Fame by William Stafford

My book fell in a river and rolled
Over and over turning its pages for the sun. From a bridge I saw this.
An eagle dived and snatched the slippery volume.

Now somewhere in the forest that book educates
Eagles, turns its leaves in the wind,
and all those poems whisper for autumn
to come, and the long nights, and the snow

My Lovely Daughter chose this poem to illustrate for a school project many years ago. I am happy to have discovered it through her.

Tonight Lovely Daughter and Keeper Husband are camping, somewhere in the Northern Woods with strangers (or new friends) whom they met online in a chat group for those who have Jeep Wranglers.

I have the GPS coordinates so that I will know where to start looking if they don't show up on Monday.

I wonder if she will see eagles soaring or come across a poetry book in the forest.

Fisherman's Wharf

We were in the mood to get out of the house on Sunday. I particularly wanted to be in sight of the ocean. The choices I presented at breakfast were Monterey, Half Moon Bay or San Francisco's Fisherman's Wharf.

The drive north to the edge of San Francisco Bay, where the fishing boats moor between catches, took less than an hour. We were early, as is our way; even after dog walking and driving; we were at Ghirardelli Square before 10 am. We were inspired to order real hot cocoa with whipped cream on top in the little shop amongst the chi-chi boutiques in the old brick surroundings that were once a chocolate factory.

We spent some time amazed at the clothing for canines available in "Yap Wraps". If your petite four-footed champion needs a pleated tennis skirt this is the place to come. Halloween is behind us and we had been subjected to something suspiciously resembling Christmas music at the cafe, now, here in the land of the well dressed dog, red diaphanous lingerie baby dolls were available trimmed with faux ermine or ostrich plumes. My favorite outfit was for a larger, sportier breed; something resembling a wet suit or a onesey with hood; Velcro closure along the tummy and at the wrists/ankles of the long sleeves; so that the long-legged companion can romp and play, pretending to be an animal, without fear of muddying the white Berber carpet or matching love seats upon his return to his apartment on Nob Hill.

As the street vendors set up their tables of earrings, necklaces and souvenir cable car refrigerator magnets, we strolled past a gallery or two, avoided being convinced to go on a one hour boat tour out under the bridge and back around Alcatraz, and sidled through the space between the solid wall of tee-shirts and the peddlers of fresh cooked crab and chowder on the other. A sea lion was lazily swirling around in the water, a cormorant was serenely paddling in place and Brown Pelicans were dive bombing a shoal of fish just off the quay. The air was full of the squawking of seagulls and a rival squadron of flying rodents, otherwise known as pigeons, was on the alert for the discarded sourdough shells from which the tourists spoon the goopy clam mess, mostly into their mouths. Swooping in under the piers with greater agility and less fanfare than the seagulls, Captain Pigeon and his mates managed to grab a full breakfast and strafe my previously pristine plum colored jacket with corrosive spatters of pigeon exhaust contrails. The story of my life stays reassuringly on subject.

We had lunch upstairs at Tarantinos and were so engrossed in the goings on below that we hardly noticed the view of the full span of The Golden Gate Bridge seen through the masts of the fishing fleet. On the street was a man who has been a fixture in that same spot for years. His props are a few branches which he holds before him in camouflage. He squats quietly watching for the unwary, then "Boo!" he starts forward into the crowd and grown men shriek like girls, women leap across the sidewalk clutching at their purses and all the onlookers laugh, hoping no-one got them on film when it was their turn. I wonder what this, now wizened, older man said to his school counselors on career day? I want to grow up to be a shrub with terrible interpersonal skills?

After lunch the rhythm of The Wharf was picking up.The grubby sidewalks and tacky storefronts rendered invisible under tennis shooed feet and behind the milling bodies of those out of towners who were enjoying a sunny Autumn day by the Bay. We headed back to our car and took the Great Highway south towards home.

Silence was the loud reply.

The excitement and sophistication of my life continues to inspire shock and awe, (in my own tiny mind, if nowhere else).
When I went to pick up my husband at the airport, after his recent trip to France, as well as dodging the hazards of all the ghouls and goblins who were out for Halloween, I had to gently confess that one of my foster dogs had bounced back, so to speak. Darcy has found her permanent home in Carmel, lunching with friends at The Cypress Inn, but Boomer's stay in Santa Cruz came to an abrupt end when he caught and shook the neighbor's cat. We knew he was overly interested in felines, (and not in a good way), but the prospective adopters were sure that their experienced and dog friendly cat would tame him. They were working hard to integrate the pair, although we had heard rumblings about Boomer's athletic prowess surfing over the furniture in pursuit of the small furry kitty of his dreams.
Before my spouse left he had already suspiciously asked, "If they want to bring him back, what are you going to say?" No answer was the loud reply from me. "Tell them you are going out of town" he said. Still no answer from me.
Boomer was delivered back to me last week in the middle of a dinner party I was having with friends. Luckily, Boeuf Bourguignon can stand to wait and be served only after all dog-needs are taken care of. I didn't mention his return to my traveling hubby. It would not have changed anything if I had.
A few days later, close to midnight, as we watched the lonely carousel turning at San Francisco International airport with no sign of hubby's luggage, I mentioned that there was, once again, an extra dog in the house. "I told you to tell them you were going to France with me" he said. No answer resounded this time as I was biting my tongue. There is no "I told you" that sits well with me and, by the way, I would have rather enjoyed a quick trip to Paris but I had to stay here and keep our business going! All remained unsaid, in the interest of spousal harmony. "What would you have told them if you were really in France with me?" He asked. "Then I would TRUTHFULLY have been able to tell them that" was my reply. End of discussion.

"Not Another Bloody Poem"

Friko, over at Friko's Musings recently wrote a post with the same title as above. Friko's blog is well worth a visit with a varied content of enjoyable posts. In this instance her rant about people who don't enjoy poetry provoked some thoughts/questions of my own.
-Why do we like poetry? I definitely enjoy words. The right word or phrase is satisfying. It feels like an achievement.
I was always susceptible to some poetry; fairly obvious stuff that didn't require digging too deeply to understand meaning; Keats' "Ode to Autumn" is a beautiful example. As I have matured and have more of life's experiences under my belt I enjoy poetry that can stand some interpretation. A poem can reach out to us on a personal level due to subject matter to which we can relate. Find a visceral connection to the anguish or joy expressed and be swept along with the feelings of the writer. The conversation is between the reader and the poem. Not everyone will hear the same intonations and nuances. Some are reflected from ourselves.
There are many bloggers who would tell you that they neither "Get" nor enjoy poetry. These same bloggers will often use a familiar song to showcase and represent their feelings. Is that so different? The words mean as much as the music, in most cases. Visit "The Watercats" to experience a blog that straddles musical and poetic leanings. Most of the contents are original works and the lives you will peek into through the blog are a lot of fun.
If you want an irreverent, rambunctious trip on the poetry bus go to "Totalfeckineejit"
His poetic spirit overflows like milk frothing over the edge and down the sides of an unwatched saucepan.
-Why do we post poetry on our blogs? For me it is the desire to share and so relive the pleasure of something that I found to be unique, clever, useful, moving, etc. Sometimes a thought is expressed that is clarified by someone else's aptly chosen phrase. I nod my head in agreement. I too thought that, I just had not framed the thought in words.
We also sometimes use poetry to garnish our blogs and keep them current and alive on days when we are too short on time and creativity to compose something of our own. It's a way of saying "I'm still here!"
What once would have been a very private diary has evolved into something; still private because it is as anonymous as we choose; yet shared, critiqued, supported and enhanced by the interaction of comments. Those who comment become known to us on our terms, in the world we choose to present.
My world includes poetry.

The Baaa-Studs

Whether you take this video at face value or critique the parts that may have been technologically enhanced, you have to imagine that the creative process was greatly enhanced and celebrated by the downing of pints and pints of beer down at the local pub. Cheers! to the Baa-Studs and their four-footed friends.

Timing is Everything

As French Artist Husband was winging his way back to me last night, from a trip to show his paintings in Paris; defying the natural progression of time by flying East to West; getting younger by the minute, the very fabric of the Universe was rent asunder to insert an arbitrary hour. Pray tell, where has that hour been all summer?

Somehow, as the Big Fat Seamstress of the Skies grabbed the flimsy edges either side of the patch, a stitch was dropped and two suitcases, that would otherwise have arrived with him after an arduous and uncomfortable flight, in a wheelbarrow flown by Delta Airlines, on which the proffered food was "rolled up, plastic wrapped and unrecognizable", slid sideways onto another time plane and may never be seen or heard from again.

Olives

Olive Tree in Flower


I had never seen, or thought about, the flowers of an olive tree until I received this picture from my friend Chantal. She and her aptly named husband, Olivier, planted small olive saplings 20 years ago on land they purchased in Provence.








Olives After Spring Rain
Over the years the trees have been nurtured and have grown to produce an
ever-increasing abundance of olives.









Olives Ripening Through the Summer

Once an olive tree starts to bear fruit, it
doubles in quantity every year. What was once driven to the Co-Operative in bushels in the back of a car is now pressed on site in their own Olive Press.






Almost There
There are oil tastings and competitions, much as there are for wine.











Treasure in the Making

Chantal and Olivier have won many gold medals for the quality of the oil that they lovingly produce.

Olives Ready for Harvest
We have been lucky enough to be able to import our supply of olive oil from them; in stainless steel drums, which we empty into a more manageable sized container, with a spigot, that sits on the kitchen counter and provides the green-gold nectar with which we cook and make our salad dressing every day.
The olive harvest has begun, I'm told, on the gently sloping hillsides, with a distant view of the Mediterranean. Every time I pour some olive oil I think about where it came from.