Friday, March 8, 2024

PIANO MAN

 



Just scrolling back in my phone just now, I came across a little poem that I'd scribbled down while in the waiting room at Chris' last surgery.   Between the prayers and Cryptic Crosswords of that long, nervous day, dated at the bottom "8-30-19," I spent my birthday in a Surgery-Vigil in one of those small rooms reserved for family, with my book and pen and phone and occasional passers-by the only company.  

I'd just had one of those "can't-be-but-is-it?" moments on seeing a slim passing gentleman disappearing down the hall in what I could have sworn was a Leisure Suit, and so I stood to peek out and gawk til he disappeared through the doors.  The silhouette and the gait were so similar to those of a long-ago acquaintance of great musical acumen, but whose talents were spent in various small bars in and around several counties, stirring the smoke and hum of the rooms with old tunes and quite magical classical numbers over the years.   

I just sat down and fumbled words into my even-then-geriatric phone---a silly poem---accidentally turning out to be a banal mono-rhyme all the way down, and outlining what I perceived to have been the life of such a quiet, perhaps unfulfilled soul.  I gave him a youth from mere imagination, then other happenstance to bring him to what I knew for sure:   He lived by his music, by a brandy-snifter paycheck earned in the dim recesses and dull hum of voices and his tunes.    I DID know, as well, that his accomplishment at the keyboard earned him Sunday-morning-organist title at the Presbyterian church, and that the whole county gathered for the fabulous majesty of his Christmas and Easter programs.  

I wanted to put that great experience into the poem, that thing that none of us could do, that burst of Glory in the music of those special Sundays, but I just left it alone, for I cannot find words to do it justice.    I just know that I could live such a small life as his seemed, just for the great joy of the Knowing that I could call forth such Magic with my fingertips.  I hope his heart was that full---just for the carrying around of all that Grace and that Cosmic Secret of spilling out the music.

                                 PIANO MAN

Once he played, oh, he played, from the time he was ten, 

For his Mama's Card Friends smoking Kents in the den,

They'd ask for "That Rainbow Thing," then, "Play it AGAIN!"

As the maid brought the Bridge Mix and sandwiches in. 


He made hardly a ripple in the pond he was in,

Til a DUI got him five months in the Pen.

It took years to get back on the circuit again;

He'd have sold his own soul for a Holiday Inn.


There's been many an evening when no one came in,

And he played through his repertoire, Solo, again;

Til a lady on her fourth martini leaned in,

Leaving "Love That Red" lipstick all over his chin,

And his second-best pants saturated with gin.


Now he sits in the lounge with hair growing thin,

Still taking requests from the folks who walk in,

With his cigarette propped in an old Altoids tin,

He's as famous as he'll ever get, or Has Been.

    


Wednesday, February 14, 2024

TEN YEARS AGO

 

FROM OTHER, HAPPIER, MORE INTERESTING TIMES---TEN YEARS AGO, TODAY.💕


An entire pink room greeted me as I emerged from our room this morning.  Chris had turned on a whole carnival of lights, draped up and above the dining table, over onto the bookcases, spanning the doors of the china cabinet, and swagged over the curtain like a New Year’s skyline.


 


The heart has been glowing on the table for weeks, now---it’s like one of those projects we used to make long ago, with starch-dipped string wrapped around a balloon, the whole thing given a thorough coat of Faultless spray to absolute stiffness, and then the balloon deflated.  

The table itself had quite a few holiday decorations and representations left over, with the Christmas dishes and holly goblets and a few red paper napkins and two square vases in red and silver.



One little votive-cup, with a never-ending supply of tea-lights, for no particular occasion at all, or any we’d like.



There's a sweeping little light-up angel-in-a-cube, some pink candy canes and a pearly-pinky-tan Santa standing in Sweetpea’s Christmas tumbler.

My favorite cup, with some hot-pink paper napkins, chosen over turkeys and harvest-fruit for the Thanksgiving table, because “these will go.”  And they kinda DID, because we used the Burgundy Plates.  In the chair, there’s even a glimpse of the gaudy sandwich “platter” from our Un-Super Bowl party.

On the right, a frosted-glass lampshade, one of five bought with good intentions, but which did not fit the little chandelier.  We use those outdoors mostly, on the patio in Summer.

And way down right front, my Mother’s wavy fruit-bowl, used for special occasions all the time I was growing up.  It was used many a time for crudite' at parties, way back when they were still just a “vegetable tray,” and mostly consisted of sticks---carrot, celery and cucumber, because that’s what we HAD, when snow peas and jicama were still as unheard of as Sri Lanka.

The stack of pages is print-outs of my Paxton People, just to hold them in my hands before all the books were printed. 


 Once, on a decorating show, I saw a beautiful young woman show pictures of the "before" of her home, before she was married, with roses and pinks and lacy pretties, and then the stark leather and steel and glass of the "after," because her husband (an NFL player, if I remember correctly), felt like such frou-frou was just "girl stuff."  I remember her wistful voice, "I had to give up my roses."
 
   I asked Chris if he were comfortable with all our pastels and pillows and pretties, and he said, in his sweet, rambling way:  "I don't care if you string Kewpie dolls around the walls, just so YOU'RE here."  And that's how our life was.  


I hope YOUR Valentines Day is ROSY as well!


💕
 

Tuesday, January 30, 2024

BIDING TIME

 

 I can think of a few Southern sayings for what I must have been doing all this while that I’ve been absent from writing or communicating.

There’s
Piddlin’
Whittlin’
Whiling away . . .

Well, things rocked on. . .
Killing Time . . .

Making Hay . . .

Sleeping in . . .

Rolling around Heaven . . .

Sogging

I been kinda lapseful


I found them jotted in my little trove of stuff I dash down in WORD, copying and pasting and borrowing the GOOD STUFF from hither and yon.   I love the comfortable sayings, the ideas of being which give our lives happy moments, memorable days, and since I’ve been here but FAR for so long, here are a few little bits from others’ words and gleanings.  They're in all their own italics and personal print, just as I’ve returned to them time after time---I leave you with some Good Stuff to ponder:



It was a gentle jolt, a reminder that these inconspicuous, ordinary moments of nice— the cups of sugar, the genuine smiles, the held doors, the jumped batteries, the can I get that for yous— are what keep us fastened and snapped, what keep us gentle and sweet. Like milk and eggs, these unexpected twinklings of everyday grace are the staples of life. They are what measure us.
Mrs. G. Derfwad Manor 


I love the sunsets...

I especially love sharing them with family.

It is like the sun kisses us all goodnight..

and we have made it safely through

another day.
Nana Diana


Sometimes compassion has nothing to do with treating adults like children. Sometimes you carry the burden silently so those who are unable to do so don't have to try 

“All that is gold does not glitter, 
Not all those who wander are lost; 
The old that is strong does not wither, 
Deep roots are not reached by the frost."
-J.R.R Tolkien

Home is not simply a mark upon a map any more than a river’s just water.
It is the place at the centre of the compass from which every arrow radiates,
and where the heart is fixed.
It is a force that forever draws us back or lures us on.
For where the home is, there lies hope.
And a future waits.
And everything is possible.


DEEP PEACE OF THE RUNNING WAVE TO YOU.
DEEP PEACE OF THE QUIET EARTH TO YOU.
DEEP PEACE OF THE FLOWING AIR TO YOU
DEEP PEACE OF THE SHINING STAR TO YOU.

Second–hand books are wild books, homeless books; they have come together in vast flocks of variegated feather, and have a charm which the domesticated volumes of the library lack. Besides, in this random miscellaneous company we may rub against some complete stranger who will, with luck, turn into the best friend we have in the world
Virginia Woolf, "Street Haunting: A London Adventure" (1930).

In our little corner of Paradise all is the same, which is the equivalent of "All is Well," I think. Yet, looking outside, it is NOT the same as I see the red bud blooming wildly and the Spring wheat now sprung nearly 15 inches tall in places, flat in silken obedience to the wind in others.  
Oatmeal and Whimsy

And the whole section ended with my own explanation of why I like a SOFT house:


My admiration for a “modern” house is sound, based on the clean clear lines and absolutely neutral everything. But I could NOT wake up to such spare flat open air every day, for I used to look at the immovable concrete sofas and tables in the Wright houses and feel the chill in my bones. The marble and the iron, and the flat decks of cabinets in the kitchens---I'd NEVER find the fridge in all those anonymous doors, let alone the flour or spoons.

I quite understand the sparse, minimalist home, with gray and khaki and pale-washed blues; stark whites and bare walls bring an open beauty to the squared-off sitting areas and the one apple in a dish, like a deserted still-life, as if the artist grew weary of the subject, or perhaps just hungry too soon.

No. Love the idea and honor anyone’s love for such strict decor, but so much bone and no softness, no colour, no curves---not for me.    It feels as if the people who live there must live spare lives---arid, almost, as if they might spend their days pinned on a clothesline, like laundry in the wind.

Those spare, echoing floors and stem-legged furniture with sunshine on the shining wood beneath give me a chill.   We are not spare people; we are all round and comfy and hospitable, with deep-cushioned chairs and big ottomans and pillows and throws.   Our windows are hazed with filmy sheers and lacy valances,  filtering in patterns of sun on the florals and leaves.  Pink and rose and ferny greens are the colours of my life, like the softest pastels in the paintbox.



Soon the winds will turn to Spring, and we’ll launder the sheers, open the windows, dust the dressers, plump the Spring pillows of birds and flowers, then settle for a moment upstairs with lemony tea to admire our handiwork, as once more the seasons turn.

  I wish you all a Happy Biding Time til SPRING!



Sunday, January 21, 2024

DEE VEE DEE




 Exactly ten years ago, I published a poem---not one of my own, but a fulsome, perfect-rhyme and scan from a young lady I knew only from the Internet, and her interesting take on all things via an etiquette forum.   Known to us only as FreakyFemme, she was wicked smart and had a keen eye for the humanity in everything.  I just kept reading and marveling at the clever flow of line after line of such fun observation on our dedication to our electronics, and her sharp way with words.   Some of the items spoken of are probably obsolete right now, including the eponymous DVD, but I went looking for an old blog post to re-publish yea, these ten years later, and this one fit perfectly.    

Perfectly as a poem, and perfectly because I'm hiding down here in my computer lair while Leah is upstairs setting all the channels/shows/panels/passwords on our new TV, just received and slid across the snowy porch to me by a laughing young delivery person.    I never knew this young poet's real name, but her canny mastery of words and all things messenger-y is astounding.    Imagine her gift these ten years later:


Divinia Vera Davidson had five advanced degrees
From a top-tier institution, known to most as "U of T."
She was quite well-versed in art and law, she'd travelled 'round the globe,
But her single fatal flaw? She was an awful technophobe.
She couldn't load her iPod, and she couldn't set a clock,
Or turn on the television, and she feared electric shock
From such modern-day devices as TV's and microwaves,
But from this dire dilemma, she did not want to be saved.

"Television makes you STYEWPID!!!"; she snorted in disgust,
But her daughter, Dora Vivian, said "Face your fears, you must!
For, it will not be forever that your offspring will remain

In the family home to help you with machines, and ease the pain
Of trekking through this modern world, a closet technophobe,
For soon will come OUR turn to leave the house, and tour the globe,
Go to school to fill our eager minds with wisdom and insight
That helped you bring us up thus far, and teach us wrong from right.
Darren Vernon, my dear brother, cannot come home each weekend
To load your precious iPod, so this madness, it must end!"

But despite her daughter's speech, Divinia didn't want to learn
The how-to's of electronics, for she feared that it would spurn
Teasing comments, hurtul insults, from her daughter and her son,
And her husband, Donald Vincent--law degrees, he had just one,
But he thought himself the smartest of the Davidson household,
And she didn't want to prove to him the words she had been told:

"Electronics are a boy thing, beyond females' feeble brains,
Just attempt to understand them, and you'll drive yourself insane
From the vast array of buttons, CD drives, and dials, and knobs!"
(Although he was quite a kind man, Donald was a techno-snob).
But then one fateful dinnertime, a package came by mail,
And when Divinia opened it, her face went deathly pale.
For in this cursed package was a hated enemy,
A round and shiny metal disc: a movie DVD.

The film itself was excellent, right up Divinia's street,
And the giver, her big sister, was just trying to 
be sweet
And give Divinia's birthday the attention it deserved,
But at the thought of playing it, Divinia was unnerved.
Of this monumental challenge, Divinia had two minds,
For she loved her sister dearly, and the gesture had been kind,
She yearned to see that movie, she had read all the reviews,
And the critics deemed it five-star work, they said "C'est merveilleux!"
It was black and white, subtitled, frontal nudity as well,
It was quite the high-art movie, as far as she could tell,
But how would Divinia know for sure? The mystery remained
So, to find a cogent answer, poor Divinia wracked her brain.

Donald Vincent could not help her, for he was out of town
Playing golf with his two brothers, from sunup until sundown.
Dora Vivian was gone as well, performing in a show,
And the whereabouts of Darren Vernon? Well, she did not know.
Perhaps he was out partying, perhaps he had night class,
But wherever her young son was, a predicament had passed
In the living room that evening, so what could Divinia do?
So she had to fight her demons 
by facing what was true.

She stared the beast of burden in its one unblinking eye,
And said "I don't like you, you don't like me, but I have to try
To unlock the cryptic secret that surrounds your operation!"
After all, she had once saved a struggling village from starvation!



"This couldn't be much harder," she reasoned in her mind,
"Technophobia's no handicap, like being deaf or blind.
So, if I want to conquer this, the power lies with me,
I can stay here in the darkness, or my movie, I can see!"

So, she grabbed the small black clicker, with its Power button red,
And aimed it at the T.V., with her stomach wracked with dread.
She feared a huge explosion would accompany an error,
But she pressed the button anyway, despite her untold terror.
Surprisingly, despite her fear, the house remained intact,
For Divinia had completed the first formidable act.
There were people moving, speaking, dancing, laughing on the screen
Such a joyous beacon of success, Divinia'd never seen.
Next, she found the number keypad, turned the set to channel three,
And then pressed the small grey button that read "VCR/TV"
(Or was that TV/VCR? The answer slipped my mind,

But the way out of her quagmire, Divinia could now find).

Having done these steps, Divinia then bent down upon her knees,
And found the power button on the player, DVD.
This button was denoted with a circle and a stick
That went through the circle's middle, like a rotund candle's wick.
So, Divinia pressed the button, and the light lit up in green,
Like the fields of poppies in her very favourite Monet scene.
Then on the DVD remote, she pressed the "Input" switch,
And the big black Clairtone picture came at once, without a hitch.

Also on the DVD remote, the button "Open/Close"
Stood out to her quite clearly, like autumn's final rose
Surrounded by its wilted siblings, crumbling, dry and brown,
But in the top left corner, this button could be found,
Decorated with its symbol, a triangle and a square,
And when the player opened, she knew she was almost there.

Barely hiding her excitement, she opened up the case
That contained her precious movie, and with little time to waste,
She placed it, picture facing up, in the player's waiting tray,
Closed the drive, waited a moment, and then pressed the button "Play,"
Whose forward-facing arrow accompanied its name,
And on every DVD device, that button is the same.
Within a few short moments, the movie sprang to life,
And when Donald Vincent came back home, his now-triumphant wife
Exclaimed to him in jubilation, happiness, and pride,
"I faced my technophobia, now come join me inside!
We can watch the artsy movie, and I'm no longer afraid!
Hey, you look pretty thirsty, I'll go make some lemonade.
But first, to freeze the movie while I head into the kitchen,
I have to press 'Play/Pause' again. Technology is B!tchin!"

So, from that evening onward, Divinia wasn't scared;
At movie operations, she was no longer impaired.
For, since she'd climbed that mountain, she would never forget how
To play a DVD again, and her older friends she wowed
With her awesome newfound prowess at that deadly metal box,
Whose improper operation did NOT cause electric shocks,

But her friends were unenlightened, and were firmly unaware

Of how to use machinery, so of course, Divinia shared
The secret she had learned. She spread the message far and wide,
(Part of this was out of kindness, but mostly it was pride).
But despite Divinia's motives, she birthed a revolution
Of self-reliant folks who did NOT fear electrocution
From a simple movie player, so all across the town,
With their favourite DVD's, the former technophobes sit down.

Now, Divinia's awesome victory did not come with a medal,
Or a framed degree or trophy, so Divinia had to settle
For the quiet, strident cheering from her husband and her son,
And daughter, Dora Vivian, but she knew what she had done.
She'd faced her fear, and conquered it, so she now felt like a god--
And to celebrate, she taught herself to load her own iPod.


Thursday, January 11, 2024

THEY BRIGHT ME



All my life I've had folks tell me that I have "such a sunny outlook," and that I "look on the Bright Side."   Several readers have in the past commented on my use of the words, "They BRIGHT me,"   or "It BRIGHTS me," to mean the subject matter/picture/person/scene/item/thought/prayer/wish/greeting or gift touched my heart or mind in a way to bring joy to my day.  It could be a stranger's family photo, or a lucky find at a Thrift Shop or verse on a pillow---so many things just take my imagination and send it soaring, or bring a smile of a remembered friend, or simply give a fresh meaning to ordinary objects and days.


And not so long ago, after a lifetime of being in the family I was born to, I discovered the most remarkable thing:   BRIGHT is a vivid, long-time attribute of our Family Tree.  Just thinking back on family names brought the strangest assemblage of similar names I've ever encountered---born to, and married into, and named for--accounted for the strangest convocation of synonyms outside Roget's ken.  


So---to the FAMILY TREE, to start with me:   My Daddy married a young lady named RAY, and then my middle name was RAY for my Mother.  

 

Daddy's older sister was Lucille---which means "Light."


His baby sister was Nell---Shining Light.    She married a young man whose name was BRIGHT.


Daddy's brother married a young woman whose maiden name was SPARKS.


Mother's only sibling married a young woman whose maiden name was RAY.


Daddy's only other sister's married name was WOOD---without which no good fire . . .