coney Island. She got very excited. That was exactly what she wanted to know. "I want to know where a person of your sensibilities would choose to go. I want to go there, too!" What an interesting compliment. Her home in Norway is in a very wooded place and the noise and crowdedness of the Big Apple bothered her. I said, "Sometimes you have to embrace that very noise and crowdedness since, after all, you are only here for a short time. Look up Neil Diamond's song, 'It's a Beautiful Noise.' And there are so many parks scattered through the boroughs where you can stop and reflect." I said my recommendations were purely sentimental: the Statue of Liberty a must and a walk to the little lighthouse on Roosevelt Island is good for looking out on the bustle of the city from a peaceful setting. There is a cat rescue mission there, too. I love the mural by James de Vega with a quote of his on E. 124th Street. And another by students in Astoria. Her appraisal of my sensibilities reminded me of the woman from Brooklyn who was traveling on Amtrak to Richmond, Virginia. She looked me over and summed me up this way, "You need to go to the Tenement Museum." My 120th Street stop came before I could make a list of my sentimental favorites for the Norwegian. I'm pleased to think when she returns to her work, she'll think of the "tour guide" she met on the M4.

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...may the blessings of lists be yours today, trip lists, dream lists, book lists...

Map: courtesy of the Wildlife Conservation Society

Sticker: courtesy of Ronald McDonald House

"On Wings of Song"

On Fridays, at the lower level of a Boston Properties (do you suppose there is a New York Properties in Boston?) building, an African-American pianist of indeterminate age and huge talent plays a baby grand for the lunch bunch. Seven levels up in this atrium, there are arched skylights reminiscent of old Parisian garret windows. It's all a world away from the traffic of 3rd Avenue. I like his style--nothing discordant, large range of dynamics, rhythmic with a touch of Rachmaninoff. There are lots of cadenzas and big chords but he never turns cloying on me. The sentiment is pure rather than showy. I've seen people talk to him, perhaps requesting a favorite and it has had me wondering. If I had only one song to ask for, what would it be? He has played "Scarborough Faire," (my spelling), "Hotel California," and "Younger Than Springtime." All good ones. Would it depend on what mood I was in or are there songs fitting any mood? Would I choose pop, classical, Cajun, sacred, or something ethnically distinct? Would I go for zippy, ""Turkey in the Straw," or heavily nostalgic, "Memory." Re-watching Dances with Wolves. the last movie I took my mother to and by which we were both deeply moved, reminded and revived the love of Native American songs by Robert Mirabal, flute player/singer, who once marched on a peace trek to Moscow. The soundtrack of Dances with Wolves is extraordinarily melodic and expansive. I'm thinking of a Friday plan: each Friday I'll go with one song in mind, not for requesting but a thank you gesture for all the music in my life and I'll sing it to myself with all my heart as I eat my Cucina Gourmet plateful. "I sing because I'm happy. I sing because I'm free," would be a good start.

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...may the blessings of a song for the day be yours...

18 Miles of Kindles, Nooks, and Crannies

"The Bridge of Friends"

Photo Credit: Henry Hobbs

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"Even the smallest of creatures carries a sun in its eyes."

Antonio Porchia, translated by W.S. Merwin

as seen on a banner at Central Park

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I've been noticing Kindles on the subway and examining why I prefer the scent of musty books and their delicate crackle as they slide into falling-apart-hood. I watched someone reading his Kindle. I observed how distracting the lights relfected on the screen were and how quickly he put it away. Was he bringing it out just to tell us how up to date, successful, on the beam he was to be able to afford (or get in debt for) a pricey accessory or had it simply tired his eyes? An interview with Stephen King had him giving high praise to eletronica. How curious that he was seated in front of a floor to ceiling shelf of First Editions! My cousin Karen writes: "I love musty old books, but I love being able to read the words a lot more. Luv my kindle for PC!" Kindle in Big Print. I hadn't thought of that. I'm thinking of Cheryl's blog on which she posted an illustration from The Book of Kells. I realize that a Kindle would transform a student's backpack and with textbooks making up a third of a a year's budget, what a great invention these devices are. What seems to worry me, though, is the loss of beauty, of craftsmanship. Emily Dickinson said, "There is no frigate like a book." Frigates have gone out of our lives except in maritime museums. Is this where books are headed? The demise of rotary phones was practically overnight. A Barnes and Noble closed on the West Side. An indicator? There is a stand at the entrance to Central Park for Mark Strand books which proudly proclaims, "18 Miles of Books." I asked the salesperson if Kindles would soon find him out of business. He said no. He said it would be like radio which coexists nicely rather than a complete displacement of product the way the automobile revolutionized horse & carriage world. He said those younger than 45 would embrace the Kindle as quickly as they did the iPod.This was not an ageist issue as he was over 45 himself. He added, "For 'us' it was more a question of nostalgia." Mark Strand Books won't be in trouble as it deals heavily in out of print books. He had a very good line of totes, too. Kindle "wallets" I'm sure will be an industry like cell phone "skins." I asked an 18 year old college student her opinion and she answered unequivocally, "I like to turn pages." My daughter is more concerned about the illiteracy rate in her county than what form the books come in. The rate is up. A traveling friend made this comment: "Kindle/iPad are great if you are traveling and wish not to carry a backpack full of books or magazines/newspapers you wish to read. Truly amazing. I understand that Kindle works much better in the sun and has free access to the Internet. But the look, feel, and experience of a book is still the gold standard." The Merwin quote above is a clue to my feelings. There is something about paper that is part of the natural landscape. There is something about a Kindle that has yet another glossy the-future-has-arrived aspect. There is nothing essentially wrong about this and I'm glad authors will continue to put their thoughts somewhere. I wonder, uneasily, if sacred texts will have their gravitas on a portable toy? Perhaps like the bird on the branch, we can have both the past and the future. A Kindle on the road, a well worn favorite paperback under a lamp at home.

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...may the written word and oral traditions bring you blessings."

Private Collections

artwork by Danny, Age 8

Ronald MacDonald House

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A beautiful coincidence. I had decided to write about people's collecting habits when I came across a book by Durham, NC writer Haven Kimmel called The Used World. I wondered about the title and soon discovered its setting is the Used World Emporium full of furniture, vintage clothes and best of all, a writer's eye for catching me by the throat with just a sentence. Anyone who has ever watched the hoarders program on A&E knows there is a big difference between collecting and accumulating. The darling figurines in the Red Rose tea bag boxes are collector's items. The plastic wrap is not. What people choose to collect is fascinating. I had a rich friend who only collected statuary that was no more than one of five on the planet. She had documentation to prove it. My maternal grandfather collected wooden elephants. He wasn't a Republican; he just liked elephants. He hadn't see one in real life and there were none around to purchase so he whittled them himself. I'm like him with my collection of small wooden camels and giraffes. I haven't tried whittling yet but wouldn't be surprised if that gene popped up should I try. I think I was programmed to collect teddy bears and practice Liszt for hours on end as my first and only childhood teddy had a music box inside him which cheerfully cranked out Liszt's Mephisto Waltz #3. In subsequent years, I was given several music boxes; my favorite had a poignant version of "Deep in December...follow, follow," when it wound down, slowly dwindling like September itself. There was a waterwheel music box I took to kindergarten music days and made up words for the children to sing along, "Oh, this is the tune that the waterwheel sings, tra la. The wheel goes around and the doors open wide. The little man smiles at his dear little bride. Tra la la la la la." Then came a description of the couple venturing out, returning by a back door. Given the chance I would have collected cuckoo clocks. One day at school, I took all the boxes and started them to hear all together. Enchantment. Over the years, all the boxes were given away and only one teddy remains. I sewed an angel scarf for her (with a ruffle, of course). She came with a tee, "Someone in San Francisco loves me." I call her, "The Greeter" as she sits at the entrance to the Shire. A friend at the Eureka senior center liked frogs so much, they became part of her e-mail address. Another friend found a love of angels when someone slipped an angel pin into a birthday card and now she has around 350. Perhaps constructing a wayside chapel is in her future. Some friends have extensive libraries; others are partial to orchids in greenhouses, antique cars, and harmonicas. The tender loving care expended is a tribute to the appeal of inanimate objects and natural world companions. I particularly like collections which reflect an owner's taste rather than the urge to impress. I knew a man who worked all his life on a train set in his garage, a good blend of passion and desire to share. The origin of our obsession would be good research material, would it not? I think we collect to remind ourselves that we were here on this earth; we mattered. It's a need for a past.

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...may the blessings of good things and the pleasant surroundings therein be yours...

The Fluttering of Nearby Wings

Eureka Car(t) 2007

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She fit the stereotype of a bag lady. Her cart had weak ankle wheels and although she was strong it must have been well packed as she pulled it with jerks. She parked it by the rear exit of the M4 bus.Then she sat next to me, not interrupting my reading. I was lost in the world of painters and the grand opening of the Eiffel Tower. Suddenly she commented on the bicycle marathon at the north end of Central Park. Since I was agreeable to conversation she began telling me of where I could get freebies. It turned out she rode in from the Bronx on Sundays to bring food to the food pantry at the cathedral. Bring food?? Every Sunday??? I would have guessed that she was the one needing food. She had done this for ten years! Yes, she had help with the rent through a welfare program but her time and money went to amassing food for the destitute. I mentioned Riverside Church having a food pantry and she glowed. In the days before the Bronx, she lived near Riverside and took the food there. Now, what with the train/bus connections, the cathedral worked better. I told her how wonderfully generous and enterprising she was. She giggled as though this was the least big deal imaginable I said I like to do the "buy one, get one free" thing and keep one for myself and give away the other. However, I could tell she would give away both. I asked about what she herself had to eat. She replied, "Oh, I got plenty! People 'n given' me stuff all time." It reminded me of Porgy and Bess, "Oh, I go plenty of nothin' and nothin's plenty for me." When she reached her stop, I told her she would live long and bless hundreds being as how she was such a cheerful giver and housed a merry heart. I thought about her a lot during the service. She had so little! yet radiated contentment. If only one out of every ten people could be like this nameless errand girl, what a wonderful world this would be!

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...may the blessings of unseen angels visit you this day...

A Short Recap of the Last Twenty-One Hundred Days, Give or Take a Few

Photo Credit: George Page

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I was thinking of the post wherein I mentioned books written in letter form and this thought came to me, "Why not write my entire post in letter form?" An ideal opportunity arose when I found an old e-mail address . Instead of writing to the addressee alone, here it is for you also:

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Hi Jennifer B.!

I'm glad I found your address. A lot has happened since I left Roanoke all those years ago and I don't think I even sent you a postcard. You cross my mind every day because when I remember you, I remember most the books you brought by on your walks with Lucy. I stayed seven months in San Francisco in a lovely studio in what used to be an old hotel frequented by opera singers and actors with wood floors and huge windows. There was a clawfoot tub on a pedestal, the first of a succession of clawfoot tubs on pedestals. More about them later. The studio overlooked a magical garden completely planted and cared for by a Vietnamese man. I put some pots of chrysanthemum on the windowseat to show my appreciation and sometimes he waved. On the floor beneath (the basement), services were held for Muslims. I loved hearing the long sonorous prayers coming up through my floorboards. On night I was moved to reciprocate with Amazing Gracy in what my mother called my carrying voice and found an invitation at my door the next day. I responded with a note on the door saying I had my own faith traditions but appreciated their invite. A flyer at the library led me to a part-time training job serving lunch to about 50 Chinese women at the Salvation Army residential apartments close to Market Street. Unfortunately, I didn't learn any Chinese which would have been useful as a couple of months later, I was getting a flu shot at the Fisherman's Wharf Walgreen's when I inadvertently helped six elderly Chinese ladies fill out forms. Their interpreter had failed to show. I was touched that they trusted me with their phone numbers and home addresses. Hand motions and smiles work for all languages. Life in the City by the Bay was stretching the budget so I moved on up to Eureka in redwood country where I had visited my son when he was at Humboldt State. I lucked out with another winning place to live, a cottage divided into apartments diagonally across from the famous Carson Mansion which at Christmas lit up like an old movie set. Another part-time job came my way at the Humdoldt Senior Resource Center. It was there that I thought of you most as "Young Boss" recommended my reading Water for Elephants. That brought a flood of memories about the Patchett books you loaned me and the beautifulThe Solace of Leaving Early. And how surprised you were when I said the time traveller was "a jerk." I wondered if anybody in Eureka would be as kind to me as you were when I was so sick with the shingles and you asked me what I would like best. You brought Sprite which I considered the ultimate prescription. I stayed in Eureka for the two years of my lease and then headed back to Chapel Hill. But guess what! I'm now in New York City. More later. So, enough of me, what have you been up to? I've lost track of how old George is by now. Does your bookclub still meet around your fabulous kitchen table? Do you read Cheryl's blog? All for now. Keep in touch.

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...may the blessings of reunions be yours...

Serendipity Street on the Road to Enlightenment

Photos Credit: Kaye Barley

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I told you the Tale of the Ring, the wonderful symbolic event of not being the Wrong Mimja but instead winning the ring on Linda Blalock's site, http://atclindab.blogspot.com/. which came to me by way of a link on Cheryl Dolby's page. http://healingwoman.blogspot.com. She has heaps of links so I tried looking at another earlier in the year which led in turn to http://meanderingsandmuses.blogspot.com. What a nice "small world" surprise! The writer is Department Secretary for Philosophy and Religion at Appalachian State. I wrote her a quick note to tell her that I had lived in a cabin and had sung in the Appalachian Chorale which met in the music building. I mentioned that my daughter had been an anthropology major and her daughter is now at ASU. I kept meaning to get back to Kaye's blog but...no excuses. I just didn't. Well, she took care of that by sending me a message last week asking if I would like to be a guest blogger on her site September 12, 2011. I was floored. I thought maybe I was the Wrong Mimja again. I mean, Kaye's guests will include the likes of Pat Conroy. Yikes. The majority of bloggers have published works. Doubles yikes! I did start on an autobiography in 2003 and made it all the way to page 2. What to do? What to do? I decided not to turn down the offer. "They also serve who only" post a note. And this was another opportunity to show my philosophy and religion by example. Who would have thunk I'd be hobnobbing with Name Recognized Mystery Authors Who Tour? Given as I am to Signs, I think this means it's time I scurried (in Mimsey fashion) to LuLu.com and published my 6 page (mostly drawings) children's book. The Walrus Who Loved Yoga. Watch for me in the NYTimes. Ha ha. With blurbs such as "short and endearing" and "short and quixotic." Or more likely, "If you are looking for a quick read, this is short." I have a whole year, give or take a day or two, so maybe this will be finally done. Wish me luck. I got the idea in 1964. Maybe a better choice than luck would be a ghost writer.

...may the blessings of chance invitations be yours.

What Would Your Brother Do?

...art courtesy of Robert Janz

"IN YOU BEGINS AND ENDS

THE UNIVERSE." Lorca

This is the week that marks that horrific day, 9/11. I remember my brother visiting Durham in November of 2001 at my small apartment. I remember looking out through the glass door which opened onto a corner screened porch. I was surprised he wasn't coughing. He had come for an interview by the Raleigh News and Observer and for an exhibit of his drawings as an eyewitness to 9/11. (He had been walking peacefully towards the the World Trade Center on a mission to buy a muffin). I told him how I'd been volunteering in the library that fatal morning when the librarian came to tell me the news. She asked, "What would your brother do? Would he want you to go home or stay here working?" I said he'd want me to stay. As we sat talking on my couch about the show he would have in Raleigh, he looked through the drawings in his portfolio. He came upon one which didn't belong. Puzzled, he commented, "I don't know how this got in here. It's an old drawing." The minute I saw it, I knew. It was the U. You can see in the above why it is my favorite of my collection. Amidst the building hateful rhetoric, I keep in mind this beauty and pass it along to you.

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...may the blessings of chance findings be yours...

Arts & Loops

Red-Footed Tortoise

Photo Credit: ReptilesWeb.com

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I've never been one who wanted to time travel. It seemed too much like looking at the last page of a mystery to see how the plot turned out. There is a banner at Central Park with a drawing of a large tortoise with the caption, "Try our fast lane" (may not be exact). Time and letters are favorite topics of mine perhaps because time is flying and letters can be held and re-read. Some of the books I like best were written in letter form. Fair and Tender Ladies. A Bloomin' Bouquet. I could write my autobiography that way I'm sure. The first letter I ever wrote was when I was six. I even addressed it and used my best stationery. I wrote, "I am truly sorry I haven't written. I have been so busy." I had painstakingly copied the words from my mother's example. I laugh when I think of how long it took. This was written to my former kindergarten teacher in Tuckahoe, New York whom I idolized because she was the first to understand just what she had for a student. I remember an art project day. Several pots of paint were put in front of us would-be artists and a small glass bowl with a puckered decorative lip. The idea was to slowly drip different colored paints onto the bowl. Most of the other students were done in less than a minute but Miss whatever-her-name-was allowed me to take as long as I wanted. She told my mother later that curiosity had led her to grant me this permission. She was not surprised that it took me three hours. Time for me has long been something I could suspend. I asked my mother once if she thought it was because as a baby I had been put out for my naps in the jungle garden and watched the sloths for my entertainment when I awoke. She said it was possible but really, she had to believe that if I had watched car races I would still be the slow-paced intense person that I am. After that first letter, I felt my oats so to speak and began a hobby of fan letters. When my daughter was two, she was sitting on the cover of a Chad Mitchell lp which had fallen to the floor as we listened to "Blowin' in the Wind." The scene prompted me to write a fan letter to Chad Mitchell. He replied in his own hand with a Christopher Street address in New York City. I was thrilled and answered with a thank-you. He wrote one more time and signed it, "From a fan of a fan." I wrote many letters after but kept only that one and the postcard from Fred Rogers and notes from Winston Graham. I wrote a poem about my theory of time and explored the Hopi circular theory. I don't have it handy here but will post it some time when I go through my bits and scraps in the Shire. It will take awhile to find because, like Fred Rogers, "I like to take my time." Did I mention that although I saved only those few missives from the famous, I have a huge box full labeled, "Helpers" that are letters all the way from Campus Mail days to the present from friends? I think you guessed that.

...may you find the tweeny moments, the in between spaces, which lengthen very good days and bring you blessings...