Perpetually Historical

I have a friend in Roanoke, Virginia with a keen interest in history. I nicknamed her "perpetuallyhistorical." I, too, have a curiosity about times gone by. The Treehouse is situated in a landmark building which, even if one wasn't told, could be deduced by the marble staircase and banister woodwork. The surrounding neighborhood has some Bring Back Memories locations such as the Isle of Capri restaurant established 1955 when I was encountering Sarah Orne Jewett and The Country of Pointed Firs in high school. I'll wager I've been on the search for those firs ever since. I really do believe, "There is no poem as lovely as a tree." A short bus ride or subway to 34th Street brings me close to the Tick Tock Diner. It is inside the New Yorker hotel. This establishment predates the Empire State Building by one year, 1930. The breakfast menu features something unusual in the Big Apple--a choice of grits. The fabled Automat is gone but other places have held on. The daffodils at Rockefeller Center attest to the jubilant cycles of life. I can easily see Wordsworth writing,

"I wandered lonely as a cloud

that floats on high o'er vales and hills

and all at once I saw a crowd,

a host of golden daffodils."

Walgreen's has a sign stating its first store dates to 1901. My mother was fond of the 59 cent lunch special at Walgreen's in St. Pete at about the time the Isle of Capri welcomed its charter customers. I like the way the years interweave like the wedding rhyme, "Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue." It's likely my passion for historic places began with my brother on his expeditions. That's what I called them but, really, they were just long walks behind our house in Jerusalem. I remember him saying, "Solomon walked here." I wasn't sure who Solomon was. I had a vague idea he had been the richest man in the world and the smartest but how could he be rich and smart at the same time? Why would he lay up treasures on Earth? Hadn't he heard about Jesus? My brother, ever patient, said Solomon lived long before Jesus which meant to me that it was smart to be rich back when. That still didn't make sense because I had been told the rich were discontent, ever striving, never satisfied. My brother wasn't prepared for my strong streak of logic and declared, "Solomon was an exception. Exceptional Solomon." Naturally, being six years old, I pestered the issue. "Why?" My brother diverted my attention by handing me a tiny square rock of such beauty, I have it to this day. A short silence ensued and then I asked, " Did Solomon have any of these?" Later, at home, my brother complained "She never stops. She has to know everything." My mother suggested I let my brother go on his walks without me. Thus began my own adventures and investigations. In Blowing Rock, North Carolina, there is a plaque, "In 1731 on this spot, nothing happened." Now that's a rare bit of history, don't you think? I wonder if whoever put up that plaque had a little sister with an inquisitive streak. From the tram to Roosevelt Island "Landmarks galore" can be seen, one of which used to be a smallpox hospital. I learned about this on Kaye Barley's blog when reading an entry by New York mystery writer, Linda Fairstein. It's Spring Break week at the Treehouse. My next post will come from the Shire. Till then..."

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..may the blessings of sacred spaces be yours...

"This Little Light"

"She was a triumph of image over reality. I'm not even sure if she knows what

reality is anymore, she's so busy creating this image of herself."

Still Life -- Louise Penny

The first time I chose to re-invent myself I was four years old. The family had moved to Santo Domingo where the house fronted a beautiful flower garden. My mother had often read the tale to me of Ferdinand the reluctant bull who never wanted to enter the ring to face an elegant matador bent on total destruction. Ferdinand wanted peace in the world and beauty. My cup of tea! I wanted to Be Ferdinand. Consequently, I decided to go sit under a tree in the midst of the tropical flowers, And just like Ferdinand, I was bitten by a bumblebee. Oh, the agony. The incident made me re-think re-invention. I tried being Joan of Arc until I realized the ending would not be peaceful. At the age of eight, I discovered Gene Autry's tumbleweeds and set out to be a cowgirl. My Aunt Stella had gone to school with Gene Autry's wife so an autographed 8X10 glossie was arranged. I was thrilled when it arrived as a surprise in the mail with an inscription, "To Christine, the Singing Cowgirl." However about the same time, my Uncle Henry sent a magnificent art book, Indians of the Plains, a reminder of the fact that I was the descendant of an Apache. I squared this with my cowgirl persona by putting feathers in my hair. At age 11, I became friends with Lola, Marcia, and Connie who came over to play what we termed, "Olden Times" which my dad immediately dubbed, "Olden Dames." My friends and I were low on board games so we acted out stories. I was Lorraine, who had melodramatic near-death experiences from either consumption or smallpox. One day, I ventured to go ahead and die. Connie, the literalist among us, said I couldn't play anymore because I was dead and she didn't believe in ghosts. I settled that problem by saying, "It's my house." Lorraine miraculously recovered and the blame for her "death" laid at the foot of zombies. Olden Dames continued until we all read Nancy Drew and re-invented ourselves as spy catchers. There were plenty of them around. In high school, I yearned to be Willa Cather writing lyrical novels of places I had never seen because of spending too much time in the tropics. By college it was clear that none of my re-inventions were going to happen. The next decades had people suggesting I become a politician or go on the stage or run an orphanage. My dad thought I would make an excellent cub reporter but I had read Shakespeare by then and stuck with, "To thine own self be true." It was less dangerous than Ferdinand or Joan and I could spend my leisure reading all about characters, as in Louise Penny's quote above, without having to drain the budget with a major investment in outfits. Although...I guess it wouldn't be out of the question to have one last transformation. How about I try being...nah. Never mind.

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...may the blessings of your little lights shining be with you this primavera week...

Among the Shamrocks

Offhand, I'm guessing it's likely my maternal grandmother, Mary Leahy Reinhardt, did not celebrate St. Paddy's Day even though she was born in County Wicklow. She did give presents at birthdays, though. Other people's presents. One January my mother sent a gift to her sister, Stella, in Providence, Rhode Island. In May, Stella sent the gift on for Granny Reinhardt's birthday. Later that May, came the same gift back to my mother with a note, "Stella sent this blouse. She doesn't know my taste." It was true. When Granny R. died, Stella had the funeral director use a pink theme. My mother said, "Mama never liked pink. It didn't go with freckles." My mother didn't like pink, either. Stella was not one for "go with" so she didn't notice. She also had fewer freckles. I have a photo somewhere that shows a genetic link between Granny R. and me. She is wearing a plaid jumper (my standard uniform for most of my life), a hat, and she it toting an oversized handbag in which she, no doubt, carried one of the volumes of the complete Charles Dickens. She is waiting at a bus stop to go into town for her weekdays salad, pie, and coffee at the YWCA. I don't think she ever cooked after her husband died. Well, no wonder. She had the reputation of baking the hardest biscuits in Indian Territory. Like me, she was also a bear about alcohol. Despite her entering a household and immediately pouring out all the whiskey bottles, she was still every woman's favorite midwife. Whenever my mother was sick in some foreign country she pined for Mama and in a tuneless quaver, sang, "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child." Once when I was frantic with helplessness, I asked my mother what was so special about Granny R.'s healing powers. There was no definite description but it had to do with Irish humor, no-nonsense, and a very strong streak of optimism she called Muddling Through. Granny R. was one of the few in miles who could read music so she played for the Saturday night dances and three church services on Sunday. In her way, celebration was not a set aside time. It was all the time in her steady quiet manner. I was going to post another Irish poem but I happened to come across this one by Sarah N. Cleghorn which is very Granny Reinhardt. Someone wrote about Sarah, "She called her earlier poems 'sunbonnets' --poems which characterized country life--and her later poems 'burning poems'--poems that pointed to social injustices." It has the lilt and imagery of an old Irish ballad, perfect for recitation. Sing away, delve into some myths of kings, and do a little jig!

In the still cold before the sun (Her Matins)

Her brothers and her sisters small 

She woke, and washed and dressed each one.                 

And through the morning hours all (Prime) 

Singing above her broom she stood 

And swept the house from hall to hall. 

Then out she ran with tidings good (Tierce)

Across the field and down the lane,

To share them with the neighborhood.

Four miles she walked, and home again, (Sexts)

To sit through half the afternoon

And hear a feeble crone complain.

But when she saw the frosty moon (Nones)

And lakes of shadow on the hill,

Her maiden dreams grew bright as noon.

She threw her pitying apron frill (Vespers) 

Over a little trembling mouse 

When the sleek cat yawned on the sill.

In the late hours and drowsy house, (Evensong)

At last, too tired, beside her bed 

She fell asleep — her prayers half said.

...may the blessings of little green sprouts be with thee...

Pancakes and Ashes

Shrove Tuesday is celebrated in many different ways. It's the last day of Mardi Gras and since the next day begins the season of smaller portions, people fill up on pancakes. "In Ireland, Irish girls were given an afternoon off to make their batter and the eldest, unmarried girl would toss the first pancake. Success meant she would be married within the year." The word shrove comes from the notion that before fasting, we are to confess our sins. Perhaps that's why Mardi Gras and Fat Tuesday became a more common name than Shrove. Anybody would rather be eating pancakes than thinking about past sins, especially the "sins of omission." It's bad enough to have committed the active sins but to have to be nailed for what we "accidentally" didn't do or say, is a real festival squasher. The pancake events started in the 15th Century in England. Pancake Tuesday was first observed in the U.S. in Mobile, Alabama in 1703 but most of us associate it with Mardi Gras in New Orleans. It's a state holiday in Louisiana. During the Civil War, there were no celebrations but after, it was one of the first to be revived. I was going to include another Irish poem but I love this one by Sara Teasdale and since the first word to come to my mind to describe a place I've never seen is "loveliness," I am posting this instead. Indulge in your pancakes! Load them up with blueberries and a sprig of shamrock on the side and then enjoy, yes, enjoy the introspective, kindly, lean season of Lent.

Barter
by Sara Teasdale
Life has loveliness to sell, All beautiful and splendid things, Blue waves whitened on a cliff, Soaring fire that sways and sings, And children's faces looking up Holding wonder in a cup. Life has loveliness to sell, Music like a curve of gold, Scent of pine trees in the rain, Eyes that love you, arms that hold, And for your spirit's still delight, Holy thoughts that star the night. Spend all you have for loveliness, Buy it and never count the cost; For one white singing hour of peace Count many a year of strife well lost, And for a breath of ecstasy Give all you have been, or could be. ...may the blessings of feasting be with you tonight and the blessings of peacefulness follow your week...

"Come Child of Misfortune, Come Hither"

As far back as I can remember there was a small green songbook of Thomas Moore's Irish favorites in the various piano benches of my childhood. I don't know if my parents bought it when they lived in Belfast or if it was a gift, perhaps from Cassie Main, my mother's best friend. At any rate, it was another instance of predestination as far as I was concerned. My brother and I took piano lessons from Joy Cutler whose house was across a stone bridge over the road to Mt. Vernon when my dad was assigned to Washington, D.C. For my brother, the lesson outing was the best part. He didn't really take to music notes telling him what to do. I, on the other hand, practiced Teaching Little Fingers to Play for hours. This delighted my tone-deaf mother who envisioned my triumphal acceptance to the Julliard School of Music. She was also fond of sentimental pieces so the day I started in on "The Last Rose of Summer" was a day of transformation for us both. As the songbook aged, patches of brighter green appeared. I began to treat it in a ritualistic way as a form of preservation. Each March, out it would come for a daily singing, one song a day. On St. Patrick's, I would play the entire table of contents. The illustrations were graceful glimpses into an era that suited my fanciful nature. Sometimes I read the lyrics as the poetry they were, impassioned lines of loss and exile. There were a couple of snappy ditties such as "The Rakes of Mallow" which had the strength of Irish humor conquering the many troubles of Irish history to soften the mixture. Here is a sample of the kind the mother/daughter relished.

Has Sorrow Thy Young Days Shaded

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear? --
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine --
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

Has Hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory --
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest, and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?

If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself look'd bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear --
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.

Thomas Moore

It was a natural progression to investigate Yeats and his epic tales of yore and the fascinating "automatic writing." For my first March post, I'd like to conclude with what I think is the best of all Irish poems, Thomas Moore notwithstanding.

When You are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

--W. B. Yeats

...may the traditional road-rising Irish blessing accompany your March days... Poems courtesy of PoemHunter.com and POETS.org