It rained yesterday and last night. Things will clear up, but probably not before Thursday.
Maybe the rain will wash away the pollen which is wrecking havoc with my allergies. I have a sore throat and runny nose and lots of work to do. No fun.
We are thinking about Mother’s Day and we wish all mothers and grandmothers and lovely aunts a happy day. We will be celebrating with the boy and his family on Saturday night so that daughter #3 can spend Sunday with the wee babes doing fun things all day. We’ll FaceTime with daughter #2 and Baby Katie on Sunday.
Here’s a poem by May Sarton that reminds me of my mother:
For My Mother
Once more I summon you Out of the past With poignant love, You who nourished the poet And the lover. I see your gray eyes Looking out to sea In those Rockport summers, Keeping a distance Within the closeness Which was never intrusive Opening out Into the world. And what I remember Is how we laughed Till we cried Swept into merriment Especially when times were hard. And what I remember Is how you never stopped creating And how people sent me Dresses you had designed With rich embroidery In brilliant colors Because they could not bear To give them away Or cast them aside. I summon you now Not to think of The ceaseless battle With pain and ill health, The frailty and the anguish. No, today I remember The creator, The lion-hearted.
Today is Truman Day in Missouri, honoring Harry S Truman, the only U.S. president born in our great state. Anyway, I thought I would share one of the videos daughter #1 has been working on for Small Business Month in MO. I think the woman in this story articulates very well how I feel about living in the Midwest–“a pretty good simple life”–which is to say, a good goal to have. You have to find the beauty wherever you are. If you look, it is there.
“But godliness with contentment is great gain. For we brought nothing into the world, and we can take nothing out of it. But if we have food and clothing, we will be content with that. Those who want to get rich fall into temptation and a trap and into many foolish and harmful desires that plunge people into ruin and destruction. For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.”
1 TIMOTHY 6:6–10
I watched a good movie the other night: The Great Debaters (2007) (on Hulu), directed by and starring Denzel Washington. I had never heard of it, but I trust Denzel not to be in a terrible. movie. It is based on the true story of Melvin B. Tolson, a professor at the (historically black) Wiley College in Texas. In 1935, he inspired students to form the school’s first debate team, which, in a nearly-undefeated season, sees the first debate between U.S. students from white and Negro colleges and ends with an invitation to face Harvard University’s national champions. Inspiring and true.
We are at peak lushness here in flyover country. Can’t wait for the Iris to pop!
I am back to reading Jorge Luis Borges:
That One
Oh days devoted to the useless burden of putting out of mind the biography of a minor poet of the Southem Hemisphere, to whom the fates or perhaps the stars have given a body which will leave behind no child, and blindness, which is semi-darkness and jail, and old age, which is the dawn of death, and fame, which absolutely nobody deserves, and the practice of weaving hendecasyllables, and an old love of encyclopedias and fine handmade maps and smooth ivory, and an incurable nostalgia for the Latin, and bits of memories of Edinburgh and Geneva and the loss of memory of names and dates, and the cult of the East, which the varied peoples of the teeming East do not themselves share, and evening trembling with hope or expectation, and the disease of entymology, and the iron of Anglo-Saxon syllables, and the moon, that always catches us by surprise, and that worse of all bad habits, Buenos Aires, and the subtle flavor of water, the taste of grapes, and chocolate, oh Mexican delicacy, and a few coins and an old hourglass, and that an evening, like so many others, be given over to these lines of verse.
We had one more fun day with daughter #2 and Katiebelle. We stuck to our plan of going to the zoo between Zoom meetings,
but then our plans fell apart in the afternoon. We found out the hard way that our local custard station hasn’t opened for the season yet, Club Taco is closed on Monday, Hacienda had a 25 minute wait at happy hour and so on. We finally went home and daughter #1 made Margaritas the old fashioned way (in the blender). We ordered takeout from Dewey’s and the OM picked it up. Splendid.
Life is too short to sweat the small stuff.
Today daughter #2 and Katie are heading home to DN and we are very sad 😭, but we will see them soon.
And here’s a poem by Billy Collins:
If ever there were a spring day so perfect, so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze
that it made you want to throw open all the windows in the house
and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage, indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,
a day when the cool brick paths and the garden bursting with peonies
seemed so etched in sunlight that you felt like taking
a hammer to the glass paperweight on the living room end table,
releasing the inhabitants from their snow-covered cottage
so they could walk out, holding hands and squinting
into this larger dome of blue and white, well, today is just that kind of day.
This weekend we are babysitting the wee twins twice! Lucky for me, daughter #1 is coming home to assist.
Did you see that the oldest Medal of Honor recipient died last week? He sounds like he was quite a guy. He reminds me of the sergeant in Glory for Me. “My first concern when I was a platoon sergeant was my men,” Charles Coolidge told the Congressional Medal of Honor Society. “I didn’t care what happened to me, but I wanted to protect my men, under any circumstances. I always referred to them as my men — not anybody [else’s], not the company’s. They were strictly my men, and I’d do anything for them.”
Here is an interesting article from the currrent issue of True West magazine, “The Santa Fe Trail Beckoned the Mosty Brothers.” Albert Mosty, it turns out, worked for our ancestor, rancher John Wesley Prowers! He kept a journal and illustrated it. Check it out! It includes this nice photo of JWP.
Here are Paul Zahl’s movie pics for April, Part II. In the small (Episcopal) world department, PZ mentions our old friend Fred Barbee, who baptized daughter #2 oh so many years ago. Fred, besides being a priest at our old church, was also the editor for many years of The Anglican Digest. I did not know that his favorite movie was One Foot in Heaven (1941)!
Here is a fun movie quiz: So you think you know the Oscars? Personally I don’t, because I haven’t watched the Oscars for years and I can’t answer questions after the 1990s. I am so old, I can remember when Bob Hope hosted them.
But not old enough to remember this!
Today is the birthday of the great Henry Mancini (1924 – 1994). We will toast him tonight and play some of our cool Mancini LPs. What is a cocktail, after all, without a little Mancini?
Please note that yesterday was the anniversary of the death of Abraham Lincoln in 1865. So here in remembrance are the first three stanzas of When Lilacs First by the Dooryard Bloomed:
1 When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love.
2 O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night—O moody, tearful night! O great star disappear’d—O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul.
3 In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash’d palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle—and from this bush in the dooryard, With delicate-color’d blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break.
Have a good weekend. Take a walk around the neighborhood–the azaleas are blooming!
O God, whose Son Jesus is the good shepherd of thy people: Grant that when we hear his voice we may know him who calleth us each by name, and follow where he doth lead; who, with thee and the Holy Spirit, liveth and reigneth, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.
Hope you are having a diamond of a day, able to enjoy the weather and read a little poetry.
The Real Prayers are not the Words, but the Attention that Comes First
The little hawk leaned sideways and, tilted, rode the wind. Its eye at this distance looked like green glass; its feet were the color of butter. Speed, obviously, was joy. But then, so was the sudden, slow circle it carved into the slightly silvery air, and the squaring of its shoulders, and the pulling into itself the long, sharp-edged wings, and the fall into the grass where it tussled a moment, like a bundle of brown leaves, and then, again, lifted itself into the air, that butter-color clenched in order to hold a small, still body, and it flew off as my mind sang out oh all that loose, blue rink of sky, where does it go to, and why?
–Mary Oliver
Today is the birthday of writer Eudora Welty (1909–2001) whom I have admired for many years. It is always a good day to take down one of her books from a shelf and open and read.
“The events in our lives happen in a sequence in time, but in their significance to ourselves they find their own order, a timetable not necessarily – perhaps not possibly – chronological. The time as we know it subjectively is often the chronology that stories and novels follow: it is the continuous thread of revelation.”
Eudora Welty, One Writer’s Beginnings
I will also note that tomorrow is daughter #2’s birthday.
We will celebrate her birthday in 10 days when she and baby Katie visit for a long weekend. Of course, we can’t wait to hold that baby, but I can’t wait to hold my baby…
…who was a precious bundle of joy not so long ago and is now a beautiful and talented young woman.
Sunrise, sunset. Time is the continuous thread of revelation.
The watercolor is by Louis Michel Eilshemius, painted between 1888 and 1910. (Detroit Institute of Arts)
I had a busy day at work on Monday–four Zoom meetings! So I don’t have a whole lot to share today. Meanwhile the grass is getting greener and the leaf blowers and lawn mowers are back with a vengeance.
Yesterday was Nebraska Day and this article was very interesting about classic movie stars who were born in Nebraska. It is a very impressive list–especially compared to Missouri. But, hey, we have Scott Bakula.
This article makes some good points. “Remote, virtual, disembodied fellowship simply isn’t enough.” We are all getting too comfortable with not seeing people.
We’ll “tip our hats an’ raise our glass of cold, cold beer” to the late, great Merle Haggard (1937–2016) on his the birthday today. (April 6 is also the day he died.) And I like this rendition of one of my favorites, Mama Tried, by Reina del Cid and Toni Lindgren:
When the California State University, Bakersfield, awarded Haggard the honorary degree of Doctor of Fine Arts in 2013, Haggard stepped to the podium and said, “Thank you. It’s nice to be noticed.” Classic Hag.
So enjoy your Tuesday and channel some positive Walt Whitman attitude.
Why, who makes much of a miracle? As to me I know of nothing else but miracles, Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan, Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky, Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water, Or stand under trees in the woods, Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love, Or sit at table at dinner with the rest, Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car, Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon, Or animals feeding in the fields, Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air, Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright, Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring; These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles, The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, Every cubic inch of space is a miracle, Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle, The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them, What stranger miracles are there?
I hope everyone had a lovely Easter weekend. Mine was exhausting! SO much social activity after weeks, months, a year of not much going on.
I was busy on Friday getting ready for Saturday.
Mimosas are a good start to any party.
Liz got emotional opening daughter #1’s handmade baby blankets. After a yummy lunch (chicken salad, of course) we sat outside in the sun and watched the wee babes frolic on the driveway. After her husband picked Liz up and daughter #3 went home with the babes, we went to pick up margaritas at Club Taco. We finished Ben Hur, which we had started the night before.
On Easter morning we got up early and went to the 8:00 am service at an actual church. It felt great to sit in a pew again and sing hymns. God-honoring worship with the Word of God faithfully preached and the Lord’s Supper celebrated was much appreciated. It will take awhile to get used to not kneeling and to drinking grape juice at communion, but I think I can manage.
When we got home, I made Episcopal Souffle (ironic, yes) and then the boy and his family came over. The babes opened their Easter baskets.
Daughter #1 gave the wee laddie a book on Porsches (estate sale find), which he opened to squeals of joy. He carried it around for the rest of the day.
Note the book in back of the Cooper (ingenious)
We had a super fun egg hunt.
Once again we sat on the driveway in the glorious sun and watched the world bicycle/drive/stroll by. Two days of beautiful spring weather and a little social interaction can do wonders for one’s spirits.
And now it’s Monday. What the…
“Make no mistake: if he rose at all It was as His body; If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit, The amino acids rekindle, The Church will fall.
It was not as the flowers, Each soft spring recurrent; It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the Eleven apostles; It was as His flesh; ours.
The same hinged thumbs and toes The same valved heart That—pierced—died, withered, paused, and then regathered Out of enduring Might New strength to enclose.
Let us not mock God with metaphor, Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence, Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded Credulity of earlier ages: Let us walk through the door.”
Well, Good Friday is here. Let’s all take a moment.
Am I a stone, and not a sheep, That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross, To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss, And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee; Not so fallen Peter, weeping bitterly; Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon Which hid their faces in a starless sky, A horror of great darkness at broad noon – I, only I.
Yet give not o’er, But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock; Greater than Moses, turn and look once more And smite a rock.
Christina Rosetti
Tonight we will watch Ben Hur (1959) up to the intermission, finishing tomorrow. It’s a good tradition.
On Saturday we are having a wee luncheon for one of daughter #1’s friends from college who has moved to our flyover city. She is expecting twins, so we thought we would introduce her to our twins– a glimpse of Things To Come.
Remember?
Daughter #1 and I are going to church on Sunday–for the first time in a year I am somewhat ashamed to say. I have been worshipping–if you can rightly call it that–by visiting churches online for the past year and by listening to online sermons. It is far from the same thing, however, and we all need to get back on track. We will be visiting a new church, a Presbyterian Church. We’ll see how it goes.
Sunday is also our pater’s birthday. He would be 99! To have been born in 1922 doesn’t seem that long ago, but it is!
ANC III was a lifelong Episcopalian with a Monica-like mother who I’m sure prayed mightily for his salvation. Whether her prayers were answered, I have no idea. But I will lift a toast to him on Sunday and sigh deeply. I hardly knew ye.
In other news, our neighbors across the street were TP’d overnight. (I never heard a thing.) Kind of a lame attempt, really, and such a shocking waste of toilet paper!
And on a week night! Zut alors. I am reminded again that some things never change.
Have a blessed weekend.
Almighty God, who through your only‑begotten Son Jesus Christ overcame death and opened to us the gate of everlasting life: Grant that we, who celebrate with joy the day of the Lord’s resurrection, may be raised from the death of sin by your life‑giving Spirit; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
BCP
*He is risen from the grave
(The window is in St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Key West, FL.)
Friday again. The OM and I are in Jefferson City getting our second Pfizer vaccine shot. We took the train in yesterday after work and daughter #1 is going to drive us back home later today. We lead such glamorous, fast-paced lives, n’est-ce pas? Anyway, I will be glad to have all this vaccine business behind us.
Speaking of Jeff City, daughter #1 sent me this article about hometown Hollywood producer Gina Goff, who just made a movie starring 90-year old William Shatner. It’s a small world.
Meanwhile the spring term at my flyover institute commences on Monday. A whole year has gone by since we canceled our spring term last year. Yes, we are still online and Zooming.
“This hill, though high, I covet to ascend; The difficulty will not me offend. For I perceive the way to life lies here. Come, pluck up, heart; let’s neither faint nor fear. Better, though difficult, the right way to go, Than wrong, though easy, where the end is woe.”
John Bunyan, “Christian” in Pilgrim’s Progress
We could all be reminded of this, written by William Crawford, Minister of the Gospel at Wiltown, Hawick FromA Short Practical Catechism, 3rd edition, Edinburgh, in 1745.
Are you following @ultimatelacrosse on Instagram? The boy has started making videos again and they are pretty great. Daughter #1 is his producer. (You have to click on the link to watch the videos.)
And here’s to DN whose birthday is today. You know we’ll be thinking of you and toasting you tonight! L’chaim!
In other news, I watched Seven Samurai (1954) again and it was great.
It took two nights, because it is a long (207 minutes) movie, but I highly recommend it. It is a top ten film in the foreign film category.
Sunday is Palm Sunday and marks the beginning of Holy Week:
And when they drew near to Jerusalem, to Beth′phage and Bethany, at the Mount of Olives, he sent two of his disciples, 2 and said to them, “Go into the village opposite you, and immediately as you enter it you will find a colt tied, on which no one has ever sat; untie it and bring it. 3 If any one says to you, ‘Why are you doing this?’ say, ‘The Lord has need of it and will send it back here immediately.’” 4 And they went away, and found a colt tied at the door out in the open street; and they untied it. 5 And those who stood there said to them, “What are you doing, untying the colt?” 6 And they told them what Jesus had said; and they let them go. 7 And they brought the colt to Jesus, and threw their garments on it; and he sat upon it. 8 And many spread their garments on the road, and others spread leafy branches which they had cut from the fields. 9 And those who went before and those who followed cried out, “Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! 10 Blessed is the kingdom of our father David that is coming! Hosanna in the highest!”
11 And he entered Jerusalem, and went into the temple; and when he had looked round at everything, as it was already late, he went out to Bethany with the twelve.
Mark 11:1-11
To help you picture the landscape of the scriptures, here are a few photos from my trip to Israel in 2018, including one of the model of ancient Jerusalem.
