Arkansas/Russian Reflections

Haikus Written in Russia but not in Russian (Summer)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 29 Jun 2011 01:54:00 +0000

I walked through Pokrovskoye-Streshnevo Park, a.k.a. "the park across the street" for the last time on June 20th, then left for the airport. I saved the best for last, my favorite place in Moscow, 30-seconds from the door of our apartment building. As I waved good-bye, turned and walked away, I felt that I was leaving a friend.

A rather odd pairing, a park and a person. Yet it's true. I have developed a deep relationship with acres of trails and trees, bushes and lakes, pointy-eared squirrels, serenading birds, a rickety bridge, flower gardens, secluded spots of solitude. . .with a faithful listener, an inspiring muse, and ever-accepting companion.

I knew that I my final blog posting from Russia would be about The Park, in celebration of her spirit, in gratitude for her friendship. I would complete the set of seasonal haikus, with summer joining the photographs and poems previously created for fall, winter and spring. As I sit on the porch of our Arkansas home on a quiet summer evening, I write and remember.

gentle summer rain

sprinkles enchanting freshness

o'er a thirsty world

Sidewalk Museum

displays "Joy Through Childhood Eyes"

no rain can erase

orange, yellow, pink

circle a fountain of green

designed for delight

sunbathing pigeons

on a billowy June day

scout for wayward crumbs

final glimpse, then turn

away from Russian beauty
"dasvidaniya,* friend"
(*good-bye)

©Twylla Alexander 2011

Angels and Friendship

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 19 Jun 2011 16:29:00 +0000

Once upon a time there were three angels, sisters, musicians all. Upon first glance they looked identical, with tight brown curls topped by golden halos, glossy black eyes and cheerful pink smiles which stretched from cheek to blushing cheek. Each sister had a pair of dainty gold wings, fashionably tipped in white and dotted with red and blue. The two older sisters always wore gold dresses, slightly different in design to highlight their individuality, while the slightly younger sister insisted on wearing cherry blossom pink.

Their instruments, of course, gave away their identities. Anna played flute, Ruby cymbals and Alexandra guitar.

Their story begins a week before Christmas, 2006. The Angel-in-Charge sent the sisters to Moscow, Russia on a very secret mission. It was so secret that even the sisters were given no details, except. . "You are to sit on a store shelf until someone buys you." So they sat and sat, occasionally being picked up or admired by passers by, but never selected. They played a selection of festive tunes, hoping to bring attention to themselves and smiles to the fatigued faces of holiday shoppers, but to little avail. . until

a lady named Linda

and her two daughters entered their aisle.
"I'm running out of time," Linda frantically told her daughters. "The staff party is tonight, and I must take a gift to exchange. I want it to be different, special, not the same old bottle of wine I usually take to these things."
"How about those angels, the ones up there with the instruments?" the taller daughter asked, gently touching the hem of Ruby's pink dress.
"Perfect!" exclaimed Linda and before Anna, Ruby and Alexandra could say, "Hallelujah," they were bought, gift wrapped and off to their first party.

All was dark and quiet in the gift bag. The sisters were surrounded by crinkly red tissue paper, no clue as to where they were or what was happening. Without warning, light flooded in, illuminating their halos like sunshine upon glitter. Hands reached in, pulled them out, and a voice oohed, "I love them, thank you." Linda smiled, pleased that her gift was a success. However, instead of joining the party, Anna, Ruby and Alexandra were quickly stuffed back in the bag, as if they were being deliberately hidden away.

"You can pick a new gift or take one that someone has already opened," they heard a man announce through a small gap in the packaging. Suddenly, a new pair of hands reached in, pulled them out and said, "Sorry, Twylla, I love angels, too." Once again, the sisters were returned to darkness.

Tired and confused, the trio remained there for what seemed like hours. Then like a hot air balloon lifting slowly off the ground, the bag left the floor and passed from one pair of hands to another.
"I want you to have them, Twylla. Even though I took them from you in this crazy White Elephant gift exchange, I want these angels to stay with you."
"Thank you, Zhenya. That's very kind. I'll take good care of them."

The beginning of a friendship. The angels began to understand why they were there.

For five years, the angel sisters sat in Twylla's kitchen window, enjoying the change of seasons and practicing new songs they heard on the radio. However, as boxes appeared, furniture disappeared, and talk turned to moving, Ruby, Anna and Alexandra wondered what would become of them. Would they go to Arkansas, to New York, or to the pile of "Give Aways?"

One morning, Twylla gently stroked their curls, said "Good-bye, Dear Ones," and settled them in a gift bag surrounded by crinkly yellow tissue paper. She placed a card inside with a name written across the envelope, a name the sisters could not read in the darkness.

Amidst the sound of clinking tea cups, the angels felt themselves, once again, pass from hand to hand. As fingers touched the card, light filtered in to reveal the name, "Zhenya," and they heard Twylla say, "These angels are now yours, to keep you company and bring you happiness as they have me."
"Thank you, Twylla. That's very kind of you. I'll take good care of them."

(Thank you, for your friendship and suggestion that I write this story about our angels.)

Good-Bye to St. Petersburg

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 10:05:00 +0000

How do you say "good-bye" to a whole city? In one day? If you know that the chances are great that you will never return, what do you choose to see one last time?

During our seven years in Moscow, I've made many trips to Russia's second largest city, usually to consult at the Anglo American School of St. Petersburg. (I wrote about the school and my morning walks to work in blog postings this fall.) My fondness for the city has grown with each visit, whether it be mid-winter when the days are dark and the snow is magical, or June 21 when Daylight takes only a short nap and revels in keeping the population awake. Radiant yellow leaves of fall, overhead and underfoot, defy anyone to remain gloomy in their midst. And finally spring, of this year. May 23. A day stretching before me, blue sky, sunshine, only a light jacket needed. .

I begin walking, allowing the day to direct me. My eye, then my camera, spots a color, a glint of light, delicacy of petal, angle, curve, a memory. I capture it and walk on, wondering about a bigger picture.

The Russian Museum is a must, my favorite, even surpassing the Hermitage. Russian art has educated me about Russia, its landscapes, history, traditions, the faces of its people from peasants to tsars. Today I put away the map, having been here three times, guiding myself to familiar paintings, as if they were friends. "There you are; nice to see you again," I might whisper as I walk up to "Visiting" by Abram Arkhipov. But this visit feels different. My eye focuses on details, pieces of the whole, searching for paintings within paintings.

faces of women

Or, "The Opera Singer, Fiodor Shalyapin" by Konstantin Korovin

still life on the table

The bigger picture? Good-byes are singular, solitary. . . one piece, one person at a time. The process of leaving forces me to notice, to appreciate, to take time with. The enormity of St. Petersburg is too much for me to hold onto, but the tulip, the dome sparking in the sun, the smiles of the women in the window and the flowers on Shalyapin's table are part of Russia that have touched my soul, and therein lies the secret.

May The "Force". . .Get Your Attention

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 03 Jun 2011 07:46:00 +0000

I'm a firm believer in the Force, that mysterious power that existed "A Long Time Ago in a Galaxy Far, Far Away." Ben Obi-Wan Kenobi described the Force to young Luke Skywalker in the original Star Wars trilogy. "The Force is what gives a Jedi his power. It's an energy field created by all living things. It surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together."

Since the galaxy is still together, I figure that the Force is hovering around doing his (or her) Forceful things, pretty much staying in the background. However, when circumstances converge (coincidences some might call them), which appear to be imparting wisdom, I pay attention. Such as occurred this week. . .

Episode #1: Most mornings, at 6:30, I fast-walk through the park across the street. Forty minutes of exercise along tree-lined paths, around the perimeter of two glassy lakes -- fresh air, sunshine, flowers, birds, ducks -- Nature at her most peaceful. Calming, centering. Yet, recently thoughts of packing, moving, transitioning, farewells, social engagements and school functions have been jockeying for top positions on my mental "To Do" list, followed by a waiting list of worrisome wanna-bes. I've entered and exited the park before the beauty of the day has had a chance to catch up with me.

Until Saturday. Whizzing through a generic overgrowth of green ground cover, I suddenly smelled freshness.

Not sweet exactly. Not mint, fruit, wood. Not any fragrance I could identify. I stopped, retraced my footsteps, smelled the air with the quick inhalings of a detective on the trail of a mystery. But the fragrance - or had it been a feeling, a nostalgia inviting me to reminisce - had disappeared. Back at home, I turned to the day's reflection in Meditations of Henry David Thoreau, A Light in the Woods, by Chris Highland.

#51, "Sweet Smell of the Earth" - Thoreau's first sentence hit me with the force (pardon the pun) of a kindred spirit. "I perceive from time to time in the spring and have long kept a record of it, an indescribably sweet fragrance, which I cannot trace to any particular source. It is, perchance, that sweet scent of the earth of which the ancients speak."

Episode #2: Same park, same exercise route, different morning.

Monday. I was in and out of the park in the predictable 40 minutes, registering but failing to absorb Nature's morning messages. Hurrying through my bowl of cereal, cup of tea and forgetting Henry David altogether, I opened my computer to check email. Mary, a friend in Idaho, who frequently joined me for walks in the park when she was a teacher at AAS, sent a poem written by another Mary, whom we both admire.

When I Am Among The Trees

Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,

Especially the willow and the honey locust

Equally the beech, the oaks and pines,

They give off such hints of gladness

I would almost say they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

In which I have goodness, and discernment,

And never hurry through the world

But walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

And call out, "Stay awhile."

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple" they say,

"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."

Trees. When had I last spent time with my favorite trees in the park, the ones that remind me of Gothic arches in a medieval cathedral?

When was the last time I "walk[ed] slowly and "bow[ed] often?". . . let the "sweet smell of the earth speak to me?"

The Force, capable of whopping me over the head with one of those favorite branches, had instead combined energy from his field of living things (in Thoreau's case, living words) to connect with me.

Episode #3 - Today (Friday). "On a stump I sit. Trees I watch. A deep breath I take." -- as Master Yoda might say.

Swan Lake

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 27 May 2011 14:07:00 +0000

Drew and I leave Moscow in less than a month. . . for good. Perhaps we will return sometime for a visit, but never again to live, as we have for the last seven years. In his farewell remarks to a gathering of Anglo American School of Moscow parents last week, Drew spoke of "symmetry," of beginnings and endings being in balance, bookends that define time and experiences. Intentionally and intuitively, we find ourselves placing bookends neatly on our Moscow shelf, as we repeat activities we did when we first arrived.

Last Friday night we attended a performance of Swan Lake. It is the final ballet we will see in Moscow, and it was the first we experienced when we arrived. It is my absolute favorite! From the orchestra's first haunting notes, I'm transported into the world of Odette and Odile, Prince Siegfried, and Von Rothbart, an evil sorcerer. The ballerinas' white feathered tutus and head-dresses, along with their meticulous imitations of a swan's delicate, vulnerable, yet powerful movements, trick my senses into believing that they are real. At one point, the stage is enveloped in total whiteness as 25 swans dance as one.

Beyond the grandeur of the performers, their dancing, costumes, the setting, story and emotions ranging from hope to despair, it's the music that holds me in a magical trance. How did Pyotr (Peter) Tchaikovsky, how does any composer, create such brillance out of what is only the mist of an idea, floating invisibly over the surface of a lake or the top of a tree, just out of reach?

I remember contemplating this same question a couple of years ago as I visited Tchaikovsky's home in Klin, 85 km northwest of Moscow.

The hugeness of his talent hung in each room of the house like the portrait that greeted us as we entered the door.

Among the facts, stories and intricacies of Tchaikovsky's life, our guide, Felix, shared an insight that hinted at an answer to my question. "Tchaikovsky," he said, "moved from Moscow to Klin to escape the noise of the city. In the noise, he could not hear the music. It was here, in the quiet of the countryside, that he would walk through the fields, among the cows, and hear the music in his head." Was it nature, or the solitude that nature provides that allowed the elusive mist, the first notes of a composition, to edge into his thoughts? I picture him running back to his writing desk, dodging a cow here or there, to empty the music onto paper.

Only Tchaikovsky, of course, knew how his creativity grew from idea to reality. As a listener of the ballet he created 136 years ago, I sit transfixed until the final note, grateful for the opportunity to be surrounded by his music, watching the dancers interpret it on stage. The shimmering blue, gold and black curtains close; the music stops. The rhymthic clapping, the trademark of Russian audiences, pounds its approval. I attempt to capture the curtain call on video, a lasting memory tucked snugly inside the bookend.

Haikus Written in Russia but not in Russian (Spring)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 19 May 2011 10:54:00 +0000

At the beginning of autumn and winter, I wrote haikus about scenes in the park across the street from our apartment building. As spring is budding out all over Moscow, it's time to add to the collection. This season seems so fleeting, slow in coming but speedy in its growth. Before it seques into summer, I want to savor the freshness of each spring morning as I walk among the new leaves. Please join me, once again.

seat of solitude

extends an invitation

in haste I decline

hidden among branches

gifts left for melodic songsters

by adoring fans

mirror of water

multiply morning's glory

in quiet grandeur

symphony of life

cresendos into being

joyful voices all

scent of Russian spring

fragile as newborn petals

lives in lilac's heart

Haikus © Twylla Alexander 2011

Victory Day - 2011

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 17 May 2011 08:54:00 +0000

On May 9th, for the last seven years, I know exactly where I've been - Gorky Park, Moscow. I go to honor the last of a generation of Russian veterans who served in the Great Patriotic War. The weathering of time has softened once youthful faces, creating an aura of kindness, gentleness, and a deep wisdom born of painful memories they endured and I can scarcely imagine.

Refer to earlier story written about
"The Lady in Red."

Who were these people 70 years ago, when the war was brewing, but had not yet transformed their lives, snatched up their dreams, dictated their futures? How did they, how does anyone faced with years of violence, starvation, fear and death cope? Beyond handing them a bar of chocolate or a red carnation, how could I ever appreciate the medals on their chests and learn lessons from their stories? I needed a personal connection.

Sitting at a small wooden table, removed from more boisterous gatherings of veterans lifting glasses and proposing toasts, a man sat quietly with a bouquet of flowers lying before him and a young man standing behind.

The medals pinned to the lapels and chest of his black suit gleamed in the sun. I took a chance that the young man might speak English. I introduced myself; the veteran rose from his chair to shake my hand. "His name is Pytor (Peter) Mikhailovich Striganov, and I am his grandson," the younger one explained with a broad smile. I gave Peter a carnation and asked if I could take their picture. Andrei, a Russian friend, joined us and added to the grandson's limited English, to translate pieces of Peter's war story.

"He was 17 when he enlisted. He was forced to go. He did not want to. He told the soldiers who came to their farm, 'No, I cannot leave my mother and 5 sisters. They need me to work, to make money, to help take care of them.' Five hundred other men enlisted from his town; my grandfather is the only one who survived the war. He is 86 now, will be 87 in August. He was an officer in the tank division on the front lines. He was shot one time. He was, also, a spy. He would go in the enemy rear and capture German officers and bring them back for interrogation. One time a German officer tried to escape capture from my grandfather. He pulled the pin on a hand grenade and my grandfather got the grenade from him and stopped it from going off." (Exactly how this happened was unclear in the translation.) "He gagged the officer, tied him up and took him back for interrogation."

In animated Russian, Peter added, "I am still healthy. No smoking, no drinking. I walk one kilometer a day."

Andrei asked Peter to sign a book, Victory Day by James Hill, filled with photos taken of many of the veterans who return to Gorky Park on May 9. In the two years since the book was published, several of the veterans in the photos have died. After signing it, Peter announced, "I will be back until I am 100!"

As long as he and other veterans return, so will their families, friends and strangers like me, grateful for the connection to these inspiring people . . . who remind us of the devastations of war and the fragility of peace.

The Disappearance of my Latest Posting!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 15 May 2011 18:00:00 +0000

IF you are looking for my latest posting, "Victory Day - 2011" - wondering whether you imagined seeing it a few days ago, then POOF, it was gone. . . you are not suffering from a rare form of "blogitis." You're absolutely correct; it was there and then disappeared. Your guess is as good as mine as to where it is hiding, or better yet, vacationing. The worst case scenario is that it has been kidnapped by a corrupted blog engineer who is holding it and thousands of other blogs hostage in a cramped digital jail in Mexico.
The Google Team assures its faithful bloggers that our postings, which vanished during a maintenance procedure last Wednesday, will reappear. I'm still waiting, trying not to worry.
I will give the Team two more days to locate and return my posting, then will have to assume that my worst fears are realized. . . it's gone for good. Then I'll do my best to reconstruct it. In the meantime, if you happen to find it hanging around another blog, be kind enough to redirect it to this address.

Marina Tsvetaeva - Russian Poet, Her Voice Now Heard

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 03 May 2011 07:06:00 +0000

Last week I stood in a room in Marina Tsvetaeva's (tsva-TI-va) Moscow flat. Sunlight poured through a window, across her writing desk, onto her chair, the bookshelf behind, and finally to the wood floor at my feet. Galina, our guide, opened a book of Marina's poetry and began reading.

There's a window lit, -
Shining all the time.
Maybe they just sit
Or perhaps, drink wine.
Maybe two embraced
And it doesn't end,
In every single place,
There's one, my friend.

Not from candles or lamps, the lights arise:
But, from sleepless eyes!

Window - parting woe
Window - meeting glee
A hundred candles glow
Or maybe - only three. . .
Then, it starts anew
And I can't find peace.
In my house, too,
There is one like this.

Pray, I beg you, friend, for the sleepless place,
For the window's blaze.
(translation by Andrey Kneller)

She closed the book and said, "These floors, these walls remember her voice, her quiet footsteps where she wrote in the early morning, then opened her door to the day's problems."

I followed Galina, along with the other participants in the tour of "Russian Poets of the 1920s and 30s," to the next room of the Marina Tsvetaeva Memorial Flat and Museum Cultural Center.

A trunk, child's table with chairs, wrought iron white crib, stuffed animals, book - a reconstructed setting, period pieces, symbolizing lives lived here almost a hundred years ago. Galina continues, "Marina and her husband, Sergey Efron, had 3 children - a son, Gregory, and daughters, Irina and Alya. During the famine following the Revolution, Marina sent Irina to a state orphanage where she heard there was more food. Tragically, she was misinformed. Irina died of malnutrition." Galina opened the book and read of the depths of Marina's guilt and sadness.

Two hands lightly lowered
On a child's head!
I was given two little heads
One for each.

Both of them,
Clenched in frenzy, with all my might,
Grabbing the older one from darkness---
I could not save the younger one.

Two little hands to caress, to smooth
The tender curly heads.
Two hands---and now one of them
Overnight became empty.

The fair one---on a thin little neck
Like a dandelion on its stalk,
I have still not grasped
That my child is in the earth.
-(translation contained in book by Lily Feiler, Marina Tsvetaeva: The Double Beat of Heaven and Hell)

From room to room, poem to poem, we learned of this woman's life.
A woman ~
*whose early years were lived in an upper class family, attending European schools
*whose adult years, 17 of them, were spent in exile due to her and her husband's anti-Bolshevik sentiments
*whose work was shunned by established Soviet writers upon her return to Russia
*whose writing was banned from publication in Russia until the early 1960s
*whose husband was executed as a spy
*whose daughter, Alya, was imprisoned in a camp for 8 years
*whose life was ended, by her own hand, as she lived in poverty

In the Russia of today, Marina is regarded, in the words of our guide, as "one of the greatest Russian poets of the 20th century." I can only shake my head in wonder at History's repetitions, as it invariably finds value in voices once silenced. Is it only with time, perspective and elimination of fear that writers such a Tsvetaeva and contempories, Pasternak, Akhmatova and Mandelshtam can be heard?

Marina's poetry is a testament to her life, to a time of upheaval, of life-altering choices, of events beyond her grasp to control, when her writing was likely her most constant and consoling companion. She wrote through the intensity of her joys and despairs, her losses and final loneliness. In the truest sense of a lyric poet, she expressed her deepest emotions as if a lyre were sounding each syllable.

Before leaving Marina's home, Galina stopped in one last room, opened her book and read.

My poems, written early, when I doubted
that I could ever play the poet's part,
erupting, as though water from a fountain
or sparks from a petard,

and rushing as though little demons, senseless,
into the sanctuary, where incense spreads,
my poems about death and adolescence,
-that still remain unread! -

collecting dust in bookstores all this time,
(where no one comes to carry them away!)
my poems, like exquisite, precious wines,
will have their day!
-translation by Andrey Kneller

Marina's poems have found another reader in me. . . and now in you.

Marina Tsvetaeva
1892-1941

Let's Walk to the Mall. . . in Moscow

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 10:41:00 +0000

Join me on a trip from our apartment to Metropolis Mall, a big, glitzy shopping mecca, close to where we live in Moscow. Rather than taking the car, I enjoy walking through the park, seeing the neighborhood sights along the way. To make this posting more interesting to me, as a writer, and hopefully to you, as a reader, I'm writing about our excursion in verse. I'm fashioning the poem after "Over the River and Through the Woods," which is traditionally set to music during American Thanksgiving. If you are not familiar with the song, you can click on this link to hear a simple rendition of it.

Please get on your walking shoes and join me. . .

Over the sidewalk and through the park
to Metropolis Mall we go.
Our feet know the way
So we'll walk there today,
Giving thanks there's no more snow - oh!

First come the twin lakes, a haven for ducks.
They quack as we pass by.

The men catch fish,

Or so they wish.

At least they love to try.

Where are the children?
There's none to be seen.
The playground wonders, "Why?"

They must be in school
For that is the rule.
There's a neighborhood one nearby.

Oh, look at the veggies and fresh fruit for sale.
Maybe we'll stop and shop.

The beets look great.
Please give us eight
And a bunch of red onions to chop.

Flowers are blooming; so tempting to pick
A lovely spring bouquet.

A florist is better,
Except for each letter
In Russian, is hard to say.

(The sign on the shop says "flowers" in Russian,
pronounced, 'tsvety.')

Toilets are handy, mere minutes away,
In case you just can't wait.

A lady in green
Makes sure that they're clean.
(A job I'd honestly hate.)

Under the highway, a *perekhod,
leads to the other side.

The mall is near.
Its sign is clear.

It's been fun to be your guide!

*Russian word meaning an underground walkway

Open an Egg Carton and Read

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 07:33:00 +0000

It's 1:00 am. I'm wide awake with jet lag, having returned to Moscow a couple of days ago. I sit in our living room looking out at the panoramic view of night lights. Sipping a cup of (decaffeinated) tea, I open my laptop and begin mulling over ideas for my next blog. Since I'm back in Russia, it's time to write something. . . Russian. But, not quite yet. In the transition between there and here, I have one more story to tell. It's a story of another Connecticut writer, not as widely known as Mark Twain (April 13 post); in fact, you can't find a single piece of his writing in Amazon's extensive listings or a bookstore anywhere. There was a time, though, when all you had to do was open an egg carton. . .

Bud Doyle owned Doyle's Eggs in Prospect, Connecticut, as did his father before him, as does his son after him. His daughter, Marian, has been my friend for 25 years, but I only met Bud once, briefly, about 8 years ago. At the time, I vaguely knew of his egg business, and nothing of his writing. At the time, I knew nothing about my own writing. The need to write had not yet squirmed to the level of my consciousness, but was waiting for me to begin searching for Her, to ask, "What is it that I truly love to do?" The more I learn of Bud, I wonder, "When did he know that he needed to write?" Sadly, he died last year, so it's not a question I will be able to ask him.

Two weeks ago, I spent a few days with Marian and husband, Jim, at their home in Middlebury, Connecticut. On a chilly, misty morning, Marian suggested that we visit her mother a 20-minute drive away. I asked if I could have a tour of Doyle's Eggs, housed in a long, white building on a sloping hill behind Rosie's house, where she and Bud lived for 62 years, raising their 5 children.

In a story book kind of way, I was hoping to see actual chickens, lots and lots of clucking, contented chickens, proudly laying eggs that would be enjoyed far and wide by an adoring public. The place is quiet now, though, without a single cluck within earshot. Bud made the change from a chicken-laying farm to a wholesale egg distribution business a few years back. The eggs arrive early in the morning on trucks from Esbenshade Farms in Pennsylvania, then Doyle's Eggs distributes them locally.

But Farmer Doyle's colorful egg cartons still appear on grocery store shelves, displaying the picture of a cracked egg with feathered quill, smiling "Good Morning Sunshine" face, and slogan stretched across the side, "Our eggs are fresher than your neighbors' kids."

Imagine opening the lid one morning, ready to fry your favorite over-easy egg and finding a quote, a poem, a paragraph, tucked in the carton, perhaps writing or sentiments that Bud particularly liked, or words of his very own. Would you read it right away or savor it over a cup of coffee, toast and your Grade A, Fresh, All Natural Egg?

In the upstairs office at Doyle's, Marian and her brother Pete, who now runs the company, pull out Doyle's Eggs memorabilia, spanning the years back to when Marian was the "face" of the business.

Then, there they are, in a cardboard box at my feet, left-over copies of Bud's egg carton inserts. I reach in, select a few and sit reading, sit marveling at another writer's passion. . . the love of language, the joy of words, the longing to create, share thoughts, compose what is uniquely one's own. I linger over a poem, wondering if it is one of Bud's originals. Rosie thinks it is, but stops short of certainty. The lovely handwriting and illustration are hers.

As a writer searching for ways to get my work published, Bud is an inspiration to me. He used what he had at hand, his egg cartons, to send writing out to others. He was creative, not only as a writer of words, but a marketer of them, as well. Today he might be a blogger, but anyone with a computer can do that. Who would have thought of combining an egg business with writing, symbolized by the cracked egg and quill on his carton? Had I been one of Bud's customers, I would have surely bought more eggs than I needed just to read his inserts. Maybe that's "eggs-actly" what he had in mind. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)

Wise Words from Mark Twain, Realized Anew

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 20:50:00 +0000

Mark Twain has been on my mind lately, since April 5th, to be exact. Before heading to New York to look for apartments, I visited Mr. Twain's Hartford, Connecticut home along with my friend, Marian, a Connecticut native. I pictured a Tom Sawyer kind of place surrounded by a fence, whitewashed of course, nothing fancy, just like all the other wood frame houses along the street. A place where Sam Clemens might have hung out as a boy, getting into trouble and running away from chores. Had I been in Hannibal, Missouri at the Boyhood Home and Museum of Mark Twain, my imagination and the home that greeted me would have been a close match.

But the 25-room mansion on the hill was a shock!

I'll leave you to take your own virtual tour of the Mark Twain House and Museum and learn, as I did, about the man who lived 17 years of his life here.

What I took away from my visit was a quote, engraved on the wall of the museum, located beside the house. Words that I knew to be true, but didn't know that I would learn their meaning all over again in New York City. . .

"Travel is fatal to prejudice."

--Mark Twain

I sometimes blindly congratulate myself on my "lack" of prejudice, being the world traveler that I am. After all, I left Arkansas to work in an Inupiat village in Alaska, then lived in Singapore, Egypt and Russia, and my passport boasts pages and pages of cool-looking stamps. I appreciate differences in people, look for commonalities, and value cultural diversity. But it seems that when it comes to anything above the Mason-Dixon line, I might as well be living in Civil War America, as quickly as I fall back into the "us" and "them" mentality. Why else would I, a genteel Southern belle, come to New York City, expecting "those Northerners" to be fast-talking, rude, loud, impolite, and lacking in what "us Southerners" have a monopoly on. . . hospitality?

I've stayed in downtown Manhattan for a week now and have yet to encounter that stereotypical personality, lurking near some shadowed sidewalk on Wall Street, poised to bump into me, never pausing to say, "I'm sorry," "How rude of me," or "Won't you please forgive me?"

Instead I'm met. . .
*a woman, smartly dressed in a yellow jacket trimmed in black, who stopped on a misty, windy afternoon to ask if she could help with directions, observing Marian and me huddled and confused over a city map
*a taxi driver who, without a grumble or grunt, made two U turns to position us exactly at our hotel entrance, then unloaded our heavy bags, smiled and said, "Have a good day."
*a hotel desk clerk, exuding more patience than Job on the best of days, who changed our room from a lower to higher floor, from a brick wall to water view, and from a 3:00 o'clock to noon check-in
*a young man, head totally covered with a black-hooded sweatshirt, who opened two doors for us at Grand Central Station, then stood holding them open while we pulled our bags through

The list goes on, highlighted with "Please," "Thank you," "Excuse me," "You go first," "Can I help you?" "No problem" niceties which I had relegated to the realm of mint juleps and magnolias.

My world expands once again. Why am I surprised? Did I not learn lessons of kindness, graciousness and generosity from Wafaa and Mohammad in Egypt, from Natasha and Zhenya in Russia, from people in every country I've visited? Why should my country be any different?

The answer, of course, is that it's not. It is in my pre-judgement that opinions remain static, that generalizations become truths. I can hear Mr. Twain saying to me, in a wise grandfatherly tone, cigar smoke swirling between us, "You know, Twylla,

'All generalizations are false, including this one.' "

Transitioning Through the Everyday

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 10:41:00 +0000

Time to stop the newspaper, put a "hold" on the mail, clean out the fridge of everything that will expire before mid-June, schedule the lawn guy to cut the grass every couple of weeks, find plant-sitters for the African violets, Norfolk pine, peperomia, fern and Christmas cactus, pack my bags, make a final sweep through the house, set the alarm, close the door. Whew! Transition time again.

From Arkansas to Russia, one last time.

After 7 years of living and working in Russia, Drew and I will be leaving when this school year comes to a close at the Anglo American School of Moscow. Drew has served as director of the school and its St. Petersburg branch since August 2004. I worked at the Moscow school as a 2nd grade teacher and speech-language pathologist for 3 years before starting my back and forth lifestyle, a "jet-setting grandmother," as Drew nick-named me. As tempting as it is to start reminiscing, I'll save that for a few months, trying to remain focused on the present moment, one transition at a time. I wrote about the T-word in one of my previous postings, calling it my least favorite word in the English language. A bit harsh, probably, failing to acknowledge the opportunities for growth, challenging though they may be, which each one has offered me.

When I close the door, pulling two overflowing suitcases behind me, from our home in Moscow or Greenbrier, I feel an acute sadness, a nostalgia for the family, friends and way of life I'm leaving. Part of me wants to stay, part wants to go. I blink back the tears, gather my wits and go through the motions of commute to the airport, check-in, security, and passport control (Moscow). Going through the
motions. . . mundane, mindless, routine tasks which help me begin inching my way from one place to the other.

When I open the door, hopefully pulling both accounted-for suitcases behind me, to our Moscow or Greenbrier home, the same sadness catches up with me, in the stillness, as the door quietly shuts. The tears come again. Part of me wants to be here, part wants to be 5000 miles away. Reaching for a tissue, I unpack, fix a cup of tea, wash a load of clothes, water a plant, take a walk. The simplicity, the familiarity of the actions soothe my spirit, awaken me to the present, rekindle the joy of this home, and remind me that "all will be well," my transition mantra, borrowed from Julian of Norwich. Transitioning may not have prompted this medieval mystic to pen such a reassuring message, but her words echo through the 600 years hence, touching my heart with a calming peacefulness.

Another woman contemplative, a poet and writer, to whom I turn for inspiration is Kathleen Norris. Her slim volume titled, The Quotidian Mysteries, Laundry, Liturgy and "Women's Work," written in 1998, reinforces what I've learned about the deep and abiding value of the "sanctity of the everyday," as she nobly refers to the so-called commonplace in our lives. She writes, . . . "it is in the routine and the everyday that we find possibilities for the greatest transformation." As I move through the daily tasks, my mind and body begin to transform, to adapt, to bridge the transition gap.

Drew and I will have a new opportunity to transition, a New York City one, as he assumes the position as Headmaster at Claremont Preparatory School in July. I arrive in Manhattan tomorrow to begin the process of looking for an apartment. An exciting adventure awaits, where unique experiences will fill our lives. Yet I've come to know that it is in the Everyday where I will find my path, leading to a day when "all will be well," again.

The Touch of a Butterfly

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 05:26:00 +0000

I didn't expect to feel the way I felt when the butterfly landed on my finger. I hardly felt her physical presence at all, as if the whisper of a breeze had skimmed the surface of my skin, leaving as quickly as it arrived. She was one of hundreds reveling in the brilliant colors and abundant sweetness of the butterfly pavilion, a world as magical as any that Willie Wonka could have created, every inch planned to delight, excite and nourish its guests. Purple petunias, coral begonias, yellow daisies, lilac verbena, orange lantana, lush leaves in shimmering shades from mint to olive to emerald, cobalt blue platters lined with orange slices, cherry red bowls overflowing with shimmering glass pebbles of aquamarine coolness. A haven, a home where they could enjoy their short lives.

The Desert Botanical Garden in Phoenix was not the birthplace of the butterflies. They made the long trip from Florida to Arizona via UPS when they were too young to know which way was up. Brian, the butterfly expert, explained that new shipments would arrive throughout the pavilion’s March 5-May 8 opening, with young ones replacing the dying. “The life span of an average adult butterfly is 2-3 weeks,” he said. “Some monarchs can live up to 6 months, but the ‘garden varieties’ are here and gone pretty quickly.” I had no idea. All the more reason to celebrate their presence.

My friend, Margie, and I rendezvoused in Phoenix over the past weekend, each coming from a state whose abbreviation is often confused with the state we were visiting: AK – Alaska, AR- Arkansas, and AZ – Arizona. Seeing the butterflies was one of those serendipitous events, one of life’s unexpected invitations, which requires a quick answer. “For an extra $3.50, you can visit the Butterfly Pavilion,” the cashier said. "Want a ticket?” I hesitated; not sure why, but Margie didn’t. “Sure, let’s do it!” she answered with enthusiasm. Friends, thankfully, lead us towards possibilities.

Within the tent-like structure, topped with sky-blue canvas, and walled in by white criss-crossed netting that resembled fishnet stockings, at least 10 varieties of butterflies flew, rested, ate, and greeted their visitors. I enviously observed a man with salt and pepper hair, quietly reading his “Butterfly Identification Guide,” as a Zebra Longwing perched on his head; a woman with a bright fushia blouse, silently snapping pictures, as a Orange-barred Giant Sulfur rested on her shoulder.

Oh, to have a butterfly visit me! What should I do? The answer became obvious as I sat motionless for a picture. . . nothing.

When I settled my own flitting body quietly on a rock, it happened.

One landed on my back,

and the sleeve of my lime sweater, perhaps mistaking me for foliage

Then, there she was, on the tip of my left forefinger -- the daintiest, most dazzling yellow butterfly imaginable. I suddenly felt like a giant holding a piece of fine china, responsible for this delicate creature who was trusting me with her safety, her innocence. Her soft touch reminded me of the fragility of childhood, of the small hands of our grandchildren, Luke, Nate, Ruby and Anna, reaching up for my hands, trusting that I will respond with gentleness, tenderness, love. I was humbled.

She was gone in an instant, my outstretched hand grateful for her visit ~ her lasting touch of goodness.

It's All About Balance ("corny," but true)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 22 Mar 2011 02:08:00 +0000

The "Kream Kastle Drive Inn," one of those fast food places along the side of the road which I usually pass by without a second glance, called to me. . rather impolitely, I might add, like someone chewing a mouthful of french fries and talking at the same time.

"Stop!" it shouted. "Have a milk shake, banana split, a chili pie loaded with cheese and onions." I ignored it, tilted my nose in the air at the mere suggestion that I would make such unhealthy food choices and accelerated, quickly putting distance between myself and what I secretly craved. With places to go and people to see, I drove on along Highway 70 between Little Rock and Hot Springs, knowing that in the afternoon, I would be retracing my steps, passing by the same spot, wondering if I could avoid the temptation twice in one day.

With the smell of deep-fat fried onion rings, corn fritters and tater tots chasing me down the road, I tried to remember the last time I had given into my craving, allowed myself the pleasure of one of my favorite food indulgences. Following the example of our adult children and their spouses, I have slowly evolved into a healthier eater, even buying more organic products and joining a co-op for locally grown and humanely produced meats, dairy items, fruits and vegetables. When eating at a restaurant, I skim the menu to find the healthy options - salads, grilled chicken or salmon, fruit cups, lighter portions - glancing past the mashed potatoes, fried okra, and chicken-fried steak as if they didn't exist, blank spaces rather than real choices.

I ask you, "Where's the fun in that?"

Maybe that's why Kream Kastle kept circling through my thoughts all day. Could it be time to tip the scales towards a balance between healthy and the occasional not-so-healthy, between sensible and frivolous, between planned and spontaneous? Mmmm. . . these scales seem to be measuring more than food.

The authenticity of this no-fills place appealed to my senses, as well. No pretense. No energy spent in trying to be something it wasn't. "This is who I am. Take it or leave it," its menu boasted with its double bacon cheeseburgers, foot long hot dogs and hot fudge sundaes. "If you're looking for high-class with all that healthy fruit and lettuce glitz, keep rollin' down the road to McDonald's," this establishment touted, oozing with confidence as plentiful as its ketchup bottles.

With the Kream Kastle's OP N sign (the E must have been on vacation) inviting me into its parking lot that afternoon, I made my decision. The menu was displayed in red plastic letters above the "Place Your Order" window. I searched for the one item that I could already taste, in all its greasy goodness, topped with mustard -- a corn dog! Accompanied by, what else? A creamy, sweet chocolate shake!

YUM. I felt liberated!

Gathering and Giving Away

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 15 Mar 2011 07:06:00 +0000

Boxes keep appearing on our front porch. Brown cardboard ones, plain except for the sweeping Amazon.com "smile" across the side, and white ones bordered with bold black letters announcing a CRATE and BARREL delivery. None are even addressed to me.

The names on the shipping labels read Andrew Lewis and Katherine Alexander Lewis, the newlyweds. Packed inside are gifts from their wedding registries, pots and pans, bowls and platters, skillets, griddles, cookbooks, flatware, mixer, knives, cutting board, grater, measuring cups. . . all for their new kitchen, and, coincidentally, all items that my mother is giving away as she downsizes from house to apartment.

For the past month I've often felt like the umpire in a tennis match, head turning back and forth from our daughter and her new husband to my mother. Katherine and Andy are unpacking boxes, filling their home, adding to their first few belongings. My mother is packing boxes, emptying her home, taking away from a lifetime of belongings. Straddling the net on my imaginary court, I find myself in the middle of the extremes, in "middle age" (a term that strangely sounds more old than middle) observing and pondering stages of life, wondering the value of "things."

Searching for insight, my thoughts return to my grandparents' house after Pop died and Grandma was leaving their home for an apartment. Growing up in the same town with them, I felt as much at home in their house as my own. It was packed from attic to garage with accumulated stuff from over 50 years of marriage, six children, and a passel of grandchildren. Walking through the rooms, looking at the familiar furniture, dishes, knick knacks, pictures, personal possessions, I knew that I wanted to take something as a remembrance. But out of a houseful of belongings, what held personal meaning for me? Could "things" capture a memory, trigger an emotion, help me hold onto a piece of these two people whom I dearly loved?

Uncertain, I selected four.

*the Scrabble game that Grandma taught me how to play, the one we played on Saturday nights at the old cardboard table in the living room

*the dominoes that Pop taught me how to play, the ones whose box was so dilapidated that he taped and re-taped it with black electrician's tape until it fell apart

*Pop's rocking chair, where he sat watching his favorite Yankees play on t.v., as I brushed and styled his hair

*Grandma's rocking chair, where she sat quietly rocking on the screened-in front porch, as I swung beside her in the porch swing, singing

Thirty years later, these possessions still have the power to connect me to my grandparents, the experiences and love we shared. A value only I could assign, only I could treasure.

Gathering,

Giving away,

and. . .

Keeping.

As my head turns toward my mother, sitting among a room of stacked papers, family pictures, multicolored quilts and glittering glass bowls, I wonder how she will decide. What will be worthy of her keeping?

Perfect Yellowness

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 07 Mar 2011 16:22:00 +0000

Poetry often seems the closet form of writing to beauty. I welcome the first daffodil of 2011 to our yard with a poem. May my friends in Russia, Alaska, Connecticut, and other locations were daffodils are still a hope upon the horizon, enjoy this lovely face of spring.

The First Daffodil of the Season

You have no need

to announce,

“I’m here, the first,

take notice!”

No need to parade

your dainty pedaled bonnet

your gently ruffled neckline

your shapely tender body,

rooted firmly to its

Source.

You awake in solitude,

grateful for the moment only,

unaware of the world’s

Expectations

Anticipations

Validations

heaped upon your head as a

harbinger of its renewal.

Catching sight of you in

my morning garden

jolts a dormant joy

excites my feet to dance

sends me rushing to your side

to seek your calm assurance,

to touch the cheek

Perfect Yellowness.

Wedding Among the Clouds

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 28 Feb 2011 20:21:00 +0000

The day after daughter Katherine married Andy Lewis, atop Mt. Magazine, dawned sunny, blue-skied, cloudless.

The clouds had floated quietly away the evening before, shortly after the ceremony, expecting no thanks for the part they had played. Exchanging swirling hugs and wispy high-fives, these wedding crashers beamed with pride. After all, not just every couple, who marry on the top of a mountain, attract their attention. . . much less their attendance.

Word circulated throughout the Arkansas cloud community for days before the February 21st event, that an extraordinary couple was to be married on one of Mt. Magazine's Cameron Bluff overlooks. Gossipy cirrus sisters spread details of the sunset wedding, as they flitted high above the Arkansas River Valley. It was to be an intimate gathering of 16 ~ parents, grandmothers, brothers, sister, spouses, nieces and nephews, forming a semicircle behind the couple, a visible sign of love and support. Respecting the beauty of the natural rock cliffs and evergreens, Katherine and Andy planned no other decorations except white candles flickering inside glass vases and two bunches of white roses, hydrangeas and tulips mingled with stems of red holly berries.

The clouds offered a simple gift to the couple, a gift to match the quiet simplicity of their ceremony and the depth of their commitment to each other. . . a pure white blanket to surround and encase them, to "honor and keep" them in an everlasting symbol of Nature's blessing.

As son, Jason, pronounced his blessing, "May the peace of the Lord be always with you," and we responded, "And, also, with you,"

the clouds stepped aside allowing the setting sun to peek over the mountain, just in time. . .

to see Katherine and Andy introduced as wife and husband

kiss

and beam with happiness.

Happiness, as the clouds whispered before leaving, that will last a lifetime.

With Gratitude

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 20 Feb 2011 06:45:00 +0000

Early morning is my favorite time of day. It's become as predictable as the newspaper carrier who deposits the Log Cabin Democrat in our box every morning before dawn. As the sky brightens, I head out the front door for a 2-mile walk along the rural neighborhood roads, pull the paper out of the box on my way back up the driveway, then sit back in the rocking chair on the front porch, breathing in the solitude and conversing with the oak trees. Breakfast follows with a bowl of Wheat Chex, topped with frozen blueberries, a piece of toast covered with butter and drizzled with honey, and a cup of steaming chai tea.

I'm never alone, even though on most mornings there's no one in the house but me. Mr. Emerson joined me each morning for a couple of months, as I shared in an earlier posting. Mr. Thoreau heard about my chai tea and came knocking, but kindly said that he would return, seeing that I already had morning company.

Joanna Seibert has been my invited guest for the last 150 days as I have read a psalm and meditation in her book, The Call of the Psalms, A Spiritual Companion for Busy People.

It was not the psalms that drew me to this book, but Joanna's responses to them, based on my respect for her as a deeply spiritual person and a writer.  I had read psalms responsively for years, growing up in the Methodist church, and memorized the 100th Psalm when I was in first or second grade Sunday School. Lines I can still recite "by heart" today...

Make a joyful noise to the Lord,
All ye lands.
Enter his gates with Thanksgiving
and his courts with praise.
Give thanks to him; bless his name.

Beyond that, I spent little time reading them, treating them simply as words heard and memorized but never analyzed or experienced. Even in Joanna's book, I often skip the scripture and move directly to her reflection, eager to learn from her life. And what I find, without frills and without fail each day is. . . honesty. Honestly, which I've learned from Joanna, is at the core of the pslamists' writings.

If I had read Joanna's bio before meeting her, I would have been too intimated to shake her hand -- the Superwoman of all Superwomen. A doctor (professor of radiology and pediatrics at Arkansas Children's Hospital and the University of Arkansas Medical Sciences), deacon in the Episcopal church, published author, harpist, wife, mother of three and grandmother of six, with more distinctions and awards to her name than she's willing to admit. Thankfully, her genuine kindness and tender care touched my life before word of her resume. Her book reflects her humanness.

Joanna's struggle with addiction and a variety of "character defects," as she terms them, along with her search for balance, peace, and healing, pour out through her writing. I respond to her thoughts by writing in my journal, as if she and I were having a conversation as we sit across the table, blowing steam from our tea cups. I listen to her, I learn, take a step back, a step forward, connecting her words to my life, reflecting, striving to grow with the same illusive balance and peace.

"Peace comes with gratitude." Joanna writes in response to Psalm 148, and repeats the belief, the epiphany, on the final page of the book.
"Listening and living a life of praise and gratitude is a new life for me. It is a road less traveled."

I finished psalm #150 today, closed the book and put down my pen. I will miss Joanna's presence in my morning routine, the companionship through her writing. As I continue the journey with her on that less-traveled road, I'm grateful that I can pick up the phone, hear her voice and invite her to join me for a real cup of tea.

Mother and Daughters

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 12 Feb 2011 02:35:00 +0000

The youngest of our three children, daughter Katherine, gets married in less than two weeks. As I visualize her at 24, it takes only a second for memories of Toddler Katherine to arise with wild, staticy hair, dancing in circles and clapping those tiny hands to her brother, Jason's, blaring boom box music. Tears creep to the surface as the haunting violin refrain from "Fiddler on the Roof's" Sunrise, Sunset gets louder in my mind, as if someone were gradually turning up the volume, determined to make this Mother-of-the-Bride sob into her freshly prepared Tomato-Basil Soup.

Stop! Put down the fiddle. No need for sobbing. Too much to celebrate.

And to begin the celebration, I invited Katherine and older daughter, Elizabeth, to join me for a Mother/Daughter outing last weekend. Twenty-four hours alone with my two daughters hasn't happened since. . . Who can remember that far back? We decided on Hot Springs, an hour's drive away, or 45 minutes, if Elizabeth is driving. I researched accommodations, Elizabeth googled spas, and Katherine emerged from her pile of Thank You notes long enough to say, "Sure, whatever, I trust you guys."

Hot Springs is known for, well, it's hot springs. Bathhouses line one side of Central Avenue, where bathers can relax in soothingly warm to 104-degree, "get-me-out-of-here!" waters. Native Americans called the area the Valley of the Vapors, and tribes such as the Caddo, Quapaw and Choctaw shared the natural baths in a spirit of peace. Seeking peace, a healthy lunch, a few spa treatments and an overall good time, we registered at The Quapaw, donned our fashionable white robes, ready for the afternoon.

Signing a pact that none of our bathing suit pictures would ever be publicly aired, you'll have to take our collective word for it that the thermal baths were as visually stunning and bodily calming as if they were located in the heart of Istanbul. A picture of the ceiling is all we're prepared to show. . .

The evening was predictable --- checking into the 1890 Williams House Inn, taking a driving tour around town, eating out, watching "The American President" for the 15th time, then heading to bed --- except for the unpredictable parts, the ones that caused all the laughter!

"Mom, you backed into a tree!" Katherine shouted.
(Turned out to just be a retaining wall. No observable damage.)

*******

"Mom, you're in the wrong lane." Katherine shouted.
"Mom, you're not in any lane at all. " Elizabeth shouted.
(Did they really need to shout?)

*******

Three women on the lookout for a liquor store, in a questionable part of town, lighted only by an occasional street lamp.

"There, there's one. It's a drive-though," said Elizabeth. "Turn the car around, Mom, park by the front door."

"Looks safe enough. We'll go inside. It'll be faster. You stay in the car," Katherine instructed, with the authority of Buzz Lightyear planning an attack on the dreaded Zurg.

"Right, I'll keep the car running in case you need to make a quick escape," I replied, with my hands gripping the steering wheel.

They scurried in; I scanned the parking lot. Minutes passed. More minutes passed.

They appeared, dashed into the car, Katherine carrying a paper-sack wrapped bottle of wine.
"Anyone need hand sanitizer?" Elizabeth asked.

*******

"That window looks strange, the one right by our entrance." Elizabeth whispered as we drove up to the bed and breakfast after dinner. "Something's moving. Maybe the place is haunted."
"It's not a window, just a light on the wall. It's flickering, see?" Katherine explained, pointing to the exact location through the windshield.
"No, I'm sure it's a window. This is really frea.. .ky," Elizabeth's voice sounded in a high-pitched, ghost-story kind of way.
Suddenly a car rounded the corner, flashing its lights on the side of the building, revealing. . .
a round white head, with a black iron ring tightened around it's neck like a prisoner. We all SCREAMED!!!
Upon closer examination, a light.

What fun.

   What amazing young women!
   What a lucky mother. J

Chickens on the Loose!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 03 Feb 2011 16:29:00 +0000

Help! We're being overrun by chickens. Yes, chickens! There are four of them parading across our front yard, pecking and pooping as if they own the place.

I grab the yellow-handled broom and dash out the door like a mad woman, raising it over my head shouting, "Shoo, Shoo, you trespassing chickens!" "Cluck, Cluck, Cluck Squawk, Cluck, Cluck Cluck, Squawk!" they reply in chicken language, which fortunately for my sensitive nature, I don't understand. With feathers flying, they scatter in every direction, as if the sky has just fallen smack on their heads, leaving them totally discombobulated. The white one, with a poofy-feathered coiffure topped by a bright red comb, speeds towards the neighbor's fence, as the rest of the gang hurries to catch up. They reach the gaping barbed wire right before the monster (me) sweeps them back into their own territory.

This scene took place a few weeks ago, when the poultry gang first set chicken feet on our property. Since then I've mellowed. "What's the harm?" I ask myself. They're just out for a good time, tired of being cooped up in the same yard day after day. I've even started spying on them.

They sneak through the fence mid-morning, tentatively edging their way across our grass, cocking heads left and right, scanning for the woman with the broom.

Unable to see my face in the kitchen window, they venture further towards the house, led by their red-combed leader, whom I've named Lucy. Granted, Lucy is probably a rooster with the striking redness atop his head, but I still like to think of him as a her. . . the "I Love Lucy" of chickens. With growing confidence, she scurries across the driveway into my flowerbeds, all the while glancing over her shoulder, ordering Ethel, Fred, and Ricky to hurry up.

Leaving "the boys," she and Ethel retreat to the birdbath for a gossip session . The lyrics, "Pick-a-little, Talk-a-little, Pick-a-little, Talk-a-little, Cheep-Cheep-Cheep, Talk-a-lot, Pick-a-little more" from "The Music Man," come to mind and make me giggle.

I can't resist trying to take a few pictures and slowly crack the front door. Inching my way across the porch, I hide behind a column, waiting to see if I've been noticed. So far, so good. One foot at a time, I creep down the steps, freeze on the sidewalk, zoom in on the unsuspecting friends, and press the button. Zeroing in on the camera's clicks, Lucy looks around, strikes a runway pose, then sounds the alarm.

Off they run, on what looks like toothpick legs, over rocks, through piles of brown leaves, between trunks of oak trees, around the swimming pool, across the fire pit and safely to the fence.

They'll be back, and I'll be waiting for my morning entertainment, tea cup in hand, for the next episode of "I Love Lucy Chicken."

Moscow Airport Bombing

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 02:25:00 +0000

Opening my laptop on Monday morning, I read the news on CNN, "Russian Authorities: Terrorist Bombing at Moscow Airport Kills 35." I hurriedly dial my husband, Drew's, mobile number in Moscow, hear his voice and breathe. Not that he had any reason to be at Domodedovo that afternoon, but my imagination didn't know that and proceeded to conjure up all kinds of possible scenarios.
"What about AAS families, staff, employees?" I ask.
"All accounted for, so far," the relief evident in his voice.

We had this same conversation 10 months ago. I was in Arkansas. He was in Russia. Two women blew themselves up along with 41 others at Lubyanka and Park Kultury metro stations.

As a writer, someone who searches for words, just the right words to express thoughts and feelings, I find my storehouse of words empty as I contemplate yet another terrorist attack. How many more times must the word, "Why?" pass our lips as we shake our heads at the pictures of dead bodies? How many more times must we repeat the worn-out words tragic, senseless, outrageous, horrific, desperate to voice our outrage?

The impact of the bombing doesn't fully touch me until I read stories of the victims.

- Ukrainian dramatist and poet, Anna Yablonskaya, age 29, arriving in Moscow to receive a prize for her play, "Pagans"; wife and mother of a 3-year-old-daughter.
- 39-year-old Gordon Cousland, property consultant from Britain, scheduled to marry this spring; father of a six-month-old daughter
-Kirill Bodrashov, 38, businessman based in London; his girlfriend, Elvira Muratova, seriously injured; father of their 1-year-old son.

Three of thirty-five, each with his or her own story, a life now randomly ended.

In my blog posting following the metro bombings last March, I wrote of riding the metro, often changing trains at Park Kultury, joining strangers as we journeyed. I wondered about the bombers, wondered about the humanity of one person to another, wondered about the violence against innocents. I repeat the final two paragraphs here, unable to dredge up more fitting words from my empty storehouse. I do, however, add one word to the ending.

"We become a community for minutes only, a chance collection of people, inhabiting a common space. The women bombers stepped into such a gathering of travelers and detonated their explosives, not knowing any of their victims. As I hopelessly try to understand this senseless violence, I can’t help but wonder whether the bombers, even briefly, glanced at the person sitting or standing beside them. Did they notice the face of the baby, the grandmother, the man by the door who might have reminded them of someone at home?

For the sake of a hopeful world, I like to think that the humanity of one person connecting with the humanity in another, would spark something, at least a momentary hesitation or questioning. The results of their deadly actions, however, perpetuate the harsh reality that history has taught us. . . it’s easier to kill strangers, whom we hate unseen, unknown."

To Connect or Not to Connect

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 16:12:00 +0000

"Who doesn't check their email every 5 minutes?" she asked someone on the other end of her phone, while speeding past me down the sidewalk in knee-length black boots, each footstep stomping out her frustrations. That was all the conversation I caught as I walked at my own brisk pace in the opposite direction. As if she had turned and asked the question directly to me, I mumbled an answer into the purple scarf cinched around my neck, "Not me," to which I felt like adding, "and I'm still a good person!"

It all snowballed with the new phone, this feeling of technological inadequacy. We had been back in Arkansas for about a week when Drew decided to buy a Verizon Droid. I was o.k. with my clam shell version but was eligible for an upgrade, so I looked around for a sleeker style. Then I heard about The Deal, "Buy a Droid, Get a Droid." What veteran shopper, like me, could ever pass up the alluring words, Buy One, Get One FREE? So I left the store with a phone I had no clue how to use, and poor Clamshell had been disconnected, was dead, was no longer the reliable "friend" in my pocket. Two days later, tapping the little white receiver on the front of the phone with no results, tapping it again, and AGAIN, still with no results, I flung the phone across the sofa, buried it under the pillow and muttered, "Rest in peace." Could Clamshell be resurrected?

But the Droid allows me to be connected to my email and the Internet, everywhere I go. I actually could check my email every 5 minutes. Would that make me a cooler person? Well, it might get me closer to that hallowed goal in the realm of technology, except for one glaring omission. Except for my blog page, I don't have a Facebook account. I feel like whispering that confession, as if asking for forgiveness from the 600 million people on the other side of the Facebook wall. A world of connections, just a quick "sign up" away, yet invisible to me as a self-imposed outsider.

I've wrestled with this issue of being more or less connected for months now, and even recently read a book dealing with one man's journey to come to peace with what he terms the "conundrum of connectedness."

Hamlet's Blackberry - A Practical Philosophy for Building a Good Life in the Digital Age - by William Powers, researches periods in history when people such as Shakespeare, Thoreau, Gutenberg, and Ben Franklin struggled with major changes in communication, in transmission and organization of information, looking for ideas of how to find balance in his own life.

Mr. Powers states, "If we're constantly toggling between people on Facebook and texts and all these new ways of connecting all day long, and we never have a sustained connection, it's not really connectedness. It's sort of the opposite of connectedness." Powers finds value in our digital devices, but states that "overconnectedness"can adversely affect our relationships, unless we intentionally aim for balance.

Last Saturday I took our grandson, Luke, to the park. As I was watching him play, I observed five parents on the fringes of the jungle gym, three of whom were engaged with their smartphones. Mine was in my pocket, still a stranger, but becoming more familiar every day. I resisted the temptation to pull it out, but instead ran over to climb up a pole behind Luke. The other connections could wait. The one right in front of me was quickly getting away.

As I continue contemplating Facebook and the prospect of spending more time digitally, I'd appreciate hearing comments from any of you as to how you achieve balance between "screen time" and "non-screen time." Thanks.

The Gift of a Day

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 17:41:00 +0000

I'm reading The Barn at the End of the World, The Apprenticeship of a Quaker, Buddhist Shepherd by Mary Rose O'Reilly. It was referred to me by a good friend; otherwise, I might have passed it up on the bookstore shelf wondering what it was all about, but not interested enough to decipher the title. The author is at a mid-life junction, much like many of my friends and I, searching for an answer to her question, "How should I spend the second half of my life?" To help discern her direction, she attends a retreat at Plum Village, a Buddhist monastery in France, founded by Thich N'hat Hanh, a well-known and respected Zen master.

One day, after working in the kitchen with another retreatant, preparing squash soup with apples, black-eyed peas and greens, Mary says, "I had no expectation that this would be a happy day. I have never been one to anticipate a sunny wedding or a birthday party; the best days come without expectation." The best days come without expectation. . . I underlined the quote, placed the bookmark on page 175 and fell asleep pondering that thought and an unexpected day of my own.

Monday, January 10

A winter storm was forecast to begin on Sunday afternoon and by that evening, our yard was covered with about 3 inches of powdery whiteness. With snow plows almost as alien in Arkansas as an actual UFO, the state shuts down until a thaw sets in. I was alone in our house, at the end of a hilly, icy, rural road, with the nearest neighbor's houses only vaguely visible through snowy branches. Silence surrounded me. No cars starting, no dogs barking, no school children chatting along the bus route, not even a rooster cock-a-doodle-dooing. The weather had sequestered us like a jury huddled behind doors closed to the world.

I loved it! My To Do List was filled from top to bottom with errands. . .

1. Take coat to cleaners

2. Check out book from library

3. Mail packages at post office

4. Return shoes to Penny's

5. Get new driver's license

etc.

But, I tossed it to the winds, joyfully unable to do a single one.

Instead, I piled on hat, coat, scarf, gloves, boots and went for a walk, snapping pictures of one beautiful scene after another.

Footprints in the snow alerted me to the fact that I was not as alone as I might have imagined. Rabbits and deer had hopped and pranced by sometime during the night, leaving their imprints for me to find.
Gray squirrels jumped from branch to branch then scampered down tree trunks, pawing their way through snow drifts to treasure troves of buried nuts.

A flitting blur of red caught my eye and perched on a nearby branch, appearing as a brilliant ruby on a white canvas. He took my breath away!

(Look carefully in the center of the picture for a red dot -- the cardinal!)

Coming inside, I brewed a pot of chai tea and sat in my favorite writing spot, the red couch in the upstairs study, and continued my poem, "Light in Arctic Darkness." Pausing to gaze out the window or warm my cooled cup, I spent the rest of the day in hours of silence, which perhaps only a writer can fully embrace.

An unexpected day.
A day filled with pleasures as simple as Mary's squash soup with apples, black-eyed peas and greens.
A gift for my soul.

Blackbirds, Just Passing By

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 05:25:00 +0000

Of course, I must write about the falling blackbirds. The event has put Arkansas on the map and on the tongues of people who may have only uttered the name of the state when asking the question, "Why isn't it pronounced "Ar-KANSAS?" When Drew and I were in New York City this week, we were asked more questions about the dead fish and birds than about the Clintons and Razorbacks, subjects which most people seem to associate with the state. (With limited knowledge of more states than I care to admit, I totally understand this, especially with places like Wisconsin where my only association is with the "Wisconsin Cheeseman.")

Our news of the birds reached us via Moscow (yes, Russia) on New Year's Day morning. Drew's administrative assistant, Zhenya Ivanova, at the Anglo American School of Moscow emailed, "Are you in the part of Arkansas where birds are falling from the sky?"

"What birds? What sky?" I asked.

We quickly googled "birds falling Arkansas" and found the tragic story. Thousands of blackbirds, some reports up to 5000, had showered down the night before upon Beebe, a town roughly 45 miles east of our house, a short distance for birds, especially on a slow traffic day. I started to wonder. . .

"Were those the same birds that perched in our trees yesterday afternoon?"

Artist: Edward Lear (1818 - 1888)

Public domain

I had been in our upstairs bedroom folding clothes when I heard sudden chattering, like scores of neighbors from miles around were conversing at the base of our driveway. The only thing I could vaguely imagine was that they had heard about Drew's delicious homemade eggnog and were rushing to grab a cup before it was all gone. The high-pitched sound grew louder by the second. I dashed to the window in time to see the bare, gray branches of the hundred or so oaks in our front yard turning black. Birds, black birds, thousands of them, stopping for a rest. I ran downstairs and told Drew, "You've got to see this! Look outside. I've never seen so many birds!"

With places to go and people to see, the noisy congregation was gone in less than two minutes, and we were left in the silence of the setting sun. Did they move on to a tempting field for a foray of pecking then practice their synchronized flying stunts before heading towards Beebe hours later? Or was this a flock of distant cousins lucky enough to fly in the opposite direction from the exploding fireworks, to which scientists are attributing the deaths?

Red-wing blackbirds ranked high in the casualty count. They are one of my favorite birds, with the males concealing a smudge of red among their wing feathers, which pops out like a surprise as they take flight or aim to charm a female onlooker. On warmer days, when they hang out alone rather than with a thousand or so friends, I often see one sunning on a fence post during my morning walk.

Source: Alan D. Wilson, www.naturespicsonline.com

I am saddened by the death of so many. I will welcome the next one I see with much joy.