A Tidings of Magpies

For those of you who do not know, and why would you--I've been away from this blog for some time--I have two daughters, one in New Orleans and the younger newly moved to Alaska for a job. Hubby went up in October with her to settle her into her apartment, meet the roommate, get a car, insurance, find a grocery store. I had scheduled a week off in November,  a desperate attempt to not be a stressed maniac while cooking,  the week of Thanksgiving which gave me time to fly up there.  Trust me. You need a week. The flight there from the Midwest is a commitment. Passed over this lovely bit of scenery. Believe it's the Canadian Cascade Mountain Range. The temps were in the negative numbers. They've had snow for some time now and the roads are packed ice. You get used to it. The prettiest place for me was Creamer's Field, a migratory bird sanctuary 10 minutes from town. Quiet and still. Pizza is a poor show there. Anyone with a good recipe could make...

by Marjorie Saiser I ride along in the backseat; the aunt who can drive picks up each sister at her door, keeps the Pontiac chugging in each driveway while one or the other slips into her overshoes and steps out, closing her door with a click, the wind lifting the fringe of her white cotton scarf as she comes down the sidewalk, still pulling on her new polyester Christmas-stocking mittens. We have no business to be out in such a storm, she says, no business at all. The wind takes her voice and swirls it like snow across the windshield. We're on to the next house, the next aunt, the heater blowing to beat the band. At the last house, we play canasta, the deuces wild even as they were in childhood, the wind blowing through the empty apple trees, through the shadows of bumper crops. The cards line up under my aunts' finger bones; eights and nines and aces straggle and fall into place like well-behaved children. My aunts shuffle and meld; they laugh li...

 I have not wanted to write much after my friend's death. Let me be honest, I have not wanted to think much. And I believe that's as it should be. Lord knows, the brain takes years to recover and heal and I imagine the soul does, too. But, I miss the magic I found in words. The unexpected placements and pairings. The rhythm of syllables. So, for me, 2013 will be a year of opening doors and telling the tales of what I find. Our squirrel's nest squirms and reassembles  beneath a winter's wind. ...Maybe...or  I could watch Big Bang Theory marathons...Bazinga! The Frogs After Dark by Robert Bly I am so much in love with mournful music That I don't bother to look for violinists. The aging peepers satisfy me for hours. The ant moves on his tiny Sephardic feet. The flute is always glad to repeat the same note. The ocean rejoices in its dusky mansion. Bears are often piled up close to each other. In caves of bears, it's just one ...

                             Well, it's January and it must be done. Yoga pants must be dug out of the bottom of a pile of clothes in the bedroom, a short sleeved T shirt must be wriggled into, and I must sweat amongst strangers. Hubby and I have never quite recovered from our last visit to New Orleans and let me simply say two words. Creole. Rabbit. We believe we were placed on earth to eat and drink every two hours while wandering around listening to fabulous music. Alas, that is not meant to be and January is here and my jeans are not as comfy as my work scrubs, so sweat it shall be today. Turn it up and burn it up, my friends!    Flowers by Linda Pastan The deep strangeness of flowers in winter— the orange of clivia, or this creamy white rose in its stoneware vase, while outside anoth...

Does anyone know anything about or anyone in Fargo? HoneyHaired has an opportunity to work there for a co-op this winter quarter and my knowledge is only cinematic...and it's 19 degrees there...