A Tidings of Magpies

It's early in the day, yet I've already read about two deaths on my small corner of the blogging world. By coincidence we had two deaths yesterday, well, one died after aggressive care was withdrawn and comfort care maintained, and one patient was transferred to in-patient hospice. We pass a funeral parlor on the way to HoneyHair's dance lesson, its parking lot filled to the edges and cars overflowing up and down the street from friends and neighbors come to comfort. Another cold and grey rainy day here, the kind of day that keeps grief hovering close to the earth by sheer weight of the cloud cover. It's a day when sadness could reign. But it is a day that I am alive to tell the tale and live out loud, so I offer this poem with many blessings for those who have loss and grief in their lives. In a beautiful blue lagoon on a clear day, a fine sailing ship spreads its brilliant white canvas in a fresh morning breeze and sails out to the open sea. We watch her glide away ...

What I Believe by Michael Blumenthal I believe there is no justice, but that cottongrass and bunchberry grow on the mountain. I believe that a scorpion's sting will kill a man, but that his wife will remarry. I believe that, the older we get, the weaker the body, but the stronger the soul. I believe that if you roll over at night in an empty bed, the air consoles you. I believe that no one is spared the darkness, and no one gets all of it. I believe we all drown eventually in a sea of our making, but that the land belongs to someone else. I believe in destiny. And I believe in free will. I believe that, when all the clocks break, time goes on without them. And I believe that whatever pulls us under, will do so gently. so as not to disturb anyone, so as not to interfere with what we believe in.

by George Bilgere Perhaps, in a distant café, four or five people are talking with the four or five people who are chatting on their cell phones this morning in my favorite café. And perhaps someone there, someone like me, is watching them as they frown, or smile, or shrug at their invisible friends or lovers, jabbing the air for emphasis. And, like me, he misses the old days, when talking to yourself meant you were crazy, back when being crazy was a big deal, not just an acronym or something you could take a pill for. I liked it when people who were talking to themselves might actually have been talking to God or an angel. You respected people like that. You didn't want to kill them, as I want to kill the woman at the next table with the little blue light on her ear who has been telling the emptiness in front of her about her daughter's bridal shower in astonishing detail for the past thirty minutes. O person like me, phoneless in your distant café, I wish we could meet to dis...

* compliments of Wikipedia : The "first line" of a funeral consisted of the people who were an integral part of the ceremony, such as the members of the club or krewe, or family and friends of the deceased. Usually brightly coloured items such as beads and feathers were offered to the "second line". The "second line" originally referred to people who were attracted to the music. Traditionally such people would follow behind the "first line." (In the final decades of the 20th century it became more common for some such onlookers who joined the procession to mix in or even get ahead of the band and first line, behavior considered a social faux pas by older New Orleanians.) To follow such processions because one enjoyed the music came to be known as to "second line" or to be "second lining." Uninhibited dancing at processions also came to be called second lining. "Let's dance, put on your red shoes and dance the blues Le...

I was not raised Catholic. My family attended and had been lectured to in Presbytarian churches and for a short time, Unitarian, but I converted while in college once I started going to the old St. George's with my dorm roommate. It fit me like a glove and I felt at home there despite my ignorance of the exotic rituals and prayers everyone else knew by heart. When I say that I am Catholic I say it with the caveat that I am an American Catholic , which is to say I do not agree with everything that comes out of the Vatican. Sorry. I have no issue with homosexuality. Love is love, and people are lucky and blessed to find it wherever they find it. I believe that priests should be allowed to marry and that women should be accorded more prominent positions within the church structure. There's more, but let's just leave it that I realize the Pope is not doing a little jig everytime I open my mouth and declare I'm Catholic. For the totter to that teeter though, I've been t...

Film Noir by Sherod Santos A mist had settled over everything. It was after ten, almost eleven. A smudgy lamplight overran the curbs where leaves had started to gather as well. Some young people prowling the neighborhood were afraid that nothing would happen tonight, just as nothing had happened the night before. Although it was cold, the boys wore cutoff sweatshirts, and the girls, more comfortably dressed for the weather, kept laughing at things the boys said. A car turned onto Millbrook Road, dimmed and then extinguished its lights before rolling to a stop in the leaves. When the young people passed, they banged on the hood with their fists— the boys, not the girls, though the girls were amused by this as well— and frightened the man inside. Or did they? The car door opened. The man stepped out and, as killers do in Hollywood films, slipped a hand inside his coat. And then, in a quiet, almost whisper of a voice, he said something none of them could hear, though how he said it seeme...

please note: art by Tom Bacher, click to enlarge

It's my weekend again to work. I made the mistake of listening to the news while I was cooking dinner so not only did I hear the weatherman talking about more snow and a freezing wintery mix--rather gleefully I might add--I got a heads up on some patients Life Flighted our way. We just lost a 23 year old young woman from a "worst-headache-in-her-life" brain bleed. The outside hospital had left her sitting in their ER waiting area for three hours before they CAT scanned her head and saw all the blood. By the time we got her there wasn't much left to save. She may not have made it in any event. A third of all subarachnoid bleeds don't make it to the hospital and, out of those that do, another third don't survive. But, watching the families, especially when they're so young, and having so little to offer them is heart wrenching. Not looking forward to another go round of grief. Thankfully Oscar's on the way. I make no excuses for it, I love the whole k...

by Andrew Hudgins Red lights whirling behind her in the sun, a cop ordered me off the trestle. Why? I asked, squinting. I knew what she'd say. I loved this shortcut to my bad job, loved walking above the street and then above the river, mincing across the slick, splintering ties —a true line against a hard blue sky— teasing a fear of heights with a love of rivers. The trains don't use it anymore, I called down to the voice that yelled what authority must yell: "Get down anyway!" What a surety the State was—Mom, with a holstered nine millimeter. That evening, as I trudged, obeisant, below the trestle, giving Mom time to forget, the creosoted posts, oozing tar, shuddered like oracles. Above, unseen, a lugubrious chugging mass, passed over, painstakingly almost half-aware, as gods proceed when they think they love us, we who are in this world to be swept away. please note: photo by Donncha O Caoimh

I came home from work last night and found my old friend, the Garnet Hill catalogue, waiting for me on the hallway steps. How has it come to pass that I am not living in that utopia? That should be me searching out the "so many ways to celebrate spring"...reveling in "the versatility of cashmere", certainly "replenishing my wardrobe" and "refreshing my home." These lovely, lovely people have no access to radios or televisions and have never heard of an economy--cratering or otherwise. I belong with my people. They are my tribe. Don't be a silly ass like my husband and talk to me of marketing. I know these folks exist. Right there, on page 7., one of my could-be-best-friends is standing on the doorframe of her convertible with her big old crazy floppy hat and a fully, scrumptiously packed picnic basket in the back seat. She's waiting for me to arrive with the brown bag full of refreshing bottles of clear mountain spring water before we dr...

by Tony Hoagland When you're seventeen, and drunk on the husky, late-night flavor of your first girlfriend's voice along the wires of the telephone what else to do but steal your father's El Dorado from the drive, and cruise out to the park on Driscoll Hill? Then climb the county water tower and aerosol her name in spraycan orange a hundred feet above the town? Because only the letters of that word, DORIS, next door to yours, in yard-high, iridescent script, are amplified enough to tell the world who's playing lead guitar in the rock band of your blood. You don't consider for a moment the shock in store for you in 10 A.D., a decade after Doris, when, out for a drive on your visit home, you take the Smallville Road, look up and see RON LOVES DORIS still scorched upon the reservoir. This is how history catches up— by holding still until you bump into yourself. What makes you blush, and shove the pedal of the Mustang almost through the floor as if you wanted to spray g...

by James Wright I sit here, doing nothing, alone, worn out by long winter. I feel the light breath of the newborn child. Her face is smooth as the side of an apricot, Eyes quick as her blond mother's hands. She has full, soft, red hair, and as she lies quiet In her tall mother's arms, her delicate hands Weave back and forth. I feel the seasons changing beneath me, Under the floor. She is braiding the waters of air into the plaited manes Of happy colts. They canter, without making a sound, along the shores Of melting snow.

excert from A Line-storm Song by Robert Frost The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain.

and on Valentine's Day going to see the ballet, Peter Pan. Cause nothing says love like a pirate and his crocodile.

The Bat by Jane Kenyon I was reading about rationalism, the kind of thing we do up north in early winter, where the sun leaves work for the day at 4:15 Maybe the world is intelligible to the rational mind; and maybe we light the lamps at dusk for nothing... Then I heard the wings overhead. The cats and I chased the bat in circles—living room, kitchen, pantry, kitchen, living room... At every turn it evaded us like the identity of the third person in the Trinity: the one who spoke through the prophets, the one who astounded Mary by suddenly coming near. please note: art by Henry Ossawa Tanner

Got my ass kicked for two days by an 80 year old man in 4 point soft restraints. What's next on the agenda is my heating pad and a bucketful of Advil. "...Ali's got a left, Ali's got a right; If he hits you once, you're asleep for the night." Good night all.

by Dorianne Laux The cat calls for her dinner. On the porch I bend and pour brown soy stars into her bowl, stroke her dark fur. It's not quite night. Pinpricks of light in the eastern sky. Above my neighbor's roof, a transparent moon, a pink rag of cloud. Inside my house are those who love me. My daughter dusts biscuit dough. And there's a man who will lift my hair in his hands, brush it until it throws sparks. Everything is just as I've left it. Dinner simmers on the stove. Glass bowls wait to be filled with gold broth. Sprigs of parsley on the cutting board. I want to smell this rich soup, the air around me going dark, as stars press their simple shapes into the sky. I want to stay on the back porch while the world tilts toward sleep, until what I love misses me, and calls me in.

Game imported from Sweet Annie at Blissful Bohemian . Name ten things you love that begin with a specific letter. In my case, the letter E. So here goes: 1. Well, first of all there's elephants . Who doesn't love those cute little faces?? And what's not to love? Elephants are actually a lot like humans. They laugh and cry. They grieve over their dead. They play games with each other and have fantastic memories so they can even remember the rules and not go to bed mad. 2. Then there's Engelbert Humperdinck, who I don't actually love and his singing's just on this side of okay, but I do love his name. 3. I luuuuuuv eggs , deviled. Nothing fancy, just classic. Best Basic Deviled Eggs 6 eggs, hard cooked and peeled 1/4 cup mayonnaise 1 teaspoon yellow mustard 3/4 teaspoon white wine vinegar pinch of salt (optional) fresh ground black pepper (optional) smoked paprika (optional) Cut eggs in half. Arrange egg whites cut side up on a serving plate and put the yolks ...

It's not a rainy day, but sure feels like one with the sun peeking out from grey skies and water rushing down the streets. I've been driving Miss HoneyHaired around town and across the river. Saturday's a good day for lessons and since Hubby works the weekends it's " GRLZ ONLY ." Our own Gruesome Twosome Club today with no boyz allowed, no makeup. Work-out clothes required. One of the college stations is on the radio playing a great version of Trouble in Mind and HoneyHaired is telling me about a new song she likes-- Are we Humans Or Are We Dancers . We discovered a fantabulous diner across the river, The Pepper Pod. Breakfast 24/7. The kind of place where you gotta pay when you order if you're there between 11pm and 6 in the morning. HoneyHaired got the Hungry Man's Special with extra bacon and hash browns, although goetta is an option. Smoking's allowed in the restaurants across the river, and I must admit I enjoy seeing people still being able ...

by Peter Meinke What the children remember about Uncle Jim is that on the train to Reno to get divorced so he could marry again he met another woman and woke up in California. It took him seven years to untangle that dream but a man who could sing like Uncle Jim was bound to get in scrapes now and then: he expected it and we expected it. Mother said, It's because he was the middle child, and Father said, Yeah, where there's trouble Jim's in the middle. When he lost his voice he lost all of it to the surgeon's knife and refused the voice box they wanted to insert. In fact he refused almost everything. Look, they said, it's up to you. How many years do you want to live? and Uncle Jim held up one finger. The middle one.

Hubby and I love this television show and, for those of us of a certain age, it resonates deeply. 1973 is for me a meaningful year. A marker point. It's the year I graduated from high school, the year I started college, the year United States troops pulled out of Vietnam and the year the Watergate hearings began. The American Indian Movement and their supporters seized the town of Wounded Knee, South Dakota. The World Trade Center became the tallest building in the world and Secretariat won the Triple Crown. 1973 was three years before I married my high school honey, and six years before I found myself divorced. The cars, the clothes, the sideburns are so familiar that I can't believe they're gone now. So I find myself wandering through the sets and scenes of this show and looking around the sights as a tourist this time around, not as a native of the time. I hear the chorus of a long forgotten song from a car radio or bar's juke box and search for the street signs t...

by Jane Kenyon A ledge of ice slides from the eaves, piercing the crusted drift. Astonishing how even a little violence eases the mind. In this extreme state of light everything seems flawed: the streaked pane, the forced bulbs on the sill that refuse to bloom...A wad of dust rolls like a desert weed over the drafty floor. Again I recall a neighbor's small affront — it rises in my mind like the huge banks of snow along the road: the plow, passing up and down all day, pushes them higher and higher... The shadow of smoke rising from the chimney moves abruptly over the yard. The clothesline rises in the wind. One wooden pin is left, solitary as a finger; it, too, rises and falls. please note: photo by Jon Morris

The bad news-- in the worst snowstorm of a generation, London has NO snow plows. The Good news--you'd still be in foggy London Town. Not a big fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers, but these two men could totally change my mind. Uhmmmmm...I am entranced by fancy footwork. And, for anyone who might have been pondering deeper questions in this big blizzard we call life... I am Boggle. Come on. You know you want to take the test-- What Board Game Are You? You Are Boggle You are an incredibly creative and resourceful person. You're able to dig deep and think outside the box to get things done. You are a non linear thinker. You don't like following directions You draw your inspiration from the strangest places sometimes. You're constantly inspired. Yeah, like I'll be putting that on my resume and request to transfer. CollegeGrrrl and CollegeTown just got their electricity back on yesterday although the rest of the state is still without power and, yes, it is snowing ag...

from The Writers' Almanac: "Today we celebrate three holidays, all of them from the same source. February 2nd is a "cross-quarter" day in the solar calendar, which means that it falls exactly between a solstice and an equinox. It's the ancient Celtic celebration of Imbolc, in honor of Brigit, the goddess of fire, poetry, healing, and childbirth. Brigit brings the healing power of the sun back to the world on Imbolc, a day that carries the first promise of spring. Imbolc comes from the Old Irish i mbolg, meaning "in the belly," because this is the time when ewes became pregnant to deliver spring lambs. The Christians took over the Celtic celebration and made February 2nd into a Christian holiday, Candlemas Day. Candlemas Day celebrates the presentation of Jesus at the Temple exactly 40 days after Christmas. There are many old sayings about today — about the emergence of animals from their winter dens and omens that predict the season ahead. One English s...

Now go out there and kick some butt, Cards.