Alone But Never Lonely

 

Another calls you lonely

I disagree

Lone you may be

But not lonely

I see you as content

In your own little 

Pond and life

Alone, as I can be

But never lonely

Silence. Leaves rustling

Water trickling into a pool

Natural noise making one 

Feel alone to revel in nature

Alone but never lonely

In tune 

Inquisitive

The Randomness of Facebook

I often wish Facebook was like it used to be - only seeing posts from your friends and not all the ads and posts from strangers. But every once in awhile I can be surprised and happy about a stray post, even delighted when it is someone I know.

This week was the 53rd year of RAGBRAI's week long trek across Iowa. On Tuesday, the 21st, thousands of those bike riders went through Perry on their way to the overnight stop in Boone. This was one of the photos shared by Century Farm Books and Brews.com  The post began Wow. My response seeing this photo was Wait. Isn't that?? So, yes, it is Peter Hedges, author of What's Eating Gilbert Grape, but it wasn't him I recognized. It was my great-grandson Jack and his mother, my former granddaugher-in-law, Paullina. 

The book Jack is holding in the above photo inscribed by Mr. Hedges.

"To Jack who is on his way to living his best and most glorious (?) life. I hope we meet again one day."

I think how happy he was is expressed in his smile. 

I remember watching the 1993 movie and being enthralled by it.

One of the pages advertising some of her hot tea brews.

Her creativeness going on here. I would try the Anne of Green Gables for sure and some of the others, too.

Paullina says: "Books and Brews is my literal dream come true."

Shouldn't every bookstore have a resident cat or two?

Here are her's adopted from Raccoon River Pet Rescue.

"Ophelia, a big beautiful calico, is quite vocal when she wants attention, but prefers to sit on her sofa judging everyone."

"Mortimer, the sweet ginger boy, makes himself comfortable on anyones lap or in a sunny spot in front of the windows."

They look quite at home in their Perry, Iowa bookstore.

From her Events Calendar I can see she is hosting a weekly writers' workshop, a trivia night, at least three different book club meetings, a crafts night and more.

I'm so glad I happened upon this RAGBRAI post on Facebook and super happy that Paullina is making her dreams come true.  💖

Queen Anne's Lace

 Queen-Anne’s Lace

By William Carlos Williams

Her body is not so white as

anemony petals nor so smooth—nor

so remote a thing. It is a field

of the wild carrot taking

the field by force; the grass

does not raise above it.

Here is no question of whiteness,

white as can be, with a purple mole

at the center of each flower.

Each flower is a hand’s span

of her whiteness. Wherever

his hand has lain there is

a tiny purple blemish. Each part

is a blossom under his touch

to which the fibres of her being

stem one by one, each to its end,

until the whole field is a

white desire, empty, a single stem,

a cluster, flower by flower,

a pious wish to whiteness gone over—

or nothing.

 

The Wheeling Year

 

"Black cows in deep shade under a mulberry tree, that part of its shadow that's swishing its tails. They have already eaten the cool, edible parts of the shade, the blue grass, the few violet leaves they could reach, and now they are waiting, their rumps bumped up together, tails slapping each other, gazing out through the flies at the blazing white pasture that goes on forever, that seems to be turning so slowly about them."

"Dead for a dozen years, Mr. Bob Ross, you live on in the TV reruns, permed hair like a bee swarm, big hands, big smile, a kindergarten-teacher voice. Show us again that little tree you say likes it right there by the moonlit path and the moon you tell us is just real happy right next to the mountain. Hundreds of thousands of us have waited to watch you at your easel, holding your magic brushes--the fan brush for clouds, the fitch for rocky peaks. Come back, keep coming back, Bob Ross. We need to know that everything is happy where it is, and that we too might put it there."

"Maybe we carry too much through the door from the past, propped open with a broom that has swept up so much sentiment it has bent to the shape of it sweeping--like a stiff old floor-length skirt still waltzing--then across the wide porch where those we love, living and dead, sit rocking and talking, all drinking longnecks and laughing together, none of them offering help.

Then over the grass, box after box, to the rented U-Haul that is our life, already stuffed with all we haven't been able to part with, stale with dead dreams and packed so hastily we will never be able to get to the wisdom we lugged out early and loaded on first.

Twenty-nine dollars a day is the going rate, about what a person could live on if he had to, and the past is right there in the rearview mirror, following close, painted with slogans, its springs bent down from all we ever were."

These are three selections from Ted Kooser's book of prose The Wheeling Year sent to me by our friend Becky. The last of the three is my favorite. I have appreciated and shared some of Mr. Kooser's poems for several years and now, thanks to Becky, I am enjoying his prose. 

Summer Sunrise

Early summer mornings I  

go out to feel the day

look to see if clouds

will enhance the sunrise

listening to birdsong 

surprised this dawn by  

the call of a quail 

Bob White Bob White

Canning Applesauce

 

The day before my daughter was born in May of '69 we moved to this acreage between Urbandale and Grimes. I was so happy to be living back out in the country - peace, quiet, anonymity and an old barn for my son Douglas to play in. Plus we could get his dog Mimi back from my sister who had been caring for her during the almost two years we had been living in city apartments. We had room for a garden and plenty of apples from the trees growing there. Though I didn't have the equipment, or know how, to spray for worms each spring.

Applesauce

by Ted Kooser

I liked how the starry blue lid
of that saucepan lifted and puffed,
then settled back on a thin
hotpad of steam, and the way
her kitchen filled with the warm,
wet breath of apples, as if all
the apples were talking at once,
as if they'd come cold and sour
from chores in the orchard,
and were trying to shoulder in
close to the fire. She was too busy
to put in her two cents' worth
talking to apples. Squeezing
her dentures with wrinkly lips,
she had to jingle and stack
the bright brass coins of the lids
and thoughtfully count out
the red rubber rings, then hold
each jar, to see if it was clean,
to a window that looked out
through her back yard into Iowa.
And with every third or fourth jar
she wiped steam from her glasses,
using the hem of her apron,
printed with tiny red sailboats
that dipped along with leaf-green
banners snapping, under puffs
of pale applesauce clouds
scented with cinnamon and cloves,
the only boats under sail
for at least two thousand miles.

The time came when I decided to pick some of those apples and make applesauce to can and place on those shelves in the basement. Save a little money, why not? I still remember the hours I spent in a hot kitchen, peeling, cutting out the wormy parts, dicing and cooking down all those apples just to end up with a measly few pint jars of applesauce. It was the first, last and only time I canned applesauce.

Yellow - Light, Sunny and Cheerful

 

The Yellow Lily and miniature Yellow Rose are examples of why yellow is one of my favorite colors but not the main reason. When I was old enough to understand my birth month was November, I learned that my birth stone was the Yellow Topaz or Citrine. But my favorite colors are all the shades of brown from tan to tawny, coffee to carmel - the calm, subdued, muted hues appeal to me.

That doesn't mean I don't like all the pinks, salmon, reds, white, maroon, orange, gold, etc. of my other flowers because I do.

A few days ago, I found this little dragonfly, possibly a Halloween Pennant, lying dead on the patio next to this planter. I put it on the flowers to take this photo. I wonder if the heat killed it.

This is the one Sunflower I allow to grow each year. Several come up volunteer but if I let them all grow it is like a forest out there.

Soon I'll have another yellow flower to admire. The bits of yellow in this photo are Rudbeckia - Black-Eyed Susans. They are also volunteers. I started with one plant. They spread so much I have to pull and discard many of them.

I showed a photo of the Moss Rose in the old mail box in May but my Arizona rocks weren't in front of it.

These are rocks given to me by my friend Kristina who split her time between her AZ home and her Wisconsin house. 

She brought them to me in August, 2017. She told me she found the heart rock on the day my mother died, December 16, 2003. I hope one of my children or grandchildren will keep and treasure both of these rocks.

Last Thursday we had a very nice visit from granddaughter Alyssa and her two children Lily and Maverick. It had been a year since we last saw them and both the kids have grown and changed a lot.

Lily is so talented and smart. She's also quite adept about slipping in funny and sometimes sarcastic remarks.

Maverick will be in third grade this coming school year. He has also become quite the fisherman.

The Orioles and the House Finches are still enjoying the grape jelly. I just opened my third  32 oz. jar.

These two Turtle Doves have been visiting on a regular basis the past couple of weeks. I keep fresh water in the bird bath for all the birds. Robins and Bluejays are the ones who actually bathe in it. The others just drink from it. 

People, birds, and all other creatures are just trying to stay cool. ....and cheerful.