Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Monday, April 28, 2014
fresh fish
I bought fish today.
Fresh fish.
At least, I think it's safe to say that they're fresh.
They are alive and that is about as fresh as fish come.
They were one of those impulse purchases you hear about.
I saw them.
I had an impulse to buy them.
I plonked down the cash.
I had been shopping at Devon Greenhouses.
They have a pond smack dab in the center of things. Water plants flourish there; inspiration for the pond owning gardener. This year, they have added goldfish to their list of temptations. Those fish were like little orange commas darting thither and yon, as frisky as Nemo. I even got to catch them myself; two orange and one black.
Into a plastic bag they went and I hastened homeward.
They were soon exploring the wild deep of my rain barrel.
A rain barrel is a poor man's pond.
It might not be big enough for waterlily's and frogs but it's big enough for gold fish.
Gold fish are humble fish. They don't insist on a certain square footage or view.
The rain barrel by my entry is the home of three magnificently large gold fish. They have grown and flourished.
They now have neighbors in the barrel at the corner of the house. They're tiny relatives now, but time may change that.
'One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.'
Fresh fish.
At least, I think it's safe to say that they're fresh.
They are alive and that is about as fresh as fish come.
They were one of those impulse purchases you hear about.
I saw them.
I had an impulse to buy them.
I plonked down the cash.
I had been shopping at Devon Greenhouses.
They have a pond smack dab in the center of things. Water plants flourish there; inspiration for the pond owning gardener. This year, they have added goldfish to their list of temptations. Those fish were like little orange commas darting thither and yon, as frisky as Nemo. I even got to catch them myself; two orange and one black.
Into a plastic bag they went and I hastened homeward.
They were soon exploring the wild deep of my rain barrel.
A rain barrel is a poor man's pond.
It might not be big enough for waterlily's and frogs but it's big enough for gold fish.
Gold fish are humble fish. They don't insist on a certain square footage or view.
The rain barrel by my entry is the home of three magnificently large gold fish. They have grown and flourished.
They now have neighbors in the barrel at the corner of the house. They're tiny relatives now, but time may change that.
'One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish.'
to please
I planned a little quilt.
I wanted it to say something about childhood and love.
And something about the fleeting nature of time.
And about story.
About what we pass on to our children and grandchildren through story and song.
A portrait of my grandchildren reading a bedtime story seemed exactly right.
Black and white like an old photo.
Timeless love.
Sounded good.
Started out as easy as you please.
I chose dark gray for shadow and added the light.
Ta da.
There was my grandson, soberly reading.
On to my granddaughter.
Hmmmmmm.
The children came to play.
My grandson was entranced.
"Why does it look like us from a distance, and just look like little pieces of material up close," he asked, his nose inches from the quilt.
His sister was not as impressed.
She wanted to look like her brother, she informed me seriously, only different she added by way of clarifying.
I knew what she meant.
She wanted to see herself clearly in simple shadow and light and I had created a face with mostly shadow.
I began again.
My next attempt was even worse and my visiting granddaughter felt compelled to offer me some artistic advice.
She didn't want her hair in a ponytail.
A hairband seemed important to her.
And she wanted it to look like her.
Gadzooks.
So did I.
I snipped and shaped and tweaked and squinted at photos and a pile of scap fabric soon littered the table.
My mind felt just as cluttered.
Quilters angst gripped me.
Why oh why?
Always change a loosing game.
I love those words of advice.
I could rethink the whole project.
Ahhhh, yes.
I would add the baby to the quilt as well.
She would sit between her brother and sister.
I felt better already.
I had been regretting that she hadn't been in the first draft.
Her big sister took shape, leaning in with a kiss.
I heard music.
A whole marching band.
My grandson, earnestly reading, the baby turning coyly, a big sister bent to kiss...... yes, that so captured this past year.
I didn't show the finished portrait to my grandchildren.
The little quilt has flown away to McDougall Cottage.
But when it returns in the fall like a homing pigeon I hope it meets with their approval. Grandmothers live to please.
I wanted it to say something about childhood and love.
And something about the fleeting nature of time.
And about story.
About what we pass on to our children and grandchildren through story and song.
A portrait of my grandchildren reading a bedtime story seemed exactly right.
Black and white like an old photo.
Timeless love.
Sounded good.
Started out as easy as you please.
I chose dark gray for shadow and added the light.
Ta da.
There was my grandson, soberly reading.
On to my granddaughter.
Hmmmmmm.
The children came to play.
My grandson was entranced.
"Why does it look like us from a distance, and just look like little pieces of material up close," he asked, his nose inches from the quilt.
His sister was not as impressed.
She wanted to look like her brother, she informed me seriously, only different she added by way of clarifying.
I knew what she meant.
She wanted to see herself clearly in simple shadow and light and I had created a face with mostly shadow.
I began again.
My next attempt was even worse and my visiting granddaughter felt compelled to offer me some artistic advice.
She didn't want her hair in a ponytail.
A hairband seemed important to her.
And she wanted it to look like her.
Gadzooks.
So did I.
I snipped and shaped and tweaked and squinted at photos and a pile of scap fabric soon littered the table.
My mind felt just as cluttered.
Quilters angst gripped me.
Why oh why?
Always change a loosing game.
I love those words of advice.
I could rethink the whole project.
Ahhhh, yes.
I would add the baby to the quilt as well.
She would sit between her brother and sister.
I felt better already.
I had been regretting that she hadn't been in the first draft.
Her big sister took shape, leaning in with a kiss.
I heard music.
A whole marching band.
My grandson, earnestly reading, the baby turning coyly, a big sister bent to kiss...... yes, that so captured this past year.
I didn't show the finished portrait to my grandchildren.
The little quilt has flown away to McDougall Cottage.
But when it returns in the fall like a homing pigeon I hope it meets with their approval. Grandmothers live to please.
window to heaven
The clouds are shifting this morning,
a giant gray and silver kaleidoscope.
The brilliance of the sun is caught and held,
great billows of light against the woolen sky.
Here and there, patches of violet,
windows to heaven.
a giant gray and silver kaleidoscope.
The brilliance of the sun is caught and held,
great billows of light against the woolen sky.
Here and there, patches of violet,
windows to heaven.
Friday, April 25, 2014
still singing
We jumped up from the supper table and thundered down the stairs.
Jacket, scarf, camera.......
My sister and I raced for the beach and the setting sun.
Hooray, the tide was out.
We were surrounded by sand wet and wide.
Sand rippled like the shell of a peanut, or cantaloupe peel, or like row after row of ocean wave cast in relief under our feet.
The setting sun stayed stubbornly behind a low bank of cloud but the water reflected a molten silver light.
Gray and silver all around.
On the boardwalk, people drifted by in pairs or little groups, snatches of conversation forming strange stories.
The air was chill and fresh.
As darkness crept near, lights went on.
At first, down the beach and then closer and closer.
The long wharf lit up just as we turned our backs to it and picked our way towards the parking lot.
Soon, fairy lights twinkled in the dark branches of the trees along the street.
I hated to leave.
Warm light and laughter and music were on the evening air.
We headed for the nearest shop selling coffee to go.
Ice-cream and specialty drinks, the sign said.
Warm light and music were here too, and laughter.
The ice-cream man sang as he worked.
Little snatches of jazz.
A swirl of ice-cream and harmony.
Back and forth he danced.
Singing and serving.
We were the last ones in line.
It was only then that my eyes took in the sign on the counter.
Cash Only.
Oh oh.
I had traveled light.
'Do you live nearby he asked?'
Well, no worry, I could pay when I was back that way again, he assured me.
He made a special drink for my sister. Carefully he swirled cream atop the steaming cup.
He urged me to try extra chocolate in mine, and swirled cream atop my drink as well, and then added more chocolate.
The twinkling light, the dark night, the music and kindness...we were surrounded and warmed.
He was still singing when we left.
Jacket, scarf, camera.......
My sister and I raced for the beach and the setting sun.
Hooray, the tide was out.
We were surrounded by sand wet and wide.
Sand rippled like the shell of a peanut, or cantaloupe peel, or like row after row of ocean wave cast in relief under our feet.
The setting sun stayed stubbornly behind a low bank of cloud but the water reflected a molten silver light.
Gray and silver all around.
On the boardwalk, people drifted by in pairs or little groups, snatches of conversation forming strange stories.
The air was chill and fresh.
As darkness crept near, lights went on.
At first, down the beach and then closer and closer.
The long wharf lit up just as we turned our backs to it and picked our way towards the parking lot.
Soon, fairy lights twinkled in the dark branches of the trees along the street.
I hated to leave.
Warm light and laughter and music were on the evening air.
We headed for the nearest shop selling coffee to go.
Ice-cream and specialty drinks, the sign said.
Warm light and music were here too, and laughter.
The ice-cream man sang as he worked.
Little snatches of jazz.
A swirl of ice-cream and harmony.
Back and forth he danced.
Singing and serving.
We were the last ones in line.
It was only then that my eyes took in the sign on the counter.
Cash Only.
Oh oh.
I had traveled light.
'Do you live nearby he asked?'
Well, no worry, I could pay when I was back that way again, he assured me.
He made a special drink for my sister. Carefully he swirled cream atop the steaming cup.
He urged me to try extra chocolate in mine, and swirled cream atop my drink as well, and then added more chocolate.
The twinkling light, the dark night, the music and kindness...we were surrounded and warmed.
He was still singing when we left.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
