THE PORPOISE DRIVEN LIFE

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   It was a day for Enumerating Delights in Central Park. Some people call this Counting Your Blessings but I'm not good at higher math.

    I like to pick a bench by its 3"X2" plaque. I chose an "In Loving Memory" type which had an unusual addition: a tiny etching labelled, "The End of the Trail," the famous Fraser artwork of a Cherokee bent over a weary horse. The man could easily be Lakota or Sioux but, naturally, I think of him as Apache, a tip of the hat to my ancestry. From my bench, I watched the sketch artists for lessons because I have often wondered if I could have a specialty spot for drawing children, angel wings attached as iridescent as abalone shells. I would at the same time enjoy listening. Children's speech is a magical journey of new definitions and emphasis. A four-year old once informed me her mother was very very very very busy reading THE PORPOISE DRIVEN LIFE. How meaningful to change "purpose" to "porpoise." How free and exuberant. A parade of pint-size Zoo Camp 2012-ers marched past  in an orderly file. I thought about their futures. Would any of them ever go to the Amazon River and see the frog as small as a dime whose poison can "take down ten men." (Information courtesy of Ann Patchett's novel, THE STATE OF WONDER). This bit of contemplation reminded me of when I was two and my family was on home leave from Brazil to visit my grandmother in Oklahoma. I told my mother to tell her mother that I only spoke Orcacheese. 

   The Delacorte clock struck eleven. It was time to pack up my library book, THE PASSION OF ARTEMESIA, and eagerly mull the next porpoise or two in my life of many porpoises. Abrigado, Central Park. 

Goodbye, Spring

2ND AVENUE MEDITATION GROUP

Diligently she works here

long hours, speaking not only

a different language from

the city norm

but also a continent away

from this Chinese family run business.

On her days off she sits in the

customer chair closest to the

open window

watching the tram, a sky gondola,

drift back and forth across 

the tidal strait as her clothes

wash/spin.

We could talk, she and I, but

something in her pose

asks not to be intruded upon.

I smile (in case I'm wrong) and

fish out my crossword puzzles.

I feel like designing one myself:

5 across ten spaces

"quiet world for restoration"

l a u n d r o m a t

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Tucked in a Notebook

It's the day before Father's Day and I chanced upon on old poem in a notebook. Behold! a Father's Day poem from 1984. Serendipity!

FOR FATHER ON HIS DAY

She said she was the daughter

of the Bishop of Ormsby.

Three times she said it,

the kind of remark

which could have been irritating

to the listener, I supposed.

The reactions could run

from resentment, "Who

does she think she is?" to

disinterest, "So what?"

But in her glowing reminder I caught

a note of such admiration and concern,

I understood a sudden kinship.

I knew exactly how she felt.

I have been guilty of the same effusiveness.

When giving my opinion, creed, or cause,

how often has that enthusiastic pride

surfaced!

Has there been a day when I did not

at some point gratefully blurt,

"Well, my father always said..."?

I am glad to report

there has not. 

 

A Birthday Blob for Sidney

"This was a townscape raised in the teeth of cold winds from the east; a city of winding cobbled streets and haughty pillars; a city of dark nights and candlelight, and intellect."--Alexander McCall Smith

~~~~~~~

There were few days in my childhood finding me shivering. Those were un-airconditioned times with starched school uniforms wilting by seven a.m. Imagination was my coolant. My two favorite ways of beating the heat were reading novels set in Scotland, or at least the north of England, and lullabies. Lullabies in song or poetry. I still can hear the thrilling opening of Wynken, Blynken, and Nod like an evening prayer. Often when I drift off to sleep I catch the strains of, "Fourteen angels watch do keep." In high school, I accompanied a friend, June Till, whom I later called, "The Songbird of the South." She sang opera arias, hits from musicals, and sentimental Irish favorites such as, "Down by the Salley Gardens." I have listened to many a soprano since but none has moved me as much as June, so aptly named. What I liked best out of all her repetoire, though, was a lullaby: "Sleep, little dream prince of mine." When Sidney was born, it was a natural thing for me to write something similar for her. The 5 syllable pattern is whispered. The chorus (7 syllables) is sung.

8/21/03

Flowers crowd jetties.

Sidney is sleeping,

Dreaming of plum trees. 

Peaceful angels cradle thee,

Heart and hand in tender care.

Huskies, tabbies sing goodnight,

Warm hug-locks from gentle bear.

Dreaming of roses,

Sidhe Izzie sleeps.

Fog drifts in the yard. 

Peaceful angels cradle thee,

Heart and hand in tender care.

Huskies, tabbies sing goodnight,

Warm hug-locks from gentle bear.

Stars illuminate;

Jetties are dew-clean.

Sidney dreams of swings.

Peaceful angels cradle thee,

Heart and hand in tender care.

Huskies, tabbies sing goodnight,

Warm hug-locks from gentle bear.

Photo Credit: Snazzy Daddy

For your cooling enjoyment, I recommend a Native American verse, "Go to sleep, Little Papoose." It has the combination of lullaby and Far North. Already, just typing this has lowered the heat index here. I hope reading it has for you, too.

~~~~~~

...may dreams of Edinburgh bless and calm you...

Twinkie's Chapeau

The Red Hat Society has the right idea: brighten the world with an abundance of fabulous knock-em-out hats. Personally, I'm not the RHS type. Oh, I love red hats (as you can see from the old Clearwater photo) but a large gathering of women dressed to the teeth is not me. It's too many stories at once. When Mrs. Greene gave me all her hats before she died, she told me about her husband having been a hatter and her father, when he was head of the public library in New York City, had often invited Willa Cather to lunch. Somehow her hat collection with its charming, original designs had the aura of handmade finery and literature. I stopped in McDonald's on Sunday for a mango pineapple smoothie and was delighted to see a hat with an enormous flower. The woman wearing it was in a small wheelchair in the back of which was a musical instrument case and a pale cream recorder. She was sitting with a man who in the old days my mother would have called, "Dapper." Naturally, I had to compliment the hat. When I did, the man said, "That's Twinkie." I said to her, "Hi, Twinkie. Are you a violin player?" He answered, "No, that's me and it's a ukulele." I asked, "Oh, do you play mountain music?" That's when I discovered he and Twinkie are local celebrities. Out came a folio of hand written sheet music, demo cd's, photos, a brief history of gigs, and a YouTube address. Over the years, I have given away all of Mrs. Greene's hats with their message of beauty and optimism. How she would have enjoyed meeting Twinkie and would have added a teasing note about my McDonald's/Wendy's/Taco Bell addiction. She exclaimed once, "You and your fast food cosmic convergences! You have the best chance encounters there!" I replied, "What can I say, Mrs. Greene; there are no more Automats." 

~~~~~~~

...may blessings find you wherever you stop by...

Splish Splash

It makes sense that I would frequent a small park at Cherokee Place. It is situated by the East River where the boats catch my eye between chapters. I had not tried the John Jay Pool for whom the park is named until last week. Such an inviting fresh air activity! Was I in for a treat. There were several of my favorite kind of regulars--babies learning to swim. One sat on the edge of the pool while her mother recited Humpty Dumpty. At the signal of, "Humpty Dumpty had a great fall," the baby fell into the pool and into the mother's arms. I began to want to really thank this John Jay person.  I wondered who he was as my American History is sketchy at best. I was mortified when I discovered he was a Founding Father, 1st Chief Justice of the Supreme Court (courtesy of George Washington himself), Governor of New York and an abolitionist. Famous treaties and diplomatic missions are attached to his resume. How had I missed all this? Where was Ken Burns to fill in the gaps of my education?? Does he know that the pool was a WPA project in 1940? Those were dark days but some optimistic planners forged ahead. Well, it is never too late for me to learn a thing or two or to express my gratitude. Each time I go to the pool I will recite my own recitation: 

"Thank you, John Jay, wherever you are." 

~~~~~~

...may the blessings of refreshing water be with you this day...

Daisy Days

The Dog Days. We associate that name with August and what my mother termed, "The Beastly Heat." But July has its dog days, too. I enjoy seeing the innovative ways people embrace it. For instance, at P.S. 183 Robert Louis Stevenson School of Discovery, the playground faces East 67th Street. I was struck happy by the sight of what appeared to be an end of year field day. Picnic tables were laid out with chess sets. The rook, the king, the queen and court were made of a cool icy shade of sturdy plastic. Nearby, there was an oscillating sprinkler throwing water over the players. The children for whom chess might be too stationary pranced and squealed and tried to escape (but not too seriously) the coming deluge. Or, as when attending a Mets vs. Oakland Athletics game, I sat way up on the top row. The evening breezes, the view of the river, the antics of the young fans just in front made summer temperatures drop a few degrees. Perhaps my favorite form of enjoying summer, though, is like Ubu in the photo: a good nap after a few chapters of a good book, especially like the one I'm reading, THE DOG WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD.  I can skip the paper fans and luxuriate in what a friend in Roanoke calls the world's greatest invention--air conditioning. 

~~~~

THE BOY WITH THE BASEBALL GLOVE

This is how it will always be for him:

the high clouds, the mild Spring air,

the ball hurtling out of reach

and the feel of stretching

beyond all hope.

When he is old the infirmities will lighten

because of this moment.

All later moments will be measured by it.

He will listen absent-mindedly to

what's important, what's true

on other people's minds.

Hotheadedly, he will disagree,

reveling in argument but

he is not really there.

He is present to another time, another terrain.

He is attuned to the sound of the

umpire's shout, the runners whizzing to homeplate,

the instantaneous deafness

of this impossible catch.

...may you have rest and activity in sweet proportion.. 

Photo Credit: George Page