A quick post in the throes of preparing, readying, prepping, steeling oneself for what lies ahead. Time, that elusive fate thrower, has taken aim and hurled darts this way, leaving us dodging left, right, up, down. Attempts to avoid the pain of biting steel punctures. Present has accelerated. Near future breathes heavily on our necks. There is no inkling of what will be. No psychic knowledge. No spiritual prophesy. Just time and life and waiting plus that impenetrable shield of hope. See you on the flip side . . . .
Years ago, you made your entrance as my tiny princess sitting Indian style. I prayed I would have a baby girl to love. I was granted my wish. It nearly killed me I could not hold you immediately upon seeing your little face but your dad held you near to me so I could gaze upon you (making sure you were swaddled and safe). As soon as the doctors allowed me to cradle you, into my arms you went. I can’t believe how fast the years have passed since that first meeting. I loved you before you were born and knew that I was given a gift straight from heaven. While it is difficult not being with you to celebrate your birthday (today), please know I am thinking about and loving you right where you are. When we are together, I am astounded that I must glance upwards to look into your eyes. I see a tall, hard-working, intelligent, young woman who has dreams and goes after them. You will achieve your goals because you are tenacious (even when life is rough). You are beautiful inside and out and I am proud to call you my daughter. No one could ever replace you! I love you up to heaven and back. Happy birthday, honey!
As I muse, retrospective, murmuring a chant in thought,
Lo! the war resumes—again to my sense your shapes,
And again the advance of armies.Noiseless as mists and vapors,
From their graves in the trenches ascending,
From the cemeteries all through Virginia and Tennessee,
From every point of the compass, out of the countless unnamed graves,
In wafted clouds, in myraids large, or squads of twos or threes, or single ones, they
And silently gather round me.Now sound no note, O trumpeters!
Not at the head of my cavalry, parading on spirited horses,
With sabres drawn and glist’ning, and carbines by their thighs—(ah, my brave
My handsome, tan-faced horsemen! what life, what joy and pride,
With all the perils, were yours!)Nor you drummers—neither at reveille, at dawn,
Nor the long roll alarming the camp—nor even the muffled beat for a burial;
Nothing from you, this time, O drummers, bearing my warlike drums.But aside from these, and the marts of wealth, and the crowded promenade,
Admitting around me comrades close, unseen by the rest, and voiceless,
The slain elate and alive again—the dust and debris alive,
I chant this chant of my silent soul, in the name of all dead soldiers.Faces so pale, with wondrous eyes, very dear, gather closer yet;
Draw close, but speak not.
Phantoms of countless lost!
Invisible to the rest, henceforth become my companions!
Follow me ever! desert me not, while I live.
Sweet are the blooming cheeks of the living! sweet are the musical voices sounding!
But sweet, ah sweet, are the dead, with their silent eyes.
Dearest comrades! all is over and long gone;
But love is not over—and what love, O comrades!
Perfume from battle-fields rising—up from foetor arising.
Perfume therefore my chant, O love! immortal Love!
Give me to bathe the memories of all dead soldiers,
Shroud them, embalm them, cover them all over with tender pride!
Perfume all! make all wholesome!
Make these ashes to nourish and blossom,
O love! O chant! solve all, fructify all with the last chemistry.
Give me exhaustless—make me a fountain,
That I exhale love from me wherever I go, like a moist perennial dew,
For the ashes of all dead soldiers.
Work is done for the day so time to ponder. I was thinking about Ray Bradbury tonight. He’s the author of two of my favorite texts: Fahrenheit 451 and Dandelion Wine. He has penned so many inspiring words I have trouble choosing only some quotes (a few are taped to the shelf above my desk). Long story shorter (I can never guarantee short), here’s a few of my faves:
“We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.” ~Bradbury
“He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know who reflected your own light to you? People were more often–he searched for a simile, found one in his work–torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people’s faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?” ~ Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)
“We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.” ~ Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)
“You’ll find out it’s little savors and little things that count more than big ones. A walk on a spring morning is better than an eighty-mile ride in a hopped-up car, you know why? Because it’s full of flavors, full of a lot of things growing. You’ve time to seek and find.”~Bradbury (Dandelion Wine)
“Are you happy?” she [Clarisse] said. “Am I what?” he [Montag] cried. But she was gone- running in the moonlight. Her front door shut gently.” ~ Ray Bradbury (Fahrenheit 451)
“Everyone must leave something behind when he dies, my grandfather said. A child or a book or a painting or a house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted. Something your hand touched some way so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. It doesn’t matter what you do, he said, so long as you change something from the way it was before you touched it into something that’s like you after you take your hands away. “ ~ Bradbury
Everyone has a memorable picture that brings a smile to their face. Monday Memory occurs the last Monday of each month and allows us to share that favorite photo and story. If you choose to participate this month, please remember to drop your link in the comments section of each Memory you visit, so that we may come and visit your site. This idea was hijacked from my friend, Mary!
My story is cute, funny, and brief. My dad has always been the treasured “Granpy.” Part of his obtaining this status involved many introductory rites (such as the event pictured below). My parents have been actively engaged with my children since I gave birth. They have helped out and loved watching their grandchildren grow. Dad came over to stay with my children while I went to the store and when I came home that is what I found. Biker Granpy tattooed with Crayola washable markers! While this was the first (and only) time Granpy was “decorated,” I could not stop laughing! Soon after this picture, I almost lost my dad to a heart attack (thank God I didn’t). I’m not sure what we’d do without him. He’s irreplaceable! When I see this picture, I remember good times! My children were also known to “style” dad’s hair (wonder where they got that from?) gel and hairspray included! Lucky Granpy! My kids are grown now and those fun days of young childhood are gone. . .time the ever selfish bandit continues to hoard precious hours, seconds, minutes. I, however, was so grateful to snatch some of those passed moments from time’s clutches and enjoy them today! Love you dad! xo
arms entwined hers
looped through his
crook a lady and
gentle hands held
her right his left a
living bridge built
spanning 64 years
once in a while her
shoulder brushed his
while they traipsed
side by side a secure
distance between them
always for richer or
poorer in good times or
bad sickness or health
loved and cherished not
even in death did they part
I’m sitting here working and loud sounds may be heard outside (despite the Cat. 5 rated hurricane, impact resistant, glass windows in my bedroom). By loud, I mean very loud since if the sounds were softer, I wouldn’t hear them at all. To many people, these sounds would be considered “noises.” If my ears don’t deceive me, a heavy duty concrete saw is being utilized as well as a tile saw. These sounds should irritate me but they don’t. Years of growing up with a dad, who worked around the clock as a full-time firefighter and part-time carpenter, have provided me with enough “audio memories” that, instead of aggravation, I experience contentment when hearing the sounds. Must have something to do with the association of loud sounds with progress (my dad was, and is, the type man to finish projects). So, I’ll keep writing to the symphony of concrete, tile, and hydraulic saws and know that my neighbor will soon be enjoying a beautiful pool patio.
he held it in his hands a box a
present like nothing he ever
saw before the packaging was
different translucent radiant
he wasn’t sure how to handle it
what was the best way to open
it what to do with it he set it
down and pondered it no
letter no tag no idea who it
was from for a split second
a frown flitted across his face
couldn’t be too long ago he
grabbed the satin bow and yanked
it entwined about his fingers
a seam in the mysterious glowing
paper he tore into it impatient
hands parted crumpled tissue
a gasp sheer surprise when he saw
what lay amidst the disarray he
lowered his head in his hands and
Pamela A. Rossow