Galveston?

It's official. This February, we're going to Galveston, Texas, for a month. Booked plane. Booked condo on the beach. Then someone said, "You're going where? Galveston?" 

I know nothing of Galveston Island, but as I look forward to about 4 months before flowers sprout, and it hit 10 degrees this last week here in Spokane, those warm temps in Galveston look pretty good. 

The condo faces a boardwalk along a less populated section of the ocean. We'll take walks along Seawall Boulevard. Cafes and restaurants await nearby. A little pier juts out with views of birds and boats, a perfect place for an afternoon coffee, or to watch the sun set, or a Wild Blue Heron take flight.

Wild Blue Heron by Barclay Nix (Flickr)

Because of family health issues, we haven't really been able to travel for two years. Maybe we forgot how? This trip to Galveston is to see if we still can stuff laptop, camera, and other necessaries into a suitcase to live simply for a month. 

If they have a library or used bookstore nearby, the condo is reasonably quiet, and we have access to internet (and tv for the sports fan), I think we'll be just fine. 

And more than ready for our next travel adventure.

"And Dream of Galveston"
Jim Denham on Flickr

Yosemite: Hit the Road, Jack!

Back in the day, just a few years ago, we threw our tent into the car trunk with assorted gear, dug out my Eagle Pass, and drove south. 

Once at the North Pines site, we set up that tent for a week in Yosemite Valley, mid-summer. I remember those lovely days of hiking, cooking dinner with our Coleman stove, and then sitting on our foldable camp chairs, watching the stars come out and listening to the coyotes call. These pictures bring back a few memories of those hikes. 

I know many people don't like to camp out. I suppose I'd never convince them to give it a try -- but those of you who have slept out on the ground know why I'm reviewing my camping gear (and skills) and thinking about the coming summer trip as December closes in! 

Maybe you'll remember that great song, "Hit the Road, Jack, and don't you come back no more, no more, no more, no more!"  I'm ready to hit the road.

Thanksgiving and . . . Lutefisk?

A friend asked me to share my favorite Thanksgiving memory, so this journey into the past brought memories of a Thanksgiving feast from early in the 1970's.

A motley crew of some 18 hungry souls had gathered as my sister and I prepared our fabulous dinner. The first course -- lutefisk.

I should explain that my sister's sense of time was cosmic. She was connected to the larger universe. Tiny matters of turning the oven on at the right time escaped her. But finally, everyone gathered around the long table. All looked festive. The appetizers long gone. In fact the guests looked rather long in tooth as my sister and I carried two large platters of steaming lutefisk to table.

Would you believe those two platters made it all the way around the table without one person taking a single serving?

Perhaps it was the sight. My husband calls lutefisk a kind of fish jello with white gravy. Or it could have been the smell. The fish, soaked in lye to preserve it, comes from specialty stores, looking something like a board. The fish must be reconstituted by soaking in water overnight (or a little longer, to make sure the lye is totally gone). But the poor, weakened fish must next be boiled in cheesecloth; otherwise, it would boil away entirely.

I have no pictures of that long ago feast,
but this picture by MTCarlson (Flickr)
will give you an idea . . . 

Then, slathered with white, cream gravy, lutefisk is a dish for Swedes. And well loved. My sister and I sat at the head of the table and pigged out.

Later, we had turkey. Everyone praised our Thanksgiving feast. But for my sister and me, it was always about the lutefisk.

Now in the spirit of Thanksgiving, and following Annette's suggestion, do YOU have a Thanksgiving memory to share?

Remembering a summer afternoon

Just for fun, here are some photos from this late summer visit to the Corbin Art Center here in Spokane for a small exhibit, "Art in Bloom," that paired quilts with flower arrangements. 

In 1912, formal gardens were added to this historic home, originally built in 1898. First a friend and I wandered through the exhibit of quilts, admiring the quilts and the matching arrangements of flowers donated by local florists.

Detail, "Under the Tuscan Sun"
Quilter: Florence Coffey
Florist: Wildflowers

Detail, "Summer Hydrangea"
Quilter: Terry Engleman
Florist: Poetry in Bloom

Detail, "Bouquets for a New Day"
Quilter: Terry Engleman
Florist: Vicki's Garden Center

Then we walked in the restored formal Moore-Turner Heritage Gardens, just outside the door of this old mansion, up the rocky terraces, the flowers seeming to have that last gasp of color before winter descends, late summer sun, an afternoon with a friend who loves quilting and gardens.

Snowcrop (Sedum)

Amaranthus Tricolor ("Jacob's Coat")

Reflecting pool

View of Spokane

Day 26: Dreaming moon

Not so long ago, a blood moon
rose in this autumn sky,
portent of the end of days
and happenstance,
a statistical anomaly for those
who number nights 
and measure the cosmos
with light years.
Instead the pull of gravity,
brings us to this moment,
woman's moon,
a dreaming moon
rising and falling in the night,
a perfect round of days,
nine months if we are counting,
and a child is born. 
All we know,
all we aspire to,
begins anew.











Today's prompt from Octpowrimo is to write of sleep or dreaming. Immediately, I thought of a dreaming moon and a grandchild-to-be who should arrive in the  next week or so. The photo, "Harvest Moon," comes from Wikipedia. 

Read what others have written in response to this prompt by going HERE.

Day 24: On the value of letters

I cried when I landed here,

at York Factory,

This is my home; this my husband.

I shall write letters, and all will be well.

We walked up the hill from the boat,

leaving behind that wretched small room

smelling of sickness and the sea,

careful to stay on the wooden path, 

clouds of mosquitoes

surround us, the air so cold 

it catches in my chest.

Margaret steps off the boardwalk

to slip ankle-deep in the marshy mud,

her white stockings stained.

The piano will be uncrated later.

I look out the tiny window

of my new quarters, four rooms,

and know that beyond the palisades

for miles and miles, past the rolling hills

of the marsh, past that row of tall pines

on the horizon, there is nothing.

Letitia Hargrave (1813-1854) is honored today as the first woman to write of her experiences living in Upper Manitoba as the wife of Chief Factor James Hargrave, at York Factory, just off Hudson's Bay, a key post of the Hudson's Bay Company. 

Her letters, available online, are a treasure of detail. Isolated, alone, yet with a finishing school mentality, Letitia wrote to her family in a close hand, cross-written with thin ink that froze in the winter, yet tell us much of life in mid-19th Century frontier Canada.

Read more of Letitia's life on Wikipedia.

Read her letters here at the Library of the University of Toronto.

Day 23: Turn the page

The nouns go first, no matter

how fast we hold on to sentence sense,

like penguins, black and white,

who slither along the ice,

useless wings flapping, until they

fall at last into the cold, cold water.

There, those birds so awkward on land,

fly through deep seas, at home.

And so I do not think

beyond nouns. It is enough

the seasons turn, and the sky

this morning brightened with promise.

Penguins (Gianfranco Goria on Flickr)

Check out what others have written for Octpowrimo, a month long challenge to write a poem a day.

A Poet's Voice

I scan the words,
their pattern on the page
as clear as lines
that mark
the way
home.

What difference would it make,
to hear the poet's voice
to know with any
certainty,
that here,
in this space,
the poet lost her place,
her voice trembled, and I can
no longer trust her truth,
hard won it may be;
she is as human
as me.

I'm remembering 
a certain temple at Delphi.
On the hill above, the men
raced horses to their destinies;
here on a small ledge below,
in the cracks of the earth,
women breathed in mysteries,
danced by Athena's sacred spring,
and spoke in tongues,
poets all.

Athena's Temple at Delphi, Greece (Camp 2004)

Today's prompt from Octpowrimo.com challenges us to record an audio version of our favorite poem written this month. I have no time this  morning (commitments begin early today), but somehow this meandering poem took me back to a mystical day spent at Delphi. Athena's temple was nearly hidden in the ledge below the main temple of Apollo. 

We could walk right up to the holy stone near the cave where the women meditated and foretold their prophesies. Such holy stones, were found throughout Greece, but here at Delphi, this stone is the symbol of the sacred Oracle.

Holy Stone at Delphi (Camp 2004)

Day 21: Waking Poem

Suddenly it is dark

in the morning,

as if the sun needed to stay below

the horizon a little longer,

the earth tilted away

to hide her treasure,

like the basket I found in my dreams,

dust-covered, colors faded,

but the design true, a note inside

scrawled with tiny letters

and a number.

Maybe this once belonged

to someone’s grandmother,

this basket. I shall carry it home

and make it whole.

A basket made by Californian Lucy Telles, 
now in the Smithsonian National Museum of the American Indian
(source: Wikipedia)

The first lines of this poem came on waking this morning, a very dark morning before daylight savings time kicks in now that we're two-thirds of the way through October. I think I know what it means: that urge to preserve and protect artifacts from previous generations, perhaps an acknowledgement that I cannot 'see' what is valuable of my own. 

Even if I have not written every single day, this month long commitment to try comes from Octpowrimo.com  -- Go see what others have written HERE.

A Writer's Found Poem

I peer out from behind 

the dividing screen,

unseen, walled in by doubt,

wondering why I stay

in this country of

costumes and capers,

a dream of story-telling,

my writing hand stilled.

Childhood was like that,

a series of hard knocks,

until I learned I could leave.

And so I will step away,

walk along leaf-strewn paths,

hear again the call 

of Canada geese flying south, 

and breathe in the season’s turn

in the little sharp bite of the wind,

knowing I will write again tomorrow.

Honey Locust at Finch Arboretum (Camp 2014)

Yesterday’s poetry prompt from Octpowrimo.com asked us to write a ‘found poem’, a poem constructed from a page chosen at random from a book in our library. 

I chose Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall (page 269), a book long on my ‘to read’ pile and then wrote the poem above, drawing from these words: writing hand, why, country, stay, knows, walled, knocks, costume, capers, childhood was like that, unseen, dividing screen.

Of Elephants and Morning

Could I dance with elephants,
eyes closed?
Sometimes creativity
is about trusting
that inner voice
that celebrates all of life,
a dance we step into,
dreaming,

This morning I was supposed to write a book review, but, as we sometimes do, I checked e-mails, made schedules, looked at Facebook, and worried about the coming day.

I found this very reflective Post by Alternatif Hayat  on Facebook. I'm not sure you can see it unless you have access to Facebook, but these powerful images of water, elephants, and celebrants shake me out of the ordinary.

Here is a similar video I found on youtube . . . 

May your day be filled with harmony. Check out what others have written for OctPoWriMo HERE.

An Afternoon in Normandy

On this beach, Arromanches,

the Allied troops in the thousands came ashore 

on D-Day, June 24, 1944. 

We walked along the sun-warmed sand 

seventy years later

and could not imagine

the fierce battle

here,

in this place.

Bunkers at Arromanches 

Bunkers still face the sea, mossy now,

the rocky coast

once an objective, now background;

the rolling incoming waves

as constant as the passing of time.

Pont du Hoc sea view

Longues sur Mer 

Across the way, fields of wheat

camouflaged yet more bunkers,

a simple boundary between the place of landing

and a field of white crosses.

Memorial of the Fallen

Back on Omaha Beach,

metal forms reach to the sky,

a memorial for the fallen.

Omaha Beach Memorial (Camp 2004)

We had joined a parade in Paris, simply to show support for those who marched in favor of peace. An old woman, perhaps then in her eighties, came up to us and asked in French if we were American. When we told her, "Yes," she began to cry. She fell to her knees right there on the cobbled street and thanked us for sending Americans to fight during World War II.

These pictures bring back the memories of that visit to Normandy and the D-Day sites. My father and father-in-law both served during World War II, as did thousands of others. Now the battles seem like old history, very far from our daily life. But here in Normandy, the Americans and the Canadians and the British are remembered.

Cluny: The Beginnings

I stepped into this shadowed round room
in the Museum of the Middle Ages
to find a circle of tapestries,
woven sometime in the late 1500's,
at the center of each,
a young maiden,
flanked by a lion and a unicorn.
Here placards in French tell
the mystery of the tapestries,
lost and found, restored,
now treasured.
Six tapestries, but no one to decode
the story told by each weaving:
Some say in the very last tapestry,
the maiden renounces love
to enter a convent.
But I see the lion and the unicorn,
and I think they tell a different tale.

The Lady and the Unicorn Tapestries
Museum of the Middle Ages (Cluny)
(Camp 2004)

Much better pictures of these beautiful tapestries (and their history) are available on Flickr, at the Museum of the Middle Ages (alas, only in French), and on Wikipedia. Tracey Chevalier has written a tale of these tapestries as well, The Lady and the Unicorn.

From the moment we stepped into the courtyard of the Museum of the Middle Ages (formerly the Cluny Museum) and noticed three curious large shells mounted on a front-facing wall, we were enchanted by these beautiful artifacts from so long ago. The shells testify someone who once lived here had gone on pilgrimage, perhaps to Jerusalem. 



Photo of the Museum of the Middle Ages by Victoria Coffman who noted this estate was built in the 15th Century.

A Visit to Versailles

Met by pigeons, we enter the gate,
the crest of the king in gold filigree and iron,
the grand promenade, a car park,
before us, massive Versailles,
residence of French kings since the 17th Century.
Guards monitor our passing,
our sandals and tennis shoes, a Gallic shrug.
Would the king have said,
“Off with their heads!”

Entry to Versailles (Camp 2004)

Should the king wish to pray,
his private chapel awaits, surely ornate enough
To inspire thoughts of God.

Ceiling, Upper columns,
King's Private Chapel (Camp 2004)

We walk past the king’s bedroom,
Courtiers arrived each morning
to assist him in dressing, even to the chamber pot.

The King's bedroom (Camp 2004)

Stunned by opulence, we continue,
down the Hall of Mirrors so arranged
the king could admire his progress
to the Queen’s bedroom or beyond. 

Hall of Mirrors (Camp 2004)

Who could imagine
at the end of World War I,
Germany signed the Treaty of Peace here?

Detail, Queen's Bedroom (Camp 2004)

Would a jug of wine, a loaf of bread
be sufficient in such a place?
The long halls, empty of furniture and portable art,
throng now with tourists and history.

In the Royal Theater, 3,000 wax candles
burned at each performance.
Perhaps artisans were well rewarded,
I only recall this excess
led to the French Revolution.

Versailles (Wikipedia)

An apartment in Paris

Somehow we found this place, quiet, 
up four floors from the Rue Jussieu,
no elevator but a view
of the Eiffel Tower, 

View from our window

a round table for four, a kitchen small enough
that I could touch both walls, bright paintings
and warm bedding; in the bathroom,
a towel warmer of simple rods.

The tiny kitchen
very well organized

Downstairs, crepe boy 
at a streetside stand, tosssed
batter, sizzling butter, dazzling crepes
before our eyes.
We stood in line at the bakery around the corner
for warm, crusty French baguettes.
Across the street, we could descend 
to the subway and travel to any district,
our French good enough for the day's touring,
then home, Allen translating the news for me,
his voice low, then slower
and slower as the newscaster shifted
to matters of importance.

Welcome home!

Monet's Garden . . .

Monet's Garden at Giverny (Camp 2004)

One afternoon, we wandered 

through Monet's garden at Giverny,

a day trip away from Paris,

with a few hundred others

and two lovers.

I don't think they noticed

the water lilies or

the formal gardens.

Instead they stopped to sit 

on a Japanese water bridge

and dreamed of what lay ahead,

as ethereal and shimmering

with promise

as one of Monet's paintings.

Rachel and Nick at Giverny (Camp 2004)

Monet came to live at this lovely, quiet estate in 1883. The story I remember most is that he worked closely with a gardener to reshape and replant the gardens to his exact specifications. Then, early and late, he would go out to the garden to paint those amazing studies of his gardens that fill museum rooms today. Later in Philadelphia, we saw an exhibit of Monet's works. One room had been set aside for the very large water lily paintings. Outside it was snowing and dusk was falling, but inside, we were surrounded by Monet's garden.

Where Monet once lived at Giverny (Camp 2004)

Visit the gardens at Giverny online HERE for some amazing photos and more of Monet.

Hydrangea at Giverny (Camp 2004)

A Day in Bayeaux . . .

Detail, Bayeux Tapestry (Wikipedia)

Early in February, we left Paris by bus
for the Normandy coast,
to see the famous tapestry, that ancient,
woven tale of the Normans and their invasion,
the battle shock caught
in women’s threads, the tapestry
once brought out each year at the Cathedral,
now enshrined behind glass
in the Bayeux museum.

We walked slowly along its length
in this darkened room set aside for the tapestry,
murmuring anew at its history,
the panels and embroidery that yet reveal
the passion of the battle,
dead bodies litter the border of this tapestry.
Later, we wandered along the River Aure,
the canals past the water trestle,
the old stone house where Balzac once wrote,
appreciating the green of another spring,
wondering anew why we have wars
that mar the turn of seasons,
grateful for those who stitched long ago.

Canals at Bayeux, France (Camp 2004)

The Bayeux Tapestry shows 50 scenes that led up to the Battle of Hastings in 1066 (the Norman Conquest). Made of embroidered cloth, what remains of the tapestry measures 224 feet long x 1.6 feet high. No one is quite sure who commissioned the tapestry, nor who made it. Since the Battle of Hastings was fought October 14, 1066, it seemed appropriate to write about it in the month of October.

I’m assuming that women made this tapestry, though nowhere did I find this confirmed. The sewers, using wool yarn (outline stitch and fill-in), completed the tapestry about 1070 in England (11th Century), though it has been preserved in Bayeux since about the 1470s. 

Halley's Comet,
Bayeux Tapestry (Wikipedia)

I found it interesting that the tapestry documents the first known picture of Halley’s Comet.  Such handworks also are studied closely for clues about daily life and beliefs at that time, for the borders show mythical animals, farm workers, as well as battle and court scenes (note the English are shown fighting on foot, while the Normans were on horseback). 

During the French Revolution, the venerable tapestry, all 224 feet long, was repurposed to cover wagons, rescued by a Bayeux lawyer and hidden. Later the tapestry traveled to Paris where government officials battled over where it should rest. Finally, the tapestry came home to Bayeux. 

At the little gift shop, I purchased a book that replicates the tapestry; in class, we opened up the book and some 15 students held up portions around the room to show the amazing length and scope of this fabulous tapestry.

If I were in Paris . . .

Along the Seine (Camp 2004)

If I were in Paris
once again, I would stroll
along the Seine near Notre Dame
and watch the tourists queue up
to ride the boats past the Pont Neuf,
where stone heads grace
that oldest surviving bridge.
I would follow the scent of fresh croissants,
yes, French bread,
only sold within an hour of baking,
and sit outside one of many small cafes
to sip bitter espresso and talk with you
of travels past, books unread,
kings dethroned, the Bayeaux tapestry,
a trip by train to the country,
and loves lost.

I'm looking through photos of that month we spent in Paris and attempting to write a daily poem as part of October's OctPoWriMo and Ultimate Blog Challenge. So much was beautiful of this time in the early spring, even the unexpected music of singers from Tibet, street performers very much in the tradition of Paris.

Mussicians from Tibet in Paris (Camp 2004)

Read a little of the fascinating history of Pont Neuf HERE.

Picasso . . . because

Because

you saw something different

so long ago, a collection of African masks

at an exhibit in Paris,

art slid sideways

into the new.

All your classical training,

the blue period, the rose period, 

transformed.

You challenged yourself

to make images

never before seen.

Called decadent, the scribblings of a child,

you did not care.

You made art.

After the bombing of civilians at Guernica,

you made art.

Pablo Picasso, "Guernica" (1937, Wikipedia)

Sometimes we see something or understand something without knowing how or what is involved. The painting "Guernica" with its call to protest and to remember that bombing of a civilian town by the Germans in 1937 was my first introduction to Picasso. 

So when we spent a month in Paris already ten years ago, we visited a small studio on the Left Bank where Picasso once lived. We saw for ourselves where he painted "Guernica," the very room not quite big enough for the scale of this painting; the canvas so large it had to be tilted at an angle to fit into his studio.

Picasso's studio is now a tiny museum filled with paintings, drawings, and sculptures, even including his clay cups, created in amazingly diverse forms. We also visited the larger Picasso Museum with a very formal array of paintings from every period. Even today, I marvel at his creativity and his growth as an artist.

Read more about Picasso's studio and the Picasso Museum or visit the Picasso Museum in Paris at Wikipedia

We'll always have Paris . . .

We spent a month here
wandering along the Seine,
cobblestone streets in the old districts,
Montmartre, standing in awe
outside the house where Van Gogh 
discovered color.
We fell in love with crisp croissants, 
crepes made before our eyes at roadside stalls,
iconic museums, street art, 
gargoyles, church spires, stone mansions,
and then we took the elevator up the Eiffel Tower
to stare at the Seine shimmering in the sunset:
Ah, Paris, we remember you!

A blogger, writing in My Creative Wings, talked about writing a list of twenty things you love. Something or someone or an event that brings you joy. As I went through this busy day today, I found myself thinking of  that month in Paris.  

One moment reverberated. We had taken the elevator up the Eiffel Tower and stopped briefly at the first platform (190 feet above the ground). We decided not to continue on to the third platform (nearly 900 feet above the ground), because we could see this platform at the very top of the Tower swaying in the wind. Yes, I am a little uncomfortable standing on a chair, let alone ascending to the second platform. But this was unforgettable Paris. 

A View of the Seine from the Eiffel Tower

We stayed a long while at this second highest platform (376 feet above the ground) to watch the Seine shimmering as the sun set and the lights of Paris spread before us.

Tired, we descended, more than ready to go back to our apartment, when the crowd began to ooh and aah. We turned around to see a surprise of lights as the entire Eiffel Tower lit up before us. I remain grateful for this memory, captured in a 16-second video.

Seeking blue . . .

I could fall into your blue squares,

pieced together stitch by stitch. 

The tea pots promise reflection, 

the curling leaves thread across the quilt's 

perfectly shaded, soft yellow squares;

these background colors fade,

and I don't quite recognize 

the precision of each square, 

I'm lost in blue, 

the choices we make.   

A quilter knows her design,

what fabrics to choose,

when to sew, and

 when to rip away

to create that 

balance between 

being

and becoming.

This poem comes sideways and a day late from a trip to Sisters, Oregon, for their annual quilt show, several years ago. Quilts are hung everywhere throughout this small town, in every store and restaurant, gallery and fabric shop. We wandered through crowds of really thousands of people, but it's still a quilter's dream for a perfect summer day.

I dream of making this hand-appliqué quilt one day, the pattern is by Maggie Walker Design and called "The Blue Collection."