“Am I bothering you?” Dad’s calling again.

You sure are! (I’m really not doing anything that can’t be interrupted.)

“Good!” Dad will turn 93 in just a few days. We would be in Michigan right now to celebrate his birthday as well as my sister’s first anniversary and our oldest granddaughter’s graduation, but COVID is cancelling and complicating a lot of plans.

Dad’s been painfully lonely since my mom died eight-and-a-half years ago, and nearly unbearably so since COVID.

Before the pandemic, he was still driving a little—mostly to the nearby Family Fare to talk to people and distribute some hugs but never buying much. He’s living the quarantine life now, and there’s no going anywhere. So he watches the news or “In the Heat of the Night” reruns (his TV is on 24/7) or plays on his computer—which usually amounts to reading the local newspaper or playing a favorite game on Pogo. He might click a link to watch the fancy chickens that belong to friends who live in the Netherlands. He also hopes to catch a glimpse of the friends themselves. It was a near tragedy when the power went out. It wasn’t just the lights and coffee pot and microwave that it took down. It also took his connections to the outside—the computer, the TV, and the phone.

Grab a cup of tea and travel on over to Tweetspeak Poetry where I’m sharing the rest of the story under the title Pandemic Journal: An Entry on Caring From a Distance. See you there.

The post Covid Chronicles – Calling Dad appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

Keeping distance has really not been all that difficult for me. I’m mostly introverted–an INFP–though I might fool you with my extroverted side. I’m not sure if that’s a natural or developed part of me. Also, I don’t get the Enneagram stuff and don’t have enough patience to work my way through it.

Back to keeping distance. Just think of the advantages. Though I miss my family a ton and have had to cancel many things (and have had them cancelled for me), there’s been no rush, no pressure. No packing and unpacking. No big expense in travel and dog care. No makeup. The bigger frustration is knowing I CAN’T do whatever I might think I want to.

We’re still waiting to find out what Disney wants us to do with our tickets, and we’re supposed to be sitting in Yankee Stadium next week to see “my” Tigers. That game hasn’t been officially postponed yet, so I’m not sure what our ticket options will be.

Also, keeping distance and being isolated means there’s always tomorrow. That, of course, is a lie.

If you follow me on Instagram, you know we spend a lot of time in the Loxahatchee. It’s pretty easy to keep distance there, especially if one arrives before the sun comes up or later toward sundown. Lately though, I think there are more than the regulars coming. We’ve seen a handful of people with dogs (that’s a big no-no except out on the levee) and a handful of little kiddos whose parents don’t seem to our eyes to be paying appropriate attention. Like hello… there are snakes and alligators out here. And it’s possible to get a little too close to the bank and maybe tumble into the water.

Sunday I stepped off the path (gingerly after looking all around) to get a closeup of the passion flower at the top of this post. While I was focusing, my husband calmly said, “There’s a gator.” Of course, I stepped back, but I couldn’t see it across the little water trail. By then, it had ducked behind the reeds. It made me wonder how many we’ve passed by on days we’ve only actually seen one or two.

Unseen danger (like this stupid virus) lurks everywhere. But I think the virus is way more dangerous than the critters we see out there. We always keep a respectable distance from them and they from us.

Also, last weekend (for the second time in a week) an alligator crossed the path in front of us. What a thrill! It’s mating season right now, so we decided (he?) was feeling a little passionate and looking for love. I made up a little story and posted it on IG.

Here’s a thing about alligators. They really respect us as much as we respect them and aren’t usually dangerous unless provoked or guarding a nest. There are isolated ones, though, who might be looking for a handout because someone once handed them a treat. So one could see a human as the source of a marshmallow (seriously, I heard that people sometimes fed the dudes and dudettes that sugar) and decide to bite the hand that didn’t feed them.

At one point we stepped back to give a crane family some distance as they turned down the path and pecked their way toward and past us. Later we followed a great blue heron (what poet Mary Oliver called a “blue preacher”) as he (?) strode down the path in front of us before veering to the left. There was the river otter that trotted in front of us, darting in and out of the side brush.

We keep our distance, and they keep theirs. And yet we are connected.

What advantages, if any, do you see to keeping distance?

The post Covid Chronicles – Keeping Distance appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

Today is Resurrection Monday.

Yesterday was Easter, and I cried. It was a small thing that triggered it on top of something else that happened the night before. That sparked a cascade of past hurts. You know how that happens.

I haven’t even cried during Covid. Well, until until yesterday. We live a pretty quiet, mostly introverted life anyway, so not a lot is different for us. Except that my husband works from home now. And except for all the lovely plans we’d made for last month and the weekend that were cancelled. And except for this carb fever, and that the scale has no pity. I haven’t shed a tear over any of that disappointment. Not that my husband being home all.the.time. is a disappointment, though it IS a bit of a challenge. But I hadn’t cried over any of it.

Maybe the small thing and the other thing just ignited some bottled sorrow and concern for the current state of things–for those who have lost loved ones, for those who have lost jobs and paychecks, for those who fear losing loved ones or jobs, for leaders who must make hard decisions, for those doing battle on the front lines, for immunocompromised loved ones. Maybe it was like pushing that grill trigger button that sparks the gas and creates a mini explosion. Maybe it triggered some pent-up grief for the lot of it–maybe even some anticipatory grief of what the future could bring. Maybe even for us. We are healthy “elderly/seniors,” though we fight the label. But for sure our immune systems are undoubtedly compromised simply because of age. What happens when things return to “normal,” and we’re released from isolation? When I imagine my death, I imagine celebrating at least a centennial birthday and then passing on from old age, maybe a cancer of some sort. Never “just” a virus.

But yesterday was Easter. And though I was soooo tired because I didn’t get to sleep until about 3 a.m., I think it really was one of the most meaningful of Easters. It was quiet–just the two of us. No Easter bunny or baskets or candy or colored eggs (though I had pickled some) or big family dinner. But we participated in our church’s streaming service, then watched Franklin Graham and Michael W. Smith in Central Park. The tears started and stopped. After that I checked into Easter messages from past pastors. I took a nap. We watched the Sight and Sound Theater production of Jesus I had recorded.

All day I listened to messages of hope delivered to empty churches and yet there seemed to be more people connection. Our pastor talked about “redemptive longings” and how knowing and believing in the resurrection gives hope in the face of loss. Even in the shadow of a virus there is hope.

And the pope talked about a contagion of hope.

Later we went out to the “swamp.” I really should start calling it a marsh because that’s the part we mostly walk in. We watched the sun go down and saw a couple of moorhens escape a gator seeking supper. Well, the first one escaped intact, but we aren’t entirely sure about the other one. That was a new thing as we rooted for the birds. Most of the time we walked in silence, and I thought about Jesus.

We came home and ate strawberry shortcake and I went to bed early.

But today is Resurrection Monday. I joined our church in its daily online devotional. I took a shower. I brushed my hair and smiled at my gray roots. I applied a little–just a little–makeup, slipped in some earrings, and put on a cute sundress. Okay, so it’s really just a swimsuit coverup, but it’s not getting much use in these days of closed pools and beaches. Maybe I’ll even spend some time with an exercise DVD later. Maybe.

Because today is Resurrection Monday, and the sun never goes down on the resurrection. And there’s always hope. And one day there will be no more tears.

The post Covid Chronicles – Resurrection Monday. appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

Life in the time of Covid isn’t normal. Just in case you didn’t know.

My 92-year-old (93 next month) dad had a couple procedures yesterday. The hospital board had to approve them as essential. Because his memory is shorter than an inchworm these days, my sister scattered notes around–“yes” on the coffeepot, “yes” on the kitchen faucet, “yes on the broth and the jello and the approved soda. “No” on the jar of peanut butter, “no” on the bread, “no” on the potato chips. She taped food doors closed. And she hid his cigarettes since he was not allowed to smoke until the following day. He called her last night to tell her he couldn’t find them, and she told him she’d tell him where they were in the morning. She told him to go chew a carrot stick or smoke a banana. She considered April Fooling him–to say she really wasn’t going to tell him where they were. But she changed her mind–or forgot. I don’t think people are into April Fool’s today. I also think that even with more time on our hands, some of us may be even more forgetful.

A month ago today we were in Ponte Vedra taking care of our littlest grands while their parents flew out to Las Vegas for a company convention. They left us four gift cards to different restaurants, and we used them all. We hung out at playgrounds and didn’t think a thing about social distancing. How stuff can change in a month. And today, very few planes are flying anywhere.

Things had started to get real while we were gone. International travelers were being “frisked” for viral symptoms. My husband got a call about someone in his South Florida office who had been in Vietnam for a couple of weeks and changed planes in Japan. Now he was coughing and looked a little peaked. Though he insisted he felt fine, he was sent home to finish out a quarantine period.

When I strapped on my Fitbit one morning, I suddenly remembered how my mom always wore her watch with the face on the inside of her wrist. Then I dreamed my in-laws who passed years and years ago were visiting in our Michigan house–the one they had lived in. In my dream, I was brushing away giant cobwebs in the basement where they sat on a couch that has also been long gone. Why was my mind going back in time?

A Facebook friend asked others to list some overused words. Somebody posted the word, “canceled.” I agree. A Detroit Tigers spring training game–canceled. A church apologetics conference–canceled. A “Serve the City” event–canceled. We’d looked forward to serving on the beach cleanup team. Two different events where we were to volunteer with Compassion International–canceled. Our spring break family gathering at Disney World–canceled when the park closed. A hair appointment canceled. (I’m glad God created hair ties.) Doctors’ appointments canceled. A trip to New York City for the end of this month–postponed. So a visit to Yankee Stadium to see the home team play “my” Tigers–canceled. We canceled two tours. Church–canceled. School–canceled. Yes, “canceled” was definitely the most over-used word of the month.

My husband is working from home now–at least until the end of April. He works at his grandfather’s humongous roll-top desk in our front entry and is often doing a Zoom interview or in a Zoom conference. We live in a Lego house that’s one big great room except for the bedrooms. So I have to plan my own work and keep the dog occupied. Yesterday I nearly slipped behind D half dressed to retrieve a towel from the front linen closet. I caught myself when I realized he was Zooming. It was a close call. On a call yesterday, one of the NY higher-ups hoped aloud that everyone would be back in the office by July. JULY?! This will be a test of our ability to survive retirement. But at least then I could run around the house in any stage of dress–if I dared–without the fear of being caught on camera. Hopefully.

I’ve been having Covid dreams. The other night I dreamed I was begging D to send 100 of our 200 ventilators to New York. I think he agreed to do so. I also think he was lying in a hospital bed.

My Fitbit informs me that I don’t get quality sleep. Yesterday I woke up with a visual migraine. This morning I had a headache that’s lasted all day in spite of medication. I’m tense and tired most of the time, so I often need to just sit and close my eyes and breathe. In between, I clean and cook and eat too much. I have carb fever. I watch too much news. I wait for the daily briefings and follow the stats. I wonder what part I can play to help–an “elderly” nurse with an out-of-state license. I bought myself a new stethoscope. It had been on my Amazon gift list for a couple years, but the family kept sending books. Go figure. I’ve ordered an oximeter. (I also keep ordering books.) I gave blood for the second time in my life.

I try not to worry about my Michigan family. My dad lives alone and is starved for companionship. My brother lives in Dad’s basement since his own home is flooded, but he works in healthcare so keeps his distance. My sister and brother-in-law are hosting their son and his Ukrainian exchange student “daughter” who have isolated away from “mom,” the hospital nurse. Tania is missing all the fun spring school activities. It’s not the experience she expected, and her exchange program has told to be prepared to catch a flight home at any moment. Seems safer to me to stay put, but nobody asked my opinion. My daughter is immunocompromised. Here in Florida, our extended family includes two immunocompromised members in the same household–one under treatment for tongue cancer and the other on hospice.

Our church has moved online with a sermon series on unshakeable faith (faith is greater than fear) followed by a fun message for kids as well as morning devotionals on Psalm 13 with the reminder that lament is part of worship. Which reminds me, if you haven’t seen this article by N.T. Wright, it’s a good one.

I thought–I hoped–2020 would be a year to breathe, especially after last year’s drama–the good and the bad. So far not so much. But this is a time to be still, to lament, to be kinder and gentler. Maybe to read a book (or several) or learn something new. To pay attention to the beauty in our safe own space. To remember that it will pass. And even when things get back to normal, they will never be the same. They will have changed. (Also, “normal” may be another one of those overused words.) We will have changed. I hope it’s for the better.

So how are you doing?

The post Covid Chronicles – March 2020 appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

In all my 71 years, I’d never heard of The Yellow Wall-paper. I’d never heard of its author, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, either. Also, I never pay attention to graphic novels–which is odd since I like comic strips (well, some of them) and used to enjoy comic books as a child–as well as spreading out those colorful “Sunday Funnies” on the floor.

But I know that T.S. Poetry Press only publishes the best and the most beautiful work. I know the illustrator and that she is wildly creative–more so than I even knew. Also the cover of this book is soft and lovely, and yellow speaks of joy and happiness, maybe even creativity. But Barkat chose to use brown ink on white for her drawings. I’m thinking there was a reason for that. In fact, she tells you why in Megan Willome’s post “Why She Created ‘The Yellow Wall-Paper Graphic Novel.”

After reading this book, I felt a little like I’d just stepped out of an episode of The Twilight Zone. It’s a powerful story of–I’m not sure what. Feminism? Gaslighting? Mental illness? Imprisonment? Imagination and creativity thwarted? Maybe what might have happened to depressed people treated in good faith the old-fashioned way? Would the character have healed faster if she’d been allowed to write rather than denied that outlet? Was she really depressed to begin with? All of the above? Other? Also, the author’s writing is beautiful and rich with metaphors.

I downloaded a Kindle version of the original story before Barkat’s book arrived, but found it much easier to read in the graphic format. It’s a short story. But though it was easier, it took longer because of my need to study the illustrations. I will re-read this many times and spend more time immersing myself in the art of it.

Check it out for yourself.

Also, Sara Barkat analyzes the story here: The Yellow Wall-Paper Affects Us All.

The post The Yellow Wall-Paper: A Graphic Novel appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

I quit.

I came by here for a visit and found it’s been six months, almost seven, since I’ve strung any words together in this space.

Because I quit.

I keep getting new visitors, though. And views on my Facebook page–where I haven’t posted in the same amount of time.

Because I quit.

Actually, does it really matter? Is anyone reading blogs any more?

(By the way, I *have* continued to share a few (very few) words on Instagram along with photos, so I’d love if you’d follow along over there. The photo stream is down on the right, but you have to click for the text.)

This morning I climbed on the scales and discovered I’d gained back the 11 pounds I’d lost before I flew to Michigan in May for my sister’s wedding and then two weeks later to help care for the grand girl after her accident.

I’d quit regular walking and paid less attention to what I was putting in my mouth. I ate more Grace food. Read that as multiple DQ® Blizzards (Turtle Pecan Cluster and Chocolate-Covered Strawberry) and Totino’s® frozen Party Pizzas, just for starters. Don’t judge. Then my daughter got married here in Florida on Anna Maria Island in October–a destination wedding that Tropical Storm Nestor decided to crash. We flew back to Michigan for Thanksgiving, and then celebrated Christmas with our son and his extended family where diet food does not abound. His father-in-law is a fantabulous cook. It’s a blessing and a curse.

Come the new year, I vowed to get a grip. I organized various journals to start putting words on the page again. But even my One Line a Day journal hasn’t seen a pencil mark since January 14. I’ve tackled some projects hit and miss and find that it’s taking me longer to do anything. Like it took two days to clean and reorganize the master bathroom cupboards. We’re talking just the cabinets under the two sinks. That included going through old makeup and tossing some–but adding more because I was enamored with my mother-of-the-bride look. The grand girl suggested I buy a Morphe® eyeshadow palette like the cool kids, and the gal at Ulta who waxed my face helped me pick out an eyeliner–something I haven’t worn in forever. She helped me choose one that I could handle so I wouldn’t end up looking like the littlest grand scribbled on my eyelids. I’m still dreaming of false eyelashes. Mine didn’t blow off like some in the bridal party, but I digress. I also bought this nifty storage container for my nail polishes since I’ve started doing my own nails again.

Also, I’ve spent way too much time trying to clean and reorganize my office so I could get back to feeling like a writer.

I thought maybe I was slowing down and feeling sluggish and procrastinating because, after all I, *did* turn 71 last month. But I suppose it could have something to do with the scale. So after I threw a little fit, I drank a bunch of water and tied on my walking shoes. I even did something new–stuck some buds in my ears and caught up on a podcast. I don’t listen to many podcasts and never on a regular basis. Normally, I just listen to the sounds around me, stopping often to snap a picture. Today I didn’t pause even once in all the two miles. Funny, I finished faster than I usually do, too.

Lo and behold, as I began to near the end of my walk, some dam in my brain broke, and I got a flood of ideas. Thus how I ended up back here. I’m going to try to write a little in this space again. Probably not regularly, and probably not with any kind of a schedule. I’ve come to accept that schedules don’t work so well for me. Or I don’t work so well with them. So I might just be writing off the cuff, stream of consciousness stuff. Kind of journaling, I guess, seeing as how I can’t seem to keep up very well with paper and pen. Maybe I’ll tackle a writing or poetry prompt here, write a book review, recite a poem, or just jabber a little about what’s happening in my life or about what I’m learning. I’m also going to work at updating some of the extra stuff here. I mean if I’m going to keep paying Fistbump to manage this space, I ought to play in it a little, right?

Speaking of my walk, I listened to several episodes of The Slowdown with Tracy K. Smith, past U.S. Poet Laureate. In her introduction to episode 325, she said:

“To everyone who lives with the fear of poetry, relax. You don’t always have to understand it. You can let it nudge you. Let it cause something to stir–the sounds of words gliding along next to one another, the glimpse of an image . . . I don’t always understand the poems I admire. Sometimes poems operate by a logic that eludes me . . . Sometimes, like a conversation with a curious stranger, a poem speaks to me in words I know, but it leads me down paths that are startling and unfamiliar. Some poems seem to carry me away from my usual self . . .”

It reminded me of something L.L. Barkat wrote for Tweetspeak Poetry last week in a piece called, Poems From the Coffee Shop–Matcha and a Blessing For the Exhausted. She wrote:

“Not every poem in the EDP subscription will bring a person joy, but sometimes poems come into our lives to bring us other things: insight, peace, a pause, a breath. It’s not necessary to get any of these things every time we read a poem. It’s enough to sometimes get just the thing we didn’t know we were looking for. This thing might stay with us, far past the reading.”

I didn’t know I needed any of those words, but apparently I did, because here I am writing them down. I’m letting them sink in. Maybe you need them, too.

So the plan is to come back and write again in this space. I don’t know when or what or how often. Knowing myself, it could be sporadic. And knowing myself, I know I could find myself suddenly cleaning under the kitchen sink. And knowing myself, that could take a day or two once I start. [Insert eye roll here.]

But also I know this about myself. I may shift priorities, slow down, or speed up, but…

I don’t quit.

The post I Quit appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

We have seen kindness in action during the last several weeks.

My 16-year-old grand girl, Gracee AKA Grace AKA Amazing Grace, was in a serious car accident in June. I’ve been in Michigan (I forgot to mention where I actually was in the below video) since then to help in her recovery. While here, I’ve continued to try to memorize a little poetry. The By Heart Community at Tweetspeak Poetry has been working on “Kindness” by Naomi Shihab Nye–one of my very favorite poems by one of my very favorite poets. I’m sure you’ll want to follow the link over there to read what Megan Willome has to say about the poem, how it made her think about the von Trapp family and the Sound of Music, and how she chose to go about memorizing it. Nye shares the backstory of the poem’s birth in this episode for On Being.

When I shared it with Grace, we both agreed the poem reminded us of her current situation. There she was in her new-to-her car on her way to work at the local Dairy Queen with plans for summer fun and making lots of money. Then BOOM! That awful sound of metal hitting metal as the hood of a pickup truck bashed in her door. She found herself in a ditch where she was trapped for 45 minutes. Her summer dissolved in that moment. Her simple breath (and angels riding shotgun) kept her alive, and we all wake up now with sorrow. But she has an amazing team of kind therapists who have raised their heads from the crowd and promised to help make her senior year of school a success.

“Kindness” is found in Nye’s collection called Words Under the Words, and you can see the version I memorized here.

Does “Kindness” have a special meaning for you?

The post Commit Poetry: Kindness appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

Since I turned 70 earlier in the year, I’ve had to accept I’m way, way past midlife. But some say that 70 is the new 40 (or is it 50?), and my own midsummer night’s dream is one of looking and feeling young(er) for lots of years. So I’ve started walking again–at least two miles a day, sometimes four miles.

Okay, maybe more like occasionally four miles. Or, seriously, once in a while I might walk four miles. That would be two miles in the morning and then another two miles in the evening. Never two miles midday in South Florida. Definitely not four miles midday. I’m working up to four miles most days–during the cooler hours. I’ve even jogged a little bit. I love to see my Fitbit tracking my pulse in the fat burn or peak zones.

I’m also eating more healthy. Less sugar. Less bread. Less simple carbs in general. My breakfast this morning consisted of a smoothie swirled in my new Ninja with crushed ice, raspberries, spinach, some plain Greek yogurt, a scoop of Jay Robb’s unflavored whey protein powder and a splash of unsweetened vanilla almond milk. I did add a spritz of Swerve to sweeten it up. I’ve lost 10 pounds on my way to more (I hope) before my daughter’s wedding in October. But I’m stuck. I’ve never been very faithful with strength training, and my upper arms prove it. But I’ve fallen victim to a couple social media ads for a SoAlpha ball and bands and some Body Groove videos and love them. I’ve been working on pushups, too. I mean there must be something to them if they’re used for sport and service discipline, right? My husband and I have started dancing in private, but shhh… it’s a secret. So don’t tell anyone, k?

Sometimes I exercise brain and body at the same time. Like with this section from Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act II, Scene I. It was easy to memorize on just one two-mile morning. Eight lines with four twin end rhymes. There’s also the alliteration of the w’s that infuse the poem with a lulling and even mysterious quality. I’m pretty sure it held my feet to a slower pace. I posted it on YouTube a month or so ago but failed to share it here.

I know a bank whereon the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
There sleeps Titania some time of the night,
Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight;
And there the snake throws her enamelled skin,
Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:

How are you caring for your health these days–physical, mental, emotional, spiritual? Have you memorized any poetry lately?

The post Commit Poetry: A Midsummer Night’s Dream appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

Charlotte’s Web by E.B. White. Have you read it? If so, did you read it as a child or as an adult? In the foreword of the 60th anniversary edition, author Kate DiCamillo confesses she didn’t read it until she was 31 years old. The cover of the book scared her. But then “I was strong-armed into it by a writing teacher who held the book up as a miracle of storytelling. This teacher intoned the opening line of the book (Where’s Papa going with that ax?”) often and with passionate conviction. According to her, anyone who wanted to write must read Charlotte’s Web.”

DiCamillo quotes E.B. White: “All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.”

She tells us about the things he loved–barns and pastures, dumps and fairgrounds, ponds and kitchens, pigs and sheep and geese and spiders and rain and monkey wrenches and Ferris wheels and people and seasons. And more.

You might say he even loved the New York Life Insurance Building–and the beauty in the building of it. He wrote about its rising for The New Yorker’s “The Talk of the Town” section in the March 17, 1928 issue. He titled the piece “The Ascension.” There is beauty in his first words. (My husband works in compliance for New York Life. That’s how I discovered this. Also, I’ve been begging to go see the building. I may have in the past, but I’ve forgotten.) The second Madison Square Garden was torn down to make room for it–615 feet high and 40 stories, designated a National Historic Landmark in 1972.

From E.B. White:

“The memory of old Madison Square Garden still haunts the Square, but a very tangible and very beautiful building has arisen on the spot to dispel it. One of the stirring adventures of this windy Spring is to approach the still unfinished New York Life Insurance Building across the park, with the blue sky of morning for a backdrop. At first the tower, still a dark web [my bold–get it?] of steel, seems predominant, with the supporting structure gleaming white, rising tier by tier majestically. Then as you get nearer, the tower becomes lost to view behind the vast ramparts, which swim dizzily forward out of white clouds, and put you in your place.”

And then he writes.

“. . . we were inducted into an elevator made of a packing box, and hoisted twenty-three stories. The rest of the distance to the spidery [again, my bold] tower was covered afoot . . . To emerge, at last, on the hurricane deck, five hundred feet above reality . . .with the canvas guards of the scaffolding bellying like sails in the breeze–this was a dream and a delight.”

It’s a short, fun read if you can access it.

Every word of Charlotte’s Web, DiCamillo asserts, bears E.B. White’s belief that we will face “small and large glories and tragedies,” but if we love the world and keep our eyes open to its wonders, it will all be okay.

This is not a for-kids-only book. If you haven’t read it, this is the time to rush, rush, rush. Stop everything, and read it now.

First Words from Charlotte’s Web – Chapter 1

Where’s Papa going with that ax?” said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.

“Out to the hoghouse,” replied Mrs. Arable. “Some pigs were born last night.”

“I don’t see why he needs an ax,” continued Fern, who was only eight.

“Well,” said her mother, “one of the pigs is a runt. It’s very small and weak, and it will never amount to anything. So your father has decided to do away with it.”

Do away with it?” shrieked Fern. “You mean kill it? Just because it’s smaller than the others?”

Mrs. Arable put a pitcher of cream on the table. “Don’t yell, Fern!” she said. “Your father is right. The pig would probably die anyway.”

Fern pushed a chair out of the way and ran outdoors. The grass was wet and the earth smelled of springtime. Fern’s sneakers were sopping by the time she caught up with her father.

“Please don’t kill it!” she sobbed. “It’s unfair.”

Mr. Arable stopped walking.

“Fern,” he said gently, “you will have to learn to control yourself.”

“Control myself?” yelled Fern. “This is a matter of life and death, and you talk about controlling myself.” Tears ran down her cheeks and she took hold of the ax and tried to pull it out of her father’s hand.

“Fern,” said Mr. Arable. “I know more about raising a litter of pigs than you do. A weakling makes trouble. Now run along!”

Later in Chapter 9, after Wilbur tries to build a web and fails, Charlotte says, “You can’t spin a web, Wilbur, and I advise you to put the idea out of your mind. You lack two things needed for spinning a web . . . You lack spinnerets, and you lack know-how.”

She goes on to say, “Not many creatures can spin webs. Even men aren’t as good at it as spiders, although the think they’re pretty good, and they’ll try anything. Did you ever hear of the Queensborough Bridge?”

” . . . do you know how long it took men to build it? Eight whole years . . . I can make a web in a single evening.”

Wilbur asks what people catch on the bridge, and Charlotte says, “They don’t catch anything. They just keep trotting back and forth across the bridge thinking there there is something better on the other side. If they’d hang head-down at the top of the thing and wait quietly, maybe something good would come along. But no–with men it’s rush, rush, rush, every minute . . . I stay put and wait for what comes.”

Are you a writer?
Have you read Charlotte’s Web?
What is your favorite line(s) from the book?

The post First Words Friday: Week 11 – 2019 – Charlotte’s Web appeared first on Sandra Heska King.

The Nun’s Story by Kathryn C. Hulme, copyright 1956, was a Book of the Month Club selection that reached #1 on the New York Times best-seller list. My friend’s dad, who was our mailman, tucked it in our mailbox addressed to my great-grandmother. I read her books–maybe not when I was 7, but a little older. This was the book that inspired me to be a nurse--specifically a missionary nurse–in Africa. Kenya, to be exact, though Sister Luke served in the Congo. Maybe I was confused by the “K” sound. We once sponsored a Compassion child from Kenya until she moved out of the program area. So far, that’s the closest I’ve gotten to Africa. I did become a nurse and did do some mission work–though not as a nurse.

I also thought I might become a nun–which was interesting since I didn’t grow up Catholic. Well, my mom did, but my dad was Lutheran–so they were married by an Episcopalian. So goes the family story. But my great-aunt was a nun–a teacher in New York–and she wore the black habit. She came to visit once, and we picked her up at a train station. My mom said I exclaimed, “Mom! Look at all the penguins!” That was the only time I met her, but I often wrote to her, and she wrote back. She could only write at Christmas and Easter, but once she got special permission from her Mother Superior because I had written a particularly long letter inspired by Jo from the Little Women. Aunt Emma could not stay with us as she had to stay at a local convent. But Mom cooked for her. I forget what she made, but she accidentally poured rum (instead of what she was reaching for) into the dish. The rum was some my great-grandmother, Aunt Emma’s sister, was saving for a fruitcake. Mom was mortified that she might have sent Aunt Emma back to the convent with alcohol on her breath. Aunt Emma never breathed a word

Anyway…

The editor of The Atlantic Monthly wrote this on the front jacket cover:

“In many of us the need cries out for more privacy, for a less distracted, more dedicated life than circumstances permit. This need for inner renewal so beautifully certified by Mrs. Lindbergh’s Gift From the Sea is now illuminated for us by a new witness, The Nun’s Story by Kathryn Hulme . . . To read The Nun’s Story is to be brought within the radiance of a noble, deeply felt experience.”

Hulme wrote the book based on the experiences of a friend who immigrated to the United States. Hulme sponsored her.

First words from The Nun’s Story – chapter 1

The short black cape hooked at the neck and dropped without flare to the middle of the forearms. it was odd to be thinking about Lourdes as she put it on, as though that recent experience had had something decisive to do with her choosing the religious life.

She bent her elbows and brought her hands together beneath the cape. It was a practice garment of sorts, to be replaced by the nun’s robe after the six months’ postulancy, after her hands would have learned to stay still and out of sight except when needed for nursing or for prayer.

Forty other young women, mainly Belgian like herself, with a few English and Irish girls, stood with Gabrielle Van der Mal in the anteroom to the cloister, putting on similar capes but taking more time about it, especially some red-knuckled girls from farms who seemed to be searching through the folds of their capes for sleeves.

Lourdes, she though, I’m not that impressionable. But quite suddenly she was riding again in the hospital train that made the annual pilgrimage, the only lay student nurse from the training school chosen by Sister William to help escort the convoy of bedridden patients from Belgium. The faith of the prostrate pilgrims that they would survive the journey, and, moreover, return from there cured, frightened her. Her pulse-readings, her diagnostic eyes, even her nostrils that knew the smell of death told her that some could not possibly live until Lourdes and she ran to Sister William crying, Fevers, blood-spitting, cancers advanced to screaming stage and not a sound out of any of them except crazy hopes; I’ve got three in the car who should be receiving last rites this very instant, Sister. And Sister William had stopped her with a look. No one will die en route, my child, they never do, she said. I’ve taught you many things, Gabrielle, but what you are soon to see is beyond my competence to describe or prepare you for. Now say a Pater for having called faith a crazy hope and go back to your duties.

Have you read The Nun’s Story?
What did you want to be when you grew up?
Did you?
Have you ever had any crazy hopes?

The post FIRST WORDS FRIDAY: WEEK 10 – 2019 – THE NUN’S STORY appeared first on Sandra Heska King.