Hoover Dam

I overheard from the television in the next room today that Hoover Dam, constructed in the 1930s, used up enough concrete to construct a highway from New York to California. The dam blocks the Colorado River, the same river that over millions of years carved out the Grand Canyon. A paradoxical relationship exists between the natural wonder and the man-made wonder of the world, a physical haiku of tremendous scale, a poetic landscape with an ironic twist. The river that constructed the astounding canyon is held at bay by the dam, man's astounding construction.

Were mountains diminished to provide materials for a mountainous work?

the farm's star was a tractor
called Allis-Chalmers
that pulled a rusty plow,
or the old wagon piled with leafy ears of corn -

too hot outside to be exhilerating
there were still moments -
lunch in the shade of an untouched corner of land
juice of blackberries
trickling along the backs of our hands

the whisper of trees
with stout vines entwined around their trunks
and small snakes at ease
gliding down the bark

the return to the orange tractor
to finish out the day
winding up and down the striped furrows
of flat soft acres

in synch with the blackbirds
lighting on the stalks
the sun moving across
the arc of blue sky

the guys on the wagon
humming harmony
with the grumbling baritone
of the tractor

Snake Spit (and the Spittlebug)

We lived in a rural part of south Louisiana, and among the varied grasses, there would be little wads of white foam wedged under the stem of a leaf or along the length of the blade of grass. Our mother would point it out to us and say, 'Snake spit'. We'd 'ahh!' and imagine a little garter snake or a king snake swaying across the yard, leaving signs of its passage.

It wasn't until I was an adult living in central rural Texas (where the phenomenon was also common) that I took the time to learn more. Turns out 'snake spit' has nothing to do with snakes but is a secretion during a life stage of the spittlebug. I'm not sure about the stages of spittlebug existence, and whether its the adult or nymph that excretes the foam, but the following quote from a Wikipedia article sums up what the 'spit' is about:

'The froth serves a number of purposes. It hides the nymph from the view of predators and parasites, it insulates against heat and cold, thus providing thermal control and also moisture control. Without the froth the insect would quickly dry up. The nymphs pierce plants and suck sap causing very little damage, much of the filtered fluids go into the production of the froth, which has an acrid taste, deterring predators.'

Link from Wikipedia : http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spittlebug

Milk delivery in the late 1950s -

Everybody called our grandpa on my mother's side Doc. He passed away when I was quite young. One of the few memories I have of Doc is in his sunny kitchen in New Orleans early in the morning. He brought the milk inside from where it was delivered to the door. He held the half gallon glass bottle in one hand and removed the little paper cap on top. Carefully he poured the cream that had separated and floated to the top into his coffee.

Milk was not homogenized then. If you wanted whole milk, you shook the bottle to disperse the cream back into the rest of the milk. But a lot of people did like Doc - poured off the cream that floated to the top to save it for coffee or oatmeal or desserts. The milk remaining had a lower fat content and was drunk with meals or used in cooking.

The bottle, once empty, was left at the door for the milkman to pick up and return to the bottling plant. The empty bottles were sterilized and refilled with fresh milk.

one afternoon
i rebound basketballs
for some friends on the team

they throw their right hooks
silently
because we're supposed to be meditating

we're on retreat
a three-day silent retreat
in an all-girls school -

(can you imagine
high school girls silent
for three whole days?)

over and over they throw
layups and foul shots
again, and again, and again.

the uneven rhythm
of basketballs
echos in the gym.

my eyes follow
the arc of the ball.
late afternoon sun is falling

from the high windows
above an exit doorway
onto the scuffed wood floor.

the ball rolls
around the rim
and through the net

my palm and fingers smell
of basketball and sweat.
I catch the ball

and pass it to a friend
doing silent free throws.
she catches the ball.

she toes the line.
she tosses the ball up
into the air

tomatoes and okra

in the spring, i planted four tomato plants and a couple of okras in the same little plot of land. The tomatoes took off. They grew big and wild and rambling. The okra plants looked limp and didn't grow and then, I couldn't find them at all.

a few days ago, i pruned back the tomatoes which were about done producing, and there in a now open spot was a small okra plant with one okra on the top about four inches long, brown and dried out. The okra had survived! I trimmed off the woody okra, and within days, another grew, and today, it was firm, bright green, and maybe even a little over grown. But I carried it inside anyway. Tonight, I washed it and except for about half an inch, I cut it up very thinly and added it to the onions, celery and bell pepper I was sauteing for red beans. As it was cooking, I spooned a sliver of okra out and ate it and it was good. I put the half inch I hadn't cooked into the compost bowl. Laden with seeds, who knows what might become of it.

i don't experience nature as i once did. there is a feeling of woundedness when at every turn the natural world seems awry, forced into geometric ornamentation, or deliberately mutilated by heavy machinery set into motion by human hands and ignorant or hurtful intention.

i patiently look for pieces of a glory of interwoven diversity that once existed on earth, and try in my way to shelter the natural process that moves us forward.

it's hot at dusk
sheets are still drying on the fence
a screech owl calls down
from a slim bough of the oak
its features dark in the twilight

iced tea

fallen pine needles
silvery gold
in the white sunlight
and iced tea
in a transparent glass
Schroedinger's Cat
under Nietzche's Hat
each element -
iron, mercury, sulfur, titanium, for example-
still tagged with its own identity number:
how many protons in
a single atom's nucleus?

Smoothie

one slightly overripe banana
one ripe Bartlett pear, cored and peeled
3-4 smallish ice cubes
1 tablespoon frozen blueberries (i was running out)
about 1/3 cup orange sherbet
about a half cup of milk
secret ingredient: one frozen precooked sweet potato patty



Get the above ingredients in your blender and liquify. Voila.

Better than some of the very good smoothies I made earlier in the week when all my favorite ingredients were on hand - sometimes you find delicious by accident.

There was a webcam set up last spring above the nest of a Great Blue Heron high in a tree (or perhaps a light fixture) in New York state. I visited the website a few times. There was a counter on the page showing how many viewers were at that moment visiting the live ongoing activity of the bird incubating her eggs. There was a constant stream of chat in one corner, most of it superficial and only barely relevant. The bird appeared tense, on alert, even though there were no apparent threats near her perch, and I wondered if she was aware of, if she could sense, the over five hundred people watching her every move on their computers, pads, or smart phone screens.

i drew a picture
of an orange and its shadow.
then i drew a table beneath it
and the table turned into a fish
the orange and its shadow
within the fish

i've walked today
and there's a pleasure in seeing
a bike and its rider
crossing my path ahead
the wheels in motion
the legs pedaling

just the image
a kind of doorway
out of reach -
or a little wink

kids' books

one of the gifts of parenting is that one is continually introduced, or permitted to return to, the wonderful stories and books in the realm of childhood literature. The books for the younger kids are accompanied by glorious sometimes hilarious illustrations, with new little details to discover each time you read the book aloud to your youngster. (Because your youngsters will insist that you read their favorites over and over and over again.)

We then come up with the brilliant understanding that, hey, we can return to our own favorite books, including adult books, and read them again and again should we desire.

And I've come to discover, even though my kids are no longer little and there are none about, I can still read children's stories should I want to. Wandering in the Lafayette Public Library downtown a few weeks ago, I discovered 'The Twins' Blanket', a picture book by Hyewon Yum. I was spellbound by the simple prose, its calming everyday story, and the flowing colors of fine artwork. Since then, I've checked out several kids' books. They're easy on the stressed soul and that's good.

Here's the blog that got me thinking today about kids' books: Good Books for Young Souls

http://goodbooksforyoungsouls.blogspot.com

the next tide

carved out sand
warriors beach
the smell of the sea
wet debris
leaves, twigs
seaweed
the arrangement
fragile
perfect
so temporary
deranged within
the rumbling pulse
the tender pull
of the next tide

breathe in, breathe out

Running is not so much about the strength in your legs as it is about breathing. Our Physical Ed teacher in high school taught us that some experts recommended the count of a runner's breathing out should be slightly longer than the count for breathing in, for example, three counts in, four or five counts out. That was a tricky procedure for a first time track team runner, and I can't say that I got it right. However, as I picked up long distance jogging later in life, I did learn to consciously use that technique from time to time. What has been most helpful over the years has been simple awareness of the breath, and changing up the pattern a bit when fatigued during a run.

Mostly, though, when running I try to think like a migrating fish, or a bird flying long distance. Don't think at all.

the foreground and the background

I walked early today. Sunday mornings are peaceful in the neighborhood. Usually, I notice what stands out - flowers in bloom, the awkward tree stump here or there, what the sun is casting its light upon, a cat chilling under a parked car. But sometimes, I make myself look outside of what first catches my eye. The crepe myrtle with its abundant blooms stands out - I notice that without effort. But then I take care to look a few feet to the left or right or below. I take note of the modest green leaves of some plant unknown to me. There's a crumpled cracking in the sidewalk, but I also look at the plain stretch of short grass in the lawn alongside it. Life's not about the foreground really - the lead actors, the king of the jungle. It's about the background too and how it all melds into the whole. There's the big picture: the dirt, the flowering tree, the calling dove, how long the sun is in the sky this day, the pattern of leaves on the curb. Ants check out the remains of a piece of chicken on a blacktop parking lot, and red birds flit into shrubs as fast as dragonflies.

yard man's debris
left at the curb
this and that
waiting for the city truck
to pick them up -
branches and vines
with drying leaves curled inward.

there hangs a treasure
almost transparent
within the shambles
a little nest
of wasp spit and fiber
from leaves and wood matter -
hexagonal cubbyholes
of paper perfection


the wasp nest glows -
a small 10-compartment affair
long ago abandoned -
an archaeological wonder -
the architecture
of humble inch-long masters
with wings

piano strings

it's the far side
of the year 2000
guitar necks shrinking
songs on the radio
fading into a tinny whine
we listen to talk show chatter
about the private escapades
of folks we've never met
and contemplate - hey!
where did the piano strings go?

Yellowstone


The wolf was resting in the sagebrush they said.
The valley was quiet, the sun blinding bright.
The children made a message out of sticks and bones
in the hot dry field.
They did not know how to spell, how to write
but they knew how to ask
for gracious assistance.

There's this movie - late 1970s? early 1980's? Jack Nicholson is on a train in the dining car. He asks the waiter for toast. 'I'm sorry, sir. We have no toast. We only have what's on the menu.' 'But toast is what I want! That's all I want.' 'I'm sorry, sir.' Jack argues a bit more with him, and finally says, 'Fine. I'll have the BLT, then.' 'Very good, sir.' And the waiter turns to go. Jack says, 'But wait. Hold the lettuce.' The waiter takes this down. 'Hold the mayo.' Pause. 'Hold the tomato.' Waiter purses his lips. 'And, one more thing...' Jack looks up at the waiter. 'Hold the bacon. Thank you very much.' Jack puts down the menu.

Or something like that. It's been a long time.

Then, there was this cat named Earle Wynn. He was named after a baseball player, but I only knew the cat.

He grew to be a grand old age for a cat when he took quite ill. He was no longer eating. His mistress was in much distress. Her cat was dying. A friend advised her to bring the cat some fresh trout. So, she went to the great Seattle market on the straits, found a whole, fresh-caught trout and brought it home to Earle. He sniffed the raw fish. He tasted. He ate slowly, and then with tremendous appetite, as though he had never eaten before.

He lived on for some time.

Meditation

I've been knitting, walking, sketching and painting this weekend. There are times I let go of words, times words get in the way of knowing what's around me.

Harrummph.

Two observations tonight. One is that when I walked home from the coffee shop this morning, I saw a cat - a calico kitten, really - and a dog - a small dachsund mix - together on someone's driveway. Now, that doesn't probably sound very worthy of notice except - it's been a long time since I've seen a cat and dog together, just hanging out on a driveway! Brought back memories of when neighbor dogs kind of cooled their heels around the front door step, and the cats sat under a shrub, and they all got along more or less. This kitten was wearing a collar; she was big as my father's shoe. The dog wagged its tail my way. The cat, focused on the dog, crouched into pouncing position, as though she were going to fly onto the dog, who looked back at her, like, 'Harrummph.'

The other observation is not new. There seem to be neighbors here and there experimenting with discovering what local plants would be flourishing if there were no suburban lawns. They set aside small areas - some as small as one foot by one foot, some maybe two by six. They create a border of bricks or stones, and then, they don't do anything. They don't weed or mow or prune what comes up in that little space, but just wait and see.

What would grow on this square foot of territory were it never mowed? The results are fascinating and surprisingly appealing - these tufts of wild grass, vines, tiny blooms and saplings. They have a kind of sparky personality and diversity.