Got done with the garage sale today. I'm not an early riser, so I called several people today at 7 a.m. and announced that I hated them and the world. Like it was anyone's fault but mine to have this bright idea. But, praise the lord its over! Did I make a lot of money? No. However, I did move some things along in the 'reduce/reuse/recycle' mode. And pretty much every member of my family showed up at one point or another so we got to say a hiya, and trade stuff to go into each others' garages! Until their next garage sale... Good grief. I think this - my half century garage sale - is going to be the last for me.
Garage sales are interesting. You meet some good, interesting and chatty people, but I'm finding that ebay and craigslist are eroding the 'garage sale' crowd. I still have a garage full of shtuff to take to a charity.
Given my unending interest in poetry and prose much better than anything I could ever write, and because I am resisting the end of summer and the beginning of fall, I am posting a Thomas Merton poem. Thomas Merton was an interesting man, a renegade, a monk, a priest and a poet. He wrote the following while in a cloistered monastery. It was also written into music by John Jacob Niles, a great composer. I've always loved it (so, naturally, it is on my refrigerator, is there anyplace else?) OK, I'm tired...
Now, in the middle of the limpid evening the moon speaks clearly to the hill. The wheatfields make their simple music, praise the quiet sky, and down the road, the way the stars come home. The cries of children play on the empty air, a mile or more, and fall on our deserted hearing, clear as water.
They say that the sky is made of glass, they say the smiling moon's a bride. They say they love the orchards and the apple trees, the trees, their innocent sisters dressed in blossoms, still wearing in the blurring dusk, white dresses from that morning's first communion. And where blue heaven's fading fire last shines, they name the new-come planets with words that flower on little voices light as stems of lillies. And where blue heaven's fading fire last shines, reflected in the poplar's ripple,
one little wakeful bird, sings like a shower.
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