They're getting married!!!
I just received an email from my sister which reads:
“We are in the process of designing invitations. Have the church reserved, American legion for reception, working on a catering service, have my dress, shoes, and tonight we picked out rings.”
They sure look happy, and in my opinion, that's great!!!
"Girl With a Basket"
Winslow Homer, 1882
Taste
What ever happened to taste? Has the appreciation of classic grace and beauty gone from everyday life? It feels as though everywhere I turn these days I'm assaulted by a barrage of images, print, and noise. The message smacks me rather than beckons. In your face, dude! (And often in your ears at deafening decibels).
Would Georgia O’Keefe’s work be overlooked if it were new today? Would Michelangelo’s David be considered boring for its simple portrayal of a lone man? Are there any budding Chopins - and if there are, can anyone hear them? Does an Eames chair pale beside a vibrating, massaging, giant flat-screen home theater seat?
Turn off that damned CNN. Play me a simple song sung by a soloist and tastefully accompanied by a piano, and let my eyes wander out the window, across the pond to the still woods as the sun goes down.
Okay, so I’m an old fart.
Moronic Rhyme
A neighbor moronic we all have to bear,
As he shoots his guns nightly at things in the air,
Or perhaps at things swimming or eating or running;
He thinks that he is exceedingly cunning.
He hoarded dried foods for the end of our stay
On this planet computered (doomed by Y-2-K).
His lame ideology damns all but his “sisters”
And “brothers” and preachers (who to us are blisters).
Certifiably crazy is this next-door dolt,
With his fervent religion and his 45 Colt,
And we wonder how long it will be till the day
He hears God whispering, “Blow the neighbors away.”
Wine Whine Revisited...
Last evening I had the strange pleasure of attending a pairing of alcohol and money. The idea was to combine short explanations of a particular investment strategy with the tasting of several different wines. The hope, of course, was that guests could absorb both without falling asleep, and I must say that the idea worked quite well. My son was the financial presenter; his complement on the wine side was an Ottawa sommelier named Sean.
I recently wrote a poem entitled "Wine Whine," which pooh-poohed the notion that there even is such a thing as a wine expert. I paraphrased the old Duke Ellington quote - "If you like it, it IS good." Well color me foolish. Here, after last evening's experience, is a revised version of that May 3, 2006 poem. Thanks, Sean!
Wine Whine Reconsidered (For Sean)
The wine snob swirls, sniffs and sips the item,
Thoughtful-faced till it’s inside him,
While we (the peasants) fake knowing stance,
Waiting impatiently for our chance,
Hardly caring if it’s white, pink or red -
As long as it’s plentiful and we’re soon fed.
The “wine snob” (we learn) is called a sommelier
As he passes us brie crepes paired up with a chardonnay,
Then sushi with sake, and shiraz from "Down Under"
With cutlets of lamb – Oh Lord, it’s a wonder!!!
Bring on the pheasant with pinot noir!
Enlightenment strikes us, awakened we are!!
So consider the food when removing the cork:
A wine is much better when used with a fork.
The Boy That I Live With
The boy that I live with is younger than me
(Not sixty-four like ex-Beetle Paul McCartney).
This boy that I live with plays with pals at the gym
Who are younger than he but no stronger of limb.
My boy shoots and he rebounds with obvious zeal,
Especially loving to score off a steal,
Recounting his triumphs to me over dinner,
As if no glory is greater than being a winner
At these lunch-hour matches of the pot-bellied and paunchy.
(His car contains gym socks incredibly raunchy).
I listen with patience and with my old boy concur:
He is swift, sly and speedy – a better play-maker for sure
Than those half his age dwelling on their past glories
(Not one among them has yet entered his forties),
But in spite of my teasing and half-masked amusement,
I’m impressed and I’m proud of my elderly gent.
He’s muscled, he’s spry, he’s joyful, he’s great,
And more boys should be youthful at age fifty-eight!
"Tenacity" photographed by WizenedEye.com
Survivor
A friend named Karen recently underwent surgery to remove a tumor. In the hospital’s recovery room, as soon as she was conscious enough to speak coherently, she exclaimed, “There, that bastard’s gone. Get me my cellphone, I have work to do.”
After the death of my father, a Hospice nurse told me that she could look around the gravely ill in an oncologist’s waiting room and pick out the people who would likely survive simply by sizing up their attitudes. She believed there are people who have a true “survivor” attitude, and there are people who don’t.
Several years ago a hospital lab reported that my somewhat routine tissue sampling showed “findings consistent with endometrial cancer.” After some hours of initial shock and disbelief, I passed through what I later realized was a fairly normal pattern of reaction. In the first week or so, positive thinking and attitude (later recognized as denial) was my stance: “I will be fine. I will beat this.” Then it hit me: the terror of facing the Opponent and possibly losing the match. Insomnia, anxiety attacks and private tears defined me. Next came action: arranging to donate blood in case it was needed during surgery, talking with other “survivors” about visualization techniques (PacMan gobbling up cancer cells is one I remember), positive thinking, consideration of the all-carrot-juice diet, and so on.
Not quite three weeks after hearing the original diagnosis, I learned that there had been a mistake. My tissue sample was actually “consistent with normal endometrial tissue.” The second opinion threw in a suggestion that “the patient should be monitored and followed closely,” probably as much to absolve the first doc’s error as to protect me.
This news – this commutation of my medical sentence – had an immediate effect. Tears of relief and suppressed thoughts poured from me. My “positive attitude,” my cancer-cell-gobbling PacMan, my “belief” that I would be a “survivor” all were seen by me for what they really had been: an attempt at having the right attitude.
I think of other friends fighting to beat the bastard and to stay alive, and I hope they are like Karen - not like me. I hope they truly believe they can win. I hope they are people the Hospice nurse would identify as survivors. We are who we are.
The Rap of the Retired Wizard
In contemplation of my leisurely situation,
My daily recreation,
Tasks crossed off, the elimination
Of what appears to be work to the rest of the nation.
Threw ‘way my bizness skirt
Got a SPF 45 sunblock shirt
Now I’m workin’ in the breeze and diggin’ dirt
Till my bones get numb and my muscles hurt.
Is this fun or is this toil,
This playin’ with seeds and weeds and soil,
Sniffin’ manure without recoil,
Huntin’ down pests like Conan Doyle?
Then August comes an’ it’s time to harvest,
Can it, freeze it, dry it an’ all the rest,
Obsessed more than blessed would be my guess,
Jungle-hot kitchen makin’ me depressed.
So am I out to pasture, washed up, retired;
Or recreating as desired?
And how in hell did it transpire
That a wizard became a gardener, I inquire.
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A male Rose-breasted Grosbeak waits for his turn at the feeder. This morning I saw three of these at one time! 
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