Monday, November 19, 2018

RED: Dress, Lipstick, Fingernails

Flower Painting Red (1964)
Andy Warhol (1928 – 1987)
Scroll Down or Click for "Ask Elaine"
“What Do Women Want?”
I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what’s underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty’s and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I’m the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I’ll pull that garment
from its hanger like I’m choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I’ll wear it like bones, like skin,
it’ll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.


by American poet ~ Kim Addonizio, b. 1954
See also QK & FN (October 2014)
Just Red
I stand in Walgreens while my mother sleeps.
The store is fluorescent and almost empty.
My father is ailing in a nursing home,
my friend is dying in the hospital.
What I want tonight is lipstick.
As pure a red as I can find—no coral
undertones, no rust or fawn. Just red.
Ignoring the salespeople, I untwist tubes
and scrawl each color on my wrist,
till the blue veins beneath my skin
disappear behind smeared bars. I select one.
Back in my mother's apartment, silence.
I limn my lips back out of my wan face.
There they are again: smacky and wanting.


Red Never Lasts
There’s no doubt it’s the most glamorous,
the one you reach for first — its luscious gloss.
Russian Roulette, First Dance, Apéritif, Cherry Pop.
For three days, your nails are a Ferris wheel,
a field of roses, a flashing neon Open sign.
Whatever you’re wearing feels like a tight dress
and your hair tousles like Marilyn’s on the beach.
But soon, after dishwashing, typing, mopping,
the chips begin, first at the very tips and edges
where you hardly notice, then whole shards.
Eventually, the fuss is too much to maintain.
Time to settle in to the neutral tones.
Baby’s Breath, Curtain Call, Bone.


both by American Poet ~ Anya Krugovoy Silver, 1968 - 2018
in her book From Nothing
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For more on the poetic possibilities
of nail polish names
see my recent post

A Title Like a Book

@ The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence;
custom & ceremony


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


see also "An Ersatz for Happiness"

Friday, November 16, 2018

Tuesday, November 13, 2018

Russian Straw Dolls

Russian Straw Dolls from the former East Berlin,
a Christmas present from my sister Peggy, over 30 years ago

I've written a lot about interiority and dolls, but never about straw dolls. I've been thinking about the above family of straw dolls today because it is my sister Peg's birthday, and these dolls came into my life by way of her 1984 visit to Soviet controlled East Berlin.

Reading John O'Donohue's Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom, I have encountered many of the same concepts and juxtapositions that first intrigued me about The Body of the Doll as Subject and Object. Writing of the soul and "the desire to bring subject and object together," O'Donohue touches on large vs small, outside vs inside; inanimate, seamless and contained vs animate, messy and unpredictable; the miniature vs the gigantic:
"The Infinity of Your Interiority. The human person is a threshold where many infinities meet. There is the infinity of space that reaches out into the depths of the cosmos; the infinity of time reaching back over billions of years. There is the infinity of the microcosm: one little speck on the top of your thumb contains a whole inner cosmos, but it is so tiny that it is not visible to the human eye. The infinity in the microscopic is as dazzling as that of the cosmos. However, the infinity which haunts everyone and which no-one can finally quell, is the infinity of their own interiority. A world lies hidden behind each human face. . . .

Another infinity, as yet unborn, is dimly present. . . . It is such a privilege to be embodied. You have a relationship to place through the body, it is no wonder that humans have always been fascinated by place. Place offers us a home here; without place we would literally have no where. Landscape is the ultimate where; and in landscape the house that we call home is our intimate place. The home is decorated and personalized; it takes on the soul of the person who lives there and becomes the mirror of the spirit
" (41 - 44).
~ from Anam Cara, by John O'Donohue ~

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Before Winter

Red Maple by Night
In front of Town & Gown Bistro
"Before Winter or never. There are some things in this life which will never get done if they are not done before Winter. Certain doors are now open that Winter will close for ever; certain voices to which we can now respond which Winter may silence for ever.

For instance, there is the voice of friendship and affection. . . . It is this certainty that Winter will come which injects urgency into our human relationships. . . . Whenever for our peace of mind or our conscience's sake there is something to be said or done for another human being and we decide we will get around to it tomorrow or next week or next month -- better think again do it now, before Winter.

. . . if you are going to make a fresh start, do it now -- before Winter" -- intervenes
.
from the essay "Do It Now!"
found in What the Papers Didn't Say
by Colin Morris, 1929 - 2018
Essayist, broadcaster, minister
Methodist Church of Great Britain

******************

Town & Gown Maples ~ North River Road
West Lafayette, Indiana

Trees Next Door to Town & Gown
I took these pictures a year ago for
The Last Day of 2017

"Even as it envelops me
it is not mine, this autumn:
that wind blowing through the pines,
I regret how it makes them fall --
the leaves, the scarlet leaves of ivy." ~ Anon.

******************

And for
The Last Nice Day of 2018
The Last Roses of Autumn
at Town & Gown Bistro

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

No Neutrality

Window Sculptures
Chinese Garden of Friendship
Darling Harbour ~ Sydney, Australia
"It is wrong always, everywhere, and for anyone, to believe anything upon insufficient evidence . . .

"It is not only the leader of men, statesman, philosopher, or poet, that owes this duty to mankind. Every rustic who delivers in the village ale-house his slow, infrequent sentences, may help to kill or keep alive the fatal superstitions which clog his race. Every hard-worked wife of an artisan may transmit to her children beliefs which shall knit society together, or rend it in pieces. No simplicity of mind, no obscurity of station, can escape the universal duty of questioning all that we believe."
William Kingdon Clifford
(May 4, 1845 – March 3, 1879)

from his essay The Ethics of Belief

Thanks to my son Sam McCartney
for this enlightening reference.
Posted previously on Guy Fawkes Day, 2010

***********************

"Moral means that everything can be used for someone's good or for someone's ill, to bring about life or to cause death, to help or to hurt. Moral means that nothing is neutral. Moral means that nothing exists apart from its purpose, apart from the will that participates in it. All actions, feelings, and thoughts become creative or destructive when combined with our intentions, shaped by love or hatred. All power is moral; all conversation is moral; all work is moral. Everything either builds up or tears down. As human beings we can choose love or hatred. We can choose building up or tearing down. As Christians we cannot choose to be neutral."
The Rev. Eugene Hoiland Peterson
(November 6, 1932 – October 22, 2018)

from his book As Kingfishers Catch Fire

Quoted by The Rev. John Denson, D.Min
Rector St. Paul's Episcopal Church, Indianpolis

***********************

Chinese Garden of Friendship ~ Sydney

Sunday, November 4, 2018

Dawn To Doom


Each year Dawn or Doom seems to generate some of its own vocabulary. Three years ago, the takeaway was Wisdoom. Two years ago, we were entertained by the speaker who inadvertently changed the conference name to The Dawn of Doom. Last year there was the registrant who wrote to confirm the exact dates of "The Doom and Gloom Event." And this year, we were charmed by the participant eagerly anticipating her presentation at "Dawn to Doom"!

To help set the tone . . .

1. A poem:

The Poem of the Future

The poem of the future will be smaller.
It will fit in the palm of your hand,
on your wrist, in your ear.

The poem of the future will not need
bulky batteries or cumbersome wires.
It will be powered by moonlight and weed.

The poem of the future will be automatic.
It will go for months without routine maintenance.
It will be faster, smoother, with a digital tick.

The poem of the future will be lighter.
It will be made of plastics and exotic metals.
It will be available in hundreds of shapes and colors.

The poem of the future will make our lives true.
It will perform in a second what it takes
the poem of the present a day to do.

The poem of the future will talk to us.
It will say things like “Buy IBM,” and ” Friend me,”
and “Pulvis et umbra sumus.”
["We are but dust and shadows." ~ Horace]

by J.R. Solonche

2. A song:

In The Year 2525

In the year 2525, if man is still alive

If woman can survive, they may find
In the year 3535
Ain't gonna need to tell the truth, tell no lie
Everything you think, do and say
Is in the pill you took today

In the year 4545
You ain't gonna need your teeth, won't need your eyes
You won't find a thing to chew
Nobody's gonna look at you

In the year 5555
Your arms hangin' limp at your sides
Your legs got nothin' to do
Some machine's doin' that for you

In the year 6565
Ain't gonna need no husband, won't need no wife
You'll pick your son, pick your daughter too
From the bottom of a long glass tube

In the year 7510
If God's a-coming, He oughta make it by then
Maybe He'll look around Himself and say
"Guess it's time for the Judgement Day"

In the year 8510
God is gonna shake His mighty head
He'll either say, "I'm pleased where man has been"
Or tear it down, and start again

In the year 9595
I'm kinda wonderin' if man is gonna be alive
He's taken everything this old earth can give
And he ain't put back nothing

Now it's been ten thousand years, man has cried a billion tears
For what, he never knew, now man's reign is through
But through eternal night, the twinkling of starlight
So very far away, maybe it's only yesterday


Zager and Evans

3. An animation:

"Why Alien Life Would be our Doom: The Great Filter"
"We humans feel very smart and sophisticated
with our crossword puzzles and romantic novels."

4. Becoming Wise from Krista Tippett:

"I’m not surprised by the fact that inexplicable and terrible things happen in a cosmos as complicated as ours, with sentient beings like us running the show. But I am emboldened by the fact that surprise is the only constant. We are never really running the show, never really in control, and nothing will go quite as we imagined it. Our highest ambitions will be off, but so will our worst prognostications. I am emboldened by the puzzling, redemptive truth to which each and every one of my conversations has added nuance, that we are made by what would break us . . .

And what is true for individuals is true for peoples. Our problems are not more harrowing than the ravaging depressions and wars of a century ago. But our economic, demographic, and ecological challenges are in fact existential. I think we sense this in our bones, though it’s not a story with commonly agreed-upon contours. Our global crises, the magnitude of the stakes for which we are playing, could signal the end of civilization as we’ve known it. Or they might be precisely the impetus human beings perversely need to do the real work at hand: to directly and wisely address the human condition and begin to grow it up."


5. Player Piano by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.:

"During the past three wars, the right of technology to increase in power and scope was unquestionably, in point of national survival, almost a divine right. Americans owe their lives to superior machines, techniques, organization, and managers and engineers. For these means of surviving the wars . . . I thank God. But we cannot win good lives for ourselves in peacetime by the same methods we used to win battles in wartime. The problems of peace are altogether more subtle" (p 301; more on my book blog).

6. Previous Dawn or Doom Posts:

A Dawn or Doom Valentine!

Smart Beautiful City

Dawn or Doom Comes 'Round Once More

AI is Easy

Dawn of Doom

Wisdoom

Twister

Dawn or Doom2

Dawn or Doom?

Safe Home

****************

DAWN . . .

OR DOOM

Saturday, November 3, 2018

Return to Standard Time

Time Began in a Garden

"Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above,
and cometh down from the Eternal Light,
with whom is no variableness, neither shadow nor turning."
~ James 1:17 (KJV, mostly) ~

Wednesday, October 31, 2018

Samhain Triumvirate

HALLOWEEN
My 5th Grade Art Project ~ Halloween 1967

"Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again just for tonight!"

~ Elizabeth Akers Allen ~

I was so pleased to re - discover this 50 - year - old (!) painting over the summer, rolled up in a closet at my parents' house. My friend Len humorously pointed out that perhaps it survived because "Somehow you knew as a child to always use acid-free archival paper, inks, and glues for all of your projects." On a serious note, my oldest brother Dave pointed out that "Interestingly your only concession to Halloween is the pumpkin in the lower right" and my own children were wondering why on earth their mom used to be such a morbid kid! What about candy, costumes, and jack - o - lanterns? I guess even at age 10, I intuited a sense of foreboding as the year wound itself down.

For a couple of months now, I have been haunted by Len's direful pre - seasonal warning:
"Two days ago I acknowledged the end of summer; Fall, with its ominous name, has been looming and lurking. With our backs turned, with our eyes fixed on new books, in the delusion of days without meetings or grading papers, suddenly the Fall leaps out and can't be shaken off any more. I posted the syllabuses to my course site. The books for my 'Representations of Exile' class are stacked on my desk (this time Conrad, Danticat, Cristina Garcia, Nabokov, Sebald, and Viet Thanh Nguyen). For the rest of the night: free reading."
Len's ode to Fall (ominous yet seductive) reminded me of many a paragraph in The Street of Crocodiles, eerie and lyrical. For example:
"Oh the skies of those days, skies of luminous signals and meteors, covered by the calculations of astronomers, copied a thousand times, numbered, marked with the watermarks of algebra! With faces blue from the glory of those nights, we wandered through space pulsating from the explosions of distant suns, in a sidereal brightness . . . The houses, wide open at night during that time, remained empty in the light of violently flickering lamps. The curtains blew out far into the night and the rows of rooms stood in an all - embracing, incessant draft, which shot through them in violent, relentless alarm." (Bruno Schulz, 155 - 56)
If the approaching autumn season seems too sinister, I find that a little lace -- black or white or some of each -- helps to soften the worrisome edges. For over twenty - years now, a delicate lace ghost has appeared to gently haunt us in honor of the previous residents of our various historical homes. Every year, as the October light works its magic, my mother and my friend Victoria never fail to inquire, "Is the ghost up yet?" My sweet sister Di had some kind words for this year's emanation: "That is the fanciest ghost I have ever seen. When I get home I will dig out my tablecloths and see what I can do!"

ALL SAINTS

ALL SOULS
Black Cat ~ Black Lace

Sunday, October 28, 2018

Asking Little or Nothing

Elegant and mystical . . .

. . . just like Sylvia Plath's poem!
Notice how the mushrooms speak for themselves:
Mushrooms

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.


American poet, Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For more about mushrooms
see my recent post

"The Miracle of Mushrooms"

@ The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence;
custom & ceremony


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Photo credit: Beata Ribeiro
taken in Poland ~ September 2018

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Swinger, Slinger, Malingerer

"The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky . . . "

~ W. B. Yeats ~ "The Wild Swans at Coole" ~

Autumn Birches, 1916 ~ by Tom Thomson, 1877 - 1917
Many thanks to Barbara McFadden for reminding me
-- see "October Light, October Heavy" ~ 2017 --
to re - read Frost's reflective poem,
in conjunction with Thomson's painting:

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay
As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows—
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
[emphasis added]

by Robert Frost, 1874 - 1963
Four-time Pulitzer Prize winner
Well - loved American poet

**************************

And for a bit of fun, amusing wordplay, and sly truth,
starting with Robert Frost's conclusion and finishing
with a timely political nod in the "right" direction:

Worse

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches


For example, one could be a slinger of burgers at McDonald's.
Or one could be a bringer of frivolous lawsuits.
Or one could be a flinger of gossipy dirt
for The New York Post.

Or one could be a singer of inane songs on MTV for pre - teens.
Or one could be a clinger of apron strings.
Or one could be a dead-ringer for one
of the FBI's Ten Most Wanted.

Or one could be a hunch-backed ringer of French church bell.
Or one could be a second-stringer on a last place minor league baseball team.
Or one could be a stringer for a newspaper in the sticks.

Or one could be a finger man for the mafia.
Or one could be a dinger of car fenders on the parking lot of Walmart.
Or one could be a left-winger for a last place minor league hockey team.

Or one could be a right-winger of any country's politics.
Or one could be a jingler of idiotic jingles on the radio for
pre - teens.
Or one could be a malingerer.


J. R. Solonche, Contemporary American
in Invisible
**************************

Golden Autumn, 1895 ~ by Isaac Levitan, 1860 1900

Monday, October 22, 2018

Confused Shopper

Tamarind and Guava
We've been trying to branch out when grocery shopping and try some experimental foods, as displayed above on my tropical serving plate. In addition to novelty fruits and vegetables in the produce department, I was so excited to see this flavor in the frozen dairy case, something truly out of the ordinary: Thai Green Tea Ice Cream!


Imagine my dismay when Gerry took it out of the freezer and read aloud, "That Green Nut." What? I had managed to completely misread "That" as "Thai" and "Nut" as "Tea." Wishful thinking, I guess! Here I thought I was bringing home something exotic, but it was just artificially flavored pistachio, apparently designed to appeal to shoppers who can't even remember the word pistachio. Tasty enough, but not exactly what I had in mind.

I thought I was bringing home something along the lines of the "green tea custard" featured here. Maybe one day it will appear at the supermarket, but for now, we will just have to enjoy it as a treat from the specialty ice cream store.

Friday, October 19, 2018

Existential Crisis

Clock Face ~ Omni Shoreham ~ Washington DC
This really happened: At the Post Office, the line is short but only two cashiers are open, and both clerks have disappeared into the back room, so all the customers are just standing idly / oddly looking around. It's like a Bunuel film -- are we in charge now? Should I step behind the register and start helping people? How long will we all stand here with nothing happening? Existential Crisis!

Speaking of the Post Office, why not take a few moments to reread Eudora Welty's droll little story "Why I Live at the P.O."? [also, see earlier post]

****************

from The Journals of Andre Gide: "One should want only one thing and want it constantly. Then one is sure of getting it. But I desire everything and consequently get nothing. Each time I discover, and too late, that one thing had come to me while I was running after another."

Stephane Moses [writing about Kafka's Parables]: "Certain situations are so desperate that the only way to escape them is through total ingenuousness."

****************

Uh - oh, I've done it again, written down the passage but not the source. Does anyone recognize? If only I could remember who wrote these words . . .

"I devoted myself to my business to the best of my ability -- not taking much pleasure in it, but hoping by this semblance of work to give some stability to my disintegrated life.

Perhaps it was because the day had begun so badly that I felt so anguished. Oh, I thought, without doubt, everything in my life is falling to pieces. Nothing that my hand grasps can my hand hold."
Clock Face ~ Darling Harbor ~ Sydney, Australia

Tuesday, October 16, 2018

Back to School

School Scene, early 20th C
by J. C. Huntington

“The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher,
that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word.”

Isaiah 50:4

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ some advice from my earliest years of teaching ~
"Although speakers and listeners, writers and readers, are in one sense engaged in a cooperative effort to understand one another, they are also in conflict over the amount of effort that each will expend on the other. That is, the speaker or writer wants to say what he has to say with as little energy as possible and the reader or listener wants to understand with as little energy as possible. . . . Thus anything that facilitates the transfer of meaning is important in this tight economy of energy."

from Errors & Expectations, pp 11 - 12]

by Mina P, Shaughnessy (1924 - 1978)
Innovative and Inspiring Teacher of Writing
See also ~ Mina P. Shaughnessy: Her Life and Work

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“The high-school English [or college composition] teacher will be fulfilling her responsibility if she furnishes the student a guided opportunity, through the best writing of the past, to come, in time, to an understanding of the best writing of the present. She will teach literature, not social studies or little lessons in democracy or the customs of many lands. And if the student finds that this is not to his taste? Well, that is regrettable. Most regrettable. His taste should not be consulted; it is being formed.”

by Flannery O'Connor (1925 – 1964)
American novelist, short story writer and essayist
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

DLTBGYD
~ some advice dear to my heart from grad school days ~

Linda Gray Sexton: "My mother, the late poet, Anne Sexton, wore a medallion around her neck—which I inherited and still wear—that is inscribed with the Latin phrase: “Illegitimi Non Carborundum.” This means, in rough English (if you will excuse the expletive): 'Don’t Let The Bastards Grind You Down.'”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Saturday, October 13, 2018

"October is on its way."

Ode to some yellow flowers

Rolling its blues against another blue,
the sea, and against the sky
some yellow flowers.

October is on its way.*

And although
the sea may well be important, with its unfolding
myths, its purpose and its risings,
when the gold of a single
yellow plant
explodes
in the sand
your eyes
are bound
to the soil.
They flee the wide sea and its heavings.

We are dust and to dust return.
In the end we're
neither air, nor fire, nor water,
just
dirt,
neither more nor less, just dirt,
and maybe
some yellow flowers.


Pablo Neruda (1904 - 1973)

found in Neruda's Odes to Common Things
translated by Ken Krabbenhoft; Bulfinch Press, 1994
(other ~ translations)

For more by Neruda and others,
see my Fortnightly post: Yellow Gold Guayacan

Wednesday, October 10, 2018

Summer Fortnightlies

Thanks to Sam for this Swell View!

From wishes to weddings to the wisdom of a little child,
here are some connections that we made over the summer:

"Greener Grass Over There"

"Lammas ~ Lughnasa"

"Advancing & Receding"

"The Rough Places Plain"

"I Shall But Love Thee Better"

@The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence;
custom & ceremony



Congrats & Every Happiness to Cathleen & Ben!
~ 22 June 2018 ~

Monday, October 8, 2018

Two Fine Families

In honor of my grandmother's 127th birthday, here is a formal studio portrait of her with her family in 1911, when she was 20 years old:

The Heidemans
Seated are my great - grandparents:
William Michael Heideman (1855 - 1931)
& Anna Mary Miller (1862 - 1923)
with their children, standing, L to R:
my Grandmother Mary Rovilla Heideman (1891 - 1966)
and her brothers Melville Miller (1896 - 1966) & Harry Louis (1887 - 1940)

16 years later she would marry my grandfather, in 1927

Here he is with his family in 1913, when he was 18 years old:

The Lindseys
Seated are my great - grandparents:
James Sankey Lindsey (1846 - 1921)
& Sarah Elisabeth Hartman (1856 - 1937)

Sitting by father: Wayne Wallace (1889 - 1951)
Sitting by mother: Samuel Gordon (1893 - 1918)
Standing, L to R: Lillian Virginia (1897 - 1980), Gail Hartman (1899 - 1944),
my Grandfather Paul Jones Lindsey (1895 - 1983)
Bertha Mabel (1880 - 1968), James Sankey, Jr. (1883 - 1965),
Edna Beatrice (1891 - 1921)

*********************

For more family history, see my recent posts:

"Talking About the Homestead"
&
"Thus Far Our Experience"
&
"Getting Almost Homesick"

@The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence; custom & ceremony

Thursday, October 4, 2018

Tevas, Of Course!

Q: Fall or Spring?
A: Autumnal looking leaves covered
the sidewalk -- but it was Spring!
Amelia Island, Florida ~ March 2016

Biblical Mandate for Comfortable Shoes:

"As for shoes for your feet,
put on whatever will make you ready
to proclaim the gospel of peace!"


Ephesians 6:15 (NRSV)

Comments

Monday, October 1, 2018

Bright Soul of the Year

So fair a summer look for nevermore.
All good things vanish, less than in a day,
Peace, plenty, pleasure suddenly decay.
Go not yet away, bright soul of the sad year;
The earth is hell when thou leav’st to appear.


from Summer's Last Will and Testament
by Thomas Nashe, 1567 - 1601
English Elizabethan pamphleteer,
playwright, poet, and satirist

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Hello October!
Good-bye summer fruits & veggies
from our own backyard . . .



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Goodbye Butterflies . . .

Hello Falling Leaves!