A Season's Concession

Dear Maria,

Greetings! A seasonally appropriate 28 degrees this morning, and so I must concede, fall has arrived. Despite some mornings in the lower to mid-30s, because the highs, like several of the past few days, have managed to climb into the 70s, I ignored the calendar. Not today. 

Today is resignation day. Winter is going to come.

You know I have only half-jokingly referred to this place as Camp Reflection—the pun, obvious—but the character of the place lends itself to frequent pauses to, well, reflect. Were it a summer camp, the kids would be long gone, the last few senior counselors would have turned the bunks, locked the windows, and stored the canoes and kayaks in the shed. The pantry would be nearly empty, just enough for the senior director to see the place through the winter.

Yep, that would be me. Yep, feeling a little swelling of melancholy in the chest. So now I write, you are thinking. Lucky you.

No geese this late afternoon as I walked Max. In fact, very few birds today. Yesterday could have passed for Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson out here. Did see what I am pretty certain is a tree swallow, but it is most likely merely pausing during its migration. Beautiful bird.

Oh, by the way, speaking of writing—and I sort of was—thank you for telling me the other day that one of my posts didn’t resonate with you. I could hardly take anyone seriously who said they liked—liked, which now is even a more vapid word thanks to social media—every post, every story, every poem.

However, to chew on if not eat my words, thanks for liking the little haiku that tallied around 1/15^th the views my open letter to Trump received. That minor foray into the current situation resulted in a 600% jump in readership and more likes and more shares than anything I have ever posted. Go figure.

Regardless, most likely, it’s back to the landscape for me.

Minus the melancholy. Besides the seasonal shift brings the holiday sprint. Thanksgiving was 34 of us—final accounting in the hands of tabulators—and was good-spirited as always. I might even throw up some lights in the crape myrtles out back, which would give my neighbors across the way something to look at and would most likely amuse my neighbors on either side.

I am sure your family’s gathering was warm and fun—and the temperature as well. Enjoy the pleasures of the season. Perhaps we will put a little extra emphasis on the word peace when we ask for Peace on Earth this go-round.

My best to the family and friends and colleagues.

As always, yours,

srk 

In Absentia

Dear Maria,

Ouch! Okay, okay. No matter how gently delivered, I feel your reproofs—truly, I do. Hey, I can be sensitive.

As to the first matter—no letter since the relocation—no excuses. I know you prefer opening a mailbox and tearing open an envelope as you walk back to your front door. I get that. And since the blog posts from here are fairly general, I won’t claim any kind of equivalence. All that would do is fuel more scorn from you.

Simply, then, the move turned out to be the right decision at the right time. Reconnecting with family on a weekly basis—or at least some of the 31 who are 25-35 minutes away—certainly has been good for me. Max has settled into a routine of barking at neighboring dogs and patrolling the backyard fence. Every day, nearly, is outdoors, outdoors, outdoors. My new playpen suits me—the kudzu battle, planting trees and setting gate posts, and managing the lake and dam, including the beaver dam. All good.

Several others have asked me about the election, and honestly my response was pretty muted. You know I maintained an awareness in absentia after a few mocking posts about walls and guns. For me, the tone became sort of the verbal equivalent of some minion chewing off his own hand in Penny Dreadful. I am at the point in my life of why subject myself to that stuff.

Of course I am aware of what was at stake—is at stake.

I did watch Trump’s victory speech. The man was tired, and well he should be. Our process for vetting the candidates is brutal. Otherwise, I don’t what to make of him. I read very little beyond headlines and a few lead paragraphs, and I am no psychologist, pundit, or political savant. As for the daily routine and minutiae of governing, I am guessing he will lose interest. The Republicans in Congress after assessing his tolerances for policy may have a field day legislatively—I don’t know.

I can say—and for no other reason than a sense of schadenfreude—watching Cruz et al call him Mr. President for the first time might be entertaining.

To be sure, Trump is no more than a set of ideas-elect. If he said anything to win, to make the sale, then it will interesting to see how his customers respond when he doesn’t deliver. Just don’t know.

Here’s what I suspect—based on no deep knowledge or insight, but why stop now—that 4 years from now the divisions of class and race and gender will be mostly the same, that poverty rates will be essentially unchanged, that income inequality will be more or less the same, and that the Democrats will be hard pressed to find a champion to win the day in the lists.

Short of an enormous economic breakdown that unleashes chaos in the streets, or some horrific war that tears into our country’s soul, more of the same from my perspective.

I did post on Facebook that I believed the Nation would endure. Deliberately I did not use the word Republic. You know I am at heart, in my mind, a longstreamist, and I know that aggravates the dickens out of you.

Certainly such a kerfuffle is enough to cement our friendship for an eternity. Promise to write with a holiday update. Maybe even by then the beavers and I will not have gone to war.

Best wishes to you and the family.

Always yours, srk

Taking Leave

Dear Maria,

Greetings! From a bit further, oh let’s call it north-northwest by my reckoning. Appreciated the card and even more the kind words. Several others were of your mind that I seemed anchored to the Charleston area despite my raising the notion of moving in this direction last year.

Just before I found this property, I heard myself say out loud that life for me was “more about preservation than exploration”. I know, I know. Chew those words up and spit them out. A few weeks later I was stomping around outside here at the new place for the first time, and 48 hours later the contract was signed.

Sometimes you have to yank the tablecloth off the table—dishes, too.

Of course, my sister’s branch of the family—or more accurately, pretty much an entire tree—has been suggesting the time for this move was due, and I was of the mind that there would be a Yes in due time. So far in a week 20 of the 31 have come out. When I say out, I mean no more than 25-35 minutes.

Sorry we missed each other the last time you were in town on what I named the Meet for Lunch Farewell Tour. Would have taken a year to hit all the spots to my taste in the Charleston area food-wise, and the tour really ended more a whimper, less a bang. Not that it was all about the food. No. Really. But as with any move, all suddenly picked up pace and the next thing I knew I was having to accept that I would not get in all the goodbyes as I would have wished.

As for Max, he spent the first 4 days here going to the front door and looking back at me—despite his toys tossed about the living room, his quilt behind my big recliner, his food and water dishes on the floor at the end of the bar. Then, morning 5, he strutted around the backyard, announced himself to the surrounding pack by barking with a bit of fur up, and trotted with much purpose the inside perimeter of the fence. Guess he lives here now.

As for me, settling in slowly—my desk, my bed, my chair, my coffeemaker, etc. What I do know is that often I will have a thought that connects me to one of my friends left behind, the kind to be shared face-to-face and then the natural flow of conversation that goes from there. Always the case, I have found, with any place that it’s the people, the camaraderie, the friendships. I will miss many, no doubt.

Turns out that I do know several folks from back in the locale who live around these parts now. Up here. Uphill. Upstate. Wait until I send you a picture of snow—then you’ll believe I’m not in the Ladson Metro anymore.

Lyman Metro?

Be good, be well, behave. A bit foolish as a sentiment. But you know the rest. May you and your family be blessed. Come see me.

Always, srk

Summer's Heat

Dear Maria,

Good morning! The summer air was hanging hot and humid at sunrise, and only now at mid-morning is the breeze bringing some relief. Even Max contained his enthusiasm during our daily stroll at 6:30—tongue hanging, head lowered, gait slowed.

Had the happy occasion to spend some time with my kid brother and his youngest son this past weekend. They were in Greenville, and so 28 of the clan gathered for a cookout. Of course, it was the hottest weekend so far. Of course, we stoked up two grills. Hot weather, fire the charcoal. And we even think it grilling season—heat for heat, hot hotter hottest.

How hot this summer gets, well that remains to be seen.

As for your questions—or better, your fears for how goes the world these days—I have no answers. Not that I don’t have some thoughts—okay, opinions—and you know how that goes with me.

What I can say is that I am not afraid for family and friends much beyond whatever I might have thought 5 years ago or 10 or 20. Not that the landscapes are exactly the same—culturally, politically, economically.

However, I have not yielded to fears of an existential nature—that some apocalyptic or seismic shift is about to take place. Call me naïve, or even ignorant, but since few nations disappear even as empires may rise and wane, I think the union survives.

As for day-to-day existence, our quality of life, I can’t imagine much of a redesign by broad strokes. Yes, the Information Wars rage, but I do not see a shooting war here at home. Yes, threats are being fomented here and abroad, but I do not see the populace brought to its knees in abject servitude.

Come back in a 100 years or 500, and my tiny voice could well be the small utterings of a blind fool.

We are always at now, not then and not to come. Or not much beyond, speaking for myself, another two decades or so. Not predictive, not expected—just hazarding a guess.

You might think what is unspoken here is a callousness toward the tragedies of the day. Not at all. I flinch at the ugliness of violence, I ache when I think of family and friends left behind, I yearn for peace between peoples.

But, I choose not to live life as a raw wound.

Well, that should teach you to ask for my thoughts—don’t get me started as the saying goes. I trust you and your family are doing well and will suck the marrow out of the summer season.

Wow! Just watched a male bluebird and a female cardinal sit on the same limb together not even 2 feet apart. They were staring into the neighbor’s backyard and then zoom, off they went together. I may not have seen it all yet, but that is one less item to come.

On that note, I remain yours.

srk

Slacker!

Dear Maria,

You’re right, I have been slack. Slacker than slack. And don’t be nice about it. When you’re right, you’re right. However…

Uh, nope, I’ve got nothing.

Bluebird tally, I’ve got that. Two new males and a female. Watched one of the young males go after a target 80 or 90 feet away from the condo. Couldn’t see if he made the hit because he flew away from me into a neighbor’s Leyland cypress.

Oh, saw a kite last week—first sighting. I’m guessing it’s one of the pair that summers here. Our local hang-about hawk is still providing the early morning alert. Not sure how that works out territory-wise, but given the number of squirrels about, perhaps they achieve some kind of psychic bird airspace treaty. Or do they buzz each other in intimidating fashion. I would guess they don’t want to go at it talon and beak. But these matters of contested airspace are above my pay grade.

Spring was in hyper-drive. Viburnum bloomed this year, ligustrum are blooming, and the roses skipped the mass bloom and went right into mass bloom and spiking with stems carrying multiple flowers. Lantana are flowering, the plumbago are ahead of schedule, tea olive were spectacular and now the jessamine is perfuming the patio. Yep, pretty darn good.

As for the news of the Cruz missile crashing, I have nothing to say. As for the election upcoming—or as it appears it will go—I have nothing to say. Oh, I have my opinions—going with silence as a virtue even as I am sure we will see more and more quotations extoling speaking out being the higher virtue. But, it’s only May.

Coming up on 3 years out of the classroom. It struck me—more a thwack than a bolt—how some students who sat in front of me when I was in my late 20s might have blossomed were they to have been with me when I was in my 50s. And the reverse could surely be true. Speaks to my sense that you do the best you can where and when. No great insight there, but better than suggesting giving 110%.

No specific plans for much of anything this summer, or May for that matter. Lollygagging. Now that suits my pay grade.

Have fun. Pat the kids on the head, which should make them roll their eyes.

Yours, srk

P.S. The fall from the back of the truck was a short one and gave me a moment or two to watch a few fluffy clouds float by. The blue sky took my breath away. All good.

The Rollout

Dear Maria,

Well, it has not been 3 weeks, but seems as if 3 months have passed. Where February was an epoch, March merely a string of moments, and now April.

The spring thing continues. Not so much an explosion, more a rollout. The pattern out front for the trees seems inviolate now. First, the Drake elm. Then the Cleveland pear. And finally the Chinese elm, which has been in the ground the longest of the three. Youth served first—a broader lesson?

Was just out back with Max. He was upside down, grinding grass and dirt into his fur. Overhead were goldfinches. Those are the only two I have seen this season. I hope to see baby bluebirds out and about soon, but they could also be gone from the nest, flown while I was in Greenville.

The sun was hot on my neck, the air was cool, sky very blue, and the apple I was eating was an apple in form and texture only. I smeared peanut butter on the slices, but I might as well have stood with a spoon in hand and eaten it out of the jar. Pathetic. Disappointing.

I did write a story for the Key West contest, and I did enter it. Note the two steps. The first draft went past the word limit by 30 words or so. I cut it back to 465, built it back to around 510, and the pushed it down 490, and left it without an ending for nearly a full day. The morning the entry was due, I forced myself to bring it to its conclusion of sorts—and the 500 word limit. Hit the SEND button. Bye-bye.

Having an aim in mind for a piece of my writing beyond my normal goal—one reader who thinks it worth the read—made the effort quarrelsome. Even the word effort is a clue to the change in my state of mind.

My quip has been that I write because I do not paint. But in the quippiness, much truth. If I painted, then I would hang the pieces on my wall, and should someone see one of them, or all, and say “I like that”, all would be well. The blogs are my walls, sort of. Besides I am a sucker like anyone else for a comment that says “Made my day” or “Thanks for writing this”.

I write because I write. A bit more than a hobby and much less than a calling. I just do.

In January I started keeping a notebook—references for future reference, quotations, thoughts, etc. Maybe I will just publish them in raw form with barely an edit. Maybe not. Not sure the world is ready for or would be served by that stew. Not even my kindest readers.

We shall see.

You no doubt are loving this weather as I am. We know the heat that is coming that will seem to bleach the blue from the sky. Have fun. Be well.

Yours, of course, srk

Onward, March

Dear Maria,

Greetings!  Yes, finally dragged into a better mood a la spring springing. Doesn’t speak well of my attempt at a zen-like repose, but February was grinding my last nerve. And a 29^th day to boot. This morning I was raking out back and the tea olive were sweet and Max strutted around the inside perimeter and the bluebirds appeared to be feeding a new hatch—all good.

By the time I went to get the mail in the afternoon, the first green leaf on the Drake elm had popped out, and so the rhythm of plants and flowers and trees is humming right along.  The sun is on the move, the morning walk is now back to just after 7, and it’s 80 degrees this afternoon.

I guess I might say something about stuff in the news, but why ruin a fine day. Or any day for that matter. Today is one great, magnificent mute button.

Truly, not much to report. Real estate activity has jumped the past month here in the neighborhood—for sale signs sprouting, and a new family has moved in next door. Max and the malamute Bandit have agreed to an early truce, but the pug Misty or whatever has decided, just like the dachshund on the other side, it’s WWIII. Max was infuriated—fur up from tailbone to neck, teeth gnashing on a fence board, snarling. On his last nerve.

Thanks for the recommendation on the Saint-Exupery bio. I am around 50 pages in, even though I promised myself not to start it until I finished some of the other books in the stack. Still working through the pharaohs, and Piketty, and Kierkegaard’s journals—I know, I know—and I found two other books started that were under some other stuff and, well, fortunately no papers or presentations due on any of them. Ever.

There is one story that has tugged on me for a bit—you may have seen it. The one where the 10-year-old girl was killed when she pushed two younger girls out the way of a moving vehicle. No greater love, indeed, but I think we think more often of soldiers and teachers, not children, reacting in that way.

Reflexive? Perhaps. But she made the sacrifice. Begs the question of would I, would any of us. Maybe the greater question—if there were time for choosing—is there anyone we wouldn’t push out of the way? The only answer can be no, there isn’t.

I can only guess at how those parents—all of them—think of life and love and the future now.

Here, we renew. At some point, perhaps, I will get the hang of doing so daily.

Hope you get outdoors this weekend.

Yours, srk  

Spring, Not Sprung

Dear Maria,

Well, the crape myr-deristas have been out and about around town. But so are tulip trees and some azaleas and a few redbuds. I have my annual forearm wound from cutting back the roses and so all is well. The lantana are clipped to the ground, some rogue stems on the ligustrums are gone, and the winter weed patch is in its full glory. All good.

I want to say I smell spring in the air, but I easily get ahead of the calendar this time of year. But March is not so far away, and that sounds like a spring month around here. Good enough for me.

Soon, I’ll spike the trees, and then feed the shrubs and roses. Not much planting this season. A few plants to be moved. Some stone to be placed in a few spots—especially at the corner of the driveway and front walk. The driveway is narrow and I put in a few plants that are too close and so must amend for my mistake.

Max and I are taking longer walks in the morning and afternoon—yes, two-a-days after I let him hit 105 pounds.

Can’t remember if I told you I have switched over to using a credit card nearly full time—that cash rewards thing. Big excitement was cashing in $100 this month. I applied it all toward book orders. I know it doesn’t matter which items I redeemed, so to speak, but I took more pleasure in the notion that I got free books.

Yes, I know, all in my mind.

Hard to believe that in a few months I will have been out of the classroom three years. Of course, those colleagues still there do not have the same sense of few that I do. More rarely now am I asked about retirement—guess it is a clearly established fact.

I still answer “Nothing” when asked what I am up to, and then if the conversation stays on topic, I go with “A lot of reading and a little writing”. Most folks have given up on me living out their retirement fantasy—traveling, fishing, starting a new business.

One friend still suggests from time to time that I must be bored. Uh, that would be a firm “No” to be followed by a laugh. About all that I can add to the subject is that if I knew then what I know now, I would have saved more deliberately to have been able to retire sooner.

But, I live as a monk—unaffiliated, with windows and indoor plumbing, heating and cooling, and the internet, so continue to ignore my musings.

There, enough. And I didn’t mention what took place in South Carolina yesterday.

Be well, take some time for yourself outdoors, and hug the kids.

Yours, of course, srk

Beans, Bacon, Bream

Dear Maria,

I don’t know if a young mockingbird spreading its wings in the sun for a few moments constitutes real news, but it’s the show for the moment. More exciting entertainment—at least when I am sitting at my desk—is watching nearly a dozen house sparrows mug one another at the feeder. Then a dove comes fluttering in and off the sparrows go as if tail feathers on fire. High hilarity, to be sure. Almost a daily show and so they could go on the road, south most likely.

The wind is up and winter temperatures are forecast for most of the next ten days, and that will get us deeper into January—see, I believe spring comes in March no matter what and so carving out a chunk of January is cause for celebration.

Yesterday, while I was eating a variation of beans and rice, etc. that dominates my cuisine, I got caught up in two message threads and an email exchange. I know, shouldn’t multi-task when eating. Sometimes I do just sit in my chair, enjoying a meal and the view. Sometimes outside at the table, and I never attend to anything else—just taking in the surroundings.

When I got back to the bowl at hand, the food was cold. I ate it anyway, black beans and all. Not terrible, just different. Reminded me of eating Campbell’s pork and beans out of the can for breakfast.

When I was a kid, my grandfather and I would drive up to Lake Tarpon from St. Petersburg to fish for bream—worms and cane poles for the fishing, the beans for our early breakfast. I think we always caught a few good-sized ones and sometimes a bucketful.

Two most vivid memories are of my grandfather chuckling as I kept dangling a worm in front of a bream on her nest and on another occasion his thrashing at a moccasin with his net. I think he chopped down more brush than inflicting any harm on the snake.

After a few hours, if that long, we’d come back home and out would come the black skillet and with it the best part of those days—even as I loved fishing back then—eggs and bacon and fried bream and grits.

Fishing and food. And food. And food. Yep, pretty much.

Nope, no recipe for the beans, etc. Nope, no resolutions.

No longer absurd to speak of 2020—sounds ridiculous, but it is within hailing distance, and more outrageously the Social Security folks calculate having me around until 2036. Certainly don’t want to disappoint on that front.

Bundle up, hug the kids, and take good care of yourself.

Yours, srk

Hoppin Scotch

Dear Maria,

Happy New Year! That first, of course. The roses bloomed—not much of a surprise—and are still alive and, well we shall see. The birds have been mobbing the feeder, and the female bluebird returned to the condo yesterday. Weeds are nicely green—my neighbor mowed her grass again, but I think that is only because she adores her new riding mower. The kind I might get if I had several acres or more to tend. Maybe some machine envy, but misplaced.

My roses are puny compared to what I see around town, but they are an experiment in less sun and so I am partial to their show. All the new ones in the ground at Publix are blooming with multiple flowers. They replaced the cypress trees that you may remember. Those trees were never a great choice for the space, but now the roses will thrive and make for a better landscape—well, too much of a word there, but you know what I mean.

While in the store yesterday, I nearly walked into the buggy of a former colleague. As matter of the chitchat, she asked if I would be making Hoppin John. “No” I answered. Or should have answered. What I really said was “No, just my own concoction”.

“You should make Hoppin John.”

“I’m making Hoppin Scotch.” Witty me.

“What’s that?”

Hoppin’ nothing, but here we go. “Field peas, snaps, onion, bell pepper, chicken broth, kielbasa, a bit of left over marinara, garlic, rice, and a tablespoon of scotch for good luck.”

“That’s not Hoppin John.” At that point I wanted to go back to square one: She asked, I did say no.

“Nope.”

“I don’t know what kind of luck that will get you.”

Well, I thought, you do that voodoo that you do so well, and I will conjure as I conjure. Besides, how many times have I said that luck’s got nothing to do with it. Whether I believe that or not is another question. Please, don’t ask.

So I have my pot of Hoppin Scotch, and we have a new year upon us—though I think our little wind-ups on the calendar like birthdays and the advent of a new year not much more than some accounting notice. I know, just check the Other box.

Yes, I brought it to a boil. Yes, I simmered it for a good bit. Yes, I put scotch in—about a tablespoon. Had to. A matter of conscience. Might throw in some green peas, too. At the last minute—like them to have that little pop. Maybe not.

As for you and your kin, here’s hoping for a fantastic year ahead.

Yours, yours, and yours, srk