September '26 Books Read

 I managed to read ten books in thirty days this month. 

The Wedding Game, Runaway Groomsman and The Reunion are all by Meghan Quinn, a new author for me. I thought the first book was a bit lame but the other two weren't too bad.

I Cheerfully Refuse by Leif Enger was sent to me by my son Douglas. This is an author we both like. This will go back to Doug to read.

September is one of my books read long ago and pulled out to read again. British novelist Rosamund Pilcher was one of my favorite authors. 

Strangers: A Memoir of Marriage by Belle Burden was touted as "a book every woman should read even if she is happily married". 

Beach Music by Pat Conroy is another of his books I decided to read after reading his South of Broad last month. This one wasn't nearly as good, in my opinion.

Sleep No More is a collection of "six murderous tales" by English novelist P. D. James.

Border Music By Robert James Waller is another dip back into my own collection of books.

Our Noble Selves is Kate Atkinson's latest novel. She is one of my adopted authors and has been a favorite of mine. I was a bit disappointed in this one which is based on the 1951 Festival of Britain. Her Jackson Brodie books are the best, in my opinion.

With all the rain we've had this month, books were good companions.

Moody Monday

Weather wise it is a rather moody Monday morning - cloudy and overcast though the sun is supposed to come out. 

But mood wise, personally, I'm in a good mood which is one reason I took a little drive up to Lake McKinley. It is so good to see the lake full of water - but not surprising with all the rain we've had.

Water gushing and foaming over and under the spillway - headed downriver as part of the Platte.

Near the spillway, some fall color on the sumacs. Fall is my favorite time of the year even if it does usher in my least favorite season.   

About the same distance away in the other direction is this small backyard pond. Isn't it delightful? When we moved to Mom's farm and I planted my weeping willow tree with plans to construct a small pond beneath it, this was the kind of water feature I had in mind, though maybe not quite this big. Sadly, I never accomplished making it. 😞

One thing I noticed both at the lake and in this tableau (in the top right corner) were the walnuts on the trees and the ground. I wonder if this is a mast year for walnuts?

10:45 a.m. and the sun popped out. The weather forecasters got it right. 😁

The Memories We Carry

A week ago today I posted about my great-grandparents and some memories I had of them as well as comments about my own great-grandchildren.

A couple days ago I found this clip and realized how well it fits into that post and how I feel about the continuum of family connections. 💞

Don't Give Up. Don't Ever Give Up*

 

Don't Quit By Edgar A. Guest

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
when the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
when the funds are low and the debts are high,
and you want to smile but you have to sigh,
when care is pressing you down a bit - rest if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns.
As everyone of us sometimes learns.
And many a fellow turns about when he might have won had he stuck it out.
Don't give up though the pace seems slow - you may succeed with another blow.
Often the goal is nearer than it seems to a faint and faltering man;

Often the struggler has given up when he might have captured the victor's cup;
and he learned too late when the night came down,
how close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out - the silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
and when you never can tell how close you are,
it may be near when it seems afar;
so stick to the fight when you're hardest hit - it's when things seem worst, you must not quit.

*Jimmy V.

1954 - The Fecund Year

In this photo are my great-grandparents Rufus and Kate Ridnour and Kate's sister Aunt Josie Gray.  The Ridnours lived on a farm NE of Nodaway, Iowa and Aunt Josie lived near Plainville, IL. The Ridnours had three children who lived to adulthood, my grandfather Joe, and great-aunts Florence Haley and Lottie Inman. Grandpa Joe and Grandma Delphia had three daughters. Aunt Evelyn Roberts had six children. Aunt Lois Mitchell also had six children. My parents had four children for a total of sixteen grandchildren for the Ridnours. The Haleys had twenty-six grandchildren and the Inman's ten for a total of fifty-two great-grandchildren.

I don't know how many of those great-grands might have been born in the same year with the exception of 1954 which stood out as the year great-grandma Kate had seven great-grandbabies! (One of which was my little brother.) Sadly, it was also the year Great-grandma died. Her's was the first funeral I had any clear memories of attending. (Great-grandpa Rufe died in 1950.)

To date, I have thirteen great-grandchildren with only two being the most born in the same years - two in 2009, two in 2014 and two in 2024. All my great-grands mean the world to me. I'm looking forward to meeting the newest of the bunch, Genevieve Irene, pictured here with her father, Travis.

The Summer Pond

Heron Rises From The Dark, Summer Pond

      By Mary Oliver

So heavy
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron,
always it is a surprise
when her smoke-colored wings

open
and she turns
from the thick water,
from the black sticks

of the summer pond,
and slowly
rises into the air
and is gone.

Then, not for the first or the last time,
I take the deep breath
of happiness, and I think
how unlikely it is

that death is a hole in the ground,
how improbable
that ascension is not possible,
though everything seems so inert, so nailed

back into itself--
the muskrat and his lumpy lodge,
the turtle,
the fallen gate.

And especially it is wonderful
that the summers are long
and the ponds so dark and so many,
and therefore it isn't a miracle

but the common thing,
this decision,
this trailing of the long legs in the water,
this opening up of the heavy body

into a new life: see how the sudden
gray-blue sheets of her wings
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
takes her in.

These Hands

Five years ago today, a writer friend of my daughter posted this photo and the accompanying paragraphs on her FB page. It made me think so much of my Grandma Delphia that I saved it. Those hands doing the crocheting could have been her hands. She rarely sat idly, always had a crochet hook or tatting shuttle working the threads.

Protection

I passed a woman crocheting by the side of the road in Calliope; the sign at her feet said, “Free Protection for Road Family”. I pulled the Biscuit Tin over very gently (it can throw rocks like a baseball hall-o’-famer) and walked back.

“Well, bless you,” the lady said (her eyes huge behind thick frames, like a wise old owl). “And bless you back!” I responded (never knowing the right thing to say when someone throws light on your day just like that). “What are you making?” “Wraps and shawls,” she explained, pointing. “This here’s a box of orphan yarn - abandoned skeins left out of however many that were needed to finish a making. And this box holds the thing they become together (something welcome and warm).” I’d never seen anything like it before; random bits of color woven into patterns that lay piled in large triangles like rainbows you could touch.

“I love this one,” I said, and touched the shawl when she nodded that I could. It was a dove gray with sparkle thread throughout - some darker gray and some rose with a bit of white here and there. It was thick but impossibly soft and I caught myself just shy of rubbing my face all over it. “It loves you, too,” the lady said. “The shawls tend to pick their people. That one’s the Old Souls Shawl and the protection looped into that is all about remembering the love that has been while not letting it trap you. It’s about taking the best of Before and being at peace with After.”

She wouldn’t let me give her anything for the shawl, so I got Nickel out of the camper and, together, we sat with her a while and shared cheese sandwiches and a couple of juice boxes. I wore the shawl proudly at the campfire that night and the goofy guy who was working the entrance gate left me alone.

(Written by Tansy Undercrypt - Part of her Lost Moon Road series.)