The Twilight Of Easter

T’was the evening of Easter and in the backyard

We watched all those golfers not working too hard

No clouds in the sky were there to be spotted.

We saw going by the deer as they trotted

Near our side of the woods they’re headed for home

‘round us neither antelope nor buffalo roam.

Seeing all this wildlife, you might think it funny  

That despite all this watching, we’ve seen not one bunny.

But we’re thankful it’s springtime in South Carolina

And to be here at Easter, not much could be finer.

We somehow wound up here, the causes aren’t clear 

But complaints out of us, you surely won’t hear. 

We set aside part of almost every spring day 

To give thanks to the forces that came into play.

Our kids and our grands are both quite nearby,

And that’s one more reason that we never cry--

“We wish that we lived in northern Illinois!”

But we’ll soon come to visit, cold air to enjoy.

Meanwhile, we’re sending “Happy Easter,” wishes

ta-ta for now, I must do the dishes. 

Number 44--I Can’t Find This Message In Any Hallmark Card

I stood there in the store aisle

Reading cards all the while

It was just really hard 

To find the right card.

One card’s message to convey

All of the things I had to say

Giving up, I composed this rhyme

To save us both some time

And avoid driving on to yet another store

To read cards, it would seem, just forever more.

I wanted you to know I still feel about you

The way that I did when I first said, “I do.”

After forty-four years, I’d guess you’re shocked I remember old feelings like these

When yesterday you watched, as I spent a half hour in search of my keys. 

Of this one thing you can always be certain,

Our wedding day I’ll remember ‘til the final curtain.

And I will love you all the days of my life,

Since that day you consented to become my wife.

One Toasty Mornin'

The lady of the house put out some fine Irish bread

Sayin’—“Sure, if you’d like to try some, go ahead.”

Thus I found a whole loaf set out in the kitchen.

And though I thought the loaf would need no enrichin’

She said the taste might improve with a wee bit of toastin’

I tried it out and she was surely not boastin’

Oats, The Weather and I

Maybe I’m a bit too traditional in some instances, but here it is-I don’t eat oatmeal when the temperature is above forty degrees.  I live in South Carolina, as a consequence, I still have a small canister (18 ounces) of oatmeal in the pantry that I bought in 2016 (don’t worry, it says “best if used before September 22^nd of 2018.”).  

So far this winter, I’ve eaten about four times as much as I did last winter, and it’s starting to look like I’ll be able to use all of it.  That would mean consuming more than 13 servings! In less than two years!  I can see by the forecast for the rest of this month that I will have at least five opportunities to eat oatmeal. (Brrrrr!) Is this a great country, or what?

Retention

I’m not young enough to know everything.

                                                                                                                              -J. M. Barrie

It always seems to have been easiest to think you know everything when you are young.  You get an idea, you think about it a lot, then you come to the conclusion you know everything there is to know about it. This keeps happening again and again.  Soon, you will know it all.

The younger you are, the more likely it seems you have all the answers-you know all about all the “latest things” after all.  Maybe some start out humble, but find they cannot stay that way.   They feel compelled to drop the humble stuff when they learn a few more things.  Knowing more things, they realize they know more than almost everyone they know (especially if most of them happen to be older than they are).    

Is it just one’s youth that leads them to conclude things won’t change, and this day’s success will continue indefinitely?   I can''t answer that, I just don't know. I do know one thing for certain—my memory isn’t what it used to be.  So, if I ever did know many things (never “most things” and certainly not “everything”), it’s too late—I’ve forgotten most of it.   

 

Some Days He’ll Wax Poetic (continued)

Some Days He’ll Wax Poetic (continued)

Some days he’ll wax poetic,

On others, it's just pathetic

Perhaps it comes from too much hard work, he mused.

Unable to recall any work, that notion seemed confused.

Now suppose each day that he insisted

That his first act each day consisted

Of wordcraft and some exercise—

Though too much exertion seems unwise

Ah, but should a rhyme arrive,

He can take it for a drive.

And if he feels a spin,

He might just dive right in.

He won’t really wish to swim,

Such commitment bothers him.

That’s why he values the diving

It precludes all the striving,

It ‘s merely sink or swim

Which makes beginning simpler for him.

Now and then his muse will ignore him

And he finds there’s little help for him

Leaving him to struggle and grope

While he ‘s at the keyboard, one can hope

SAVORING SOME MEMORIES OF MARYANN

Just in case anyone decides to write a book about Maryann, I want to offer my reflections on a few chapters you might include.   First, there has to be a chapter on cooking.  I know in her lifetime she must have prepared thousands of meals (including dozens of Thanksgiving turkeys), but two things stand out in my mind—Dump Cake and Corned Beef and Cabbage. 

First the dump cake—take two cans of any pie filling you like (apple, cherry, peach, or even pumpkin if you must), spray a baking dish with Pam and dump in the pie filling.  Then dump in a box of the cake mix of your choice.  Spread the cake mix out to cover the entire dish, and then pour a melted stick of butter on top.  Bake at 350 for 45 minutes or so.   Serve warm.  Unforgettable and simple, it sounds like Maryann. 

Then there was her corned beef.  As a person of Irish descent, it did not seem right that I despised corned beef and cabbage.  Then along came Maryann and her wonderful corned beef tasted like a different meal altogether—Hmm, a Polish girl showing an Irishman the way to the food of his own heritage?

The next chapter that comes to mind is her life with animals—I mean pets.  When we first met the Smith’s, they had a dog named Kelly.   If we came over to eat, Kelly would pester us at the table, looking for a scrap.  Maryann would complain about Kelly, and about anyone who fed their dog from the table, thereby causing this behavior.  After a few more long minutes of listening to the incessant begging, Maryann would roll her eyes and give Kelly a scrap of almost anything—as I recall, that dog even developed a taste for spaghetti noodles.

As Kelly grew older, she didn’t hear too well.  Every so often, Kelly would decide to lie down for a rest in the middle of the street.  Naturally, along would come the UPS truck.   The driver would honk the horn, but Kelly didn’t move, she couldn’t hear a thing.  Maryann would have to run out and pull Kelly to safety before the UPS driver could move on.  Along the way, we learned Kelly had a sister, Sammy,—a pup from the same litter who lived with another branch of Maryann’s family.  Kelly grew older, and one day passed away.  Maryann arranged a burial service with the girls and Kelly was buried in the backyard. There were no more pets for while, except for visits from Melissa’s very special dog, Ragsy.  

A few years later, Maryann and John took in a stray cat, a gift from Katie, and I think the cat still lives there today, nineteen years later.  For a long time I didn’t even know if the cat had a name (it turns out to be Kit Kat), because all Maryann, the dog-lover, would call her was “that damned cat.” 

Now, I want to also share a legend that may or may not be true, but I believe it.  Sheila and I adopted a small puppy named Stella.  Stella was the nicest little dog, she would play, she would sit on your lap and, above all, she was quiet.  Enter Maryann, observing “that dog doesn’t even make any noise,” she, legend has it, taught Stella to bark.  For the next fifteen years, Stella barked at anything and everything, and we still believe to this day, that we had Maryann to thank for it.

Finally, there has to be a chapter about Maryann, the hostess.  We met when we were all “strangers in a strange land,” moving from Up North into the South.  Into Gwinnett, the fastest growing county in America at the time.  Not long after we moved there, we had the great good fortune to get to know the Smith’s. who had moved to Atlanta from Detroit.  We were astounded to learn the following winter, that Maryann was hosting some houseguests for three weeks or so.  The guests were John’s parents AND hers—at the same time in their small house.  Also along for the visit was Kelly’s little dog-sister, Sammy—I mentioned her earlier.  So she hosted four adults and a dog in her home, already well-occupied by two adults, two girls and a dog.  We could only imagine what that must have been like, but they must have had fun, as those winter visits continued for several years.  Only a fine hostess could have held all that together. 

Seven or eight years later, my career led us to move away to Savannah, and so began a twenty-some years long tradition of stopping for a night with Maryann and John any time we travelled to visit family and friends in St.. Louis and Chicago.  Twenty years of several visits a year, it really is hard to believe.  We’d usually arrive before John made it home from work, so Maryann greeted us at the door, fed us drinks and appetizers and prepared a meal for us all.  I’d say we did this as many as fifty times over the years, and we’d only be there a matter of minutes before Maryann would send forth one of those hoots of laughter that were beyond description.   Ah, but we had fun and tonight I’m savoring all those moments. 

Anyway, if anyone does write that book, just mention me in the Foreword, won’t you?