Church Bells Make Good Neighbors

The church across the street from our house,
where the bells ring every day.
I actually took this picture on Christmas Eve,
but I've been saving it up for Easter!

Greetings of the Season to the St. Thomas Friars
Just a quick note to let you know how much we love the bell chimes -- any hour of day or night! -- and how much we miss them when they occasionally fail to ring.

We live at the corner of Thomson & Alderman, and it just so happened to be on a Sunday at noon (back in April 2022) when our realtor first showed us the house! The bells were ringing, and we were delighted to think that if we lived here, we would hear this "joyful noise" every week!

Imagine our surprise, upon moving in, to realize that we would be hearing them not only on Sunday, but every hour on the hour throughout the week, plus the hymns at 3pm, and the Angelus at noon and 6pm! Whenever anyone asks us about our move to Virginia (from Indiana) we always mention the Bells of St. Thomas as one of the best things about our re-location -- the primary thing, over course, being closer to the grandchildren! But a very close second -- the hourly chimes!

One question, however: despite being fairly well - versed in liturgical church music, neither of us know the precise meaning or name of the extra chimes that come at 5pm, a minute or so after the hour. Can you please explain?

Thanks again for filling the air with music and being such great neighbors!

Yours,

Kitti Carriker & Gerry McCartney
2043 Thomson Road
November 2023

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

In Reply
Kitti and Gerry,

Thank you so very much for this most kind, supportive note. So very glad these bells have brought you joy and peace in your new neiborhood.

Good question about the bells timing. I could be wrong, but I think the bell rings when Mass is about to start soon.

I forwarded your email to Fr. Walter, our pastor. I know he too will appreciate your very kind comments. Perhaps he has more insights:)

Peace be with you,

Fr. Mario

Featured Previously

Steeple Bells

A Snowdrop and Fair

Somebody’s baby was buried to-day—
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back . . .
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold . . .
~ Ella Wheeler Wilcox ~
[see full poem in comments below]

For Hope's 60th Birthday

Little Hope, we never knew you, not even hardly. I was only six at the time of your short life and did not really understand what was going on, except that the grown-ups were sad. Your diagnosis was anencephaly, and your prognosis was "incompatible with life." In those days, there were no ultrasounds to alert prospective parents of trouble ahead. Perhaps a hint of mother's intituion or an unexpected look of concern on a doctor's face, but nothing more than that.

You were the last of six siblings. You would have broken the tie between three boys and three girls! Would you be a lot like me in taste and temperment? Or maybe more like one of the others? Athletic or musical or a bookworm? Would you have a large family of your own by now? Or maybe live somewhere exotic and far away?

I remember only a little of the week you lived. I was in the 1st grade. It was Easter. The adults were distracted, obviously, and in a stray moment, I caught a glimpse of the store-bought candy in the tall cabinet over the refrigerator and somehow knew that those same treats would be in my basket the next day. Almost imperceptibly, I moved a few baby-steps out of early childhood that weekend.

*****************
Years later, when I became a parent, my mother entrusted me with Hope's birth and death certificates. By that time I had grown in understanding of the loss to our family, and knew from experience that every pregnancy is "dearly bought" (see Ella Wheeler Wilcox, below). Somewhere along the way, I began the tradition of sending my mom a little token in honor of Hope, every March 28th. It was never hard to find a "Hope" themed souvenir -- an elegant bookmark, a simple bracelet charm, a quaint mother - child postcard, something just right in memory of our little snowdrop, our small dragonfly hunter.

When my mother died, I sorted through her papers and found these notes that we had written to her during her confinement. In 1964, Easter was on March 29th, and Hope was born on Saturday, March 28th, so almost like this year. Dave, Peg, and Di were staying with our other grandparents; Aaron was only 2 1/2, so I let him scribble on the back of my letter:

*****************
Close - up of the garden
decoration on Hope's grave

Longing for a Departed Child

I wonder how far
My small dragonfly hunter
Has wandered today!

~ Chiyo ~

Everything You've Been Waiting For

Everything You've Been Waiting For:
May you find it all in your Easter Basket!

I Am Waiting

I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder
I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace a
nd I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder

~by Lawrence Monsanto Ferlinghetti
(March 24, 1919 – February 22, 2021)
[additional poems]

a rebirth of wonder . . .
and a total dream of innocence . . .

Thanks to my friend Jan Donley
for awakening me to Ferlinghetti's poem,
through her own poetry and art!

Also:
the perfect music video for a week of Waiting . . .

Maganjo

Maganjo -- meaning the “original land”
-- like this coffee from Velton's: Kenya Maganjo AA

Thanks to my friend Mumbi for sharing with me this charming image that she purchased locally in Wichita, Kansas. We can only assume that it is a picture of Ireland, though the print itself came without title or photo credit.

As Mumbi explains: "Maganjo means an old home, in Kikuyu, within which family members of a past generation would have lived. That's the meaning I get from the picture. It actually reminds me of a small farm that was owned by my grandparents when I was a child, but my family later moved away."

Since I have been recently immersed in Kenyan poetry, I wanted to include some poems from my reading that capture the nostalgic sense of home and homesickness evoked by Mumbi's wall art and her definition of maganjo:

She rocks!

Without her the stars are falling,
Without her the flowers are glooming
Without her the rocks just stare --

I stand before you today,
With a message to relay
About this special woman,
Who compares to no man.

It's about my mama
Sure more would say papa,
More he would contribute,
In this noble tribute.

In my life she is the rock,
The reason I say she rocks
Without her you see,
I wouldn't even be!

In her womb she bore me
Nine months -- never getting weary
She has seen me through the gloom and the bloom
Raising me up -- when I fall she raises me up!

So don't be amazed, neither dismayed,
When I say she is
Indeed my light, even when it's night
Reason I say she rocks!
That's my mama.

The drumbeats are so near,
The mist I must clear
And I fear --
I hate causing a tear,
But it's a step I must take dear
Please do bear?

~ by Margaret Muthee


The Expatriate

Unfriendly faces
Unfamiliar scents
Undefined territory
This is, foreign land

Mistreatment undeserved
Discrimination unjust
Acvusations unreal
It will always be foreign land

A land not her own
A people she knows not
Home is not safe but --
Foreign land is no place to stay

Choices made, desperate actions
To escape war, to this dreaded land
It must be hard to leave your own
It must be hard, this is -- foreign land.

~ by Grace Kamau

Both poems can be found here:

from the AMKA Literature Forum
and Space for Women's Creativity

AMKA (meaning "wake up" in Kiswahili)
is an NGO, based and registered in Kenya,
concerned with pushing and encouraging creativity,
and facilitating and nurturing women writers.

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

More poems & more about this project:
To Create a Space for Women's Creativity
@Kitti's Book List

There is a Season Turn, Turn, Turn

Thanks to my friend Beata for allowing
me to share her stained glass Four Seasons,
created by artist, friend, and neighbor
~ Betty Delgass ~

Spring is Here!

Summer!

Autumn!

Winter!

The Emerald Eye!

You can view more art by Betty Delgass
at the West Lafayette Public Library
West Lafayette, Indiana

And that song we love . . .
There is a Season Turn, Turn, Turn

St. Patrick's Day ~ Childhood Crafts

Everything you need for a Happy St. Pat's:

Graham crackers with frosting and sprinkles . . .

A letter from Di to Grandpa and Earl . . .

A homemade card to Mommy & Daddy . . .

A poorly drawn leprechaun . . .

And an Irish jig!

☘ ☘ ☘ ☘ ☘

Mother’s Day Card ~ Same Era

The Ides Have It

Painting by Leonard Orr
~ acrylic on canvas ~
Thanks to Len for permission to pick my own
"excellent titles; you cannot be wrong."
I'm calling this one "The Ides of March"

Nor is this the first time
that Len has allowed me to share his work
on this auspicious date:"The Ides of Whatever"

Beware the Ides of March

German Woodcut Illustration
by Johannes Zainer, Ulm ca. 1474

Depicting from left to right:
1. Porcia Catonis counseling Marcus Junius Brutus
2. Julius Caesars's Death
at the hands of Brutus and Gaius Cassius Longinus
3. Porcia's Suicide

In honor of the day:

A little history,
a few previous ~ posts,
and a song:
"Vehicle" by The Ides Of March
[Thanks to my brother Aaron for this golden oldie!]

Click for more . . .
Paintings & Poetry
by Leonard Orr

End of Summer Sounds
Golden Paintings by Leonard Orr
Excellent Images
Happy Birthday Dylan Thomas
The same war continues . . .
The Magpie Waiting for his Beautiful Partner
Bursting Into Light
Sun ~ Flower ~ Moon
Days of Optimism
What To Do?
Star - Spangled
That Lost Time & Place
Sad Advent
All the Frosty Ages
Samhain Triumvirate
Vocabcident
Truth & Falsehood Have No Fear
Limelight
Ellie Reading and Rearranging
The Ides Have It

Capturing the Ginkgo Light
Like An Ant
I Will Show You Modernism In A Handful of Dust

The Ides of Whatever Advancing and Receding
The Essential Sincerity of Falsehood
All Felled

Lovely As a Tree
Evening ~ Timing ~ Floating: Poetry by Leonard Orr
End of Year Book Migration
New Blue Library

Circle in the Sand

Scratch Circle
Photographed by Rygel, M.C. ~ Delaware
More examples by David Marvin ~ Michigan

A Lecture On The Circle

You draw a circle in the sand
and then halve the circle
with the same hazelnut stick.
Next you fall to your knees,
then to all fours.
Then you hit the sand with your forehead
and apologize to the circle.
That's all.

by Nichita Stanescu (1933 - 83)
[Read more poems]

Since Yesterday

Mementos from my friend Marilyn
~ 7 March 1957 - 27 November 1993 ~

On Marilyn's Birthday
Some of her cards to me from 1976

One of our favorite songs . . .

Books, Movies, Wizards

Leap Day Wizard Dreams

&

Classic Cinema, 1924 - 1945

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

Illustration from
I Will Judge You By Your Bookshelf
By Grant Snider

Lanterns & The Missing Mother

&

How Many Should I Pack?

@Kitti's Book List

Film Classics

New York Movie (1939)
Edward Hopper (1882 - 1967)

If you like old movies, here are a couple of
Fortnightly Posts
for you to check out:

Classic Cinema, 1924 - 1945

&

Classic Cinema, 1946 - 1976

Present ~ Past ~ Future

Equinox & Eclipse

The Flammarion Engraving, 1888
From L'atmosphère: Météorologie Populaire
By Camille Flammarion (1842 - 1925)

Used by Donovan & Duo Dickinson

What is the Present?
Not to annoy the Future.
Not to crave the Past.

I am intrigued by the slippery sense of time in the following pair of near - sonnets by contemporary American poet Maggie Smith (b 1977). Taken together, the Past and the Future seem to advance and recede -- but no mention of the Present, so I wrote the above haiku to fill the gap.

Past
What is the past?

We needed a word for everything before.
See how my saying this is already there, and there
for good -- no fishing it out of that deep water,
the deepest there is. The past is a tide that drags out
but won't return to shore: even your question
has been carried off. Look, you can see it floating.
Anything heavier settles unseen like wreckage
for a silver ribbon of fish to slip through.
The past is not all distant. We can stand at its edge,
watching the waves do the backbreaking work
of pulling, pulling away. From the shore, the past
seems to go on forever, because it does. We say
it was a different time, but all times are different.
This one, for instance. And again, this one. (p 29)


Future
What is the future?

Everything that hasn’t happened yet, the future
is tomorrow and next year and when you’re old
but also in a minute or two, when I’m through
answering. The future is nothing I imagined
as a child: no jet packs, no conveyor-belt sidewalks,
no bell-jarred cities at the bottom of the sea.
The trick of the future is that it’s empty,
a cup before you pour the water. The future
is a waiting cup, and for all it knows, you’ll fill it
with milk instead. You’re thirsty. Every minute
carries you forward, conveys you, into a space
you fill. I mean the future will be full of you.
It’s one step beyond the step you’re taking now.
What you’ll say next until you say it. (p 80)


And this brief passage,
in keeping with the mystic properties of time:

Poem with a Line from "Bluets"

. . . For what should I save
my longing? Forget the afterlife, the aftertown:
there is no knowing what happens beyond this
sad animal, this sack of hair. Forget the golden future
beyond future. I want to see all of it here, all of it
through these eyes . . . " (p 87)

All three poems by Maggie Smith
found in her collection Good Bones [title poem]

Further connections
to Ann Patchett's novel, Tom Lake:

20: "You remember it that way because it makes a better story . . . That doesn't mean it's true."

"What's the story?"

"The past."

57: "He doesn't understand that it's the weight of the past that's pinned us there . . . ."

102: "At least we have the past."

116: "There is no explaining this simple truth about life: you will forget much of it. The painful things you were certain you’d never be able to let go? Now you’re not entirely sure when they happened, while the thrilling parts, the heart-stopping joys, splintered and scattered and became something else. Memories are then replaced by different joys and larger sorrows, and unbelievably, those things get knocked aside as well . . . ."

300: "You think the thing that hurt you is going to hurt you forever but it doesn't."

My Harbinger Snowdrops

March First & March Second

"Camelot . . . The winter is forbidden till December
And exits MARCH THE SECOND on the dot."