November 20.25: Coping, but barely

I did it, dear reader. Something I could never have imagined myself doing. We all have our standards, yes? People may scoff, but there are certain things we must do in a certain way, and certain things we will NEVER do no matter what. Standards.

I went outside wearing my winter indoor work clothes: turtleneck, raggedy denim jumper, and white anklets. Of course I slipped on the Crocs as I went out.  Yes, Crocs with socks. And not just any socks, but short, warm white socks. With a denim jumper. Granted, there wasn’t much of an audience, maybe a neighbor or two and a squirrel, but still. In public.

When I was a kid, there were few things as uncool as the women who wore old-lady shoes with nylons rolled down around their ankles. That was all I could think of as I shattered the fashion glass ceiling here.

Get over yourself, you say? Not a chance. Some things are objectively unlovely. It’s not about me; it’s about standards, which get pretty loose some years after retirement.

I know I saw that squirrel cover his eyes.

 

p.s. You may congratulate my grandson and me, dear reader. In a wicked race with the calendar, we finished staining my deck last Saturday. The photo gives a small idea of Before and After. I’m still recovering.

 

With thanks to photographers T.A. Mesterharm and S.W. Berg.

 

 

November 14.25: Coping, but barely

Sing a song of winter,

pocketful of frost,

autumn on the table,

memory embossed,

comfort à la ketchup,

troubles roundly dashed,

with plated fall Nirvana,

meatloaf, potatoes mashed.

 

Ah, dear reader, it brings a tear to the eye, doesn’t it? We’ve touched on the miracle of meatloaf before, but I must again. Our intrepid wildlife photographer, S.W. Berg, has once again captured the moment in its lair. Slathered with ketchup gloss, what could be better on this crisp November morning with my neighbor’s Christmas tree sparkling through his opened front door? I hate it in the stores, but I love it on my street! Bring it on! Lights, meatloaf, action!

 

Thank you, Bill,

and thanks to The Grey Goose in Hampton, VA.

 

 

November 13.25: Coping, but barely

As some of you know, I make family history scrapbooks as Christmas presents to my family. Not the tidy, crafty-type scrapbooks, but the messy kind — like life. A few years ago, I decided to make them autobiographical. Who better to tell about me than me? I started in 1943, when I was born, and I’ve worked my way to autumn 1966, when this year’s scrapbook begins.

So this is where I am mentally these days. If you removed the dates on these publications, would they seem current? It might be the Webb telescope instead of Apollo 8 giving us proper perspective, but has anything else changed?

 

 

November 11.25: Coping, but barely

Something has been going on with my blog for a while now, and I must ask you, dear reader, if you’ve noticed anything similar. I have had bizarre spikes in views, I mean in the hundreds. This is blaringly inconsistent with my history; my blog is small in terms of readers, and now suddenly there are 800 views in a few hours? No, I don’t think so.

To me, this seems likely the result of automation. Would this be what it would look like if our blogs were being “scraped” by some AI company?

 

November 9.25: Coping, but barely

In bonfires

does the year crackle

its farewell

as weightless spent leaves

curl into themselves mid-air,

spinning, bowing, leaping

on the wildered wind,

danse macabre,

dwindling to the earth

in service to Time,

but the maple seethes,

defiant,

casting the sun

back on itself.

November 5.25: Coping, but barely

My kitchen table

isn’t able

to be available.

It’s incubator

now for later

many an heirloom tomater.

Oh, dear reader, what a harvest this year! It’s my son’s fault: he starts seeds early and so has intriguing seedlings to offer me. This year, heirloom tomatoes that neither of us had ever tried before. What amazements!

 

 

October 30.25: Coping, but barely

Don’t try to tell me

there’s no such a thing!

You see what you see —

proof on the wing!

It seems she took off

on her hybrid broomstick,

her antennae aquiver

at mischief’s uptick;

as her cloaking device

wrapped her lemon-eyed cat,

it failed to extend

to her best riding hat,

but the hat floats mid-air

awaiting her head

as warning to skeptics —

be believers instead.

Did you know, dear reader, that, if you should come upon a bad witch, you can change her into a good witch with a Milky Way? Or a Snickers will do. I have it on the best authority.

More thanks to photographer Emily Berg Baine.

October 29.25: Coping, but barely

I’ll play here! said Light,

it’s a perfect playground site.

I’ll dapple a while

in this emerald isle

have fun until twilight.

With leaves as trampolines

I can jump in glints and gleams,

rappel down pumpkin side

or shine in seek-and-hide

amid thick autumn greens.

No jack-o-lantern face,

but I’ll dress it up in lace

while running shadow tag

in mercurial zig and zag

igniting time and place.

 

The year might want to rest,

but I’m at radiant best;

I’m harvest’s luminaire,

I must play everywhere —

Ein prosit to my Oktoberfest!

Many thanks to photographer Emily Berg Baine.

October 26.25: Coping, but barely

I swear there is anger

in this twig of rebirth,

scolding me wordlessly

from the quieting earth.

Cut down to stump,

yet there’s a new tree

in the light of October,

the last greenery

blushing to gold

in that crystalline sun

in praise of the stubbornness,

renewal begun.

In contemptuous huff,

strong-spined and proud,

Giving up, it chided me,

is

not

allowed.

 

When I happened upon this stubborn tree, it seemed personal, and I’d been wanting to write something about it. I was fumbling about until I read Kerfe’s Thursday Doors post today. It unlocked some words for me. Thanks, Kerfe!

 

October 24.25: Coping, but barely

Never underestimate the kitchen

for wonder.

If you’ve smelled rising yeast dough

or a freestone peach

broken from its craggy heart,

slid bumply-crisped streusel out of a hot oven,

tossed red-ribboned apple slices with cinnamon

(and maybe nutmeg)

and then breathed deeply,

or wreathed a cold winter day

in meatloaf air,

or maybe chopped

bulging tomatoes,

 Virginia Sweets,

Brandywine Pink,

say,

and suddenly there is

an art form,

harvest as medium,

in palette newly created

but old as dirt,

you know:

never underestimate the kitchen

for wonder.

 

 

This, dear reader, was my first attempt at homemade tomato soup, which called for roasted tomatoes. I had no idea it would be so beautiful.