Tomorrow, said the bard,
creeps from day to day.
Tomorrow, Annie sang,
the sun will come out to play.
I prefer the winsome second
but I feel the somber first
as fearful grim realities
grind from bad to worst.
Now it’s personal, dear reader. My son is presumed positive.
And so we wait.
I wish I could say April Fool!
Beware the gardener’s itch
to dig in firma terra
lest you be pruned and potted
along with the schefflera.
The gardener cannot help it,
her nails are far too clean,
so kitchen turns to hothouse,
mid-winter turns to green.
With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg
and to indoor/outdoor gardener D.J. Berg
for this testimonial to gardeners’ winter fever.
Omelette art,
edible wonder,
delicate froth
both over and under,
but firm enough yet
to spill and hold,
hinting what’s hidden,
coy and bold.
Savory, sweet
edible plate —
I salute the egg
in endless iterate.
If you have an omelette today, dear reader,
especially one with such Papageno colors,
be sure to serve it with a birthday candle
and hum a few bars of “The Magic Flute.”
Happy birthday, Mozart!
With more thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.
And a tip of the chef’s hat to omelette chef Art Lindeman.
Yes, this is Art’s omelette art.
My brother was stretched out in his recliner and I was lolling on his sofa, facing his side. The California sun was going down and its fading light fell over him like running water. As we talked, I became increasingly distracted. He was changing without moving. I tried to keep my part of the conversation going but it wasn’t easy; I was watching something I’d never seen before.
He morphed like some special effect from a movie, and became someone I knew but couldn’t name. Then I realized it was our Grandpa Mauck, whom I hadn’t seen since I was about ten, when he died. The shadows had sculpted everything about my brother that was like our grandpa into our grandpa. Grandpa stayed and talked with me; my brother was gone.
It scared the bejabbers out of me. At the same time I felt there was something wonderful about it. It was ominous and reassuring all at once. I tried to talk myself out of it, but the sense of portent was there. Still it hit hard last week when I got the call: my brother had died. Our last visit was just that.
During this past year, his emails had been uncharacteristically terse. If he thought he was pulling wool over my eyes, he thought wrong. I knew his/our medical history. I knew something was going on. It wasn’t what he said; it was what he didn’t say.
I look back. As the sun went down on the other side of my brother and I could see less and less of him, I saw something more. As he communicated less and less, I heard something more.
And I think about how we grasp what’s there from what isn’t there.
UP is that place
to run
LEAVES are
for having fun
TREES are
for being goal
DOWN is that place
to roll
I used to be ten
I remember when
but I don’t think I’ll try it again.
Have you ever, dear reader, wanted to roll down a leafy hill long after you knew you’d be an idiot to try?
Thanks again to photographer S.W. Berg and Happy Birthday to D. J. Berg!
When your plumbing’s contrary
your car’s in the shop
the travails of the world
are over the top
you’re always on hold
and a half-inch behind
words and your keys
keep slipping your mind
the robocalls pester
the outlook is dour,
call a time-out
and go watch a flower.
I do realize that not all life’s problems are so easily airbrushed, and not everyone has a flower to watch, and I wish it were otherwise. But the other day this happened to me. I was utterly out of patience and stormed out to the back, and there was this gorgeous, tranquil little being, totally absorbed in the zinnias. Imagine being hit so hard by calm.
Consider the grip.
You want to turn the outside faucet to get water through the hose? Grip. You want to hold the hose? Grip. You want to fill the watering can, pick it up, and tip it into the potted basil? Grip, grip, and grip.
You want to hold a mug of coffee? You want to pour more coffee into that mug? You want to lather soap, floss your teeth, scrape a bowl? Grip, grip, grip, grip, and grip.
How about squeezing the tube of toothpaste or sunscreen or the handle for a spray bottle? Grip to the nth power.
Thumb, fingers, palm, wrist and a ready back-up of arm muscles — with maybe an assist from the shoulder — pitch in.
Or not.
Some would argue that I’ve been losing my grip for a long time. Ha, ha. I’m not saying they’re wrong; I’m saying that’s not the grip I’m talking about. And I’m not saying I’m the only one with such problems — there are many, many people with limited hand movement — but I am the only one writing on this blog, my bully pulpit. And maybe I speak for others with my words.
I used to say “hold it with both hands” to my boys when they were little. Now I say it to me as I lift a glass of iced tea. My hands do not let me forget they are changing.
Yes, there are adaptive gizmos and techniques that help, and I use them. They don’t, however, unchange the change. This morning I turn to the alternative medicine known as writing. This, dear reader, is my grip gripe, and I feel better already.
