the ugly earring

from max wanger blog: jesse +whitney family

In a utopian world, I would propose, for the ultimate maintenance of the humanities and all other higher learning, an elementary-school curriculum that would make every ordinary child a proficient reader by the end of the fourth grade—not to pass a test, but rather to ensure progressive expansion of awareness. Other than mathematics, the curriculum of my ideal elementary school would be wholly occupied, all day, every day, with “reading” in its very fullest sense.

(text from: reading is elemental)
photo: from Main Historical Society

“Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake and then subsides. And when it subsides you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have become so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion. That is just being “in love” which any of us can convince ourselves we are. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two.”

— Augustine of Hippo

photo: here from the Irwin Archive courtesy of the Douglas Historical Society, Douglas, Arizona. Early 1900s.

a sunday hike.

building sandstone houses.

playing near the remains of an old abandoned gold mine.

“I have for the first time found what I can truly love–I have found you. You are my sympathy–my better self–my good angel–I am bound to you with a strong attachment. I think you good, gifted, lovely: a fervent, a solemn passion is conceived in my heart; it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life, wrap my existence about you–and, kindling in pure, powerful flame, fuses you and me in one.”

—     Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte

She sang:

Bubble, bubble, pasta pot,
Boil me some pasta, nice and hot,
I’m hungry and it’s time to sup,
Boil enough pasta to fill me up.

And the pasta pot bubbled and boiled and was suddenly filled with steaming hot
pasta.

Then Strega Nona sang,
Enough, enough, pasta pot,
I have my pasta, nice and hot,
So simmer down my pot of clay,
Until I’m hungry another day

“How wonderful!” said Big Anthony. “That’s a magic pot for sure!”

And Strega Nona called Big Anthony in for supper.

But too bad for Big Anthony, because he didn’t see Strega Nona blow three
kisses to the magic pasta pot.

happy weekend!
photo: here
text: strega nona and the magic pasta pot

In the undergrowth
There dwells the Bloath
Who feeds upon poets and tea.
Luckily I know this about him,
While he knows almost nothing of me

1. lover’s self portrait 2. an afternoon catch

Of all the plants Ami could have picked, she decided upon African violets.

Botanical name: Saintpaula ionantha
Plant type: perennial
Planetary ruler: venus
Elemental ruler: water
Reputation: one of the most difficult houseplants to care for and keep in bloom
Meanings: a delicate love, modesty, Mary, spiritual wisdom, humility, faithfulness

The smell of the nursery greenhouse reminded me of  summers spent at my grandparent’s house, especially my grandmother’s greenhouse. It was there my brother and i ran free without the clutches of an over-protective mother. We explored St. Francis park and the creek behind their house during those humid Texas months. We collected insect specimens, biked through the park’s wooded patches where children had built forts, and a car – half buried and rotted with rust – inspired stories of murder, dead bodies, and cautious glances over our shoulders. We walked the railroad tracks in front of their house, leaving pennies on the tracks. Their house, my father’s childhood home, was at the bottom of a hill. On top of the hill was an old cemetery and a story about a heavy rain that brought skeleton bones and a skull to the base of the hill.

My grandfather built the greenhouse for her, a gift to house the plants she cared for year after year. This mystical fortress with a screen door entrance included a huge, glistening spider web that hung from one corner to the other. In the center of its web, a yellow and black spider stood guard, protecting the plants and the insects that made her greenhouse their home. We were terrified of the spider, of breaking her web, and yet curiosity made us return daily to watch the spider.

Open the screen door, inhale the glorious smell of earth and nature, feel the escaping warm air, take a step closer to the spider, feel the hair on the skin rise.

If my grandmother has a scent, it is the smell of her greenhouse.

Several summers after my grandfather died, ferns hung from the ceiling in the bedroom where they used to sleep. I lay next to her in the grand bed and asked if she missed him.

She nodded and said, “but he is often here with me.”

Of all the plants I could have picked, I selected two ferns.

We set up the terrariums and planted our plants that evening. Ami prepared a fishbowl – quickly and excitedly – some rock, a little charcoal, peat moss, planting soil and then her African violets. She touched the flowers and petals despite my concern that such a touch could kill it.

I over-watered them that night.

Daily,  she cares for her violets and the other plants – examining, watering, and mothering them.  On Sunday,  she set up a small bench to display the plants for my mother and father. When they arrived, she picked up her plant with its bright raspberry-colored blooms. Full of life.

“African Violets!” said my father. “When I was a boy, I helped Great Grandma Betty take care of her African violets.”

During the course of their visit, a message arrived: “She has fallen.”

That night, Ami lay next to me in the big bed. We spoke about hip bones, broken bones, getting old, and she asked, “what does a hospital bed look like?”

The ambulance arrived at my grandmother’s house.

And another message came: “Hip broken. Will need surgery.”

Late into the night, on the other side of town, my father, wound up in emotion, called for my mother to lay down next to him.

And in the darkness, perhaps,  another violet bloom opened.

this season we make bread.

(photo)

(and a no-knead recipe)