New Mantra

YUM!

I subscribe to a couple of e-mail healthcare newsletters, for info on living with my various maladies, and in one of them this morning was a mantra to combat the doom and gloom of economic and other news. I've added it to the one I borrowed from Mary Tuel. Now, in addition to celebrating each new day with "I'm still here," I also will repeat "Good times are coming!"

...

Indeed they are. Can't help but be so. For one thing, my most favorite holiday/cause for celebration is coming next Thursday - Thanksgiving Day. One of the reasons this last Thursday in every November makes me happier than a dog with a meaty bone is pictured above. Thank you, Universe, for pumpkin pies!

...

Before that arrives, though, this Saturday the Kids and I are going on a day trip down to Washington, DC, to visit National Geographic Museum's Terra Cotta Warriors exhibit. We're so excited. I get to do two - no, three - things I enjoy: road trip (I'm driving down to Rockville, where we'll catch the Metro in to DC), fun time with Kid and Grandkid, and immersing myself in another culture and their art.

...

Today, I'm cooking pinto beans, a reminder of my impoverished childhood in some ways, but (even more important) a reminder that I do, in fact, know how to provide for myself and my family. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in feeling sorry for my current situation, and overcome with fearfulness, that I forget that it was always the tough times in my life that taught me the best lessons in survival...no, more than just survival - how to thrive in spite of hard times. Besides, I love pinto beans, served with brown rice and a thick slab of fresh, hot cornbread that has been slathered in butter.

...

I don't think it gets much better than this. If it does, I'll let you know.

...

PS: For the foodies among us, while looking for good images of pumpkin pies, I fell into a great blog about food: Mixed Greens. I borrowed her pie picture, above.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

About Mary

Mary

One of the things that kept my head above water, so to speak, during my recent bout with deep depression was a sentence, three words long, that I borrowed from another blogger, Mary Tuel, earlier this year. She had written about a young couple just starting life together, then went on about life in general, our passages through it. I am quoting from that post:

• "So you reach this point and look around, and son of a gun, you’re still here. Read it out loud: “I’m still here!” Say it again: “I’m still here.” If you can say that, if you can think that, the party isn’t over, and the music is still playing. "

In my darkest hours, when I began to contemplate the unthinkable, I believe what kept me going was saying, "I'm still here!" each morning when I awoke. Those three words burrowed into my subconscious, where they kept the fires of hope banked, sometimes only embers, but waiting for me to stoke them into flames again. I did that, eventually, with help from all of you who visit here, and other friends who don't read my blog. But enough about that. This post is about Mary, and her husband Rick, who are going through a very rough time right now.

In October, Rick Tuel was hit with a recurrence of bladder cancer, which he had fought several years before. This time, however, his kidneys failed, something he and Mary had not anticipated. Mary started a second blog to chronicle their "adventures." Rick valiantly, and with good humor, is coping about as well as one might expect under these circumstances.

So, why am I telling you about Mary? I owe her, though I'm certain she would disagree. I came to know Mary through my therapist, Beth. At the end of one of my sessions over a year ago, Beth asked me to listen to a song she thought had value for me, if I would pay attention. It was from an album of music written, sung and produced by three women out in Washington state. The track Beth played for me was the album title piece, "I Won't Wait to be Happy," a wry, humorous declaration of independence and personal empowerment. Evidently, Beth thought I needed the message. She was right, of course, as usual.

I sent away to Mary, one of the three, for a copy of the CD, because I liked the way she thought, as evidenced by the song I had heard. We emailed back and forth a couple of times,and I learned about her blog, Spiritual Smart Aleck.

Mary writes with an ease that I envy. She shoots from the hip...or the lip, I guess. I admire her outlook on life, her wonderful sense of humor, and - mostly - her strength.

For better or worse (depending upon your point of view), I am a blogger because of Mary. She, unknowingly, encouraged me to try writing again, and is partly responsible for this blog. (If you think my blogging is a mistake, don't blame her, though. I started this mess.)

I am glad to know Mary and deeply appreciate the help she has given me, although she didn't even know she had done anything. This post is to introduce my blog-friend, Mary Livingston Tuel, to the rest of you.

And to say, "Thank you, Mary. I owe you."

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore Photo of Mary borrowed from her blog, Spiritual Smart Aleck.

What He Said...

The Light Fantastic

Found at Whiskey River this evening:

The Ball
As long as nothing can be known for sure

(no signals have been picked up yet),

as long as Earth is still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,

as long as there's neither hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,

as long as only the local echo
has been known to speak in syllables,

as long as we still haven't heard the word
of better or worse mozarts,

platos, edisons, elsewhere,

as long as our inhuman crimes
are still committed only between humans,

as long as our kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its imperfection,

as long as our heads packed with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,

as long as the roofs of our mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens –

let's act like very special guests of honour
at the district firemen's ball,
dance to the beat of the local oompah band
and pretend that it's the ball
to end all balls.

I can't speak for others –
for me this is misery and happiness enough:

just this sleepy backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at us
unintentionally.
- Wislawa Szymborska

Have Mercy

Sweet

While visiting BB this morning, I Googled the title of a piece of music he mentioned, Miserere, and found something all together unexpected: a heaven-sent voice paired with a voice that has garlged one too many rocks. I anticipated that I would find a piece of classical, sacred or operatic music. I found Bocelli and Zucchero. (To hear it as Allegri must have intended it, go here, then here. Prepare for goosebumps.)

That led to Pavarotti and Zucchero singing Va Pensiero .

It's like listening to angels singing with a frog. . .or with Dr. John. . .or Joe Cocker. I like the contrast.

Really got into Zucchero's Baila Morena: very New Orleans voodoo-scene.

Now, BB, put that sword away.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

The Way It Was

Several years ago, before the Butcher from Pittsburgh arrived, this is what a fall afternoon looked like, from the vantage point of my barn, looking toward the street where I live.

My house (and trees) are on the right side of the image. At the front of the neighbor's property is one of the two ginkgo trees that used to grace the neighborhood with bright golden yellow leaves each fall/autumn.

Sigh. . .

Post Script (3:36 PM): I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about this, but Mike is out in the alley, raking up all my oak, beech and serviceberry leaves that fell onto his grass. What the hell, and who am I kidding?! I'm chortling inside, all the while typing in a darkened room so that he can't see me sitting here, laughing my considerable - - - off.

God, I am such a mean-spirited so-and-so this afternoon. Please forgive my poor attitude.

Or not!

PPS: As penance for my glee at Mike's burden (they are my leaves, and I should have been the one raking them from against his fence...I guess), I scrubbed the toilet/WC, a job I hate with a passion that rivals my lust for chocolate. I'm not Catholic, but I might as well have been. I've got Catholic guilt. Well, damn, now I have to do penance for that! Will it never stop today?!?

Beats being depressed, though...with a stick!
(c) 2009 Text and images, Martha McLemore

Possum, O Possum!

Pogo?

The night of the Hunter’s Moon (which was late this year – 2 November), I heard a commotion at the back door. Something was rattling around in the recycles-tub where I put discarded glass awaiting collection. Donovan’s cat, Curly Joe, was peering out the bottom window into the dark. He was sitting up like a dog begging for a cookie, one paw on the window pane, the hair at the scruff standing at attention, his tail flailing side to side; was oddly silent, though, for such a vociferous cat.

Hmmm...what has his rapt attention, I wondered. I sneaked over to the door and flipped on the outside light. A huge, snow-white animal, with a big rat-like tail, was sniffing around the outdoor cat dish, looking for spills. Because of the size of this thing, I didn’t immediately recognize that it was a ‘possum. In fact, it wasn’t until it turned and faced the door, and I saw its distinctive pointy face, that I understood what the cat and I were watching.

This beast was easily twice the size of any ‘possum I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen aplenty. This guy was roughly 20” long from shoulder to butt, with another 6 to 8 inches of tail extending from there. Its head was about 8-9 inches long from snout to where the head curves into the crown, and maybe 7-8 inches across at the widest spot.

Its fur was stark white, all over; no brindle grey, as I’m used to seeing. Had jet black eyes about the size of nickels (about 25mm, I’m guessing). The only other color on the ‘possum was rose-pink, in a half-inch-wide scar that ran from its left shoulder diagonally across to its right hip. (Pink nose and toes, too, of course.) Sure would like to hear the story of that scar.

It looked like it weighed 18-25 pounds; could feed a family of four real easy, as some of my (very) distant cousins would say.

I tapped on the pane, trying to get its attention, but it ignored me, kept snuffling around for kitty-kibble. I turned away to grab my camera, only to see its naked tail rounding the gatepost, on its way down the alley toward the street, when I turned back. Without a photo, I knew this was going to become a “Should’ve seen the one that got away” tale when I told the kids about it.

Now I know what’s been eating all the persimmons from my two trees at the front of the house.

In searching for an image to use with this post, I learned a couple of things about ‘possums. They have opposable, clawless “thumbs” on their hind feet, the better to climb with, I guess. (Good guess, Martha, since they don’t throw fastballs.) They live, at most, 2 to 4 years in the wild, though most end up as road-kill long before their second birthday. (They’re like dogs: they don’t look both ways.)

They can’t control their feigning-death response to danger. A ‘possum’s first response is to open its mouth wide, which displays 50 or so needle-like teeth, and hiss to beat the band. Only when the threat doesn’t go away will its body fall into the coma-like state we call “playing possum.” This state can last for a few minutes to 3 or 4 hours. ‘Possums emit an extremely foul smelling green slime from the anus, which is enough – so I’ve heard tell – to make a bear puke for a week. (Such hyperbole, I know.)

My favorite ‘possum, ever, was the comic strip character, Pogo, artist Walt Kelly’s alter ego and best buddy. Pogo is sorely missed. The short-legged, foot-stool-shaped creature at my back door could have been Pogo’s great-Grandpa.

As for Curly Joe, he hesitates now before scooting out the door each morning. I thought it was because it’s colder out now, but maybe it’s because of the ‘possum. Can’t say as I blame him.

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore

Frost

A couple of weeks ago, daughter Kareema took the picture above of the witch hazel blooming in the side yard. You can hear the flower pod pop open if you are standing near the shrub at the right moment.

She took this one today. We had a heavy frost on Sunday morning that caused most of the remaining leaves to fall off their trees. (Neighbor Mike probably is not happy with the winds we've had after that, which blew a good third of my leaves into his yard. Mike cut down all the trees in his yard, including my favorite, a ginkgo, several years ago because he hates leaves. I feel so sorry for the wind-deposit into his yard...not!)

I noticed how brown and withered the leaves are this morning, and was reminded of Robert Frost's poem, "Reluctance," which follows:

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question “Whither?”

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

...

Robert Frost (1874-1963)

American poet

(c) 2009 photos by Kareema Griest, text Martha McLemore