flashes of silver
fish plash beneath clacking palms:
season of the fins
sweet budding branches:
brush back the flying darkness
comb through tangled stars
lavender shadows
ease across the evening sky:
waiting for the moon
Liberating Language
I’ve nothing against baseball, though I confess I’ve never watched a complete World Series. I enjoyed following our football and basketball teams in high school and college, but I’ve never attended a professional game in either sport. Years ago I could score a tennis match or round of golf, but those days are gone and I don’t regret them. In short, I’m a terrible sports fan.
On the other hand, I adore Super Bowl parties. The food’s great, the crowd’s congenial and the atmosphere’s relaxed. In 2009, a friend with Pittsburgh connections sent me a Terrible Towel and I went to the party as a temporary Steelers fan. As it turned out, team allegiance mattered not a whit when it came to enjoying the highlights of the day – including the broadcasters in the booth. Everyone watching agreed Al Michaels and John Madden were a winning combination. Always humorous, their commentary was sharp and insightful, though no one paid them much attention unless there was a disputed call or an especially noteworthy play.
All that changed in the game’s second half, when a player took off on a medium-sized run of perhaps fifteen or twenty yards. At the end, Michaels said, “Well, he ran that one with alacrity”. Silence enveloped the room as everyone turned to look at the screen and three people demanded in unison, “Alacrity?”
It was an appropriate word, properly used and perfectly in context. Still, alacrity seemed to be doing its own version of broken-field running as it forged its way through clusters of declarative sentences and monosyllabic comments, four unexpected syllables that stopped an entire party in its tracks. (more…)
Borrowing a Cup of Winter
It seems there’s no help for it. Despite last night’s frontal passage, a twenty-degree drop in temperature and cloudy skies, the wisteria continues to bloom. For that matter, some sweet evening primrose are blooming, along with loquats, redbuds and azaleas. Coots are massing to head north, and baby ducks already are waddling about on the grassy banks. It’s an early spring on the Texas Gulf Coast, and winter-lovers are morose. Our last chance for a frosty, freezing blast – perhaps for even a flake or two of snow – has passed.
This is when neighbors come in handy. I was raised to believe it’s perfectly acceptable to knock on a neighbor’s back door, measuring-cup in hand, and ask for sugar or milk. This time, I was a little short on winter, so I went knocking at the door of Gerry Sell’s house up in Torch Lake, Michigan. She and her neighbors just received a good dumping of snow, and I was sure she’d be more than willing to share. She was, and as you can see from the photograph, the view from her Writing Studio and Bait Shop is lovely. I’m sure her woods can be dark and deep at times, but after this storm they were all sunshine and glimmer. (more…)
A Taste of Pimento Prose
Edging as I am past middle-age, I take my Saturday nights slow and easy. Content to enjoy occasional dinners with friends, a bluegrass concert or a book, I prefer weekends to be relaxed and spontaneous, an approach that differs considerably from the more disciplined social routine of my parents.
In our long-ago household, Friday night meant dining out, often at the Masonic Lodge, where dinner was followed by music and dancing to a live band. Sunday night was set aside for television – the news program See It Now, then Disney and Kraft Television Theater.
But if Friday and Sunday nights were for family, Saturday was reserved for my parents and their bridge club. The games rotated from home to home, with the first cards shuffled at 7:00 p.m. The game ended at 10:00 p.m., or as soon after that as the last hand allowed. After scores were tallied and the winners declared, coffee and dessert were served. Then, the couples headed home to rescue their baby-sitters. (more…)
William Morris and the Naked Toaster
If it hadn’t been for the mouse, I might never have had the memories.
Caught by its tail beneath the kitchen sink, desperate to escape but unable to flee because of the plywood and metal spring holding it fast, the poor creature cowered before the shrieking woman who’d discovered it. Unable to bring herself to carry it outdoors to free it and even more unwilling to dispatch it in place, the woman – my mother – made a reasonable choice. Grabbing her white enameled dishpan with the rusting edge and the unfortunate dent, she plopped it over the mouse. Slamming the cupboard doors closed she turned and looked at me, the only witness to her bravery. “There,” she said. “That’ll hold him until your father comes home.” (more…)
