Saturday, February 2, 2008
Friday, February 1, 2008
Gilded hands shine on the clock
Gilded hands shine on the clock
There, just past the finish line, I see a light.
Could it be...
Reflected evening sunlight from the snow?
Old Memories magnify the moments in my mind
And I hear them all--crowding in around me.
Are they here ...
I'm astonished to discover how much I love them--
These strangely-familiar people hovering,
Coming to share the conclusion of my life.
I drown in joy as
Time becomes timeless
In memory of my grandparents--all of them.
(Written for Cafe Writing. We had to use these words:
astonished, conclusion, drown, gilded, hands, magnify, snow, time)
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
About three times a year, I wonder what it would be like to have bold colors on the walls of the house. Designers do it. All the time. So they say. (I don't even dream that audaciously, but I once painted a bathroom in bright teal. Granted, it was a teensy, tiny bathroom, but I think for bravery it counts.)
So if you had a bathroom that needed paint, would you try any of these big, bold colors with the names that required a full-time color inventing and naming professional to create? If you go online and visit painting centers, you can actually try their paint colors by applying them to a mock bathroom, complete with suggestions for agreeable second colors. I decided to scope it out. Hang on for a wild ride as we view bona fida paint swatches. Oh the joy of living dangerously!
I'll begin with a color close to my normal taste in rooms.
It's called Pinkish. Maybe because that's what it is.
It doesn't even merit the "blush" or "morning sky with
the sun coming up and reflecting on the clouds below
pink" label. Just Pinkish.
Now we get wild. Look at this one.
It's called Gutsy Grape.
Note the subtle difference as the walls change
to Fabulous Grape.
Then shift to a blue, but not just any old blue.
This one is called Rainstorm.
Not that you'd want it to be too rainy in the bathroom.
Maybe we'd better check out a few greens.
Here's one called Pickle.
And right beside it on the color chart is the color Dill.
Seems like we're scraping the bottom of the
name barrel for these.
Of course neither of these measures up to the
lush green of Paradise. I'm afraid this one
is a little too lime for me, more like the color of
a serpent in paradise, or at least a lizard.
Now for the opposite extreme.
Here's one called Smokehouse.
So why would you want a bathroom
painted in smokehouse?
However if you like brown bathrooms check this one.
It's called Grounded. Probably after coffee--
you'd be surprised how many different browns
are named after coffee-- Java, or Kaffee, or Latte.
Well, I just imagine someone sitting in the bathroom
sulking because they've been grounded.
Now this one is more like what one should
do in a bathroom. It's called Meditative.
At least it's a quiet blue. Not like this one,
loftily called The Grand Canal, but certainly
not looking the color of any canal I've ever
seen, grand or not.
This gold color is called Brittlebush. Yikes! If someone makes a smokehouse in here they'd better not be too meditative or they'll start a fire that neither rainstorm nor the grand canal will extinguish. And I fear they will be grounded, or at least in a pickle and expelled from Paradise with a pinkish posterior.
So what's my absolutely most awful suggestion
for a bathroom color. This one.
It's appropriately called STOP. So I will.
Monday, January 28, 2008
On Mother’s Day she wrote a play for me, assigning parts to her brother and sister so they could borrow my video camera and act it out. It was full of pathos and moments of solemn reflection, as the three children dreamed of Moses and Joseph, and Samuel—all of whom were separated from their mothers at an early age. I don’t know if my younger two children fully understood the purpose behind this masterpiece of poignancy produced by their eleven-year-old sister, but it made a dramatic Mother’s Day present nonetheless.
My eldest daughter always wanted to be a journalist, to fearlessly oppose the evils of society and defend that which was good by blasting or commending with a shower of well-thought-out words. She promised me that she would never turn into a “teen-ager”—well, not one of those typical ones anyway—and she didn’t, surprisingly enough. She kept her head, and we remained friends throughout all those years that prove so difficult for some. One summer she worked as a volunteer apprentice at the
Then it happened. Even though her teachers encouraged her, and assured her that her name would make a catchy byline for editorials, she turned her back on the profession and began to seek another. Three things deterred her: first, she was instructed to write at the third-grade level, and that seemed like a galling retrogression; second, and more important, she was introduced to the “ethics of journalism” which bent the standards upon which her soul was anchored. To succeed in this world, she would have to give up precious values; the third troubling aspect was the realization that a true reporter must belong to the story first. By now, my daughter had met and married the man of her dreams, and she didn’t want to abandon him and any children they might have to be raised haphazardly while she dashed off
Today, Carina writes from home. She blogs, a major that hadn’t yet been invented when she attended college. Nobody makes her write at the third-grade level, but she sometimes willingly stoops even lower when making up marvelous stories for two-year-old Mim and three-year-old Zaya. She’s their Mom. She’s home. And I’m proud of her.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Of course I just noticed that all the cushions are off the couches in my living room and on the floor in that video. Ah well, if I had put them all back first I would have missed the moment. Youngsters are pretty impatient.