Books Read In February 2022

 Is this right? Only four books read this month!? That must be a new record. 😲

We had watched all of the Vera Stanhope series so when a new character of her's, Matthew Venn, came up, we watched it too. That was when I decided I should try reading some of Ann Cleeves books. In my experience the books always tend to be better than the movies, or TV shows. 

The Long Call by Ann Cleeves is the first book in her Two Rivers series. I would have to say I liked the TV version and the book about equally.

The Sentence is Louise Erdrich's latest offering. I think I've said it before, I look forward to reading any book by this author. The setting for this book is a small, independent, book store in Minneapolis, much like the one owned and operated by the author. The time is during the pandemic and the George Floyd murder. Erdrich handles both beautifully. Oh, yes, there is also a ghost haunting the book store. 

The Dark Hours is Michael Connelly's new Harry Bosch novel. Harry is now 70 years old and this book is more about his partner, Renee Ballard. I will have to wait to see if Connelly is 'retiring' Bosch and features Ballard or another new main character because I've read all of Connelly's books in our library.* We've been bingeing on the Bosch TV series and loving it. We have one season yet to watch, but there is a new season coming out soon. 

Eleanor by David Michaelis is probably why I managed to read only four books this month. This was such an interesting and well written biography. I always admired Mrs. Roosevelt and now I'm even more impressed by her.

*Which means I'm going to have to decide on a new author to follow - one that already has many books on the library shelves. 

Recognizing Four Generations of Louis'

 

Babies grow so quickly. It was a year ago today that our 10th great-grandchild was born and I was over the moon to learn that his name is Louis. 

There are 104 years between Louis Edward and the first of the family Louis' - my dad, Louis Lavern. (1917-1978)

Then came his son, my brother, Leslie Louis in 1954.

Followed by my son, Preston Louis in 1971.

One generation of Louis' was skipped as neither of Preston's sons carried the name.

But his daughter Kathryn, Louis Edward's mom, has the same middle name as mine - Irene.

Here they are one year ago today.

And here Louis is learning to drive already! He is such a handsome lad and even though I don't see him often - they live on the other side of the state - his parents and grandparents have been good about sending me pictures of him regularly.

I hope you have a very happy birthday Louis and enjoy your party tomorrow. 

Aloof In The Silence Of The Land

 

ALOOF

by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

HE irresponsive silence of the land,

The irresponsive sounding of the sea,

Speak both one message of one sense to me:--

Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand

Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless band

Of inner solitude; we bind not thee;

But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?

What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?

And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,









And sometimes I remember days of old

When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek,

And all the world and I seem'd much less cold,

And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,

And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.

From a $4.00 Chair to a $40.00 Chair

I saw a notice earlier this week for an online estate auction of "an absolutely amazing collection of antiques!" This particular sale bill brought back a couple of very distinct memories. I paged through all the photos of offerings and thought how once upon a time I would have been so tempted by what was available. But I did not see one single item that I find totally irresistible now. How times have changed - how I have changed!

My father loved going to auctions and I loved going through the boxes of treasures he brought home. (The ones my mom called junk.) I don't remember dad ever taking us girls with him on his forays - we would have cramped his style. But I have to wonder if it wasn't the thrill of the hunt through the stuff he brought home that helped form my own pleasure of attending auctions. What would I find? Would I find that perfect piece to add to a collection of crocks? Or would I bring home a piece of furniture for a pittance? (I did once buy a beautiful old buffet, in perfect condition, for fifty cents. And another time, a chair and couch set for $2.00.) But I digress.

As a young wife and mother back in the early 60's, I didn't have much for discretionary spending. Therefore auctions were not only opportunities to socialize, they were a form of entertainment, generally, cheap entertainment. At the most, I might spend five dollars. 

The first distinct memory I mentioned relates to one of the first auctions I went to on my own. I don't remember the name of the people the auction was for, but I remember where it was, west and south of Carbon. It was an estate sale for a farmer and his wife, who, if memory serves had been a teacher. 

There wasn't very much of anything there that I wanted until I saw an old captain's chair which was not in as good condition as the one in this photo, but I craved it.

I had a real desire to have one of these chairs. I think because it was like the teacher's chair in the one-room school I had attended. There was just something about the shape that appealed to me. 

"Antiquing" was becoming the rage at the time and there was one particular woman who went to all the sales and bought a lot of antiques. (The woman whose sale bill I mentioned in the opening paragraph.)

The opening bid on "my" chair was something like fifty cents. I put my hand up. The auctioneer asked for a dollar. The other woman raised her hand. It went back and forth in 50-cent increments until it got up to $3.00, her bid. I raised to $3.50 and held my breath. She bid $4.00 and got the chair. I didn't have the money to go any higher. I was so, so, so very disappointed. "Why did she have to be here today and why does she have to buy all the antiques?" I wondered.

Thirty years later and my fortunes had taken a big upturn. I didn't attend as many auctions as I once did but we were going to be down home for the weekend and there was a large auction advertised in Nodaway. Again, there was nothing in particular I wanted; it was just a fun thing to do on a Saturday in July. But once I got there and looked around, I saw a vintage Heywood-Wakefield chair that I fell in love with. It was pale green and in very good condition. 

I don't remember the opening bid, but I recognized my main competition for the chair - that woman who outbid me on the captain's chair! A couple of other bidders dropped out but the long-time antiquer and I went back and forth until the amount reached $40.00 and she quit bidding. I won! I felt pleasure in getting the vintage chair, but I also felt vindication in beating her. Petty, I know. Still .....

Somewhere I have a photo or two of the chair I bought that day but I don't feel like going through boxes and boxes of pictures to find it. I hoped to find one like it on the internet, but this is as close as I came. Mine was similar but without the ornate inserts between the legs.

I sold it when we had the farm sale and I was ruthlessly downsizing. Talk about things selling for a pittance, they certainly did that day. I don't know what my Heywood-Wakefield chair sold for - certainly not the $40.00 I paid for it; possibly not even $4.00.

But I had the pleasure of having it for many years.

And I've never forgotten the pleasure winning it brought me.

Is There Anybody There?

 

The Listeners

BY WALTER DE LA MARE

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,   

   Knocking on the moonlit door;

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses   

   Of the forest’s ferny floor:

And a bird flew up out of the turret,   

   Above the Traveller’s head:

And he smote upon the door again a second time;   

   ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller;   

   No head from the leaf-fringed sill

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,   

   Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only a host of phantom listeners   

   That dwelt in the lone house then

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight   

   To that voice from the world of men:

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,   

   That goes down to the empty hall,

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken   

   By the lonely Traveller’s call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,   

   Their stillness answering his cry,

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,   

   ’Neath the starred and leafy sky;

For he suddenly smote on the door, even   

   Louder, and lifted his head:—

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,   

   That I kept my word,’ he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners,   

   Though every word he spake

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house   

   From the one man left awake:

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,   

   And the sound of iron on stone,

And how the silence surged softly backward,   

   When the plunging hoofs were gone.

 I found this poem yesterday and saved it thinking that someday I would find the perfect picture of an old house to go along with it. Today I saw this photo of the former Union County Poor Farm (built in 1879)  that was taken shortly before the old twenty-seven room house was razed. 

I remember when the county farm was still occupied. There were porches on all three floors, often with residents enjoying sitting on them when we passed by. As a youngster I always imagined the inside to be like a mansion and wondered what it would be like to live there - or at least visit.

I know my oldest son camped there one night before the house was torn down. I wonder if he heard a voice calling, "Is there anybody there?".

Imbolc, St. Bridget's Day, Groundhog Day

 

While most are interested in whether or not the groundhog saw his shadow thereby predicting an early spring or six more weeks of winter, I'm not one of those. It's only 46 days until spring, that's all I care about. By the way, the photo is of the opossom that was on our deck last week, not a groundhog.

Imbolc began last evening and continues today which traditionally is St. Bridget's Day.

In the Celtic seasonal calendar Imbolc marks the beginning of lambing season, Spring and the start of new life.

It is the promise of renewal, of earth awakening and the returning light. 

It is time to let go of the past and look to the future, clear out the old and begin spring cleaning.

You may have noticed I managed to post a blog every day in January. I do not plan to keep that up this month. I'm going to try to finish that sorting I began before my hip replacement last fall then continue right into some deep cleaning.

Yesterday was a good start. It was a good day for me. I felt like cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, etc. - all those housewifery duties. Why can't I feel like that everyday? Why do I have to have days when it is all I can do to make the bed and fix lunch? 

I really believe the weather has a lot to do with how I feel which is why I am so looking forward to warmer days, sunshine, spring flowers and getting outside. 

It won't be long before these daffodils will be poking through the ground again. 

I will be picking bouquets of violets and plum blossoms and filling the planters with annuals.

But until then, I'll hope for more good days than bad and getting lots of spring cleaning out of the way.

As quickly as the days pass, Spring will be here before we know it. - forty five and a half days now. 

Imbolc Blessings to all of us.

It's The Year Of The Tiger

Today marks the beginning of  the Lunar New Year and ushers in the Year of the Tiger. The tiger symbolizes strength, courage and wisdom. In my family those born under the sign of the Tiger are Douglas, Mark and Katrina. So Happy New Year you three and may it be a good year for us all.

Ever since watching, and being a big fan of, the tv drama The Mentalist (2008-2015) I can no longer hear tiger without thinking of Patrick Jane (played by Simon Baker) and his nemesis, the serial killer, Red John. 

Red John uses a red smiley face as his 'signature' and in one of the episodes quotes the first lines of William Blake's poem Tyger, Tyger. Later, "tyger, tyger" are the dying words of suspects thought to be Red John. So now, when I hear or think about a tiger, I hear "Tyger, tyger burning bright" in my mind. 

The Tyger by William Blake

Tyger Tyger, burning bright, 

In the forests of the night; 

What immortal hand or eye, 

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies. 

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain, 

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp, 

Dare its deadly terrors clasp! 

When the stars threw down their spears 

And water'd heaven with their tears: 

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger Tyger burning bright, 

In the forests of the night: 

What immortal hand or eye,

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?