Why I Watch Birds – Stafford Challenge Day 6

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Our host today at http://www.ethicalela.com for Day 3 of the 5-day January Open Write is Dave Wooley of Connecticut, who inspires us to write WHY poems in list form, choosing a list of purpose and then explaining it in 10 because reasons. Hop on over and read his prompt and the poems that are born into the world today. I’ve chosen a prose poem to combine with the list poem just because I got rambling a little bit on the bird soapbox……

Why I Watch Birds

Because Eastern Phoebe, see, she’s the forest drunk and she hiccups and calls her own name like she’s forgotten who she is and where she’s supposed to be, and she makes me laugh first and then cry later like that time at the Atlanta Braves game when that lost woman looking for her seat stumbled down to the front of an entire section and yelled up to ask if ANYBODY recognized her

Because Brown-Headed Nuthatch, see, she’s always in the middle of a domestic dispute telling somebody how it’s gonna be, telling her man he ain’t got a lick of sense and he ain’t coming all up in her tree stirring up no trouble, better carry his ass on out there and find another nest to be a deadbeat dad, and she makes me cheer her strength

Because White-Headed Nuthatch, see, she’s the Social Media Gossip, laughing like an evil circus clown at all the crap she stirs up in the woods, revealing her own true self in the mirror, projecting her sins through the rough-bared face of the forest trees, and she helps me see the weakness and insecurity of people who laugh at others like this

Because Great Horned Owl, see, he’s an all-nighter with all this early morning coffee shop talk across the farm, like he’s an old man sharing some great wisdom when all it is, is a ploy because let’s face it — the man sleeps all day and sheds no light on anything pertinent to school, so why they ever put a cap and gown on him baffles me, and he reminds me not to let his kind fool me

Because Wood Thrush, see, he’s a bird that blends into the scenery, yet his song is the most beautiful of all, kind of like those normal-looking people who step behind a microphone and belt out a song that’ll bring you to tears and give you chills and wonder to yourself, where did that come from? And who else am I underestimating? 

Because Eastern Wood-Pewee, see, he’s always answering roll call, saying his name like he’s entered the building and the party can start, like a kid with a bad case of Senioritis who is perpetually late and wants to be sure he’s marked present so he’s not caught skipping

Because Northern Cardinal, see, he’s a woman-whistler, cat-calling at every woman who walks by, calling her pretty, pretty, pretty, just like some will do – some with good intentions, some with not-so-good intentions, but still giving me the gumption to tilt my chin up and carry on with the day

Because Ruby-Throated Hummingbird, see, she will ask for her food and thank me for it, then hover directly a foot from my face and look into my eyes like she’s blessing me with good vibes of peace and joy to feel like I can make a thumbprint-size difference, reminding me that all hope springs forth and wells up from a tug the size of a tiny thimble into a cascading waterfall

Character Motivation – Stafford Challenge Day 5

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Anna Roseboro of Michigan is our host at http://www.ethicalela.com for Day 2 of the January Open Write, where educators gather to write poetry and share thoughts. Today’s prompt has us thinking about the motivation of a book character – what drives them to action. 
I thought of the book I’m reading, An Irish Country Doctor by Patrick Taylor, and decided on two limericks today, showing the relationship between the old doctor O’Reilly and young doctor Laverty. (I changed the last line of the first limerick about twelve times…..you can guess the obvious struggle with that last word, but I kept it clean since it’s Sunday – my own motivation and reason).

The Young and The Old

There was a young doctor from Belfast
whose countryside practice in green grass
was learning the ropes
in this village of folks
from an old mentor doctor with wise sass 

When Laverty finds Doc O’Reilly
he bites his tongue, sees raw truths wryly
patient respect is a must
as country doctors earn trust
before they’re regarded so highly

Scrabble Tile Name Word Poems – Stafford Challenge Day 4

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Take a prompt from Anna Roseboro at Ethical ELA (go over there and read it – it’s amazing) and spin it with Scrabble tiles using the letters in a book character’s name, add a current event, and show the perspective that the character would have on the real event today, and this is something like what you might get:

DR. BARRY LAVERTY Laments Chancellor Departing NUI

Dr. Barry Laverty
of Ballybucklebo
would find it quite
A TEARY DAY
to see that chancellor go

He himself from Belfast,
a young BRAVE new M.D.,
found a job
in lush, green hills
in Irish country, see?

As Dr. Manning
hangs his gown
this YEAR at NUI
his more than DREARY
stepping down
grieves those lamenting
his good-bye

My poem is based on the character Dr. Barry Laverty from An Irish Country Doctor by Patrick Taylor, my current read, and the news out of Ireland about the current chancellor, Dr. Maurice Manning, stepping down from the National University of Ireland (NUI), hanging his ceremonial gown for the last time. 

Frozen Toad – Stafford Challenge Day 3

It was 13 degrees when I woke up to take the dogs out at 5:15 a.m. For three years now, I have risen well ahead of time to leave for work, just so I can get my daily writing done. My goal time is 6:00 A.I.S* in the living room chair where my lap desk, lamp, and computer are arranged. 

I was trying to talk myself out of a shower in this insane cold, but I knew I needed what my husband calls “climatizing” – – water that regulates the body to the normal temperature before heading out into the world to see what the day brings.

Normally, all three dogs get a treat and head back to bed while we get ready, but somehow two of them got shut out of the bedroom and remained in the living room while I took my shower. I heard whining at the door, and when I opened it to go into the living room, Fitz and Ollie made a beeline for the bed to join their brother Boo, who was buried under the covers, snoozing.

That was when I saw it.

Aha! I thought. Making a mess by the couch, I see. No wonder they hung back in the living room.

Not one of our boys wanted to go to the edge of the woods in this cold as they usually do for this kind of business. They’d all three peed and come straight back inside. But not one of them did the other emptying.

I grabbed a paper towel to clean it up, but when I got there, it wasn’t what I thought it was.

This dog mess was a frozen toad. 

I picked it up to toss it back out the door and wondered whether it may still be alive. On closer inspection when I flipped it onto its back in my hand, I saw the poor creature struggling to breathe. 

My Grandmother Jones would be rolling over in her grave, but I clasped the frigid little thing between my palms to warm it and soon felt a stirring. A muscle stretch. A pulse of life. 

But how? I wondered. How had this frozen toad gotten into our house?

I’d brought the plants inside at lunchtime the previous day, ahead of the cold. Perhaps it could have come in that way, but it was far too cold to have slept in the heat of the house. I concluded that it must have been waiting by the door and jumped in when I’d taken the dogs outside. 

As I put my socks on, though, it hit me – – the toad had been quite frozen, too stiff to move. There was no way it could have hopped twelve feet from the door to the corner of the couch. 

What had happened?

After piecing the possibilities together, my husband and I believe that our toad-loving Fitz brought this little buddy inside and hopped up into his favorite living room resting place on the back of the couch with it, guarding it. That must be why he and Ollie hadn’t come back to bed – they’d been toad watching.

We slowly thawed it out, and I took it to work with me – and to the local coffee shop for a meeting – in a little plastic box with the lid half-cocked and taped shut. At lunchtime, I brought it back and released it right here on the farm so that it could return to its family. Not many Pike County toads can say they were brought back from death and taken out for a morning of work and coffee.

But Lazarus can (thanks to Glenda Funk for suggesting the name).

Back-Again Amphibian Tanka

In the house, a toad

Somehow, in from dark night’s cold

Lazarus, jump forth!

Resurrected Frozen Toad

Back-Again Amphibian

A.I.S., as defined on an episode of the sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond, means ass in seat.

Melatonin Dreams – Stafford Challenge Day 2

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melatonin dreams

sweet sleep or nightmares?

milligrams matter

It’s always a coin toss. Do I want to get some sleep even with disturbing dreams, or do I want to wake up at 2 a.m. and try to suffer through the day?

I chose the sleep with dreams last night. Ten milligrams brings nightmares, but a five milligram dream is not all that terrible – usually.

In my 5 mg dream, I had been on a cruise ship with my husband’s side of the family, and we’d just returned home when some of us fell ill. And by family, I mean all of the Thursday night dinner crowd: Briar, his dad, his brother and sister-in-law, his son, and me. When two of them tested positive for the flu, some guys in white coats showed up at our door and put us in a van and took us to a medical testing lab to see if we had it, too.

We did. 

They took us into a hall, where everyone was lying on the floor waiting on a bed. All the cruise baggage was still there, and each person was lying next to the luggage they brought. I took a picture of this, because I wanted proof they were making us get on the floor.

One by one, each person was taken down the hall when a bed became available.

I pointed to the copy machine I’d brought. Our office really did get a new one recently, and we’d all had to attend the 15-minute training on how the new one works and what not to do to break it. So it seemed logical that I’d taken the new copy machine on the cruise and now had it with me, rolling it around everywhere, even here in the medical facility.

The doctor came to tell me I’d tested positive and that I was being admitted to the hospital, and he had a little laptop that had my entire history on it. ”Well, if I’d seen that you’d taken pain pills when you had your children, I’d have never prescribed them for you. You’re probably only here for the prescription pain meds,” he accused.

This sent me into a fiery rage, and I unleashed on him. I screamed and caused a scene, right next to my copy machine I was pulling around.

“You %@$&@%^,” I yelled, pointing my finger an inch from his nose, making sure everyone in the building could hear me. “Yeah, you in your professional lab coat. I am not here by choice. Your people came and got me and accused me of being sick, and now you’re falsifying documents to say that I am and you’re forcing me into the hospital against my will when I have to go to work tomorrow. I am NOT taking your medicine.” 

I find myself so satisfyingly bold in dreams, yet never enough like this in real life. 

With that, he motioned to a nurse to come start an IV on me, and I started kicking and flailing my arms. 

“What exactly do you do?” he asked.

“I make sure people can read so they have sense. Something you skipped in school. You have no sense. You did not ever get the help you need, and all these people in this facility think you’re a real doctor, but you’re not. You’re here to try to trick us, and you’re sending us to another planet.” 

Everyone was staring at me, dumbfounded, and my family was all in a deep sleep, too deep to care. They’d already gotten their IV medicine and were being taken away, one by one.

I moved over behind my copy machine, but suddenly it sprang a handle and wheels and started looking more like a wagon, and one of the male nurses pulled it off to the side where I couldn’t get behind it. I was scared my school was going to charge me for it, and I threatened to sue the nurse for damaging this high dollar equipment.

The nurse didn’t care. No one cared.

They put me on a bed and wheeled me to a chamber.

They made us all get into hyperbaric pods so they could monitor us to be sure we were sleeping the fevers off. The chambers slept 4, with beds all around the edges of a capsule shape. Two kids’ beds were at both short ends, and regular twins were on the edges. You had to step up into the chamber on a little step that dropped down, and it looked a lot like a cross between an Airstream camper and a silver space ship. There were even lights on the thing.

They tried to put me in one with an old lady and a young child, and I saw them asleep and started screaming to wake them up. I screamed in the child’s ear, directly in the ear, thinking the child would cry, but she didn’t. 

The door sealed shut like on an airplane, and an engine started revving, and I was beside myself with fear, knowing I was headed to Mars and that no one on this ship knew how to fly it. 

I woke up in a sweat at 5 a.m., more ready than ever to go to work.

I didn’t have a copy machine to lug back to the office, and I was not headed to Mars.

I’m cutting back to 2.5 milligrams of Melatonin tonight. I’ll cut the gummy in half and see if I can get to a more manageable and more normal nightmare.

Stafford Challenge Kickoff – Day 1

I accepted the challenge thrown at my feet. And by thrown at my feet, I mean the Facebook post stopped my scroll. I clicked on Learn More and read the details. A poem a day for a year, starting January 17. They call it the Stafford Challenge, and registration ends today.

Sounds like my kind of adventure.

I signed up, and my backpack is ready for the year ahead. My computer is charged, my coffee is hot, and my momentum is high. I’m looking around – – where is the inspiration in any writing time? Never farther than a foot away. I see my coffee cup, white with a black butterfly etched in the surface. Me. I see myself – caffeine for the long journey ahead, and the freedom to make it. 

I have a Zoom tonight to see what it’s all about, but for today, all I need is my poem. 

Ready

wings spread, eyes open

every moment, a story

becomes a poem

Cast Iron Awakenings

Nightstand Before
  • Cast Iron Awakenings

still flipping old things ~

hotcakes in cast iron griddles

old wood awakens

a new lease on life

repurposed for the future

strong memories past

I’ve joined The Stafford Challenge to write a poem every day starting tomorrow for the remainder of the year. It’s free, and it looks like a great way to connect and encourage other writers, according to their website. If you’re participating in the challenge, I hope to see you there! I’ll still be regularly participating in all the writing groups I have grown to love – and adding one more! I deeply appreciate all of the writing groups and those who share their ideas and slices of their lives with me.

Nightstand After

Heartfelt thanks to Two Writing Teachers for hosting the weekly Slice of Life , giving writers inspiration and space to share.

House Finch Window Peeper

wee morning house finch

bedheaded and curious

watching me brush teeth

 ***  ***

just who’s watching whom?

he was just letting me know

the feeder’s empty

A Sparkling Sage Face Lift

Fifteen years ago, after we’d just moved into the house we designed during dinnertimes on napkins while we dated, I scoured thrift shops for inexpensive furniture and was surprised to find a little end table in amazing condition for ten dollars. It had a lot of scratches on it, but I figured it would mostly be covered with books and other things, so I scooped it up for my reading room, to sit beside the chair with a lamp – to hold my To Be Read pile and my coffee. 

As I looked at pieces of furniture needing a face lift at the beginning of 2024, this little table made the short list. I moved all of the things it was holding and dusted it off, getting it ready for a couple of coats of paint and a good polishing. 

Table before the refinish, turned with the brass-handled drawer facing the bookshelves

I sanded the top to find a much lighter wood – pine, stained in a rich chestnut color originally. Since I sit in the reading room to watch birds and enjoy the southeasterly views of the farm, I decided on a Sparkling Sage (Valspar) chalk paint for the bottom of the table, keeping the color of grass and life close at hand. Once I discovered the wood was a lighter color, I resisted the urge to whitewash the top and instead keep the natural wood under a coat of clear satin water-based polyurethane. I also decided to do something I haven’t done before – I kept the original hardware and painted it, too. 

Upcycled table iin the morning stream of sunlight

With a few touches of coordinating colors in decor accents, I’m pleased with the way it turned out. Now I’m ready for a new foot pouf to throw up my feet as I read and watch for birds to come to the feeders. 

And I’ve already got my eye on the next project that I want to accomplish as I look to paint and re-create before the annual cycle of deep spring cleaning begins in March. 

Thread Nonet and Craft Room Dreams

I’ve been cleaning out my sewing notions that I’ve collected over the years. When Mom died, I inherited many of her notions and her magical Bernina sewing machine. Mom sewed all the way through high school, making most of her formal gowns (and mine, later). She made us matching dresses when I was young enough to still think that was cool, on the before side of life for being able to appreciate those sweet memories. When I was nine or ten, I made my first pair of bright green Terry cloth shorts, crying in frustration at having to rip seams and all less than perfect stitches in between, and I’m certain that the thread spool that witnessed my fits is among these in the picture. I’m also fairly certain that my crying fits of sewing are the deciding factor that I’m a 1 on the enneagram and not a 3 or 5. 

My goal today is to cut my supply of thread by at least half, keeping variations of the shades that I will use for rag quilting and mending and hemming clothes. As I look at this photo, one thing stands out to me that I may not have seen if I hadn’t organized by color. Mom wore bright pinks, reds, and bright blues – and to see this photo is to see her in all her handiwork right here on my kitchen counter. She’s urging me to take some lovely photos of the spools and then share the rest with others who sew so that others can squeeze more life out of items that would otherwise end up in a landfill. 

On, now, to buttons, rick rack, and other notions. I’m thinking of converting our office into a sewing room……I much prefer being creative to paying bills and sorting paperwork that piles up and has nowhere to live. 

Thinking………..

Inherited Thread Nonet

a bit of useless information:

I own one hundred sixty four

spools and seven empty spools

sorted by ROY G BIV

rainbow color groups

I should never

need to buy

more new

thread…….