RABBIT FUR

Every night I get the rabbit out of his cage and he sits in my lap. We visit and I give him a good backrub . He clicks his teeth and is so happy. Tonight he seemed to be shedding a lot so I decided to brush him. And I did, at which time fur took flight. The more I tried to get it in the trash can the more it flew through the air. It was up my nose, all over the chair, floating through the air, stuck on the table and love seat, stuck to my hands and arms, covering my clothes. I have a hand held vacuum, the more I vacuumed the more it spread. I found a lint roller and captured some of it, then got it all over myself again when I had to tear off the sticky part of the lint roller. I did that several times. I put the rabbit back in the cage where he shook and scratched, releasing all the fur that I had dislodged with the brush. It is still furry here and there. The next brushing will take place outside!

DIGGING IN THE DIRT

I've been digging in the dirt. I've planted more petunias than anything else, pink, purple, white, yellow, more pink. The rabbit loves them so he should haveey petunias all summer. They are easy to keep blooming and always look pretty.
I love herbs. Most of the old ones came up and are growing. Today I planted two varieties of sweet basil. Nothing smells so wonderful as basil.
Digging in the dirt is my therapy. Dirt doesn't tall back, well, not exactly. Most things I plant tend to grow. They do like water, lots of water.
I don't like weeds. They like me though.

JOHN WELLINGTON HALE

John Hale died 83 years ago today. He was my great grandfather. I wish I could have known him. He was a photographer, jeweler, and a builder and installer of light plants. I have been told many times that he was a man far ahead of his time. I can only wonder what he would have made of the computer, no doubt he would have been wild about them. He loved his children and he was a good man.

BIRD BLOSSOMS

Tiny specks of birdseed
have found
their way
into the cracks
of our picnic table
where the lawn mower
stirred up
the dust that has settled
around the seed
to form a mixture
that even a drenching rain
failed to wash away
serving only
as the most important
ingredient
to form rows of blades
of greenery
growing toward the sun
I wonder
if they will bloom
boasting blossoms
the shape of birds

by Me

THE TRAIL OF MY MOTHER

Traipsing around with my mother is about like following Hansel and Gretel. I could never lose her, the trail she leaves always gives her away. This morning she had a doctor's appointment. Neither of us had eaten breakfast so I got biscuits, gravy for me, butter for her, and we ate in the car. When we got to the doctor's office Mama was sporting crumbs on her blouse and pants. Crumbs and pieces of napkins were under her when she got out of the car. Her mail was scattered on the seat and the floor was strewn with things from her purse.
She was her usual impatient self waiting to see the doctor. Our wait wasn't long but she said she was leaving if they didn't call her next. After her eyes were checked she had to wait for them to dilate. While we waited she rubbed my hand and I went sound asleep. The doctor told her she didn't seem to have any new problems.
I was so sleepy that we found a shady spot beside Pier 1 and we both took a nap. We decided to go to O'Charley's for lunch, mashed potatoes for her, potato skins for me.
On the way home we stopped at the Dollar Store. We got a few things and started home. I told her she needed to gather up her things from the seat and floor. She found papers, kleenex, coins, a nail file, peppermint candy, red hots, a rain hat (sunshine outside), and other odds and ends. While she was stuffing the rain hat in the side pocket of her purse, she pulled out a fork. She couldn't imagine where it came from. I finally figured out that it came from O'Charley's. She was just beside herself, said she was so embarassed. I told her nobody knew it but the two of us. She wanted to know if I would take it back the next time I was in Owensboro. I assured her that I would.
Mama was tired when we got home, we got her things in the house, and she took to the couch. She is probably still asleep.

TWO OF MY FAVORITE POEMS

FELIX CULPA

Too wet to plow, we climbed
the ridge where Jack-in-the-pulpit
and Fire pinks fringed woods' edge.

Spent of love, he lay crucified
across my Garden Path quilt, hat low
on his brow to shade the sun.

Stretched beside him, I thought his feet
the prettiest I ever saw on a man. Upright,
they framed the wet bottomland below.

Blue veins traced a mystery map
to his toes. I wiped them with the long towel
of my hair, woke him to adoration.

A cast of hawks rose on a draft
towing spring in their talons,
snaring us in a greening spiral.

I think of those elegant feet,
boot-shod, mud-logged, entrenched
below shell-plowed, fallow fields.

Summer fades, no word comes, I soon
harvest what he sowed before following war.
Tiny feet beat sad tattoos under my heart.

Preacher calls me Magdalene. I refute
him, knowing her wiser in her choosing,
blessed by loving, not damned.

-Jane Hicks
Jane read this poem to me at Hindman. I asked her to read it several times throughout the week. Even now, I find something new in it every time I read it. The poem is in her book, BLOOD AND BONE REMEMBER
-
AT REID HARTLEY'S JUNKYARD

To enter we find the gap
between barbed wire and briars,
pass the German Shepherd chained
to an axle, cross the ditch
of oil black as a tar pit,
my aunt compelled to come here
on a Sunday after church,
asking me when her husband
refused to search this island
reefed with past catastrophes.
We make our way to the heart
of the junkyard, cling of rust
and beggarlice on our clothes,
bumpers hot as a skillet
as we squeeze between car husks
to find in this forever
stilled traffic one Ford pickup,
tires stripped, radio yanked out,
driver's door open. My aunt
gets in, stares through glass her son
looked through the last time he knew
the world, as though believing
like others who come here she
might see something to carry
from this wreckage, as I will
when I look past my aunt's ruined
Sunday dress, torn stockings, find
her right foot pressed to the brake.

-Ron Rash
This poem is taken from Ron's book, RAISING THE DEAD. I first read it late one night at Hindman. I haven't recovered.

POEMS

I love poems. I don't know that I could choose a favorite one. There are so many that are such a part of my life.


When I was little I had poems read to me every night. I memorized them when I was in school. In the 5th grade we had to memorize SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS. One line in the poem read, When Lucy ceased to be. One of my classmates took the floor to take her turn reciting the poem and the said, When Cucy leased to be. Everybody just fell over laughing. The classmate cried and went home. I still think it's funny.

I've cried over many a poem. I loved every tear.

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
-- William Butler Yeats

HEADER

Much appreciation is offered for the use of the blog header from www.countingyourblessings.com. It is a beautiful blog. I visit it and find myself relaxing. Thanks and more thanks.

BLUE

In The Coal Tattoo, Silas House writes that Anneth was pinned to the mattress with sadness. Tonight I understand that so well. As I write this it is almost midnight. If not for Olivia coughing I would be unable to move. It's a good thing that she is keeping me up. I can remember coughing like this when I was her age, I can always remember coughing. I'm coughing tonight. When I was little I would cough all night, nothing seemed to help. I would be exhausted in the morning but my mother would send me to school, where I would cough all day. She meant well, she thought (and still thinks), that nobody should miss a day of school or work. I learned early on that she was wrong. Life goes on.
The cats are settled, the rabbit is snuggled in his box, Olivia seems to be sleeping, Hubby is fast asleep, just me awake. Looking out the window, I can't see a light on in any of the houses around us. The street light is on, after being out for several nights. I think I like it better dark.
By morning, my spirits will lift. I won't be so blue. At least, I will have to carry on as if the blues have left me or they were never with me at all. It will be my secret.

MELTED SNOW

The snow melted so fast that I have almost forgotten it was here. The snow was much more fun than the mud.

OLIVIA

VENTURING OUT

THE GIFT OF A QUILT

This quilt was given to me by my mother's friend who has moved to assisted living. It was made by her step-mother. It has some years on it. I know I shouldn't use it but it is the perfect quilt for wrapping up to read. My aunt tells me the pattern is Seven Sisters. I love all the little prints.

RAIN

The rain is making me sleepy. It's the perfect kind of rain, gentle, steady. Peaceful.

FEBRUARY 29

I think it would be fun to have my birthday on February 29. I meant to mail myself some envelopes today so I would have the postmark. I guess it can wait 4 more years.

R IS FOR ROBERT

I called my mother to ask her if she remembered the year that Bob came to Fordsville. She gave it some thought, tried to place it with other events in our life, but came to the conclusion that she wasn't sure of the year. So as far as I am concerned, he was just always here, no coming or leaving.
I have learned many things from Bob. He introduced me to Broadway music, gave me all of his albums (I still have them all), enabled me to love this music everyday of my life.
While I was in the 7th grade, Bob and my mother would pick me up from school and we would take off on a drive. I never knew where we might be going. Sometimes he would make us close our eyes while he drove fast, made turns, drove in reverse and gave us hints that had nothing to do with where we were going. Occasionally, he would make us wear blindfolds. The destination was always worth the trip, overlooks, riverbanks, hills, valleys, railroad beds, places to eat, visits with strange people. We were often lost, finding wonderful places on those unknown roads, looking for them later but not finding them.
Many nights our house would be full of Bob and his friends, playing guitars, singing, eating, Mama always fed well. My father would say we were all crazy and go to my grandmother's house and go to bed. One night my mother was playing the piano and Bob was reading a poem. As she changed the tempo Bob fell right in with his reciting. There are no words to tell how funny that was and it can never be recaptured. Maybe it was the same night of recitation that Bob said in a loud, clear, professional voice, "A is for navel."
Bob spent many nights at our house and bedtime was interesting. As we would all get settled, Bob or Mama would start to moo, the other would bark. Following a few moments of quiet, one of them would meow, the other respond with a neigh. After a few rounds of this my father would say we were all crazy and go to my grandmother's house and go to bed.
During this time Bob was attending seminary in Lexington. Every weekend he came to Fordsville as soon as his last class was over. He would come in the house telling us that he was going back to Lexington on Sunday as soon as he had eaten dinner. But then he needed a nap after eating and the hour would grow late. So he would decide to stay until Monday morning, but was going to leave early, telling Mama to wake him at the crack of dawn. We would barely get up in time for me to get to school. Then in the afternoon when I got out of school, there would be Bob and Mama to pick me up. He would say, "Now Little Sister, I'm leaving for Lexington as soon as I take you and your mother home." But Mama would tell him to come in and drink some limeade and have a tuna fish sandwich. Of course, at bedtime, more mooing, meowing, barking, neighing. Early on Tuesday morning I would hear him bustling around, bounding off the porch, slamming the car door, flooring the accelerator, gravel pelting the windows of the house. We knew he would roll into Lexington just barely in time for his first class. We waited for him to return on Friday.
In all the years since we have never lost touch, never farther away than an e-mail or a phone call.
I know that I have a big brother who is supportive and honest, listens, confides, guards my confidences, laughs, understands, grieves, applauds, shares, no matter my circumstance. For this, I am quite thankful.
So, Robert, as you read this, I'm glad to be your little sister.

FROM THIS...

...TO THIS

EYELIDS

My favorite thing about going to church is the ride home. I lay my seat back and Mama gives me a treatment. She rubs and scratches my head, paying special attention to one spot along my crown on the right side. Then she moves to my ears, revisiting my head all the while. My neck is next, straight down from my ears all the way around to the back of my neck and up the back of my head. Just recently, she has started rubbing my eyelids. I take off my glasses and I can feel her cool fingertips wisp across my skin. All my anguish falls away, my whole body relaxes, my only life is in my eyelids.