AUTUMN BREAKFAST FOR B.E......IN THE ATTIC

September arrived here at our place on the high mesa,

not five miles west of the imposing Sandia Mountains,

barely three weeks ago. 

And yesterday, almost right on schedule, an early

"blue norther" blew in big-time, with marvelous cold,

gusty winds--- that you could hear rattling the house

all over---like vicious, early young storms do---as if to

show off.  Cold rain galore came in sideways and

splattered noisily against the upstairs attic window---

the one facing north.

It all reminded me of what I called "The  Great State Fair

Norther of '74" (about which I have written), when my ten-

year-old-son and I were caught one afternoon at

the fair in an early freezing storm, which took us by

surprise about 6 p.m.  late that day...and we went 

searching all the venues for coffee.

The leaves were barely turning here, this year, except

for some poplars and cottonwoods, but this storm was 

the Real Deal, a harbinger of winter.

Now there is something I've never told you, My Reader---

so sit down for this one.

Traditionally, when the first big cold front comes each 

year in all its blustery fury, I "officially open" my cozy

attic for the season, throwing a 15 inch log or two into

the little wood stove. ..

And COOK BREAKFAST UP THERE  FOR MY SWEET

WIFE---"B.E.!"

I quickly vacuumed the room with my trusty (NOISY) little 

vacuum-broom thing which I bought at Walmart---and 

snuck B.E,'s feathery duster up there and swathed around 

with it, tho' they aren't worth-a-hoot (you guys).

Don' "try it at home!"

Now then, most of you know that there's a lot of heavy-duty

snacking and hunter/fisherman--like dining that goes on in

my attic, but in principle---no "big-time cooking of full meals."

Not that it's not a pretty-well-equipped place, in its own right.

There's a small Avanti fridge, microwave, and toaster oven,

salvaged from my office, when I retired...a decent two-burner

hot-plate...coffee pot...plus a conglomeration of camping 

plates, pots and pans--and a medium-sized iron skillet!

Real men all have iron skillets, I reckon, and I've never met

one yet who liked paper plates...that sag...and spill your food.

(There are NO paper plates in MIL'S Attic!)

All that being said, that day I had to make several trips up and

down the stairs, toting eggs, bacon, biscuits, tomatoes from 

the garden, and other stuff, not stocked upstairs. B.E. 

graciously helped!

The aroma of scrambled eggs and bacon permeated the whole

house and probably the neighborhood! (I made "cheese-eggs"

with green chillies), and cooked six or seven frozen biscuits in the

toaster oven.

We ate and talked and drank hot coffee there at the beat-up garage-

sale table, as the almost-winter wind, swirling in gusts around the

barely open window, moaned a mournful song, accompanied by

the "WHAP-WHAPs" of the pesky mulberry branches, bopping

the side of the house, in rhythm...reminding one of the Swedish

detective Wallander, and the ever-present WHAPPING-tree outside

his window!

We were discussing some of the absolutely inane stuff going on

in the world...the USA, and also the equally-unbelievable people...

...when suddenly, and without warning I began to quote a favorite

poem, memorized in the ninth grade: from "The Lay of the Last 

Minstrel" by Sir Walter Scott:

"Breathes there a man with soul so dead,

Who never to himself hath said

'This is my own, my native land!'

Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,

As home his footsteps he has turn'd

From wandering on a foreign strand!

If such there breathe, go mark him well,

For him no minstrel raptures swell,

High though his titles, proud his name

Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim;

Despite these titles, power, and pelt

The wretch, centered all in self,

Living shall forfeit fair renown,

And doubly dying, shall go down

To the dust from which he sprung,

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung."

I had used my best dramatic Charlton Heston voice, 

and with emotion...

"WOW!" she managed.

Then I asked:"Do those lines remind you of any 

Americans you know?"

"Pass the biscuits, please."

******************

MIL

SEPTEMBER, 2016

A HEARING AID LAMENT

OLD ADAGE: "NEVER WATCH THOSE WHO MAKE 

  YOUR SAUSAGE...YOUR LAWS...OR YOUR

     HEARING AIDS..."

There must be a right smart---an awful lot---

    of sweaty, tedious, challenging,

         and exacting hard work

And pricey raw materials galore, and 

    maybe even overtime

That go into the making of a pair

    of those silly little things

       that you stick in your ear

    to help you hear

Strange also that health plans steer clear

    of any coverage...and please don't 

        mention them to a candidate---

Or it could be "Free hearing aids for all!"

"How much are they, nowadays?" You say

     to the Tech, as you exit that testing

  booth...then quickly sit down on the stool

      for the bad news

And you know---these hearing experts have

     been trained proper: they're 

  sent to school and have taken 

           "DICKER 101."

YES, they know how to "dicker" prices!

"Well er, it depends," he hems-and-haws,

      "whether you want...

           the OLD DATED ECONOMY ONES

      or

           the VERY BEST MODERN ONES!"

"Costs run from $2800 to $6000," he explains

     with excitement in his face and 

         anticipation of a big commission

(The whole event reminded me of the movie

      scene in "The Shakiest Gun In The

  West" when the shyster held the 

      abacus up for Don Knotts to verify.)

Try dickering with an "abacus quote!"

"Well, one thing's for sure, in all this business,"

     I say, "None of those pinto bean-sized

   aids, that have a little string on 'em

        and get lost in your ear---for me---"

            "NOSSIR!"

"Give me the good old-fashioned ones...

     you know, with the amplifiers 

   over the ears, like my old ones---"

"Besides, I've got a whole bunch of Size 13

      batteries," I tell him.

Picking out a pair, I say  "How much will 

    they be?" 

And I, having had "DICKER 404," quickly

    throw into the mix: "And don't forget it---

       I may run over to COSTCO---they

    have 'em real cheap---and just compare

       your price!"

Ah, I saw a glimmer of sympathy right then

    in that Boy's left eye, (and it was.when

        I realized that he had a glass eye...)

and I knew he felt a little bad for an old timer---

    one about to go on a dog food diet---

         just to be able to hear!

(And all this because BE had become a 

     whisperer in her later years)

This man "with heart" right then--sensed it was

    "time to close the sale," and 

          magnanimously cried: "It'll be 

     XXX Thousands, and we'll throw in 

          two-month's supply of free Size 13

                          batteries!"

"GLORY-AH.....GLORY-AH...." 

      Were the angels in heaven...

            singing?

We signed up---ah, my second pair!

"They'll be here in two days---I specified

    'RUSH! ' " he almost shouted.

(Maybe a GRAND of their price was for the

     rush-hauling of those heavy things.)

I pondered all this interesting happening

         on the way home,

    and discussed it with BE.

Hearing aids...hmmm....$2800--$6000...

More money than I made in a year, when

    we were young.

Half of what our first house cost....

Our '57 Golden Hard-Top Chevrolet was $2700.

Our turquoise '60 Chevrolet was $3800.

Our '72 Chevrolet 3/4 Ton Custom Camper 

    pickup was $5000.

Why are hearing aids so "absorbent"---as my

     N.Y. friend used to say?

"The answer my friend, is blown' in the wind...

    The answer is blown' in the wind."

******************

BY MIL

6/13/16

WISDOM FROM AN OLD FARMER

"The things that make us happy don't cost a dime..."

Did you ever think about it?

Most things that make us happy

    don't cost a dime.

It's true.

Up early, and I sit on my nice

     front porch wood deck,

With my sweet, gentle, loyal lady...

    who has ever been by my

         side...lo, these many years

And we're sipping hot coffee,

    breathing clean, fresh air,

        an' just relaxing...

....sharing the gift of time

The bright sun in the blue sky,

    lighting the world and

        warming us costs 

             nothing

The big beautiful white clouds are

    beginning to billow up...

        as the morning sun 

            climbs higher

We can almost feel the sun's energy

    creeping into our bones

A fish jumps out of the pond!

    Have we got a trout?

Birds are singing in the trees

    and a black raven, hungry 

         for breakfast,

               is soaring about

A turtle is seen creeping across our

     dewy green lawn, seemingly

         in no great hurry

Old Jeremiah, our beloved frog 

    out in the pond---looks 

       like a preacher...and is

    at it again with the bored fish

You can hear a lonesome tractor 

    motor, somewhere far off

       in the distance...already

           at work, plowing

Wild turkeys are pecking around under

   the trees, little baby ones

       tagging along...and none are

    paying us any attention

My garden is looking good, especially in

    this cool morning air...I reckon

        the artichokes need a little

     extra drink of water

A coupla' rabbits are hopping around,

   trying to figure out a way thru

      the fence into the green beans

That corn may not look like much now

     but just wait a month...an' butter

         will be drippin' off a 

              roasting ear

Tempted to back my restored '62 Mustang 

     outta the barn...and rev up that 

         motor once again

A famous poet once said: "God is in His

    heaven..."

He also lives here, on our farm, enveloping
   and enabling us all day every day---
       and empowering us and our plants.

Yes, He's here.....

                                        Jeremiah

**************

MIL

8/25/16

STUFF IS MISSING FROM MY ATTIC

Did you ever think about it---men everywhere share a

common bane---a universal vicissitude---some to a

greater extent than others.

What I'm referring to is this: THEIR STUFF DISAPPEARS!

Ah yes, it goes missing---from storage sheds, workshops,

remote closets, garages, and ATTICS! Gone with the

wind...

Over the years, on hunting or fishing trips, or coffee with

the Boys, this subject has come up in some form--- "Wal,

I had a nearly-new 'blah-blah' and didn't use it much over

the years...but one day it was just GONE...and I know it

was there on my workbench."

Then if at coffee, he would lean closer, glance around, 

and say quietly: "You know, I think my wife gave it to

Good Will."

It's true, those marvelous, matchless, beautiful, helpful

creatures we live with, and who make life's journey so

special---have a penchant for neatness, order, and hate

junk---anything that looks out-of-place or unnecessary

has to go! The old "heave-ho..."

It's not just old stuff, either. Why about a month ago, a 

guy said to me: "I had an almost brand new gidget and

the wife didn't see any need (on earth) for it and it is

at the city dump right now! 

Now this is important: There is a basic rule about the

psychology of men, that is not taught in Home Ec.

Here it is: A man can sit and look at some object from

the past---which has brought him much joy and happiness...

throughout his life, such as a ball glove, an old football,

a pair of hunting boots or coat,  a fishing rod, a beat-up

Stanley Thermos,  his USMC Ka-Bar knife, old straw hat,

or even marbles...

Leave him alone with these things, and a Diet Pepsi, and

he will relive in his mind, in living color, beloved previous

events! ANY... OR EVERY ONE!

That's why recently, the VACANCIES... the blank spots on 

my attic wall were so obvious...and sad. Stuff was gone. 

Good happy stuff!

Working on the theory that "YOU'LL NEVER USE X AGAIN,"

things were missing.

Where oh where did my eight duck decoys go? The ones that

were tied together with binder twine,  and hanging from an

eight-penny nail over there, nicely and picturesquely filling

the corner of the attic....the ones that had proudly floated and

tempted ducks on the Rio Grande and still had dried Rio 

Puerco mud on them...

Someone gave them to an old hunting pard...

My leather quiver full of custom-feathered hunting arrows was

so neat and impressive, it would raise your BP, just thinking

about old "stalks" in the deep woods. A terrible ending: it went

to a church sale! Another empty spot on the attic wall...

"The New Year's Eve we did the town...the day we tore the goal

post down..." Remember that song? We watched our son, back

in the seventies, kick field goals for UNM...many'a fall night...

....sitting on our little handy folding stadium seats at UNM 

Stadium Wore 'em out and had 'em recovered in leather. Hard 

to climb that vast stadium anymore...so those neat seats went

to some sale somewhere. Another gap in the decor up here...

I, myself am guilty of one empty nail there on the wall. it was 

like this---We lost our yard man and in desperation I hired three

Hispanic folks (off a flyer) to do the yard. They came---a lady,

a strong young guy, and old old-timer named Rodrigo, who

was sniffling and nose running and he couldn't keep his pants

up.

The doorbell rang, halfway through the mowing, raking, bagging

of fall leaves...and the younger guy, having seen my suspenders,

said: "Rodrigo can't keep his pants up---do you have an old pair

you could spare?"

I magnanimously marched up my attic stairs, took my favorite 

old red-white-and blue patriotic suspenders off a nail where they

had been a decoration...suspenders that had seen many Fourths-

of-July and splattered with hamburger grease from the grill--and

gave them to old tired Rodrigo. Felt good too...until later---there

was that vacancy there...on the wall...

One day, awhile back, my dear friends from childhood days in

Clovis, Art and Bobby Joe, came by and we were having a nice 

time up in the attic, and eating sardines, cheese, onions, and 

Ritz---and drinking BARQ'S BIG ORANGES...

...and Bobby Joe was checking out my stuff around the cozy 

room, and he said "Why do you have your old wader-hip-boots

nailed to the wall?"

Bob, I said: "That's another story for another time!"

*****************

BY MIL

8/23/16

THAT HALCYON PLACE: WILD PEACH

"I've reached the land of joy divine,

   and all its beauties now are mine,

Here shines undimmed one blissful day,

    for all my night has passed away.

    O Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land

     As on thy highest mount I stand...

     I look away across the sea

     Where mansions are prepared for me

     And view the shining glory shore,

     My heav'n, my home forevermore"

  ----- "BEULAH  LAND" .....Edgar P. Styles

*****************************

Old-time Texans, all along down the Gulf Coast

     say that there may be a 

Halcyon Place---a Heaven on Earth---

     yes---a true Beulah Land, right here---

on Earth....amongst us...

They say, if there is one, it's a half-world

    north of Capricorn, still north 

of Cancer, NE of South Padre Island,

    and east of Terlingua.... but definitely

as is fittin'---it's in Texas!

It is said to he a Place flowing with milk and honey,

     and tomato juice...

Birds sing all the day, they say---even some 

    at night... cows and calves chewing tender 

grass, may be heard giving out contented moos...

Badgers, possums, turtles, and other critters come

     and go, roaming freely...crows and ravens

hover over the Eden-like green paradise, as if

    keeping a protective watch

A small Pond is filled with jumping bass, keeping

    the water free of bugs...perch and crappie 

doze in the shallows, among the cattails, and 

    water lilies...

At the Pond's edge, a weathered dock

     eases it's way into the

crystal water...and a  distinguished, contented,

     white-haired gentleman sits in a folding

chair, reading....

He has dozed-off peacefully, his head droops

   under his beat-ip straw hat,..the book

lying across his chest...is a Faulkner!

    "AS I LAY DYIJG," and an overturned

spilled can at this side reads: "Diet Pepsi."

People that know him say that under his

   gruff demeanor beats a heart of gold,

kindness, and friendliness...that he helps 

     children and disabled to fish in his pond,

and he hauls veggies to widows and orphans...

They also say that he has a magnificent, amazing,

    Red Barn, right in the middle of this Place,

where he "hangs out"....and all who pass by

    would pay big bucks just for a peek inside!

Everywhere one looks are trees...there are

    a dozen species decorating and cooling

the place...pecan, chestnut, birch, elms, peach,

    cherry, sycamore, crabapple and oak...

Two old gnarled oaks (circa 1776) may be seen, 

    off to one side,

as if seeking privacy, and discussing deep issues...

Fragrances fill the air at this earthly Beulah Land...

    from sunflowers ten feet tall, giant tomato

plants...and all manner of veggies are found in

    the garden---

Corn as high as an elephant's eye...

Black-eyed peas and Kentucky Wonders...

Cantaloupes and watermelons...

Squash and cucumbers...

Cabbages---the size of  basketballs...

Carrots and radishes...

Okra, chest-high

A dozen or more lettuces and greens...

Old-timer Texans, who claim they know this Place...

    say that often around twilight on fine days,

as the sun lingers low in the west...

A spirit-like form is seen walking among the

   trees, visiting the "talking oaks," and

musing by the Pond, in the rusted folding chair...

He makes notes in a old leather notebook, and

    seems always deep in thought.

They think he might be a displaced Texan, longing

     for home...or some say he could be a 

POET...from out west and the Rio Grande....

    who is drawn to the beauty and solitude of 

the Place

You who roam in the southern climes, keep an eye

     out for  Beulah Land---(look up in the sky for

billowing white thunderheads...of blessing...)

It is called "WILD PEACH." If it exists...

****************

MIL

8/24/16

"AUNT DONNA'S STAINING PARTY'

Hot day in Albuquerque, and not a cloud in the sky.

Take it back--- one  little wisp was high-tailing it 

westward, as if to catch up with the big bunch from

yesterday. For once, forest fires were not sending

smoke our way.

Yesterday I was a "helper..." as we learned in Sunday

School.

I did stuff galore...helped with the cabbage stew,  

chopping celery in little bitty pieces...peeling and

dicing potatoes, cutting up a big head of cabbage...

clearing out the old magazine stack....and I don't

know whatall!

Now my son, a master craftsman with exotic woods

had brought me this nice gift box...for keeping "man's"

stuff in...and it needed staining.

So BE says to me this morning: "You have a lot of

Brownie Points  built up, and I'm a-gonna put on my

painting suit and stain that box for you!"

"Iff'n you'll just come out and sit on the porch and talk

and maybe sing to me a bit."

So Boys, as has often happened to me in my musical

life, there I was, once again called on to produce a 

solo.

"I'll wing it," I thought.

Here's the box...and here was my song...

"I was seeing Nellie ho-o-me

    I was seeing Nellie home; 

And 'twas from Aunt Donna's

    staining party

I was seeing Nellie home."

************

Mil

6 July 2016

ODE TO A FRIEND

         LEVI, CHS '51

There is a friend

                      who

came along...on 

                       this Earth

'Bout the same time

                        as me

or a year earlier

We went to grade school

                         on opposite

sides of town and thus 

                          didn't "meet"

until later on at church in the

                           church choir

Where I learned to "sing bass"

                            standing beside

                                     him

and even an A-Flat was as low as

                             I could go, then...

barely

Now, as I look back, on those

                              Happy Times

It's a miracle....and God's Hand that

                               we're still here

For...

My new daring friend, a year older, was 

                              already driving

                                   a CAR

and  make no mistake, that Boy had

                                a gift---he could

                                       DRIVE

His dad owned an old '36 Plymouth, when

     floor-boarded went

             seventy-two MPH, sometimes

west on the "Stockyard Road," with all

                                   its intersections

Jumping "Santa Fe Ditch" there west

                                    of town

again...at max speed...and could that Boy

                                     land a car

                                        SMOOTH 

Okay, maybe a little initial jolt

We did stuff like...snuck off to Texico

                                       and shot Pool

at that Pool Hall on the south side of

                                        the highway

So utterly and deliciously e-vill it all seemed

                                         at the time

We once't slipped off eighteen miles

                                          down to Portales

and saw a Marilyn Monroe "show"....we  didn't

                                           say "movie"

until later in college, when we were "suaver"

                                             

Nary a drop of booze ever touched 

                                             our lips

all thru high school...for we were taught

                                              "not to drink"

But one night, bored and all...things 

                                               were slow

in Clovis on Main Street,  and we headed 

                                                out west

forty miles to Taiban, where Clovis people went

                                                to buy

                                                 their booze

  

There wasn't much to see...a seedy little

                                    wooden BAR building

and six or seven cars...place all  lit up

                                                   we didn't stop

Our drinks at the time...were "cherry cokes..."

We liked coffee too and there on Main Street

    just south of the Green Stamp Store sat

                                                    a little hut---

A greasy spoon cafe, as if from the Thirties

We liked it...and often went there,,. no tables

    just a counter and stools...a Juke Box

                                                   that was wont

to play "My Happiness" when we were there

                                                   and had nickels

It also had a Pin Ball Machine that my friend loved

                                                    and I never

could get him away from it so we could drink

                                                    our coffee

                                                     civilized-like

And I reckon he tilted that pin ball machine

                                                     more

than all the other players ever---totaled up

Gasoline was about twenty-five cents a gallon

                                                     in those years

                                                     luckily-so for us

and at say twelve mikes per gallon, we could do

    a lot of "Dragging Main" iffen we each

                                                      kicked in 

                                                      50 cents

Not to worry about our wearing out those

                                                       marvelous 

Red Bricks of Main Street...we tried hard...

    with all the other kids...but those bricks

                                                        laid down

                                                        in 1918

are still there, worn by now a bit, but more beloved

                                                         than ever

(You see, when a Clovis kid writes about old friends,

   Main Street becomes a part of his thoughts.)

The (to-be-acclaimed) CHS '51 class  was launched into

                                                           the world

for better or worse...we all went our separate ways...

My friend became a noted Geologist and worked in

                                                           several countries

Our paths crossed a number if times...it was always

                                                            a happy meeting

and we indulged in a favorite thing 

    (for we were both avid students in Dora Russell's

                                                             SPANISH THREE)

We talked Spanish then,  as we did in high school...

We finally retired and corresponded  rarely in those days 

                                                               before computers

Then in December 2010 I got Henry I, an iPad

                                                                and nearly wore

                                                                     it out

                                                                 in amazement

My friend and I began to write each other again...

One day March 2011, BE said to me: "You ought to be 

                                                                      writing...

you're talented." My first raw piece went on MIL'S PLACE

    March 31, 2011. Since then there have been

some 560 stories, poems, and some  are fine pieces from 

                                                  friends of old Clovis Times

My dear friend is Levi. After I had written six or eight

   pieces, I needed some encouragement, and 

I sent one to Levi....

He wrote back something like this: "You write uncommonly 

                                                               well, and I think

our English teachers at old CHS would be amazed and proud."

At a time when it was most-needed, my old friend came

                                                                 through, sincere-like.

So this piece is to tell you that my friend has always been

                                                                    there---loyal, true,

                                                                    steady--- bright,

                                                                    and ever---fun!

Here's a closing surprise, he is one of the best 

     and sharpest writers of that whole class. Two of his

pieces are on MIL'S.

Vaya con Dios, mi amigo estimado.

*******************

A TRIBUTE

BY MIL

5 July 2016

        

I AM NO SITTER AND LISTENER

There you have it---make the most of it.

Alas, listening to someone talk (ad nauseum) was not

built into my genes.

My disdain also included getting as far from a speaker,

as I could.

Why in Sunday School, age nine, I sat on the back row,

if possible. And hid.

At SWBTS in Dr. Baker's Church History class, there

I was---right there on the very last row, against the 

wall, almost. And Dr. Baker, that incomparable teacher,

with always a twinkle in his eyes, had a penchant for

saying at every session: "I'll repeat that assignment for

you guys on the back row."

My first career involved so many hours of sitting and

listening that it is a wonder I made it. It is a known fact

that folks' attention span for a talk is about twenty-five

minutes.

During those years of speech-listening, I was seated,

not on the back row, but on the podium---up there

with the choir---afraid to even scratch my nose...lest

it look like a "pick," remember Seinfeld. I couldn't even

squirm.

There have been some  funerals in which all talented

family members had to sing..or do eulogies...thus the

services lasted one-and-half to two hours.

Political speeches---smeeches---we can mostly forget

them---75% of promises will never be fulfilled. and who

can ever forget H.'s monotonous same-pitch A-Flat 

drone---called "speeches"  by some. (BE says it is a 

"G.")

Unfortunately, speakers with captive audiences may

fall in love with their own voices...and go on for forty-

five minutes.

I will tell you a story, containing a bit of humor, I think.

A pastor and his wife, with whom I worked, journeyed

all the way from far north Texas down to San Antonio

for a big state convention. And took me...

The auditorium for this huge convocation held, I 

reckon,  maybe four thousand people.

The first big morning we went in and passed all my

favorite back-row seats, and I'll swanny---you won't

believe this one---we paraded down that LONG left

aisle right down to the  third row...then excused our 

way across to the very middle, where there were 

three seats...and there we sat, smack in front of.the 

speakers. There were three speakers to come, that

morn.

"What have I got myself into," I thought. Here I am---

a small-bladder-guy locked in for three hours with

gallon-bladder-people, who like listening. Getting 

outta there would be a "federal case."

I will avoid the details other than to say: I never made

THAT mistake again. Skipped trips with them...

That afternoon I hung out in the big lobby, hob-nobbing

with old school friends, drinking coffee, eating popcorn

and doing what should be done at a convention. Talk.

After all---who likes sitting and listening?

Later they said, somewhat disapprovingly: "Where were

YOU?" After that, we were no longer convention buddies.

Boiling it all down, nowadays I like to get info and digest

it in my Lazy Boy. Like the old "DRAGNET" with Jack

Webb, "Just give me the facts ma'am---just the facts..."

and I will read...and figure it out.

Besides, have you noticed  lately at meetings---the back

rows fill up---early.

****************

BY MIL

8/15/16

SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL DOCTOR....ER, POET

How did I ever get that far into life (1976) without

hearing-of or reading the beautiful poetry of

William Carlos Williams.

I discovered him on this wise---the year was 1976 

and it was the joyous time of celebrating the nation's 

SECOND CENTENNIAL, 200 years of independence!

Seemed that everybody and every company had a

dog in the celebration. Franklin Press came out with

something like "BEST BOOKS OF THE USA---FIRST

TWO HUNDRED YEARS," in leather---with bindings

of all colors and designs.

I have always loved books and had only one or two

in leather, and I bought the whole set and paid them

out a month at a time! 

Oh joy! To just  heft one and feel its quality and solidity, 

almost makes one worship. And they still smell good!

Space doesn't permit my giving you the whole list,

but you can imagine---there are many novels, works

of history, and about a fourth of the books are 

POETRY! (The pages of paper are of thousand-year

quality.)

That's how I first discovered William Carlos Williams.

The volume of his poems rests here by my "writing

place" to my left, in my special shelf, and I can reach

it with my left hand! The sun is shining through the 

window...right over it.

WCW was born in Rutherford, N.J. in 1883. He 

studied medicine, became a doctor, and began

practicing there in his hometown. 

Earlier on he had wanderlust and traveled Europe

and parts of the USA with various poets of the 

time and had begun to write poetry.

He enjoyed his medical practice and was popular

with his patients---folks of various ethnicities,

backgrounds, and stations in life. Most of them

never knew their doctor was a poet.

He was a keen observer and student of his clientele.

  Their stories, hopes, and lives  were reflected back 

  in fragments and tiny glimpses in his poetry.

He is quoted as saying to a fellow poet--- "I've 

met a hell of a lot more of-all kinds of people than 

you'll ever get your eyes on, and I've known them 

inside and out in ways you'll never know."

----------------

William Carlos William's poetry had a delightful

optimism in its view of life, rather than a more 

dour take common in several of his fellow poets.

To the literary world he was to become one of 

the "most original poetic voices of the twentieth

century."

------------------

When you study WCW, you will likely be 

surprised, for almost always, the first of his

poems to be noted...is his shortest one. (Don't

let that fool you...just enjoy one of the most-

famous poems of the world.)

"THE RED WHEELBARROW"

*********************************

     by WCW

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens

---------------

I've admired WCW's poetry, his skill, his insights,

and oft tried to learn...and emulate him...

(Poetry teachers say it's okay to "imitate other

poets...at home...")

Here are two I did before coffee: (always write 

about the first thing that hits you)

"A BLOND-HEADED  BIRD?"

*******************************

  by MIL

Though my window

playing

in the waxy bush

I've seen

   black-headed birds

brown-headed birds

   blue-headed jays

and even little

    red-headed birds

but

have never seen ONE

    blond-headed bird

-----------

"WRITING POETRY"

**********************_

  by MIL

when you write

   poetry

you are painting

   an idea

       a thought 

   a concept

or maybe

   a beautiful picture

not with brush

   or paint

but

with words.

******************

BY MIL

7/29/16

PHOTO BY KINDELL BRINAY

SHEEPHERDER AT SAN CRISTOBAL

                                     "SHEEPHERDER NEAR SAN CRISTOBAL," 1972

                                                               PHOTO BY MIL

                                      

Don was a retired heavy-weight school administrator from Wisconsin, 

and a member of the Enchanted Lens Camera Club along with me. One

day in October,1972,  we decided we would go on a "photo trip" to 

Northern New Mexico. He was an older fellow, and an expert award-

winning photographer....and I had learned much from him.

We brown-bagged our lunches in my little Coke cooler and took several

cameras each. I had my Rollei 2 1/4 x 2 1/4 and my M-4 Leica

(which in those days cost a whopping $600.) The Leica was a range-

finder camera---a descendant of those carried in WWII by Patton and

Rommel.

On trips, it rode beside me in the front seat...along with other needed items.

    

On this beautiful N.M. autumn day, we left early and went ten miles east and

up the rustic little highway, winding around north toward Santa Fe. 

  

I got an award-winning shot of "THE CHURCH AT GOLDEN," B&W film,

with a red filter---bringing out the clouds, darkening the sky a bit---and 

processed it in my own darkroom.

We drove to Taos, turned right and took the curving, curling, mountain

highway--through the beautiful hills, with quaint little scenic log cabins, 

nestled along the valley...all with chimneys smoking, warding off the early

morning fall chill.

Through Eagle Nest we drove, by the Vietnam Nam memorial---where we

stopped...parked for a time in silent tribute.... then wound our way up

over the pass into Red River, one of the highest little towns in the state.

We parked for a time by the clear, cold, gurgling Red River---under the 

pine trees...water that looked... and sounded so delicious, one was tempted

to drink. There we ate our lunch..and soaked our feet. Brrrr!

We took pics of the MOLYBDENUM MINE off to the right, as we drove west

out of Red River---for Questa.

Turning left at Questa, and headed  back toward Taos...and Albuquerque, we

came upon a sheep-herder on his horse... with his dog...half on the highway,

blocking it and trying to manage his wandering sheep.

Don was through for the day, and I said to him: "I've got to get that scene," 

grabbing my Leica off the seat, and parking barely off the highway...a

desolate area, anyway.I was hanging half out of  the car...

I got two shots, quickly, and it became one of my favorite photos of all time.

Looking into the distance and off to the right a bit---that's where Albuquerque

lies, unseen, 130 crow-miles in the distance.

(In the darkroom, a 35 mm negative (size of a big postage stamp) is more

difficult to print because any tiny dust or debris, is vastly magnified.)

Don an I ended a special  day with supper at the Santa Fe FURR'S 

CAFETERIA, finishing with coffee and "MILLIONAIRE PIE." A fine day!

******************

BY MIL

7/20/16

ALL THINGS BRIGHT AND BEAUTIFUL

Rays of Indian summer light

    early this morning

came thru the east window

    by the waxy bush

And fell brightly and warmly

    across my "writing" table....

with its colorful cover

I looked and marveled

    and took it

as a symbol of life's beauty---

    the little purple flowers

    the delicate green leaves

    the purple berries

         and the red berries

    even the playful shadows

Reminders 

    of "all things bright and beautiful."

and the coming glorious fall.

***************

BY MIL

8/18/16

I LOVE TO SING....IN THE ATTIC

"She was lovely and fair as the rose of the summer...

  But 'twas not her beauty alone that won me

  Oh no, 'twas the truth in her eyes ever dawning

  That made me love Mary, the Rose of Tralee."

    ************************************************

I love to sing upstairs in our attic. It may be, all told,

the happiest place in the world.

It's true that this "old timer" can't sing today as well

as he could that late May day in 1955 when he had

just graduated Hardin-Simmons University, in 

Abilene, Texas, and he drove away into the world,

after four years of private voice lessons and singing 

in the  famous HSU A Cappella Choir.

That day, As he sadly left, he was at the top of

 his game, vocally.

Much water has gone under the bridge since 

then---a thousand church services ---over five dozen

revivals--- weddings, funerals, conventions...singing of

the matchless sacrifice of the Savior.

"Time and chance," as it says in Ecclesiastes,  have

happened to the voice....which was from the beginning,

always a gift from God.

But if one sings softly and in head tones, he can still 

do an old ballad that will bring tears to the eyes of

listeners. Put a guitarist with him, and he could go

on the road and rival Willie Nelson.

So here I am up here sitting at my rough table, with 

a cup of decaf (from the scarred office microwave) and

I'm humming a hymn...you always hum to warm up

your voice...and get great head-tones going...

My song I'm hummin' is a favorite church song---of

 many people---

"Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,

Calling for you and for me...

See on the portals he's waiting and watching---

Watching for you and for me.

Come home, come home,

Ye who are weary, come home;

Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling---

Calling, O Sinner...come home."

A tear sometimes leaks out of an eye when

old timers hum hymns.

I am about half-through writing a piece about the

many hundreds (or thousands) of "love songs"

written to our ladies---over the decades: like

"Juanita," "Mavourneen," "Annie Laurie," "Lorena," 

"Clementine," "K-k-k- aty," "Maggie," "Evalina,"

"Georgia," and on....

So this morning I begin singing softly (I thought--

"only to  myself,") maybe the saddest tune of all,  

by Stephen Foster...

"Thou wilt come no more gentle Annie,

Like a flow'r thy spirit did depart;

Thou art gone, alas, like the many

That have bloomed in the summer of 

    my heart...

Shall we nevermore behold thee

Never hear thy winning voice again...

When the springtime comes, gentle Annie

And the wild flowers are scattered 

   o'er the plain."

Then BE called up the stairs: "You okay

up there?" (Must sing more softly.)

Then the ballad:

"I wandered today to the hill Maggie

to watch the scene below;

The creek and the old rusty mill, Maggie

Where we used to go long ago...

The green grass is gone from the hill Maggie,

Where first the daisies sprung,

The old rusty mill is still Maggie

Since you and I were young."

(I am a ballad guy, a Stephen Foster guy,

a "melody" guy---and I can't stand noise---

that says nothing. That means some church

music, too. That's just the way it is.)

Ah, listen to this one: I sang "The Civil War

Sweetheart Song..." to myself---the tune by 

Webster who also wrote "In The Sweet By 

and By..."

"The years creep slowly by Lorena

The snow is on the grass again;

The sun's low down the sky Lorena

The frost gleams  where the flowers 

   have been...

But the heart throbs on as warmly now,

As when the summer days were high...

Oh, the sun can never dip so low...

A-down  affection's cloudless sky."

That song, of more than 150 years ago,

was said by Civil War officers on both sides--

when sung by campfires, to have caused 

more desertions than any other factor.

When in a singing mood, I almost always

do the great Scottish love song:

"By yon bonnie banks and by yon bonnie

   glen

Where the sun shines bright on Loch 

    Lomond..."

Or...

"Maxwelton's braes are bonnie... where early

   falls the dew...

And 'twas there that Annie Laurie gave me

   her promise true...

Gave me her promise true, which ne'er forgot

   will be...

And for bonnie Annie Laurie---I'd lay me 

  doon and dee."

Call me "old-fashioned," I don't care--- a 

listener at the foot of the stairs might hear a

tenor-like voice singing:

"In the sky the bright stars glittered

On the bank the pale moon shone;

And 'twas from Aunt Dinah's quilting party

I was seeing Nellie home."

Do you like, an old one---

"Put on your old gray bonnet

With the blue ribbons on it

While I hitch old Dobbin to the shay,

and through the fields of clover

We'll ride out to Dover

On our Golden Wedding Day."

(Never tho't I'd say: "Our 60th is coming

up in February.)

So, maybe you get a feel for a fun 

song-time in the attic...now,  I can do

the heavy stuff, like "Honor and Arms"

from Judas Maccabaeus, or "Caro Mio

Ben," if it's Italian you like...

But somehow those songs don't seem 

FITTIN' for a quiet time in the attic.

Snack time now, and somebody has been

into my "larder" over the summer. What am

I gonna do?

Oh boy! A can of Wolf Brand chili back

there behind the Ritz--- and one diet Snapple

left!

-----------------

BY MIL

August 13, 2016