Quote from The Year of Pleasures

"Some mornings, when I read the newspaper, I wanted to weep or pound my fists on the table in frsutration. Some mornings, I actually did one of the other. But the museums offered up the other side of humanity: the glory and the grace." Elizabeth Berg, The Year of Pleasures, p 99

I loved reading this because I so often feel the same way when listening to NPR. I can't believe the choices our government makes for us. But art and poetry and music all show that we can be beautiful, we can transcend.
--
I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats
Mary

Something Nice for Lunch and Company

Scott's Bear, to Accompany Something Nice for Lunch (in spirit only). Photo by Mary Stebbins (sepia one on Silk Creek Portal)

Something nice for lunch

I made myself something nice for lunch today. It was the first time in over a week that I actually put any effort and thought into a meal. (I must be feeling a little better!)

I made a chicken sesame tossed salad with fake cheese. I cooked up the chicken fresh and sliced it over the salad. I made a fresh garlic-balsamic vinaigrette. I served it with toasted hemp bread sprinkled with roasted sesame seeds. It was a delightful meal fit for a loved one or company, but I ate it all by myself. (I only made one serving).

While I ate (and only while I ate), I read in The Year of Pleasures by Elizabeth Berg. I am enjoying the book very much even though I am reading it so slowly. In the last chapter, she met a handyman who said he'd fix anything for $15/hour and that made me nervous, thinking of The Handyman, by Carolyn See (lent to us by Gail). That was an excellent book, but also scary and upsetting.

Now I am ready to get back to work on preparing for my reading, a long slow painful process! I probably will not do any more readings until I get moved! Unless I can somehow plan it so I can work on them in DETROIT, not here. I just have too much to do here to do an adequate job.
--
I am certain of nothing but the Heart's affections and the truth of the Imagination- John Keats
Mary

GREEN: Graham with Dippin' Dots at Zoo. 

Margaret (Mom) at Loretto, August 2, 2005 

A Hibiscus Wind

My mother, who’s living at Loretto nursing home now, had a brain tumor the size of a lemon, and though the operation was supposedly a success, she has lost her short-term memory and is often confused. But she sometimes says remarkable things:

A Hibiscus Wind

Mom rolls her wheelchair to the red hibiscus

in the nursing home lounge,

watches closely. Dusty petals tremble,

and so do her thin shoulders, rounded

under sweaters and afghans. She leans closer, bowing

her head toward the fabric blossoms. Her pale

face reflects scarlet and gold. She glows

with excitement, leans ever closer.

The air conditioner snorts, rattles, and wheezes.

"Oh," she says, backing suddenly away,

voice falling, like her hands. "It's only

the wind. I thought small birds

were gathering to burst out

and I wanted to be ready

to catch one."

Mary Stebbins,

For Margaret (Mom)

050804c , 050805a

I would like to be near the bush when the birds of wisdom and love burst forth and I’d want to gather them all into my arms for a moment. Perhaps they’ll arrive in a rainbow of color, sprinkle me with joy dust.

While my mother suffered only disappointment, I experienced something akin to a small epiphany, hearing her words and seeing images of these birds, seeing another world superimposed over the everyday one.

Mary, August 5, 2005

The Pentagonal Purse

The Pentagonal Purse (I don't know what these are--do you--leave me a comment if you do). I love that bud.

Thank you to the anonymous commenter for the information on this kind of flower:

Balloon Flower

Platycodon grandiflorus (Plat - i - koh' - don) is a single species plant, but fortunately it is very variable.

Native range is primarily Japan and Northern China, Korea and Eastern Siberia. There it grows in grassy open places on hills and mountains. The weather they survive in those areas makes the plant adaptable to a cold hardiness of Zone 3; heat tolerant in all but the Gulf Coast and Southern Florida.

Soil conditions are usually rich with humus, well drained. The root systems are large and carrot-like, making them tolerant of dry conditions, but they perform best with adequate moisture.

Full sun is best for bloom, however light open shade is acceptable.

Stems are stiffly upright on Balloon Flowers. As foliage matures the plant takes on an overall vase shape. Buds and blooms develop, adding to the weight of the individual stems. When the first rains appear during bloom you can count on the stems falling over, so staking is required if floppy flowers are not desired.

Height is 24-30", so this is the way the plant places it's seeds away from the parent. Leaves are bluish-green or gray-green in color with sharp-toothed margins. Outline is generally ovate to a rounded lance shape about 3" in length. Leaves are arranged in whorls the base of the stem, becoming alternate as they ascend.

The plant received its name from the inflated buds. As they mature each bud swells until it resembles a paper lantern or balloon.

The balloons open into five pointed broadly shaped shallow bells, sometimes described as saucer shaped stars. Blooms resemble Campanulas to which they are related.

Petals, which can reach up to 3" across, are arranged solitary and terminal. Veins of a deeper color radiate outward from center to pointed tips, further enhancing color and form. Reminds me of landing guides for bees. Buds and blooms are long lasting both in the garden and as cut flowers for the table.

Balloon Flowers are important plants for the late season garden. They begin blooming in mid-July lasting through the month of August. Colors of white, pink and lavender are available with shades of blue being the most common. Blue is a color not frequently found in any season.

Cut flower fans will appreciate the long stout stems and large blooms. Be sure and sear the milky stems before placing in water. They are easy to grow and thrive during our most humid and hot weather. For more information.

Fire

When I was a child, I loved the campfire, and I was so proud when I was the one who would build it. Gathering wood was an ongoing family activity. We picked up sticks on the way back from every walk. Now, in Canada's Provincial Parks, where we often camp, gathering firewood is against the rules. This is an ecologically sound rule, it allows the forest to recycle itself and standing wood to provide homes for owls and wood peckers. But it is still a loss worthy of mourning for campers. I miss the woodgathering.

Because of the firewood gathering ban and the ban on bringing wood from the States that might be infested with emerald ash borers and other pests, we have to buy wood. One time, Keith was terribly upset because the wood we purchased was punky. Lo and behold, that night, he discovered it glowing on the campsite around his chopping block--it was full of foxfire, and it was his first. He hung a piece in the tent and that night, it stormed. Lightning flashed and then faded and the foxfire glowfilled the tent. They alternated all night in a magical night we'll never forget.

As children, we loved to write our names with glowing sticks, toast marshmallows, sing, and tell stories. As older children, my father always challenged us to build and light a fire with a single match and we got so we could do it under even the most difficult situations. But as a wilderness camper, I rarely built fires, choosing instead to do what little cooking required on a small backpacking stove. Now, we usually build a cooking fire but do not sit around it after dinner. We don't have the extended family, just the two or three of us. I miss the camaraderie of all that.

While campfires are romantic, burning trash is not. We burned all our burnable trash when I was a child. We had a large barrel-shaped cage out back. One of our childhood chores was a daily turn burning trash--it was a chore we enjoyed. We had to be careful not to allow any of the burning pieces to blow away and if they did, put them out immediately. The neighbors had a similar burning basket, and one dry windy summer day, some of their trash blew out and set the neighborhood on fire. We kids watched out the back window as the adults beat on the fire with wet burlap bags. It was exciting and scary.

Clematis in Stained Glass 

Torch

I hit a firefly coming east on the Thruway. It struck the windshield, flared like a match with green flame, and then faded, leaving only an ordinary bug spot on the windshield. I felt almost as if I had killed a fairy. I had taken some light from the world.

Fireflies seem magical to me because of their ability to create light. I've read scientific principles behind bioluminescence, but it doesn't erase the magic. Light is miraculous.

One night last summer, driving with Keith and Graham, I remembered having earlier seen fireflies along River Road, especially thick at the corner of the field by the hedgerow. Since they live in Detroit and I’ve never seen fireflies there, I suggested we stop. We pulled to the side of the road and Keith turned off the headlights. The fields, tall grass and hedgerows sparkled with fireflies. Above in the sky, the constellations moved too, but so slowly, we couldn't see the motion.

I held my breath and watched Graham’s face in the darkness. "Do you see the fireflies, Graham?" I asked, "Aren't they pretty?"

"Yeah," he said, but he didn't look or sound excited. Not like I was.

There seem to be fewer people enjoying and fewer fireflies than there used to be. One night a couple weeks ago, I saw one firefly in the cedar outside my house. One is not enough. If there aren't at least two, there won't be more.

But in the fields out in the countryside, there are still fireflies. Maybe I just don't get out in the summer’s night fields enough. Perhaps I need to go out and count the fireflies, see if there are as many as I remember.

Tonight, coming home through highway construction, I came upon a truck holding a huge globe of light. Beneath it, several men wearing masks were ripping apart the pavement. Dust and dirt filled the air. It cascaded away in a fountain, lit by the strange globe of light. I wished I could have set up a tripod and recorded the scene. But the line of traffic and the narrow rows of cones prevented it.

The strange light and night scene touched a deeper spot, and again, I wished I hadn't hit the firefly. Recently, Keith told me that Graham suddenly said he remembered stopping to see the fireflies. He’d sounded happy about it. I released an inner breath I didn’t know I was still holding. Maybe I passed the torch. Perhaps someday, cupped in his hands, Graham will show a winged and living light to another child.

Mary Stebbins

For Keith and Graham

050701b, 6-28/29-05 (Midnight in the hospital emergency room)

Note: This is a revision of the Fireflies piece first written and posted on 6/28. If you have any comments on the revsion (on the piece or the process), please let me know. Thanks, Mary