“Whatever we practice, we get really great at. If we practice flexibility, humility, courage, we get strong at those things. If we practice rigidness, ego, cowardice, we get strong at those things.” Rev. Elizabeth Nguyen
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My Hair–a Student Poem
Recently, my students read a poem where the eggs in a carton expressed terror at being removed by human hands and a Pablo Neruda poem about his socks–hand made, blue wool with a golden thread running through them. Their assignment was to also write a 20 line poem about something ordinary which they love or appreciate. One student wrote about my hair.
A Birthday Tale
Several weeks ago, the tail of my favorite horse, Miracle, disappeared. When she died from colic after giving birth several years ago, one young lady at the vets took hairs from her tail, made a braid, and gave it to me. Since then, it had hung in the hallway next to Dad’s spurs and a photo of the family farm above Dad’s parade saddle. Suddenly, it disappeared. Where could it have gone? No one had recently been to the house except Martina, my Italian exchange student, and me. My daughter and grandson had stopped by, but no one else. Nothing else had disappeared. It was a mystery like the time I found a handful of dry dog food under the saddle. I never solved that one and had given up on solving this one. I had even considered looking for something else to hang in its place.
On my birthday yesterday, the principal walked to my room with a bouquet of flowers and a package. The bouquet was from my grandson. I opened the package. Much to my astonishment, there was Miracle’s tail, the top of the braid carefully and colorfully wrapped, a thin copper wire winding through it, and and then wrapped around the bottom. My daughter had managed to take it without my seeing her do so, took it home, and had wrapped it so it would not come apart. When I originally told her about it, she and my grandson commented how strange it was and made note of the dog food incident as if some mystery lurked in that particular place in my house.
My grandson had picked out each individual flower. He obviously knows my favorite color is orange.
Then to top off the day my son also sent flowers. It dropped 50 degrees from yesterday afternoon to late last night, the wind shrieks, clouds loom dark and ominous. It is a good day for bright flowers.
Student Poems–continued
Student Poems–continued
This is the last of the pet poems written by the sophomores.
Simon
My name is Simon
my family loves me
i was so homeless until they found me
they love me they care they make sure i’m fed
they even let me sleep in their bed.
i love Chick-fa-la its plain to see
so wherever you see it; you will see me.
i’m so grateful for the family i see
i love Chloe and she loves me
forever best friends we will be.
Author: Chloe Aduddell
When the freshmen heard I was publishing sophomore poems, they wanted to write poems even if not assigned. Here is one of theirs.
I dig
you dig
he dig
she dig
we dig
they dig
This poem is not very good,
but it is deep.
Author: Cason Christian
An “Italian” Evening–One
Two weeks and one day ago, Martina arrived from Milano, Italy, to live with me until the end of the school year. We have discovered astonishing similarities: we both sing and play the piano, we love vegetables and fish, we read books. Tonight my grandson and daughter are coming over for Italian food. We went grocery shopping today, bought pancetta for pasta alla carbonara. Because my grandson is vegetarian, we purchased Morning Star “bacon” and will make a separate vegetarian version for him.
As we planned this repast, I learned that in Italy everyone eats several courses unless in a very big hurry. Course one includes various little goodies like cheeses, nuts, salami, often thought of in the US as antipasto, but it can include many other things. Each person obtains a drink of his or her choice and snacks on the goodies and converses. There are separate courses that follow: pasta, meat or fish, salad, and finally dessert. Italians eat dinner late, e.g. 9-9:30, which reminded me of Argentina where people also eat late. I like to eat late unlike many people in the US. However, we won’t eat that late tonight, more like perhaps 7:30 or whenever we get everything done.
Right now as we await the arrival of my family, Martina and I are sipping tea while she works on a dystopian short story she has to write for English class–she is a senior here–and I write this blog post. The snow from last evening has mostly melted and the sun is setting. Martina loves Panhandle of Texas sunsets and sunrises. I will take photos of the food and post them tomorrow.
Thoughts on New Year’s Day
16 degrees, windchill 2, flurries.
Keep warm, reflect, remember, don’t relive,
forgive, move on.
Work hard to become the change you want to see worldwide:
-Empathy
-Kindness
-Love
-Patience
-Understanding
The Sim Card
At exactly 8:28 this evening, after returning from dinner and Christmas light viewing with my daughter and grandson, I threw my purse and antique, red, flip top phone on my bed, and let Athena, my dog, out. Shortly thereafter, I inadvertently knocked the phone on the floor between the foot of the bed and my grandmother’s (the one I never knew because she died long before I was born) cedar chest. Rather than moving the chest, I retrieved a long handled duster and gave it a swipe, thinking the phone would fly out intact. Unfortunately such is not the case. First, the back of the phone removed itself from the rest and flew out. I tried once again and the rest of the phone flew out. I picked it up and the notice read, “Insert Sim Card”. I looked at the phone. Sure enough, no Sim Card. Subsequently, I moved the cedar chest, pulled out the bed, retrieved a larger duster and totally cleaned under the bed. I even went to the garage, got the flash light, and looked under the bed everywhere. Still no Sim Card. Finally, in disgust, I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of zinfandel, The Seven Deadly Zins to be specific, and continued to read “There Will Be No Miracles Here” by Casey Gerald. How apropos, except I have never suffered like he has (or if I have, I have conveniently forgotten), I am not black, nor male, nor gay, nor poor (he probably is no longer either), and, comparatively speaking, I am very old.
The Christmas Tree
In childhood, no fake tree for us.
Just after Thanksgiving, the family search transpired.
Mom and Dad preferred Douglas fir, six feet tall.
Dutifully, we kept the tree holder filled with water,
never used real candles. We put on lights, big ones,
blue, green, red, an inch long, then carefully hung on delicate,
colorful, round balls. The most difficult task: the icicles,
long, silver, reflective. They had to go on just so.
Years later, children gone, Mom and Dad bought an
artificial tree, fake Douglas fir, incredibly real in appearance.
When they left Missouri for Arizona every winter after harvest,
they abandoned Christmas trees, gave me the fake Douglas fir.
I still have it. How long? Decades, several at least. State of the art
when they bought it, it requires work, assembly, strings of lights.
Every year, I tell myself it is time to get one of those new trees with lights
already installed, so much easier to take up and down. I never buy one.
I cannot bear to part with Mom and Dad’s tree. One year, annoyed with
putting on lights, I decorated it lightless. I missed the lights. Now every year,
decades later, I assemble it, take the time to string the lights. Some of the lower
branches no longer stay, but I work around that, hang the colorful, delicate
Christmas ornaments I love, collected over years and years, wrap the base in
the red and white cloth given to me from Africa. On cold evenings, like this one,
I turn off the other lights, drink tea like my mother did, and remember my
childhood.
Athena
Most of my posts are poems, things I have learned, travel adventures, or serious comments about the world. This one is more of a personal sharing post. Here are three photos of my dog, Athena. She is a standard poodle and quite fearless and territorial. She will even stand off coyotes. Sometimes this makes me sad because I do enjoy the wide variety of wildlife where I live. However, I like the idea that she is fearless and protective and warns me about anything unusual. Nothing escapes her notice.
When I took this, she had just demolished a bone and fragments appear on her left leg.
She and my grandson playing.
Inspecting her territory in her short summer haircut taken last summer.
I just finished the book “American Wolf”. Most people do not associate their dogs with big predators. Poodles were originally bred to hunt. When I watch her roam the wild around my house, hunter, predator comes to mind. I have watched her chase foxes, coyotes, skunks, you name it. She is clever enough to never get too close to the skunk. The coyote and she had a stand off. Eventually, Athena won. I have not seen a coyote since and that was months ago.
