Well . . .

Best get this off my mind now before the new year comes.

Imaging
Carol Schiess

Hands tied to the rails of a gurney,
her fingernails dig at the air,
head turns side to side in a ritual
of movement. An attendant pushes her along,
his steps quick, knowing the way
to the X-ray lab without looking

She seems not to look, not to see
the paintings on these basement walls,
bright watercolors--reds, greens, yellows
cascade across the paper; children, bunnies
collide in unhindered play; happy nature
holding back some threat, some hidden terror.

She moans, calls out for help, cries
for love or proper care or someone.
"There, there," her escort answers.
He does not know her name. "There, there,
we're almost there," his litany
sterile as the place. "There, there," again,
as if the X-ray lab would be her haven.

Three Brief Stories

I
We have the post-Christmas cold. I say we because Ann has it, and John, and Charlie. This morning I went to church for a while and learned that folks there have it, too. But I have come home early to rest and maybe even sleep away this cold virus. That is my hope.

Just now I am listening to Cesar Franck, his violin sonata, a simple piece of music in that it is only the violin and piano, and very soothing to me.

II
Speaking of music. when we were all here together Christmas morning, I said to Aaron, "This note I'm about to sing, I believe it's a D." I sang it. He said, "Hmmm. No. You're flat. It's a D-flat," went to the piano and played a D-flat.

So, big deal. I was close.

III
And speaking of the violin.

Christmas night Charlie asked if he could play the violin, the one that has been in my basement for more than a decade. He loves to play it. I said no last Sunday because there were too many kids here, and the instrument could suffer, I thought.

Monday I finally did what I've thought to do for many months: took it in for repairs--four new strings and a new bow--which will cost much more than I paid for the violin initially. But I want it to be in good repair so that Charlie gets a true idea of the violin. Yes, I know, this one, although it is about 1/2 size, is too big for him, but he'll get a sense of it. It should be finished some time in early January.

So, on Christmas night I explained to Charlie that the violin was not here. "Why?" he asked, verging on tears.

"I took it to the violin shop to get fixed."

"Why?"

"The bow doesn't have much hair on it and it doesn't tighten, and strings are missing from the violin. When I get it back it will be all fixed. For you."

Silence. Thoughtful silence. Unconvinced silence.

"So it isn't here right now, Charlie."

"Well," face crumbling into crying, "could I play with your tape measure then?"

"Yes. You could." And glad I was that it was still here.

Merry Christmas, and I mean it

Yesterday morning I spoke to myself, out loud, as I got out of bed. "Hooray!" I said, "it's Christmas Eve day and I don't have to go anywhere."

I got dressed, got my trash out to the street, went in and turned on the light over my kitchen table. Pop! Blue flash.

Which meant I had to go out. Thank goodness Home Depot is close. Drove up there.

"Well," said Chris, "we have it, but not in clear."

It has to be clear because of the light fixture it goes in. I was tempted to get the opaque bulb and be done with it, but I just couldn't. Chris looked up Pay 'N Pack's number. I called them from Home Depot (aren't we so glad for cell phones?).

"Ask them if they have a G40 bulb," said Chris.

I did. "Do you have a G40 in 100 watt, clear?" They had it. I thanked Chris for his help and told him I'd be going over there to Grover's. He said he was glad of that and to tell them Home Depot sent me.

"I'd never send you to Lowe's," he said. "I don't like that place, even before I started working here." I wasn't about to go to Lowe's. I never think of it. Besides, it's farther away than Pay 'N Pack. Off I went.

All of this was dandy. Which is code for it wasn't dandy.

I had to go all the way over to Franklin and Curtis to get my light bulb. Franklin and Curtis is quite near the mall, which is where I ended up--I should have known it--before stopping at Winco on the way home. I had to get pretzel sticks and sour cream.

So much for . . . you know.

I needed to get home, though, so I could make these no-bake treats, the recipe for which I cut from the Kashi puffed cereal box and which, after I made them, I then named Wotear. That's an acronym for Waste Of Time Energy And Resources. All mine.

Kashi/pretzel haystacks is what they call them. Coconut, chopped almonds, pretzel sticks broken into 3/4 inch pieces, lots of Kashi puffed cereal (big mistake), peanuts. Twelve ounces chocolate chips melted with all the peanut butter I had left--1/2 cup--stirred into the dry stuff. Then you drop them (no easy task) onto waxed paper and set them in the fridge to chill. Wotears. They didn't taste very good before chilling. Maybe they would after. But I decided not to hold my breath.

I took some over to Darringtons. Charlie said the pretzel part was good but the rest of it--that would be the Kashi part pretty much--was weird. No kidding.

John wanted some. I put about three tiny grains of coated cereal in his mouth. About five seconds later he said, "I don't want it" and began spitting it out into my hand which I was lucky enough to get there in time to catch most of what he was spitting.

Wotears. I left the tin of them with the Darringtons. Ann hinted she might throw them out. I assured her I have plenty more at home, like 50. I wonder if any of those Schiess boys might eat them. Nah.

Ta dah da da dah da da dah dum

I heard Liszt's Les Preludes today. Always I think of my mother when I hear it.

She directed a women's singing group for many years, and one of their grandest, most ambitious projects for learning and performing was a choral (women's) arrangement of that lengthy piece, with words quite appropriate to the very dramatic music. Lengthy it was but certainly shortened from the symphonic version, the original music.

I'd like to hear that again. See her working so hard to get her singers to work hard. She knew how to do it.

Is there a place? Will there be a time when we can hear and see all those things and people we loved so much? I count on there being that time and place, or perhaps that place without the limits of time.

One thing I'd like to have time to do here and now is visit with my sisters and brothers about such things.

On Motherhood, Sort of

It's a line from a song by Ann Heaton: "Could you wait a little longer?" spoken to the baby she is not about to be pregnant with because she isn't ready for that. I have no argument with it. After all, I'm the one who said, "Once you're a mother, you're never not a mother." It's something you shouldn't rush into without thought. (As if even half the parents in this world gave it any thought.)

During the interview after her song she said, "I really want to be a mom, but I want to wait until I get myself all okay, life and everything figured out."

I say, "Commendable, laudable, shouldn't we all have done that." I also say, "How long might it take, and good luck with that," and some other smart remark--if I thought of one--that would indicate that I think such an approach naive, at least.

Seven children--and I would not give away even a hair on any one of their heads--and nearly twenty grandchildren later, living in the last while of my 60s, I say, "There's a lot to figure out, and I still don't have much of it done."

Is it just me? Am I slow? Should I still be waiting?

Christmas Carols

Angels from the realms of glory
Wing your way o'er all the earth.
Ye, who sang creations story
Now proclaim Messiah's birth.
Come and worship, come and worship,
Worship Christ, the newborn king.

* * *

The holly and the ivy,
When they are both full grown,
Of all the trees that are in the wood
The holly bears the crown.
O the rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.

The holly bears a berry
As red as any blood.
And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ
To do poor sinners good.
O the rising of the sun
And the running of the deer,
The playing of the merry organ,
Sweet singing in the choir.

* * *

Good Christian men rejoice
With heart and soul and voice.
Give ye heed to what we say:
News, news, Jesus Christ is born today.
Ox and ass before him bow,
And he is in his manger now.
Christ is born today!
Christ is born today!

I love the music of Christmas, love to hear it and to sing it. These carols we seldom sing, at least in my society, and they were running through my head as I woke this morning. I wanted to put them here, so I did. From memory.

The Holly and the Ivy has six verses, and I'm sure of only four of them. As you see, I included only two.

This last is a carol my brother Sterling and I sang together. He played the guitar and we both sang. I've never seen it written, and I just sang the words he remembered. Performances were quite spontaneous, as I recall, but always a pleasure for me. I wish we could do that again this year. Here is the song as we sang it.

Virgin Mary had a little baby.
Oh, glory hallelujah!
Oh, pretty little baby.
Glory be to the newborn king.

What shall we call this pretty little baby?
Oh, glory hallelujah!
Oh, pretty little baby.
Glory be to the newborn king.

Some call him one thing. People call him Jesus.
Oh, glory hallelujah!
Oh, pretty little baby.
Glory be to the newborn king.

Some call him one thing. I call him Savior.
Oh, glory hallelujah!
Oh, pretty little baby.
Glory be to the newborn king.

Weather Matters

Weather is not the only thing on my mind. I am not one who watches the weather channel or even the nightly report. I do have an outdoor thermometer stuck on my kitchen window. That is handy, I guess, but I only have it because of my friend who is a weather . . . what? aficionado? nut? It's her doing.

But times like now weather becomes almost an hourly issue. Is it snowing? Will it snow? What? rain expected tomorrow? (And it is. I have just looked online here.) Because one has to negotiate it, get out into it, go places through it. And so I have been outside at 3 AM--can't sleep anyway--just checking on things to see how it will be when I have to drive in the morning, go to church.

While I was out there I was thinking:

1. I'm not a person who likes to be trapped, even in her own home. Don't know anyone who is.
   
2. One of these days I'll need to get those Christmas errands done.
   
3. Maybe get a tree Monday. Guess we'll see how the weather is.

And I've knocked down some of the icicles that melt onto my front walkway, and then the melt freezes, makes an icy patch right near my front door. I'll spread down some of that snow melt on that spot. It's the snow melt stuff I bought last year. It worked fine then, and so we'll see if it's still good this year.

Strange middle-of-the-night behavior, I suppose. But who's surprised?

Finally

So I think this is finished. At least I'll put it away.

Wintering

Carol Schiess

We’ve seen

the last hurried plunge of leaves--

swept off by an impatient wind--

leaves whose anxious yellows

and reds had hung on late,

heightened the sky's bold blue

and held sunlight in the trees.

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort,

as if, like the trees,

we have forgotten

what we know.

Report

Wintering

Carol Schiess

We’ve seen

the last hurried plunge of leaves,

the oak, ash, honey locust,

whose reds and yellows

have heightened the sky's bold blue

and held sunlight in the trees.

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort,

as if, like the trees,

we have forgotten

what we know.

I'm not sure this is done. I've been messing with the first stanza this morning. There's something about the way I had it before that seems right, but maybe I'll just leave it this way for a while and look again later. But here's something of what my writing group said.

N said the wind couldn't be impatient. This stunned me, coming as it did from one who is a very good poet and who ought to know that the wind can be what I say it is,--within some limits, I suppose--and not just as a poet but as a person who "feels" the wind is gentle or disturbing or impatient. But I have taken it out and put it back in at least a dozen times because I'm not sure if it belongs, since I have used that word plunge, which I will keep.

S said she liked the word embers instead of ambers. (See an earlier version.) Okay, I thought, but not in this poem.

D said to change the verb "have" in the first stanza to "had." That makes sense, and I did it. But then I undid it, because I like "have" better.

Both S and D did not like the colors. I didn't feel good about them either. Too many modifiers, and I was especially worried about the fuchsia pinks. When D said the fuchsia pinks reminded her of a prom dress, then I knew why I was worried. They both said to leave the colors out entirely. I don't want prom dresses in the poem, but I did and do want some color there. I've added a few trees that were late in losing their leaves and whose leaves are red or yellow. We'll see about that.

D said to put the middle part together this way:

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort,

as if, like the trees,

we have forgotten

what we know.

That makes sense, but not quite the sense I was thinking of when I wrote the poem. Besides, I think the words "colder" and "older" belong close together.

I took the last line off, about spring coming, because 1. perhaps the idea of spring is implicit, and that is enough, and 2. to leave some ambiguity there.

I came from the writing meeting very pleased. It's always a good thing when other writers take your writing seriously and offer their ideas. In the end, I weigh their ideas and, you know, make the final decision. As I said, I'm not sure this poem is finished.

Tomorrow . . .

is my writing meeting. I'll take my Wintering poem, both versions, and see what they say. They will have things to say, I have no doubt of it.

I'll report back.

Winter Poem(s)

Okay, so I'm working on this poem. Small tweeks here and there, but the real difference is in the endings. As the writer, I see this as simply two ways of looking at something, and both seem legitimate to me. Read on, if you like, and see what you think. (I have also posted the same thing on Lotta Torres but in separate posts.) Carol

Wintering

Carol Schiess

We’ve seen

the last hurried plunge of leaves,

swept off by an impatient wind,

leaves whose ambers, rust reds,

fuchsia pinks have heightened

the sky's bold blue

and held sunlight in the trees.

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort

knowing, as we do, that

death can come

before spring.

Wintering

Carol Schiess

We’ve seen

the last hurried plunge of leaves,

swept off by an impatient wind.

Leaves whose ambers,

rust reds, fuchsia pinks

have heightened

the sky's bold blue

and held sunlight in the trees.

Color dies

with the passing of the leaves

and nature pushes time

into colder, briefer days.

Trees look older now,

stripped, shamed,

something pitiful revealed

in the collective reaching skyward

of frail limbs.

In winter,

a fearful presence

inhabits the lowering clouds,

waits beneath a hardened earth.

We, in that season,

are left without comfort,

as if, like the trees,

we have forgotten

what we always know—

that spring will come.

Hooray

I have been raking leaves for a few days, front and back. It's not that I can't do it, just that it takes me so very long.

But today Chad called. He brought his son Jordan over and they raked the rest of my backyard leaves. In a few days I got three bags. They filled four today. And it's done.

I'm really really glad they did that for me. Really glad. Good people, those Wards.

At the Dentist's

Kimberly, the hygienist: Any teeth giving you trouble?

me: I don't want to say.

kth: Oh?

me: (Deciding that I don't want to go into it with her), well, this one, down here, has started to hurt a little.

kth: We'll get an xray and let the doc look at it.

me: Um hm.

kth: Is it cold or hot sensitive?

me: Cold, but not hot, and it doesn't hurt all the time.

kth: (After the xray.) Well, I see a little something starting down there. Nothing much. Not too serious, but it could get worse, you know. He'll probably send you to an endodontist. You may need a root canal there, but the good news is you already have a crown, so you wouldn't have to have one of those. They can just drill down through the crown, do the root canal, and then do a filling in the crown.

me: (That's your idea of good news.) Out loud: Um hm.

Kth begins to clean my teeth. And begins with the questions. You know, so I'll feel loved.

kth: So. How's you're daughter that got married?

me: lng.

kth: Now, she was older. Right?

me: nnglng.

kth: How old was she?

me: (Lifting my head so she'll take the spit-sucking tool out of my mouth) She'll be 34 next month.

kth: Oh yeah. Well, I hope everything is fine.

me: lng.

kth: What are you doing for Thanksgiving?

me: glnglngg.

kth: Me, I'm going out to Smoky Mountain, I mean Smokey Davis, and get a smoked turkey. I'm not cooking one.

me: (Gesturing with my fingers) ngl lngng?

kth: Either $3.19 or $3.90 a pound.

me: nmlng!

kth: Yeah, I know. It's pricey, but I don't have room in my oven anyway. Well, I suppose I could cook a breast. No. I'll just get one from Smoky Moun . . . I always get Smokey Davis mixed up with Smoky Mountain Pizza. Anyway, I'll probably get a 10-pounder or so. I told my mom to just come over. No reason for her to cook. There'll only be five of us. Well, one is two and a half, so she doesn't count, so that's only four. And a ham. I'll get a ham. I like ham with my turkey.

me: (Ham and smoked turkey. Hmm.) Out loud: nlngng.

kth: My husband's job is to make the side dishes. He's good at that. My dad. He never did anything. Still doesn't, just always sits around waiting, for every meal. "When do we eat?" That's all he ever would say. Or, "What's to eat?" I say, "Dad, you have legs. And arms. Get yourself something. It's not Mom's job to feed you."

me: (Different generation.) Out loud: gnlg.

kth: Different generation, you know? Could you turn your head this way a little? My husband, if he asks me what's to eat around here I just say, "Find out for yourself," or "Fix whatever you want. Have a samwich or something." He's started complaining that he doesn't like it that I only buy whole wheat bread, and I say, "Well, how would I know that? Say something about it." Close your mouth a little more, Carol.

me: unh.

kth: I love whole wheat bread, but I guess he doesn't. So I buy both now, but he doesn't eat many samwiches, so the white always rots and I have to throw it out, so last time I put half of the white in the freezer and that works better.
He likes to cook, actually, but if I let him cook our dinner we wouldn't eat until 8 or 9 at night, he's so slow at it. Me, I get it on by six. Home by 5:20, dinner on the table by six, just whatever we have in the house.

me: gnlng.

After the cleaning, "the doc" comes in.

doc: How are you, Carol?

me: Fine.

kth: Carol complains of some pain in #19. I took a picture.

Doc takes a look at the picture, then at the tooth. He pokes around it with one of those sharp things, of course.

doc: Well, I see it's a tooth that's had a lot of work done on it.

me: Which one hasn't?

doc: Nothing much showing here yet. You can wait, you know, but you wouldn't want to wait too long. You know.

me: Um hm. I know.

doc: Could be the nerve is just dying. That happens as we . . .

And there, he stops, says not another word. Which, I suppose, he believes is polite, considerate, and will avoid the issue of my age--which he obviously thinks I'm sensitive about, but I'm not, except sometimes, like when people think I'm 80 or so.

me: Yes, it's an old nerve.

doc:

I stand. We all thank each other. I leave. My teeth feel clean. I like that part.

Just a note . . .

My yards are covered with leaves, notwithstanding the 27 bags of same stacked out front. Nobody's fault. Merely a fact.

Can't Be Helped

Tonight's snow fell straight down for a while, now there's a slight angle to it. Quiet snow. It now covers the leaves in my two yards. I've been saving them, the leaves, for tomorrow, when a crew from my ward is to come for the annual raking and bagging festival, Rake-up Boise. Libby called a couple of days ago to see if they can use my rakes. She was hoping for no snow. Oh well.

Snow complicates things, not the white of it as much as the moisture. We shall see how much remains in the morning, see how heavy the leaves, how well the volunteer rakers do.

Update at 9:30 AM:
They came, they raked, they conquered. I have 27 bags of leaves lining my sidewalk. Thanks for it.

And This Day

When I was a child, November 11 was known as Armistice Day. It was a commemoration of the signing of the armistice at the end of WWI. Now it is Veterans Day, made so in 1954, to honor all who have served this country in war.

My dad's brother, my Uncle Clyde, served in the Navy during World War II. I know little of that service, except for the stories he told about ship life, particularly their dealings with sea gulls. He said they found the gulls to be very annoying and would try tricks on them.

Like this one: secure two hot dogs to a long piece of string, one at each end, then throw it high into the air and watch what happens when two sea gulls grab hold. I liked the story, liked the picture I got in my mind, knew my dad would never do such a thing, but Uncle Clyde was nothing like my dad.

I know that his service during the war involved more than birds, and I would like to say thank you to him for it. I did not thank him while he lived.

My brother, Bill, served in the Marine Corps during the early 1950s, but not in Korea. I know he was stationed on Adak, one of the islands of the Aleutians, the part of Alaska that curves far out into the water between the Bering Sea and the North Pacific Ocean. I know that part of his duty there was to stand watch on top of a building on the base, and once, while performing that duty, he was blown off the building by the wind. In the fall, he broke his ankle. I don't know if that's a reason to honor him, but why not? He did his service honorably.

This Day

Please to remember, the 5th of November
The Gunpowder Treason and plot ;
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.

This is Guy Fawkes Day. Guy Fawkes, with other Catholic conspirators, plotted to burn the houses of Parliament and bring down England. November 5, 1605, is the day the plot was discovered and brought to failure. The day has no significance for Americans, only for those who are part of the UK.

But I remember the poem because it appears early in Growing Up, the first volume of Russell Baker's autobiography.

The book opens with Baker's visit to his mother who, at age 80, has fallen and whose mind, after that, travels freely through the past but never seems to hit upon the present.

During the visit she does not know Russell, claiming Russell is only "this big," gesturing that he would be a small boy.

A doctor comes by to see her and begins quizzing her. (I guess that's what doctors do.)

"What day is this?" "Do you know where you are?" And so on. She fails the quiz "catastrophically," says Baker, until the doctor asks her birthday. "November 5, 1897." The doctor is amazed and asks how she knows this. "Because I was born on Guy Fawkes Day." Then she recites the poem Russell had heard many times in his growing up years.

Just a bit of trivia for you. I guess it's trivia. But the book is far from trivial. One of my favorites.

Witch Laugh and A Couple of Miscellaneous Word Things

The woman with the witch laugh still lives here, but this Halloween she did not laugh as she greeted trick-or-treaters. It takes some effort, you know.

A few people who called that night, expecting to be greeted with the customary witch laugh, expressed disappointment. So she laughed for them. It's a wicked, gleeful, cackle, you know.

One caller was Richard, who wanted Penelope to hear the witch laugh. Okay, easy enough, happy to do it.

One caller was Alyce, who now outdoes her mother in the witch laugh area. I say good to that. But here's the kicker. Alyce's husband Ben outdoes them both. High-pitched, effortless. It tickles the bones to hear it. Go figure.

Then, of all things, while they were on the phone they insisted that the witch do her turkey gobble. She tried to get out of it because that one really does take effort, but they were relentless. So she did it, and I must say it was great.

The word things

1. In an email I received yesterday: tricker treaters
2. TV, a football game color commentator describing an outstanding punt return or something like, said, ". . . boy, he put an explanation point on that!"
   

There's no accounting for . . .

taste and To each his own.

Two sayings close in meaning, used almost interchangeably. They are what we say when we want to compare our taste--always flawless--and our endless good sense with someone else's who, in our mind, falls far short of our high standard in some area, or maybe all areas, of life.

We may not always mean them as a put-down, but they carry the weight of one anyway. I am sorry about that as I use them today when describing what is in a neighbor's yard. They imply that what I saw I would never do. And it is true.

It's just this.

My neighbor has put a fake well in his front yard with a large pot of fake fall flowers in the well opening and fake autumn leaves glued or stapled all around the roof of the well.

I found it a bit curious, because it really is autumn. Real leaves and flowers of the season abound. See, this is the part where I say "there is no accounting for taste," because I always prefer the real to the fake, especially in flowers. It's true, the real ones will be gone one day, and the fake foliage will remain. So maybe that's the why of it. You never have to care for the unreal, and they will live, well no, they will persist long after the real are gone--that is until some bird begins pecking away at them for nest-building material. Wait, Carol, you're taking this too far.

As to the fake well, I can only guess he won the thing somewhere or bought it at a yard sale. Again, to each his own.

The Lipstick Walk and Such

Just home from a walk in this 30+ degree weather, like 34. Makes a person move along. And that's not a bad thing. It's hard for me to go out when it's below 40, but I did it. Actually, the day is a beauty, just cold.

I walked over to Walgreen's in search of a lipstick brush. They had one, only one. Doesn't anyone use those any more? So I bought it, even though it cost me $7.35, because that's what I went looking for. Stupid to come home without it. But I'll gather it up and take it with me as I go here or there to buy tomatoes and tomato sauce. If I see a cheaper one, I'll drive this one back to Walgreen's.

Yes, I really hated paying that for a measly little brush. That's $7.35. Probably cost less than two dollars to make the thing, package it, and get it to the store.

Apparently, I'm willing to pay for gasoline. Go figure.

Oh. Good thing I got home when I did. It's snowing. I said, snowing.

Fall

October is nearing its close, and my front yard trees still have all their leaves. They are only now beginning to turn. Across the street, Contas have a bare ash. The Bakers' honey locusts next door are dropping their autumn offerings in my back yard. All over town trees are glorious in their Fall colors and are well into laying down their red and orange and yellow leaves. But not my front yard trees.

Every year my trees are slow giving up their green. Is it something about my yard? Is it me? Oh well, one of these mornings, but it may be into November, I'll get up to find they have finally let go and remembered to do their Fall thing. Then my lawn will be covered in yellow.

All of this is not a complaint.

But it reminds me that a few years ago Senske killed three lovely Rose Hill Ash and three aspen trees, that’s six trees, in my front yard. The dormant oil machine malfunctioned—that’s what they told me, anyway, but not until I called them—and covered the trees, lawn, sidewalk, and driveway with a lot of thick, heavy oil. Soon after, the trees died.

This is a complaint.

We planted those trees when we built the house. I drew a pattern for them, and that’s where we put them. They were my front yard pride.

I did get the Senske people to come and clean up my sidewalk and driveway, after I convinced them I had not sprayed oil on my own property in an effort to make it look horrible.

Why wouldn't the technician have left me a note or something? Seems only right. But he didn't.

It took a tiny bit more convincing, but, eventually, Tom, of Senske, agreed the company should replace my trees, too. The Senske guys came and replaced three of the trees, the ash, although Tom never could find Rose Hill Ash—that’s what he told me, anyway—so I have some other kind of ash tree out there.

They didn’t put new aspen trees in. Tom thought it not a good idea to have aspens here because “this is the wrong altitude for them.” Never mind that the trees had done very well for twelve years or that the aspen near the front porch was huge and flourishing. All of which translates to: I lost six trees but recovered only three.

And I let them off the hook about it. Why is that? Hmmm. Maybe I’ll have to write another post to address that subject.

Still, every year I receive several invitations from Senske to let them care for my lawn and trees. I don’t let them.

I Think It's Finished

The River

Carol Schiess

A voice calls across the river,

but the water disconnects,

carries the words away.

The early morning sun spreads

light through shore trees but

cannot discover the ducks,

their passage swift on the water’s surface.

I mark the river’s speed, its darkness,

water lines from other years,

wonder what it has passed by,

what might lie at its bottom.

At the river’s edge, chicory grew

thick in August, waving its blue flowers

as I passed, but it’s late September now.

A few weeks more,

the blue will be gone from my walks,

like some people from my life,

like their faces, their stories of long love

or unexpected death.

I look at the water to find one staying spot,

but the river cannot hold;

its appointment is to move, to run,

tell a new story moment by moment.

I turn towards home, a familiar path,

but I may stop for rest at the log bench,

climb a neighbor’s worm fence,

or take another way.

Eating Out, Part 4 and final, probably, unless you want to add something

Look, I didn't make this stuff up.

No, it didn't all happen last week. It happened over time but not over 42 years' time.

And, no, I don't scrutinize my food when it's placed in front of me. I assume all is well, but maybe I should not make that assumption. I repeat, these things are real; they happen. I could write much more, but I'll share only a couple of stories here. If this stuff bothers you, perhaps you should stop reading right here.

First, the people I have written about are my family members and a friend or two. I suggest we're not the only folks on the planet finding foreign materials, living, dead, or hairy, in food we've paid money for. And we don't always complain. Sometimes, especially if the hair we find in our food is blonde, we pull it out and figure it could be one of ours. Cory did that just last week.

But some hairs a person just shouldn't have to deal with when eating. Take Jeff's recent experience with a salad and a "hair" at Wendy's. Eating happily enough, he paused to look at the bite he was about to take because it just did not seem right. What he found was something that had likely been swept up from the floor--sizeable lint ball with longish hair attached. Now how could that get into his salad in a place that is careful about the food it serves? I ask you.

Even a small insect we have been known to overlook or pick out of the food, if we can catch it. But some things must be spoken of, and so we do occasionally speak of them to those who are in the business to serve food to us, their paying customers. But it doesn't always bring satisfaction or even an apology. See phyllis's comment about the salad at Olive Garden. The server was defensive and maybe even lying.

And here is another brief report. Lola went with friends to The Ram, a popular Boise eatery, where they waited for a seat, waited for a server, waited for service, and waited a long time for food. When the food finally came it was cold. Lola and friends spoke to the manager, telling him they had waited a long time, telling him their food was cold. His response? An apology? No. Sympathy at least? No. Instead, a rather snooty, "Well, did you ask to have it warmed up?"

Figure the logic there.

I heard from one of my students a few years ago--she worked at an expensive and trendy Boise night spot--what some servers and cooks there do when their food is complained about. And it gives a person pause. But when I worked for a time in a small cafe, we never took revenge in any way. Of course, we got few complaints. The food was wonderful and we were careful. That was our business, after all. And I do not suggest that the places I have named would do anything gross or harmful to someone's food on purpose, like spitting in your soup, or worse. No, I do not suggest it.

But I name names here because, hey, why not? If these eating establishments serve earwigs, fish fins, bits of glass, or hair--and I could go on--then they should be known for doing so.

Here's to meals at home for a while.

Eating Out, Part 3

Betty's Coke had a cockroach sort of floating in it, tucked in among the ice cubes.

"How big?" I asked, not that it matters. I mean, is a huge cockroach worse than a big one? They're all too big to make you happy about finding one in your drink.

"About medium size," she answered, "and it was dead." Not sure that matters either.

She had taken the lid off. "It was a mall food court," she said. "And it was Texas, so you kind of have to do that." She and Michelle dumped their lunch in the trash and escaped without eating.

I've eaten out in Texas. And maybe because of Betty, I checked my food at the Austin Chili's and discovered that the salad I ordered--dressing on the side--was sitting in about 1/2 cup of water. . . . I guess it was water. I hope it was water.

Complaining got me an apology from the manager and a gift certificate for another go at it. I wasn't satisfied, although I'm not sure what more I wanted.

But it isn't just Texas, and I know it's not just Chili's. But this was Chili's. In Boise.

There was this big group of flies that had congregated in a certain corner of that restaurant, where several pots of plants sat in the windows. Inside the windows, you know. My sister Janeen was visiting, a rare thing, and I took her to lunch. Our seat was with the fly congregation. I mean a lot of flies. The restaurant was crowded, so we just stayed there, but it was clear we were intruders, and the flies did not like us.

We spoke to the server and then the manager about it. He explained they aren't allowed to have fly swatters or sticky fly strips in the restaurant and are not allowed to kill the flies--Public Health regulations. Apparently, they are allowed let the flies land on customers' appetizers and entrées.

We didn't know if Public Health regulations allowed patrons to use menus, napkins, knives, or open hands to swat flies, or, in our case, swat at them, but that is what we did until we finally spied an empty table, grabbed our plates, and moved. It's a cinch the flies weren't about to move.

Yes, yes, I know. We should have walked out.

Eating Out, Part 1

There was this earwig, dead, on Lola's Hawaiian pizza at the Nampa Pizza Hut. She didn't eat it. We didn't pay for it. And we didn't go back, ever. Someone in the family, and it is rumored that it was Alyce, went back into the kitchen area and told those people they should not put dead earwigs in their pizza. Alyce was very young at the time, but that does not mean she didn't do it. Somebody had to.

Then there was this large, very strange-looking flying insect that I watched from across a restaurant dining room. And you know how it is sometimes. You just know that thing is going to fly into your food. You try to deny it. I mean, what are the chances? You're not alone in the place. But you can't really eat. All you can do is watch and wait and hope it won't happen, but when it does, you're just kind of resigned to it.

So this big bug lands in my salad--and stays there. I sent the salad back. Yes, even the server could see the bug, and the people at the next table saw it, too. They seemed quite amused by the whole thing. I was not, and I like to think I walked out on the rest of the meal, but I don't remember. This was also in Nampa, JB's.

When Richard found a bloody vein in his taco meat at Los Hermanos in Provo, he may have gagged. The blob of bread in his salsa at a Boise IHOP just made him mad. That kind of stuff always happens to him.

Patrick wanted a personal pizza at Perkins'. He got it, complete with a fish fin attached to the underside of the crust, which was explainable, I suppose, since their special that night was trout. He could not eat. Neither could his brother, Shane, because the long dark hair wrapped around his French toast--same place, same night--was not explainable.

Talk About Doing A Hard Thing

Today=Historical.

Here's why.
I finally threw away the white sweater, the one Paul brought to me from Korea 23 years ago. The one I have worn around the house nearly every day of every winter for those 23 years, because it kept me warm. (Duh.) The one some of my children grew sick of seeing many years ago and would occasionally mention that it didn't look so good. Others, I think, stopped noticing it. You know, like, it was like my skin.

The one I painted in, laundered with a piece of gum in the pocket--hence, gum on it. The one I often apologized for when folks came to the door and saw me in it, and I think some had a hard time understanding how it could be my favorite sweater. The one that over the last few years has developed holes, small at first, but they got bigger, and last night I realized that I was cold in the sweater because so much of it was no longer there.

The one I have thrown away five other times and then resurrected. Like last year.

But today there is no resurrecting. It's in a bag with other garbage, tied securely, at the bottom of the garbage can in the garage. I couldn't get it if I wanted to. I don't think.

I called Paul and told him, like a confession, I guess. He seemed only slightly moved. I thought to call Lola, but it was too early in the day for Nevada people. So she may never know.

I called Alyce and told her. She said, "What are you going to do now, Mom?" Which is, of course, the very question I'm asking myself.

Tsunami

I saw my friend Jan today. That's twice in about 20 years. We visited for about five minutes and did not speak of the very recent destruction in Tonga. I didn't know of it; perhaps she didn't either. Her husband is Tongan, Pulia Tuha. I don't know where he comes from exactly, but I have seen the photographs of two Tongan towns that used to be until today.

American Samoa, Sumatra, Tonga. I don't know where else. Newscasts show the destruction, and it is utter, unbelievable ruin. People working to make some kind of order, others walking aimlessly because they have no place to go and perhaps do not recognize what were once familiar scenes. Survivors telling of their escape and the loss experienced by those not so fortunate. One woman telling she has her children, and that is all she cares about. Another witnessed a mother racing the water to save her children and failing, losing all three of them.

In the background of these newscasts, always, a very calm sea. Very calm. Belying the power it exhibited not so many hours before. Hard, in fact, to believe the ocean was ever anything but the way it looks today. But it was.

My Brother Bill

Today is his birthday, 75. I wish him a happy day and many more to come, not that he'll ever know that.

The Case Against Leftovers

Thin people need read no further.

For the rest of us, here's my opinion. Saving leftovers encourages you to eat today the way you ate yesterday. Not just what you ate but the way you ate. For those wanting to lose weight, that's not always a good thing to do. Primarily, I'm thinking of restaurant food here.

Here's my goal: Today is a new day. Eat well and eat smart.

Note, speaking of food: I have added a new blog to my link list. It's Luke Eastman's blog, MakeTasteSmile.

Check it out, particularly Alex's turkey/strawberry jam/bleu cheese sandwich. Come on, people, open your minds.

In the What Have You Category

I climbed up on my bed this afternoon and turned on the TV--source of drama, instruction, entertainment, and, always, truth. I sometimes use television to put me to sleep. There it is, my confession. Today I heard this.

"I just couldn't survive without advice from my Go-to People."

That's Brook Shields, and you see her quite close to the floor, in push-up position, holding weights in one hand. Remarkable, I'm thinking. I'm also thinking her go-to people advised her to work out, keep fit.

But no. It's a commercial for Colgate toothpaste, the toothpaste recommended by her go-to person for teeth, her dentist. She said it, I didn't.

I see a dentist when I have to. I wouldn't call him one of my go-to people.

Wait. Do I have go-to people?

It's Notable

At Costco today, on the display TVs, I saw Bonnie Hunt, a quite attractive woman who has a daytime show. I know little about her, except that she has been in movies, has been married and divorced, and has no children.

Then I realized that the other two women with daytime TV shows, the two who have huge followings, have no children either. Oprah lives with What's-His-Name, oh yes, Steadman. Both in their 50s, they have never married and have no children. Ellen DeGeneres lives with--is "married" to--What's-Her-Name and has had no children.

It seems singularly significant to me that the women women watch and love and look to and believe in and trust and follow and take their word for things--come on, you know they do--have never had the experience in life that makes women really know stuff, stuff they can learn in no other way.

I find that notable. Don't you?

Allie Update

Just talked to Allie. She never did leave her home. She was told to go but "something inside" told her to stay. She kept watching the fire and saw that the flames she saw just north of her property earlier in the day had been extinguished by the time she got the sheriff's evacuation order.

She is well, and she is very grateful to be so.

I'm figuring the something inside was inspiration/mixed with intelligence/mixed with the thought of having to be in a high school gymnasium with hundreds of other people of all ages and all kinds of bathroom needs, none able to meet them in a very private way. Hey, she's the one who spoke of it just now.

Her card to me came yesterday. Assured me of her safety. I called today just to hear her voice and the details and to tell her I'm glad all is well.

Something I realized today, just today, 89 may sound old, but she will never be old. I told her so.

Allie

My Aunt Allie lives in La Cañada at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains, just a few blocks west of Angeles Crest Highway. I called her Friday, concerned because the fire was near where she lives. As I read about it, I knew the places mentioned, and they are close to her home on Journey's End Drive.

She called me back Saturday, had not yet evacuated, but Sunday my call to her went unanswered. I think that means she and her son Brett have left her home. Reports today are not good--the fire there doubled over night, and when I spoke with her Saturday she could see the flames over the big trees at the back of her property.

Her name is Alice Callicott. I am named for her, although my mother spelled my name with a y. Allie is 89, still beautiful, still with all her wits about her, still with her sense of humor and her beautiful voice. My three daughters know her.

She asked that I pray for her and her home. I ask all who read this to do the same.

The Windy City

Let me just say this about Chicago: I love it, want to go back, will go back, want some of my kids to go with me. Sears Tower (I know, it's Willis Tower now but not to me and not, I found out, to a lot of Chicagoans), rides in to the city on the L, those gorgeous buildings (and I forget how many of them Oprah has lived in), speedboat ride on Lake Michigan, bus tour around the city, concert out at Ravinia, strolling on the Navy Pier--what's not to love?

It wasn't windy. The weather was perfect. The Chicago River somehow a reassuring presence. The room at the Embassy Suites spacious and comfy and, thanks to my son-in-law Ben, affordable. People were nice. And I'm just getting started.

Chicago, Chicago, that toddlin' town,
Chicago, Chicago, I'll show you around.
You'll love it . . .

I did love it. I want to go back. I said that already.

Morning Gift

A humming bird visited my Rose of Sharon this morning, taking delicate sips from the delicate roses. Such a sighting is rare in my yard--I don't put up feeders with colored sugar water. I did once and had no takers. So I am doubly glad I planted the Rose of Sharon, glad for the flowers, a treat for my eyes, glad for their color, their nectar, to bring the humming bird.

Of course, I'll watch for him now and hope, though I may never see him again. But I might.

My Promise

More later.

Another Life Renewed

My Rose of Sharon is blooming, thirty dainty flowers just outside my kitchen window. I quite love it.

I have watched for it this year, as I do each year, waiting for the flowers to come. Their blooming means something, like there is still order in this world that feels so full of chaos. We do watch for such signs. It's what people are happy and, I think, relieved about every Spring. Green comes back, flowers poke up through the soil, gardens begin again.

Thank goodness for it.

Oh Well

How to Make a Flower from Plastic Straws

Glass cuff

These darling flowers can be made with just two colored plastic straws, and can be used to decorate cocktail glasses.

* * *

This from Wikipedia HowTo. And I am led to say there's a whole world out there of things like this, and obviously I have no part in that world because I would never have thought of something like this, and now that I know about it, I can say without the slightest hesitation or doubt that I will never make something like this.

Am I missing out on something? Depends on who you ask. Ask me--no.

P.S. Note the word "darling." This is 2009. Where does "darling" come from in this context? Like 1950?