Three New Kitties and Cure for Insomnia

With Labor Day behind us, we say goodbye to summer. The singing of the autumn chirpers escalates with the earlier sunset hour. Though summer is waning, the hummingbirds still hover and dart around the porch. I refilled their feeder for perhaps the last time. 

I have three new kitties. 

We lost our Hemingway cat, Malcolm, to old age and wanted another farm cat to hold down the mice population and deter the minks that ate all our chickens, but somehow we ended up with three. Though feral and shy, two out of three have become tame, perhaps by good food and the Grandma Linck in me. She who warmed milk in a saucepan for her cat in winter. Her spirit hovers in the air like the whirr of a hummingbird. Or maybe they sense her in the owl that hoots outside my window before swooping over the field of Queen Anne’s Lace and goldenrod for the woods beyond. I named the first shy kitty Sneaky Pete. The second to show up is Charlie, who hides under the porch, and skedaddles at the slightest disturbance. The third to adopt us is the prettiest. Grace is gray and white with a big fluffy tail and greenish-blue eyes that shine like ingots of stained glass.  Isn't she pretty?  Now I need to find a free neuter clinic, or at least one with reduced cost.

When the house is asleep but I’m not and can’t, I like to write,  sometimes stream-of-consciousness musing but also a new novel still in its infancy but growing in fits and starts like a pimpled adolescent.

Ahh . . . this writing life. It can be a fine one as long as you aren't in it for the money.  On that note, give a free listen to my new audiobook narrated by the old college suitemate, Jan Harley with her musical voice, and her friend, David Danger. (Gotta love that name!) He does a fine job with Stefan's voice. Curls my toes.

Pining

 
The drone of the crop duster drifts through my window
like a helicopter looking for a landing.
 

Birds sing and flit around the feeders

But where are the butterflies?

 

What is a will-o'-the-wisp?

What is a whip-poor-will?

 

The bees that escaped their hives in protest

Of a neighbor’s rough handling swarmed

 

My porch, my yard, my window screens.

After two days, they rediscovered their hives

And lifted the siege. I went to the grocery. 

The anniversary of a death approaches

But I’m not a Buddhist to celebrate the end. 

I’m not pining like the doves who coo

From the highwire from where they see what they see 

But where are the butterflies? Where are the pond frogs?

 

The crop duster returns in the evening to herald dusk

the way frogs once did.

 

A murder of crows caw from the top of a tree

struck by lightning. Will they remember my face?

Written for Poets and Storytellers who challenge us to write something both spooky and summery (summerween!). Nothing is spookier here in the lowlands of Southeast Michigan than the constant drone of the cropduster. What they are doing can't be seen, like the roots of a tree. 

And for dVerse Poets  who gave us a poem from Pablo Neuvda's Book of Questions, Why do trees concal their roots? a poem that prefers questions to answers."

 

The Drought Diary

I used to have a haynow diary back when I had papa's haymow for a writing hideaway. Now I have a boring armchair dairy. But today I'm calling it a drought diary. Looking for a rain cloud, avoiding the sunny side of the street. 

I've been digging the weeds out from around my tomato plants. They had a slow start with all the deer hobnobbing about, then the tiller broke, then it rained, then I was down and out with a nasty summer cold, so the weeds ran away like the dish and the spoon. Now drought. Sitting under a ceiling fan, scornfully disdainful of AC. But....

If our norm continues to be 90-plus-degree-days, I shall succumb. Are there still people out there who think global warming is a hoax?  Not if they're as old as I am and can remember when winter came byThanksgiving and didn't let up until April. The one small exception was the January thaw. Do you know what that was?  It was famous about the farm. If you're under forty you may not know. If you are under thirty you probably don't care.

One True Sentence

 I recently read a report from someone who'd seen a indigo bunting. I never have and I wonder if I ever will. My thoughts trailed off into our poor air quality and growing water problems, starving children and drone warfare, and I wonder, have we all grown too numb to care?

Here in Michigan, for the past two summers we have been under frequest air quality alerts due to wildfires in Canada. Because of drought and heat, these promise to continue and worsen. We grow numb to the gunmetal skies and the misty fog that isn't normal. 

(The Mighty Mac shrouded in smoke)

Four days ago I was outside and noticed that the sky was clear blue, crystal clean to the horizon, and a light bulb went off. This is what it's supposed to look like. That quickly my brain had accepted the gray pollutant-laden air as normal. We are an adaptable species. We adapt to polluted waters, floating fish, and reports of starving children without hearing any of it. We resort to the comfort of word puzzles on our phones and numbing television, the literal burying-of-heads in the sand and hope someone else will make it all better. Slap a Band-Aid on it.

I'm struggling with a work in progress centering around amphibian loss in a polluted world, a world that needs help but those with deep pockets don't care. I'm not a Rom-Com writer. I can't write fantasy, or comic. I think of the  Hemmingway quote "Write one true sentence". That's harder than it sounds. Slow down, think, and write one true thing. It could take all day. A week. But, as Jim Harrison said "Good art doesn't specialize in cheap solutions." Couldn't the same be said for good air? Good water? Good schools and good health?

I think of all the trees I've planted without acknowledging the fact that I will never see them grow to their fullest beauty, never sit under their shade,  but maybe my children will. Maybe a small niece or nephew will. Maybe that's an iota of compensation for not leaving the world better than how we found it. 

But back to this manuscript where I'm stuck on page 216. What do I do with these people? How do I make a reader care? I go back to my opening sentence and change it every time. Self-doubt creeps in like an imp on the stairs. Today I will stay off page 1 and work on page 217. 

Underground Yarn and Books

 On the shelf in Hershey PA!!!

Underground Yarn and Books just sent me this photo. They are celebrating their grand opening and for the first month are featuring select titles from my publisher. The co-owners of this eclectic shop are as awesome as the yarn she dyes and the books he curates. 

Yarns, books, coffee, and community. 

Check them out online or, what the heck, take a road trip ala Jack Kerouac.

 The only ones for me are the mad ones, the ones mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing but burn burn burn  . . .

The Beat Generation might be fading from the scene but amongst writers, poets, artists, and creators of all types, there are still plenty of mad ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing.

As a crocheter and knitter, I appreciate the yarn side of their business as well as the books. For me that's a winter activity, but her colors sure are gorgeous to look at. Winter will be here soon enough, blankets and bundles of yarn on the lap. 

Also, I'm happy to announce that my college buddy and her friend, David Danger, have finished narrating my novel, Let Evening Come and it is now available on Audible or wherever you get your audiobooks. Danger has a beautiful voice and is helping to produce the song background for another friend's book that is being produced by Lifetime Netflix. 

In other respects, it's been a tough summer. My husband lost his entire flock of laying hens to mink(s). Over the course of a two-week period, he went from 45 birds to 5. The disgusting varmints can fit through a hole the size of a quarter and once they discovered our chickens there was no stopping them. In desperation (having tried traps and whatall) we moved them down to my sister's coop where they would be safe.

My side gig (when I'm not browsing bookstores and soliciting readings, is gardening. This year the out-of-control deer have devoured eveything, even eating my tomato plants which has never happened before. Can we add them to the varmint open season list? I've discovered the five things I can grow are eggplant, peppers, squash, garlic, and cucumbers.

That's it folks. The happy and the sad. The exhilarating and the disheartening. At least they're balanced out, or I might go mad.

The Best Tavern in America

From out of the weather

into the quiet

of the St. James Tavern-

as through a decompression chamber-

we escape the noise of the city.

The only sounds are the clink of ice,

clunk clunk clunk of the billiard tables,

and murmur of voices over

the pull of the tap and roll of the surge.

A television-free zone where hardwood floors are heeled to a shine,

voices and laughter seem soft and sacred as in the nave of a church.

Where connections are forged 

under dim lights and electric vibes.

A haven where monsters need not apply.

In restaurant speak the 86 Board means What We Are Out Of.  At the St. James Tavern in Columbus Ohio it means what we are sick of. 

A happy Sunday to all!  As we used to say before the pandemic, it's Sunday Funday. Can we bring it back?  Or as Poets & Storytellers United ask, start over again? 
 

I Never Wanted Anything More

The sun burns off the fog

as orioles eat store-bought

grape with no mind

as to where it came from

or who grew and picked

the grapes and filled the jar.
Me, sipping coffee from beans we can't grow

but remembering young girls with shy smiles

picking beans under triple canopy jungle.

I open the door to snap photos

as the fog lifts from the headlands

and a bank of clouds pose as a mountain,

white-peaked with angry undertones—

indigo bunting breaking free of the mother cloud.

Red wing blackbird glides in for a landing

confident as a pilot adjusting his flaps.

I never wanted anything more.

Written and posting for dVerse, the Poet's Pub, "Go and Open the Door" and for Poets and Storytellers who ask for a Slice of Life. This is mine. Have a cuppa with me?!

The Misuse Of Language

The misuse of language induces evil in the soul" -  Socrates

Socrates wasn't talking about grammar. To misuse language is to use it the way politicians and advertisers do, for profit, without taking responsibility for what the words mean.

I wish we were only talking about grammar. Grammar is easy. It has clear, indisputable rules, but if you misuse them it won't be catastrophic. Whether you do it on purpose or because you aren't aware of the rules, it won't impact your  livelihood or your neighbor (unless she's a grammarian!), and you can still be an honest, hardworking, good person, and a good neighbor. 

The deliberate misuse of langauge is another animal. As in Orwell's Nineteen Eighty Four with its Newspeak, Doublethink, and  Thought Police, we have the same authoritatian decrees popping up like chickweed, by different names but hiding under the same cloak. Orwell's fictional world had banned books, control of news outlets and intimidation of the press, government control of universities and curiculums. When I first read Nineteen Eighty Four, I thought it was creepy but bizaare and ridiculous and could never happen here.

But truth is hard to discern when it is under constant attack. Is that an apple or an apricot? A spider or a cockroach? How long will we have three branches of government, separate but equal? How long before the pillars cave under the slow grinding down of the truth? What about freedom of speech and peaceful assembly? Separation of church and state? 

Federal agencies tasked with guarding the Common Good—food inspectors, for instance, (that can of tuna you've never worried about opening) are being shackled and dismantled. Cuts to our Food Safety Inspection Service (FSIS) with firings of thousands of food inspectors to be replaced by sycophants or by nobody is the latest blow to food safety protections and incredibly dangerous.

The latest insult is the gutting of the Institute of Museum and Library Services, the agency responsible for distributing federal funding to libraries. Four of the Big Five publishers just sent a letter to Congress, asking them to reject the executive order signed on March 14th calling for the elimination of the IMLS and rescinding the library grants appropriated by Congress. More about that on Nathan Bransford Blog. 

Why would I write something so bleak when spring is knocking at the door and the daffodils are up? I write it for my ancestors who immigrated to this country because it embodied all of the before mentioned freedoms, none more so than freedom of religion, which if we would have it, also means freedom from it. 

If you want a prescient glimpse of what our world might look like with a ruling billionaire class, read I Cheerfully Refuse by Lief Engler, set in a not-too-distant America.  

Historians have said, "When fascism comes to America, it will come wrapped in the flag and waving the cross.” 

Wheelbarrow in the Snow

My short story, Maybe in The Milkhouse, a rural writing collective. 

Chemical farming catches up to these flawed characters who struggle with the difficulty of being human. 

Pushcart Prize Nominees

It's cold this morning with snow fog blanketing the land but I'm wrapped in an old afghan with a hot cup of coffee, warm with the news:

Pushcart Nominee

I hate tooting my own horn but you know what they say.

Thanks for reading this blog especially those of you who have put up with me all these years!!

The Greatest of Lakes If We Can Keep It

 

Sand gives way under my feet

as I bend to the effort

of climbing a dune

on the sweetwater sea.

 

Beyond waving fronds of seagrass

water to the horizon heaves and hurls

plumes of foam that pound the shore.

It polishes stone

and whittles driftwood

burnished and smooth as a baby’s sole.

 

With sand in my shoes

hardpack underfoot

I fill my pockets.

Clouds scurry happily overhead

as gulls ride the waves

like surfers in wet suits.

 

Where water meets sky

the stars and the moon live in the depths

while on a rush of wing

eagle eats gull and feathers fly—

            ferocious predator

            rules the sky

while fox of the bayou

trots over the sedge

to circle his den of many rooms—

            intrepid hunter

rules the beachhead

as Superior turns herself

inside out to bring in treasures

whittled to size by the push and pull

of the big shining sea.

For dVerse, the Poet's Pub, and their Open Link Night, Poets and Storytellers, what does "low battery" mean to you, and how do you recharge?  and What's Going On the writer's blog that asks us to think about the personal nature of homemade gifts, and while they're the best, I think gifts washed up on the shore of Lake Superior might be their equal