Sunday Scribblings: Photograph

The caption for this photograph of my dad might read, " Hey Mary... why is it that when those kids come home for Christmas this d#%@ thunderjug always stops working?"

This picture was captured many years after one taken in the post below. There is a strange curse that has been alive and well at my childhood home that only occurs when the family gathers for a celebration. That must be why I took this funny picture of my dad trying to figure out why the toilet kept running at Thanksgiving. Other times at gatherings a toilet has overflowed. There was also the time the water escaped from the shower at Christmas when RP was home and it flooded down the basement.

The frig Mom owns has this one drawer that for some unknown reason falls out easily. It is also the drawer that holds all the ingredients for holiday entertaining including cheese and dips. As soon as anyone gets close to the kitchen at Christmastime we can hear Mom's sharp words rising above the voices of her favorite soap stars, " Be careful with that drawer if you get out any dip. It falls out easily you know". I seem to always be the one that pulls the drawer out too far. The only problem with that is the process of fixing it. It requires moving a garbage can, a compost bucket,pulling out the frig, avoiding the utensils hung on the wall, and lots of blood, sweat, and teeth gritting.

We have also had kitchen shelves come lose and dump tupperware on people's heads. A few times "decor" on the walls have also fallen on heads during dinner. There is a framed picture in the hall on the way to the bathroom that falls routinely when someone walks by. Mom has figured out she should give up putting real evergreen boughs behind the mirror with the lights in the living room because we spend more time sticking them back up then enjoying them.

The worst disaster I was part of was the day somehow the water didn't go through the coffee basket and into the pot correctly when I made coffee in the morning. It went everywhere else. I was amazed that a water/coffee ground mix could go into the dish towel drawer, flow under the stove, and wind up behind the refrigerator. I think Mom goes into a cold sweat any time I near Mr. Coffee when I am home now.

We appear to be a normal family 90% of the time. It is that 10% that includes all these disasters that keeps the laughter and the memories alive as we gather again at home.

To read other Sunday Scribblings about photograph go here.

Celebrating National Poetry Month: Poem #4

raymond pert and Dad

Camera
It's an old box camera,
a Brownie, the color and shape
of the battery out of a car,
but smaller,lighter.
All the good times-
the clumsy picnics on the grass,
the new Dodge,
the Easter Sundays-
each with its own clear instant
in the fluid of time,
all these have leaked away,
leaving the shell,
this little battery without a spark.

-Ted Kooser

Easter with the siblings

Celebrating National Poetry Month: Poem #3

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks

by Jane Kenyon
I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

From The Boat of Quiet Hours by Jane Kenyon, published by Graywolf Press. © 1986 by Jane Kenyon.

It Was a Great Road Trip... But There's No Place Like Home!

Postcards from Chelan: Road Trip Day 4

Some images from yesterday as we continued our road trip. We only wish the orchards would have been in bloom... but you can't beat blue sky and sunshine.

Celebrating National Poetry Month: Poem #2

Dawn Revisted

Imagine you wake up
with a second chance: The blue jay
hawks his pretty wares
and the oak still stands, spreading
glorious shade. If you don't look back,

the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits-
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours

to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You'll never know
who's down there, frying those eggs,
if you don't get up and see.

Rita Dove (1952- )

Whenever I visit an area I look for bookstores. Yesterday I found a gem in Chelan called Riverwalk Books. I discovered a new volume of poetry that I already love called 100 Poems to Lift Your Spirits, edited by Leslie Pockell. The above poem came from the collection. I will share more about the bookstore in a later post.