The Quotidian Kit

Lent & Lentils

2012-02-22T08:48:00.032-05:00

Illustration of the Lentil Plant, 1885
When I posted "A song for Lent"
on facebook this morning,
my witty friend Len commented,
"Do you have a song for Lentils?"

Guess what? Such a song actually exists!

"You take some lentils and you take some rice"
by the Eurythmics

Who knew?!
As for my "song for Lent," most sources refer to it as a Christmas carol, but for me it is definitely Lenten:

"Remember O Thou Man!"
As in, Remember that from dust thou art and to dust thou shalt return! As in "Ashes to ashes; dust to dust." As in Ash Wednesday. I usually disapprove of gender exclusive language in liturgical texts, but this song is so beautiful that I make an exception.

Click to hear a beautiful a cappella rendition
of this sacred anthem,
performed by Collegium Vocale Gent,
conducted by Peter Dijkstra
Begijnhofkerk, Sint-Truiden
Flanders, Belgium

Words and music by Thomas Ravenscroft
from “Melismata,” 1611

As for the six week Lenten season, my goals are

1.
To give up "stuff" for Lent ~ one garbage bag full every week ~ to the trash, to Goodwill, to the Library, wherever it needs to go in order to be out of my house forever!

and though it may prove difficult,

2.
To try giving up "Should have. Could have. Would have."

As in: "Oh, bosh! Should have. Could have. Would have. What an odious trio. When I was forced to keep to my rooms these past days, I made a promise to ignore those gloomy villains. I suggest you do the same.' " ~ by Philadelphia author Cordelia Biddle (from her novel, Deception's Daughter, 108).

and thanks to Len's suggestion,

3. to have Lentil Soup at least once a week!

There are many recipes from which to choose!E.g., Martha Stewart's Lentil & Bulgur

Gatsby: Sad Eyes

2012-02-21T00:16:00.017-05:00

But I --
Ah, sooner would I die
Than see tears in those eyes of my soul.

Stephen Crane, 1871 - 1900
from The Black Riders and Other Lines, #LIII
Original book cover for The Great Gatsby

"It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes
at things upon which you have expended your own
powers of adjustment." (105)

F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1896 - 1940

**********************
Poor Gatsby. The form of his dream is pure, but the content is corrupt. Or is it the other way around?

" 'You can't repeat the past.'

'Can't repeat the past?' he cried incredulously. 'Why of course you can!' " (111)

No, you can't.
**********************
P.S.
Since it's Mardi Gras,
just pretend that the fun fair
pictured at the bottom of the book cover
is New Orleans!

The Other Vision

2012-02-19T01:40:00.022-05:00

Marie Therese Accoundee
by Picasso

**********

For a day, just for one day,
Talk about that which disturbs no one
And bring some peace into your
Beautiful eyes. *

Hafiz (1325 – 1389)
14th - Century Persian poet
popular, proverbial, profound

**********

Marie Therese avec une Guirlande
by Picasso

**********

from "Your First Eyes"

A lover has four streams inside,
of water, wine, honey, and milk.
Find those in yourself and pay no attention
to what so-and-so says about such-and-such.

The rose does not care
if someone calls it a thorn, or a jasmine.
Ordinary eyes categorize human beings.
That one is a Zoroastrian. This one is a Muslim.

Walk instead with the other vision given you,
your first eyes.* Bow to the essence
in a human being. Do not be content
with judging people good and bad.
Grow out of that. . . .

Rumi (1297 - 1273)
13th - century Persian poet
philosopher & mystic

**********
*emphasis added

Cabbage Soup

2012-02-17T00:06:00.002-05:00

Now my ideal is the housewife
My greatest wish, a quiet life
And a big bowl of cabbage soup

from Doctor Zhivago
by Boris Pasternak

The Couple
Day after day their deep love softly decays.
This makes them wise. It makes them want to sing.
Sometimes, over cups in the kitchen or stirring
a warm soup in the dark, they feel such tenderness
as to turn quietly weeping for each other's arms.
Weeping. Song. They are so much alike after all.

in After the Reunion: Poems
by David Baker
These love poems appear along with several others
on my fortnightly post for Valentine's Day
"Love You Can't Imagine"

Read more on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

So Many Books

2012-02-15T09:03:00.011-05:00

Girl Reading by Picasso
If you're looking for something to read, here's what I've posted lately on my book blog:

The Martha Beale Mysteries

Christmas Books

Girl With a Book

Mona's Clothes

Italo Calvino
Italo Calvino describes the dilemma
of entering the bookstore:

Books You Haven't Read,
the Books You Needn't Read,
the Books Made For Purposes Other Than Reading,
Books Read Even Before You Open Them Since They Belong To The Category Of Books Read Before Being Written.

the Books That If You Had More Than One Life You Would Certainly Also Read But Unfortunately Your Days Are Numbered.

the Books You Mean To Read But There Are Others You Must Read First,
the Books Too Expensive Now And You'll Wait Till They're Remaindered,
the Books ditto When They Come Out In Paperback,
Books You Can Borrow From Somebody,
Books That Everybody's Read So It's As If You Had Read Them, Too.

the Books You've Been Planning To Read For Ages,
the Books You've Been Hunting For Years Without Success,
the Books Dealing With Something You're Working On At The Moment,
the Books You Want To Own So They'll Be Handy Just In Case,
the Books You Could Put Aside Maybe To Read This Summer,
the Books You Need To Go With Other Books On Your Shelves,
the Books That Fill You With Sudden, Inexplicable Curiosity, Not Easily Justified.

the Books Read Long Ago Which It's Now Time To Reread
the Books You've Always Pretended To Have Read And Now It's Time To Sit Down And Really Read Them.

the New Books Whose Author Or Subject Appeals To You.
New Books By Authors Or On Subjects Not New (for you or in general)
New Books By Authors Or On Subjects Completely Unknown (at least to you) . . .

from Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler

See more: Kitti's Book List

Happy Valentine's Day ~ Handle With Care

2012-02-14T01:40:00.016-05:00

“To love is so startling
it leaves little time for anything else."
~ Emily Dickinson ~
Fortnightly Post for Valentine's Day!
"Love You Can't Imagine"

Read more on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Surreal Valentine by William Rowe

Valen - Time

2012-02-11T12:54:00.041-05:00

Good - bye Christmas - time!

Hello Valen - time!

Just for old - time's sake, my sisters and I still like to wish each other a "Happy Valentime's Day" -- or better yet, "Happy Balentime's Day!" Well, it's a hard word when you're in kindergarten.

Vintage Valentine Re-Issue
I was thrilled when this big book of punch - out Valentines was re-issued a few years ago. The cards, trimmed in red felt, are very similar to those we made for our grade - school Valentine boxes in the early 1960s, though not exactly the same. Contrary to all the commercial hoopla about love and romance, I have to say that for me Valentine's Day has always been more of an arts and crafts holiday, starting way back with those Valentine boxes. Even in high school and college, it was not so much about who had a sweetheart as it was about baking heart - shaped cookies and designing novelty cut & paste originals.

A few years ago, an old friend and I were reminiscing about the Valentines of yesteryear. She wrote, "I loved making the Valentine box when I was a kid, but I was embarrassed by the Valentines my mother bought, which I now realize were quite beautiful. But when you don't fit in, the most important thing is not being different. My mother bought these big over - sized books from which you punched out the cards (they were beautiful with lots of glitter); you also had to cut out the envelopes and glue them together. I was embarrassed by the homemade feel of them. All the other kids brought the Valentines du jour. I remember in first grade choosing, for the boy I liked best, a huge glittery heart with a girl on the front and the boy dressed as a doctor listening to her heart go pitter - patter for him."

Upon reading those words, my own heart went pitter - patter, for I immediately recognized that description as the very Valentine book from my own elementary school days. How well I remember the glitter and the cut - out envelopes, even the doctor card! Another favorite pictured a girl on a big swing -- I think it must have been the biggest Valentine in the glitter book! What I wouldn't give to see those cards today! How I wish I had saved an entire book so that I could see all the pages intact again before we punched out the cards and glued the envelopes together.

Yes, it's true that even in those years a lot of kids were already bringing in pre-cut Valentines with a Jetsons or Flintstones theme, but those never really touched my heart. It was the same when my own children were growing up, with a lot of their classmates exchanging whatever store - bought Valentines were current -- Harry Potter or Shrek. Not Ben and Sam, however! Poor kids! They had been blessed with a glitter and paste mother, who was forever urging them to design their own with all kinds of stamps and stickers from the Pearl Arts and Crafts Store on South Street!

I loved the answer that Brooke Shields gave (in a February 2009 magazine -- I think it was Self or maybe Real Simple) when asked, "How will you celebrate Valentine's Day?"

"I think the girls and I will really do it homemade:
Make our own cards for Dad
and just make that the celebration."
I couldn't agree more -- spreading out all the supplies and so forth is the real celebration! I don't put all the Valentines together in preparation for some bigger event -- that is the event! Playing with the paper hearts and stickers is my way of celebrating. Brooke is lucky she has some daughters to join in. And I'm lucky to have my cats Pine and Beaumont (both girls!) who like to help by chewing on cellophane, stealing ribbons, trying to guide my hand as I write, and taking a nice long nap atop a stack of doilies! Hey, why not?!

For a few fleeting years, Ben and Sam were game, but gradually -- just like Little Jackie Paper -- they ceased to fully appreciate the innocent pleasure of the school Valentine exchange. I knew they just weren't that into it the year that Ben informed me that the 6th graders were "so not doing Valentines anymore!" On the one hand, "Bah, humbug!" But on the other hand, we always knew it, didn't we:
A dragon lives forever but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant rings make way for other toys.
Before that fateful turning point, my friend and neighbor, Cate [scroll down or click to "Trimming & Untrimming"] used to come over with all of her ink pads, rubber stamps, gold metallic pens and special ribbons to help the boys with their creations. Those were great Valentine's Days -- and great Valentines! Yes, I still have those little cards. In fact, that too is a part of my solitary celebration -- sorting through all the old favorites that I have saved, and admiring them once again.

Need some inscriptions for your Valentines?
Here are a couple of favorites:

Across the gateway of my heart I wrote "No thoroughfare."
But Love came laughing by, and cried,
"I enter everywhere."

~ Herbert Shipman ~

"It is overdoing the thing to die of love."
~ French Proverb ~

Trimming & Untrimming

2012-02-09T14:41:00.014-05:00

Pure Magic!
Untrimming the tree: I started Tuesday, finished today. My friend Cate ~ a girl, like me, who just loves Christmas ~ talked me through the last few steps over the phone this morning. Even long distance, it's a more light - hearted task if you have an undecorating - buddy with whom to reminisce. In honor of Cate's assistance, I must post the most breath - taking Christmas tree photos I have ever seen (above & below). Yes! These are Cate's fabulous ornaments, placed by her unerring hand!

A Swan A' Swimming
Tea for Two
Goodbye Santa . . . 'Til Next Year . . .
I know I've shared the following poem before, but it is so absolutely perfect for the occasion, allow me to post it once again:

UNTRIMMING THE TREE

Now all that scintillation is a chore.
What they so recently assembled
Piece by piece in imitation
Of every year for twenty years ago

Each day became more everyday.
The delicate contrivances ignored,
This clutter in a corner of the eye
Now is an hour on the stepladder

And woman's work. This afternoon,
The sunlight brave and January thin
Reflecting on her, she sets down
Lightlier than they lifted them

Angel and orb and cardboard cornucopia,
The candy cane old as the eldest child.
Once she has packed away the annual farm
(Each cotton sheep plump as a thumb),

Hanging the glassy surface of the lake
Up on its hook in the back bedroom,
She sends the snowy field out to the laundry.
Arms full of a great weightlessness she arises

Toward the airless year in the black attic.
The Season's Greetings flutter in the trash
Out in the alley and the tree,
Naked, imitates mere nature.

All's done but this -- that at the last she blind
The windows of the Advent Calendar
From which next year again shall stare
The forest animals as day by day,

As the great Day approaches
Until the Manger stands revealed,
Husband and child and wife, restored
Out of the storm, once more shall be assembled.

by John N. Morris, 1931 - 1997
American author and educator [more on Morris]

Say Snow Moon

2012-02-07T11:07:00.007-05:00

Rumi writes of the moon:

As everything changes overnight,
I praise the breaking of promises. . . .

I swear by the one who never says tomorrow,
as the circle of the moon never agrees
to sell installments of light.
It gives all it has.

See complete poem: "The Polisher"

Maury Yeston writes:

See how round
Like a cookie
See how white, as white as milk
Call it the "moon" my son
Say "moon"
Sounds like your spoon, my son
Can you say it?
New word today, say "moon"

See complete song: "Say Moon"

Vachel Lindsay writes:

The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there's but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.
The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!

See more Moon Poems by Lindsay

Superbowl - o - Lantern

2012-02-05T23:34:00.023-05:00

Suggested Superbowl Reading:

"How to Watch Football if You Hate It"
by Duo Dickinson
Thanks Duo! Your article inspired me to change my profile picture for the Superbowl Weekend. Though I would never go so far as to say I hate it, not anymore, I must admit that my interest in the game does not extend too far beyond a couple of kickers:

My Sons ~ Ben & Sam
P.S. For those who have asked . . .
Believe it or not, I've had the pumpkin since Halloween! In fact, I saved two pumpkins because I wanted to carve a "Turkey - o - lantern" at Thanksgiving and a Christmas - tree pattern at Christmas, but then I never got around to doing either one.

Luckily, the pumpkins have stayed fresh out on our back porch, so I was determined to carve one for the Superbowl (though not nearly as elaborate as a couple of years ago when Ben carved an Eagles' helmet). If the remaining pumpkin stays firm for another week, I will carve a heart in it for Valentine's Day ♥.

Philadelphia Eagles Jack - o - Lantern
Carved by Ben McCartney
Halloween 2009
P.P.S. And for those who have asked about the tree, if Football Season can last til February, then so can Christmas! Right? My goal is to take it down by Ash Wednesday, at which time I shall give up all Christmas decorations for Lent. It's a hard sacrifice!

Valentine - o - Lantern

Porsche

2012-02-02T00:48:00.003-05:00

Kit & Dave at the Porsche Dealership in 1984

Happy Birthday to my eldest brother Dave,
who has honored me with yet another guest blog,
this time, a true story from Germany:

Our Monte Carlo Rally
Many of us dream of some day participating in a major motoring event but few of us have the opportunity to experience such a dream. My luck was considerably better and much more than I deserved.

In December of 1981 I was stationed in Neu Ulm Germany with a Pershing missile unit. My wife and I read in the local paper that the Porsche dealership and the city were to be the host of one of the intermediate stops for the Monte Carlo Rally. We tried like everyone else to find out the exact route that the rally would be taking through town but this seemed to be a closely guarded secret for some reason.

That December the weather was cold but more importantly there was a very heavy cover of snow on the ground; and the day that the rally was to come to Ulm, the snow was coming down in big soft gentle flakes, forming huge drifts at all intersections.

After some deliberation, my wife and I decided to just go cruising around the area near the dealership and see if we could pick up the trail and work our way back a bit until we found a place where we could watch the contestants come into town.

We patrolled back and forth for nearly a half an hour when suddenly we came upon an intersection that was completely blocked by pedestrians and under the nominal control of the Polizei. We approached the intersection very slowly hoping to ask one of the cops for more information. Imagine our surprise when he suddenly dispersed the crowd and waved us in and indicated we were to turn to our right.

Suddenly we found ourselves driving down a snow covered street with huge crowds on both sides, cheering madly and yelling for us to go faster, faster, faster. I looked at my wife, shrugged, grinned and gave our 1977 Porsche 911 her head. We roared down the street doing 50 mph or better, slithering around corners at the direction of more cops.

Then before we could react we found ourselves plunging underground into an underground parking garage. Very serious officials descended on our car asking where our Rally signs were and preparing to give us new ones under the assumption that ours had gone adrift somewhere on the course.

Sheepishly we found ourselves explaining the way we had found ourselves into their rally. We expected the wrath of the German officials and at least a fine of some type. Instead, they showed a true sense of humor and laughed heartily at our infiltration. After some good natured kidding we were shown the way out of the back of the garage but not before being given a complimentary toast of champagne!

As we drove slowly home that late afternoon in the gathering gloom, we still couldn't quite grasp what had happened over the previous four or five hours. I even suggested to my wife that perhaps we should have tried to brazen it out pretending to speak no German and representing ourselves as American privateers. She snorted and said that only I would be insane enough to try such a stunt.

Years later, I still wonder.

Here I am, pretending to drive Marion's Porsche in 1984

Candlemas Eve

2012-02-01T11:50:00.020-05:00

One of my favorite things is growing the rosemary all year long,
then bringing it in to decorate the house at Christmas . . .

and making miniature wreaths . . .

and at last, taking it all down again . . .

"Down with the rosemary . . .

[ . . .it's time . . . ]

To re-adorn the house.
Thus times do shift; each thing its turn does hold ;
New things succeed, as former things grow old."

from "Ceremonies for Candlemas Eve"
by Robert Herrick
English Poet(1591–1674)
For more on the significance of February 2nd,
see my Imbolc post from a couple of years ago
and my Groundhog Day post from last year.

Dream Road

2012-01-31T00:32:00.008-05:00

Corner of Hickory Avenue & Baxter Street Road ~
Neosho, Missouri
Photographed by Rebecca Sprigg ~
my childhood friend and neighbor
Poem #XL.
from A Shropshire Lad

Into my heart on air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again.

A. E. Houseman (1859 - 1936)

P. S. Adding a bit of humor to Houseman's sad, serious poem:

When pulling this post together, I was struggling to move Becky's Neosho photo from my desktop to my Kodak file, though I knew I had executed the exact same maneuver only recently. Now what step in the process was I forgetting? When I succeeded at last and was able to add the "cartoon fun effect," I forwarded the result to my husband Gerry, along with the Houseman poem.

He wrote back right away: "Now is the poem describing your feelings at getting the picture to work?"

And I replied: "Well, I was going for the "Dream Road" effect, but I guess it works either way! However, it turned out to be so easy, it was more like the land of "found content" ~ now if only I can remember next time, instead of having to re-invent the wheel!"

Thus Gerry was inspired to compose:

Into my heart on air that kills
From yon far desktop blows:
What are those blue remembered files,
What pics, what clicks are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy file structures where I went
And cannot come again.

W. G. McCartney

Thanks Ger!

***********

P. P. S. On the serious side:
Recent Fortnightly post
on A. E. Houseman:
"Daffodils of Autumn"

Say Moon

2012-01-29T00:03:00.004-05:00

Includes: "Lullaby of Broadway" (from 42nd Street)
"Never - Never Land" (from Peter Pan)
"Jenny Rebecca" (by Carol Hall)
"Blueberry Eyes" (from Gone With the Wind)
"Castle on a Cloud" (from Les Miserables)
"Not While I'm Around" (from Sweeney Todd)
"My Broth of a Boy" (by Cole Porter)
"Edelweiss" (from The Sound of Music)
"New Words" (by Maury Yeston)
"Count Your Blessings" (from White Christmas)
Lullabies of Broadway by Mimi Bessette was one of our family's earliest lullaby purchases, so early, in fact, that we owned the old technology cassette tape version (1990), ordered from one of our all-time favorite catalogues: Music for Little People. I upgraded a few years ago to CD, because I just can't live without this beautiful, lyrical collection of tunes for night - night and early morning ("Manhatten babies don't sleep tight until the dawn"). I first bought it for my kids, of course, and then for friends of ours as their children came along, but it turns out that I'm the one who has remained in love with every song, every word.

One of my favorites is "New Words," a song about discovery, connection, the magic of language, and the gift of naming. I couldn't find it on youtube, but listen ~ here ~ for a short, sweet snippet.

And the rest:

New Words
[published by Yeston Music Ltd.]

Look up there
High above us
In a sky of blackest silk
See how round
Like a cookie
See how white, as white as milk
Call it the "moon" my son
Say "moon"
Sounds like your spoon, my son
Can you say it?
New word today, say "moon"

Near the the moon
Brightly turning
Are a thousand sparks of light
Each one new
Each one burning
Through the darkness of the night
We call them "stars," my son, say "stars"
That one is "Mars," my son
Can you say it?
New word today, say "stars"

As they blink all around us
Playing starry-eyed games
Who would think it astounds us
Simply naming their names

Turn your eyes
From the skies now
Turn around and look at me
There's a light
In my eyes now
And a word for what you see
We call it "love," my son
Say "love"
So hard to say, my son
It gets harder
New words today
We'll learn to say
Learn "moon," learn "stars"
Learn "love"

Music & lyrics
by Maury Yeston

These lyrics and more on my latest fortnightly post
"Say Moon"

Read more on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

No End

2012-01-27T14:31:00.009-05:00

We will say this poem again and again . . .
there is no end to anything round."

These words of wisdom from Rumi
& my friend Eileen S. H.
appear on my latest fortnightly post
"This Year's Words"

Read more on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

NEW POST TOMORROW
"SAY MOON"

Raggedy

2012-01-25T00:27:00.022-05:00

The Raggedys are always out for the holiday season and then go back into the toy box until next year. I made the Raggedy Ann from a craft kit that Santa left in my stocking back when I was in junior high; my friend Cheryl gave me the small twins as a Christmas present when we were in high school; and my sister Peg made the big Raggedy Andy for Sam's first Christmas. Altogether, they make the perfect Raggedy Family!

Okay, this is not the same kind of "raggedy," but here's a poem from childhood that always made an entertaining read - aloud, not that there were any Raggedy Men about doing anybody's chores that I knew of! No, it was just make believe, plus I suppose we liked the rhythm and the silly vocabulary.

The Raggedy Man
O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can --
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. --
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W'y, The Raggedy Man -- he's ist so good,
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do. --
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple down fer me --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man. --
Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' The Raggedy Man one time say he
Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchurd-tree,
An' et 'em -- all ist roast' an' hot! --
An' it's so, too! -- 'cause a corn-crib got
Afire one time an' all burn' down
On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town --
On "The Smoot Farm"! Yes -- an' the hired han'
'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! --
Ain't he the beatin'est Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind
He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind
Ever'thing 'at you make him do --
An' won't run off -- 'less you want him to!
I drived him wunst way down our lane
An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain,
An' ist rared up an' squealed and run
Purt' nigh away! -- an' it's all in fun!
Nen he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can ...
Whoa! y' old runaway Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,
An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves:
An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,
'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can
Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!
Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late,
An' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate,
He 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said,
"Old Bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!"
An' race' an' chase' 'em, an' they'd ist run
When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun
An' go "Bang! -- Bang!" nen 'tend he stan'
An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man!
He's an old Bear-shooter Raggedy Man!
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on
We're little prince-children, an' old King's gone
To git more money, an' lef' us there --
And Robbers is ist thick ever'where;
An' nen -- ef we all won't cry, fer shore --
The Raggedy Man he'll come and "'splore
The Castul-halls," an' steal the "gold" --
An' steal us, too, an' grab an' hold
An' pack us off to his old "Cave"! -- An'
Haymow's the "cave" o' The Raggedy Man! --
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man -- one time, when he
Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
Says "When you're big like your Pa is,
Air you go' to keep a fine store like his --
An' be a rich merchunt -- an' wear fine clothes? --
Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?"
An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! --
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!"
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

by James Whitcomb Riley, 1849 - 1916
American Writer, known as "The Hoosier Poet"

An Indiana ClassicA favorite library book from our earliest lending library days [Don't forget, I said I've had a library card since age five!]
In addition to "The Raggedy Man," this collection also contains the poem "Little Orphant Annie" -- always good for giving us little kids a good scare when read aloud dramatically by our elder sister Peg!

A Certain Slant of Light

2012-01-23T15:46:00.014-05:00

Thanks to Brent Green for this incredibly
stunning Missouri winter photograph
There’s a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons —
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes —

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us —
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are —

None may teach it — Any —
’Tis the Seal Despair —
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air —

When it comes, the Landscape listens —
Shadows — hold their breath —
When it goes, ’tis like the Distance
On the look of Death —

Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 86
found in The Complete Poems

It's Magic

2012-01-20T00:17:00.002-05:00

A guest blog from my brother Dave:

I was a Voting Judge yesterday here in Kansas. This is one of my experiences.

[Saved from a few years back, but still relevant . . . ]
Fellow Kansans, we live in a magical kingdom! While participating in our recent primary elections, I found out just how magical it really is. Most folks here in Southeast Kansas take some pride in being either a broad majority Republican or a thorn in your side Democrat. Then there are those folks who choose the party of the essentially anti-government Libertarians who truly believe that the less government the better and unlike others who talk the talk, they also walk the walk.

And then there are the unaffiliated. These are the scant few folks who feel it should be their privilege to vote for whoever they think is best qualified regardless of party affiliation. Each election cycle they ask why Kansas can’t support a split ballot and each cycle no one gives them a real answer. The real answer of course is quite simple. The majority rules in all cases and the majority wants no truck with such silliness as sharing the ballot with some other well qualified candidate.

During this most recent primary election an odd thing happened. Unaffiliated voters were given a choice! Select a Republican ballot at the polls and as you walk out the door, POOF! You are a registered and legal Republican! Select a Democrat ballot however and there is no POOF! Instead the unaffiliated voters are theoretically asked whether they would like to become Democrats or would they prefer to remain unaffiliated. Complicated in some ways but essentially straight forward. Except that it is only straight forward if the unaffiliated voters ares aware of the choices available to them.

The key to this process is making certain that those few unaffiliated voters are aware of the possible ramifications of their choice. It boils down to a simple matter of an informed choice. If they are unaware or not fully informed, they may be inclined to vote a ballot that appears to offer more choices over one that is always marginal at best. But is this really the intent or the mind of the staunch unaffiliated voter? By their very nature they are saying they don’t wish to be labeled. If this is the case, which ballot choice would seem more logical for them? Well, I saw three of them over a period of twelve hours and after having it all “explained to them” they all chose to become staunch Republicans rather than continue to be an informed and questioning unaffiliated voter.

Were they truly given the choice they deserved?

Or is it magic?

Dave the Brummbaer

Up & Down

2012-01-18T09:08:00.006-05:00

A guest blog from my brother Dave:

Like most everyone else, I have been watching what our national economy has been doing for the last couple of years. There is very little argument from anyone that the recession that first appeared in 2007-08 has been a very serious drag. For months on end I have listened to news commentators, reporters and editorialists nitpick every small decline in every aspect of our economy. At the end of each "report" it is made clear again that it is President Obama in particular and Democrats in general are behind this never - ending spiral downward. Truth be told, it seemed to me that some of them actually enjoyed bearing the bad news.

Going into the 2012 elections, the talking heads have again chimed in to predict the defeat and fall of our President for reelection. They constantly harp on percentage point spreads of 8 -10% (with a margin of error of +/- 3%!) as irrefutable proof that President Obama has no chance. Even the wonkiest Republican will be sufficiently talented enough to boot him out.

Then something interesting began to happen about 3 months ago. While admittedly a small span of time, taken as a whole, the trends are consistent. Economically things are looking up and not just in a dry dusty drawer full of statistics but rather in concrete gains in employment, housing starts, etc.

And yet, I have yet to hear any of the pundits give any credit to the man in the office of the President. Perhaps it's like Topsy and it just grew. Or perhaps it is the profound effect of millions praying like crazy, but regardless, what goes down earns the blame and what goes up should win the credit.

Dave the Brummbaer
Kit & Dave, back in 1984

A Song for Martin Luther King Day

2012-01-16T11:56:00.014-05:00

Album cover for Songs
If Peace Was All We Had
(click to listen)
from the album Peace

As the thought of Yule enters my mind
I think of all mankind
and the way he's changed the tide
of giving to receive
taking without need

thinking and remembering times past
tranquility at last
or was it what it seemed
to be a fantasy

I wonder what would be
If peace was all we had
Joy will drown the sadness

With a hope I feel more alive
This feeling must not die
The thought comes to my mind
It's not a thing you see

I wonder what would be
If peace was all we had
Joy will drown the sadness

~ Rotary Connection

This Year's Words

2012-01-15T10:09:00.006-05:00

Sunrise on Friday the Thirteenth[I've read many explanations for why the sun may appear as a horizontal oval, especially when setting, but none for why it would appear as a vertical oblong when rising. Does anyone know?]

"Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers."
from The Wasteland
by T. S. Eliot
A new year full of new words!

Some of the best New Year's words I know come from T. S. Eliot's "Four Quartets":

For last year's words belong to last year's language
And next year's words await another voice . . .
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from . . .
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.*

from the Fourth Quartet, "Little Gidding" (sections II & V)

*These great lines from Eliot have already
appeared a couple of times previously on this blog:
see ~ "Three Passions"
and ~ "Parallax"
A Little Window on Winter
These passages are from my latest fortnightly post
"This Year's Words"

Read more on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Winterize

2012-01-14T17:47:00.004-05:00

Snow at last!
Time to winterize your croquet set!

Or as my friend Len suggests:

Alternatively, encourage winter croquet,
badminton, and snow volleyball.

Divine Homesickness

2012-01-13T09:36:00.007-05:00

"When we are constantly focused on externals,
we are not centered, that is, we are not aligned
internally -- body, mind and soul.
Without that alignment,
we have a case of Divine Homesickness.
We feel empty and lost, always trying
to find our way Home . . . always
looking for something 'out there' to fill us up.
And nothing out there can."

from
The Little Book of Peace of Mind
by Susan Jeffers
Similarly, Frederick Buechner writes:

"If with part of ourselves we are men and women of the world and share the sad unbeliefs of the world, with a deeper part still, the part where our best dreams come from . . . there is a child in all of us who is not just willing to believe in the possibility that maybe fairy tales are true after all but who is to some degree in touch with that truth. . . . a world where nothing is too familiar or unpromising to open up into a world where a path unwinds before our feet into a deep wood, and when that happens, neither the world we live in nor the world that lives in us can ever entirely be home again, any more than it was home for Dorothy . . . "from Listening to Your Life,"The Child in Us * May 6"
by Frederick Buechner
And Salman Rushdie seems to pick up Buechner's thought in mid - sentence:

"So Oz finally became home; the imagined world became the actual world, as it does for us all, because the truth is that once we have left our childhood places and started out to make up our lives . . . we understand that the real secret of the ruby slippers is not that 'there's no place like home', but rather that there is no longer any such place . . . (see more).
from Step Across This Line: Collected Nonfiction 1992-2002,
Essay #1: "Out of Kansas"
by Salman Rushdie
This excerpt is from my latest fortnightly post
"Divine Homesickness: If Only In My Dreams"

Read more on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

NEW POST TOMORROW: T. S. ELIOT

Stars, Moons, Phosphorescence

2012-01-11T23:48:00.014-05:00

Falling asleep and waking up to the intense light of this month's full moon made me think of my sister Diane's pre - Christmas epiphany. Back in mid - December, she wrote:

"Early this morning I took our garbage to the curb. Our subdivision is very dark, as we have no street lights and the lots are big. Other neighbors are hard to see. It was raining a little, and I almost changed my mind about going in the dark. But when I opened the front door to look out, I saw a big bright star. It was only a decoration on my neighbor's house, but it shone down on my driveway just enough so I could tell where to walk. Taking that walk so reminded me of that long ago walk taken by Kings to see our Savior. God bless your day."

Reading her description of the bright Christmas star, even if it was "only a decoration," brought to mind my favorite quote from the movie Apollo 13, when the television reporter asks Jim Lovell (as portrayed by Tom Hanks) if there is "a specific instance in an airplane emergency when you can recall fear?"

Both Lovell's revelation and my sister's epiphany give me goosebumps. Reading their words, I feel exhilarated and humbled at the same time.

Lovell:"Uh well, I'll tell ya, I remember this one time - I'm in a Banshee at night in combat conditions, so there's no running lights on the carrier. It was the Shrangri-La, and we were in the Sea of Japan and my radar had jammed, and my homing signal was gone... because somebody in Japan was actually using the same frequency. And so it was - it was leading me away from where I was supposed to be. And I'm lookin' down at a big, black ocean, so I flip on my map light, and then suddenly: zap. Everything shorts out right there in my cockpit. All my instruments are gone. My lights are gone. And I can't even tell now what my altitude is. I know I'm running out of fuel, so I'm thinking about ditching in the ocean. And I, I look down there, and then in the darkness there's this uh, there's this green trail. It's like a long carpet that's just laid out right beneath me. And it was the algae, right? It was that phosphorescent stuff that gets churned up in the wake of a big ship. And it was - it was - it was leading me home. You know? If my cockpit lights hadn't shorted out, there's no way I'd ever been able to see that. So uh, you, uh, never know . . . what . . . what events are to transpire to get you home" (ellipses in original text).

Awhile back (see "How to Keep On Hoping"), I mentioned a favorite passage from E. L. Doctorow, quoted by that Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird, describing a similar phenomenon: " 'writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.' You don't have to see where you are going, you don't have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you" (18).

That's what stars are for . . . and moons . . . and headlights . . . and phosphorescence . . .

War Horse

2012-01-09T16:51:00.023-05:00

Movie by Steven Spielberg
Book by Michael Morpurgo
When watching this movie last week, I couldn't help thinking of the letter my grandfather, Paul J. Lindsey, wrote about his trench warfare experience:

"Kessler and Moore were my two best buddies and were killed not over two feet from me in an awful artillery bombardment with shells bursting from the treetops to the ground, just a literal rain of shrapnel. We had dug in the night before but had not cut brush to cover our foxholes up with. We pitched our pup tents over the holes and the shellfire was so awful that all the ropes holding our tents up were cut and the tents had fallen down. I had turned on my right side with my face to the side of the foxhole and a slug of shrapnel hit my helmet laying on my head. I have always thought the old 'hard hat' saved my life that night. In that awful rain of death I promised God if He would let me live I would serve Him. My life was spared, and I was spared from any real dangerous duty after that."

My Grandfather's
Battle of the Argonne Participation Medal in MiniatureMore information on the Battle of the Argonne
For more information on World War I

Epiphany

2012-01-06T00:58:00.006-05:00

An extra minute of light ~ January Sunset

"Haven't you noticed the days
somehow keep getting longer?
And the spirit - voices whisper in us all
Haven't you noticed the rays?
The Spirit Sun is stronger
And a New Day is dawning for us all."

from "Hummingbird"
by Seals & Crofts

Epiphany . . . according to James Joyce:
Claritas is quidditas
P. S. Must confess I haven't been writing much commentary lately, but I'll get back to it ASAP. For now ~ just letting the pictures & poems stand for themselves. The lazy [holiday] way, but sometimes less is enough, right?

Twelve Little Drummers

2012-01-05T09:27:00.006-05:00

Montessori Re-enactment of the Twelve Days of Christmas
Philadelphia ~ December 1994
featuring Ben McCartney (front, center)
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas . . .
my true love gave to me . . .
12 Drummers Drumming
11 Pipers Piping
10 Lords-a-Leaping
9 Ladies Dancing
8 Maids-a-Milking
7 Swans-a-Swimming
6 Geese-a-Laying
5 Gold Rings
4 Colly Birds
3 French Hens
2 Turtle Doves
And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Winter Light

2012-01-03T00:45:00.004-05:00

At Dusk on New Year's Day, 2012
Winter Light
(click to hear Linda Ronstadt)

Hearts call
Hearts fall
Swallowed in the rain

Who knows
Life grows
Hollow and so vain

Wandering in the winter light
The wicked and the sane
Bear witness to salvation
And life starts over again

Now the clear sky is all around you
Love's shadow will surround you
All through the night

Star glowing in the twilight
Tell me true
Hope whispers and I will follow
Till you love me too

~ from the motion picture The Secret Garden
~ by Eric Kaz, Linda Ronstadt, Zbigniew Antoni Preisner
~ copyright 1993 Normal Music, BMI
~ Acoustic piano and synthesizer: Robbie Buchanan
~ Vocals: Valerie Carter and Linda Ronstadt

Late December Moon

Little Tree ~ I Will Comfort You

2012-01-01T15:48:00.009-05:00

"there won't be a single place dark or unhappy"
little tree

little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower
who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly
i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid
look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,
put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy
then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud
and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

E. E. Cummings, 1894 - 1962
Very popular American poet
Somewhat unconventional,
sometimes eccentric

"little tree" was originally published in The Dial Vol. LXVIII, No. 1 (Jan. 1920). New York: The Dial Publishing Company, Inc.

Decorating Idea: Lacing Cards!I hope everyone's tree will be staying up for awhile! My projected take down date is 22 Feb (Ash Wednesday). Any time before the New Year is way too soon for me. Seeing a tree out on the curb before the Twelfth Day of Christmas (January 5 or 6, depending on how you count it) just makes me feel sad.

If Only In My Dreams

2011-12-30T12:20:00.011-05:00

Outside Looking In
I still love to hear Karen Carpenter sing "I'll Be Home For Christmas, If Only In My Dreams," but I feel differently about this song than I used to. I used to think it was about people who weren't able to travel "home for the holidays" to be with everyone else. Now I'm more inclined to think it's about people who have to travel or have traveled, when all they really want is the privacy of their own home. There they are surrounded by all their loved ones, but what they crave is to be home alone -- if only in their dreams.

Not to be all bah - humbug about it, but now whenever I hear lyrics like "I'll Be Home for Christmas" or "There's No Place Like Home for the Holidays" or "There's No Christmas Like Home Christmas," my response is Precisely! Home. H - O - M - E. Not someone else's home. Not someplace that used to be home. Your own home. Where your heart is. As John Denver sings:
"Home is where the heart is,
and Christmas lives there too."
This excerpt is from my latest fortnightly post
"Divine Homesickness: If Only In My Dreams"

Read more on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

The Feast of the Holy Innocents

2011-12-28T16:49:00.010-05:00

The Triumph of the Innocents
by William Holman Hunt, 1827-1910
Walker Art Gallery
Innocent's Song
Who's that knocking on the window,
Who's that standing at the door,
What are all those presents
Laying on the kitchen floor?

Who is the smiling stranger
With hair as white as gin,
What is he doing with the children
And who could have let him in?

Why has he rubies on his fingers,
A cold, cold crown on his head,
Why, when he caws his carol,
Does the salty snow run red?

Why does he ferry my fireside
As a spider on a thread,
His fingers made of fuses
And his tongue of gingerbread?

Why does the world before him
Melt in a million suns,
Why do his yellow, yearning eyes
Burn like saffron buns?

Watch where he comes walking
Out of the Christmas flame,
Dancing, double-talking:

Herod is his name.

by Charles Causley, 1917 - 2003

Nativity

2011-12-26T01:26:00.022-05:00

The little tiny Santa was my mom's -- from the 1930s.
We always put him (& the lamp post)
in with our small white Nativity,
along with some canopic jars, that Sam created from Sculpey
for his 5th grade Egyptian project!
One Christmas vacation memory that I will always cherish is the year (1976, I think) when I had stopped by to visit my friend Marilyn and ended up spending the night with her family because it suddenly started snowing so hard that I couldn't drive home. We pulled on our boots and took a walk outside to see the lighted Nativity in her neighborhood. As we circled back around the block, Marilyn pointed to the fresh footsteps in the snow and said, "Look, someone has been to see the Baby."

Of course, they were our own footprints, for the snowy sidewalks were utterly quiet and untouched by any prints save our own. Yet, there was something so mystical about the way Marilyn said, "Look!" -- almost as if someone unknown to us was also out and about. Good King Wenceslas, perhaps? Or maybe the Little Drummer Boy.

I often wish that I had asked Marilyn at the time to tell me more about what she was thinking, but now I'll never know. Instead, it lingers as one of those poetic "ponder in your heart" Christmas moments, and that's good too. In fact, maybe that's why I will never forget.

Another favorite,
featuring Shepherd Girl (pink skirt) & Wise Woman (gold scarf)

Christmas Eve on the Train

2011-12-24T19:22:00.029-05:00

"I knowed that Santa would find me out!"
As I have a mentioned before on my Fortnightly Blog (No One With A Nose / Wise Fool / Ode to Josef), when Ben and Sam attended St. Peter's School in Philadelphia, they were required to memorize and recite a poem every month. They both jumped right in, declaming one long narrative after another right from the start. "Christmas Eve on the Train" was one of Sam's earliest choices, and one for which he was awarded the monthly declamation prize.

It was my idea that Sam give this particular poem a try because, as a child, I myself had loved to hear my Grandma Lindsey recite it. She must have learned it from the above clipping that my mother found among Grandma's papers, many years after her death. We pieced it together as best we could, though a few segments were missing.

I never knew my grandmother to actually read the poem from the clipping or from any other source -- only to recite it word for word from memory. Her spoken version always closed with the penultimate stanza, " . . . And so he came to the little maid / In an emigrant's disguise." As you can see, this is also where the above clipping (which includes neither author nor title) concludes, so perhaps that's all she ever knew.

Despite my many Christmas books and poetry anthologies, I have yet to encounter this poem anywhere, other than my grandmother's recitations; her crumbling clipping, and -- more recently -- on the internet, where I learned of the last stanza and the author's name with the aid of Google. It was extremely gratifying to realize from my search results that I am not the only one with fond childhood memories of "Christmas Eve on the Train." I can close my eyes and hear once again my grandmother's soothing voice as if it were yesterday:

Santa Claus On the Train
On a Christmas Eve an emigrant train
Sped on through the blackness of night,
And cleft the pitchy dark in twain
With the gleam of its fierce headlight.

In a crowded car, a noisome place,
Sat a mother and her child;
The woman's face bore want's wan trace,
But the little one only smiled,

And tugged and pulled at her mother's dress,
And her voice had a merry ring,
As she lisped, "Now, mamma, come and guess
What Santa Claus'll bring."

But sadly the mother shook her head,
As she thought of a happier past;
"He never can catch us here," she said.
"The train is going too fast."

"O, mamma, yes, he'll come, I say,
So swift are his little deer,
They run all over the world today; -
I'll hang my stocking up here."

She pinned her stocking to the seat,
And closed her tired eyes;
And soon she saw each longed-for sweet
In dreamland's paradise.

On a seat behind the little maid
A rough man sat apart,
But a soft light o'er his features played,
And stole into his heart.

As the cars drew up at a busy town
The rough man left the train,
But scarce had from the steps jumped down
Ere he was back again.

And a great big bundle of Christmas joys
Bulged out from his pocket wide;
He filled the stocking with sweets and toys
He laid by the dreamer's side.

At dawn the little one woke with a shout,
'Twas sweet to hear her glee;
"I knowed that Santa Claus would find me out;
He caught the train you see."

Though some from smiling may scarce refrain,
The child was surely right,
The good St. Nicholas caught the train,
And came aboard that night.

For the saint is fond of masquerade
And may fool the old and wise,
And so he came to the little maid
In an emigrant's disguise.

****************

And he dresses in many ways because
He wishes no one to know him,
For he never says, "I am Santa Claus,"
But his good deeds always show him.

by Henry C. Walsh, 1863 - 1927

My Personal Christmas Library

Contents: Sleigh Bells!

2011-12-22T22:38:00.040-05:00

"Late at night on Christmas Eve, she carried us each to our high bedroom, and darkened the room, and opened the window, and held us awed in the freezing stillness, saying -- and we could hear the edge of tears in her voice -- 'Do you hear them? Do you hear the bells, the little bells, on Santa's sleigh?' We marveled and drowsed, smelling the piercingly cold night and the sweetness of Mother's warm neck, hearing in her voice so much pent emotion, feeling the familiar strength in the crook of her arms,and looking out over the silent streetlights and the chilled stars over the rooftops of the town. 'Very faint and far away -- can you hear them coming?' And we could hear them coming, very faint and far away,the bells on the flying sleigh."

from An American Childhood (37 - 38)
by Annie Dillard (b. 1945)
When we moved from Philadelphia back to Indiana in 2004, I made one bad packing mistake: I left behind my red leather sleigh bell strap. See it hanging there on the door knob? The last thing I intended to pack, but I forgot.
Our house in Indiana just didn't feel right without that jingle each time we opened and shut the door. So I wrote to my dear friend and realtor, Melani. She and her son Scott paid a visit to the new owners of our Philly house, retrieved the bells, packaged them up and sent them through the mail in the box that you see above.

I've hung on to this special box for seven years now and take it out each December along with my Christmas decorations. It's a seasonal reminder of Melani and Scott's kindness and a symbol of the joy that comes with recovering such a treasured item that you fear is gone forever. That which was lost is found! Thanks Melani & Scott!

Click to View
Speaking of sleigh bells, when I sent this "White Christmas" e-card by Jacquie Lawson to my sister Peg, she wrote back:

"Thank you so much for the e-card. It's beautiful and shows one of the things that's on my bucket list; sleigh ride in a horse drawn sleigh in the snow. No tires, just the sleigh runners. I had a bucket list long before there was such a term and that one is right at the top, and there's still time for Ron to help me make the sleigh ride happen."

And I replied: "Now, about that sleigh ride, I have to tell you the most amazing thing that happened one snowy December night back in 1985 when I was walking across the Notre Dame campus with some friends. We honest to god saw a one - horse open sleigh pass by right in front of our eyes! We were so stunned! Had we imagined that? Was it Santa Claus? Had we been transported to another place and time for a split second? Even now, I have to wonder!

"Come to find out, one of the campus organizations was sponsoring the rides as a fund raiser. They had found some place (an Amish farm?) where you could hire the horse, sleigh, and driver to actually come to campus and give rides to students. So, yes, it turned out there was a logical explanation, but still it remains one of my most magical memories.

"All that to say -- YES! -- go out and find that sleigh and take that ride! Tell Ron that's what you want for Christmas!"

P.S.
" 'HOLINESS TO THE LORD'
shall be engraved on the bells of the horses."
Zechariah 14:20
~ A Bible verse about sleigh bells! Who knew? ~
Check out these wonderfully nostalgic images!

Reindeer Paws

2011-12-20T20:30:00.014-05:00

Paws vs Pause
Click here to see the extent of the controversy!
Wouldn't this make a great Christmas card: my friend Catherine's darling little MacDuff (i.e., Duffy) looking absolutely princely, prancing in the snow. Surely he is all ready to pull Santa's sleigh, with his beautiful red collar and perfect posture. I can hear it now, up on the rooftop ~ the prancing and pawing of each little paw!

And the way the photographer (i.e., Cate) captured those bright red berries in the foreground -- beautiful! Thanks for sharing, Cate!

My Cats, Pine and Beaumont, Waiting for Santa

Oh! Christmas Tree!

2011-12-18T08:46:00.016-05:00

A Regular Vestry Tree
I posted this photograph and a segment from Frost's poem just a few weeks ago ("Ten Thousand Thousand"). Now with Christmas Tree Season upon us, I can't resist posting it again, along with the poem in its entirety. It's a long one, but worth the read:

Christmas Trees
(A Christmas Circular Letter)
The city had withdrawn into itself
And left at last the country to the country;
When between whirls of snow not come to lie
And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove
A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,
Yet did in country fashion in that there
He sat and waited till he drew us out
A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.
He proved to be the city come again
To look for something it had left behind
And could not do without and keep its Christmas.
He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;
My woods—the young fir balsams like a place
Where houses all are churches and have spires.
I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.
I doubt if I was tempted for a moment
To sell them off their feet to go in cars
And leave the slope behind the house all bare,
Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.
I’d hate to have them know it if I was.
Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except
As others hold theirs or refuse for them,
Beyond the time of profitable growth,
The trial by market everything must come to.
I dallied so much with the thought of selling.
Then whether from mistaken courtesy
And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether
From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,
“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”
“I could soon tell how many they would cut,
You let me look them over.”

“You could look.
But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”
Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close
That lop each other of boughs, but not a few
Quite solitary and having equal boughs
All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,
Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,
With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”
I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.
We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,
And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees!—at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees* whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

Robert Frost , 1874 - 1963
Four-time Pulitzer Prize winning well - loved American poet

*Vestry Trees: click for more info.Little House illustration
by Garth Williams

Annunciation

2011-12-16T22:22:00.014-05:00

My second favorite* painting at the Lady Lever Art Gallery:
The Annunciation
by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones
The artist's model for the Virgin Mary was Julia Stephen,
mother of Virginia Woolf & Vanessa Bell.
and, appropriately, pregnant at the time with Vanessa.

[*Click here to see my first favorite:
"Wise Fool," by Ford Maddox Brown]
To go along with Burne - Jones' painting at the Lady Lever is this magnificent poem by Denis Levertov; I love the coincidental linguistic connection between the two names! Levertov's poem "is inspired by a compelling line from the 6th century Akathisthos (sung while standing reverently) Hymn of the Orthodox Liturgy in praise of the Theotokos (Mother of God): 'Hail, space for the uncontained God.' "

Annunciation
"Hail, space for the uncontained God!"
(from the Akathistos Hymn, Greece, VIc)
We know the scene: the room, variously furnished,
almost always a lectern, a book; always
the tall lily.
Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings,
the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering,
whom she acknowledges, a guest.

But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions
courage.
The engendering Spirit
did not enter her without consent.
God waited.

She was free
to accept or to refuse, choice
integral to humanness.
____________________________

Aren’t there annunciations
of one sort or another
in most lives?
Some unwillingly
undertake great destinies,
enact them in sullen pride,
uncomprehending.
More often
those moments
when roads of light and storm
open from darkness in a man or woman,
are turned away from
in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair
and with relief.
Ordinary lives continue.
God does not smite them.
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.
______________________________

She had been a child who played, ate, slept
like any other child – but unlike others,
wept only for pity, laughed
in joy not triumph.
Compassion and intelligence
fused in her, indivisible.

Called to a destiny more momentous
than any in all of Time,
she did not quail,
only asked
a simple, 'How can this be?'
and gravely, courteously,
took to heart the angel’s reply,
perceiving instantly
the astounding ministry she was offered:

to bear in her womb
Infinite weight and lightness; to carry
in hidden, finite inwardness,
nine months of Eternity; to contain
in slender vase of being,
the sum of power –
in narrow flesh,
the sum of light.
Then bring to birth,
push out into air, a Man-child
needing, like any other,
milk and love –

but who was God.

This was the minute no one speaks of,
when she could still refuse.

A breath unbreathed,
Spirit,
suspended,
waiting.
____________________________

She did not cry, "I cannot, I am not worthy,"
nor "I have not the strength."
She did not submit with gritted teeth,
raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
consent illumined her.
The room filled with its light,
the lily glowed in it,
and the iridescent wings.
Consent,
courage unparalleled,
opened her utterly.

by Denise Levertov , 1923 - 97
Politically acitve British - born American poet and educator
from her book The Door in the Hive

previously posted poems by Denis Levertov
QK: "The same war continues . . . "

FN: Taste & See

QK: Taste & See

more on The Annunciation
QK: Blessed

Hap, Hap, Happiest!

2011-12-14T17:41:00.007-05:00

"HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS"
One of our favorite holiday movies, filled with a litany of family - centered wisdom, is Chevy Chase's Christmas Vacation. Yes, we know it's ridiculous, but it's a keeper! The mom, Ellen (Beverly D'Angelo) provides a role - model for how to live peaceably amidst a houseful of relatives: "I don't know what to say, except it's Christmas and we're all in misery."

The best lines comes along when the holiday is crumbling apart, and the long - distance relatives decide to make an early departure. Clark / Chevy bars the way:

"Where do you think you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny f-----g Kaye. . . . Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?"

When Ben and Sam were little, I had a moment of misgiving about letting them hear Clark's use of the "f" word; but, otherwise, it was so much fun to watch this movie with them, I just crossed my fingers and hoped for the best. As they got older, I admitted my shame to them, but they were quick to reassure me that, having never been exposed to such diction before, they didn't even know that they'd just heard a bad word: "We just thought it was Danny Kaye's middle name!" (Yes, they also knew who Danny Kaye was thanks to numerous viewings of White Christmas.")

This excerpt is from my latest fortnightly post
"The Hap, Hap, Happiest Holidays"

Read more on
The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker:
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Santa Lucia

2011-12-13T00:20:00.035-05:00

My Little Lucia Miniature ~ She is a British Lucia, bringing Christmas Pudding & Tea! ~
**************

Betsy McCall Celebrates Lucia Day
I first learned about Lucia Day in 1972, when Betsy McCall Paper Dolls were a regular feature in McCall's Magazine. Back in those days, I saved numerous pages and articles from my mother's holiday magazines, but for some reason, not this one. However, even without the magazine before me, I've never lost the image of Betsy as Lucia. I have heard many friends say that this was their favorite and most memorable Betsy Doll. (Thankfully, some devoted archivists out there have saved the original issue!)*
In Sweden, at least in days of yore, the occasion was observed by adorning the eldest sister with a crown of candles as she carried a tray of yellow saffron buns about the house, serving her family members breakfast in bed. The buns are formed in various shapes, depending on which legend you follow. My favorite, of course, are the Luciakatter ~ St. Lucy's Cats ~ and I like to make mine out of gingerbread rather than the traditional saffron yeast dough.

One of my favorite Carl Larsson paintings is this romantic depiction of the early morning ritual:

The Feast of St. Lucy on 13th December, 1916More Larsson paintings: Carl Larsson Gallery

More Carl Larsson on my blog

More seasonal festivities: School of Seasons

More on Santa Lucia: St. Lucia

More on the topic of saving old magazines:
I recently the following to Seventeen Magazine.
Does anyone else remember this story?
Did anyone save a copy?

Dear Seventeen,

Many years ago -- I'm guessing December 1973 0r 1974 -- I read a story in your magazine called "The Girl Who Just Loved Christmas," about a romantic teen-aged girl who is upset the first time that her older sister brings her fiance home for Christmas because it is going to change some of the family customs, such as who gets to put the star on top of the tree. Unfortunately, I do not recall the author's name; and sadly, though I kept it for many years, I no longer have my copy of the magazine.

As you can see, I have never forgotten this favorite old story, and every year at Christmastime I always long to read it once again! I have tried searching on google, but without any luck. Can you tell me if there is a way for me to access your archives, or a way for you to do a search for me? I would be so grateful!

Happy Holidays & thanks to your magazine for so many happy memories from my girlhood!

The Full Truce Moon

2011-12-10T09:47:00.006-05:00

Okay, I admit, this is not Venus!
It is the Moon!
But it's still a truce between Heaven and Earth!
And it's still autumn!
Truce for a Moment
Truce for a moment between Earth and Ether
Slackens the mind's allegiance to despair:
Shyly confer earth, water, fire and air
With the fifth essence.

For the duration, if the mind require it,
Trigged is the wheel of Time against the slope;
Infinite space lies curved with the scope
Of the hand's cradle.

Thus between day and evening in the autumn,
High in the west alone and burning bright,
Venus has hung, the earliest riding-light
In the calm harbor.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 - 1901)
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923

P.S.
"There is a moon inside every human being." ~ Rumi ~

More Academic Holiday Humor

2011-12-07T01:22:00.008-05:00

Beginning to look a lot like Christmas!
Back when I was in graduate school, some of my funny friends wrote this invitation for a party that was being held at the Graduate Student Union -- 27 years ago today! Can't remember whether or not I joined them, but I did save their clever end - of - semester poem:

Et Incarnatus Sunt

Angels of Light and Darkness:

It is in the air.
In your pride and overwork
You have decided against attending
the GSU Christmas party,
December 7, 1984.
You are in error!

Descend!
Descend!
Descend!
Descend to the Senior Bar below!

Mix and mingle with humans on earth.
They need you. Condescend for one hour temporal.
Bring joy and gladness, your essence angelic, to
those caught in clay.

Get on down!
Shake a tail feather!
Drink divine wine!

Those below need to see and to speak with you. One hour,
a mere pittance in your eternity.

Do you need a buck?
See me at the door.
I'll buy your ticket.

~The Gate Keeper

Happy St. Nicholas Day!

2011-12-06T14:01:00.010-05:00

Presents from Gerry's Auntie Jan (1997):
Red Wooden Shoes, Inscribed "Ben" & "Sam"
and an Amazingly Detailed Bread Dough St. Nick

AN EDUCATOR'S PERSPECTIVE
ON THE QUESTION OF SANTA CLAUS

Dear Editors,

I am old and weary, beyond my years. Some of my friends in the English Department say there is no humor, no heart, no faith, no optimism in the department. My colleagues say, "If you see it in the DEPARTMENT NEWSLETTER, it must be so." Please tell me the truth.

~Virginia

Virginia,

Your friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of skeptical times. They do not believe except they read and hear and feel. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by the meetings, the memos, and the mumbling in the halls. All minds, Virginia, are susceptible to littleness. In this great department of ours, one is a mere insect, an ant, in intellect as compared with the boundless world about us, as measured by our many intelligences capable of grasping the whole.

Yes, Virginia, there are humor, heart, faith, and optimism in this department. They exist as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your job its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be this department if there were no humor, no heart, no faith, no optimism. It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would no childlike faith then, no poetry, no prose, no romance enough to make tolerable this job. We would have no enjoyment, except in meanness, bitterness, and pessimism. The light with which our profession fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe this department has humor, heart, faith, optimism! You might as well not believe in teachers. You might get your colleagues to listen in allat the classroom and office doors on any given day to catch the spirit, but even if you did not see the spirit, what would that prove? Nobody sees humor or heart or faith or optimism, but that is no sign that there are none. The most real things in education are those that no one can see. Did you ever see teachers dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they do not. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart each other's theories and think you see what makes the thesis, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest, not even the united strength of all the strongest that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, prose, and love can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No humor, heart, faith, or optimism in the English Department. Thank our lucky stars; thank all gods and goddesses! They live and live forever. A thousand semesters from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 semesters from now, these will continue to make glad the heart of this and every college and every student, professor, and administrator in the land.

******************************
I came across the above academic rendering
back in the 90s when I worked at the
Community College of Philadelphia

Click here to read the history and text of the original

Dawn on the Wabash

2011-12-04T11:24:00.018-05:00

A Touch of Very Early Snow
A couple of days ago it happened again: the first day of the season when we could look out of our bedroom window early in the morning and see the sun reflected on the Wabash (marred slightly by our neighbor's car and garage, but just don't look at that).

We have to wait for all the leaves to fall and for the sun to hit the surface of the river at just the right angle. This conjunction of natural phenomena usually lasts from just before the Winter Solstice until the Vernal Equinox, or thereabouts. Then the leaves start budding, and the river view, though only a few blocks away, is hidden from us for many months to come.

Several old heart-felt American songs feature the moonlight on the leafy banks of the Wabash, along with cornfields, sycamore trees, and candlelight (e.g., "On the Banks of the Wabash, Far Away" & "Back Home Again in Indiana").

My hymn, however, is raised to the chilly winter Wabash, the rare December sunlight; the stark, bare trees; and the lone golden leaf still hanging on! (In the upper left - hand corner, see?)

The Magpie Waiting for his Beautiful Partner

2011-12-02T22:01:00.023-05:00

December is here! Time for thoughts of snow . . .
The Magpie by Claude Monet
Monet's The Magpie

Has the magpie just landed or is it
about to fly off? Is it morning or late afternoon?
Monet doesn't say, so I have decided
it is a male bird of the most intense devotion.
He has been waiting since noon for his
beautiful partner, waiting for her
to land there beside him on the skewed fence,
attuned to the sound of her soft feathers.
Snow upon snow, he searches
for the familiar, nimble Ys of her small feet.
He found some treasures he saved to give her,
a sweet wedge of tangerine, a quarter
of a whole wheat bagel, that was hard to carry,
even though he is large for a magpie. He looks
north, the sun behind him, trying to give
the best appearance for when she flies up.
While he waited he made up a new tune
he wants to sing to her, hoping his love will be
obvious and will heat her beneath her fine plumage.

by Leonard Orr,
artist, poet, professor of post - modernism and literary criticism
from his book Why We Have Evening

Snow upon snow . . .
Click to see more paintings by Leonard Orr

The Falling Fruit, The Certain Spring

2011-11-30T08:58:00.010-05:00

"Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion."
~ D. H. Lawrence ~
On 14 November, my Fortnightly post --"Daffodils of Autumn" featured two seasonal songs by Adrian Henri, both dedicated to his predecessor A. E. Houseman. Yet another of Henri's autumnal poems is dedicated to modernist poet and novelist D. H. Lawrence. Henri offers an "Epilogue" to Lawrence's long poem "The Ship of Death," a ten - part extended analogy, in which Lawrence writes bleakly of death as a choppy voyage into the unknown, rounded out with the faint promise of rebirth.

Henri responds to Lawrence's poem by personifying and embracing the Dark. He dispels the fear of a long dark late autumn night with an open invitation of hospitality and in-gathering:

Epilogue
(for D. H. L.)
Autumn
and leaves swirl at the roadside
splatter on windscreens
summer hopes gone
fears for the dark
the long night ahead
light ebbing to the slow horizon

"Autumn,
The falling fruit,
The long journey,"

Prepare for the dark
O bring it home with you
tuck it into bed
welcome him into your hearth
into your heart
the familiar stranger at the evening fireside

Wind howls in the trees
and toads curl into beds of leaves
night moves into day
moths into velvet
hedges brown with dying willow-herb

Open your door to the dark
the evening snow drift in unheeded
light dies from the sky
gather the stranger close on the pillow

seeds lie buried
safe under hedgerows
gather him to you
O gather him to you

Take the dark stranger
Cold under blankets
Gather O Gather
Alone in the darkness

Adrian Henri ~

click here to read the entire text of "The Ship of Death"
by D. H. Lawrence
and here for further analysis of the poem

and here to read my most recent essay
"The Falling Fruit, The Certain Spring"

on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Productivity

2011-11-28T03:45:00.023-05:00

"PRODUCTIVITY" by Addison Jordan
ECONOMIC CONCEPT CALENDAR, NOVEMBER 2011
INDIANA COUNCIL FOR ECONOMIC EDUCATION
[click ICEE, scroll down to page 7 for calendar contest winners,
click winning entries link for a look at the 2012 calendar,
click illustration above to enlarge text for reading]
I couldn't let the month of November come to a close without showing you the picture that I have been admiring on my calendar all month long. If you happen to follow my Fortnightly blog, you'll know that it always begins with a picture that in some way or other captures the sentiment of "A House Where All's Accustomed, Ceremonious." For today's new Fortnightly post I chose my friend Addison's illustration of "Productivity" from the ICEE Calendar.

Throughout the year, I have learned a lot from this calendar ("Opportunity Cost," for example). Addison's drawing makes me think of one of our favorite places in Philadelphia where all was always accustomed and ceremonious -- Lorenzo's Pizza, on the corner of South and 3rd. Although it doesn't show in the photograph, they have a huge oven, similar to the one in Addison's picture. If you want to see you your pizza created and baked right before your eyes, this is the place to go:

GREAT PIZZA BY THE SLICE

PHILADELPHIA MURAL ARTS PROGRAM

Dalton Gang

2011-11-27T18:54:00.013-05:00

Day After Thanksgiving, 2007
One of my favorite childhood activities was begging my Grandpa Lindsey to take me to The Dalton Museum in Coffeyville, Kansas. A few Thanksgivings ago, I told my sons -- who had never been there -- that they had to see this place before they grew up and went away to college, because it had been such an important and well-loved part of my childhood. So, here we are in the picture!

Remember at the beginning of a A Child's Christmas in Wales when Dylan Thomas, recalling a big snowfall from years before, says that he "can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when [he] was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when [he] was six"? Well, for a long time I had a similar situation with my family's personal Dalton legend.

I could never quite remember if one of my grandfather's brothers gave one of the Dalton brothers a haircut or if one of the Dalton brothers gave one of my grandfather's brothers a haircut. I knew it was something along those lines. My mother clarified for me: it was her father's brother Wayne who gave Emmett a few shaves after Emmett got out of prison. My mom tells me that Wayne had barber shops in Elgin, Peru, Chataqua, and Havana (all in Kansas). She's not sure in which location Emmett and Wayne met, but it's still a good story. Maybe not as exciting as my grand-dad and his brothers being part of an actual gang, but I can still say that my great-uncle was Emmett Dalton's barber!

To refresh your memory of the notorious, ill-fated Dalton Gang, try reading Desperadoes by Ron Hansen (American novelist, essayist, and professor; b 1947). Hansen's approach is so straightforward, almost not fiction, but he does seem to get Emmett's voice right, and it's gratifying to know that no stone has been left unturned. My favorite passage has to be the comment that Hansen gives to Emmett when he gets out of prison and rides the train across the country in 1906: "Seems like everywhere you look it's the twentieth century."

You might also enjoy my blog post from last summer, "End of Summer Sounds." Though you may not envision an immediate connection between the Dalton brothers and the cicada, it's there! It just takes someone like me to show the way!

Occupy Shopping

2011-11-25T15:52:00.023-05:00

Souvenir Shadow Box from Philadelphia

Top: a pencil drawing of the revered old
John Wanamaker's Department Store
(a gift to us from American Picture Framing, Inc., Philadelphia)

Bottom: a Wanamaker's Christmas Gift Box
(discovered in the attic when we moved to Philadelphia,
left behind by previous owners)

Detail of Drawing
I don't know who wrote the following call to action or where it originates; in my case, thanks go to my brother Aaron for first calling it to my attention a few weeks ago. I've seen some longer versions floating around the internet, but here's a shorter, blog - length version that you might like (well, not all that short!):

Occupy Gift - Giving
With the holidays upon us, the giant commercial machine has kicked into high gear to provide us all with monstrous piles of cheaply produced goods. How about something different this year? You don't have to go out shopping the day after Thanksgiving if you don't want to. In lieu of the over - hyped Black Friday approach, how about giving the gift of genuine concern for others to your friends, neighbors, and fellow citizens. It's time to think outside the gift - box! There is no excuse for not choosing something that has been produced locally and seasonally by someone in your community. Who says a gift needs to fit in a shirt box or be covered in costly wrapping paper?

Remember the lesson of "It's A Wonderful Life"? The Christmas Spirit is about caring for our neighbors who make their livings in the U. S. economy and encouraging American small businesses to keep plugging away to follow their dreams. And when we care about other Americans, we care about our communities, and the benefits come back to us in ways we couldn't imagine. Lets Occupy Christmas with this attitude! Let's create a revolution of caring about each other! Isn't that what Christmas is about?

Gift Giving Ideas:
In every community, there are numerous owner-run restaurants -- some plain, some fancy -- all offering gift certificates. An elegant dinner date would be a great surprise; or half a dozen breakfasts at the local diner. Remember, this isn't about big national chains -- this is about supporting your hometown restaurants!

How about an oil change for car, truck, or motorcycle at a nearby garage? Small, American-owned detail shops and car washes would love to sell you a single - use gift certificate or a book of gift certificates to be used throughout the year.

A computer tune-up from a young technologist who is struggling to get a new repair business up and running.

Lawn mowing, snow removal, and housecleaning services.

Gift certificates from your locally owned hair salon or barber.

Gym membership or games at the local golf course.

Local crafts, wool, scarves, jewelry, soap, pottery, beautiful wooden boxes, and holiday decorations.

Tickets to a play or ballet at your hometown theater; or a night out at the local jazz club or comedy club.

Holiday outings at local, owner-operated clubs and restaurants (including a nice tip for your servers).

Think of it this way: when you buy a five dollar string of lights, only about fifty cents stays in the community. Instead, how about spending the entire $5 locally in the form of a nice big tip for your mail carriers, trash removers, or baby sitters?"

God Rest Ye Merry, Gentle Folk!Detail of Logo

"Let those who
follow me continue
to build with the plumb of honor
the level of truth and
the square of
integrity education
courtesy & mutuality."
~ John Wanamaker, 1838 - 1922 ~
[click to see in-store photo]

Wanamaker was an innovative, enlightened retailer,
showing his fellow department store owners how to
"Occupy Shopping" in the late 18th Century.
For more on Wanamaker's Creed
see Marketing Methods and Salesmanship
by Ralph Starr Butler

On the wall behind us:
Wanamaker Shadowbox DisplayGer & Kit

My Hollodays

2011-11-23T21:36:00.011-05:00

A Little Boilermaker in Philadelphia

Things I Am Thankful For

My family,
My house,
My food and drinks,
My school,
My computer,
My books,
My toys,
My Hollodays,
My life.

By Sam McCartney, age 7
Class assignment, 2nd grade
University City New School, West Philadelphia
Thanksgiving 2000

P.S. HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Little Jack Horner:
Sam loved using the kitchen step stool as his own little table!
Beaumont likes it too, as her chosen snacking spot!
Pine standing on tiptoe, stealing Beaumont's leftovers!

We Who Eat the Food

2011-11-21T23:24:00.032-05:00

Ancient Hindu Blessing

The ritual is One
The food is One
We who offer the food are One
The fire of hunger is also One
All action is One
We who understand this are One.
The above blessing is a new one for me this year; how timely that I should come across it in my reading just in time for Thanksgiving.

One of my favorite Thanksgiving stories was new last year. It comes from my Aunt Sue, known in her family as NeeNah, who was writing to share some recipes and tell me about how Thanksgiving Day had turned out for her, her husband Joe, and some of their kids, grand kids, friends, and neighbors. I love her description of packing the carry - all! I can nearly taste each bite, can't you? Here's what she wrote:

"I hope you and yours had a wonderful Thanksgiving day. We have so much to be thankful for.

I cooked as usual and had Austin, the oldest Grandson and his Dad, Steve over. They always look forward to NeeNah's cooking on the holidays. Then one of Joe's trooper buddies stopped over and though he couldn't stay or come back for dinner, since he was working the plaza on the turnpike very close to here, he said he could come back and pick up a plate if that was o.k. We said sure, so that's what he did. I have one of those nice covered carry - alls that has several sections in it and I filled each of those, then put his pie, orange fruit salad, cranberry sauce and rolls in other containers in a bag. Joe called him and told him it was ready for pick-up. He took it back to work and said he shared with someone else.

When he finished work and brought the containers back, he said, 'You must be from the South to cook like that.'

I said, 'I am from Missouri.'

And he said, 'Well, that's the South!'

I told him that my Momma was a wonderful cook and she could cook anything and everything. I guess I learned from her!"

Love, Aunt Sue

I was also recently reminded of a long - ago Thanksgiving when my lovely friend Elaine and I decided -- in the spirit of over the river and through the wood -- that we could make it all the way from Northwest Arkansas to Northeast Missouri in her unheated vintage BMW. The fire was hot within us, but the temperatures outside were frightful (yes, even in the South) and the car was freezing. After twenty - five miles or so of trying unsuccessfully / unsafely to see through the perma - frosted windshield, we faced reality and turned around. Of course, planning to be elsewhere, we had prepared no Thanksgiving food of any kind, aside from an experimental fruitcake baked the week before in a tin can in a crock - pot. We were feastless! So we gave thanks that night for one of America's finest traditions:

You might also enjoy
these previous posts about Southern Cooking
and the women in my family:

G.R.I.T.S.

Tomatoes and Gravy

Harvest View

2011-11-19T00:53:00.008-05:00

My 6th Grade Chalk Drawing, Fall 1968
~ Thanks to Mrs. Mitchell for being the best art teacher ever! ~

"Many times we've watched the cornfields
turn from green to gold.
The pattern is familiar as the picture is unrolled,
but every time it happens,
it is strange and fresh and new.
Never does the eye grow weary of the harvest view."
This little poem dates back to those years when every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter my mother ordered the holiday issues of Ideals Magazine. How we kids loved pouring over the vintage drawings and nostalgic poetry, much of which we memorized not so much from trying but just from reading and re-reading so many times.

Year after year, we awaited the moment -- usually a few weeks before the actual Christmas decorations came out -- when Mom would take out the cardboard box in which the Ideals were stored. Even now, my siblings and I can describe to each other every vivid detail of the unforgettable shiny covers. The quaint outdoor scenes of villages and haywagons; the lush seasonal still - life photographs of golden candles and holly berries are forever linked to our memories of each festive season.

Here is one of my favorites -- the lantern and the bittersweet, with the verse above, unattributed, on the opening page:
Ideals Magazine, Thanksgiving Issue
November 1966, Volume 23, Number 5
Maryjane Hooper Tonn & John H. Hafemeister, eds.

Liverpool Daffodils

2011-11-16T09:33:00.004-05:00

"Tonight at noon . . .
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees"
~ from "Tonight at Noon" ~

"Come close, my love, and tell me
April will never end
That daffodil like gorse-bush
Will last to the year's end"
~ from "Song in April" ~

To accompany the daffodil imagery of
Liverpool poet Adrian Henri,
these beautifully drawn daffodils
are from the Botany collection at the
World Museum, Liverpool.
To send as e-cards, click
HERE (L)
HERE (R)

For more info: National Museums Liverpool
For more online museum activities: Multimedia
For more e-card selections: Museum E - Cards

For more poetry from Adrian Henri
see Daffodils of Autumn
on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

See also my previous Adrian Henri posts:

Brush With Greatness

Holy Connection and Coincidence Batman!

Which Season: Summer or Fall?

Tonight at Noon, Equinox, Harvest Moon

Wartime Soldier, Wartime Child

Happy Batday

Evensong

2011-11-13T18:15:00.010-05:00

The Day Thou Gavest
(click to hear choral rendition)

The day thou gavest, Lord, is ended;
The darkness falls at Thy behest;
To Thee our morning hymns ascended,
Thy praise shall sanctify our rest.

We thank Thee that Thy church unsleeping,
While earth rolls onward into light,
Through all the world her watch is keeping,
And rests not now by day or night.

As o'er each continent and island
The dawn leads on another day,
The voice of prayer is never silent,
Nor dies the strain of praise away.

The sun that bids us rest is waking
Our brethren 'neath the western sky,
And hour by hour fresh lips are making
Thy wondrous doings heard on high.

So be it, Lord! Thy throne shall never,
Like earth's proud empires, pass away;
Thy kingdom stands, and grows for ever,
Till all Thy creatures own Thy sway.

by John Ellerton

For more about this song
see my post from 28 October:

As Darkness Falls Into Light
on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

~ NEW FORTNIGHTLY POST TOMORROW ~
~ 14 NOVEMBER 2011 ~
Daffodils of Autumn

"The same war continues . . . "

2011-11-11T00:12:00.003-05:00

As I have mentioned before, for an occasional infusion of creativity, I like to peruse the paintings of my friend Leonard Orr and challenge myself to describe each work of art in one or two words. For this one (above), I thought, "Veterans Day" because it brought to mind the Buddy Poppies that are designed and distributed by the VFW. These little red boutonnières have always been a part of my earliest Armistice / Veterans Day memories, when I would go to the cemetery and the parade with my parents and grandparents.

A fitting poem for the day:

Life at War

The disasters numb within us
caught in the chest, rolling
in the brain like pebbles. The feeling
resembles lumps of raw dough

weighing down a child’s stomach on baking day.
Or Rilke said it, ‘My heart. . .
Could I say of it, it overflows
with bitterness . . . but no, as though

its contents were simply balled into
formless lumps, thus
do I carry it about.’
The same war

continues.
We have breathed the grits of it in, all our lives,
our lungs are pocked with it,
the mucous membrane of our dreams
coated with it, the imagination
filmed over with the gray filth of it:

the knowledge that humankind,

delicate Man, whose flesh
responds to a caress, whose eyes
are flowers that perceive the stars,

whose music excels the music of birds,
whose laughter matches the laughter of dogs,
whose understanding manifests designs
fairer than the spider’s most intricate web,

still turns without surprise, with mere regret
to the scheduled breaking open of breasts whose milk
runs out over the entrails of still-alive babies,
transformation of witnessing eyes to pulp-fragments,
implosion of skinned penises into carcass-gulleys.

We are the humans, men who can make;
whose language imagines mercy,
lovingkindness we have believed one another
mirrored forms of a God we felt as good—

who do these acts, who convince ourselves
it is necessary; these acts are done
to our own flesh; burned human flesh
is smelling in Vietnam as I write.

Yes, this is the knowledge that jostles for space
in our bodies along with all we
go on knowing of joy, of love;

our nerve filaments twitch with its presence
day and night,
nothing we say has not the husky phlegm of it in the saying,
nothing we do has the quickness, the sureness,
the deep intelligence living at peace would have.

by Denise Levertov , 1923 - 97
Politically acitve British - born American poet and educator

from To Stay Alive
New Directions Publishing Corporation, 1971

A closing thought for Veterans Day:

"I hate with a murderous hatred those men who, having lived their youth, would send into war other youth, not lived, unfulfilled, to fight and die for them; the pride and cowardice of those old men, making their wars that boys must die."

Mary Roberts Rinehart, 1876 - 1958
American mystery writer and war correspondent

See also my previous Veterans Day posts:Armistice Day (2009)

Wartime Soldier, Wartime Child (2010)

and my previous Leonard Orr posts:"In Flanders fields the poppies blow . . . "

End of Summer Sounds

Golden Paintings by Leonard Orr

Excellent Images

Happy Birthday Dylan Thomas

Full Moon, Full Heart

2011-11-10T00:40:00.004-05:00

Maybe this month's Mourning Moon won't seem so sad if you open your heart to the magic and share it with someone else.

Your body is away from me
But there is a window open
from my ♥ heart ♥ to yours.
From this window, like the moon
I keep sending news secretly.

Rumi, 1207 - 1273
13th-century Persian poet
Philosopher, scholar, mystic
i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

E. E. Cummings, 1894 - 1962
Very popular American poet
Somewhat unconventional,
sometimes eccentric

# VIII from The Black Rider and Other Lines

I looked here;
I looked there;
Nowhere could I see my love.
And -- this time --
She was in my heart.
Truly, then, I have no complaint,
For though she be fair and fairer,
She is none so fair as she
In my heart.

Stephen Crane, 1871 - 1900
Influential, innovative American author
Journalist, novelist, poet

[click ♥ for ♥-clipart.com]

A Perfect World, Better Than Real

2011-11-06T08:39:00.010-05:00

My Favorite Wingfield Illustration
from The Party by M. E. Gagg
[See also this nostalgic blog post from "Wartime Housewife"
about the rosy world of Wingfield]
As I mentioned a couple of years ago, I always find Bill Bryson to be at his most endearing when he describes his favorite children's books from long ago. Like Bryson, I too have always felt "strangely influenced" by the depiction of life in those old readers and storybooks. Bryson's enthusiasm indicates that it's not just a "girl thing" to want that idealized version of childhood for your kids. Father's can have a similar vision (Bryson has, I think, 2 daughters and 2 sons). As Bryson was enchanted by the Ladybird Reading Series, illustrated by J. H. (Harry) Wingfield, I, in turn, am equally enchanted by Bryson's description of this long lost imaginary world:

"Once many years ago, in anticipation of the offspring we would one day have, a relative of my wife's gave us a box of Ladybird children's books from the 1950s and 1960s. They all had titles like Out in the Sun and Sunny Days at the Seaside, and contained meticulously drafted, richly colored illustrations of a prosperous, contented, litter-free Britain in which the sun always shone, shopkeepers smiled, and children in freshly pressed clothes derived happiness and pleasure from innocent pastimes -- riding a bus to the shops, floating a model boat on a park pond, chatting to a kindly policeman.

"My favorite was a book called Adventure on the Island. There was in fact precious little adventure in the book--the high point, I recall, was finding a starfish suckered to a rock -- but I loved it because of the illustrations (by the gifted and much-missed J. H. Wingfield), which portrayed an island of rocky coves and long views that was recognizably British, but with a Mediterranean climate and a tidy absence of pay-and-display car parks, bingo parlors, and the tackier sort of amusement arcades. Here commercial activity was limited to the odd cake shop and tearoom.

"I was strangely influenced by this book, and for some years agreed to take our family vacations at the British seaside on the assumption that one day we would find this magic place where summer days were forever sunny, the water as warm as a sitz bath, and commercial blight unknown.

"When at last we began to accumulate children, it turned out that they didn't like these books at all because the characters in them never did anything more lively than visit a pet shop or watch a fisherman paint his boat. I tried to explain that this was sound preparation for life in Britain, but they wouldn't have it and instead, to my dismay, attached their affections to a pair of irksome little clots called Topsy and Tim."
from Notes From a Small Island (103 - 04)
by Bill Bryson

Topsy and Tim certainly appear eager to camp out in a tent and clamber through the woods, yet the illustrations simply do not carry the idealized charm that Bryson appreciated in the Ladybird / Wingfield adventures. For another look at the contrast between Ladybird and Topsy & Tim, scroll down to see yesterday's post on "Bonfire Night".

I've written several posts on Bill Bryson (see list below), but I can't move on without sharing one more thing: his winsome commentary on the Dick & Jane reading series. The following passage from his memoir The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid is rather lengthy but well worth reading every heartfelt and hilarious word:

"We were taught to read from Dick and Jane books, solid hardbacks bound in a heavy - duty red or blue fabric. They had . . . lots of handsome watercolor illustrations featuring a happy, prosperous, good - looking, law - abiding, but interestingly strange family. . . . Father is always called Father, never Dad or Daddy . . . Mother is always Mother. . . . The family has no last name. They live in a pretty house with picket fence on a pleasant street . . . The children . . . have only the simplest and most timeless of toys: a ball, a wagon, a kite, a wooden sailboat. . . .

"I was captivated by the Dick and Jane family . . . so wonderfully, fascinatingly different from my own family . . .

"Because our Dick and Jane books at Greenwood were ten or fifteen years old, they depicted a world that was already gone. The cars were old - fashioned; the buses, too. The shops the family frequented were of a type that no longer existed -- pet shops with puppies in the window, toy stores with wooden toys, grocers where items were fetched for you by a cheerful man in a white apron. I found everything about this enchanting. . . . It was a wonderful world, a perfect world, friendly, hygienic, safe, better than real. There was just one very odd thing...Whenever any of the characters spoke, they didn't sound like humans (145 - 47)."

Bryson goes on to mimic the stilted dialogue of the reading series:

"'Here we are at the farm,' says Father . . . then adds a touch robotically: 'Hello, Grandmother. Here we are at the farm.'

"'Oh, look! Here we are at the farm,' adds Dick . . . 'Here we are at the farm . . . Here is Grandfather, too! Here we are at the farm'

"It was like this one every page. Every character talked exactly like people whose brains had been taken away. . . .

"I loved the Dick and Jane books so much that I took them home and kept them. (There were stacks of spares in the cloakroom.) I still have them and still look at them from time to time. And I am still looking for [that] family . . . " (147 - 48).

from The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid:
A Memoir
by Bill Bryson
My essays "Tom, Betty & Susan In The Autumn" and "Dick, Jane & Bill (Bryson)"describe my own early mesmerizing experience with The Little Red, Blue, and Green Storybooks, which is remarkably similar to Bryson's nostalgic attachment to these formative old favorites.

My previous posts about Bill Bryson include

"Monday Pop" Quiz

"The Small Things That Make the Big Things Big"

"Dick, Jane & Bill (Bryson)"

"Jam Cake"

"Mind the Gap!"

"Catching Up On Bill Bryson" (on book blog)

"Siblings in Literature" (one of my Listmania! lists on amazon.com)

Bonfire Night

2011-11-05T08:34:00.005-04:00

While the Brits may not go crazy for Halloween the way we do here in the States, they have something that we don't -- Bonfire Night every year on the 5th of November, otherwise known as Guy Fawkes Night. (See my post last year on Guy Fawkes Day.)

The tradition originated back in 1605, during the reign of James I of England (VI of Scotland) when the traitor (or hero) Guy Fawkes participated in an unsuccessful rebellion against Church and State. The occasion no longer carries a revolutionary connotation -- though fans of the renegade movie V for Vendetta will recognize it as a subtext in the film.

Over the years the historical commemoration has been modified into a night of fireworks and bonfires, though in England as in America, the tradition of an autumn bonfire right in your own backyard, or even a larger communal bonfire, is becoming more and more prohibited in the name of safety and environmental friendliness.

Bonfire illustrations by J. H. Wingfield
from the Ladybird Book
Helping At Home by M. E. Gagg

My brother Dave writes from Kansas: "I am fortunate to live in Kansas and in the County because we are still so 'backward' as to allow burning of leaves. Soon, I will be heaping up my own funeral pyre to autumn and invoking the solemn vespers of the season."

Autumn Vespers
You can't burn just - fallen leaves anymore,
something about the frail environment.
Oh yes, you can rake them into neat piles
(Just so many to each pile),
shake them down into plastic, shroud-black bags
(Just so many to each bag),
and line the bags in front of your house
(Just so many bags to each leaf - gatherer)
for execution in the morning.

But you can't lean on an old, wooden rake
at dusk, as companion to the evening star,
to watch flames, like small orange flowers,
burn through long lines of dead, rebellious leaves
and reverently contemplate blue smoke
spreading like incense from a swung censer
and rising, like prayer, to an autumnal god
who had contrived the red apple, purple plum
bursting joy of tree, bush, vine, and kitchen bowl,
and you can't, like a ministering priest,
bend to the faint pulse of the failing day
convinced that you alone are confidant
to the last sigh of the dying earth.

poem by Frank Ryan
found in the Fall 2007 edition of my
favorite poetry magazine, Plainsongs,
published out of Hastings College, Nebraska

A Recent Bonfire in Missouri
photographed by Jay Beets

All Souls: From Dust Thou Art

2011-11-02T00:14:00.007-04:00

"Life is a constant battle
between the heart and the brain.
But guess who wins.
The skeleton."

a deep thought by Jack Handey
from The Lost Deep Thoughts

Sam's Goblin
acrylic, 1997

The Likelihood
At some time or other the dust will change its mind.
It will cease to be dust.
It will start over again.
It will reconstitute itself,
become skin,
become a fingernail or perhaps
a heart beating slowly.
Whatever, let's keep our eyes open
in case we miss the moment
of the the dust's rebellion,
and our ears open
for the small whisper of
"I'm fed up being dust," or
"I long to be an apple polished
against the sleeve
of a child I'd forgotten!"
It might be the dust buried beneath frost speaking,
or the dust of old machinery,
or the the melancholic dust of friends
who believed in dying.
It might even be the dust of moths
God left uninvented.

Against a pile of such dust I have weighed
the likelihood of you returning.

by British poet Brian Patten (b. 1946)
best known as one of the Liverpool Poets

see previous Quotidian posts:
"Believe In Your Own Full Moonlight"
"Brush With Greatness"

and "Happy Batday" on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker

All Saints: A Visit to the Graveyard

2011-11-01T00:42:00.004-04:00

Mailboxes at the Cemetery
I like the looks of these . . .
maybe it's not too late to send that letter . . .
"No one gets a thousand years; but if you're lucky you get twenty thousand days and the chance to put down a 'million' things. . . . and one thing I've learned is that the private fingerings of ordinary experience can fill up notebooks as interestingly as musings on great events . . . Time is the strongest thing of all, and the diarist is always fleeing it. He knows he will eventually be run to earth, but his hope is that his book will let each day live beyond its midnight, let it continue somewhere outside its place in a finite row of falling dominoes."

American novelist & critic, Thomas Mallon (b. 1951)
from the introduction to his book
A Book of One's Own: People and Their Diaries

Appearing as the epilogue in Mallon's book
is this fitting thought for All Saints Day:

"Why do we wish to be remembered, even when none remain who looked upon our face? Surely, though it must retain an element of self- consideration, it is a last acknowledgment that we need to be loved; and, having gone from all touch, we trust that memory may, as it were, keep our unseen presence within the borders of day."

Scottish poet & diarist, William Soutar (1898 - 1943)

"It was suddenly a warm afternoon,
a lost summer day in late autumn."
from The Saffron Kitchen
by Yasmin Crowther1 November 2011

As Midnight Approaches

2011-10-31T23:35:00.001-04:00

"Shadows of a thousand years
rise again unseen.
Voices whisper in the trees,
'Tonight is Halloween!' "

(verse from greeting card;
photograph from Jay Beets)

Puff the Magic Dragon

2011-10-31T00:27:00.005-04:00

My British - sister - in - law is here
to experience an American Halloween, and she did
half the work on this dragon - o - lantern last night.
Thanks Tina McFadyen!

. . . and thanks to my British father - in - law,
Ron McCartney who came over last month and bought me
this new scarecrow for the front yard. Cute!

Darkness Falls

2011-10-29T00:06:00.002-04:00

AFTERGLOW(L) & GLOWING SUNSET (R)
Both by Scottish Landscape Artist,
Joseph Farquharson, 1846 - 1935
"The supper dishes are over and the sun
unaccustomed to anything else
goes all the way down."

American Poet, Anne Sexton, 1928 - 74
from her poem, "Lament"

For more pictures and poems
about the close of day
see my new post

As Darkness Falls Into Light
on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Happy Birthday Dylan Thomas

2011-10-27T16:35:00.038-04:00

"My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in a shower of all my days"

by Welsh Poet Dylan Thomas
27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953

from

"Poem in October"
Read by Dylan Thomas

see also

"Poem on His Birthday"
"Dark is a way and light is a place . . . "
Read by Dylan Thomas

and

"Especially When the October Wind"
" . . . Some let me make you of autumnal spells . . . "

Rainy Autumn Paintings, here and above
by Leonard Orr

Additional Leonard Orr paintings
featured previously on this blog:

Excellent Images

Golden Paintings by Leonard Orr

End of Summer Sounds

Harvesting Walnuts

2011-10-25T08:40:00.005-04:00

The Large Walnut Tree at L'Hermitage, 1875
by French Impressionist Camille Pissarro, 1830 - 1903

We'll go on as always harvesting walnuts

on our hands and knees,
and die voicelessly
as a sedan full of cigar smoke
sinking under a bridge.
We'll turn slowly, flowers
in the mouths of drowned cattle
In a dawn of burned fields,
the sun disappoints you,
and the blight you begin to remember
is me.
Like an Alp overlooking a corpse
I explain nothing.

Larry Levis, 1946 - 1996
Award - winning American professor and poet

For more "harvesting" poems
by Robert Frost and Larry Levis

see my recent post Apples, Leaves, Walnuts

on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony
Walnut trees at the end of our driveway

Multifarious Gaieties

2011-10-23T04:04:00.007-04:00

Vintage Sheet Music
from composer Hans Engelmann (1872 - 1914)

**********************

"October, that season of tea parties
that ushered in the multifarious gaieties
of the winter."

~ a lovely seasonal observation ~
from British writer E. F. Benson, 1867 - 1940
from his droll and witty novel Queen Lucia,
whose high - spirited protagonists are always partying!

Speaking of which . . .

Present for my sister - in - law Marion
a few Christmases agoOktoberfest Barbie
[still available on amazon.com]

Tu - whit! Tu - whoo!

2011-10-21T08:35:00.009-04:00

Perfect Project for a dark rainy day:
first Jack - o - Lantern of the Season!
"When all aloud the wind doth blow . . .

Then nightly sings the staring owl

Tu-whoo!

Tu-whit, tu-whoo! -- a merry note!"

William Shakespeare
from Love's Labour's Lost

The Full Hunter's Moon: Early Morning, 14 October 2011
Exactly One Week Later: Goodbye Moon!

October, Baseball, and Cats

2011-10-19T19:45:00.004-04:00

"Fall in Pennsyltucky"
photograph by Bruce Carriker
photographer's note: "Sort of Americana, no?
And yes, that is Gobbler's Knob in the background.
Good for you for paying attention!"
In honor of the World Series, I dedicate this blog post to my twin brother Bruce. In autumns past, he has sent me the following two poems: one in which October itself is described in terms of a baseball game; and one in which we learn what our sports - minded feline friends are daydreaming about!

October
the high fly ball,
arches out above left field,
hangs there in the sky
outblazing the sun
while fifty thousand heads swings and cry
"Over the wall! Over the wall!"

then hold, fixed and dumb
as the ball drops
down and down, a dead bird
into a waiting glove

and there you have it: the song,
the flight, the perilous whisper of truth
or of love or possibly of faith

then the descent
and the end of the game

by Hester Jewell Dawson

[I could locate no biographical information on Dawson,
other than this brief reference in the Baseball Almanac;
if anyone knows more, please share!]

What The Cat Contemplates
While Pretending to Clean Herself
So attentive
to her paws
she seems
leaning over
licking
tirelessly
but thinking
not about what dirt
has climbed under her claws.
No, the cat sees herself
sternly stepping to the plate
spitting in her paw palms
and gripping the bat just so.
With the look of feline indifference
she tends to one final itch
before staring down the pitcher
in the last instant before delivery.

When she rubs
her wet cat wrist
behind her furry ear
you'd think she had a spot
of mud there
or a flea
but really
the cat is signaling
the runner at first
to stretch that lead a little further down the baseline.

By the time
she is perched
on her hind legs
lapping at the fur
of her underside
the cat is sliding safely
into home.

by Nancy Boutilier
from On the Eighth Day Adam Slept Alone
© Black Sparrow Press

Another view of scenic Pennsylvania,
this one taken by my sister, Peggy Carriker Rosenbluth
photographer's note: "Beautiful fall picture.
Maybe I'll get this made into a jigsaw puzzle.
Taken on the way to Fulton County Folk Festival
Burnt Cabins, Pennsylvania"

Ten Thousand Thousand

2011-10-17T17:11:00.081-04:00

Stilleben Mit Fruchtschale
At the Hannover Landesmuseum
By Prague Artist Emil Orlik, 1870 - 1937
In each of these two excerpts from the poetry of Robert Frost , the honorable farmer is so solicitous, so respectful of his crops, so determined that none should be wasted or disrespected. The apple farmer cherishes each of his "ten thousand thousand fruit," while the woodsman, in response to the city buyer's casual proposition to purchase his wild pines, marvels at "A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!"

from After Apple - Picking

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.

from Christmas Trees

Then I was certain I had never meant
To let him have them. Never show surprise!
But thirty dollars seemed so small beside
The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents
(For that was all they figured out apiece),
Three cents so small beside the dollar friends
I should be writing to within the hour
Would pay in cities for good trees like those,
Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools
Could hang enough on to pick off enough.
A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!
Worth three cents more to give away than sell,
As may be shown by a simple calculation.
Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.
I can’t help wishing I could send you one,
In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.
[Click to read entire poem]

Illustration by Garth Willlams
from A Little House Christmas by Laura Ingalls Wilder
At first I wondered what Frost meant by "Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools / Could hang enough on to pick off enough."
Then I remembered the Little House story of Christmas on Plum Creek, and the big tree in the church covered with popcorn, mittens, boots -- hung with enough surprises for everyone to pick one off.

Even better, my mother sent me this incredible old photograph from the early 1900s (she's guessing somewhere between 1900 - 1904). On the back, in my grandmother's elegant cursive, is the notation: "Our Christmas Tree at the Evangelical Church in Emporia, Kansas." I was initially perplexed by the perspective. Was that a set of doll furniture underneath the elaborately festooned tree? No! That is an arched window to the left, then the pulpit, appearing tiny in comparison to the gigantic tree, with pews in front and to the right. How tall is that tree? Twenty feet? Who climbed up there to hang all that popcorn and lace? I guess that's what Frost means by a regular vestry tree!

***************************************************
For more "harvesting" poems
by Robert Frost and Larry Levis

see my recent post Apples, Leaves, Walnuts

on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Harvesting

2011-10-15T12:21:00.012-04:00

Fairies and Elves Pick Apples
by English Illustrator Arthur Rackham, 1867 - 1939
An autumnal sense of resignation permeates the poem "After Apple - Picking" by Robert Frost. I like the way that he is "done with apple - picking now" not because the job is entirely finished -- since, in fact, it's not: "there's a barrel that I didn't fill" and "may be two or three / Apples I didn't pick" -- but because he has just had enough; he's "overtired." Even though there may be a few odds and ends not yet tied up, the time for this particular enterprise has come to an end: "Essence of winter sleep is on the night."

" . . . there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight . . ."

For more "harvesting" poems
by Robert Frost and Larry Levis

see my recent post Apples, Leaves, Walnuts

on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

Day Dreams, Night Dreams

2011-10-13T02:32:00.007-04:00

Some dreams are day dreams,

but my dreams are night dreams . . .
. . . night dreams . . .
. . . night dreams.*

short poem by Jaren Dahlstrom
*ellipses in original, as found in
Begin Sweet World: Poetry by Children (1976)
edited by John Pearson

P.S. 48 hours later & I must add a coda
in the form of this photograph that I took
after yesterday's rain. . . not a leaf remains . . . well, maybe one or two

Always Autumn

2011-10-11T11:53:00.009-04:00

Photograph by Ben McCartney
"The suspicion that even God is partial to autumn
has overwhelmed others,
including John Donne, who enthused:
"In Heaven, it is always Autumn."

comment by American Essayist,
Frank Trippett, 1926 - 98

Click to read the entirety of Trippett's excellent autumnal essay --
ranging in topic from ancient harvest legends
to the U. S. Consitition to the World Series --
"A Season for Hymning and Hawing"
from Time Magazine Archives
Monday, Sept. 19, 1977

***************

In the original words of
John Donne, 1572 - 1631
English Metaphysical Poet
from a sermon preached Christmas Day, 1624

. . . in heaven it is always autumn, his mercies are ever in their maturity. We ask panem quotidianum today if you will hear his voice Psalm 95: 7], today he he will hear you. . . . He brought light out of darkness, not out of a lesser light; he can bring thy summer out of winter, though thou have no spring, though in the ways of fortune, or understanding or conscience, thou have been benighted till now, wintered and frozen, clouded and eclipsed, damped and benumbed, smothered and stupefied til now, now God comes to thee, not as in the dawning of the day, not as in the bud of the spring, but as the sun at noon to illustrate all shadows, as the sheaves in harvest, to fill all penuries . . .
[emphasis added]

***************

and inspired by Donne's sermon,
this lovely fall sonnet by American Poet
Elizabeth Spires (b. 1952)
In heaven it is always autumn. The leaves are always near
to falling there but never fall, and pairs of souls out walking
heaven’s paths no longer feel the weight of years upon them.
Safe in heaven’s calm, they take each other’s arm,
the light shining through them, all joy and terror gone.
But we are far from heaven here, in a garden ragged and unkept
as Eden would be with the walls knocked down, the paths littered
with the unswept leaves of many years, bright keepsakes
for children of the Fall. The light is gold, the sun pulling
the long shadow soul out of each thing, disclosing an outcome.
The last roses of the year nod their frail heads,
like listeners listening to all that’s said, to ask,
What brought us here? What seed? What rain? What light?
What forced us upward through dark earth? What made us ...

**************************

Lastly, this elegiac concluding passage
from the Cold Mountain by American novelist
Charles Frazier (b. 1950)
Ada had tried to love all the year equally, with no discrimination against the greyness of winter, its smell of rotted leaves underfoot, the stillness in the woods and fields. Nevertheless, she could not get over loving autumn best, and she could not entirely overcome the sentimentality of finding poignancy in the fall of leaves, of seeing it as the conclusion to the year and therefore metaphoric, though she knew the seasons came around and around and had neither inauguration nor epilogue" (355).

Earlier in the novel, Frazier refers to
"a day so autumnal that to write anything
about it would be to engage in elegy" (257).

Chrysanthemums

2011-10-09T09:28:00.014-04:00

A good day to buy
wine - colored chrysanthemums.
And wine. Beautiful!

~ Autumn Haiku by Burnetta, Karen & Kitti ~

from "The Golden Flower"
from The Complete Poetical Works
of Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. (1809 - 94)

Soft was the violet's vernal hue,
Fresh was the rose's morning red,
Full-orbed the stately dahlia grew,--
All gone! their short-lived splendors shed.
The shadows, lengthening, stretch at noon;
The fields are stripped, the groves are dumb;
The frost-flowers greet the icy moon,-- *
Then blooms the bright chrysanthemum.

*Coming soon to a night sky near you . . . The Full Hunter's Moon

Office Sunrise

2011-10-07T08:23:00.003-04:00

Sunrise from Office Window
photograph by Gerry McCartney, taken earlier this week
" . . . What would a blind man not give to see this glory and handiwork! And what a sight for indifferent men with two good eyes to sleep through! If there were but one sunrise in every century, no one would miss it; all beds would be empty while people waited out - of - doors to behold the flaming wonder."

American writer, Fulton Oursler, 1893 - 1952
author (along with his son Will Oursler) of the novel
Father Flanagan of Boys Town
(see also the movie Boys Town, starring Spencer Tracy)

The Quotidian Pillow Book

2011-10-04T16:20:00.025-04:00

"The Pillow Book"
Sei Shonagon, painted by Hisashi Otsuka

"On the day after a fierce autumn wind
everything moves one deeply.
The garden is in a pitiful state
with all the bamboo and lattice fences knocked over
and lying next to each other on the ground.
It is bad enough if the branches of one of
the great trees have been broken by the wind;
but it is a really painful surprise
to find that the tree itself has fallen down and is
now lying flat over the bush-clover and the valerians."
On my recent book blog,
I mentioned that
Ruth L. Ozeki's novel
My Year of Meats,
is filled with numerous references to
The Pillow Book by Sei Shonagon.

Shonagon (c. 966 -1017) lived at the Japanese court during the Heian period and kept a journal -- her famous Pillow Book --

" . . . filled with odd facts, stories from the past, and all sorts of other things, often including the most trivial material. On the whole I concentrated on things and people that I found charming and splendid, my notes are also full of poems and observations on trees and plants, birds and insect. . . . it is written entirely for my own amusement, and I put things down exactly as they came to me" (from The Pillow Book, emphasis added).

Most famous are her quirky, descriptive, insightful lists, such as Lovely Things, Hateful Things, & Things that make you feel nostalgic." One of my favorites is

Things That Pass by Rapidly:
A boat under full sail.
Age. Spring. Summer. Fall. Winter.

If you search google for images of Sei Shonagon,
this picture pops up a few times, but unfortunately
without any information on artist, title, or date
~~ Check out ~~
~ Shonagon as Blogger
~ More List Poems
~ Favorite Things

Leaves Turning

2011-10-03T08:56:00.007-04:00

Amazing Autumnal Photography by Jay Beets
Leaves

1

Every October it becomes important, no, necessary
to see the leaves turning, to be surrounded
by leaves turning; it's not just the symbolism,
to confront in the death of the year your death,
one blazing farewell appearance, though the irony
isn't lost on you that nature is most seductive
when it's about to die, flaunting the dazzle of its
incipient exit, an ending that at least so far
the effects of human progress (pollution, acid rain)
have not yet frightened you enough to make you believe
is real; that is, you know this ending is a deception
because of course nature is always renewing itself —
the trees don't die, they just pretend,
go out in style, and return in style: a new style.

2

Is it deliberate how far they make you go
especially if you live in the city to get far
enough away from home to see not just trees
but only trees? The boring highways, roadsigns, high
speeds, 10-axle trucks passing you as if they were
in an even greater hurry than you to look at leaves:
so you drive in terror for literal hours and it looks
like rain, or snow, but it's probably just clouds
(too cloudy to see any color?) and you wonder,
given the poverty of your memory, which road had the
most color last year, but it doesn't matter since
you're probably too late anyway, or too early —
whichever road you take will be the wrong one
and you've probably come all this way for nothing.

3

You'll be driving along depressed when suddenly
a cloud will move and the sun will muscle through
and ignite the hills. It may not last. Probably
won't last. But for a moment the whole world
comes to. Wakes up. Proves it lives. It lives —
red, yellow, orange, brown, russet, ocher, vermilion,
gold. Flame and rust. Flame and rust, the permutations
of burning. You're on fire. Your eyes are on fire.
It won't last, you don't want it to last. You
can't stand any more. But you don't want it to stop.
It's what you've come for. It's what you'll
come back for. It won't stay with you, but you'll
remember that it felt like nothing else you've felt
or something you've felt that also didn't last.

by Lloyd Schwartz

Copyright © 1992 by Lloyd Schwartz
From Goodnight, Gracie
(The University of Chicago Press, 1992)

Jay Beets: Sunrise Color

Read This! Eat This!

2011-10-01T15:45:00.008-04:00

Check out my two new food - related book blogs on
Kitti's Book List
kittislist.blogspot.com

1. Meat and Potatoes
Les pommes et les pommes de terre
dans mon évier de cuisine

2. You Are What You Eat
"Science Run Amok!"

Sad September

2011-09-29T10:00:00.014-04:00

Badminton House, Gloucestershire, England
one of the filming locations for the movie
The Remains of the Day
I think this is what Ishiguro means by "Remains of the Day":

"But what is the sense in forever speculating what might have happened had such and such a moment turned out differently? One could presumable drive oneself to distraction in this way. In any case, while it is all very well to talk of 'turning points' one can surely only recognize such moments in retrospect. Naturally, when one looks back to such instances today, they may indeed take the appearance of being crucial, precious moments in one's life; but of course, at the time, this was not the impression one had. Rather, it was as though one had available a never - ending number of days, months, years in which to sort out the vagaries of one's relationship with Miss Kenton; an infinite number of further opportunities in which to remedy the effect of this or that misunderstanding. There was surely nothing to indicate at the time that such evidently small incidents would render whole dreams forever irredeemable" (179).

from The Remains of the Day
by Kazuo Ishiguro (b. 1954)

For more on the sinking realization
that "a dream can die,"

see my recent post Sad September

on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

This Autumn

2011-09-27T12:02:00.008-04:00

Autumn Mural in Philadelphia

"Even as it envelopes me
it is not mine, this autumn:
that wind blowing through the pines,
I regret how it makes them fall --
the leaves, the scarlet leaves of ivy."

verse found on the back
of a Metropolitan Museum of Art greeting card
~ no name given ~

Detail from above mural

Delicious Autumn!

2011-09-25T00:09:00.000-04:00

"Delicious autumn!
My very soul is wedded to it,
and if I were a bird
I would fly about the earth
seeking the successive autumns."

~ George Eliot ~

"Birds of a Feather"
by Charley Harper

Visit antiquehelper.com

Equinox: Growing Darkness

2011-09-23T08:33:00.000-04:00

Two more seasonal favorites
from Philadelphia cartoonist Tony Auth

Lines Written in the Days of Growing Darkness

Every year we have been
witness to it: how the
world descends

into a rich mash, in order that
it may resume.
And therefore
who would cry out

to the petals on the ground
to stay,
knowing, as we must,
how the vivacity of what was is married

to the vitality of what will be?
I don’t say
it’s easy, but
what else will do

if the love one claims to have for the world
be true?
So let us go on

though the sun be swinging east,
and the ponds be cold and black,
and the sweets of the year be doomed.

by Mary Oliver (b 1935)
Contemporary American Poet
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, 1984
Most recently: Swan: Poems and Prose Poems, 2010

this poem found in The New York Times, 5 November 2010

Autumn Indefinable

2011-09-21T07:48:00.010-04:00

". . . oh those first fall days, with the sad sharpness in the air
and the leaves bright so that our road is a line of color,
and the feeling of storing - in against the winter, and the pumpkins
. . . the indefinable sense of harvest entered the house,
of apples to be stored away,
of Christmas in the perceptible future . . . "

by Shirley Jackson, 1916 - 1965
[ best known for her dystopian short story "The Lottery"
and her ghost story The Haunting of Hill House]

the above passage is from
Life Among the Savages, 78, 160
referred to by Jackson as
"a disrespectful memoir of my children"

Beaumont says, "Go Boilers!"

Plastic Pumpkins

2011-09-19T08:27:00.004-04:00

Guess who got to come up from the basement this morning, to be fitted with a new light bulb and placed near the window to brighten up a gloomy rainy overcast eerie pre-autumnal day? Yes, you guessed -- the big black and orange Halloween pumpkin - cat yard lamp that my friend Cate gave me back in 2002.

She and I and my in - laws, Ron and Rosanne, were meeting to enjoy a cup of our favorite pre-Halloween coffee (pumpkin spice!) at one of our favorite spots, the Restaurant School Coffee Shop in West Philadelphia. Cate had rescued Pumpkin - Cat from a yard sale, and brought it along to sit proudly on its own chair and draw lots of attention at the coffee shop! I wonder if whoever put that cat in a Philadelphia yard sale would be surprised to know that it now celebrates the season year after year in Indiana!

I also have some smaller plastic pumpkins that my father - in - law Ron and I were pleased to purchase at Walmart one year, on the day after Halloween for seven (7) cents each! One day last winter, I had just bought some new round cookie sheets and before taking them to the basement, where I have some pantry shelves for excess baking supplies, I piled them up with other things that needed to go downstairs -- a couple of the plastic jack - o - lanterns, Mardi Gras beads, Christmas bows. As I set them on the shelf, I thought, "Voila -- Still Life!" So many favorite holidays, all present simultaneously!

Some years Pumpkin - Cat stays out until Christmas!
Keeping watch from the Roof - top!

Songs of Autumn

2011-09-17T17:12:00.000-04:00

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun . . .
. . . touch[ing]the stubble-plains with rosy hue . . .
To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, --*
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

by John Keats, English Romantic Poet (1795 - 1821)

[*my favorite lines]

Last OozingsThis picture is from a couple of nights ago when I was out in the yard with my camera waiting for the Harvest Moon to rise. Unfortunately, I didn't get any satisfactory photographs of the moon after all -- have to wait 'til next month and try again. However, I was pleased with this view of our back deck, complete with grapevines, both artificial and real. It looks almost as if the "warm days will never cease," but no, what we have here are the "last oozings."

Note on "To Autumn"
"In a letter written to Reynolds from Winchester, in September, 1819, Keats says: 'How beautiful the season is now--How fine the air. A temperate sharpness about it. Really, without joking, chaste weather--Dian skies--I never liked stubble-fields so much as now--Aye better than the chilly green of the spring. Somehow, a stubble-field looks warm--in the same way that some pictures look warm. This struck me so much in my Sunday's walk that I composed upon it.' What he composed was the 'Ode To Autumn.' "

Dolls in Literature

2011-09-15T00:08:00.009-04:00

I like the American Express ad, where Tina Fey says that her "Most interesting souvenir" is "an Amish baby doll with no face." I wonder where she purchased hers? I found this pair at Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia, and my neighbor John Woodin photographed them for my book jacket.

**********************************************

For more about my dissertation / book,

see my recent post

on The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A Fortnightly [every 14th & 28th] Literary Blog of
Connection & Coincidence; Custom & Ceremony

***********************************************

PREVIOUS POSTS IN REFERENCE TO
THE MINIATURE & THE GIGANTIC:

The Mystery of the Matryoshka: Within Within Within

Fun Fall Food!

The Miniature & the Gigantic

Memoirs to Read in the Summertime

And my list ~ Dolls in Literature ~
on amazon's Listmania!

And lastly, the voice of a skeptic in this recent article
concerning the value (or not) of dissertations.

Moonrise, Sunset

2011-09-13T00:04:00.005-04:00

Harvest Moon

A good poem to read just before the autumn leaves start to fall:

God's World
O world, I cannot hold thee close enough!
Thy winds, thy wide grey skies!
Thy mists that roll and rise!
Thy woods this autumn day, that ache and sag
And all but cry with colour! That gaunt crag
To crush! To lift the lean of that black bluff!
World, World, I cannot get thee close enough!

Long have I known a glory in it all,
But never knew I this;
Here such a passion is
As stretcheth me apart, -- Lord, I do fear
Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year;
My soul is all but out of me, -- let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.

by Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950
American Lyrical Poet

Late Summer Sunset
Photography here and above by Jay Beets

Alabaster City

2011-09-11T00:03:00.010-04:00

The Hope of a Nation by J. M. Haines
In honor of the 10th anniversary of 9 / 11, here are the words to my favorite national song, including verses often omitted (or rearranged):

America the Beautiful
O beautiful for spacious skies,
For amber waves of grain,
For purple mountain majesties
Above the fruited plain!

America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea!

O beautiful for pilgrim feet
Whose stern impassion'd stress
A thoroughfare for freedom beat
Across the wilderness.

America! America!
God mend thine ev'ry flaw,
Confirm thy soul in self-control,
Thy liberty in law.

O beautiful for heroes prov'd
In liberating strife,
Who more than self their country lov'd,
And mercy more than life.

America! America!
May God thy gold refine
Till all success be nobleness,
And ev'ry gain divine.

O beautiful for patriot dream
That sees beyond the years
Thine alabaster cities gleam
Undimmed by human tears.

America! America!
God shed His grace on thee,
And crown thy good with brotherhood
From sea to shining sea.

lyrics by Katharine Lee Bates (1859- 1929)
music by Samuel A. Ward (1847 - 1903)

On 17 September 2001, Dan Rather visited the David Letterman Show and talked to Dave about the terrorist attack of the previous week. Summarizing Dan's vist, salon.com reported that "Rather maintained his evenness until he told Letterman that a song Americans have sung since they were school kids, "America the Beautiful," will never sound quite the same to him: "Oh beautiful for patriot's dream/That echoes through the years/Thine alabaster cities gleam/Undimmed by human tears." His voice broke as he got to that last line."

The transcript reads:

"Dan: It's a new . . . It's a new place now, and we're headed to a new place, David. Time magazine had a wonderful essay this week, and said, you know, 'we're going now to a new place where, you know, even the songs we sing will have a completely different meaning.'

"For example, you know, 'America the Beautiful': Who can sing now, with the same meaning we had before, one stanza of that that goes 'O beautiful, for patriots' dream, that sees beyond the years, thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears.' We can never sing that song . . . [Sobs] . . . Again that way."

Naturally there were those to criticize Rather's interpretation of the patriotic lyric, but I have to confess his words have remained in my mind for the past ten years, along with my collection of images for the "alabaster city" . . . whatever, wherever it may be: New York City in 2001, Chicago in 1893, or St. Charles County Missouri in 1970.

When I was in Junior High, I rode the bus very early to school each day, past some abandoned grain elevators and army buildings. We always seemed to round the curve just as the rising sun hit those whitewashed structures, turning them pink and golden. Without fail, the words of "America the Beautiful" would enter my mind, and I'd say to myself (though not to my seatmates), "Look! The alabaster cities!"

Previous thoughts on 9 / 11

Previous thoughts on "America the Beautiful"

Previous thoughts on "The Hope of a Nation"
Chicago, Summer 2011
Photograph by Ben McCartney
Chicago, Summer 2009
Photograph by Gerry McCartney
Suggested reading:
"The Decade of Magical Thinking
by Steve Almond