Quo Vadis (Where Y'all Goin'?)

Many of the wonderful words in the English language have roots in Latin: celestial navigation, conservatory gardens, unknown quantity, madrigal feast, desert isle. It occurred to me that Latin is also the precursor of text messaging. For instance, take the phrase e pluribus unum. "Out of many, one." e frees up space that "out" would need. That makes me think of, "Three strikes, you're e." Fiat Lux could be shorthand for, "Turn on the light!" (Not an exact translation). Then there's amo, amas, amat, one word verbs which include who is verbing. Quo vadis could easily replace, "Where are you going, dude?" Personally, I don't favor text messaging. It took too long for me to learn how to spell perambulator, vermilion, participle, and ridiculous. I'm still learning. Recently, I misspelled adviser. I wrote, "Advisor." Now-- I'd like to know why we can have tutors, authors, senators but not advisors. I'm guessing it's one of those, "I before E except after C" tricks of the grammarians' trade. It's interesting how the original crop of Latin seeds spread across the world to become the romance lingoes of Portuguese (which my mother called Spanish with a French accent) French, Italian, Spanish and Esperanto. This leads me to a poem I wrote in the days before i-anything. It's about summer and homework and theories:

~~~~~~~~~~

California, 1979

Jenny is at the picnic table doing her homework.

She has taken the birdcage out

and set it next to her book.

Although she is leaning over her papers

busily sorting,

her head almost touches the side

of the cage where Sanctuary sings.

The snowy finch, unaccustomed to

a change of location,

eloquently expresses gratitude

with exotic new trills.

I like to think it's gratitude, anyway.

According to Erik, the equator is responsible

for the warm winds converging in our yard.

The Amazon, too, is hovering somehow

in the trade of sparkling humidity.

It's all got to do with an arc of heat

coming up from South America.

There is also an arc of time.

As I watch Jenny, I remember my childhood

in a tropical garden.

When I was little, I use to think

that someone was minding me

when actually I was alone.

I'd often turn quickly, a friendly greeting

half spoken,

to see who it was.

Looking at Jenny now, I see myself then,

listening to bird calls

and tilting my head,

trying to catch a glimpse

of the future hurrying by.

~~~~~~~~

...may the via dolorosa not appear on your map this day...

Two's Company

My friends are into oceanography, the origins of faith, tectonic plates, spaceship conspiracy theories, aromatherapy, and all sorts of worthy areas of study. My fascination lies with the mind of a child. I was fortunate to be sitting in the sparsely populated Café car of the Carolinian when a girl I estimated to be two hopped onto the seat across the table. Pulling on one of her eight tight braids, she gave me a big grin. I had overheard the conversation she had been having with her grandmother full of Sits and Don'ts. This was one live wire tot. The Café car is a good place to read as the windows are large and for long stretches the scenery never varies so I had brought along a paperback version of Prodigal Summer. This edition is unusual because there is also an inner cover I can only describe as a Hallmark moment. Since the author, Barbara Kingsolver, was a biology major her book is rich in the proper names of Biology World. The illustrations on this extra cover, however, simply had unlabeled standard greeting card drawings. The girl climbed on the table, grabbed the book, sat, and began to "read" to me. When she turned to the drawings, I told her what each one was. Big Butterfly. Baby Butterfly. Moth. Baby Moth. Beetle. Baby Beetle. I was astonished when she repeated them quickly and correctly. I asked the grandmother who hadn't moved from the table opposite to join us, "How old is she?" The grandmother answered, "Two. The Terrible Two's." Well, there was nothing terrible about this Two. We discussed thoroughly the possibilities of Baby Moth getting together for an ice cream social with Baby Beetle. We played a shadow game when a stripe of sunshine hit the table. Some ladies looking for white wine saw my book and exclaimed that they had read it. They started in on some hackneyed imitation of a blurb critic. Spare me. I was polite but I had to get back to Big Butterfly. I wished Barbara Kingsolver could have watched us, she who specializes in minute observation. What would she make of this delightful wunderkind? The Café closed for a break and the grandmother thanked me for my patience. Patience had naught to do with it. It was the sheer joy of connecting to the electricity of Fledgling Sapiens. Coincidentally, while at Riverside Church on Sunday, I noticed prominently displayed on the Summer Reading poster at the library adjacent to the sanctuary, the beautiful green colorations of Prodigal Summer. I will always remember the "reader" of that book during the summer of 2010 on a day when Two was the best of company.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may a little one's commentary bless your life today...

"Gallantly Streaming"

"It's a grand old flag, it's a high flyin' flag!" I remember Barbara Emily, about three years old, punching out the words and soaring on the tune while in her car seat in the back of my little white Subaru Justy. You know how three year olds are: once they find something they like, they will repeat it for days on end; sometimes only one word will catch their attention as in, "Flag, flag, flag." I kept my eye on the road but also I began thinking (didn't want to interrupt her) about flags, all the flags of countries I had lived in with Brazil the only one I remembered. Prayer flags and early American flags are my cup of tea. I like the way prayer flags look like colorful washing on a clothesline. Delving this week into the history of prayer flags I found this quote:

"When raising prayer flags proper motivation is important. If they are put up with

the attitude 'I will benefit from doing this' – that is an ego-centered motivation

and the benefits will be small and narrow. If the attitude is 'May all beings

everywhere receive benefit and find happiness,' the virtue generated by such

motivation greatly increases the power of the prayers."

I have often wanted to make prayer flags. The closest I came was in Roanoke during Mimsey Camp when B.E. and Henry made paper stars of all sizes and we strung them on a wire and gave them the official title of, "String of Stars." They have been the first thing to go up whenever I have moved. I think my summer project will be poetry prayer flags. I will make seasonal ones. Wordsworth for Spring; Shakespeare for Summer; Basho for autumn; Rosetti for Winter. All flower related, of course. Tibetan flags use cloth. I am partial to cloth but I will probably go with paper as I can then attach ornaments. It's the age of 3-D and 4-D so why not have my flags a poppin'? There will have to be some musical ritual involved, too. First thing every morning I might just look over and quietly sing the familiar strain, "It's a grand old flag. It's a high flyin' flag and forever in peace...." Join me in the singalong?

....may summer projects be fruitful for you and bring blessings of peace...

"En Un Lugar de la Mancha" and Other Destinations

My father's favorite book was Don Quixote. I could walk into a room to show The Daddy my scratch copy of an essay and like clockwork, he would say, "'En un lugar de la mancha.'" He did this so often that as a parting gift upon hearing of our transfer orders, the chauffeur furnished by the State Department in Cali took his meager savings, went up to Bogota, where he bought two oversized volumes, leather-bound, gold trimmed of Don Quixote. My dad was dismayed by this gesture knowing how much trouble and expense Nestor had gone to. My mother exclaimed, "He can barely feed his family!" We carted those heavy books through dozens of moves until, after the death of my parents, I felt I needed to find the set a home. I sold them in Durham to a passing antiques dealer from New England. My dad obviously had a favorite place on the mancha of Cervantes' imagination. One of my mother's favorite places was the Pelican Diner on St. Pete Beach. I like places with good talk and a charitable aspect such as Gone CoCo Boutique tucked into the historic City Market building in Roanoke, Virginia where, as they say at Jan Hus Presbyterian Church, "You are welcome before you arrive." In Manhattan, I like Manna's with its plentiful hot/cold buffet in East Harlem. Not only is the "soul food" extravagantly tasty but it is a boon to poor people because after its discount card is punched ten times, one receives a $10 "free plate." The chatter is great and soulful, too. The cross-section of patrons is heartening: a vet from the Iraq War in a wheelchair, an old couple saying grace, inspectors who know good food without testing it, a "regular" with her small cart bearing the bargains she found at Pathmark. The space holds only a few tables but the turnover is continuous. I've heard a lot of complaints about McDonald's. I turn a deaf ear. Here's why: in Eureka, California, my Sunday trek was to Mickey D's for pancakes and to see my friends--a washed up Old Salt with Parkinson's and a Downs Syndrome young woman who proudly boasted every time I saw her, "I been here 14 years!" I wondered when 15 rolled around if she would remember. It took only a week or so to learn. He "swabbed the decks." She kept the tables spotless and the condiments tidy. She was diligent about her break, watching her watch, struggling to complete easy word finder puzzles. How delightful to have someone hire these excellent workers! Personally, I have too many favorite lugares, too many books to single out one. Currently, I'm reading Crow Lake, a tale of Ontario, Canada. It reminds me of The Crow Island Journal about a man, Clinton Trowbridge, and his disabled wife, Lucy. They bought an island off the coast of Maine and together with their four children (as I recall) built a house. Lucy's illustrations certainly put this haven in my Top Ten. Speaking of islands, I often go to Roosevelt island on the jaunty red bus. I walk towards the lighthouse, past a magnificent rose garden. It's lovely but the best part is a cat rescue house. If only Google could translate what those cats have to say about their travels! Take a peek at "Island Cats" when you have a chance. And don't forget to tell me of your special scapes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

...may the blessings of evocative haunts be yours this week...

Jonesy's Gone

the view from our house

In 1944, my family was living on Angra do Heroismo, an island in the Azores. Because of nearby bases, our house was filled with a steady stream of soldiers and Red Cross volunteers. There were four regulars I looked most forward to seeing: Walter, who later became a Presbyterian minister involved in peace activities; Clifford, who gave me my first paper doll and whose standard greeting was, "What's cookin', good lookin'?" Berg, a future jolly entrepreneur; and Jonesy, the violinist who took me through a crash course in classical music. His favorite piece (the poignancy of which continues to bring tears) was "The New World Symphony." He told me the theme was based on a spiritual, "Goin' Home," and taught me to play it with my right hand all on the black keys. I have a "program" my mother saved of my "recital" with Jonesy. Soon after, life changed abruptly. Jonesy was "shipped out." When the news came that Jonesy had "gone home," killed in an undisclosed location, "shipped out" became a terrifying set of words associated with death. His was the beginning of many, many losses for me and the catalyst for the firm resolve in my five year old mind to put an end to war. Lucille writes: "His name is Billy Anderson. Just a kid from a small town trying to start a life." Billy Anderson, 20, was killed in Afghanistan, leaving behind a young wife and 8 month old baby. He was the best friend of Lucille's grandson-in-law who lives in Tennessee. I'm inclined to say to those in sorrow, "Go ahead and have a crying spell. It gets the toxins out." My friend Sherry Boone, on the other hand cautions, "It's o.k. to have a pity party; just don't hold an open house. " Stacy L. Jackson's poem seems exactly right, the perfect grief poem. She thought it might be too sad to be published in the final issue of Sondra's Autumn Leaves but in my opinion, too sad can paradoxically lift one's spirits. It's a way of facing reality. Denial simply delays, a kind of post traumatic stress syndrome. Syndromes fester.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I Cannot Go to Your Grave

by Stacy Campbell

---

my heart feels flush to that flat stone

with your name, your name!

etched so deeply

there is no place for me

to grieve out of view

I don't visit

yet, I talk to you daily

surely that counts

I never thought

I would make it

without you

sick that I do

ashamed that I can

~~~~~~~~~~

The photo above of the World War I driver is courtesy of The American Field Service.

...may the blessings of remembering bring you peaceful times...

Me, You, and Youse Guys

GRAMMARIANS AT LARGE

Stella, left; Della, right

Bobby, a.k.a. Roberto

and

Yours Truly, Moi

"When the moon is in the Seventh House and Jupiter aligns with Mars" is not only a poetical phrase but it has long made me wonder into which house I was born. I suspect it was when the moon was in the House of Grammarians and Venus aligned in its fashion with Earth. I remember being interrupted daily after my dad picked Hilda and me up from St. Pete High. I would tell in a rush about our activities. At some point, inevitably, I would say something such as, "It was a real good lesson!" Hilda would giggle because she knew what would follow,. My dad's comment, "Yes! You are saying it was authentic!" To this day I avert my eyes from Real Simple on the magazine racks knowing that "real" is not the proper form to modify neither simple nor nothin'. Hilda was Greek. All her mother cared about was Hilda catching a husband. Hilda was in training for a glamorous future. She was the only sophomore in high school wearing glittery spike(d) heels. Hilda cheerfully broke every grammar rule in our text. However, she never came to breakfast without her lipstick matching her toenails. In a way I was relieved to live in Grammarians' World. I wasn't allowed lipstick and if I really wanted to impress, all I'd have to do was keep quiet. I had some excellent years during which I was still as stone communicating my thoughts exclusively to Dear Diary with its precious heart lock and key. Recently I read a few of the entries. Hilarious! I was real everything and authentic, too.I had composed memory tricks: "If there is a 2 (to) or a 4(for) or words which could substitute (just, join) then use 'me.' Otherwise, go for "I." When in doubt, resort to Moi." Lest you think (or lest one thinks) I did not admire the Grammarians, I'm posting a lovely poem by my Aunt Stella who belonged to the school of "It's little or bit. The bit part is redundant." However, her poem is not stilted, not tongue-tied. It flows along well and I'm glad to be heir to these quirky out of left field commandments of verb agreement, run-on sentences, comma splices, possessive pronouns, and watch-the-antecedents. Although this made listening to my favorite pop songs difficult, I have to admit there are moments of joy from this education. I heard someone on NPR say, "Different from" and I cheered. Grammarians united! I don't know what happened to Hilda. She was sent to finishing school in Switzerland during our junior year. Boy! Did she miss it. That was some real year! Lucille says that times have changed and dangling participles are acceptable now. I have to wonder why we went through all those hours of choosing the mot juste. I think I know. It's the same reason my dad did math problems for fun. It was an exercise in mindfulness, in observation. It held us accountable in a world increasingly slipshod and ethically questionable. Perhaps the same results (attention to detail) can be achieved by the younger generation with its (no apostrophe) FarmVille and Zoo Paradise. Ever the optimist, Moi.

~~~~~~

"When I am gone

I hope that over me

Some kindly soul will plant

A willow tree.

Not as a monument

For men to see

But as a friend

To keep me company."

--Stella Halit

~~~~~~

...may the blessings of antiquated distant homework assignments bring you pleasure this day...

"There is No Frigate Like a Book"

May 18th. My mother's birthday. She would have been 105 this year. She was a reader, quick and comprehending which accounts for my reading habits. The Memory Keeper's Daughter, A Girl of the Limberlost, Charley's Aunt, Brother Cadfael's Penance, The Wisdom of Father Dowling, Sister Angelica, The Pilot's Wife, Cry, the Beloved Country, Cousin Bette, Uncle Vanya, I Remember Mama, The Admiral's Niece: Or, a Tale of Nova Scotia. All favorites. Do you see the pattern? It's as though I like hatching a family on my bookshelf. A few years ago I was thinking of writing a memoir I was going to call An American Child in a Foreign Field. I'm glad I didn't. Oh, I could keep the title and try again but the content would be different as my perspective has changed. As I mentioned last week, Mrs. Chamberlain believed she could hop out of her body to Japan every night. Cheryl's blog was about how she is a gypsy at heart and although she has traveled widely, she feels the strongest pull is that of obligations at home. I have begun to see my poems as a form of time/gypsy travel. How lucky I am to be able to still be the "wand'ring minstrel" simply by scratching a few lines with my pen! I remember one of the first poems I had published in a small press publication, the editor commented on what a lovely trip it was. Since this was back in the days of druggie Haight hippies and my poem entry was from California, I suspect he thought it was an LSD trip. Being a lifelong teetotaler with hot water as my drink of choice, this amused me. It's true, though. On examining my poems, I realize they are trips. In fact, in this one I wrote early last year, I even use the phrase time-traveler. So--I, too, am a gypsy at heart with the pull of obligations familial as my "home."

MXXXV

My dream was release from the bondage of age.
In lavender fields where blind children play,

a delicate ladder appeared;
a spiral it was, spinning towards me.
Suddenly I was thrown--
higher, farther than the ancient stars

Telemachus once charted
while waiting for Odysseus.
Leaping, twirling, through a palette
of colors formerly unknown,
I was caught by Love's bright messenger.
Drops of holy water formed a crystal tiara.
Out of my hand grew peach scented roses
and in my hair a thousand notes of a new song
accompanied the aerialist's shape-shifting--
tossing, reaching, falling, dying.
The night expanded like a time-traveler's journal
which on the final page had these words:
"Return."

...may the blessings of whatever manner you choose to venture forth be with you these sunny days...