Alive in the Foothills

The Mohonk Testimonial Gateway was built in 1907-8 to commemorate the 50th wedding anniversary of the co-founders of Mohonk Mountain House, Albert Keith Smiley and his wife Eliza Phelps Smiley.

Opened to the public last May, the Gateway Trailhead offers access to carriage roads and trails in the Foothills of the Shwangunks.

Lately it is my favorite place to walk, and well worth the price of the Mohonk Preserve membership.

Starting at the parking lot, we pass through a bit of wooded area and then, skirting the Gatehouse, we emerge onto the allee, a straight carriage road lined with venerable pin oaks.  Immediately on the right is a pond where frogs galump and we may see a great blue heron.

To the left is a gazebo with a lovely view across the meadow.  From there, we can count monarch butterflies and take in the curve of the mountains.

The Lenape Bridge at the end of the allee is under construction, so people are detoured through a field and across the road where we can rejoin the carriage road.  Here is presented a choice: straight ahead across the farm fields where black cows graze, or to the right toward more woods.

On our most recent walk, we showed up in the evening, when the fields were exhaling the day’s breath.  The fragrance was full of grass and wildflowers and the life of the land. 

After a day inside the apartment, the Preserve offered space and air and a fabulous sunset. 

www.mohonkpreserve.org

The Anguish of Learning English

The Anguish of Learning English

Lately my husband and I have been sorting through our bins of stuff in an effort to reduce the amount in our storage unit.  This is a COVID-inspired activity that actually produces a positive result. 

While digging around in a bin of my old teaching materials and my kids’ artwork, I found the little book More Anguished English by Richard Lederer.  The book’s subtitle reads: An expose of embarrassing, excruciating, and egregious errors in English.  I bought this book second hand at least twenty-five years ago.  Finding it again brought back a vivid memory of the time I first read it.

It was spring break and I’d rented a house on Chincoteague Island.  I had my two kids and two of their friends with me.  The kids were finishing dinner and I picked up the book.  Soon I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t read it aloud to them. 

Some examples from students’ essays*:

            Rambo was a French poet.

            A great Jewish leader in Scotland was Rabbi Burn.s

            A harp is a nude piano. (This image delights me every time.)

As I reread pages a quarter of a century later, I wasn’t as amused. In fact, I found myself feeling compassion for the beleaguered writers, and slightly irritated that the author and my former self made fun at their expense.  My change of attitude was rooted in the eight years I taught English as a new language (ENL) to children from kindergarten through fifth grade.

English is a difficult, often nonsensical language.  A famous example of its challenges is the variation on /ough/: rough, through, slough(two meanings, two pronunciations), though.  Sometimes English seems to have more exceptions than reliable patterns. 

My experience as an ENL teacher changed the way I read the “bloopers” in More Anguished English.  Some errors were caused by mishearing, such as The big artery on your neck is called the jocular vein.  Other mistakes were misspellings: At night we stayed in a youth hostile. 

Instead of finding humor in the errors, I found that my heart hurt a bit for the authors struggling to communicate in a challenging language.  Whether English is a first language or a new language, learning it isn’t easy.  How many native speakers are confused by there, they’re, and theirWere and where?

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

Sure, the errors writers make are often amusing. Even today, some make me laugh.  But my years of teaching second grade and ENL changed me. 

Here are some student definitions to lighten your COVID days:

Migration: A headache that birds get when they fly south for the winter.

Syntax: Is all the money collected at church from sinners.

Foliage: A mother horse having a baby.

And particularly relevant to our pre-election anguish:

Absentee ballot: When you count the ballots and some of them aren’t there.

*All citations from More Anguished English, by Richard Lederer.  Delacorte Press, New York, 1993.

Photo by Julia M Cameron on Pexels.com

Michelle Obama’s Podcast

I’ve always admired Michelle Obama for her strength, integrity, and comportment as the First Lady.  The Michelle Obama podcast reveals these qualities and many more.  In the first episode, Michelle talks with Barack Obama about community.  It is a delight to hear these two dedicated and intelligent people in a meaningful conversation. 

I’ve listened to every episode so far.  The topics have ranged from women’s health issues to friendships to marriage.  The most recent (9/10, as of this writing) involved a discussion with Michelle Obama’s mentees, young black women who held internships with her at the White House.  The mentees speak so thoughtfully as they reflect on their experiences at the White House.  It is obvious that they have modeled themselves after their mentor.

If you haven’t had a chance to listen to this podcast, I urge you to tune in.  It’s available FOR FREE on the Spotify app, also free. 

Excavation

j2EhxEN7Tkeo6iSgGwN

 

The Sawmill Creek behind our apartment complex flows into the pond on the college campus across the road. From there, it empties into the Wallkill River, the only north-flowing river in the U.S. The Wallkill meets Rondout Creek near Rosendale, and their joined waters enter the Hudson River at Kingston.

 

This spring, the creek overflowed a few times, coming perilously close to the footings of the apartments. Then, under the heat of summer, it petered out and became full of grass.

 

One early morning, the rumbling of machinery surprised us. We stepped out on our balcony to watch what was the beginning of a major landscaping project. The guy running the excavator was amazing. He dug out the creek bed. If he encountered rocks, he picked them up and dropped them into line on the far side of the trench. He used the shovel’s curved back to nudge the boulders into place, looking like a giraffe mother helping its newborn.

HG0tVs1wRhWQZudpWP03Tw

Another guy drove the bulldozer, picking up the dirt and smoothing it out on the side closest to the apartment buildings.

All this landscaping activity has been great entertainment for the past week. In between pauses caused by rainstorms, the workers have completed the trench where the creek will run, laid thick black plastic along it, and dumped rocks on top of the plastic.

Eventually, the drainage pipes from the apartment gutters will be buried, the plastic will be covered over, and our lovely Sawmill Creek will again flow freely to the Hudson.

This is What You See

NGXUvgUbQ6uG6FXpkbG5eA

 

By starlight, they fall asleep holding hands.

By moonlight, he frees one firefly caught between the glass door and the screen.

By lamplight, she reads while he holds her feet and asks, “What’s a four letter word for mixture?”

By candlelight, they heat water for washing on the gas stove.

By sunlight, they walk around the pond and stop to watch four goslings dozing.

By a red light, he says, “All clear on the right.”

By flashlight, she finds the missing puzzle piece under the couch.

By starlight, they fall asleep holding hands.

 

K.E.

Meditation

OM

Fold the legs under.

Place hands on thighs.

Wiggle fingers.

Get a tissue.

Smooth the blanket.

Find the loose cuticle

on the thumb.

Pick at it.

NAMAH

Move numb foot.

Shift the legs.

Smooth the blanket.

Find another rough cuticle.

Notice dry hands.

Get lotion

right now?

Scratch itchy neck.

SHIVAYA

Straighten the back.

Relax the shoulders.

Breathe in six.

Exhale eight.

Repeat.

Slowly

the body fades.

Hands at peace.

OM

Then set definite periods for prayer; set definite periods for meditation. Know the difference between each. Prayer, in short, is appealing to the divine within self, the divine from without self, and meditation is keeping still in body, in mind, in heart, listening, listening to the voice of thy Maker.

-Edgar Cayce reading 5368-1

My Laundry Love

For years, I never had a washing machine. From the time I left home for college, I spent hours in laundramats, fussing with the quarters and jockeying for dryer time.

person looking searching clean

Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

Marriage brought me to a Victorian house in Iowa, equipped with a Maytag washer and dryer. I was in love. But the town was predominantly Dutch, and the Dutch don’t waste money and power on dryers. I caved under social pressure and pegged out the wash. That proved to be a dicey proposition, because rain blows into central Iowa quickly. I’d have just left the flapping clothesline when the sky would open and I’d be back out in the yard, tossing wet laundry into the basket.

white textile

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

We moved from Iowa to the New York farm. The washer came with us. I don’t know what happened to the dryer. Perhaps it is rusting away in the barn. The problem at the old farmhouse was the well. It was shallow and the water supply couldn’t handle my beloved Maytag washer’s demands.

At first, my sister-in-law generously let me do the diapers at her house. That soon got to be an imposition. When my son started preschool, I’d take the laundry to the laundramat near his school. With two kids and a house, I grumbled at having to return to my college laundry life.

As a newly single mom, I got the washing machine in the divorce agreement. It sat in the tiny kitchen of the apartment where my kids and I landed. Trusty as ever, the washer washed, but I did have to peg out the clothes on the back porch. After that apartment, we moved to a complex with a laundry room. I don’t remember where the washer stayed while we lived there. I do remember the panic over weekend laundry days, when I’d rush to the laundry room at first light in order to beat the other residents to the machines.

I bought a house. The washer came with us. I bought a dryer to be her lawful wedded machine. The main complaint at the house was the effort and danger of carrying baskets of laundry from the top floor to the washer in the basement. Every time I lugged a heavy basket of clothes, I thought of the nurse at my school who fell down the steps while carrying a laundry basket, and broke her collarbone. When, after at least thirty-five years, we had to put the Maytag down, it was a sad day. The new machine simply wasn’t as good.

Not long after, we downsized and sold the house with all appliances.  I bought a stacked washer/dryer from the previous residents of our new apartment. The glory of this arrangement is that the laundry center is on the same floor as the bedrooms. Hallelujah! I love the ease of it. I love my washer/dryer. I love how the scent of clean laundry fills the upstairs. I even love that the washer’s agitation cycle sounds like a dog about to throw up.

It’s a wonderful thing to have a washer and dryer. I am blessed and I know it.

 

Rearview

 

car side mirror

Photo by Shukhrat Umarov on Pexels.com

 

Hurry them out of the car,

one grumpy, the other sleepy,

both smelling of toothpaste.

Try to ignore the wistful eyes

of the little one.

She hates being stuck

at the sitter’s house

with three boys.

 

The prickling guilt

lasts until the ignition turns.

Already other children

sweep onstage.

Twenty-four shoving,

claiming the spotlight.

Who needs more phonics?

Whose parent called?

How to fit in fire safety

when we’re behind in math?

Mark workbooks at lunch.

A meeting takes up prep time.

 

Rush to collect the kids.

Dinner.

He doesn’t like eggs.

She hates tomatoes.

Nobody wants pasta.

Yelling.

 

Wait for the neighbor girl.

Should have left ten minutes ago.

The grad class prof takes attendance.

In the rearview mirror

see the three standing on the lawn.

He looks mournful.

She flips the finger.

 

Parenting at the speed of light.

Did we ever just rest in each other?

Listen?

 

Now I hold a photograph.

Two young children,

long grown.

Wishing I could step inside.

 

Prodigal Summer and Prothalamium

bloom blooming blossom blur

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

The poet Aaron Kramer first passed across my radar in the lyrics to a song, Prothalamium, sung by Judy Collins on her Whales and Nightingales album. I played  the record over and over while lying by the forced air register in a house on Balboa Island. It was 1971.

Decades later, the poem showed up as the epigraph in Barbara Kingsolver’s novel, Prodigal Summer.

prodigal summer cover

Prothalamium by Aaron Kramer

Come, all you who are not satisfied
as ruler in a lone, wallpapered room
full of mute birds, and flowers that falsely bloom,
and closets choked with dreams that long ago died!

Come, let us sweep out the old streets – like a bride:
sweep out dead leaves with a relentless broom;
prepare for Spring, as though he were our groom
for whose light footstep eagerly we bide.

We’ll sweep out shadows, where the rats long fed;
sweep out our shame – and in its place we’ll make
a bower for love, a splendid marriage-bed
fragrant with flowers aquiver for the Spring.
And when he comes, our murdered dreams shall wake;
and when he comes, all the mute birds shall sing.

 

Kingsolver’s Prodigal Summer is a favorite of mine. I used to reread it every spring. I picked it up again just a day ago, and when I read the epigraph, I heard again the song in my head. This reading prompted me to investigate the poem.

 

My curiosity led me first to the poet Aaron Kramer, about whom I knew nothing. Kramer (1921-1997) was a busy guy. Besides producing several books of poetry, he translated works by Rilke and others, and he pioneered the use of poetry as therapy. For more information, check out his page at www.aaronkramer.com.

 

A “prothalamium” or “prothalamion” is a poem or song written to celebrate a betrothal. One of the oldest ,or possibly the oldest, example is the poem by Edmund Spenser, written in 1596 to celebrate the betrothals of two sisters. Spenser invented the name for the form, based on the “epithalamium,” a wedding song or poem.

Here are the first lines of Spenser’s poem:

Prothalamion

CALM was the day, and through the trembling air 

Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, 

A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay 

Hot Titan’s beams, which then did glister fair; 

When I whose sullen care, 

Through discontent of my long fruitless stay 

In prince’s court, and expectation vain 

Of idle hopes, which still do fly away 

Like empty shadows, did afflict my brain, 

Walked forth to ease my pain 

Along the shore of silver streaming Thames, 

Whose rutty bank, the which his river hems, 

Was painted all with variable flowers, 

And all the meads adorned with dainty gems, 

Fit to deck maidens’ bowers, 

And crown their paramours, 

Against the bridal day, which is not long: 

Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.

Returning to Kramer’s poem, I find its words relevant for our current times. We in the U.S. and much of the world, seem to be experiencing a reordering and growth. The pandemic forces us to acknowledge our interdependency and connectedness. The upheaval over systemic racism pushes forth a truth that demands recognition and change.

Here is the Judy Collins version of Kramer’s Prothalamium, music by Michael Sahl.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_dBaMCGsKWg