Almanac: Quarantine Sunday

Almanac: Quarantine Sunday

Weather:  cloudy and cold, occasional light rain

Flora:  oaks shedding seed pods, 

tulip poplars full of blooms

Fauna:  blue-tailed skink on the porch, 

squirrel raiding the bird feeder

Customs:  worship service and Sunday School

Food:  odd lunch for Sunday-- chili and hot dogs, cupcakes for dessert

Clothing:  blazer, scarf, jewelry—first time in days

Postcard picture:  valley green with stripes and patches of plowed earth

Today’s headlines:  More than fifty thousand deaths

Biggest fear:  Opening up too soon

Saved From Oblivion

Today's prompt was to write a poem about a handmade item.  This poem is about a canoe my friend Shauna carved for me.  It was meant to be put in the Sequatchie River to take a journey, but he was too cute to part with.  I used to do a unit inspired by book Paddle to the Sea by Holling C. Holling.

Saved From Oblivion

The boy sits in his canoe,

hands poised to hold his fishing pole,

his round face and bright eyes

turned up to see the world

passing by his little boat.

Supplies are packed all around him,

kept dry by waterproof coverings.

He is prepared for his long journey,

his paddle to the sea,

a trip he never made because

I couldn’t part with him,

too dear a gift to send away

out into the unknown.

I saved him from destruction,

even oblivion,

but then,

he didn’t get to see the wide world,

and for that I am sorry.

AV 1982

Today's prompt was to write about an out-dated technology.

AV 1982

 Film is loaded and fed 

through spindles and slots

with a rapid fire 

click click click click.

Light flickers;

an image begins to appear.

Sound is more unpredictable,

lips may mouth words 

spoken seconds before or after.

It is so distracting one can hardly focus.

Care must be taken 

so there will be no melted celluloid.

But the students are abuzz with excitement.

We watch in the strobing light 

as exotic things parade through our classroom.

More engaging than the slides 

that click past in frozen silence

or the still frames of filmstrips that are 

every day fare in the classroom, 

the films bring the far away into view—

            George Washington visits from Mount Vernon,

            an armless woman cuts her son’s hair,

            a red balloon floats through the streets of Paris,

until we hear the 

flap flap flap flap 

as the film slaps

 signaling the end of the reel.

Cheater That I Was

Today's prompt was to write about something stolen but not to apologize.

Cheater That I Was

April 13, 2020

When I was six or seven

I stole my first poem,

ripped the page right out of a book,

copied it onto my notebook paper,

passed it off as my own.

Turned it in to my second grade teacher,

said, “Look, Ms. Bridges, look!”

Won a prize for that purloined poem,

cheater that I was.

“Good poets borrow; great poets steal,”

so the saying goes.

I’ve learned that the trick is to make it your own

so that nobody knows.

Holy Saturday

Holy Saturday

April 11, 2020

Those women—

The women who loved Jesus

sat in a restless rest

observing the commandment

of the Holy Sabbath.

There was work to do

that needed to be done that very minute,

not tomorrow.

A body to cleanse,

to saturate with spices,

to wrap with cloths,

to love.

They could have chosen a different path,

to ignore the commandment

in these extraordinary circumstances.

Surely one of the women

made the case for action.

They could have made their way

to the sealed tomb,

confronted Roman guards,

realized the futility of it all,

left weeping hopelessly,

giving up on the task.

But sometimes the waiting—

the Holy Sabbath—

is the thing that makes

the next step possible.

They waited,

followed the rules,

did what was required

and showed up on time

for their real destiny,

Witness to the risen Lord,

First to proclaim

“He is risen,

He is risen indeed!”

Guest Post by Phil Kiper: A Little Late to the Party

A Little Late to the Party

By pure chance, last night, I listened to Chris Martin cover the 1975 classic Bob Dylan song, “Shelter From the Storm.”  The song with its cryptic lyrics is universally believed to be about the sadness of not knowing what you have until it’s gone.

     Now there’s a wall between us, somethin’ there’s been lost

     I took too much for granted, I got my signals crossed

     Just to think that it all began on an uneventful morn

     Come in, she said

     I’ll give ya shelter from the storm

I was born in 1956, and I lived through some of the worst times in America’s long history.  I was a teenager during the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, and the resignation of an American president in disgrace.  Teenagers all over were taking the advice of Timothy Leary and “turning on, tuning in, and dropping out”. I breezed right through it.

I was raised in a very conservative Christian church with very talented leaders and wonderful people.  I think one of their main goals was to keep all of the young people so busy with church activities that we wouldn’t notice all of the unrest around us.  The world was spinning out of control and our church was like the moon, using its gravity to deflect astroids that might come our way.  Several years ago a friend of mine listened to me describe my church schedule and all of the control and guilt they tried to place on us.  He said, matter of factly, “You were in a cult.”  I don't think it was a cult, but I think you could see it from where we were.  I was once banned from the youth leadership council of the church for attending a “Carpenters” concert.  Yes, that’s right, Karen and Richard Carpenter.  You can’t make that stuff up.

I have had a wonderful life.  I am sure that I was spared by my church from many bad things that could have damaged or ruined my life, but I am afraid that I also missed out on the opportunity to think for myself, observe the circumstances around me, and engage in the world.  Why wasn’t I protesting the Vietnam War or working during my summers promoting the Civil Rights Movement?  

My youth is long gone, and like Dylan, I lost things that I never knew I was losing.  Singer, songwriter John Prine just passed away from complications of COVID 19.  In one of his songs, “The Bottomless Lake,” he cheerfully writes, “We’re all falling down, down to the bottom of a hole in the ground; smoke em if you got em.”  Amazingly, I have never smoked a cigarette or had a drink of alcohol or worn a black arm band to junior high to protest the Vietnam War.  It may be that I am a little late to the party.

     

Betwixt and Between

Today's prompt was to write an ekphrastic poem, which is a poem that reflects on a piece of art.  Another challenge was to create a poem that reflected the shape of the words.  So I decided to combine them in my poem today.

Phil and I visited Charleston back in November, and we visited several museums.  One of the museums had an exhibit called "Betwixt and Between" by Patrick Dougherty.  We were familiar with his work from a piece on CBS Sunday Morning, and so we were delighted to see one of his works in person.

I used words from this video to create my poem/picture.  You can see more images of the sculptures here.

My poem is based upon this picture.

Here are some pictures we took when we were visiting the exhibit.

Worry is Like a Game of Mousetrap

Sometimes things come into my life

that get me all cranked up.

No matter how many stop signs pop up

to tell me to let go of my foolish thoughts

someone eventually boots a ball into my path

that I just can’t ignore,

And then that ball really gets rolling!

All this worry puts me on unstable ground,

like a rickety set of stairs,

and sends me careening down chutes

that plunge me to new depths.

The troubles can flood my life

like an overflowing bathtub.

The 24-hour news cycle clogs pipes

and won’t let the water drain.

Sometimes I feel like I’m on a seesaw

with all its ups and downs,

or like a man diving into a pool

where the water is too shallow

to break his fall.

All this worry I consume like bait,

like savory cheese that tastes so good

because the worry gives me purpose,

tempts me with a sense of control,

fills my stomach with meaning.

And as I fill my belly with every new tidbit of information

And fret over each hard decision in all this craziness,

the cage descends and traps me in my own misery.

Primaveral Party

Primaveral Party

Some guests have begun to arrive

for this shindig called Spring.

The daffodils sent out the invitations,

but they never hang around

until the party is in full swing,

like a note sent in the mail

but cast off once the dated is noted.

Forsythia and Yoshinos arrived early

in their cheerful yellow and pink,

but shortly changed into garb of verdant green.

The redbuds came next,

appareled in eye-popping purple,

along with dogwoods in legendary blossoms 

dappled in blood and cross.

We are anxiously awaiting

the azaleas in wedding-gown white,

followed by the lilacs doused in heavy perfume,

like a man wearing too much cologne.

(You appreciate the effort

but have to keep your distance).

The last to arrive will be the little fringe tree,

shimmying when the wind stirs her up.

Then the guest list will be complete

for this primaveral party called Spring.  

Today's prompt:  Write a poem about a specific place.  I chose my front yard.

An Unexpected Detour

At the Canyon overlook

            Phil and I recently took a trip to New Mexico and Arizona. It was a vacation trip with no other purpose than to enjoy the scenery and each other’s company.  We got out there just as the Covid19 pandemic was beginning to take off, and after our eight days of travel, we made it home safely. We arrived home with a sigh of relief that we didn’t end up quarantined somewhere along the way, and that we made it through the flights and airports before everything got too bad.

            I had been to Albuquerque once but nowhere else in the region.  Phil had made this trip before with a group of history teachers, but he was happy to take me to see the sights I had missed.  I was especially looking forward to seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. It did not disappoint; sunset on the rim was beautiful.

            We had planned a circular route from Albuquerque with stops in Flagstaff, Arizona, and nights in Farmington, Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico.  In addition to the Grand Canyon we planned to see Monument Valley, Four Corners, the Painted Desert and all the arts and crafts Taos and Santa Fe had to offer. But isn’t it always the unplanned parts of the trip that ends up being the most memorable?

            We arrived in Flagstaff after dark and knew we had a short trip up to the Grand Canyon the next morning, so I raided the brochure rack in our hotel lobby to see what Flagstaff had to offer.  One brochure touted Walnut Canyon National Monument, an ancient Native American cliff dwelling site.  Our preliminary plan had been to visit Mesa Verde in Colorado, but it was closed for the winter.  Walnut Canyon looked like a suitable substitute, so we decided to add it to our agenda the next morning.

            When we first arrived at the visitors’ center, we noticed a steady stream of young park workers wearing special backpacks designed for carrying five-gallon buckets.  They were hauling debris, consisting of rocks and concrete, from a section of the trail that led to the ruins.  Each worker must have been carrying thirty to forty extra pounds on each trip out of the canyon.  I’m sure they were thankful that the morning was cool and crisp, and that the brunt of their labor would end before the worst heat of the day.  I heard one girl say that she had made six trips up and down the day before.  That would be quite a workout since the trail descended 185 feet.

            After a short stop in the visitor’s center, which sat on an overlook at the rim of the canyon, we started down the Island Trail. As you descend the 240 steps, you travel through several different plant life zones, which are miniature versions of the zones spanning the West from Mexico to Canada, according to the official brochure.  It is unique to have such a microcosm within the twenty miles the canyon covers and its 400-foot depth.  We observed the yucca and prickly pear cactus at the rim, forests of fir, juniper and ponderosa pine as we descended, and we could look down to the canyon’s bottomlands where box elder and the namesake black walnuts grow. 

            The Island Trail leveled off and took us on a loop around the island (this island is not surrounded by water, but by air) where we could observe the homes built by a primitive people called the Sinagua (Spanish for “people with no water”).  They used natural recesses in the canyon walls, formed by flowing water that eroded softer rock layers.  Homes had several rooms, and walls built and plastered by the women provided protection from the elements.  Different parts of the canyon were inhabited during the changing seasons to provide heat or cooling, depending on what was needed.

            It was fascinating to take a step back to ancient times by walking the trail, but Phil and I were also struck by the more recent history that made our time travel possible.  During the Depression, the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) employed men to live in a camp and construct that trail with its 240 steps.  Most of the men in the Mount Elden camp were from Pennsylvania and earned a dollar a day.  The pay wasn’t much, but they got three meals a day and gained valuable work skills as they labored in the camp.

            Travelling down those steps and then hauling ourselves back up was quite a chore.  As we walked along, Phil reminded me of a passage from a book he loves, Boundary Waters,by Paul Gruchow.  Gruchow was writing about having the same experience we were having, walking a trail built by the CCC with a friend.

“You know there’s hardly a place in Minnesota that doesn’t still benefit from some Depression-era public works project,” I say.  “Dams, roads, sidewalks, picnic shelters, swimming beaches, buildings, rip-rapped lakeshores and river banks—it’s really an incredible legacy.”

“It’s amazing what we could afford when we didn’t have any money,” John said.  “This staircase in the middle of a wilderness, for one thing.”

“We’re having the longest economic expansion in our history, and volunteers have to keep this trail open because there’s no public money to do it.”

“And back home we’re laying off teachers and complaining about welfare moms and reducing hours at the public library.  It’s hard to be rich, I guess.”

During the height of the Depression, unemployment was twenty-five percent. We’re looking at those kinds of numbers again, coming out of this pandemic. It will take courageous leadership to steer us through the hard days ahead, but we may find some of our finest moments in the wake of these hardships. Maybe the legacy this crisis leaves behind will equal and even exceed the monuments left us by the workers of the CCC. 

Our trip to the Southwest took us to some famous sites along well-traveled roads, but it was the unplanned stop at a little known national monument that was the unexpected highlight of the trip. 

Phil in one of the rooms

The Island Trail

Some of the 240 steps

You can see parts of the Island Trail we walked
that encircles the island.

Trail marker about the CCC