The Family Thanksgiving Tree...

Dear Maria,

You know how it goes, a little warm-up, followed by thunderstorms, followed by a cool-down, most likely until the other side of the Christmas season. What other people seem to have in store temperature-wise and/or by way of snowfall—well, they have my condolences. This cold snap has finished the lantana and nearly done in the plumbago. But the roses may have a few more blooms left in them over the next two, maybe three weeks.

From my perch, a chair maybe five feet from the sliding glass doors, I can see a street over one of the tallest trees in the neighborhood. Of course, my two white oaks are of good size, too, at least forty feet I would guess. And I can also see on the left the little plum that I put in two years ago and over to the right, the crape added this spring.

Over the years I have planted dozens of trees, the oldest a Bradford pear in Northbridge Terrace some, oh, 18 years ago, I believe. It dominates the corner where I placed it—yes, I have driven by and taken a look. One of my children, of a sort.

Four weeks ago, or maybe five now, I happened to tell two good friends—on separate occasions—with the irony duly noted, that I think I would make a good father now. I know, I know. Much credit to them that they did not verbally, not even visibly reveal any astonishment—true friends, the two of them. Of course, I can imagine the howls of disbelief to chuckles to outright derision on some fronts. Eye-rolling at the very least.

Begs the question of “Why now?” to be sure. Certainly flies in the face of my definitive declarations against fatherhood for 98% of my adult life. Yep, I did the math. You know very well that my ego several times and rightfully so was handed to me on a platter these last few years, and without the demands—self-inflicted to a degree—of that other thing I did as my daily bread, I find myself standing much revealed to be in a very different place these days.

Fortunately, my siblings and their children have enthusiastically rewarded me with the role of uncle, which is essentially to always be the bringer of ice cream. Not the same as parenting, I am all too aware. And I am also lucky to know a number of folks with babies and infants, and so I can delight in the cooing without dutifully dealing with the pooping.

This week a number of the family, more than 20 or so most likely, will gather for Thanksgiving, and while we are not perfect in our roles—not even in something so much easier as being an uncle—we are rooted deep and spread wide. Thankfully. Just like your family.

So may your holiday be a happy occasion, and safe travels to all who must travel some miles to join in the festivities.

Kindly and warmly,

srk

 

Tea Olive, Polar Vortex, and a Jackass...

Dear Maria,

Warm greetings to you, just days before cold weather comes swooping down our way. Yesterday morning as I deadheaded the roses, I got a good dose of sweet air from the tea olives that are now blooming. Nice. One of this season’s roses sent a shoot up through the leaves of the new Japanese maple. The headline is obvious: Knockout TKOs Maple with Uppercut. When the bloom is fuller, I’ll post a picture to Facebook.

While checking out at Publix today, I told the cashier and the bag, uh, man—do we still call them bag boys or bag girls? I am sure I am in the wrong, but certainly another chance to crack a joke or three. My comment to them was that placing just-baked sweet potato pies right inside the entrance of the store was cruel. Cruel? That my life is so good that torture comes in the form of a dessert that I can’t slip by.

Of course, I am thankful for how well it goes and have taken to telling folks who ask how I am that if I complain, please shoot me, or at least rough me up a bit. And now just two weeks until the tribal gathering and a chance to soak in the blessings of my family. Reckon sweet potato pie will be included on the menu?

Was reminded again over the past week more than once that there is no point in wondering what another person is thinking. Just turns loose the mental monkeys to romp about the cage. Okay, maybe not as compelling as Macbeth raving about a mind full of scorpions.  I tried to practice Thich Nhat Hanh’s sense of watching the other person handle the moment or moments—badly paraphrased, but I am too lazy to run down the quotation.

So rather than the mental churn, I tried telling myself several times a day, oh this is how the experience is being processed. Of course, someone may do the same with me. “Oh this is how Kaple handles this moment.” Like an adult? Like a saint? Like a jackass? Well, I hope the moments of my jackassery—jackassedness?—are fewer and fewer.

Alas, the forecast for a lingering polar vortex early in November—well, let’s keep warm thoughts for our friends and family who live closer to the northern rim of the country. Here, nearly 70 for now and lunch on the patio.

Stay sweet, stay warm, and stay sane. The holidays come.

srk

 

WWWWD?

Dear Maria,

Had to laugh this very chilly morning when a mockingbird had the temerity—yes, the temerity—to perch on top of the bluebird condo. I don’t know how far the three male bluebirds came distance-wise, but they zoomed into the oak nearest the house, and in less than ten seconds the mockingbird retreated high into a neighbor’s pine. The bluebirds disappeared back into the direction they came from a moment earlier.

I thought I might have seen a squadron of bluebirds late yesterday afternoon. After I cleaned and refilled the bird feeder and the birdbath, a swirling fly-in of small birds came calling. The aerial comings and goings included Tufted Titmouses—Titmice? Not likely, but what do I know—White-breasted Nuthatches, Carolina Chickadees, at least one House Finch, and a pair of Carolina Wrens that kept to the bath and the patio. But, no bluebird patrol to be seen. Of course, none of the afternoon’s visitors landed on the condo.

The unwritten rules only occasionally allowed two species to be on the feeder at the same time. More often than not there would be a bird or two that would speed in for a landing and the feeding bird would rocket off to a nearby branch. No physical contact—or at least I didn’t see any—but sometimes a bit of threatening fluttering was the persuader to get a bird moving off. The nuthatches were the most flagrant aggressors.

All done in a matter of fifteen minutes or so. Max watched the flurry with some interest, but with nothing like his enthusiasm for getting out the door and after squirrels.

Thanks for your kind response to one of the poems I published. Well, I say published, but for a number of friends and family, posted would have to be the word. Several folks have asked if or when I might publish something, and I understand that they mean as in book form. Of course, I am much more the fan of the physical book, but for now I am releasing some of my writing via Blogger.

Several times in front of my classes, I voiced my belief that a number of self-publishers and writers who relied on publishing houses would have enthusiastically embraced the new media. A guy like Walt Whitman? Leaves of Grass, one tweet at a time. Or Emerson, or Thoreau, or Pound.

And now, posted thoughts, feelings, secrets even—stuff that may be shared with strangers around the world. Ebooks, blogs, posts, tweets. We are nearly all of us publishers now.

For me, one reader is enough. Not my livelihood. Obviously. By the way, hope you are finding some time to write, a little at least.

November and the season’s energy are soon to build. Good wishes to you and your family.

Yours, srk