Overheard

Said the Kmart clerk today as my Beloved and I checked out:

"Oh, I wish it was Friday. I hate working."

"I wish I had a job," said the person in line behind us.

"You can have my job," said the clerk.

Is anybody happy?

Beets and bladdernut

Last week, my county historical society offered an unusual challenge: Come in on a certain day, take your pick of ten packets of seeds, pay $5 for the lot of them, then bring back twice the seeds from your crop come harvest-time. These weren't just any seeds, but unusual, heirloom varieties. So I snapped up odd types of beets, peppers, bee balm, basil, radishes, mustard greens, Hungarian blue poppies and fenugreek.

Today I put in the first row of the Bull's Blood beets. It always feels so good to get my hands out in the dirt again.

Later, I planted a handful of bladdernut seeds in the edge of the woods -- a small shrub that I had wild-collected last fall. And spent some time battling the creeping plague of English ivy that is slowly spreading from the west side of the woods below where some fool planted it in his yard, into the section of forest that I like to think of as mine.

Oh, the joy of paragraphs again!

For several months, I battled unsuccessfully to break up my blog posts into readable paragraphs, utterly mystified as to why all my text was showing up as a single block. Today, I have discovered the solution: Under post settings, options, is an option for line breaks to occur after typing enter. Who wouldn't want that as the default? Apparently blogger decided a few months ago that not everyone did.

All is well again.

"Music, like photography, is a way to interpret the places you've been."


-- Richard Olsenius, National Geographic, October 1993.

Barometer of a Nation ... Canada

What is a nation? Is it a place bounded by unseen lines upon a land or the twining path of a river or the sea? Or is it one people, though they be scattered far and wide?

Were suddenly all U.S. citizens to be called home from wherever they live in the world, a flood of millions would pour across the borders. Some would hardly seem American, having been away so long. Some of them would be deeply resentful.

What is a nation? Is it a unity of purpose in spite of differences, like the Roman citizenship that once bound men from Britain to Libya, from Spain to Anatolia?

I enjoy my little hobby of studying the nations of the world, one at a time, month by month. In December, I have been contemplating my great northern neighbor, Canada. Though I have yet to sample a beavertail pastry or learn the words to "O Canada," perhaps what I have studied has been more significant. I have read Canadian Hugh MacLennan's "Barometer Rising." Authored in the 1950's, it is the tale of a terrible tragedy in Halifax during WWI: the collision of two ships in Halifax Harbor, one laden with munitions, that killed hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, and leveled nearly the entire city. MacLennan's tale begins quietly, swelling like a wave upon a darkened sea,finally rising to terrible climax.

May I be forgiven for having learned nothing about this horrible event in my life until now, nothing in school, though I certainly should have.

MacLennan also throughout the book contemplates what it means to be Canadian: Neither a (U.S.) American nor British. But must a Canadian define himself only by what he is not? And what is Canada's destiny in the world? A bridge between its southern neighbor and the Old World, perhaps. He ponders whether Canada would rise to be one of the great nations of the world after Europe exhausted itself in war.

"...Neither a colony nor an independent nation, neither English nor American ... Canada must remain noncommital, until the day she becomes the keystone to hold the world together."

"... This nation undiscovered by the rest of the world and unknown to itself ... this unborn mightiness, this question mark, this future ... for God knew how many millions of mankind."

Australia to create marine reserve

"When you see the Southern Cross for the first time, you understand now why you came this way ..." -- Crosby, Stills and Nash So much of the world I have not seen ... the vast Eurasian steppes; sun-baked Africa; ancient Asia ... and the islands of the Southern Hemisphere. I read today that Australia is proposing to designate nearly 400,000 square miles in the Coral Sea as a marine reserve. Splendid! I may never see it myself but I am happy to know it will be there, a place free of exploitation, full of beauty. Just one more thing to love about the Land Down Under.

Not alone

Venturing deeper into the woods today, into parts once familiar to me, where I once felt myself quite alone, I found it not so today. Someone has built walls of scrap wood, hung black plastic tarps, created some kind of a campsite. It was uncomfortable, wondering who did so, and for what purpose. I did not linger today but I will have to go back.

Too long away from the woods

For too long, I have not visited you, my woods, not explored beyond the ruined fenceline. Massive trees, storm-toppled, sprawl across the wispy threads of old, familiar trails. A loblolly pine that once stood strong on the slope's edge now lies lifeless, its needles dry and brown. I feel a pang of sorrow, for it was always a welcome brushstroke of green amongst the dull oaks. But clinging to a boulder nearby, a new pine stands, as tall as me -- truly, how long has it been since I visited you, my woods? I pull away a tendril of honeysuckle that seeks to climb and choke the tender tree, and vow to become a friend of this place again.

Job lead

Got a FB message from a friend yesterday, may be an editor's job opening up. Tiny hometown paper. But it would be full-time, with benefits. We shall see.

Gentle autumn

Soft mist sifts down through the Virginia sky, as our autumn slowly fades into winter. This is a beautiful place to live. My thoughts are random today; I have applied for an editor's job; a friend has offered a slab of venison; I am watching happily as a tender tropical tree grows taller on my window sill; I cleaned out the recipe book cabinet in the kitchen and piled up all the loose recipes, from magazines and such, into a box until I can buy some folders into which to organize them. Life goes on. Life is good. Life, though hard and often painful, is precious. What is the alternative? The dead insensibility of nothingness, a universe unaware of itself.

Pawpaw posting

Had the pleasure this week, thanks to some foraging friends, of tasting my very first pawpaw fruit. Now the seeds are "stratifying" in the fridge, should germinate on Christmas day. The little fruits tasted like a cross between a banana and a mango.

Checking back in ...

Earthquake.
Hurricane.
Still no job.

But I am in good health. So is my Beloved. Life is a gift, each and every day. I boiled acorns yesterday to leach out the bitter tannin, and then roasted them, dusted them with powdered sugar and enjoyed.

A time to help and be helped ...

... How much sweeter life is when we become a family, by blood as well as by choice.

On Sunday, I learned that a Woman in our church whom I know, was having an emotional breakdown. I went over there with a neighbor and we just let Her talk and cry. She is a single Mother, dealing with the typical challenges of that situation, as well as physical and emotional issues. How my heart ached for Her loneliness and sorrow, so unnecessary! How for the 100th time I wanted to hunt down the man who left Her and rearrange his face. How I wondered why a good, solid, strong man has not yet found his way into Her life.

We agreed that my Beloved and I will come back and spend some time with Her this week, just being friends and helping Her get a few things organized. It is very important that I involve my Beloved, that I help "Jane" to have some Female friends to lean on. A man's natural desire to comfort, can go the wrong way in even the best-intentioned of souls and I would be a fool to think that I am immune.

When I came home, I discovered that some of our family had dropped by and filled our refrigerator up with food. In these hard times, how we needed that!

Who in the world is C.S. Forester?

Beginning his epic "Passage to Juneau," Jonathan Raban dryly speaks of young land-lubbers, wannabee sailors, knowing nothing of the sea but having read their C.S. Forester.

Those wannabees have an advantage over me. I had no idea until tonight who indeed C.S. Forester was.

The man was a twentieth-century literary colossus, author of The African Queen -- which movie buffs remember became a film starring Bogart and (Katherine) Hepburn; and also of the Horatio Hornblower naval hero series.

According to Wikipedia, Ernest Hemingway is quoted as saying, "I recommend Forester to everyone literate I know," and Winston Churchill stated, "I find Hornblower admirable."

Guess I need to make some room on my bookshelf.

Wonders of the Day

Two weeks left til the job wraps up. Still no confirmation of employment anywhere else.

But life goes on. The Jack-in-the-Pulpit is blooming deep in the woods. I have met a friend, an incredible guy who has taken beautiful pictures all over the world -- from Sudan to Japan. He is excited for me to take him on a hike in the woodlands behind my home, because his favorite photographic subject is trees. Just have to figure out when.

Spent most of yesterday evening, my Beloved and I, keeping another friend company at the hospital. An amazing Woman whom some piece of garbage abandoned long ago, leaving Her with two children to raise alone. Now She is dealing with some horrific health problems. It felt good to be able to be there for Her when She needed it, so that She didn't have to sit in that hospital alone.

Life is beautiful and ugly, cruel and tender, all at once. It is terribly wrong to be a cynic, denying all beauty; it is wrong, too, to hide from the ugly and cruel. It is a waste of time to wait around for a perfect day in order to experience joy; to expect that the one can ever be permanently entangled from the other. Find joy and peace and beauty now, in this very moment.

And what is beauty? The eyes of a child. The gentle curves of a Woman's body. The deep lines upon an old face, telling the story of life like the rings of a tree. The pounding of the ocean. The limpet clinging to the rock at the shoreline. Bread upon the table. A doctor easing pain. The choice to be kind instead of cruel, generous instead of selfish. Acceptance of the will of the universe.

Night fear

We whose families include little dogs face unique perils.

Last night, walking her alone in the hazy, humid darkness, I heard the sound of a fierce dog barking. I know by now all the homes in the neighborhood where dogs live. Behind their fences, they can bark without concerning me. And my feisty little friend can bark back without bringing a death sentence upon herself.

But this sound did not come from any familiar yard. It came from the ominous gloom near a factory at the edge of the neighborhood. In the haze, I saw a large, dark shape.

I went into defensive mode -- scooping up our little pet, whom just about any other dog could bite in half like a McNugget -- a concern of which she is blissfully unaware. She squirmed in my arms to get down and barked at the shadow in the dark.

With my free hand, I scrabbled in the dirt for a good-sized rock, my heart pounding. My fingers found only hard-baked dirt and crabgrass clumps -- then, finally, closed around a weighty chunk of asphalt sheared from the edge of the road by some long-ago passing truck. I gripped it in my hand ready to fight.

Our little dog squirmed free. I grabbed her up again and stood still, squinting into the blackness.

Relief. The strange dog was behind the factory fence, unable to do harm. I put down my aggrieved little dog and we continued our walk, the strange dog still barking behind us in the night.

Still waiting ...

... I know my employment situation makes for a boring blog. My apologies. But it is consuming me like a match flame upon paper.

I am still waiting, in most miserable suspense, for that call back from the One Great Place. Still attempting to be something of a productive employee in the Nasty Old Hole. Haven't heard a word from my boss in days. It lurks deep within its lair, shutting the door at the sound of approaching footsteps, ignoring the steadily higher-rising stack of papers I continue to dutifully submit for approval.

It causes me to ponder, in a classic way, the nature of true evil. Is evil about seeking the good in the wrong way, as Plato and Aristotle opined? Or is it a life built upon lying to others and oneself, as the somewhat more modern Dr. Peck theorized? Is this being who torments me genuinely evil, lashing out like a wounded dragon in its cave, heedless or blinded to the damage that it is causing in this place?

Great possibility

Interviewed yesterday. Great place. Great potential. Please, oh please let it be!

So set ...

So set beautiful wreaths, Dika,
about your tresses
plait together the dill shoots
with your tender fingers.
Primed with flowers
the blest spirits of Joy most favor
such occasions:
they shun people who wear no garlands.
-- Sappho, Greek poetess

Quote for living

"There are two ways to get enough. One is to continue to accumulate more and more. The other is to desire less." -- G.K. Chesterton