A day at the zoo. Same day as gazillion grade school children, dragging their parents, smiling or crying through elaborate face paint, the day a lovely stroll past animals indifferent to our parade. Lost in their own worlds, they pursued their interests, a drink of water, a nap under bamboo, playing wildly with cage mates, or building a house within a house.

I can watch the big cats with fascination, their langour matched by eyes that know they have no natural enemy. A nature film makes me turn away, the rapid chase, the one fierce bite at the back of the neck. That reminds me of rabbits mating, the male holds the female by the back of the neck. I saw birds mating at the zoo as well, flamingos ruffling feathers and calling raucously. It must be late spring for them.

My favorite: a large rhinocerous bathing, coming up for air, delicately making room for his/her roommate, much like some people I know in a crowded house, so polite, so much weight, one avoids drama. This was a totally lovely day with friends and family spent in the sun, captured in a photo at the end of the day by a fanciful raindeer fountain, Philadelphia in the early summer.

In an afternoon of wandering at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology, I found this small sculpture of Avalokitesvara, the boddhisatva of compassion (and also the patron saint of Tibet). His 1,000 arms are shown in the upward position of prayer, and his 11 heads in meditation. Here in Philadelphia, family concerns swirl around us. Some family and friends are seriously ill, so this time in the museum felt like an island. Just now a songbird welcomes morning, and so another day begins. May you and yours be well.

An afternoon drive down to the Philadelphia Art Museum led us to a small yet fascinating exhibit of Art Deco and Japanese kimonos from the 1930s and 1940s. We are used to seeing exquisitely formal Japanese kimonos with richly detailed embroidery, but here the surprise came in seeing kimonos designed for men. On the outside, expect austere black, but on the inside beautiful paintings and stenciled art delight the eye. Perhaps like a tattoo, unexpected and provocative.

This first kimono (a man's formal jacket from 1930s to 1940s) is shown inside out. I'm noticing most likely a poem on the right, with two little red "chops" (marks of the writer of the poem?), and then a wonderful painting of a Buddhist monk on a journey across water, perhaps to Japan's sacred island of Miyajima. How many provisions he takes for his journey!



A pair of infant boys' kimonos called Miyamairi (1920-1930), worn on the infant's first visit to the family Shinto shrine, drew my eye. Here the designs are hand-painted, recreating marvelously graceful carp (symbols of strength and perseverance) that float among willow leaves.



These simple lines are so beautiful. We'll be going back next week for the Frida Khalo exhibit, but this first dipping into current exhibits was wonderful. Happy Mother's Day to everyone!

Yesterday we wandered through Chanticleer Garden, billed as a 30-acre pleasure botanical garden. Flowering cherry, dogwood, and magnolia trees were matched with tulips, orchids, hydrangea, rhododendron and wild flowers everywhere. Every step brought new sights to see, and we simply wandered slowly throughout, appreciating the creativity of the plantings.

My camera was busy (photos are uploaded in webshots), but what a wonderful day, romantic and serene. We'll bring Rachel and Nick when they come in and return with Gordy and Lynda. Unforgettable. I learned a new flower (the brilliantly blue Himalayan poppy), but I don't think I'll be seeing it often. We also spotted this mystery orchid.


The writing goes well IF I start first thing in the morning. And I'm going to continue writing poems, though maybe not a poem every day. We're back in the big city. That means drivers do not use turn signals, stop at stop signs, or follow speed limits. At least on the east coast. It also means really fresh bagels and Sundays free entry at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. May your day go well.

Now we're in Philly with family and friends coming in from every direction. Great times, too much good food, lots of talk, and late nights. Tina and Anton came in from near Redding for the last night of Passover (and dinner with 12), and shared this YouTube of Joe Pa playing guitar. He's nearly three, but his favorite movie is School of Rock, and he has the genes. Check it out to appreciate kids and music.



This film clip makes me laugh and also makes me think about creativity and how we nurture it. Joe Pa is a very interesting kid, capable of great concentration, and he's very sweet.

I don't expect to keep up the blog every day while we're in Philly. It's lovely to be in one spot, but life seems more ordinary, if that doesn't sound too strange. There's a house to care for, errands to run. Today we go to the library (more stuff on the 1840s) and to the AAA office for maps back to the Pacific Northwest.

I'm reading The Nun's Tale by Candace Robb; she writes a mystery series set in Scotland and 14th Century York. I like how she delves into characters and writes about her time period authentically. And she provides a neat bibliography for the medieval period as part of her website. So my writing continues, quilting is good, and yesterday we had our first cheese steak.

Today was a travel day, up from Charlotte to Aberdeen, Maryland, just 82 miles outside of Philadelphia. We stopped in Madison, Virginia, at That Little Quilt Shop in a restored Presbyterian church. Richly detailed quilts hung from every open space. My wanderings through this beautiful shop inspired today's poem "For Rachel". My favorite quilt was the Broken Star pattern, perhaps adapted from the difficult Texas star wheel pattern. Maybe someday.

Just now I'm hand piecing from a older quilt book Allen found, Joyce M. Schlotzhauer’s The Curved Two Patch System (EPM Publications 1982), withdrawn from the New Orleans Public Library. She teaches how to use the simple square and block to create flowers, so I’m using batik fabric to build something, I’m not sure yet what, but I’m working square by square to master this. Today’s picture shows one block completed. Don’t look at the wrinkles; I’m traveling without an iron!

And we’re truly tired tonight, not just from watching the returns from Pennsylvania’s Democratic primary (and hoping for good news for Clinton), but also from driving through Washington suburbs at 70 plus miles per hour, with drivers talking on cell phones and not using turn signals (how much can one do, after all), and trucks barreling right along with the rest of us, 70 plus even in a 55-mph zone. I’m shocked, shocked to find speeders on these freeways. Tomorrow, home to Philadelphia!

Today we drove to just outside Charlottesville, here in Virginia, to visit Mitchie Tavern, built sometime in the 1730s to serve people coming down from Philadelphia, through the Carolinas, and moving out along the Appalachian Valley to the frontiers in the West and the South. We were entranced by so many details of colonial life covered in this hour-long tour. Like other colonial enacters, all guides were in period costumes, but the quality of the information and the warm Southern charm made for a lovely day, despite the heavy rains.

Mr. Mitchie began his life in the colonies as an indentured servant; there’s a hint that his family back in Scotland sent money so he could buy his freedom. He quickly purchased land and established a tavern, mill and general store. At the tavern, customers could expect food, drink, and a bed (all for a price), as well as the chance to catch up on gossip, a more reliable source than rare newspapers.

Travelers could refresh themselves by drinking hard cider or beer on the front porch from an outside bar, or they could step inside, into the gentlemen’s parlor. In reality, Mr. Mitchie would lock a slave into a box-shaped room, where that person would be responsible for serving drinks until the tavern closed. Perhaps locking the person into this small workroom/bar was a way of protecting the inventory, but to 21st Century ears, it sounds another reason to dislike slavery.

If travelers preferred punch, they could sip from a large common bowl, passed hand to hand, much like a pipe would be shared.
Bread, meat, and cheese were commonly served on plates that were ceramic on one side and tin on the other, made something like a flask so that hot water could be poured inside the “plate”, keeping the bread and meat warm. Women retired to a parlor specifically for them, though they could join those in the common rooms if they wished, to warm their tired feet by the fire.

Where did they sleep? Most slept on the floor, wrapped in their own bedding, propped up on a side bed (and sharing the space with two or three others), or in an upstairs room where beds were commonly shared with strangers. I’m thinking not much privacy here. If people were traveling in a larger party, they would simply camp out in the woods, perhaps only taking a meal. A fine room (the owner’s room) was maintained upstairs, and could be rented out for a price to the wealthy.

The tavern was a center for religious, political and social gatherings, with dances and music a highlight. We danced a Virginia reel. I curtsied and Allen bowed. Apparently the ladies were quite taken by a man’s calf as the men wore pantaloons, so here’s where “put your best foot forward” came from, as the men “made a leg” at the beginning of the dance.

We heard harpsichord music and played a number game popular with sailors of the time called “Shut the Box” (Allen won), which consisted of rolling dice and matching numbered tiles until they were all used up. Our lunch was delicious: Just a little fried chicken, barbeque, chilled beets, coleslaw, stewed tomatoes Southern style, black-eyed peas, mashed potatoes and gravy, and hot biscuits with honey. No room for peach cobbler!

The tea intrigued me. Apparently Chinese tea became moldy in the long journey to the Americas. To solve this problem, the tea was pressed until all moisture was removed (see the picture above). To make tea, you simply scraped off some tea from this cake. The pressed cake above had about 40 sections; each section could make over 80 cups of tea. In fact, at the famous Boston Tea Party, these were the cakes of tea tossed over the side, left to slowly disintegrate in Boston Harbor.

We ended the day at the Kluge-Ruhe Museum of Aboriginal Art at the University of Virginia. No photography was allowed of the artwork. These paintings by Australian aborigines near Alice Station in the 1970s, were complex “dream” paintings of beliefs and stories, so very different from Western or Native American art. Similar to African culture, these aboriginal people had male and female secret societies, each with their own stories and symbols. Beautiful stuff and the topic of today's poem.