Song of Summer

How lovely it is here after arriving from steaming Central Florida. It is a blessing to enjoy the gentle breezes and listen to the birdsong. Amen.
I neglected to write for a week due to out-of-town company; but, ahh!, the joy of grandchildren. It was worth the precarious balancing of work and housekeeping and pleasure.
Here is a little poem that I wrote yesterday AM from my front porch.

Song of Summer
Sing to me that sweet song of summer
The gentle rhythm of branches conducting soft breezes
Stirring cool air with fragrant Sour wood blossoms
Punctuated with bursts of birdsong
Rising above the steady hubbub of bumble and honeybees
Trees offer up a standing ovation
Have a peaceful day!

In Praise of Fathers Everywhere

It is Father’s Day, and even though it is a holiday created by Hallmark to sell cards, I do keep it and respect it. Father’s Day is a time to reflect on your parent or other manly role model and to give thanks for that person in your life.
When I was a child, I did not get to spend much time with my Dad. He was a full time plumber/electrician, and a part-time farmer. That part-time farmer thing meant that he farmed before he went to work, and when he came home from his day job.
As a result of this my Dad was pretty tired in the evening. As children, we really did not appreciate this; we were pretty wrapped up in being kids.
I have a memory of one summer night long ago; it was the 4th of July. The weather was pleasantly cool. I must have been 12 or 13, and we had just returned from watching the fireworks burst over the lake, and shower the hillsides. We got out of the sapphire blue Galaxy 500; and I went to take my Dad’s hand. He grasped it and I felt a thrill run through me; I knew then that my Father loved me.
Here is a poem that I wrote yesterday, for my Dad.

My father is a rock of dependability
He is a man of few words, i.e.–
The strong, silent type
My Dad was a good provider
We had everything that we needed
Not to excess, but enough
My father has humility
He does not try to be boastful
Or appear better than others
My Dad is a man of simple needs
He takes pride in what he does
But, he is quietly proud
Fathers do not always get
The thanks they deserve
The thanks for the food on the table
And for the electricity and hot water
The thank yous for the shelter above us
For the clothes on our backs
And above all, for their love
Thank you Dad!
Happy Father’s Day!

Summer’s Eve

It is thundering, again–not a surprise since the humidity is ninety-something percent, a typical summer’s eve in Florida. Orlando sends her storms eastward this time of year.

My trusty Belgian Shepherd is starting to pant and worry. I leave the room and she follows me everywhere. I wish that I could calm her anxiety.

Just a few weeks ago it was bone dry. Lawns were browning up, plants were withering from the merciless southern sun. We all prayed for rain, and here it comes, again!

Still we must be grateful for the bounty of rain, whenever we can get it. We must save it up for the dry times that will surely come again.

Liken these showers to prayers that are answered in your life. Embrace them for what they promise–growth and abundance. Feel the promise of the rain. Hold this thought for a moment and know that you are blessed.

The Pink Coat

I grew up in a family that had three girls. I was the middle girl, so I got the hand-me-downs from my older sister. As you can imagine, I was not thrilled with this. Like everyone else, I like to pick out my own wardrobe; but, this was not the time when many children were able to do this. We simply did not have marketing to children on television, or other media. Most of our clothes came from the local J.C. Penneys store, or from the Sears Catalog.
Anyway, one winter when I was probably 13 or 14, I inherited “the” coat. It was garish, I thought, hot pink plush with big round buttons. As I had outgrown my other coat, I had no choice but to wear it to school. I was mortified!
I vividly remember arriving at school in said coat. I walked head down to my locker with rubber boots sloshing the air. Were there snide looks and comments? Probably, that I do not remember; I just remember my cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
But, you see I survived that. The funny thing is that today if I found that coat in a vintage shop, or as new vintage style, I would think that it was kicky and cool. And, as it turned out, pink has become a favorite color of mine (especially hot pink!)–too funny.
I guess the moral is you never know how things will end up. Therefore, let’s make the best of what we have and count our blessings!

As I write, sunlight leaks through the oak canopy. Branches stir the air lazily, like spoons in lattes. It is damp, as it poured last evening. We were cooking out and managing the process with a golf umbrella. We still got soaked; but, the meat survived! Of course the tank had to be changed in the downpour–duh!

It is a prelude to the dense humidity that will follow, later, with 90 degree heat. Oh, Florida is delightful in the summer! But, it gets worse; July, August, and September will attest to that. I need to remember, as my skin seems to melt out in this weather, that humidity is good for your skin. That’s the lemonade to make out of the lemon of tropical weather!

Enjoy the rain for what it is–life-giving to all of nature. May the rain slow you down a little, so that you may daydream, or take a breath.

Here is a rain poem from a yet to be published book that I call Naturescapes. (Glenda, I share your rain!)


Rain slakes down

Smacking onto leaves

Rhythmically pat-pat

Pattering, smattering

Sounding out as Nature’s

Percussion section

Listen as trees applaud

June showers

(Actually the poem says April showers; since it is mine, I can amend it!)

Good Morning Campers!
It is Thursday, and sooo close to the weekend! I thought that a couple of good quotes would get us through the day.
Regret is an appalling waste of energy; you can’t build on it, it’s only good for wallowing in.
–Katherine Mansfield
Financial Tip: If you have been in therapy for the last fifteen years over your failure to live up to this image of Womanhood, not to mention your inexplicable lack of desire to do so, you can save the cost of the therapist and whatever drugs you’ve been put on by just buying your own copy of Betty Crocker and burning it. You may stomp on it as well, before, during, and/or after the burning, but be sure to wear properly fitted footgear for this activity–your own personal do-it-yourself therapeutic exorcism.
–Jill Conner Browne; The Sweet Potato Queens’ Big Ass Cookbook (and Financial Planner)
Have a wonderful day!

Howdy Neighbors!

I was thinking today about how pig-headed I am, and how I come by it naturally! Everyone in my family is getting more and more set in their ways–including yours truly!

Although this trait can be tough for others to deal with, it is something that keeps us going and going–like the Energizer bunny. We are stronger for this stubbornness. Here is a poem from my future book called Waiting for the Rest of Your Life. Enjoy!

Willow You?

I began my life passively

Or, so I thought

Not that one could discount

The hard-headed stubbornness

That runs like a deep vein of gold

In the granite rock of the genetic

Makeup of my family tree

But, as the years have rolled by

It has become apparent that

Control issues are key in relationships

As they have been in mine

Many of us are stronger willed

And try to impose this on others

These are the righteous ones

Trying to bend the weaker to them

Like a young flexible sapling

Some will snap like twigs and are finished

Others bounce back unbent

Defiant in the face of such control

Resilience bouncing the back upright

Not giving in, not giving up– No, Never!

Be true, be the tree

That will not bend

To you and me