Love

How much love can

our hearts  hold?
Overflow.

How much love can we

give away?
No  limit.

The gift of love freely

given has no cost or 

fee; Only our  time, 

sacrifice, and fond

remembrance

A Great Horned Owl, & Eagles

Early this morn
while still in
bed, before the light
of day, i heard
the mellow hoot of
a Great Horned
Owl ,
which brought to
mind migrating Eagles
i saw Sunday noon
at Higgins Bay
Magnificent, mighty,
purposeful,  they swiftly
soared through trees
to perch on the highest
ragged limb, far
from anyone's reach
Still and silent they
watched, and patiently
waited for just
the right time
to fish the lake

Tis the Season

What a wonderful season
Advent, the four weeks
 prior to Christmas
to help ready our
hearts in prayerful
meditation for the
birth of  the Wonder
Counselor, the Prince
of Peace, the  tiny
babe born in
Bethlehem,  son of Mary,
Christ the King

.......................

The tree is trimmed
and stockings hung,
presents are wrapped;
A wreath on the door
The sweet smell of
pumpkin bread and
cookies baking fill
 the kitchen  while
songs of Christmas are
heard throughout the house;
Frosty the Snowman,
Carol of the Bells, Silent 
Night and  It's the Most
Wonderful Time of the Year

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving Day traditions
perfectly unfold
with ol' Tom turkey
slowly cooking; Sweet potatoes,
mashed potatoes,  a green
bean casserole, cranberries
and creamed corn
Friend and family
gather at table
made festive with
familiar heirlooms from
two loving grandma's;
Organdie  dishes, and
gold plated flatware
We join  hands,
and lift our hearts to
 pray a prayer of
thanks for the gift
of each other, God's abiding grace,
and the bounty we share
For loved ones far away,
and those no longer
here -  All  sweetly remembered
as stories are told
Past memories held
dear, new memories  are born

Early Winter

The calendar says
Autumn; Thanksgiving Day
not yet here, but winter
has come, snow has
arrived, quietly falling
from a colorless
sky, covering north
Idaho with a cold,
frosty white - looking
like  Currier and Ives
at Christmas time.
The woods are
silent, no  sound
of bird, or critter
to be heard
Deer seek shelter
under heavily flocked
trees , trying to
keep warm  from
an afternoon temperature
of twenty-three degrees

Winter Approaching

Signs of winter weather
travelling this way, across
field and mountain
and farm and town are
seen in  low hanging clouds, in
a sky of charcoal gray;
Of cold wind whipping
through northern pine trees,
twisting limbs  like the
sway of a hula dancer,  and migrating
birds flying south.  Maple's
dropping their colorful leaves,
covering the ground
like a red and yellow
blanket; Morning  frost on the
doorstep, and late afternoon
like the dark of night

A Sorrow Shared (Mike and Walt)

When Susan called my cell so early in the morning I knew something was wrong. I had anticipated she was calling to tell me her 96 year old mother, whose health has been declining in recent months had passed away. I wasn't prepared to hear it was her oldest brother, Mike.  My eyes welled with tears, I wanted to hug  my life long friend, to be with her,  and share her sorrow.

While I  listened   to  Susan  telling    me the sad  details of   Mike's death, that he  suffered a fatal heart attack ,  my mind flipped back  eighteen months earlier  when  I was the one making the phone call,  to tell Susan my  brother,  my Walt had died.   Like Mike, from a  massive heart attack.

Throughout our conversation,  I couldn't seem to escape a single  image  locked in  memory's  view  -  a picture from 1963,  an 8 x10 photo.  Camp Little Green Valley. Southeast YMCA.   Susan's  brother, Mike,   a camp counselor is  standing in the back row -  my  brother, Walt,  sitting in the front row.

I thought of those years so long ago,  Mike  working   at his dad's hamburger stand across the street from our apartment on Heliotrope, Walt  still riding his bike, and playing cowboy and Indians with neighborhood kids. Susan and I not yet in high school,   but walking home from   school together . Meeting each afternoon at the corner  of the  different grade schools we attended - Susan's  Zion Lutheran , and my  St. Rose of  Lima.  I thought about how our lives   intersected, as did the lives of our brothers - if only one summer in 1963.

Veteran's Day 2011 - Reflections

This past Sunday at St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic church,   in preparation  and remembrance  of  Veteran's Day our pastor , Father Bill invited all  veterans sitting in the congregation  to come forward for a special blessing,  and recognition for their service to our country.  My husband, Gary and our friend,  Marty Mednis were  among many who stepped forth. Without saying a word, seeing  the age of each told the  generation they represented.  While none  are no longer here from World War I, there were a few from World War II, several from Vietnam , and  many who fought in Iraq. As Father Bill  presented each with an American flag pin with a cross overlay, the congregation gave them a standing ovation.   I felt proud of my husband for the time he served during the Vietnam conflict, and proud of all.  Each one a  piece of the fabric that makes our land great. 

In Bell, the southern California city I grew up in, the official name of the park was Veteran's Park, but us kids mostly called it Bell Park. It was a great place for Dodge ball, tether ball, softball, swings and slides.  I don't know how old I was when I first understood our playground was named in honor of the military men and women who served our country ; American veterans of all wars - men like my grandfather, Cecil Cooney, great uncle Andrew Norton, uncles Lloyd Cooney and Bob Breedlove,  and how significant   that was for me, and other children playing so innocently, and free.  Men who sacrificed and believed in something bigger than themselves.    Veterans honored  then were soldiers from World War I, known as the Great War - the war to end all wars,  World War II, and the Korean War.    Vietnam , the Gulf War, Iraq, and Afghanistan were still far in the future.  Today November 11, 2011 -  veterans of those later  conflicts  are also  remembered for their sacrifice and duty to country, receiving gratitude from a grateful nation for their fortitude and service.

This morning I read about the history of Veteran's Day on the US Department of Veteran's Affairs website, http://www1.va.gov/opa/vetsday/vetdayhistory.asp  and was struck by this opening paragraph,

World War I – known at the time as “The Great War” - officially ended when the Treaty of Versailles was signed on June 28, 1919, in the Palace of Versailles outside the town of Versailles, France. However, fighting ceased seven months earlier when an armistice, or temporary cessation of hostilities, between the Allied nations and Germany went into effect on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. For that reason, November 11, 1918, is generally regarded as the end of “the war to end all wars.”

The war to end ALL wars. If only it could have been.

Yes, let us always remember Veteran's Day - the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month  when the 'war to end all wars' came to an end,  and as we look forward , let our  constant hope and prayer  be just that - the war to end all  war.  

AUTUMN MOON, IDAHO SKY

An Autumn  (full) moon
in a big Idaho sky
shines bright
like a flashlight
in the dark of night
over tree covered
land, and beauty
of the north -  Rockford Bay
and Lake Coeur d Alene

The Artist

She hasn't painted
since her sister passed away
More than a sister, her
best friend, and painting
partner -  the one who
encouraged and inspired                                    
her art. Now, the canvas
is blank , the brushes tucked
away, and  the vivid
colors stored in a drawer.
Perhaps not today,
but someday soon, she'll paint again;
Something beautiful in
memory of her beloved Linda

Natural Beauty, North Idaho & The Danger of Changing Landscape

Mountains and prairie,
river valley and farmland
so much of north Idaho still
rural, allowing for the beauty
of natural land
Evergreen trees, pine trees
white birch, and white
tail deer. Wild  huckleberries
and grizzly bears; Moose and
elk roam the woods while
Osprey and Eagle fly
in a smog less sky

I wonder though, how
long will it  be
before  Joni Mitchell's
parking lot
takes victory here;
Not the loggers who
earn their living by
timber dollars, but
developers and local
politicians  making  way
for high rise buildings
and shopping centers                                          

WOODSY WALK IN AUTUMN

As I  walk through the woods
cool, crisp air brushes against my face
I wear a  fleece hat to keep
my ears warm, and  a bright
yellow jacket
I notice the color of the leaves
have changed from summer
green to autumn gold, and
take  in the smells of nature
that smell so good
this time of year
I reach the rim and
look out at the lake; silent
and calm.
Overhead, the  blue
of the sky isn't filtered
with smog or haze, but clear
and beautiful. It seems
close enough to reach
up and touch
Nearby, a  Red Shafted Flicker
rapidly raps  the trunk
of a tree with his pointy
yellow beak , and I'm
reminded it's time
for home

October 29, Night

Tonight,  a sliver
of a moon
set against
an ebony sky;
A trillion, zillion stars
glimmer and shine
like rhinestones on
a paper crown

Vinyl Records & Bing (Crosby)

 On the way  driving to  Clarkston Thursday, my mother and I   stopped at a thrift store in Moscow. I was delighted to find a collection of Bing Crosby vinyl (78) records from the 1940's, and quickly purchased them.   They are thick and heavy, like records were at that time - allowing for a deep, rich sound,  and  recorded on Bing's long time  label, Decca.

Everybody has their favorite male singer. For many, maybe most,  Frank Sinatra is considered   the best pop vocalist of the twentieth century. No doubt, Frank had a great voice, but for me, Bing Crosby is the voice beyond compare.  His is like a finely tuned instrument so sweetly, and beautifully played.

I could hardly wait to get back to the house and listen to Bing sing.  For an hour mom and I sat in the charm of her downstairs family room, and played record after record.  Pleased at their good condition, and quality of sound, we agreed it was like having Bing right there in the room , singing to us alone , in his vibrant, melodic  baritone;  Night and Day, Begin the Beguine, Far Away Places, and Tarra, Ta-Lara Ta Lar.

Later that night , after I was in bed and said my prayers, I thought  how wonderful   it was that  a man long dead , a man who recorded his first song before either my mother or I were born continues to bring a smile to others by the tunes  he croons.

October 25, 2011

Sixty one candles on my birthday cake
Sixty one reasons to celebrate
Sixty one reasons to sing and
dance, grateful for the gift
of a wonderful life
Like a kaleidoscope of
color on a big movie screen
there's sunshine and laughter
mixed with tears and rain
Featuring a star-studded cast
of family and friends
with stories to tell, sweet
memories to last 

My Birding Experience

    Stealth like,  it  swooped low and flew very near where I was walking,  startling me  out of  my reverie and quiet reflection. With its wings spread wide, the bird was huge and kept my attention as  he glided through the woods. I continued looking up, and followed his direction.  Maybe one reason I pressed on despite the wet leafy terrain, getting my pants soaked and shoes all muddy is because I had recently seen Steve Martin's new movie, The Big Year, a story about birding, and was motivated to see and document a bird myself.

I was still several   feet away when I watched with awe as the mighty bird made its landing on the limb of a tall pine . With his cat like stare he looked at me , as I looked back at him.  Continuing to move forward,   I saw he had  ear tufts (horns) and no neck,  and recognized what I thought was a  hawk, wasn't a hawk at all, but a Great Horned Owl.

                                                                 

  

Disappointed I didn't have my Nikon, I took  a picture using my cell phone.  That seemed okay with the Great Horned one. In fact, he sat on that limb for the longest time,  like  he was posing for a bird magazine  photo shoot - tilting his head to the side,  and  allowing me to take picture after picture.   It wasn't until  I tried hooting, hoo- hoo-hoo, hoo- oo, hoo-oo ,  that he  stretched his wings and flew away.

Safe Haven

All year long
deer and rabbit, and
a persistent Blue Jay
find shelter and food
under the trees
at Dobbs' Domain
And now, a stray
gray cat sits
outside the door
under the eave
waiting her turn
for a bowl of
milk, and pet
behind the ear

Will she go? Or will she stay ?

You Tube, Lyrics & Sutton Foster

I had fun this afternoon  browsing You Tube searching for songs by  some of my favorite lyricists, i.e. Lorenz Hart, Jerome Kern, Berlin, Sondheim, and Cole Porter. Another reason  I was motivated in finding a song is because  I've added a new  gadget on my blog allowing me to share videos with blog followers.    You Tube is a musical haven for anyone who enjoys listening, and  watching  great songs performed by great artists over and over again.

In my search today, I came across several clips from those golden MGM musical years of the 1940's and 50's. A favorite is June Allyson dancing, and singing Hart's Thou Swell in the biopic Words and Music, a film loosely based on Hart's life.  His lyrics

"Thou swell, thou witty, thou sweet, thou grand
  wouldst kiss me pretty
  wouldst hold my hand"

may sound corny and simple to some, but I find his choice of words clever and well put together.  Better examples of his fine lyrics  might be  My Romance, Blue Moon, or Ten Cents a Dance.  In my opinion, all wonderfully written.

I also viewed several of  Bing Crosby, Judy Garland, Fred Astaire, Frank Sinatra.  I'm a huge fan of  Judy, and was happy to find  many  videos  of her singing and dancing at her best ,   but the one I finally went with  is this years Tony Award winner, Sutton Foster,  for her starring  role  in Broadway's  revival  of Cole Porter's Anything Goes.  Please check video link at end of this post. Believe me, it's a treat to watch.  Not only does Foster give an outstanding performance, but it's wonderful to know the lyrics and music of Cole Porter are timeless !

Sweet Remembrance

How sweet life is.  Even through
trials and mishaps, there is
the joy of being with family
and friends; The laughter
and  silliness of a  shared
moment  forever remembered
bringing  a smile , and warming
the heart of those no longer
young, but growing older in age.

A Cousin's Gift, A Grandparents Love

When I grabbed the over size padded envelope from the mailbox earlier today,  I didn't  need to look at the return address to see who it was from.  I recognized the familiar handwriting,  and knew right away  it  was from my cousin, Shauna.

 Since it had been a couple months since I heard from my cousin, I was anxious to read what she and her family have been up to.   Shauna's letters are always thoughtful and caring; Full of fun and affirmation, and interesting.   I already knew she and her husband, Al  made  a trip to  Boise to visit their daughter, and grand-daughters, and  Shauna  planned  to paint a mural on the girls bedroom wall.    Blessed with a double set of creative genes, Shauna  is an immensely  talented artist, so upon opening  the envelope I happily anticipated  finding  a picture of  the newly painted mural.

 But there wasn't any picture. No, it  was something else entirely.  Something totally unexpected, totally endearing -  ever sweet, and very lovely. A precious gift from my cousin  to me,  made even more special as it  was  first given to our grandmother from our grandfather before they were married,  while Grandpa was stationed in France during World War I.  The postal card with  a  dainty  handkerchief stitched in pink,  says  Souvenir of France. The  back side is dated France 8/23/18.   Grandpa, so telling of his optimism and good cheer -even  in the midst of such  horrific times,  and of  his  love for Grandma  wrote this note:

Dearest Vera
Am fine. Could not be better. Everything is going fine here. Have not received mail since I left Meigs (sp)  Will write first chance. With  Love, Cecil.  Cecil E. Cooney  Pvt. Mobile Laundry Unit 311  A.E. Fr. 

It is addressed to:

Miss Vera Williams
20th  21 St.
Council Bluffs, Iowa
U.S.A.

On a second , smaller gift card  Grandpa had written, With the Greatest of Love, Cecil.

I read the aged note cards again and again. The very  cards my grandfather sent to my grandmother so long ago. I held them to my lips and  kissed them, then  pressed them against my heart thinking of grandpa and grandma,  and their  love for one another, remembering their love for their children and grand-children, and how very dear they were .  Thankful for the grand legacy they left to  each of us.

And of  Shauna - so generous in spirit, and  how proud  our grandparents would be of her for so  graciously sharing this beloved family treasure with her  grateful younger cousin.

Heaven's Door

Those in the pews
at the Funeral Mass
sit in silence; Solemn
and sad , gathered together
to mourn, and bid farewell
to one who has died. But there
is  also joy, and smiles in
recalling the life who touched
other lives with a kind word,
a warm embrace, special
moments shared , and laughter.
And hope eternal  that the
one no longer here
crosses Heaven's door
and is greeted warmly
on the other side

Time Alone

I sit alone, outside on the deck
No moon or stars
to give light
this night
All is quiet except
crickets making
their cricket sound, a
single engine boat
trolling across the lake,
and a  dog barking
somewhere in the
distance.  I pray my
rosary , then sip a beer.
I contemplate
my place and space,
and wonder God's purpose
for my life, and hope I've
made a difference.

Time to Eat

I sit on the  front porch ,
and watch in awe
as deer nibble
Purina Antler Mix,
a blend of alfalfa pellets
and kernels of yellow corn
They eat at their leisure, until
they get their fill,  but
remain on guard against
any  potential enemy; Like
sentry's standing at the
gate, they're alert
and aware of any
unwanted visitor.
A single Blue-Jay
disrupts the silence
with a  noisy
squawk- squawk-squawk
to make  his presence known
and declare his   turn at
the ground covered breakfast food
But  buck and doe ignore
his plea,  and quietly
linger on

Letter Writing

It's late and I'm tired, but I have one more blog to write this week  for Writing North Idaho before I can call it a night and get into bed.  It's okay.  I don't mind.  Working with deadlines and writing under pressure reminds me of those long ago days when I was a reporter for the Bellfower Herald-American and came in from an assignment with   only two hours to write my story before having to submit it  to the copy editor.

It's not that I haven't been thinking about what to write. I have. In between scores of  chores, worrying about a hospitalized child of a dear friend, helping my son move into his new apartment, and going to the dentist for a  replacement crown on my back molar. Perhaps some of you writers have had a similar experience of  allowing the cares and  concern of daily living  interrupt your writing time.

I had been mulling over two or three subject matters  when I read an email from  a friend telling me of  a Memorial Service she recently attended where a family member read from several letters the deceased individual had written to his children and grand-children, how very special it was to learn more about him in his own words.

That's what letters do, give an insight about the person.  Sadly, with the new technology - email , texting, twittering -  letter writing is becoming a lost art.  I'm not sure about you, but I  don't copy and save every internet note  I receive. It's so easy to hit the delete button after  I  read and reply.  Whereas, I have a    box full of hand written letters from family and friends sent to me through the years, as well as letters of family members written long before I was born. They are precious to me, not only because the words are written in my loved ones own hand, but because they relay a history of time and place,and connect me to them through the sharing of their written word.

Just  think for a minute about the many books of letters published of famous people; Authors, artists, politicians,  and what they reveal.  So much about their lives, their talent, their torment. Two that come to mind are Henry James and Edith Wharton:  Letters 1900 - 1915,  and The Selected Letters of Ernest Hemingway : 1917 - 1960.  Through their letters they document   their travels and projects, and give an account of the relationships that helped shape their life and work.

I glance at the bookcase nearest where I sit and notice a title I haven't read in a while,  Dearest Mother -  Letters From Famous Sons to Their Mothers, selected and edited by Paul Elbogen. Copyright 1941. I pick it up and browse the table of contents to find  names of poets and composers, prime ministers and presidents.  I open  to page 68 . Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart  begins his letter from Munich,  dated January 14, 1775

 My dear Mama,  Thank God! My opera was staged yesterday, the 13th , and turned out so well that I can't possibly describe the noise .  Mama,  in the first place, the whole theater was crammed so full that many people had to take their money back . After each  and every aria  there was always a frightening uproar with clapping and viva maestro shouting.

  Isn't it  wonderful  we  can share  Mozart's detailed account of his triumph,  and know the joy he experienced at his music being so well received because of  a letter he personally  wrote to his mother.

I   turn the  page to  read an excerpt from a letter written by Walt Whitman to his mother dated June 30, 1863.  The scene switches from Germany to America and another era.  Whitman, in Washington D.C.  during the Civil War writes   about seeing Mr. Lincoln , He looks more careworn even than usual,his face with deep cut lines, seams, and his complexion gray through very dark skin - a curious looking man, very sad. 


While not all of us may be able to write letters about composing  music, and performing as magnificently  and marvelous as Mozart, or be witness to someone  as monumental to history as Lincoln  and the Civil War, we each have something to express and  share, some observation or thought, a deed well done, or goal we hope to achieve .  We write letters to correspond with  those  of  this generation, and  very possibly for those in  future generations.

I'm not suggesting to  stop the  email, text, and twitter,  but  once in awhile to pick up pen and paper to write a letter in our  own hand  to parents, grandparents,  aunt, uncle, cousin or friend. By doing so,  we'll be sending a part of our self, and writing a little of our own history.

*** Note: Originally posted on Writing North Idaho Friday, September 23, 2011

Blogger Friends at Mary Jane's

(L. to R.) Jennifer, Jenny, Liz, Mary Jane, Nancy, Kathy

When Mary Jane invited her fellow Writing North Idaho bloggers to spend the day at her  cabin in Newman Lake to rest and relax, and have some quality time with  one another,  each of us jumped at the chance.  After Mary Jane  wrote,  our cabin has  a reputation for serving strawberry margaritas on hot summer days,  we smiled all the more !

 We are women friends with different backgrounds, but compatible.   Well disposed. Whimsical. Writers.  To  spend  uninterrupted, unhurried time together sounded like the perfect get a way.  It didn't disappoint. Ours was a  lovely, leisure afternoon  of sharing stories  about home, husbands and blogs. We talked of books (The Picture of Dorian Gray, Ulysses, Loving Frank)  and authors (Oscar Wilde, James Joyce, Hemingway and Virginia Woolf),  and programming on HGTV.

Mary Jane's husband, Larry patiently captained his all female crew across the lake in his classic '72 hard cover Sabre Craft  ( the interior seats are   upholstered  in a very cool  vinyl  turquoise and   reminded me of pictures of boats I had seen  in magazine ads from the 1950's)  for  sandwiches and chips at a little place called Cherokee's. Just the kind of small  rustic cafe  you'd expect to find at a lake side camp resort. Friendly service, eager to please.

Before heading back to the cabin, Lizzie B. and I stopped to play tether ball.  Our pals stood by,  cheering  us on. Prior to lunch  I had mentioned I  played lots of tether ball during my youth, even being named tether ball champion one summer at the park I played at so often.  Liz was unfamiliar with tether ball, but proved to be a good sport, indulging me in my old(er) age fantasy of still thinking I could play tether ball like I was a 12 year old kid.

The  day ended too soon. We bid our farewells, and now can only look back at what is a happy memory of afternoon  fun,  and growing our friendship at Mary Jane's cabin at  Honeymoon Bay (Newman Lake).

Summer's End

Labor Day weekend  marks the
unofficial end of summer, and is now
past, taking with it our long, leisurely
days of summertime fun
A few boaters and bikers
remain to enjoy the
lake and trail,
but most vacationers and
visitors are gone; Kids
back in school and local
shopkeepers return to
winter hours. Evening shadows
appear earlier now to
shorten the light of day
A reminder, it'll soon be time
to pack our summer
clothes away

Mary Stewart's e-mail

Whenever I see an email from Mary Stewart with Sad News in the subject line,  I know to prepare myself to  find  a name once familiar from high school days, one who has  passed away.

Each name brings a sadness, and  bittersweet remembrance - like looking through a scrap book  of  photo's from a youthful long ago time and place.  There seems to be so many names of late. Barbara,  Brad and Sharlene;  Ed and Dennis.  Margaret's brother, Bill, and my brother, Walt - only to name a few.  And now,  added to the list,  Nancy's sister, Janet Smith.

  Is it because we're the class of the 1960's and 70's , and growing older with each passing year ? Is that why so many  Sad News names appear?   I recall each one, and see them through  memory's eye, remembering their place in my life, grateful for the times we  shared. I  ponder, and wonder, "Where did  time go?"  How quickly it slipped by.

I didn't know Janet well, I knew her younger  sister better. What I do remember is Janet was a Bell High cheerleader, Homecoming princess and  all around popular gal, someone my sophomore girlfriends and I  looked up to, admired, and wanted to emulate.   In a funny sort of way,  Janet, without her knowing it ,  was one  who made our early  high school days seem hopeful and exciting, full of possibility and fun. She always seemed to be smiling, and whenever she  passed us   in the hall, she  always took a moment to nod, and say hello. Janet  was an example  of how good   high school life could be.

Whether the best of friends, or only an acquaintance for a period of time,  let us who know the name  on Mary's Sad News emails  remember, and appreciate  they are part of our story,  of who we were, and who we've become.

Janet Smith  Collier   RIP +

Summer Heat

Hot August days
too hot for cool north Idaho
with temperatures reaching
ninety-four.  The sun
like a high volt radiant
light scorches flower
gardens and vegetable
beds, causing leaves to
droop, and the once
green field turn
yellow and brown
The birds and bunnies
and deer take shelter in
some secret place , then at
dusk again appear like
joyous children returning
to their favorite playground
romping and hopping
and fluttering about

My Friend's Birthday

 I think of my friend today, as I often do, but especially today because it's her birthday.

While Phyllis and I haven't known each other all of our lives, we've known each other for a long time - since 1971 when we worked together  in Display Advertising at the  Call-Enterprise, a community newspaper in Downey, California. It didn't take long for us to become close friends, and share in fun adventures and tender moments  that go along with being good friends.

In wishing Phyllis a  Happy Birthday today, it occurs to me we've been wishing each other a happy birthday  for forty years. Another testimony to our many years of friendship.   Through memory's scope,  I drift back  to 1974, and smile.  I was overseas  that summer, and for three months had been touring Europe.   August 25 was my second day in  Madrid - nearly broke, without enough funds to even make a transatlantic phone call.  But that didn't stop me from  walking  across Plaza Cibeles, with its lovely white architecture , to  Palacio de las Comunicaciones to inquire about making a birthday call to my friend.


 Considered one of the iconic images in Madrid, the central post office is  a place  visitors can go to use one of the many telephones.  Upon entering, the private booths were on the wall to the right, protected behind   richly colored  wood doors with a glass window . I remember thinking they were  totally unlike any telephone booths I had seen before - the Bell System ones  usually found on  gas station corners, and parking lots in southeast Los Angeles,  smudged and scratched with numbers and naughty words.  No, the telephones at Palacio de las Comunicaciones were  surrounded by a palatial decor of  marble floors and magnificent pillars that brought a quietness to one's attitude like being in a library, or church.

I  had to quickly decide  about  using the phone or not,  as my fellow traveler, Mary Kay (a friend from high school days) was waiting for me to tour  Museo  del   Prado, one of the world's greatest art museums. I chose to  place a collect call to Phyllis.   Even though it was only 4 a.m her time, and the cost of a collect call  from Madrid to La Habra would be expensive,  I felt pretty confident Phyl would accept the charges, if  only to hear her pal say, "Well, hello?", and   sing Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Phyllis, Happy Birthday to you

Morning News

Every day on the morning news
Nothing but strife and turmoil
in the Middle East, mobs in
Europe riot and loot; raucous
brawls at California's Candlestick park
Angry people acting out their anger
with bombs and guns and fist a cuffs
And wars, and rumor of war; Fear of
financial meltdown, political discord,
and terrorist threats. Where is the
peace the world longs for? It comes
only when we recognize in each other
our shared humanity, that all of us
together are children of God

The Pleasure of Kayaking

Our kayak trip
was no white water river ride,
but more a leisurely  glide
along the jagged shoreline
With easy strokes, we
worked  the paddle,
cutting through water
from side to side
moving us forward
toward Arrow Point.
Fir  trees erect, and tall
line the  mountain slope like
a giant wall  of green
Overhead, an Osprey flies, and
circles about until
finally taking refuge in
her nested retreat
And nature's ceiling
- a brilliant blue, beautiful
sky  is dotted with
clouds, slowly drifting by

The Influence of a Favorite Book

In  his book, Unless It Moves the Human Heart  The Craft and Art of Writing, Roger Rosenblatt tells about asking his students , “Where was it for you ?  Every one of you has read something at an early age that made you want to become a writer. Who was it, and why ?”

The response was wide and varied, some recalled  a first book at the library, another said no specific book , but she found stories extremely one sided, and only told stories of the heroes. That after reading books she found the anti-heroes more interesting , and wanted to know more about them, and because of that was inspired to become a writer.

 Rosenblatt posed a good question, I thought,  and like his students ,  pondered  how I might  answer it.  Who was it for me? Which author, which book made me want to become a writer. The  Bobbsey Twins, The Happy Hollisters, Blaze, andToby Tyler all came to mind.  As did The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Little Women, and Nancy Drew. I recall  that  during my grade school years  some of those  early Whitman books had been birthday  gifts  from childhood friends, and how happy I was to get them.

 I don’t ever remember when books weren't  an important  part of my life.  Authors like Victoria Holt, Taylor Caldwell, Michener, and Rumer Godden filled my imagination with their stories of other places, and people. I think about the  great poets—Eugene Field, James Whitcomb Riley, Kipling and Longfellow , and how my mother read  me  their poems from the time I was a very little girl, and the positive  impact they still have on me.  

While  contemplating  Rosenblatt’s question, I was about to conclude  it was  impossible to name just one,  there are so many books that have held me captive  late at night,   with just a small reading light to  guide my way across the page.  However, there is one book  , “Pentimento”, and in particular the chapter titled,Julia   that still catches my breath, and causes me to say, I want to write like that.  On the opening page, Lillian Hellman immediately draws me in when she writes,

Old paint on canvas, as it ages, sometimes becomes transparent.  When that happens it is possible, in some pictures, to see the original lines: a tree will show through a woman’s dress, a child makes way for a dog, a large  boat is no longer on an open sea. That is called pentimento because the painter “repented”, changed his mind. Perhaps it would be as well to say that the old conception, replaced by a later choice, is a way of seeing and then seeing again.

That is all I mean about the people in this book. The paint has aged now and I wanted to see what was there for me once, what is there for me now.  


While set against the backdrop of Nazi Germany, and its evilness,  Julia is really the story of friendship, and what  one  is willing to do  for the other  in time of need. Without ever saying it, Hellman is writing about loyalty and trust. Her memoir ,  perfectly woven,  easily moves along between narration and dialogue, so much so that  when  Julia was made into an award winning movie in 1977, the scriptwriters job was made easy as very little was changed from Hellman's original  written word. 

When first reading Pentimento , I was only in my twenties, and  even then Hellman’s  reflection about  how ‘the paint has aged’  caused  me to think   about my  own age, and the people and events in my life,  and how I wanted to write about them.  But more so  now, when with each day, I move closer to 61, and recall with affection  those times as I remember them to be, but also,  perhaps,   with a slightly new, and different perspective; sometimes seeing them through  crystal clear eyes, other times as  through  misty sky. 

Keeping  in mind Roger Rosenblatt's theory,  every one ( especially aspiring writers)  has read  something at an early age that makes them want to become a writer, you might find it helpful, and fun in answering his  question, too , “ Where was it for you ? Who was it , and why?”


***  I  originally posted on http://writingnorthidaho.blogpsot.com

Hawaii (& other trips ) With Dad

                      (My dad and me.  First journey together, a trip down the front door steps)

   It wasn’t unusual for the phone to ring on my office desk  at the Downey Call-Enterprise  early Monday morning, what was unusual  was to hear whose voice it was on the other end. 

“Kathy, it’s  your dad.” 

“Yes.  Hi ,  dad.” 
 

    Because my father lived in St. Louis, and it wasn’t his habit to call me at work, my first thought was to ask if everything was okay.  It was.  

    "I’ve got a  business meeting  with a client in Hawaii”, he said, “and would like  you to join me. How about it ?  Can  you get Thursday and Friday off ?   We’ll depart LAX Wednesday evening with a return flight Sunday night.”

    I had gone on other trips with my Dad, one when I was only  eight years old.  We  drove to Salt Lake City   from our  two bedroom duplex in Bell, California to attend my Uncle Pep’s outdoor  wedding. Mom  had a serious  eye infection so she and  my brother, Walt was unable to go.  For Dad n' me, it  was fun time.   Although,  I'm not sure how much company I was for dad, since I slept so much of the way.    We travelled in our  bright red ‘57 Chevy.  It reminded me of Christmas with it’s shiny silver like chrome trim.  Even at my young age I thought it was very cool,  and wonder  if dad had any idea then, our  '57 Chevy  would one day be a  classic !

    Another trip  Dad and I took  together was  June 14,  1968. The day after my high school graduation.  We flew to San Francisco to visit a college in Marin County I hoped to attend in the Fall.  My emotions were raw, giving way to typical teenage dramatics. Not only was I tired  from attending the all night party at Disneyland,  I fretted    my comfortable  and familiar life at Bell High was ending ,  and was sad I'd  no longer be part of it. I worried about the future.   Dad was his usual optimistic self, and very encouraging, telling me   my future was bright, and I had much to look forward to. How right he was !, and how grateful I am for his promising words of encouragement.

     But  our trip to Hawaii was truly special ! Dad and I had  fabulous fun exploring the Aloha state,  taking in main attractions on both Oahu and Kauai;   Diamond Head, Pearl Harbor, Banyan Trees,  the Fern Grotto, and Upside Down Falls. We ate Poi at the Polynesian Culture Center,   juicy pineapple at Dole Plantation, and sipped  refreshing Pina Colada’s    on the white sand of Poipu Beach.    I always thought if Dad didn’t have a  successful career in marketing,  he would have made an excellent travel planner or tour guide ! He's the best at seeking out, and finding the most interesting places to visit.

 

      After sightseeing all day Saturday,  we had  dinner that night   with Dad’s client  and his wife at a small  Japanese restaurant  tucked away  in a corner of Honolulu far away  from the tourist filled  high rise hotels, and well worn  Waikiki path. It didn’t take long for Dad and I to recognize we were the only Anglo’s there,  and only three of us were speaking English—Dad, Dad’s client and me.  Petite Japanese women wore kimonos, and bowed  their head each time  they greeted us, and  lots of tea and Saki being served .  With our   look a like dark  brown eyes, dad and I  smiled at each other, as if in silent agreement  acknowledging  it was a  most  charming evening. Later that night I reflected on how different  it was in the 1940's , when Japan and the United States were at war, and how much better it is  now  that we're friends and allies , able to  enjoy meals, music and laughter  together.

 

     For me, my  Hawaii holiday with Dad ranks  high on my list of favorite times,   not only because it was spontaneous, and such a happy surprise ,  or  because of  all the special sights we saw,  but because I was with my dad;  neither one of us had been to Hawaii before,  it was a first time experience we shared together, and  now , like a warm tropical  breeze, the sweet memory of our island adventure  gently lingers on, and makes me hungry for fresh pineapple, and another trip with Dad !

.

Daytime Moon, Summer Sun

The fiery sun is  too bright to
look at straight away, even
with my sunglasses on
The heat of the sun, on this
nearly cloudless day is hot
against my skin as i work
a landscape project, lining
up bricks and setting 12 x 12
stone squares in sand
i wipe my brow, and
glance upward - The sun, still slowly

moving on its path from east
to west will soon be
directly overhead
What grabs my attention                      
isn't the normality of the
summer sun,  but the unusual                                                    
daytime moon, propped like a soft,

white halo resting high  above                    
age-old  trees

Gavin's Birthday

From the first moment I  got a  glimpse
of him, my heart was captured,  and totally his
He came into the world with
a  head full of hair, and long toes
and fingers - perfect for playing
the piano someday
 He was the most beautiful
baby I'd ever seen. The nearness of
him wrapped in my arms, his new
breath so close to mine brought
joy beyond compare. My own
precious son, so sweet and fair

Poetry and Pottery (& my Grandma Viv)

A couple weeks ago I stopped at Browser’s Books, a small  over-stocked used bookstore  in Coeur d Alene to   peruse their poetry section. I quickly found the Robert Frost I was looking for, when another book of poems  caught my attention, Mostly California  by Don Blanding.   Copyright 1948, published by Dodd Mead.   Initially , the author wasn’t the reason I picked the book from the shelf, but  California.  I was raised in the golden state, moving there with my family when I was 4 years old,  not moving away  until I was 42.  I enjoy reading about California history, especially southern California   1930’s thru the seventies, and  am old enough to remember the sweet smell of colorful orange groves dotting the land, oil wells pumping  the ground  along Telegraph Road, and freeways not yet crowded with bumper to bumper traffic.

So after reading  the  description  on the inside cover,   “Mostly California is entirely Blanding in its colorful presentation, by drawings and verse, of California,  the Land of Gold; of the Padres and Forty-niners;  of the magic of the mountains and deserts and redwoods; of the fabulous cities and towns and of Hollywood with its glittering stars”, I knew I had to buy it. 

To my great delight I discovered Blanding wasn’t only a poet, but a pottery artist/designer  for Vernon Kilns,  the same  southern California company my maternal grandmother worked for  in the 1940’s and 50’s,   hand—painting their  popular plaid pattern  dinnerware.   

Just as I was familiar with poetry from an early age, I was also familiar with Vernon Kilns , not only because Grandma Vivian was an employee,  but because  their Organdie pattern  was the dishes grandma used to set her table  -  the dishes I would help wash and dry after eating dinner.  The same pattern I have now.

For the past several years I’ve used  that set  at Thanksgiving, and other special occasions.  They always trigger a warm feeling, and bring happy memories of my grandmother and the wonderful meals she prepared , and holidays shared.  And of Scrabble games played , when  she and I would  eat ice cream from  brown and yellow plaid  bowls. Each one  marked on the bottom,  Under glaze Hand Painted ORGANDIE Veronware California U.S.A .

I’m sure I didn't think much about it then,  but today it makes me smile, and proud  to know many of the painted   are from my grandmother’s own hand.

My Wooded Realm

How i delight in this  wooded realm, the
small  outdoor kingdom  i
share with a family of lively  rabbits and
white  tail deer, wild turkey
and busy bee's ; Eagles, grosbeak
and chickadee, and the tiny hummingbird
sipping nectar from wildflowers
 No artist's rendering dare
compare to this panormic
view of  deep, blue lake
and  evergreen trees, some
older than me, standing
tall with all their majesty