THE ECLIPSE OF THE CANTALOUPES

SONG: "O give me a can-ta-loupe...

           with some bla-a-ack-eyed peas,

          and some co-o-o-orn bread..." 

TUNE: "Home On The Range"

Time was--once't---when you could go 

into a cantaloupe store and buy ten of

those marvelous nutritious melons and 

nine of them would be just grand.

Nowadays you can reverse that number---

nine would be too green, too ripe, not

sweet, or some weird taste has crept into 

their current DNA, or whatever.

Or do cantaloupes even have...DNA? (It

would take a year to get a report back, 

even on your favorite soap opera.)

It has got so bad that a friend of mine, off

down in the glorious state of Florida, told

me awhile back in the summer: "Wal, I like

my cantaloupes, you know, a half, unseeded

and scraped out and all, and then packed 

with vanilla ice cream...but it seems like we

have to take most of 'em back , anymore, for 

a refund or replacement."

This year we have eaten about ten/twelve

and have purchased these at several different

stores, and twice BE has brought home two-

at-a-time (when they struck her as "looking

just right.") They weren't.

THE PLAN is that she brings in the grub in

sacks and I get my cutting board out and my

beloved crooked six-inch serrated knife

and bone the big roasting chicken and cut

up other stuff for salads...that sort of thing.

And she usually cuts the cantaloupe over 

at the sink and takes care of the juice and 

seeds...and then I do my thing. Chop, chop.

It's got to where, when her knife hits the 

melon, she's already saying "Oh no, another

green one."

I eat'em anyway. Have you ever checked 

the vitamins in a "lope?" They are heart-

friendly. About as good as sweet potatoes,

romaine lettuce, and tomatoes for health.

Regarding melons, used to, back in the good

old USA, when I was a kid, we'd roll in our 

old '41 Chevy into Pop's driveway down in

Dawson County ("In the land of cotton...Look

away, look away...") and he'd in summer have

six or eight big fat watermelons lying just

across the fence from the clanging windmill---

in the cool shade of a big elm, right under the

kitchen window...on the green, green grass

of home...

After all the hugs, and hellos, and "My you've

grown a foot!" (to the kids), all the uncles and

Dad would have their turns at thumping the 

melons. Checking them out... a ritual...

As befitting farm folk of the time, some were

rather dramatic and pseudo-expert looking

in their thumping...and folks would hang

on their opinions..

The kids took their turns at thumping and

usually showed no originality, merely echoing

their favorite adult's  evaluation: "RIPE!"

Now BE and I are pretty well read, and I guess

"up to date" somewhat on stuff and have both

tried to learn all the tricks about selecting

cantaloupes....

But I reckon we've missed the secret.

We can't pick 'em. There it is: "Make the most 

of it!"

Unless, there are no good ones anymore.....and 

they are all...

Eclipsed.....   somehow

-----------

Yes, I know, the song above...needs work.

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

MIL

26 AUGUST 17

MY BEAR QUILT

Old Sol is headed

    back toward Capricorn

                and

it's okay...for we are tired

      of the heat

It was "that time" in August

     for the usual

summer cold spell

      and it didn't disappoint

The first little snappy 

      and cold mini-norther

blew in, big time, 

      coupla days ago and

to one that's over fifty, 

     probably seemed colder

than it....really was

I dug out my Great Bear Quilt

     (that the kids gave)

(it was folded behind my chair)

               and got comfy

and stayed warm

      during my nap

and 

I realized, as little kids do

     how grand a blanket

or a quilt can be...

They bring 

            more than warmth...

there's familiarity, like seeing

     an old friend...

there's comfort, coziness, 

      and security...

and the knowledge that

    "someone who loved 

        you, gave it."

A personal quilt 

        is a most-happy thing.

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

MIL

22 AUGUST 17

ALL LIFE IS POETRY

"Anything worth thinking about is worth

     singing about.". Bob Dylan---

                        "The Essential Interviews

Don't ever laugh about anything

      found in a poem.

Haven't you ever read "The Red 

              Wheelbarrow,"

     by William Carlos Williams ?

Even a renowned scientist I know

    recently said regarding FB:

  "Anything worth writing about 

       may deserve five hundred 

          words."

(And he didn't say: "And with poetry

    you don't hafta make sense, and

        you can design your own

               format.")

The whole thing is YOU and YOURS!

You should have Mary Oliver's 

      unsurpassed

"A Thousand Mornings" ever present

       by your coffee pot...

             for daily inspiration...

The monthly poetry volumes from

     The Poetry Foundation

will serve to astound, amaze, and

      motivate a "wanna-be" poet...

"Why I always wanted to try a poem

     but was afraid to..."

"Why I suppose the rhyme thing scared

      me off ..."

(You're in luck. It may be that more poetry

today doesn't rhyme...,than does.

If not in good hands, attempts at rhyming

can be forced...and trite.)

----------

Today while donning my favorite worn 

Carhartt rugged blue denim shirt over

a soft black comfy Harbor Bay Henley---

and slipping on some nice knitted socks...

and adding my rakish olive fatigue cap 

made of "Fire Hose" fabic from DULUTH---

all this after toweling my face with a soft

terry cloth towel...

I thought of the miracle of TEXTURE. 

Life is filled with OPPOSITES ...and 

variations...just to make it interesting,

and maybe alleviate boredom.

The chefs say it is true in food also...

textures AND flavors.

What if I wrote a sort of poem about

textures or fabric? 

And I thought of Grandma's penchant

for saving square remnants of cotton

and silk and  wool from sewing-times...

when she made dresses for BE and

shirts for the kids and slip covers for

my  chair pillow...and put them in a

quilt.

Stories could be told with each one of

 those fabric pieces...as they cropped

up along the journey of life... and were

worn over and over...

See what I mean about....poetry, and all 

of life...if we'd only open our eyes.

-----------

MIL

23 AUGUST 17

OLD CLOVIS: FROM THE MISTS OF TIME

"There has always been a drug store..on that corner".....Unknown

Someone, maybe it was esteemed Editor 

David Stevens  (CNJ), posted this photo

recently on FB. It is the ever-present drug

store on Clovis' Main Street at Fourth Street,

in some unnamed year...

"Ever-present" meaning there was always 

a drug store on that corner, as if it was the

heart-beat of downtown, tho' the stores 

did have several names, over time...

Did it finally become...Cretney's?

(Someone wrote recently that there is a

church there now, but  I don't know about 

that.)

When we moved to Clovis that hot Great

Depression summer of 1938 to own and

operate the Magic Steam Laundry, the 

drug store on that corner was THE FOX 

DRUG.

There were small signs over the entrances

with cool little black running FOXES...like

silhouettes almost. 

There was a large lunch room over in

the far right back corner with tables and

maybe waitresses., as well as a long soda 

fountain counter out in the store running

from west to east up to the front...

On the far north side, toward Anthony's 

was a fine news stand facing Main Street.

They sold kids' comic books for 15 cents

each.

There was a pharmacy in back by the

rear exit onto Fourth.

In our simple little pre-war city, KICA

Radio was a big thing! Grady Maples

and R.B. McAlister operated the station.

It broadcast a men's quartet, singing 

Southern Gospel each day at 

12:45-1:00 p.m. from Fox. There was 

a piano up front by the slanted door at 

the corner...and they rolled it onto the 

sidewalk and broadcast from right there.

My uncle sang first tenor in that quartet.

The Fox Drug was a handy place for little

Clovis kids whose big entertainment was 

walking through every store in town, but

with no money to buy anything.

In through the news stand, up and down 

the aisles and out the back door onto

Fourth. That was the "drill."

Robert Stebnins, CHS '51, remembers a

women's dress shop back behind Fox

Drug, abutting the alley. He thinks it was

"Doreen's."

There WAS such a business there for 

years, and I salute Robert for his memory...

of the store's name. I didn't recall that.

But sit down for this one. There was also

once a small barber shop back there...and 

It was there either before Doreen's or at 

the same time.

I know, for that's where I got my first-ever

store-boughten haircut. One Saturday night

Dad took me in there. (Stores in those early

times stayed open until 9 or 10 on Saturday

nights.) For your info, I was age five.

The name of the Barber Shop escapes me

but it was run by a short little man named Mr.

Jenks. My barber was a tall rather handsome

man named Mr. Nolan.

(In 1961 when we moved to Albuquerque 

and I sought out a barber shop, I stopped

in at the Princess Jeanne Addition barber

shop and in the subsequent conversation

discovered the young man cutting my hair

was named Nolan. His father cut hair in

Clovis, once.)

That was an interesting corner, Fourth and

Main...there was a Woolworths on the SE,

a Barry Hardware on the NE, May's Jewelry

was south of Fox Drug on the SW corner.

On that grand and fateful Saturday afternoon,

circa AUGUST 15, 1945, about 4 p.m. when

I wandered out of the beloved LYCEUM 

THEATER into the bright and blinding 

sunshine, traffic was stopped on Main 

Street.

There was a KICA RADIO VAN parked 

catty-wompus under the stop light almost 

in front of Barry Hardware... the loud speaker

was announcing: "TODAY, THE JAPANESE

HAVE SURRENDERED. WWII IS OVER."

I stood there stunned. 

I thought and it's true: "Thank God, no more

wars."

My twelve-year-old heart was fed up with that

war----

      We kids had gathered all kinds of old

        rubber ties, scrap metal, paper, 

         grease, glass and bought 10 cent

           war stamps...

       When we were rather small we had

         watched during hot summers, 

            and heard the B24's as

           they droned around town, 

             training to head to Europe...

                some 55,000 never 

                  came home.

        At the laundry we did thousands

          of bundles of clean uniforms

             for the men at the Clovis 

               Air Base...I met them all...

         Yes, that FOX DRUG STORE corner

            does bring back memories

               of life as it happened decades

                 ago...it was just as real as

                   life is today, and just as

                     important to us, then...

            When I walk Main Street, or

              drag it today, even if only

                 in memory...I get a deep

                   feeling of reverence

                      for times, and friends...

                          long-passed.

                 

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

MIL

28 JUNE 17

FILL OUT THEM AWFUL FORMS?

An event of life occurred...a very real and

    sad one

an important person left us...as happens 

    along the way

Adjustments had to be made---requiring

     forms...legal forms, bank ones,

                   gov't. stuff,

ownership changes, and I don't  know

     whatall

And they  came in by the scads, even 

        weighing down the lady

     post-person...almost

And these forms were designed and printed

        with tiny, light gray, unreadable

     print (to anyone over forty)

And I, in my second career, 25 years

    long, 

I had who had "lived and died" by filling out

     sales forms....

and could do them practically

      blindfolded...expertly...

and amazingly deftly...

Seemed to hit a brick wall...with these

                monsters---maybe it

     was....my age...and my eyes

          or patience...or was it

I needed a better magnifying glass...

      It was stressful, big time

I sent 'em back and others came...these 

    too had to be

magnified...then I got BE to help, and

     she today made 22 copies

for record...and we mailed those suckers

      in...

Prayer: "O Lord...may we someday live

     with Thee in Heavenly Places...

and may all forms-to-be-filled-out...

       go

to the other place.". Amen.

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

18 JULY 17

MILFILL 

"HOW DID I WIND UP....OUT THERE?"

THE ACTUAL WINDMILL
AT OUR HOME PLACE


        Photo, MRM, 1969

There I was

              out there in nowhere...

alone, 

    amidst three hundred-twenty

 acres---a wheat-stubble 

     field, with whited, dried, crusty

              soil---parched  by 

    the sun...and filled with 

                   healthy green weeds

getting taller by the day...and

         sucking water up...

There I was, at ninety-five degree

      noonday, sun fading my 

blue $2.95 work shirt... I was

     breathing hot tractor fumes

         as all air seemed 

to hang and not move, except

        to follow the tractor 

The worst thing was the crowd

     of hangers-on, 

following the tractor dust cloud---

      Insects I never even knew

           existed plus gnats of 

all sizes...flies...bugs...horse flies...

     helicopter-like-big-flies...and

unnamed vicious flyers...

             and hoverers...

all seeking my eyes, ears, and nose!

      all buzzing different tunes, 

             tones and pitches---

one breed practicing crash dives

                 on my neck!

Yes, there I was, merely a tiny, hot

      insignificant and unimportant

speck...as seen from the cosmos...

on a big orange Case tractor, with

     wide front wheels, and a

mind of its own, almost like a 

     feisty horse

My trusty and loved companion 

     was the water bag bought 

          at Barry Hardware

for $3.75 and it was hanging there 

     on the Power-Take-Off,                   

             three-fourths

      empty, caked with mud

and the water remaining was hot---

          you could count on it---

       

       the windmill was a quarter

mile off and only vaguely seen thru

           the rising heat waves...

and it was not turning at all

      there being not a wisp of a

              breeze

Way on the other side of the 

        half section ---barely---

thru the heat waves could be seen

     Dad on his identical orange 

          Case Wheatland tractor...

At maybe 3 mph it took forever 

     to do a "round," and meet

and see---Who had the freshest

               water bag...?

He'd have a good John Ruskin

     all lit up, making his day 

          fun...but I was only 

       fifteen, and aging too slowly

for fun stuff

How did I wind up, out there---working...

     when many of my peers were

                    in town

catching rays at the pool...

               or watching

       a good "Tarzan" or "Lash La Rue"

movie at the Lyceum?

I think it was because people had to

      WORK in those simpler times

          and if you got something

              you had to earn it.

Good days in the grand old USA!

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

Mil

1JULY 2017

THE GHOSTLY SENTINEL

In those far Southern Parts

      down towards

           Cancer, when you're

headed for Capricorn

the people are a bit strange

        (and gossipy...and love

to talk at hardware stores, and

              church picnics)

and there seems to be 

                     richly abounding

in those humid parts:

                "Lore Galore"

and Old Wives' Tales...

     especially after a glass of

that Southern Nectar, 

        so favored by the wimmin'

O, their yarns and best story 

        always seems to be

    about the mythical, ghostly,

retired scientist, who loved

       gardens, peach trees, 

and all things green...

He knew his stuff and his 

                 invented

        Bug Juices had about

   eradicated all the 

insects within a mile of his

          beloved acres...

They say, these wimmin'---

     that this rakish, sort of

   handsome and graceful

old timer...

is so protective of his plants

       and gardens and herbs

and  fruit trees...

that he walks his grounds 

     all night long, almost

and the story is that he may 

      curl up in that mysterious

                Red Barn 

(into which no mortal has ever

       ventured)

and grab a few winks.

They wind up their stories at 

    these social events, saying:

"He keeps the coons and the 

       feral dogs and the wild

pigs offen his little farm,

and if you get up real early 

   with the sun and peek over 

              the fence

you MAY see him.

          patrolling his rows,

and somehow looking 

         ghostly.

Oh yes, tales abound down

       toward Capricorn....

and who knows if they're 

              True

or not.

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

MIL

21JULY 17

A SUNDAY MORNING MOON...BY A WHITE WINGED DOVE!

This beautiful, peaceful, quiet Sunday

     morning with the sun barely

up, and the light still sparse

I was sitting at my writing place, and

     as oft is the case...looking 

out at the rising dawn

Wanting to do a bit of writing...

          WHEN, "BONK--THUMP"

A white-wing dove big as a 

       bantam rooster landed

          right on the window bar

     next to the grain...

O he was a work of art--- gray,

      with black-feather accents,

and neat white-strips 

      of feathers...and he was 

so smooth, along the 

         head and neck, as if

coiffed for Sunday-go-to-meetin'...

(How can you describe a creation

     like this without saying "feathers"

over and over?)

Did the Heavenly Father just in one

      moment say: "Let there be a 

dove!" or...

Were the "Days" of creation actually

     eons-long and much intricate 

planning went on...to provide Man

      

all the "beauties of the Earth?"

 "peck...thump...peck...thump..."

      the beautiful bird had turned...

...and  WAS "MOONING" ME!

             Shamelessly...

I grabbed my camera...and I had

            my Sunday "poem..."

And I had never realized...

      the beauty... of a 

dove's bottom.

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

MIL

23 JULY 17

LEAVING WILD PEACH....ONCE AGAIN

"It's time for an old New England custom

         to come to Wild Peach:

             'Walk The Outcrops'...."

   ***************************

The summer is almost over

    at least for the young SAF

         at Wild Peach

O she has had an "education"

     a sampling of life 

all packed into a few weeks

A good plan really, for remember

     back to mere-infant time...

how babies can double their 

     brain capacity 

            "in big gulps"

so to speak

Why this also applies to the 

     teen folks with their voracious 

appetites for knowledge 

         and who are practically

                 "sponges walking"

and they don't even know it,

      probably

This young lady SAF has had a

       summer sampling of jobs---

farmer, planter, veterinarian,

    boat captain, fisher-person,

Chez (cook),  musician, and

      who knows..... whatall...

running a farm and ranch...

(There were two SAF's but one 

      had to leave early...

           Que lastima.) 

Ah, in old New England, the 

     esteemed nature-writer

Hal Borland, with a farm

     in cold Connecticutt.

told of the end-of-the-year

             custom

      in those parts, of taking 

a walk around your ancient  rock

       fences and other 

property boundaries, and

     remembering old times

and the year-then-passed..

With the summer ending, it

    is time for the grizzled,

Old Timer, in fact a wizened 

   hombre himself, to

       "walk the outcrops"

one more time, in memory,

     with his young SAF.

Maybe sit under the 

       "Gnarled Oaks" and

reminisce a spell, spread

    a little bag of grain 

for the wrens and chickadees,

      and the sparrows and

         mockingbirds

Throw handfuls of corn into 

    The Pond for the catfish

          and blue gills

Rub her favorite calf with a 

     nice stiff brush, and hug...

Sit in the marvelous junky

     open shed...and have a

cold-watermelon-juice

        homemade Popsicle

one more time, until 

                         next year...

as she spies over in the corner

     on a rickety makeshift 

bookshelf some dusty, musty

    old volumes 

which she knows are Granddad's

        favorites, and she says,

     excitedly, "Oh, GD, read some

to me from Masefield---again"

          and he opens the old

book of poems, and reads to her:

   "I must go down to the seas again,

       To the lonely sea and sky,

     And all I ask is a tall ship and a 

       star to steer her by;

     And the wheel's kick and the wind's

        song and the white sail's shaking,

     And a grey mist on the sea's face,

        and a grey dawn breaking."

After this fine and memorable 

     "going away" walk for the

young SAF, 

           a marvelous aroma

was arising over at The Pond, 

     on The Dock

K. was having a Mud Bug cookout

     with roasting ears 

as a fitting climax to The Walk

     ---a going away party

.

As she and Granddad ambled

     over that way, hand-in-

   hand, she thought 

        she heard him humming

softly thru his white beard---

           a sad Tom Russell tune

of some favorite of his...

and....was that a tear...

                        in his eye?

19 JULY 17
From the "Wild Peach Poem Collection"
"SAF" :  "Summer Assistant Foreman"

THAT "DAPPLED" LIGHT OF MID-SUMMER

The table by my "writing window" 

      is draped with a cloth 

  covered with many shapes 

             of green leaves---

      and fruits of all kinds

like pears, apples, grapes, apricots,

      cherries, and even 

           little violet flowers...

In Mid-summer, Old Sol has escaped 

    the clutches of Capricorn

and roams north big time and rests

      a day over Cancer, before

heading back South...

That's when, over my left shoulder

      from the direction of 

"The Watermelon Mountains," 

      here on the 5600 feet high mesa---

the light comes pouring in my window

       every morn....thru the waxy bush

    just outside

which "dapples" it, 

       as it touches my writing place...

It is then the light reflects

      into my soul....and

illuminates

and I begin to write.

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

MIL

2 AUGUST 17