DEE VEE DEE

Y’all know how I am about good writing, and I do believe that well-done, clever poetry is even harder than prose.   When the thought and the scan and the rhyme are THIS good---all I can say is, I hope you’ll read this.   It’s witty  and supremely well done, and on a subject on which my Electronics-Illiterate brain is HOPELESS.

I don’t know this young lady---not even her name, but she wrote this several years ago, and posted it to an etiquette-based inquiry board.  I'd gladly ask permission, or give credit, but there's no way to trace her.

 

 I JUST LOVE THIS.   (says Rachel, whose new TV requires FOUR remotes to interact with cable and DVR.   This will be immediately remedied by Chris, knower of all things computerese).  

 

DVD

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.

A GRACIOUS PLENTY

The muffled thooomp of the glass bottle of Sugar in the Raw syrup, as I pop out the cork to pour that caramelly stream into my cup---Pumpkin Pie Spice and a little allspice already sifted in, and awaiting the two tiny blue sealed cups of French Vanilla creamer.  The steam as the Keurig streams out the Eight O’Clock is as intoxicating as rum, and vies for colour with any casked booze.

Sinking into a deep old clawfoot tub, into the Shalimar-perfumed bubbles, with Spem in Alium on the Bose, or perhaps Tom Waits.    A good book for whiling the time, though this precious NOOK is gripped tighter, held drier, than the decades of John D. MacDonalds with their pulp pages and one-stage-from-lurid covers, which sometimes fell prey to damp fingers or errant drops of fragrant water, emerging from the steam with pages some thicker than before, words a bit wavery and dim. 

Thin, cold crisp slices of lengthwise cucumber,  salted glistening on a plate, for finger-munching whilst a sandwich is spread with homemade Paminna Cheese, and a frosty glass of Sweet Peach Tea is poured.

The still-unfamiliar sound of this new set of wind-chimes, hung and set a-swing by Chris several days before Christmas, and unheard until we had wind enough that I’d notice.   We lay reading late one night, and I heard such a tune coming through the open bedroom window that I laid my book down to listen.   The old silver set, way on the end of the house, was sending out its old familiar tinkles, and the other five sets, all across the back, were giving up all their melodies in ruffles and riffs, but there was a new sound in the mix, of deep tones and scales and runs as if the organist had just learned to use the foot-pedals, and was giving it all he had on the low notes, not missing a step.

They're a deep, matte ebony to match their sound:  I’ve never heard such mellow tonality from something hanging in the wind.  These things practically boom out Bach, seeming to be of metallic bamboo played with water and wind and muted mallets, in all the melodies there are, sometimes all at once.   At times, it's an Asian pentatonic, mixed with Close Encounters, and then again there goes a chorus of Sweet Adeline, as if the guys in center-parted hair and striped coats are tuning up for a show.    My very favorite, and heart-swelling, for times have been few, it’s the exact bongs of a grandfather clock I used to hear in the night in a safe, warm, welcoming house. 

Shelves of books and all the things and stuff and HAVES that I sometimes look on as clutter and too much, is plenty.  A gracious plenty, and I’m so grateful. 

There’s still a hush Out There, though everyone but me has been out and about and into the usual day-by-days of our lives.   They go to work, emerge to see if the cars are ice-covered or free, do what they have to do, and drive home on unruly streets and prayers. 

And I’ll forever carry memories of yesterday, when a little girl, dressed in a pink-and-black tap dress, sequins and net over a pink granny-gown, with black leggings and pink Barbie rain-boots, a thick red knit headband pulled crosswise beneath one arm and across her chest like a gaudy bandolier to hold her long green shoehorn sword, stood guard at the bottom of the stairs, and, restraining herself from shouting her usual happy “Ganner’s HOME!” stayed in character, shouting “Hark!!   Who goes there??”

Several ninja moves and thrusts and parries into the air before the answer was received, then she replied---I don’t know WHERE she gets this stuff----(flourish and brandish): “Your Magic is NO MATCH for my SWORD!”

And, since I’d been knighted earlier in the day, as I knelt and she tapped each shoulder with a long chef’s sharpening blade, “I DUMB thee Sir GANJILOT!”  I joined the fray, we disarmed the invader with a Group Hug, and sat down for a truce over cocoa.

Fulsome things for a cold day.

SNOW TELLING

 

 

Looking out our front door.  Even the air looked blue most of the day.

 

Caro called down the stairs last night, “Mama!   You know it’s colder here than in Canada, than Nome, than in ANTARCTICA!!! They just said our wind chill makes it colder than ANY of those cold places!”  Now THAT will make you think.  

 

And it was: -14 with Wind Chill of -36, with all the treacheries of some of the most beautiful things.

The Baby Maples I planted some eight years ago, when they were an inch high and rescued as they peeked out from beneath the edge of the about-to-be-removed above-ground pool which came with the house.  I gently dug up the three with a teaspoon that Spring, planted them into the rich, loamy circle from which a stark dead tree had been excavated, and they’ve grown wonderfully tall, standing more than thirty feet, now, snow-laced and magnificent.   Isn't that whole Circle of Life thing simply magical?

 

 

The front porch, just beyond the swing of the door---the snow is more than a foot high, like big slanted pillows on a bed, and I'm standing on the bare wood with my toes within inches of the swell.   See the darkness in the right corner---that’s bare grass, for the eaves are very deep, and the stuff fell straight down in great damp clumps, like big ole cornflakes. 

 

 

This flowerpot is fourteen inches tall, and I watched it grow round and plump with the dome of snow like a thickly-frosted cupcake, before the pot disappeared completely into that white blanket.   For a time, it looked like one of those big molded-plastic ads outside Dairy Queen--garnished appropriately with a lingering sheaf of Queen Anne's lace.

 

THE TREE in the back yard---this one is more than a sixty-footer, and is flaunting more filigree than Faberge’s fondest dreams.    

 

Dear old Weather Bush and Luck Bush---they both finally bowed to the heavy loads as the snowfall went on and on through the night and day.

 

It seemed so SILENT here, for we've been totally shut down---by Royal Command and Sovereign Decree, as it were, for no wheels rolled save for the salt trucks.   They went about the countryside like medieval carts strewing tribute to the frost-spewing dragons, and the onslaught ceased. 

 

 

This photo is perhaps eight hours after the sunlit BLUE one at the top, and feels like a different planet.   It was so odd to know such a muted landscape, and at twilight, I half-expected the ghost of Thomas Kincade to come strolling out of the fog, like Mr. Darcy.

 

May you all be warm safe and well.

NEW ENGLAND STATE OF MIND

How much art there can be in all the small ways of living. Sometimes we get lazy, but I think the effort spent in putting an ironstone bowl of pine branches on the table is well spent.   And getting out the fragile grandmother china is worth it too.   Often we do not bother to use the small gracious touches, and it is a pity.  For no matter what Heaven may be like, there is no use just waiting for it.   I’ll take mine now, with an open fire and apples toasting on a stick and good friends gathered around the hearth. 

 

Bowls of popcorn, and nuts to crack while the talk is merry.   Gladys Taber

 Stillmeadow Seasons  1950

When Gladys Taber wrote this, I was seven years old, with a heart for the fireside, a longing for the toasting apples, an Understood Betsy frame of mind kindled by those writings and that one little book for the great New England Winters and sublime Autumns, both coloured with the taste of not-quite-home.  Those places must have had different AIR to breathe, and a different slant to the sun.  I don’t know if I’d have felt THERE there, but I knew I’d feel at home.

My DEEP-South upbringing, the long hot days of unending Summer, the drying grass and the moist air settling like warm fog onto your skin, and the slow sun-drenched ticking of the calendar went lacking, somehow, in the loons calling on a lake and the crisp colours of October hillsides stretching far, far, with a tiny white steeple gleaming in the midst. 

And I thought Heaven might be like  Summer Camp in Maine.  Any mention of it could take me far from the smothering embrace of the big old pecan tree I was hiding in to read, to a dive into a cold lake before breakfast, and hikes through fragrant pines to a cliff-top picnic seemed the absolute pinnacle of childhood pleasure.   I WANTED to go to Maine to walk the woods and stand high on that windswept bluff and look out over the Atlantic. I needed, just once, the Paradise of sleeping on a cot on a ten-girl sleeping porch beneath the pines, to wake to the smell of bacon and hot cakes from the cook-tent, and a long day canoeing and crafting and then songs around the campfire.

I fervently imagined Connecticut on one of those flag-flying, orations-on-the- square, apple-pies-in-a-basket Fourth of Julys, or Vermont for Maple-Sugaring-on-the-Snow---I could feel and taste that cold sweet tooth-sticking surge in my mouth as I sweated in the viburnums, hiding my book from Mother’s don’t-waste-daylight eye.

The simple, quiet calm of anything New England just Called To Me---still does.

And Gladys Taber.   Bless her---I lived through her homey writing for YEARS---in my childhood, from our tiny school library.   Her cooking and flowers and dogs were a great source of entertainment, and I’m sure if I saw my “book card” today, it would be quite repetitive of the cool-weather settings and hearth and home tales that she wrote.  And later in my life, I would turn immediately to Butternut Wisdom on the last page of Family Circle, for I waited avidly for that small glimpse of where-I-wanted-to-be, and repeated the stories as I squatted in that inferno of a garden, telling them to my children as we picked.

 Most of the articles centered around Winter or Fall activities and enjoyments, a cooling thought as we labored in the sun, and even the fireside scenes were laced with the joys of having just come in pink-cheeked from snow-rolling and sledding and ice-skating. 

I’ve thought of Gladys Taber many times as I reminisce here about old times where I come from---the cooking and the living and the farming and all the folks I’ve known, and think that maybe I’m setting down a small memoir of my own---a meager, thin thing in comparison to that rich tableau she sent out into the world, but perhaps one of our yee-haw pots of pintos just MIGHT compare to that perfect crock of beans-baked-overnight with the deep sugars and the little hand of pork snugged deep into the middle.  I've never forgotten her line, "I think beans are elegant in any form."   And a crusty pan of black-skillet cornbread, redolent of toasty meal and butter, just might could compete with a rich, molasses-tinged can of hearth-cooked Boston Brown Bread on a snowy Saturday night. 

I DO know my blessings, and know where they come from.  She was one of them, and I remember her fondly-never-met, but oh, so familiar.  She’d be 115 this year, four years younger than my Mammaw, and if I could wish to have had two people together in that old front-porch SWANG, talking and telling stories, it would definitely be those two ladies of disparate places and infinite talents.

Old times there are NOT forgotten, but neither are the ones I’ve lived mostly through Gladys Taber’s writing.

PINK WUMMMS

Linking today to Beverly's PINK Saturday.

 

Meet our new friends, the WUMMM Family, created by Sweetpea and set safely into a tee-ninecy doll teacup.   They're a friendly group, and so were the choice for a PINK illustration for this day.

I also have a not-so-silent longing for a set of Pink Melmac, like the ones which graced my Mammaw's kitchen table so long ago---even then, they felt like dining with Princesses.

etsy photo

 

Mammaw's house was pink from door-to-door and every possible wall, rug, appliance and decoration in between.  The glow was reinforced by the opening of the bathroom door to reveal a set of fixtures the color of fading roses.   Only my Mother’s admonishment, with the word “tacky” mentioned at least twice, prevented the mirrors from having a set of flamingo decals bobbing all across like a fleet of gaudy sailboats.   A hissed, "You've ALREADY got SWANS on the Wallpaper!" clinched the deal.

Anybody remember “Mamie Pink?”

And so, with such a PINK gene running down the family, we’ve had this charming WUMMM family hanging around the desk for quite a while.  They are Daddy Shovel, Mommy Spada and sister Anne, Lida the baby hiding behind Daddy, and  Toddler Trowel in the booster seat.
                                                                                                                                      

They’re a congenial group, quiet and orderly, and we’re glad to have them as part of the family.   Their rowdy green GRUBBB cousins, now---THEY’RE a different story, and not a ROSY one.