Summer’s Iconic Sun

South Shore Harbor Lighthouse at Sunset  (click for greater clarity)

The Sun

Mary Oliver
Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful
than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon
and into the clouds or the hills,
or the rumpled sea,
and is gone–
and how it slides again
out of the blackness,
every morning,
on the other side of the world,
like a red flower
streaming upward on its heavenly oils,
say, on a morning in early summer,
at its perfect imperial distance–
and have you ever felt for anything
such wild love–
do you think there is anywhere, in any language,
a word billowing enough
for the pleasure
that fills you,
as the sun
reaches out,
as it warms you
as you stand there,
empty-handed–
or have you too
turned from this world–
or have you too
gone crazy
for power,
for things?

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Published in: on August 8, 2014 at 7:33 pm  Comments (79)  
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Real News for Real People

Finding a current issue of any magazine never was easy during my years in Liberia. In the 1970s, finding even an aging copy of The New Yorker was nearly impossible.

Living in the interior, I did my shopping  in open air markets and Lebanese stores that specialized in canned mackerel, Russian toilet paper, the occasional Heineken, and Chinese tomato paste. In those places, browsing the newsstand wasn’t an option.

Occasionally, I cadged a copy from expatriates with connections to the embassies or international agencies in Monrovia. Now and then, a Peace Corps volunteer would  have an issue to share, and there always was the possibility someone would step off PanAm 1 onto the Roberts Field tarmac with a copy tucked under one arm. (more…)

Published in: on August 2, 2014 at 7:42 pm  Comments (83)  
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Godot Is Gone, But Godette Goes On

Godot, at the Height of His Glory

From the beginning, they were inseparable. Self-effacing, green, more-or-less prickly, they contented themselves with taking the afternoon sun in a far corner of the patio, telling tales of their travels to one another and gently ridiculing their over-achieving neighbor, a dwarf schefflera who prided herself on needing to be trimmed on a monthly basis.

Despite their own glacial growth rates and their refusal to claim attention by blooming, I grew fond of them. I gave them names: first Godot, then Godette. I talked to them, nurtured them, and fussed over them more than I was willing to admit. Eventually, I told their stories, both here, and here.

Godot was a Lace cactus, known in scientific circles as Echinocereus reichenbachii His ancestors, native to Texas and common throughout our Hill Country, have long-established roots in the state. Some of his kind were noted and recorded by the German scientist, Ferdinand Roemer, during his own travels through Texas between 1845 and 1847.

How Godot ended up on my patio is a simple enough story. (more…)

Published in: on July 26, 2014 at 6:05 pm  Comments (84)  
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The Threshold of Imagination

Given an opportunity to read Graham Greene on the veranda of the City Hotel in Freetown, Sierra Leone, I found it impossible to resist. What better place to take up a battered, second-hand copy of The Heart of the Matter and indulge in a bit of literary romanticism?

Greene, who spent time in Freetown both as a traveler and as a British intelligence officer during WWII, drew on his experiences at the hotel in a variety of ways. In Journey Without Maps, an account of his month-long foot trek through Liberia in 1935, he described a place and a way of life still recognizable forty years later.
(more…)

Schooled by Summer

Never mind the calendar. On the Texas coast, summer shimmers into being when she will, and when she arrives, the signs are everywhere.

Store shelves begin to be emptied of Gatorade and bottled water. Bandanas and straw hats appear. Yard workers stop more often to wipe their faces, and even the Ladies Who Lunch begin to sweat. They don’t “perspire” or “glow,” as proper Southern ladies should. They sweat right along with the yard crews, and they do it at nine in the morning. 

Soon, it becomes too hot to walk barefooted on a boat deck or dock. The sharp, metallic trill of cicadas replaces birdsong, and rueful humans can’t resist asking one another,”Hot enough for you?” It’s summer for sure, no matter what the calendar says.  (more…)

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