tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19080780113755327152024-03-05T21:03:27.185-08:00Brown Paper PackagesFavorite things.Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.comBlogger46125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-70864145555825036812014-06-17T19:33:00.001-07:002014-06-17T19:33:08.530-07:00Walking Among FlowersTiny feet, 42 of them, invisible to me at least--I wasn't looking, somehow tiptoed into my kitchen sink from a canning jar bouquet of field flowers. Identifying which Coleopterans these were anyways, I came to a site of adventures, Walks Among Flowers, with information in a charming narrative. <br />
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Invisible hours, hundreds tiptoeing by while I wasn't looking, brought different bugs these many months, some from where no water springs or flowers grow. But, the day's delights continue including that so far, the sun is still shining, the fields are still blooming, the ocean still makes rocks into sand, and I'm pretty sure more tiny feet will arrive with the next bouquet.<br />
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Here is a photo from the travels of Tony and Val, who have walked around the whole border of England, some 2,500 miles.<br />
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Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-10518849705695078472010-08-19T08:31:00.001-07:002010-08-19T08:34:00.801-07:00The Time Traveler from Old Mrs. Romine's<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJAx02G9B383Bt5hsj_zNB6F8oaapXtKQclwPtWBRaz9rmG4Q86i49nrlf9hlLlu0cWPn2hUVcDOugST9JOaF-CdqtUJOAumwKMoLJv2I_I1AuYBGRgusVIN5W2rhPbnjkNx47wHAbvl5-/s1600/Feather+from+the+sky.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 373px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJAx02G9B383Bt5hsj_zNB6F8oaapXtKQclwPtWBRaz9rmG4Q86i49nrlf9hlLlu0cWPn2hUVcDOugST9JOaF-CdqtUJOAumwKMoLJv2I_I1AuYBGRgusVIN5W2rhPbnjkNx47wHAbvl5-/s400/Feather+from+the+sky.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507144420897595250" /></a><br />While gazing into a blue summer sky, whose brilliance backlit tall treetops into silhouettes, I was surprised by a tiny white speck. A small downy feather floated in slow motion from up seemingly nowhere and landed in the middle of me sitting there. It seemed to have traveled from the puff of a rosy-cheeked little boy that had sent a dandelion silk seed up into somewhere on a day just like this in a field where goats stood on old cars.Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-82428158622451986062010-08-19T06:17:00.001-07:002010-08-19T06:34:35.831-07:00Blue Salt<object width="640" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/EUK9uY6dbD0?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/EUK9uY6dbD0?fs=1&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="385"></embed></object>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-21662086296773340892010-08-01T23:46:00.000-07:002010-08-01T23:46:01.437-07:00More like falling in love<object style="background-image:url(http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/PUykOG0xhEk/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PUykOG0xhEk&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PUykOG0xhEk&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="480" height="295" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-78748707666377266282010-07-30T06:05:00.000-07:002010-07-30T06:26:42.015-07:00One Fine Day<object style="BACKGROUND-IMAGE: url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/_Jv_RCxjhdk/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_Jv_RCxjhdk&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_Jv_RCxjhdk&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="425" height="344" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-59076727023785079752010-07-17T11:01:00.000-07:002010-07-17T14:47:21.597-07:00Due by 5pm"Artist's Statement"<br /><br />Zygote is my favorite word. Everyone once was one, and no one had a choice where on this blue dot they would land, or whether they got brown eyes, black, green, indigo or not. I wish everyone could learn to swim and read and not drive under an influence. I think everyone has a spark of creativity inside that longs to get out there; some don’t realize it yet or have not found a way to do that, but they do recognize sparks in others, and it doesn’t necessarily take language or a set of rules to express it. One look, one touch, one aroma, one taste, one harmonica playing somewhere. That could be the door.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />`Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-32085772898649688222010-07-13T11:42:00.000-07:002010-07-13T12:52:53.418-07:00Blue Sky Kiss<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkVjvALR6poaNS_4hYYaFG-UHUGIxvLQ3_7q7oVs4HMhOqylzeYCacfCyBIBKd-Eqz6YoiZ04XYeUpVXF3h9ONHmCqDTcr8-RF428mq7iYziqk8iM3E4mfTo4xfvGRDN0sEhU1oNcG238/s1600/0712001835.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZkVjvALR6poaNS_4hYYaFG-UHUGIxvLQ3_7q7oVs4HMhOqylzeYCacfCyBIBKd-Eqz6YoiZ04XYeUpVXF3h9ONHmCqDTcr8-RF428mq7iYziqk8iM3E4mfTo4xfvGRDN0sEhU1oNcG238/s400/0712001835.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493481093009092354" border="0" /></a>Was lying on a bench after my walk in a game-filled, 3-diamond ballpark and picnic playground, looking at the clouds, imagining if I could see a message in the sky, when a jet made a trail. Then another jet went by and its trail criss-crossed the first.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />(pic from my cell)Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-92166066980639646562010-07-07T20:13:00.000-07:002010-07-08T09:39:02.568-07:00Namaste, Everyone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRDy_xkDHxDLlLTZyXO5O7JbnamleGVzM1fvXIzhDP8f_BZAUKaJ_CdsZ-9qbrnsk2SgpYdDJL_5UGOfmcrk0PWRidKXWnwZecSr2eljZ8eziiGC0n3pg0IQEQ3pN03-hkdLbW7ciXOtt/s1600/Namaste,+7.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzRDy_xkDHxDLlLTZyXO5O7JbnamleGVzM1fvXIzhDP8f_BZAUKaJ_CdsZ-9qbrnsk2SgpYdDJL_5UGOfmcrk0PWRidKXWnwZecSr2eljZ8eziiGC0n3pg0IQEQ3pN03-hkdLbW7ciXOtt/s400/Namaste,+7.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491385960646667106" border="0" /></a>Added to the short list of favorite words . . .<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >namaste</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" > </span>(nah-mah-STAY)<br /><br />A Sanskrit word:<br />"All that is best and highest in me greets/salutes all that is best and highest in you."<br /><strong style="font-weight: normal;"><br />A story I read:<br /><br />Albert Einstein was fascinated by Mohandas Gandhi. He watched newsreel after newsreel of Gandhi's doings in India. Having seen Gandhi greet people in the street with his hands placed together, as if in prayer, and with a bow, he wondered what Gandhi was saying. Einstein wrote Gandhi and asked him what he was saying. The simple reply: "Namaste." Einstein then wrote again to ask the meaning of this Hindu word, "namaste," and the reply was: "I honor the place within you where the entire universe resides; I honor the place within you of love, of light, of truth, of peace; I honor the place within you, where, when you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, there is only one of us."</strong>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-38046679544647687972010-06-25T10:00:00.000-07:002010-06-25T10:23:23.914-07:00One of the Most Beautiful Places6-22-10<br /><br />In the imaginary world of Aurora Boring Alice, Alice Krupperminsk was the clerk who helped Americanize old Great-Uncle Stanley’s family name, the name that had made her tougher for life. “Mm, Krupperminsky. Let’s see, you could shorten that to ‘Krupa,’ like the boat company. Or, now, ‘Copper’ with the hard ‘C’ would be attractive. Or, how about ‘Rupp,’ or ‘Permi.’ That--‘Permi’--has an important, scientific ring to it . . . So . . . what will it be then, Mr. Krupperminsky?”<br /><br />“I think you can take away the ypsilon,” he said. He had learned English, though British English, so he had a charming, mixed, musical accent. “Yes, Krupperminsk. Krupperminsk. I like that.”<br /><br />6-23-10<br /><br />Of course, her name wasn’t really Aurora Boring Alice, either. That was the nickname Donald MacDonald had called her in fourth grade at Greater Gratiot Elementary School when they were studying the atmosphere. He was also the one who once sat by her on the bus and told her somebody had bitten him that day, after which he bit her shoulder and said, “Like this.”<br /><br />When Alice recounted the story to Mama, she briefly thought about passing the bite along, for effect, of course. But that was what was wrong with Donald’s storytelling in the first place. In the second place and third place, Alice loved her Mama Lina--short for Emilie Ottilie Marie Carolina--so much, she was ashamed to have even had the fleeting thought.<br /><br />Alice was nonetheless pleased to have a bonafide nickname that did sort of refer to something beautiful. Plus, everyone knew that Alice was not boring, so it was a kind of tease that included her into most everything that went on at school. She was a quiet and good student, so no one who might later depend on her as a study buddy would be too mean.<br /><br />What made her not boring were two things. She could draw anything on anything with anything and she could hum and whistle at the same time. If it was during lunch, she’d wash her thick and thin sandwich down with water and do a requested round, say, “Row, Row, Row Your Boat,” or “Three Blind Mice,” humming first, then adding the whistled round. Her best one was “Dona Nobis Pacem,” which she’d do if someone added in a piece of licorice or some potato chips.<br /><br />That doesn’t include the fact that Alice also spoke two other languages besides English. To her, since she was not allowed to speak them around people who might not understand them, it was really like that part of her was invisible. Except, once in a while, she experienced “auditory delay” in responding to a question in English that was being filtered through those two other languages. People would get impatient with her sometimes, or think she wasn’t listening, which taught her to be very quiet, so fewer questions would be asked of her. This also taught her to be patient with herself, because she was always thinking very fast and in layers. There were so many ideas and funny and ridiculous scenes that floated by as she sat listening and doodling on her papers.<br /><br />She’d count how many times Mr. Helmer took off and put on his reading glasses, while she thought of how many words she could make with the letters of her name.<br /><br />A L I C J A S U S A N N E K R U P P E R M I N S K<br /><br />A E I U C <br />A E I U J <br />A KK <br />L <br />M <br />NNN <br />PP <br />R <br />SSS <br /><br />ARE SPARE PARE PAIR PAN PANS ANT ANTS AUNT <br />AREA SPARES PARES PAIRS PANT PANTS AUNTS<br />AREAS SNARE SNARES MAIN MAIL MAILS UNCLE<br />EAR LIP LIPS CLIP CLIPS CLAP CLAPS CAP UNCLES<br />EARS PLEASE PLEASES EASE EASES SEAM NAP NAPS<br />CAN CANE CANES RULE RULES REEL REELS SEES<br />CANS CAPE CAPES LAKE LAKES LAME CAMERA SEE<br />MAN MALE MANE MANES NAME NAMES SAME SNAIL<br />MEN CAKE CAKES LAMP LAMPS SLIM SLIME SNAILS<br />MASS MASSES MISS MISSES KISS KISSES SAIL SAILS<br />MANNER CAR LIKE LIKES PAL PALS PAIL PAILS RAIL RAILS REEK REEKS CREEK<br />MANNERS CARS LAIN LAP PLAN PLANNER PLANNERS PLANK PLANKS PLANE<br />PAPA PACK CARE PAIN SAP SAPS MAP MAPS SMACK SNACK SNACKS PLANES<br />PAPAS CARES PAINS SPA SNAP PLAIN PLAINS PEAK PEAKS SPEAK SPEAKS<br />PRIMER NEAR PALE SNAPS SNIP SNIPS SPIN SPINS PIN PINS PEN PENS<br />RIM PEAS NEARS PALES SCAM SCAMS SCRAM SCRAMS ALMS CALM CALMS SUN<br />RIMS PEA PEAR ALE SUNS SCAR SCARS SCARE SCARES RACE RACES SPACE<br />PRIM RUN PEARS ALES SEA SCAN SCALE SCALES SPACES RANK RANKS REAM<br />PRIME RUNS SEAR SALE SEAS SCENE SCENES SINK SINKS INK INKS LINK LINKS<br />PRIMES SEARS SALES SPAN SICK SICKNESS PICK PICKS PINK PINKS PIE<br />PRINCE SMEAR PANE SPANS SPRAIN SPRAINS RINSE RINSES RISE RISES<br />PRINCES SMEARS PANES REAM REAMS REAL LEARN LEARNS EARN EARNS . . .<br /><br />Then, if she would add the letters from “Aurora Boring,” that could make more than a hundred new combinations and sentences. As Alice thought about the words she was forming from her name, each one came with at least one picture. There would be the one thing connected to the word that first--almost instantly--appeared, and then other pictures would follow. Many pictures that were connected to her other languages would dance around the words.<br /><br />6-24-10<br /><br />She would doodle on the edges of her papers including the loose leaf holes as she listened to Mr. Margitan tell about the perfect right triangle and the Pythagorean Theorem. Alice liked Pythagoras and Euclid and Newton. Where were the boys that turned out to have ideas with pictures and symbols like that, she wondered. It seemed there weren’t very many girls with these thoughts, so Alice was quiet about that. She smiled as she designed a scalloped collar on the back of the “Estimating the Height of a Flagpole” homework assignment.<br /><br />What made her laugh in school were things like Mrs. Magee exclaiming, “My stars and steel-rimmed garters!” in English class. This kind of thing would get Alice to drawing any number of versions of stars and steel-rimmed garters, and whispery giggling. Mrs. Magee was the one who began encouraging Alice to write about her family. She also encouraged Alicja Susanne to use her real name.<br /><br />Most of all, Alicja Susanne loved music. Every day after warm-ups, Mr. Hanawalt would introduce a song in a story, give out sheet music, and show a movie clip including that particular song. Then, they would sing it. They sang “Bali Hai,” which had a mysterious quality expressive of yearning for grown-up love and exquisite beauty surrounded by swaying palm trees. They could almost feel the warm, white sand between their toes even though they were singing in a windowless cement block room that terraced down to a piano from behind which Mr. Hanawalt’s tan, bald head nodded and turned. The lenses of his black-framed glasses made his eyes look huge when they looked at the group singing the melody and then cornered left and right to keep everyone together. Once in a while, he would play the piano with one hand so he could direct with the other, but mostly it was his trusting gift to their independence that he sat down there on the bench, playing up to them with sweeping flourishes.<br /><br />6-25-10<br /><br />Many years later, when Alice was married and the mother of several children, she’d remember the thrill of “Bali Hai” and try as a grownup to reimagine the exotic beach with the warm trade winds gently caressing her cheek. For a moment, she’d wonder how that whole movie turned out, but it was almost better not seeing it, because it was one of the most beautiful places she had ever been.Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-18637251748531804252010-03-05T06:06:00.000-08:002010-03-05T06:09:38.543-08:00Steady SunriseSteady sunrise whispers, hey there, <br />Peeking over fuzz of blankets.<br />Far beyond the snow wave contour,<br />Lacy blues and silvers glisten.<br />Golden streams through quiet branches,<br />Warm bird chirps now softly waken.<br />Ball of new flame, steady, spreading,<br />Steady glowing, steady growing,<br />Burns away the great, gray-white mist,<br />Dances with my pen and fingers. <br />Rainbows flashing on my lashes--<br />Hello, steady, I remember.<br />In the night I yearned for you.Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-11091136901116840082010-02-16T18:57:00.000-08:002010-02-16T23:16:42.952-08:00BlurrySnowy, flurry days through windows<br />Blurry time ticking by<br />Nurses tender, giving showers<br />Secret friends bringing flowers,<br />Ice, hot soup, Beethoven, pie<br />Blankets over wraps and pillows<br />Firewood flames and feet aglow<br />How many stair steps did I go? <br />Love, I do not care or know.Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-71305104143209598422010-01-17T14:31:00.001-08:002010-01-17T16:18:11.680-08:00Knocking Holes in the Darkness<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7ShLEuKURg6UDrgF3OPsLCxv-Pn7HMTWldCLb7UmscNjzS2IWG_GD0LFedPsI2S1ma7V_S1W3M51yP_C2kNHc0izotV2DAxZ0SyHje_HbGplUhMeiAQiY1Rt-HNERI9x9gv-w2K6dTMq/s1600-h/streetlights_on_earth.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427863350148558946" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 282px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha7ShLEuKURg6UDrgF3OPsLCxv-Pn7HMTWldCLb7UmscNjzS2IWG_GD0LFedPsI2S1ma7V_S1W3M51yP_C2kNHc0izotV2DAxZ0SyHje_HbGplUhMeiAQiY1Rt-HNERI9x9gv-w2K6dTMq/s320/streetlights_on_earth.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Oh, the interview with Rev. Samuel “Billy” Kyles on NPR this morning . . . one of the best pre-Martin Luther King, Jr. Day meditations ever. The line, "knocking holes in the darkness," gives such a vivid picture.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122670935">http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=122670935</a><br /><br />The image, attributed to Robert Louis Stevenson, who, as a child, described what he saw outside his sickroom window--a man lighting the street lamps, does a lot more than that for me, too. And, I guess it did for Tom Waits when he wrote it in "Downtown Train."</div>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-36814885089989751832010-01-01T18:10:00.000-08:002010-01-01T20:34:38.230-08:00Happy New Year<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuHmen6hl3cMoXcwMJlDSOQY44ND9mLqu2dGI2DTMUOzQ_fJ_ln3gynNrasa3aYeBbTEXuicol4g5c84L4ZgcPQfh5kLQv3zktLsIPG2L9HcZ9cKSQJNY5H3rkMRD6ClrorLhdxdwZqBH/s1600-h/DSCN2426.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 385px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421994454779620802" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDuHmen6hl3cMoXcwMJlDSOQY44ND9mLqu2dGI2DTMUOzQ_fJ_ln3gynNrasa3aYeBbTEXuicol4g5c84L4ZgcPQfh5kLQv3zktLsIPG2L9HcZ9cKSQJNY5H3rkMRD6ClrorLhdxdwZqBH/s400/DSCN2426.JPG" /></a><br /><div>Wishes for the Best Year Ever!</div><div> </div><div>Hope your chicken got its kisses! </div><div> </div><div></div>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-82354655549970822432009-12-23T12:31:00.000-08:002009-12-26T07:54:48.579-08:00Velvet NightIn an old part of the city one of the best spots to work is by the window of a creaky-floored, tin-ceilinged all-night cafe. The square, real window panes have Christmas-light-edging around the view of a snowbanked, pavered street and narrow shops on the other side with their evergreen and twinkling garlands. The sidewalk below glows from the warmth that invites friends and lovers and tattered wanderers alike. Good music, bursts of laughter, and pleasant voices telling stories mix in.<br /><br />Some friends come by, pull chairs close, and tell about their ice-skating at the city rink tonight. Earlier today I had promised I'd buy them coffee afterwards. Stories of hockey (haw-key) come up. I recall mine, having just bought a hockey puck at the Red Shield (Salvation Army) store--not just any hockey puck, though. It's a genuine, used, CHA, maple-leafed gift for one of my brothers, who is a collector. We grew up skating every chance we could get, and I think of the Fire Department flooding for rinks and how we brought sack lunches and delighted over free hot chocolate at the warming booth. Each new season, we traded in our outgrown, used skates for used skates that pretty much fit depending on how many socks were worn, at the ACE Hardware. How they made a little money was charging for blade sharpening and selling blade covers. I tell them about the scar on my chin--how I got it playing hockey--high-sticked after making a goal, no less. And, being on crutches right now stinks. So we laugh and talk about skating, life, love, and family fun. They tell me how much they love that their mother can kick someone in the seat of the pants and the person will thank her for it later, because, of course, she only does it because she loves them. Their mother, the former Dairy Queen of New York State, rode the train to Chicago and sat on Santa’s lap at Macy’s while I took a picture. There was no line, and Santa was amiable. Two middle-aged businessmen, apparently foreign visitors, observed and pondered our “custom.” One of them took out a camera and made a souvenir photo, while the other one sat on Santa’s lap . . . all the same . . . smiling and wishing and hoping.<br /><br />Pushing their chairs back away from the little table, they linger on goodbye. Midnight mass, Christmas Eve--you'll call us, ok?<br /><br />Outside, the ribbon ends of red velvet Christmas bows, softly flapping, frame the winter night.<br /><br />12-23-09, 12AMWildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-63859189696128475392009-12-13T20:03:00.000-08:002009-12-13T21:25:51.791-08:00Unexpected GiftI ventured out his morning to see how much slickning the icy rain had brought. I saw something unusual and thought, "I should take a picture. That's wild." I went back to wrapping presents, humming Christmas songs, when it came to the The Twelve Days of Christmas. Then, it hit me. That odd thing I saw--was that a partridge in a pear tree? I believe it was! (See: wildeblue.blogspot.com)<br /><br />Happy First Day of Christmas!Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-38798212180606563712009-12-06T07:14:00.000-08:002009-12-06T08:15:57.498-08:00The First Snow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsFikJMrCxKeUsKeEGUFhHbi671TO6y_1yvKazY1mXe4AJ0RW9uNmI5JNtgtt4anFNmlAbfm-9xFVzPK2s5lOBCl8Uz_FG8edTiSW0bSomIjzvhGMFa1_J6AFiF9ACez5qFMO4dd-2gzL/s1600-h/first%2520snow_preview.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 350px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 243px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5412156600978055858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsFikJMrCxKeUsKeEGUFhHbi671TO6y_1yvKazY1mXe4AJ0RW9uNmI5JNtgtt4anFNmlAbfm-9xFVzPK2s5lOBCl8Uz_FG8edTiSW0bSomIjzvhGMFa1_J6AFiF9ACez5qFMO4dd-2gzL/s400/first%2520snow_preview.jpg" /></a> December 3 brought a favorite day and a favorite poem:<br /><br /><span style="color:#003333;">The Coming of Light<br /><br />Even this late it happens:<br />the coming of love, the coming of light.<br />You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,<br />stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,<br />sending up warm bouquets of air.<br />Even this late the bones of the body shine<br />and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.<br /></span><br /><em>Mark Strand</em>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-91872064560221100482009-11-21T00:23:00.000-08:002009-11-24T15:39:37.089-08:00For Jean<strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Mother to Son</span> (Child)<br /></strong><br /><span style="color:#003300;">Well, son, I'll tell you:<br />Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.<br />It's had tacks in it,<br />And splinters,<br />And boards torn up,<br />And places with no carpet on the floor—<br />Bare.<br />But all the time<br />I'se been a-climbin' on,<br />And reachin' landin's,<br />And turnin' corners,<br />And sometimes goin' in the dark<br />Where there ain't been no light.<br />So, boy, don't you turn back.<br />Don't you set down on the steps.<br />'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.<br />Don't you fall now—<br />For I'se still goin', honey,<br />I'se still climbin',<br />And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.</span><br /><br /><em>Langston Hughes</em>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-9991364215582418122009-11-10T21:13:00.000-08:002009-11-10T21:32:17.344-08:00Rise and Shine<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAg4DNio1aO-6MgBXtcw_wr-ngpnPhkYGs3iI7JuClobvCqCUjSGchdWYEHcsvsLmxFbgQpyA9RiVGhD4hJ0H2NMtxTiCsj4qb_oWa1N2lFQLjMGv-HmgukktVhU-Y72f8UgXqOBlz9ra3/s1600-h/DSCN0276.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 243px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402714630035685362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAg4DNio1aO-6MgBXtcw_wr-ngpnPhkYGs3iI7JuClobvCqCUjSGchdWYEHcsvsLmxFbgQpyA9RiVGhD4hJ0H2NMtxTiCsj4qb_oWa1N2lFQLjMGv-HmgukktVhU-Y72f8UgXqOBlz9ra3/s400/DSCN0276.JPG" /></a><br /><div>"The sun never sets. It is we who rise and think to shine."<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Earle Birney</em>, in <em>The Old Farmer's Almanac</em> 2009</span></div>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-2847185782980499272009-11-04T11:14:00.000-08:002009-11-04T19:59:38.318-08:00Beautiful Pomegranates<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgST71HtEinT_OYbJKKm29iJWe575IyBfw1kD5Mr9b1n0a8-Kohkfk8zKmuvPi56KDQdy9TMCyh_2B_TWzCVM0Izdkt6xk3pqCdPPBAzM785zFRPsfEEE4DNDO4yUVF-o7gBObDCvmJllNr/s1600-h/pomegranates.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400341442100018754" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 187px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgST71HtEinT_OYbJKKm29iJWe575IyBfw1kD5Mr9b1n0a8-Kohkfk8zKmuvPi56KDQdy9TMCyh_2B_TWzCVM0Izdkt6xk3pqCdPPBAzM785zFRPsfEEE4DNDO4yUVF-o7gBObDCvmJllNr/s400/pomegranates.bmp" border="0" /></a> How to eat a pomegranate. So far, nothing beats fresh, like an orange. Umm, crispyluscious. I've never heard of anyone getting sick from eating too many. (?) While expecting Molly, I ate 3-7 oranges a day the last three months with no apparent afteraffects, my only scientific basis.<br /><br />Crispyluscious!<br />Pomegranate cheers!Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-89450250175719172152009-11-02T01:04:00.000-08:002009-11-04T12:38:09.532-08:00Spirit in the Sky<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYzuYC7GwTQFoBktHAk1ofFNQd3PbGi-3bkfy_8sq6hLCs0rL25wo6TXqURRKqV4j3l2OlyPJ6V_BmO-nJ_hVM2TrGx5SUSawv5m-KigrLyMVUfbfRccmz5vD70-gMmu-4Lq2Zff5yTIhK/s1600-h/Spirit+in+the+Sky.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 127px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 127px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400350480864461810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYzuYC7GwTQFoBktHAk1ofFNQd3PbGi-3bkfy_8sq6hLCs0rL25wo6TXqURRKqV4j3l2OlyPJ6V_BmO-nJ_hVM2TrGx5SUSawv5m-KigrLyMVUfbfRccmz5vD70-gMmu-4Lq2Zff5yTIhK/s400/Spirit+in+the+Sky.jpg" /></a><br /><div>It seems lazy, and it is kind of, but I'd put this one in my favorites, too. Song of the Year for 1969:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.wildeblue.blogspot.com/">http://www.wildeblue.blogspot.com/</a></div>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-73774477228530560672009-07-26T13:00:00.000-07:002009-07-26T18:38:00.137-07:00And the forests will echo with laughterSee:<br /><a href="http://www.wildeblue.blogspot.com/">http://www.wildeblue.blogspot.com/</a>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-82652436013149356122009-07-21T09:13:00.001-07:002009-07-21T09:21:26.814-07:00Hugs All Around<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S-70_NQ1oEND6uWIVlaRZpI0-6G5bB1TZmVV5e_zIbytDBMLRSI6A4fYk-V-KpJ9lmQMa3u7Lg6mEzcbelhlLkw2UwTggcKyKAQV_Fv66gYGedoKQMWy_p0Bz11u_uSA3cMMjy2h4vM4/s1600-h/Hugs,+Calvin%26Hobbes.bmp"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 314px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360948674183746962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9S-70_NQ1oEND6uWIVlaRZpI0-6G5bB1TZmVV5e_zIbytDBMLRSI6A4fYk-V-KpJ9lmQMa3u7Lg6mEzcbelhlLkw2UwTggcKyKAQV_Fv66gYGedoKQMWy_p0Bz11u_uSA3cMMjy2h4vM4/s400/Hugs,+Calvin%26Hobbes.bmp" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIrRjLTannyBwR6css0WjXMOliMXY0b8euRBlPx-S0RXcW4vFzNNS9WB8oLuRDbqbFK6fYZmEK2ggrcQN-L2GtG51aY_3Pk7RpiqnHhnbeqg_Dt11BG94jXJtunQRY-mFgnrnhWraoYBd/s1600-h/Hugs,+MN.gif"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 241px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360948669358886610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEIrRjLTannyBwR6css0WjXMOliMXY0b8euRBlPx-S0RXcW4vFzNNS9WB8oLuRDbqbFK6fYZmEK2ggrcQN-L2GtG51aY_3Pk7RpiqnHhnbeqg_Dt11BG94jXJtunQRY-mFgnrnhWraoYBd/s400/Hugs,+MN.gif" /></a>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-18784163198667939542009-07-13T12:30:00.000-07:002009-07-13T13:00:31.582-07:00Radish LeavesFast-growing, easy, tasty. :o) Mmm, eating a salad of them right now--sprinkled with black raspberries picked from the thickets, almonds, feta cheese, thinly sliced small green onions, fresh ground pepper, sea salt.<br /><br />More ideas:<br /><br />Steam garden fresh radishes for a few minutes, add the greens (well-rinsed) for a few more minutes, and then serve them with butter, a little salt, and gratings of coarse pepper. They are absolutely delicious - a whole new vegetable for the table!<br /><br /><strong>Grandmother's Radish Leaf Soup </strong><br /><br />* 3 large bunches radishes <br />* 1 tablespoon butter <br />* 1 very large onion, chopped <br />* 4 russet potatoes (about 1 1/2 pounds), peeled, chopped <br />* 3 cups water <br />* 2/3 cup milk <br /><br /><br />Cut leaves from radishes and wash well. (Reserve radishes for another use.) Melt butter in heavy large saucepan over medium heat. Add onion and sauté until tender, about 5 minutes. Add radish leaves and sauté until wilted, about 2 minutes. Add potatoes and 3 cups water. Cover and simmer until vegetables are tender, about 20 minutes. <br /><br />Puree soup in batches in blender. Return to saucepan. Mix in milk. Stir over medium heat until hot. Season soup with salt and pepper.Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-68842774713322098202009-07-08T21:21:00.000-07:002009-07-08T22:33:03.874-07:00Pavement vs MeNow I think I need a different bike but, oops, my pavement says I don't. Thanks for the inspiration, Mark--here's to dreams! <br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z19zFlPah-o&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z19zFlPah-o&color1=0xb1b1b1&color2=0xcfcfcf&hl=en&feature=player_embedded&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowScriptAccess="always" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1908078011375532715.post-11595400210250741452009-06-30T22:43:00.001-07:002009-06-30T23:59:08.980-07:00Stravinsky's Birthday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xkarmbAsrPkIhYmd_pm4lHvgxz-DDk8A3n2YLE3oSgqWKXTtaUzSScJAWmaTtzYtgklKXvJq-9yqNyUAgxJ0qQx_DyUID_VdqXYGgvkJJfO9NiWHOSfIbplzMMIUHe7c2LGUvwIZUAmK/s1600-h/stravinsky09,+Happy+Birthday,+6-17-09.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353363669668973106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 330px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 122px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3xkarmbAsrPkIhYmd_pm4lHvgxz-DDk8A3n2YLE3oSgqWKXTtaUzSScJAWmaTtzYtgklKXvJq-9yqNyUAgxJ0qQx_DyUID_VdqXYGgvkJJfO9NiWHOSfIbplzMMIUHe7c2LGUvwIZUAmK/s400/stravinsky09,+Happy+Birthday,+6-17-09.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div>The artwork on June 17, commemorating Igor's birth, by someone special at Google. Love the all the horns, especially the French horns in this piece:</div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VlrrllC927o&feature=related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VlrrllC927o&feature=related</a></div><div></div>Wildehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16749024764034551349noreply@blogger.com0