When I see this …
… I think of this.
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TURNING THE PAGE FOR ANOTHER ANNUAL RITUAL
Now that the Christmas season’s over, we’re getting out the seed catalogs. Gardeners know what this means. Traditionally, they start coming in the mail about now, although some seed companies have tried to jump the gun, just like the Christmas decorations and music that now proliferate around Halloween rather than Thanksgiving. No, don’t rush us. This is to be taken thoughtfully, leisurely. Now, in the depth of winter — especially when it’s bitterly cold and snowy in places like the one where we live — our imaginations fly off to springtime and high summer. We evaluate the new varieties we ordered last year to decide whether we’ll get more (if we used up all of last year’s packet) or we’ll try something different.
Some of the catalogs are simply gorgeous. Others, including our favorite, are black-and-white and photo-free. The descriptions are fun to read and have led us to delightful harvests.
One thing I know: we’ll be ordering a certain chard we tried last year. The one that doesn’t taste like beets. No, it’s much more like spinach and so much more reliable where we live. Just don’t ask me to reveal its name. We want to make sure the supplier doesn’t run out. It’s something that happens, you know. As I recall, last year it was a kind of early pea. And before that?
It’s all part of the ritual, I suppose. Along with the intricate maps of our garden my wife draws to determine just how to fit it all in.
HERE COMES THE TRAIN
Think of passenger rails and unless you’re a rare daily commuter, you’re likely to envision earlier eras. Steam powered locomotives, for starters.
And then great journeys across the landscape.
Now keep going. Deeper into history. Trips onto the frontiers of knowledge. The edge of the known world.
You might run into genius in the most unanticipated haven.
Like this.
~*~
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ON THE TWELFTH DAY OF CHRISTMAS
Contrary to the proclamations of many retailers in their countdown to December 25, today is the Twelfth Day of Christmas.
In many parts of the world, January 6, also known as the Feast of the Epiphany or Three Kings Day, is the day for unwrapping gifts and similar Christmas celebration. In our circle, it was time for a party where all the kids who had made gingerbread houses early in December would reunite, bringing their gaily decorated structures to be festively … smashed to pieces! Initially, I was aghast at this custom before learning that it’s real purpose was to liberate all the candy and frosting that had been used to decorate the little dwellings. There was also a cake with three almonds hidden away to determine that year’s Three Kings. Alas, the kids are all grown and the next round hasn’t yet appeared.
Thanks to my wife and her traditions, I’m among those who advocate observing Advent as a way of toning down the holiday stress and hysteria. The commonplace letdown is replaced by a slow easing into winter. Since our Christmas tree wasn’t even cut down and brought indoors till Christmas Eve, we’ll leave it up and decorated until Groundhog Day or later. It brightens those chilly mornings.
So here’s to the gifts of the three Magi.
WALKING AROUND TOWN, MOSTLY
A typical New England neighborhood will mix a range of architectural styles and history. Dover is no exception.
One of the joys of living where I do comes in the variety of architectural periods you can encounter even within a block or two. While little in Dover remains from the first half-century of settlement here – a consequence, in part, of King Philip’s War along the Colonial frontier – that still leaves three centuries of development. Because my community was spared the ravages of big-city development, housing filled out neighborhoods over time as owners one by one sold side lots and pastures where new houses were then built. This makes for a rich tapestry, especially while strolling down a side street.
Throughout this year, the Red Barn will feature snapshots of some of these distinctive touches, especially in the housing styles. Hope you stroll along.
THANKS VERSUS MERCI OR GRACIAS … AS ONE, TWO, OR THREE SYLLABLES
I’ve heard that English is the international language for air traffic control, even at the Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport (what happened to Orly?), because it’s shorter than the others. Spoken French, you see, is considered too slow for a jetliner’s pilots and the tower.
Wondering about that the other day, I looked at the multilingual instructions included with the supplies for our new shower-surround walls. Sure enough, the English was about 20 percent shorter than either the French or the Spanish.
Anyone else been pondering this efficiency issue? How do German or Russian, compare to English, for instance? Or Chinese or Japanese? Just for starters …
TRUMPETS OF THE COMING STORM
My title is drawn from a line in John Greenleaf Whittier’s “The Last Walk in Autumn, XXV,” which echoes “blow the trumpet” in Ezekiel 33:3 “and the watchman cried” of 2 Samuel 18:25, followed by “I saw a great tumult, but I knew not what it was” in verse 29.
There were thunders and lightnings,
and a thick cloud upon the mount,
and the voice of the trumpet exceeding loud;
so that all the people that was in the camp trembled.
– Exodus 19:17
We, too, live in a tumultuous time, but in the crush of news and entertainment, the trumpets are muted. Prophets are neglected, and analysts and vapid pundits hold forth in their stead. Perhaps the rappers are too angry or too monotonous to cut through. The wheels spin and spin without a destination.
For my part, acknowledging Whittier fits my own turns in this writing. While serious American poetry typically turns away from anything touching on religious faith or political awareness (the exceptions are telling), both have been central to my life. Like Whittier – and Whitman, a step removed – Quaker practice has shaped my vision and voice. Nor is true faith distanced from social conditions. Closer to home, Whittier was a frequent visitor to the room where I worship weekly, and his parents married from the bench where I sit. To read Whittier with any appreciation in today’s literary perspective, though, I find I must break the cloying monotony of his simple rhyme schemes – recasting the lines will usually do the trick. What I then find is a surprising freshness within each line, a much more vigorous reach than is typical for the period. We forget that Whittier is the springboard for Robert Frost and all who follow in that vein. We also forget that Whittier was essentially a topical poet, immersed in the political and economic struggles of his time. Even Snowbound, for all of its seeming nostalgia, is an acknowledgment of technological advance and its impact.
Here, then, begins my cry.
IF YOU’RE CALLING FOR REAL, JUST SAY SO
Here in the midst of presidential primary season, I’m especially grateful to have caller ID on our phone. Yes, the voice part can be amusing, “Call from Chick-O, Chee Eh,” for instance. That’s Chico, California. Nobody we know.
We don’t pick up on the Unknown Caller, either. If they won’t leave a voicemail, we won’t deal with them. Period. Same for Wireless or Cell Phone, which has become another way for candidates’ campaigns and polling services to try to get through to us again.
Having a registered number adds to the problem. As more and more people switch to cell phones, the phone book gets slimmer – even before the printer switched to the tiniest type in existence for the White Pages. So the pollsters are sampling a shrinking pool of the public, which means, well, the same folks again and again.
Hey, usually the folks we want to hear from are shooting us emails anyway. So when are you using the telephone these days? Or how? And then? Does texting count, too?
SECOND TAKE ON THAT BUMPER SLOGAN
I’ll admit I laughed when I saw the sticker:
WHEN RELIGION RULED THE WORLD
THEY CALLED IT THE DARK AGES
But then I started thinking of the ongoing reconsideration of the era itself, which suggests a far richer and more varied culture than we’ve admitted. Just look at the glorious cathedrals, for starters.
Add to that an awareness of the atheistic evils of the 20th century, beginning with Hitler, Stalin, Mao, and others. How many millions were murdered as their victims?
The sticker was on a tiny van parked at the trail head, and a bit further I came across its owner in a cloud of smoke.
Not to be judgmental, but I found myself wondering about his alternative. It looked pretty dark. As for me, I’ve seen enough to suggest religion – true religion – can release us from darkness as a people.
Let’s start with the civil rights movement, if you wish. But there are many others.
Think of religion as a sword that cuts both ways, depending on its user and that matter of love. And then ask, How else are we to aspire to a better world?
ROUND AND ROUND AGAIN
So there on page 41 of Jeffrey Eugenides’ third novel, The Marriage Plot, I find he’s cribbed one of my fundamental arguments, the one about how the older you get, the faster time goes. Or, as he puts it, seems to go. And he didn’t even give me a footnote. Alas. (Where, oh where, by the way, has the year gone?)
At first I was going to say nothing new really happened this time around, but that’s not quite accurate. A stranger in one store did approach me to ask, “Has anyone told you how you look just like the drummer in Fleetwood Mac?” Could it be my ponytail? The one that would finally tie in the back?
And then, thanks to one inspired Christmas present last year (and wondrously repeated a few days ago), I’m swimming a half-mile daily in the city’s indoor pool. I wouldn’t say I enjoy it – laps are strenuous, after all – but the effort’s somehow refreshing and invigorating. Maybe it will also give my pun-prone physician a smile at my next physical. Could it be the giver’s in cahoots with him?
We did enjoy some all-too-short getaways through the year. Camden, Maine, in deep winter, instilled in me a fondness for tulips, thanks to a devotee’s store; Cape Cod in early summer included a panorama from the lantern room atop a lighthouse; Vermont in late summer, before the foliage turned, felt perfect.
Quaker activities have me hopping around New England, and with the Revels Singers, I performed in five concerts this fall, on top of weekly rehearsals. Add to that the release of four of my (experimental) novels and a brace of collected poetry as ebooks, which comes as a relief, and several public readings.
In addition, the Red Barn frequently draws readers from five continents, even if we’re still waiting for Antarctica. I even made my YouTube debut as the subject of an hour-long interview, as you may recall. As for the weeds in the garden or the snow in the driveway, well, can we get philosophical?
The one thing that’s been going all too slow is renovating the bathroom, which finally began before the bathtub could fall through the ceiling to the dining room. We’ll spare you the details. Could it be because everyone’s being paid by the hour? Or just the realities of trying to cope with a century-plus house? (The latter, mostly.)
So here we are, with the new year bringing us another presidential primary, the payoff on our mortgage by midyear, and my 50th high school reunion. If we survived a Social Security payment snafu at the beginning of last year, well, here we go again. Wishing you and yours all the best.
