Category Archives: humor

Because time.

humor, poetry, time, , ,

More than ten years ago I first posted this poem, after my late husband and I had been laughing over Cope’s poetry while drinking our morning coffee. 

Now, I’m amused, and wondering, at how fast January has gone by. Because time, and the unstilled wheel still turning. We may as well keep a sense of humor about it!

A NURSERY RHYME
as it might have been written 

by T.S. Eliot

Because time will not run backwards
Because time
Because time will not run
                                         Hickory dickory
In the last minute of the first hour
I saw the mouse ascend the ancient timepiece,
Claws whispering like wind in dry hyacinths.
One o’clock,
The street lamp said,
‘Remark the mouse that races towards the carpet.’
And the unstilled wheel still turning
                                                          Hickory dickory
                                                          Hickory dickory

dock

— Wendy Cope             

She visits her garden… sometimes.

church, food and cooking, humor, my garden, play, , , , ,

I wish I could be a better gardener, the kind who visits her garden each and every day for at least a few minutes, to pull one weed, or sniff a flower, or pinch aphids. Today I got my hands into the dirt and into the slimy fountain, and accomplished the setting out of these starts I bought a week ago. I checked on my worm bucket and found the worms happy. I picked all the Swiss chard from two mature plants and cooked it up into a recent favorite: Extra Garlicky Chard with Cannellini Beans; this time I threw in some dried tomato bits as well.

The last two weeks have been full to bursting with all the best sorts of non-garden busyness. Two book clubs had discussions in the same week. At a sister parish a baby was baptized, and another baby soon to be born into our parish was showered.

One day I drove to Sacramento and Davis to visit people, and another day I took care of two girls, A&Z, who played house upstairs and down, using all my dress-up collection, every doll and doll blanket and stuffie and pillow, toy animals and Playmobil…. Most of it they dragged over by the (cold) woodstove and set up their house with the two loveseats for beds, and played going-to-sleep.

This all may sound mundane to many of you, but to me it is unusual; never in my family or my children’s families have we birthed two girls in a row in the same household, and when you have mostly boys, or girls five or more years apart, the children play differently. I have been fascinated to watch these little homemakers.

For Valentine’s Day my grandchildren in Colorado sent me a box full of heart cookies that they had baked, redolent of butter and love ❤ They didn’t last long!

One day I spent experimenting with red dye to color eggs for Pascha. As some of you know, because I asked you directly for advice, I offered to take on the project this year for our Orthodox parish, which gives out about 200 red eggs on Pascha night. I wanted to try different dyes, colors of eggs and methods ahead of time so that during Holy Week I would have my plan firmly in mind, and the best dye on hand. I have yet to write up all that I learned so far, but I accomplished my goal that day, and also ended up with quite a few eggs, in various shades of red and pink, to eat in the next week.

I have been doing at least a little bit of my Purging-Organizing Project every day. I took a carload to the thrift store, and keep dumping pounds of papers into the recycling bin. The  more of that I do, the more fun it is.

My church Book Group #2, which I might call the Wednesday Book Group, to distinguish it from our Women’s Book Group, is reading C.S. Lewis’s Space Trilogy, also called the Ransom Trilogy. Though I read it two years ago, or maybe because the story is fairly fresh in my mind, I am really happy to have an excuse to get into it again, and have a really diverse group to discuss it with, too.

There are always so many things I want to write about, regarding my reading and thinking. But less and less do I feel the liberty to spend the necessary time to think that much — so I am considering replacing at least some of my blogging with barking….

A gardener’s work and prayer.

humor, my garden, poetry, , , , , , , ,

I’ve been in the garden every day, at least a little, and often a lot. When I come downstairs in the morning and realize that it’s already warm enough that I can slide the glass door open, without thinking about it I slide open the screen door, too, and go out to have a look.

The bluebird parents can be seen flying back and forth to feed the peeping infants. Finches, sparrows, hummingbirds and even the flirty Bewick’s Wren fill the space with their songs. Oh, and crows. It is a new thing the last few years to have crows in my yard. I prefer the old way, and I politely ask them to leave. They leave but they come back.

Often in the morning I will put water in the fountain, and trim a little here or pull a weed there. Most days I seem to spend quite a while picking sweet peas.

The sweet peas have become very intimate with the perennial runner beans. The sweet peas were up on the trellis months earlier, and were covered with flowers when the bean stems emerged at three corners of the planter boxes and started climbing. They mostly twist their stems around the pea vines as they climb, and quickly they have outclimbed the peas.

The pea vines responded in kind, continuing their reach for the sky by holding on to the beans. This relationship has to end, though, because the peas are expiring while the beans are only now putting out a few flowers. So, the last couple of days when I pick the flowers, I’m also going to a lot of trouble to break up this love affair without breaking the bean stems. Let’s hope I can plan better and not let this situation develop next spring.

When the sun gets too high and I start to droop, I go indoors and do housework. Or read poems. I’ve been bingeing on them in the last week, and hope to share my favorites here eventually. Maybe in the fall when I have finished my Big Sort, the organizing of all my Stuff: rooms, closets, cabinets, drawers and belongings to throw, give or put away. I hope the Big Sort will be done long before that, but there is the garden…

Acanthus
Lemon
Lavender

I mixed up some fish emulsion and fed the lemon tree today. I wanted to give it more iron, too, but I read on the bottle that you should not apply that until late evening. It was time for a break, anyway, so here I am. And here is a poem I read last night, which I hope you like:

GARDENER’S PRAYER

O Lord, grant that in some way
it may rain every day,
Say from about midnight until three o’clock
in the morning,
But, You see, it must be gentle and warm
so that it can soak in;
Grant that at the same time it would not rain on
campion, alyssum, helianthus, lavendar, and others which
You in Your infinite wisdom know
are drought-loving plants-
I will write their names on a bit of paper
if you like-
And grant that the sun may shine
the whole day long,
But not everywhere (not, for instance, on the
gentian, plantain lily, and rhododendron)
and not too much;
That there may be plenty of dew and little wind,
enough worms, no lice and snails, or mildew,
and that once a week thin liquid manure and guano
may fall from heaven.
Amen.

-Karel Matej Capek Chod
(1860 -1927) Czech Republic

What is night will soon be day.

humor, poetry, time, ,

Ogden Nash makes me rejoice in the English language as it presents itself to his peculiar, playful mind. I liked this galloping poem, and won’t argue with it, because that’s not what humor is for. But I will say that the line I chose for the title of my post led me from laughing to silent theologizing…

TIME MARCHES ON

You ask me, brothers, why I flinch.
Well, I will tell you, inch by inch.
Is it not proper cause for fright
That what is day will soon be night?
Evenings I flinch the selfsame way,
For what is night will soon be day.
At five o’clock it chills my gore
Simply to know it isn’t four.
How Sunday into Monday melts!
And every month is something else.
If Summer on the ladder lingers,
Autumn tramples upon her fingers,
Fleeing before the jostling train
Of Winter, and Spring, and Summer again.
Year swallows year and licks its lips,
Then down the gullet of next year slips.
We chip at time with clocks and watches;
We flee him in love and double scotches;
Even as we scatter in alarm
He marches with us, arm in arm;
Though while we sleep, he forward rides,
Yet when we wake, he’s at our sides.
Let men walk straight or let them err,
He never leaves them as they were.
While ladies draw their stockings on
The ladies they were are up and gone.
I pen my lines, I finish, I scan them,
I’m not the poet who began them.
Each moment Time, the lord of changers,
Stuffs our skins with ephemeral strangers.
Good heavens, how remote from me
The billion people I used to be!
Flinch with me, brothers, why not flinch,
Shirts caught in the eternal winch?
Come, let us flinch till Time stands still;
Although I do not think he will.
Hark, brothers, to the dismal proof:
The seconds spattering on the roof!

-Ogden Nash