What's Past is Prologue

Elizabeth I. Most people know her as Queen of England from 1558 to 1603. Most historians agree she was a complicated woman. Many people know she was highly educated and intelligent. Fewer people know she was a poet.

This woman eschewed much in the way of love. Here is her verse that I love best. It speaks to me.


I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.

My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be supprest.
Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low.
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

An Amazing Thing happened in my backyard...

In our unexpected two days of welcome warmth, an amazing thing happened.

I tried to capture it in words. The below falls far short, but, for what it's worth -


Cherry Blossoms

Hard winter aweigh
through unlikely feet of snow
to today
a sudden April warmth.

The ground coolly uncertain which green thing
might still reach its tender
head into the sun.

I sit quiet
at the peak of the afternoon warmth.
Quiet - so still - I harmonize in my mind
to my old dog's
sleeping musical breath.

and in the stillness
(me - stillness in the warmth) a sound -

tick -tick-

not rhythmic but cascading,
like a herd of tiny feasting birds
breaking seed with sharp beaks.

tick.

tick-tick.

Like the smallest of small rain on an aluminum roof,
no cadence but drifting on the air in little waterfalls of sound.

What could that be?

Without disturbing
the music of the old dog
I quietly pace the backyard,
behind the bushes,
along the feeders,
up the tree branches to see if
that grey squirrel might be
teasing me with his ventriloquy...

I sit back down and let the silence,
except for the tick tick tick,
engulf me.

And then, all senses roaming,
my ear turns to the cherry tree,
leaning toward me like a longing old love,

and I knew.

I knew.

That the ticking astounding sound was the music of a thousand cherry buds
releasing from their green and swollen cases.

A mystery, revealed.

Humbled,
I harmonize the music of the old dog
to the sound of the bursting tree,

and for the first time in a long time

I am

amazed.



April, 2009

FAUX PRINTEMPS

... So who cares if its faux. After the snow, cold rain and wind - I'll take it!



Rain in Spring

There fell a beautiful clear rain
with no admixture of fog or snow
and this was, and no other thing,
the very sign of the start of Spring.

Not the longing for a lover
nor the sentiment of starting over,
but this clear and refreshing rain
falling without haste or strain.

Words: Paul Goodman
Music: Ned Rorem
Paris, 7 June, 1949

Treasure Hunting for the Past

In the spring of 1994, I was on my way to Minneapolis and decided to stop in North Dakota. My mother was born in North Dakota, on a farm halfway between Litchville and Marion, in a house that her grandfather Jacob Stroeder built from the ground up with his two strong German hands. All I had to go on was the picture above from Appolonia Stroeder's wedding (about 1910) and an old letter from 1963 describing very vaguely the way to get to the farm.

I drove around aimlessly through beautiful flat empty roads, navigating direction by the turn of the sunflowers. After visiting Litchville and Marion, with no one in those tiny towns willing or able to tell me where I needed to go, I meandered through the back roads toward Fargo. And then, out of the blue, I saw it, standing there in the middle of a field. Derelict, but still standing, with the beautiful sunburst ornamentation on the dormers. I parked on the road and hiked in to the house through the field, explored inside along with racoon scat and barn swifts who were none too happy to see me. Finally, the farmer who owned the land came down to investigate what I was doing. I explained and he was so gracious. He took me through the whole house, let me take pictures and videotape and told me I was lucky to have come when I did, as they were going to have to demolish the old house. So I took one last picture among many, as close to the wedding view as I could manage.

The farmer and his wife have passed over now. So has the old house. I'm glad I got to linger in its spirit for a little while.

The House with Nobody in It

Whenever I walk to Suffern, along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times, but I always stop for a minute
and look at the house, the tragic house, the house with nobody in it.

...But a house that has done what a house should do,
a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh and held up her stumbling feet,
is the saddest sight, when it's left alone, that ever your eyes could meet.

So whenever I go to Suffern along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof and the shutters fallen apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house is a house with a broken heart.

Joyce Kilmer

HOGMANAY 2007

What does Hogmanay actually mean and what is the derivation of the name? Why do the Scots more than any other nation celebrate the New Year with such a passion? Why should a tall dark stranger be a welcome first foot visitor after midnight, carrying a lump of coal and a slice of black bun?

The Origins of Hogmanay

A guid New Year to ane an` a` and mony may ye see!

While New Year's Eve is celebrated around the world, the Scots have a long rich heritage associated with this event - and have their own name for it, Hogmanay.

There are many theories about the derivation of the word "Hogmanay". Hogmanay could be traced back to the Anglo-Saxon, Haleg monath, Holy Month, or the Gaelic, oge maidne, new morning. The Church did not approve of Hogmanay traditions.

"It is ordinary among some Plebians in the South of Scotland, to go about from door to door upon New Year`s Eve, crying Hagmane."
Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence, 1693.

Historians believe that we inherited the celebration from the Vikings who, coming from even further north than ourselves, paid even more attention to the passing of the shortest day. It may not be widely known but Christmas was not celebrated as a festival and virtually banned in Scotland for around 400 years, from the end of the 17th century to the 1950s. The reason for this has its roots in the Protestant Reformation when the Kirk portrayed Christmas as a Popish or Catholic feast and therefore had to be banned. Many Scots had to work over Christmas and their winter solstice holiday was therefore at New Year when family and friends gathered for a party and exchange presents, especially for the children, which came to be called hogmanay.

There are traditions before midnight such as cleaning the house on 31st December (including taking out the ashes from the fire in the days when coal fires were common). There is also the superstition to clear all your debts before "the bells" at midnight.

Immediately after midnight it is traditional to sing Robert Burns' "For Auld Lang Syne". Burns claimed it was based on an earlier fragment and certainly the tune was in print over 80 years before he published his version in 1788.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot and auld lang syne
For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o kindness yet, for auld lang syne."

"First footing" (that is, the "first foot" in the house after midnight) is still common in Scotland. To ensure good luck for the house, the first foot should be male, dark (believed to be a throwback to the Viking days when blond or red headed strangers arriving on your doorstep meant trouble) and should bring symbolic coal, shortbread, salt, black bun and whisky. These days, however, whisky and perhaps shortbread are the only items still prevalent (and available).

Some of these customs do continue, especially in the small, older communities in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland where tradition, along with language and dialect are kept alive and well. On the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides, the young boys form themselves into opposing bands, the leader of each wears a sheep skin, while a member carries a sack. The bands move through the village from house to house reciting a Gaelic rhyme. On being invited inside, the leader walks clockwise around the fire, while everyone hits the skin with sticks. The boys would be given some bannocks - fruit buns - for their sack before moving on to the next house.

One of the most spectacular Fire ceremonies takes place in Stonehaven, just south of Aberdeen on the North East coast. Giant fireballs, weighing up to 20 pounds are lit and swung around on five feet long metal poles, requiring 60 men to carry them as they march up and down the High Street. The origin of the pre-Christian custom is believed to be linked to the Winter Solstice of late December with the fireballs signifying the power of the sun, to purify the world by consuming evil spirits.

And it is worth remembering that January 2nd is a holiday in Scotland as well as the first day of the year - to give us all time to recover from a week of merry-making and celebration, all part of Scotland's fascinating cultural legacy of ancient customs and traditions surrounding the pagan festival of Hogmanay.

Why is there a monkey in my sink?

I haven't posted for a while because the vicissitudes of 2007 finally caught up with me. I spent Christmas (HO HO HO) in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer. And I do mean 'bleeding', the details of which I will leave off here. When I presented myself at the emergency room, I figured I'd be there a couple of hours. Until they hung five IV's, plasma, blood pressure cuff, heart monitor, the whole works. For a hospital/doctor phobic like me, it was quite an experience.

Needless to say, they admitted me, so I spent December 23, 24 and 25 in the good hands of the doctors and nurses. Diet, stress and lifestyle changes are now in order.

The EVENT of the stay however, was the endocscope. I absolutely didn't want to have an endoscope. Being a world class 'gagger' I could not imagine a tube down my throat into my stomach. I was assured and reassured that I would be in twilight sleep and remember nothing.

Maybe that works for some people, but not for me! I went to twilight sleep all right, but woke right up when it felt like a garden hose was being put down my throat. This is not the doctor's fault entirely - I had a drug interaction/allergic reaction and began hallucinating. I was dimly aware of three nurses holding me down as I mumbled something about a banana being forced down my throat. After three attempts at "the insertion of the tube" down my throat the ever hopeful doctor said "just one more try" whereupon my head spun round like Linda Blair's in "The Exorcist" and in my best Mercedes McCambridge voice roared "We are NOT trying one more time!"

He acquiesced. Poor guy. I apologized later - for what, I'm not exactly sure.

Anyway, I hallucinated for the next 45 minutes or so. I couldn't speak clearly and was afraid I'd had a stroke (I didn't, it passed). There was a lady's face in the clock on the wall, and the walls kept morphing between the hospital and my office. Very weird. The best part, however, was the monkey sitting in the sink.

The next day they brought in an anesthesiologist and accomplished the thing as it should have been - to quote Sgt. Schulz "I knew nussing, nussing".

I'm better now.

I worry about the doctor though! And where the heck is that monkey?

BECAUSE IT'S OBLIGATORY

Dog in Santa hat.