Yesterday, I think, was my first good glimpse of a roadside full of wisteria. The vines were carpeting an embankment. I had caught a small glimpse or two of a stray purple cluster here and there a day or so before, but this was wisteria in its full glory.
The trees that line the country roads near my house will be festooned with wisteria garlands for a brief while. If you blink, you may very well miss the splendor of nature's wild purple tailoring.
I drove down Poplar Springs Drive in Meridian yesterday, and saw spring in its full Mississippi glory. Azaleas of every shade, white dogwoods, a few early roses peeking out between deep greenery, daffodils, the wisteria blossoms hanging everywhere......it was enough to make a body fall off the side of that winding street and wreck in a gulley!
One home had a delightful border of tiny flowers. I couldn't slow down enough to distinguish them, but it seemed like a mix of impatiens and marigolds and such. You know, all those bright little annual bedding plants that pop up everywhere all of a sudden.
The first home we lived in when we moved to Mississippi had well-developed garden beds and trees and shrubbery. We moved in August, and I don't remember much but the kudzu garden at the roadside edge of our hilltop property. But when spring came, oh my goodness. We had huge yellow roses growing up beside our chimney. We had plum trees.....can you imagine? And peach trees! Oh, the boxes of peaches we picked that first season. I went to the local farmer's coop and didn't know what I was doing, but I was so entranced by all the little bedding plants I bought a bunch and killed half of them before it was all through. We did end up with some respectable-looking flower beds, though, by lucky accident.
Our neighbors asked us if we were going to plant a garden. Well, why not, we thought. Put seeds in the ground and up will come vegetables. So we put in a big old garden, about the size of a small cottage! We knew nothing about it. We planted tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, yellow squash and zucchini, We planted every variety of pepper plant we could find, because I liked the colors.
We tried to weed, at first, but then it just got away from us. Ignorantly, we planted our squash eight inches apart. (I can hear the laughter, but we honestly didn't know squash was supposed to be planted on little hills about three feet apart.) Soon, our entire garden was like some gorgeous, wild jungle full of food!
We thrashed our way in every morning when the dew was on the plants, and brought in baskets of delicious vegetables. My neighbor asked, will you "put up" your tomatoes and peaches? Why not, I thought. So we made a trip to Kirkland's Hardware and bought a huge enamel canning pot, jars, and a Ball book about canning.
We tried some of the recipes and canned jars of some lovely stuff called India sauce. We used our own fresh onions, jalapenos, tomatoes, and made fresh salsa.....I've never tasted the like ever again. We canned tomatoes, peaches, banana peppers, tabasco peppers which looked like Christmas tree lights.
No one told me that peppers had to be handled with gloves, carefully. I just plopped piles of jalapenos in the sink and started to work. By nightfall, my hands were on living fire, and it was hard to breathe! We learned the hard way about canning peppers, I can tell you.
None of the gardens we tried the following years ever produced like that first one. We tried smaller gardens that we could do a better job of keeping weeded. We planted things like we were supposed to. But it was never the same.
When we moved into Quitman next to the Archusa Creek Park, we could not find a place on our property that would grow veggies. The only spot would have been the front yard, and I didn't think our neighbors would care very much for a front yard vegetable garden. I think the soil in our new place may have been too sandy. After some half-hearted attempts at container gardening on the deck, we just threw up our hands and gave up.
But in my mind's eye, I can see the dew glistening off that first jungle garden just as the sun was up. I can smell the fresh cucumbers and tomatoes, the damp earth, the sharp scent of the peppers. I feel the grit in my shoes. And I can taste that India sauce, those peach halves, that completely homemade salsa. What a treasure God gifted us with that first year.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Memories, Memories
I am busy sorting through hundreds of books that have been donated for our first NIE (Newspaper in Education) book sale in May. It's back-breaking work, more than I anticipated, but enjoyable for a bibliophile like me.
One particular group of books has affected me deeply. Someone, or maybe someones - I have no idea who dropped off most of the books - has donated dozens of books about war. WW I, WW II, VietNam, Hitler, the Holocaust, and war in general. I can picture an elderly man who has been collecting and reading all of these books, most of his life, fascinated by the subject of warfare. Perhaps he is a veteran. I can picture him staring at his bookshelves, thinking of all the time he's enjoyed reading these books - and then realizing it's time to pass them to someone else. A reader who will respect the subject. These books are a legacy.
My father was fascinated with WW II. He had every Time-Life collection on warfare you can imagine. For some reason I could never fathom, he did not believe in the Holocaust. Oh, he believed there were Jews killed, but nowhere near on the scale that we know. He thought the Holocaust was propaganda. I never understood how he could pour through those collections of historical fact, full of documentation and pictures and first-hand accounts, and yet think it was trumped-up pseudo-history.
I know very little, actually, about my father. I do know he spent close to two years in Germany in 1950-51......he was a soldier during the Korean War years, but spent all of his enlistment stationed in Germany. Perhaps he hear, saw, things that caused him to view the German side of the story in a different light. Or perhaps my father was, simply, a bigot when it came to the Jewish people. I'll never know.
As I go through these old books, I think of him sitting in his recliner, reading his war collections over and over, and I wonder what was going through his mind. I try to imagine the person - or persons - who donated these books, and wonder what caught their imagination(s) about warfare. I wish I knew who donated the books.
I myself am slowly clearing out my personal library. Every book I donate has some memory attached to it. I think of when and why it was purchased. I weigh each volume carefully, wondering if I am really ready to give it up. With each book I place in my shopping bag to bring to the Star, there is a small weight lifted off of my shoulders. We treasure books, and never want to part with them. But the day comes, for all book-lovers, when we know we must begin to let loose. I am thankful for all of those folks out there who shall remain mostly nameless, who, like me, are gleaning their shelves. Hopefully, many new readers will buy these treasures and enjoy them once again. Stories passed on, history passed on, ideas passed on to the next generation.
One particular group of books has affected me deeply. Someone, or maybe someones - I have no idea who dropped off most of the books - has donated dozens of books about war. WW I, WW II, VietNam, Hitler, the Holocaust, and war in general. I can picture an elderly man who has been collecting and reading all of these books, most of his life, fascinated by the subject of warfare. Perhaps he is a veteran. I can picture him staring at his bookshelves, thinking of all the time he's enjoyed reading these books - and then realizing it's time to pass them to someone else. A reader who will respect the subject. These books are a legacy.
My father was fascinated with WW II. He had every Time-Life collection on warfare you can imagine. For some reason I could never fathom, he did not believe in the Holocaust. Oh, he believed there were Jews killed, but nowhere near on the scale that we know. He thought the Holocaust was propaganda. I never understood how he could pour through those collections of historical fact, full of documentation and pictures and first-hand accounts, and yet think it was trumped-up pseudo-history.
I know very little, actually, about my father. I do know he spent close to two years in Germany in 1950-51......he was a soldier during the Korean War years, but spent all of his enlistment stationed in Germany. Perhaps he hear, saw, things that caused him to view the German side of the story in a different light. Or perhaps my father was, simply, a bigot when it came to the Jewish people. I'll never know.
As I go through these old books, I think of him sitting in his recliner, reading his war collections over and over, and I wonder what was going through his mind. I try to imagine the person - or persons - who donated these books, and wonder what caught their imagination(s) about warfare. I wish I knew who donated the books.
I myself am slowly clearing out my personal library. Every book I donate has some memory attached to it. I think of when and why it was purchased. I weigh each volume carefully, wondering if I am really ready to give it up. With each book I place in my shopping bag to bring to the Star, there is a small weight lifted off of my shoulders. We treasure books, and never want to part with them. But the day comes, for all book-lovers, when we know we must begin to let loose. I am thankful for all of those folks out there who shall remain mostly nameless, who, like me, are gleaning their shelves. Hopefully, many new readers will buy these treasures and enjoy them once again. Stories passed on, history passed on, ideas passed on to the next generation.
Monday, March 12, 2012
A Surfeit of Riches
I actually have so many new books that I feel numb......not sure which to read first! What a delightful conundrum. But it makes me think, too, about whether I need to stop buying books. When a person has enough unread new books to last for months, shouldn't she stop getting more, at least for a good while?
But......but.....Charlaine Harris's next Sookie book will be out soon. Louise Penny is working on the next Inspector Gamache novel. Cronin's next installment of his vampire series should be due out soon. And the list just goes on and on.....
So when is enough enough? I am fixing to donate boxes of books to my NIE book sale coming up soon. If I were to die tomorrow, to whom would these books mean anything? Ok, DeeDee. But even she has a storage limit. And even DeeDee can read just so many books in one lifetime.
I have a dreadful confession to make. I am not really joking here.....I feel guilty about this. One of the biggest fears I have of death is that I will not be able to read all my new books I've been piling up. That is officially awful. I am supposed to believe that heaven's joy is so far beyond that of reading a good book that it's ridiculous to even talk about it in the same breath. In heaven, we will be so rapt in the ecstatic enjoyment of being in the presence of God that earthly things - like - books - will be as dust.
But here I am, trapped in the concupiscience of my flesh and blood, thinking of what book to read next.....and next.....and next.....
Lord, forgive my humanness.
But......but.....Charlaine Harris's next Sookie book will be out soon. Louise Penny is working on the next Inspector Gamache novel. Cronin's next installment of his vampire series should be due out soon. And the list just goes on and on.....
So when is enough enough? I am fixing to donate boxes of books to my NIE book sale coming up soon. If I were to die tomorrow, to whom would these books mean anything? Ok, DeeDee. But even she has a storage limit. And even DeeDee can read just so many books in one lifetime.
I have a dreadful confession to make. I am not really joking here.....I feel guilty about this. One of the biggest fears I have of death is that I will not be able to read all my new books I've been piling up. That is officially awful. I am supposed to believe that heaven's joy is so far beyond that of reading a good book that it's ridiculous to even talk about it in the same breath. In heaven, we will be so rapt in the ecstatic enjoyment of being in the presence of God that earthly things - like - books - will be as dust.
But here I am, trapped in the concupiscience of my flesh and blood, thinking of what book to read next.....and next.....and next.....
Lord, forgive my humanness.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
New Shoes and Azaleas
After my venture out to walk yesterday, I realized I must have new walking shoes. I guess I'll finally use that gift card Bobby gave me for Christmas; I've been saving it for something special.
On my way to church this morning, I noticed the dogwood tree by our house is suddenly in bloom, as are little dogwoods peeping out through the woods all over. That's how the wild white dogwoods do.....all of a sudden, the woods are alight, as if God turned on a switch. I love this time of year.
I noted one small azalea bloom on our bush near the garage yesterday. This morning, there are azalea bushes everywhere full of pinks and whites and all shades of purple and red.
One morning soon, I'll be on my way to work and the wild wisteria vines will be hanging full of their purple clusters. Wisteria takes over the trees like kudzu. The purple blooms don't last long, maybe a couple of weeks at most. But while they're out, the yards and fields around here will be full of color. Dogwoods, azaleas, and wisteria all in bloom at once. Bob says one day we will wreck because I am distracted by spring in bloom.
So, the new shoes.....I'll go for some matching color, a pink or purple. It may be a day or two. My shins may have to hurt for a bit longer till I make the pilgrimage to the JCP store. Meanwhile, I'll be watching the blooms grow and spread and love that I live in this place during spring.
On my way to church this morning, I noticed the dogwood tree by our house is suddenly in bloom, as are little dogwoods peeping out through the woods all over. That's how the wild white dogwoods do.....all of a sudden, the woods are alight, as if God turned on a switch. I love this time of year.
I noted one small azalea bloom on our bush near the garage yesterday. This morning, there are azalea bushes everywhere full of pinks and whites and all shades of purple and red.
One morning soon, I'll be on my way to work and the wild wisteria vines will be hanging full of their purple clusters. Wisteria takes over the trees like kudzu. The purple blooms don't last long, maybe a couple of weeks at most. But while they're out, the yards and fields around here will be full of color. Dogwoods, azaleas, and wisteria all in bloom at once. Bob says one day we will wreck because I am distracted by spring in bloom.
So, the new shoes.....I'll go for some matching color, a pink or purple. It may be a day or two. My shins may have to hurt for a bit longer till I make the pilgrimage to the JCP store. Meanwhile, I'll be watching the blooms grow and spread and love that I live in this place during spring.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Walking the Trail with Emma
I am reading a hauntingly, beautiful book called The Snow Child by Eowyn Ivey. It's based on Russian folktales about a childless couple who build a little girl of snow who then comes to life. There are many versions of the story, none of which end happily. I am hoping against hope that Eowyn Ivey finds a way to bring hope at the end.
So far, a homesteading couple who've lost a child before heading out West have built a snow-girl. Suddenly, the snowgirl is melted and they spy a little girl wearing the articles of clothing they had put on the snowgirl running around the woods near their home, with a red fox always in the distance. I don't want to say any more, because I want to encourage the reading of the book and don't want to give any spoilers. I am half-way through, and I tell you, this book will affect you in imaginable ways.
This afternoon, while reading, I began to reflect on Emma, and I began asking myself, what were Emma's dreams for her life? What did Emma envision for herself five, ten, and more years into the future? And I becam very melancholy.
I interrupted Bob loading his kiln and said, "Let's go walking." And we went to the lovely blue-paved walking trail near the reservoir in back of a local school. I thought to myself, "If I don't start walking, I'll die."
To my delight, my Canadian geese were in full flotilla, gliding near the bank where I was walking. My children have always laughed at how much I look forward to my little ducks and geese which migrate to Archusa Reservoir every year. Their appearance - and disappearance - mark the seasons of my life.
I thought of how badly I wished Emma were walking with me, and I thought of the woman in the book who had just made a beautiful embroidered coat for the snow-girl she knew would return. But Emma will not be returning, no matter what season of the year it is.
Emma's dreams are lost with her. Oh, I know what her immediate dream was......to be the perfect wife and housekeeper for Randall, at least the very best she could be. But in her deepest imaginings, what was her life's ambition? That elusive dream she seemed to be chasing in all the wrong places, at least until she met Randall?
The llittle snow-girl in Eowyn Ivey's book is a quiet, fey creature who presents the couple with hares in her blood-stained hands, hares she has brought as a gift. What gifts were you trying to bring us in your world-stained hands, my Emma-girl? WHat would I say to to you if you suddenly appeared furtively dashing in and out and between the trees in our backyard?
I have to walk. I have to do something, or I know I will die before I should. I can feel it......my breathlessness, my heartrate sometimes racing, my tired body groaning just to climb a couple of flights of stairs. Emma, I'll be thinking of you when I walk, when I watch my dear flock of geese finally go back North for the summer.
So far, a homesteading couple who've lost a child before heading out West have built a snow-girl. Suddenly, the snowgirl is melted and they spy a little girl wearing the articles of clothing they had put on the snowgirl running around the woods near their home, with a red fox always in the distance. I don't want to say any more, because I want to encourage the reading of the book and don't want to give any spoilers. I am half-way through, and I tell you, this book will affect you in imaginable ways.
This afternoon, while reading, I began to reflect on Emma, and I began asking myself, what were Emma's dreams for her life? What did Emma envision for herself five, ten, and more years into the future? And I becam very melancholy.
I interrupted Bob loading his kiln and said, "Let's go walking." And we went to the lovely blue-paved walking trail near the reservoir in back of a local school. I thought to myself, "If I don't start walking, I'll die."
To my delight, my Canadian geese were in full flotilla, gliding near the bank where I was walking. My children have always laughed at how much I look forward to my little ducks and geese which migrate to Archusa Reservoir every year. Their appearance - and disappearance - mark the seasons of my life.
I thought of how badly I wished Emma were walking with me, and I thought of the woman in the book who had just made a beautiful embroidered coat for the snow-girl she knew would return. But Emma will not be returning, no matter what season of the year it is.
Emma's dreams are lost with her. Oh, I know what her immediate dream was......to be the perfect wife and housekeeper for Randall, at least the very best she could be. But in her deepest imaginings, what was her life's ambition? That elusive dream she seemed to be chasing in all the wrong places, at least until she met Randall?
The llittle snow-girl in Eowyn Ivey's book is a quiet, fey creature who presents the couple with hares in her blood-stained hands, hares she has brought as a gift. What gifts were you trying to bring us in your world-stained hands, my Emma-girl? WHat would I say to to you if you suddenly appeared furtively dashing in and out and between the trees in our backyard?
I have to walk. I have to do something, or I know I will die before I should. I can feel it......my breathlessness, my heartrate sometimes racing, my tired body groaning just to climb a couple of flights of stairs. Emma, I'll be thinking of you when I walk, when I watch my dear flock of geese finally go back North for the summer.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Author Explosion
Is it my imagination, or are there way, way more new writers and books out there than there were when I was in college? Every time I turn around, there are brand new books I want to read! Hundreds of them, it seems! I could easily buy twenty books every day and never run out of interesting-looking books to buy. Where are all these authors coming from?
Is it simply a matter of population growth? Of expanding awareness because of the web? Of growth in the self-publishing or print-on-demand sectors?
Honestly, it's impossible to keep up with it all. I could read ten hours a day and never get to the bottom of my to-read pile.......it's growing like the national debt, I think. No sooner do I finish a book than I find myself having to choose the next one and feeling overwhelmed by it all. It's easy, you say, just quit stressing over it and stop reading.
WHAT???? Are you crazy? This is a bondage worse than cigarettes or alcohol or painkillers. I mean, how can I suddenly quit being intrigued by the complexity of characters' situations? By the clever intricacies of plots? What is the drudgery of the daily grind in comparison to the time-travelling, geographical-wandering, and emotional journeying that reading affords me?
How is it that, when Tommy Lynley begins to cry with loneliness after having to break it off with Deborah Cotter, I feel my heart constrict, my eyes burn? When Lizzy Bennett excoriates Darcy for his arrogance and desire to control others' lives and fortunes, I feel his flinching at the injustice and, truth be know, the accuracy of some of her verbal darts?
Characters have been real to me since my childhood. Books have always been my friends. I imagine this will continue to be true for as long as I have eyes to scan the lines or ears to hear the words......or, after both of those have failed, a mind to picture their stories with.
Is it simply a matter of population growth? Of expanding awareness because of the web? Of growth in the self-publishing or print-on-demand sectors?
Honestly, it's impossible to keep up with it all. I could read ten hours a day and never get to the bottom of my to-read pile.......it's growing like the national debt, I think. No sooner do I finish a book than I find myself having to choose the next one and feeling overwhelmed by it all. It's easy, you say, just quit stressing over it and stop reading.
WHAT???? Are you crazy? This is a bondage worse than cigarettes or alcohol or painkillers. I mean, how can I suddenly quit being intrigued by the complexity of characters' situations? By the clever intricacies of plots? What is the drudgery of the daily grind in comparison to the time-travelling, geographical-wandering, and emotional journeying that reading affords me?
How is it that, when Tommy Lynley begins to cry with loneliness after having to break it off with Deborah Cotter, I feel my heart constrict, my eyes burn? When Lizzy Bennett excoriates Darcy for his arrogance and desire to control others' lives and fortunes, I feel his flinching at the injustice and, truth be know, the accuracy of some of her verbal darts?
Characters have been real to me since my childhood. Books have always been my friends. I imagine this will continue to be true for as long as I have eyes to scan the lines or ears to hear the words......or, after both of those have failed, a mind to picture their stories with.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
British Mysteries, a Cut Above
After finishing Believing the Lie, the latest from Elizabeth George, I am happily rereading my way through all of her Inspector Lynley series. Her main characters, an unlikely teaming, are richly complex and likeable. After all these years, they feel like family.
Inspector Thomas Lynley is the Earl of Asherton, a title which he wears like an uncomfortable overcoat. Suave and always elegant, Tommy is struggling to cope with what has happened to Lady Helen Clyde. (no spoilers here) His partner, Barbara Havers, is as always struggling with her physical shortcomings while trying to help Tommy with his latest case and her neighbor with his returned prodigal lady.
Deborah and Simon St.-James are along for the ride, and the former gets deeply enmeshed in the case in ways that worry Tommy and her husband.
These five are in every one of the Lynley novels, and it's a real treat to follow them through years of evolving relationships. The mysteries are always interesting, but for me, the murders take a secondary role in my enjoyment of George's books.
I really can't think of a comparable series.......perhaps the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels of Anne Perry, although they are set in a different time and lack the added soupcon of dealing with contemporary social mores and issues.
Need to run, will try to write again soon.
Inspector Thomas Lynley is the Earl of Asherton, a title which he wears like an uncomfortable overcoat. Suave and always elegant, Tommy is struggling to cope with what has happened to Lady Helen Clyde. (no spoilers here) His partner, Barbara Havers, is as always struggling with her physical shortcomings while trying to help Tommy with his latest case and her neighbor with his returned prodigal lady.
Deborah and Simon St.-James are along for the ride, and the former gets deeply enmeshed in the case in ways that worry Tommy and her husband.
These five are in every one of the Lynley novels, and it's a real treat to follow them through years of evolving relationships. The mysteries are always interesting, but for me, the murders take a secondary role in my enjoyment of George's books.
I really can't think of a comparable series.......perhaps the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novels of Anne Perry, although they are set in a different time and lack the added soupcon of dealing with contemporary social mores and issues.
Need to run, will try to write again soon.
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