Life at Willow Manor

Give Me An Apple

2012-01-29T09:03:00.000-05:00

Red Spot II, 1921, Wassily Kandinsky

Give me an apple

every day and I'mhappy.

It's relatively simple

to satisfy my taste.

Eve gave one to Adam,

but I like the notion

of you giving one to me,

a special purpose vehicle,

a universal gravitation,

a certain law of motion

Newton would approve of,

even Lilith would give

her right arm to enjoy.

tk/January 2012

R.A.D. Stainforth delivers this apple on a silver platter:

Visit his excellent blog Black Dogs.

Join The Mag creative writing group.

Wasabi Me

2012-01-22T08:43:00.000-05:00

From Boris Hoppek's Tokyo exhibit "Ever"

Wasabi Me

Waterproof,
you can't be bothered
with sufficiently annoying
nonsense.

So you minimize,
arrange neatly
categorized implements
like a surgeon,

cut away seaweed,
anything bothersome
that might wrap, cling,
make your head swim.

But sushi happens to be
your favorite food,
one you can't live
a single day without.

tk/January 2012

Listen to this swell reading by R.A.D. Stainforth:

(He posted his elusive face at Black Dogs today,
in case you've been wondering.)

Join The Mag creative writing group.

jalapeno cheese bread

2012-01-18T13:55:00.000-05:00

I love my bread machine. The thing is, it's too large to keep out on the kitchen counter, so I only dig it out of its cluttered spot at the back of the cabinet every once in a while. But when I do, man oh man, does that baby know how to make bread. It's super convenient, dumping in the ingredients and turning it on, but since I'm a tactile kinda girl, I miss the kneading, the touch of the dough in my hands.

Here's one of my tried and true recipes. I just made it last night, and it won't live to see another day. It's mildly spicy, moist and irresistible, perfect party food with beer, wine, or a frosty margarita.

Jalapeno Cheese Bread

3/4 cup sour cream
3/4 cup water
2 eggs
2 tsp salt
3 Tbsp sugar
4 cups flour
1 cup grated sharp cheddar
1 small can diced jalapeno peppers
2 1/2 tsp active dry yeast

Toss the above in the bread machine, light crust setting, press start...3 hours 15 minutes later...presto chango...yum!

Submerged

2012-01-16T09:00:00.000-05:00

We lie fixed, dark.

Waves of light butterfly

our bellies, alter our shape.

Tightly wrapped whispers,

exhaled messages in bottles

rise, burst the surface.

The ocean is solid with us.

It can be walked or even driven,

since we inhabit a mutual sea.

Glass-bottom tourists watch,

amazed by our symbiotic art,

having never seen love so deep.

tk/January 2012

I'm pleased to have the talented R.A.D. Stainforth read this poem:

Visit his excellent blog Black Dogs.

image: sculpture by Jason deCaires Taylor

Join The Mag creative writing group.

snow

2012-01-14T08:35:00.000-05:00

I am younger each year at the first snow. When I see it, suddenly, in the air, all little and white and moving; then I am in love again and very young and I believe everything.

―Anne Sexton, in a letter to W.D. Snodgrass, November 28, 1958

Jules

2012-01-09T21:10:00.000-05:00

I dreamed

he was my father;

that I came

from hard water

tucked in his timeline

between New York

and Hollywood,

a summer

of root crops

and soy beans,

wild oats sown

in a Hoosier farm girl.

I craved a king,

some kind of Ramses

from heaven,

to strut clean,

make good the role.

Maybe I understood

the Mongol,

the far-off Tartar,

as not so magnificent

a number as seven.

tk/January 2012

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth read this poem:

Visit his excellent, eclectic blog Black Dogs.

Join The Mag creative writing group.

Image: Lee Friedlander

You Are A Scorching Salve

2012-01-02T08:30:00.000-05:00

I am a tall order,

tree-high,

neatly bleeding

pollard style,

lumberjack-ravaged,

pickaxe-stark.

Your balm

soothes, burns

the lingering sting,

lip-sap applied

to skinned knees

and elbows, sticky

over wild initials

carved graffiti-soft,

forest-deep.

tk/January 2012

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's excellent reading:

(I say sah-ve...he says sal-ve)

Visit his intelligent and eclectic blog Black Dogs.

image: River, Marina Moevs, 2005
Join The Mag creative writing group here.

Sdon't

2011-12-28T20:10:00.000-05:00

If you get me started

you'll have to kill me

bury my body in the woods

to get me to stop

I go on like an old lady

being murdered

with snorts and squawks

crazy as a rat in a coffee can

the special kind of cops

who just follow people

will be slightly visible

in your rearview mirror

they'll find youout

so don't even think about it

tk/December 2011

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's delightful reading:

(visit his excellent blog Black Dogs)

image: Bert Stern
Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-24T00:00:00.000-05:00

Merry Christmas from Willow Manor

and Best Wishes

for a Happy and Healthy 2012

Seasonal Allergy

2011-12-21T01:15:00.000-05:00

Hollyand ivy

bundlesof mistletoe

pineboughs

andpoinsettias

allthe flora

ofthe season

swallows

mein a jungle

flushwith longing

a Christmas

concoction

gatheredbouquet

ofraw seasonal

itch I break out

inangelic rash

polkadots of love

tk/December 2011

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's lovely reading:

visit his excellent blog Black Dogs

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Image by Lee Friedlander

What's black and white and red all over?

2011-12-15T08:40:00.000-05:00

This year I'm replacing the fancy holiday gift wrap with newsprint. A few weeks ago, I found a whole bolt of 1/4 inch black elastic at Goodwill for $1.99, which turned out to be a fabulous replacement for ribbon. Not only is this holiday recycling at its best, I absolutely love the simple monochrome look.

I bought my brother some gift-wrap for Christmas.

I took it to the gift wrap department and told them to wrap it,

but in a different print so he would know when to stop unwrapping.

― Steven Wright

mellow and a little bit worn

2011-12-13T18:37:00.000-05:00

I don't like my things to be perfect;

I prefer them to be mellow

and a little bit worn.

This happens to be true with gifts I give, as well. I like objects with a little patina, a little history. Those who receive Christmas gifts from me, know they will most likely get something with a bit of must or rust. Not only do I consider older objects works of art, embodied with wonderful history, giving them as gifts is a beautiful form of recycling.

I picked up this great vintage potato ricer at Goodwill today. I love the orangey-ness, the crustiness, the endless potatoes that have been riced, and the lovely industrial design. It's for my daughter, unless... it decides to make itself at home on the kitchen shelf at Willow Manor.

You've Left Your Mark

2011-12-12T09:35:00.000-05:00

A sailor's not a sailor,

till he's been tattooed.

If I ever tire of it,

I will have to go

under the knife

to have it removed.

X marks the spot

and all that,

thanks to you.

It's not a subtle

simple initial,

but dark, cutthroat

as Mercurochrome.

I've lathered repeatedly,

but it's potent, resistant

to nail polish remover

and Goo Gone.

What does it feel like?

Strangely, as if

it's always been there,

like a birthmark,

some kind of birthright.

I could sail the Atlantic

all in one night.

tk, December 2011

Listen to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth read this piece:

(visit his eclectic blog Black Dogs here)

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

image by Mostafa Habibi

I'm ready for the hard crust...

2011-12-09T09:15:00.000-05:00

Along the hard crust ofdeep snows,

To the secret, whitehouse of yours,

So gentle and quiet – weboth

Are walking, in silencehalf-lost.

And sweeter than allsongs, sung ever,

Are this dream, becomingthe truth,

Entwined twigs’a-nodding with favor,

The light ring of yoursilver spurs...

Along the Hard Crust

Anna Akhmatova, 1917

(translated by Yevgeny Bonver, 2002)

I've been in a bit of a Russian mode on my Facebook wall this week. It must be because the cold weather finally arrived in Central Ohio, and I wore my furry Zhivago hat, for the first time this season. We had a few flurries, but they didn't really count as a first snow, which I always look forward to with much anticipation.

The Russian poet Anna Akhmatova also came to mind. Her writing was banned, unofficially, from 1925 to 1940, and then again after the end of WWII. Unlike many of her literary contemporaries, she never considered flight into exile. Persecuted by the Stalinist government, she was prevented from publishing, regarded as a dangerous enemy, but at the same time so popular, even Stalin would not risk attacking her directly.

I love this portrait of Akhmatova by Russian cubist painter, Nathan Altman.

everything there is to be known

2011-12-08T10:20:00.000-05:00

Sometimes, if you stand on the bottom rail of a bridge

and lean over to watch the river slipping slowly away beneath you,

you will suddenly know everything there is to be known. ― A.A. Milne

Scioto River view from the Dublin bridge
Dublin, Ohio

when all the elements come together

2011-12-06T09:55:00.000-05:00

Sometimes everything comes together perfectly to make food taste especially good. A lot of factors come into play, in addition to the actual cooking process. Sure, the freshness of the ingredients, and the skill of the cook, are important, but what about the current barometric pressure, the phase of the moon, the way the stars are aligned? A lot has to do with the current state of your body: when you last ate, how well you slept the night before, what hormones are running around; not to mention your mental state, or what you might be drinking with the meal, and who with. So, on these delightful occasions, when all the elements come together, food tastes monumental. These things don't effect you? Oh, they do, and more than you might think.

Speaking of tasting good, here's a simple recipe for chicken stew I've been making every week since October. Toss a package of bone-in, skin-on chicken thighs (about 6 large) into a 9 x 13 baking dish. Add whatever veggies you have on hand, chopped large. (I usually use cabbage, carrots, leeks, several cloves of garlic), a few cups of white wine, sage, thyme, (fresh herbs are always better) salt, and freshly ground pepper. Bake low, about 275 for several hours, until cooked down, tender and golden. You're gonna love this, regardless of the elements.

"Well,"said Pooh, "what I like best,"

and then he had to stop and think.

Because although eating honey was a very good thing to do,

there was a momentjust before you began to eat it

which was better than when you were,

but hedidn't know what it was called.”

― A. A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

click to embiggen

Too Many Crumbs for a Broom

2011-12-05T10:00:00.000-05:00

Theylinger,

stillplay in the keys,

stickto my fingers

withmarmalade.

Isip coffee impulses,

snackbetween words

thatspill to the desk,

litterthe lunchroom

incrossword kisses.

Iwear my best

alphabetoutfit,

seeLondon, see France,

munchand crunch

thesultry dance,

thesideways glance,

theclickety-clack.

tk/December 2011

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's sexy English accent:

(visit his excellent and diverse blog Black Dogs)

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group here.
image: Lunch, George Tooker, 1964, Columbus Museum of Art

You push the button, we do the rest...

2011-12-01T10:55:00.000-05:00

My paternal grandfather with camera circa 1940
click to embiggen

It'stradition at Willow Manor to hop in the old green Land Rover and head to theFranklin County Fair Grounds the Friday after Thanksgiving for the seasonopening of the Scott Antique Show. Hundreds of vendorsset up their booths once a month, from November through March. They happen tohave a show in Atlanta, as well, for those of you who live in that southernneck of the woods. I love topull my red vinyl two-wheel cart along behind me, in search of buriedtreasure.

Ipicked up a sweet little Brownie Flash Six-20, a 1940 variation of thequintessential American camera for $2.00. The first Brownie was introduced by Eastman Kodak in February 1900, as avery basic cardboard box camera with a simple meniscus lens that took 2 1/4 inch square pictures on 117 roll film. The Brownie introduced the concept of thesnapshot, intended as a camera that anyone cold afford, leading to the popularslogan, "You push the button, we do the rest." The camera was named after the popularcartoons created by Palmer Cox.

come back

2011-11-29T12:00:00.000-05:00

come back
believer in shade
believer in silence and elegance
believer in ferns
believer in patience
believer in the rain

― W.S. Merwin ... and me

believer in moss ... (my addition)

image: Mossy Roof, Abandoned Ohio, Dublin

This used to be my old sofa

2011-11-28T07:35:00.000-05:00

Now it has become

a love narrative

something conceptual

strangely enough

it has taken on the shape
of plump lips

I find myself compelled

to take running leaps
airborne for at least a minute

before landing
between the cushions
in the crease of your smile

tk/November 2011

R.A.D. Stainforth's charming reading of this poem:
(visit his fascinating blog Black Dogs here)

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.

image: ChristineDonnier-Valentin

I'm getting the leg that folds up...

2011-11-23T19:40:00.000-05:00

On Thanksgiving at our house we like variety,

so we don't have turkey every year. Last year we had swan. It was nice;

everyone got some neck. Another year we had seagull. Delicious!

It's a little fishy, but at least there's no need to add salt. . .

This year we're expecting a few people over, so we're having flamingo.

And I'm getting the leg that folds up. They say the meat is sweeter

and more tender because the flamingo doesn't use it much.

George Carlin

Happy Thanksgiving from Willow Manor

endless potatoes

2011-11-22T09:40:00.000-05:00

Beige

I stand

just as I have

for many years

in a noisy kitchen

full of familiar faces

repeated stories

caught in hot air

bubbles, heavy

in the scent of sage

and wonder

of future turkeys

endless potatoes

to be mashed

stirring at the stove

the more beige

I become

the more invisible

tk/November 2011

The brilliant R.A.D. Stainforth reads this poem:
(Check out his excellent blog Black Dogs here.)

Speaking of endless potatoes, here is another wonderful variation of the quintessential mashed:

Boil 3 pounds of new red potatoes in skins, drain and mash with 1 cup grated Parmesan, 3/4 cup ricotta, 3/4 cup whole milk, and one stick unsalted butter, salt and freshly ground pepper to taste.

Best Thanksgiving wishes to you and yours, my friends.

There's Some Kind of Attraction Here

2011-11-21T20:50:00.000-05:00

Youknow it

whena name feels

betterwhispered soft

inthe mouth

likea sip of water

memorize

theway an eyebrow

knitssunny-side-up

onone end

morethan the other

hearthe night train

harmonicaG-flat

thenlie awake

andwonder

aboutit till morning

trya somersault

onthe way to work

knowing

you'llprobably

breakyour arms

tk/November 2011

Listen to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth's reading:

(You can visit his excellent blog Black Dogs here.)

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.
image: Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward

you can only hold a smile for so long

2011-11-18T07:00:00.000-05:00

At first glance, this seems to be a skull with two terrifying rows of teeth. Actually, it's a child's skull with the adult teeth, ready to move down. Talk about a face-full of teeth! I find it fascinating, since I'm all about stones and bones. My daughter had an adult tooth that did not move down to force out the childhood tooth. Surgery, odd rubber bands, and braces pulled it from deep in her face down into the appropriate spot. It's amazing what modern orthodontics can do.

Image by Stefan Schäfer, taken at the Hunterian Museum in London.

You can only hold a smile for so long,

after that it's just teeth.

Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters

Speaking of holding a smile for so long, did you know the reason people are not smiling in vintage photographs is because the shutter speed was much slower then? It was easier to hold a non-smiling face completely still.

my great-great-great-grandfather
Joseph Lorenzo Dow Hanna
self-portrait, tintype, circa 1860s

american seating

2011-11-16T08:30:00.000-05:00

My three children are adults now. Lately I've found myself strangely drawn to children's things. Maybe I'm in the early stages of latent grandparenthood?

Last Friday, on my weekly Gee-Dub stop, I found a tiny pair of 21" school chairs from the 1940s for $7.00 each. I love their industrial style, as well as the mellow patina.

The seats stand only 11" from the ground, so they most likely were used in a kindergarten classroom. They are marked "Envoy", and were made by American Seating, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

American Seating, founded in 1886, is responsible for just about every kind of public seating imaginable, including schools, courtrooms, schools, churches, stadiums, even buses and trains. They also manufactured vital materials for our soldiers in WWII.

Click on this link to the American Seating Museum for a lovely trip down the memory lane of chairs.

musical chairs

2011-11-14T09:10:00.000-05:00

Ifind myself restless

whilethe record plays,

geta charley horse

betweenloose seats.

Unableto do whole books,

I'ma magazine reader,

areader of poetry,

ofgrab-and-skedaddle,

anythingstab-worthy

withplenty of chutzpah

andambiguity, like Facebook

orMother Goose.

tk/November 2011

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's reading of this poem:

(Visit his excellent blog Black Dogs here.)

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group here.
image from Google images, unknown photographer

november

2011-11-11T09:55:00.000-05:00

It was November―the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.

L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables

I know; I know. I'm forever singing the praises of autumn and winter. Not only do I gravitate toward a neutral palette of grays, I happen to thrive on plenty of cool, fresh air. Maybe it has something to do with being a Libra, the cardinal air sign of the zodiac, but just like Anne of Green Gables, I must embrace that great sweeping wind. It certainly does blow the darkness out of my soul, chase the black dog from my doorstep. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off for a fast November drive in the Rover with the windows down, wind-fingers in my hair...

image: November view from the french doors at Willow Manor

mashed tater season

2011-11-08T14:33:00.000-05:00

For reasons unknown, I never make mashed potatoes in the summer. So this time of year, when the cold weather rolls around, my Scots-Irish DNA craves comfort food, and shifts into full-blown potato mode. When I was a little girl, I loved mashed potatoes so much, I often chose them for dessert. (What do I mean, when I was little? I still do this.) I'll be posting a few variations on the glorious mashed potato in the following weeks, so stay tuned. This one is simple and marvelous...

Brown Butter and Sage Mashed Potatoes

Boil 3 pounds red new potatoes in skins. Meanwhile, melt 1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter in a small skillet over medium heat, add 1 cup chopped fresh sage and cook, stirring until the butter is golden brown, 4-6 minutes. Drain the potatoes and mash with butter mixture, 1/4 cup whole milk; season with salt and freshly ground pepper.

(I knew this great vintage fork would come in handy some day.)

Taps

2011-11-07T11:45:00.000-05:00

We crawl like quail

In the graveyard

Hide dead quiet

Behind markers

At the foot of the hill

Till Larry finishes

Taps on histrumpet

For baggy mourners

In herringbone overcoats

At home near tombs

And trees, skip

Around blanket-tops

Tip small, pigeon-toed

Between headstones

Not disturbing the slumber

Not stepping directly

On the beds, crouching low

Against cold marble

Avoiding the crunch of leaves

Tess Kincaid

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's lovely reading:
(visit his excellent blog Black Dogs here)

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group here.

scents of stories

2011-11-03T20:45:00.000-04:00

Formen and women are not only themselves; they are also the region in which theyare born, the city apartment or farm in which they learnt to walk, the gamesthey played as children, the old wives tales they overheard, the food they ate,the schools they attended, the sports they followed, the poets they read, andthe God they believed in. It is all these things that have made them what theyare, and these are the things that you can't come to know by hearsay... ―W. Somerset Maugham

Just as people are a mulligatawny mix, so are places. They are bowls left with remnants of unique recipes, scraps and scents of stories, wanting to be savored, waiting to be told. ―me

image: from my Abandoned America series, "T-Shirt Window", Delaware, Ohio

I say grace...

2011-11-01T08:23:00.000-04:00

You say grace before meals.

All right.

But I say grace before the play and the opera,

And grace before the concert and pantomime,

And grace before I open a book,

And grace before sketching, painting,

Swimming, fencing, boxing, walking, playing, dancing;

And grace before I dip the pen in ink.

G. K. Chesterton, from an early notebook circa 1890s

I giggle at the thought of someone near and dear to those at Willow Manor, who never misses the chance to say grace before every meal, and who enjoys delivering extra loud, long graces in public places. We all know those of a certain generation, who say a pre-meal grace almost superstitiously, like tossing salt over one's shoulder, or knocking on wood. It's a lovely, nearly extinct tradition, that for today, may have lost its original purpose, its poetical beauty, and meaning.

With October already amazingly behind us, November brings thoughts of the Thanksgiving holiday, considering the year's "harvest". In this modern age, most of us are not concerned on a daily basis with the actual process of cultivating our meals from the soil of the earth. But I like the notion, just like G. K. Chesterton, of embracing the fruits of our labors, the embodiment of creativity, the beauty of daily routine, our personal harvests, so to speak, with a certain grace and appreciation. Yes, I say... grace.

image: from my Abandoned America series, "Gloves in a Barn", Dublin, Ohio

Not Now, I'm Busy

2011-10-31T09:55:00.000-04:00

I stare at teacups

and blank walls

squeeze a ball

of bubble wrap

as if some kind

of juicy inspiration

might ooze

through my fingers

onto the keyboard

surrounded by books

none of which I read

start to finish

anymore, but graze

from a smorgasbord

dip into my favorite

playboy phrases

then toss them out

for the dogs to enjoy

secretly hoping

they will boomerang

back in the form

of something sexy

something hip

like a trilby or a kiss

tk, October 2011

Listen to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth's reading of this poem:
(visit his excellent blog Black Dogs here)

Join Magpie Tales interactive writing blog here

For Sylvia on her birthday...

2011-10-28T10:25:00.000-04:00

There is no life higher than the grasstops
Or the hearts of sheep, and the wind
Pours by like destiny, bending
Everything in one direction.
I can feel it trying
To funnel my heat away.
If I pay the roots of the heather
Too close attention, they will invite me
To whiten my bones among them.

Sylvia Plath, from her poem Wuthering Heights

image: Study in Gray, Oak Grove Cemetery and Arboretum, Delaware, Ohio, October 2011

death of a bird and a review

2011-10-26T10:20:00.000-04:00

There is a legendabout a bird which sings only once in its life, more beautifully than anyother creature on the face of the earth. From the moment it leaves its nest,it searches for a thorn tree, and does not rest until it has found one. Then,it impales its breast on the longest, sharpest thorn. But as it is dying, itrises above its own agony to out sing the Lark and the Nightingale. TheThorn Bird pays its life for that one song, and the whole world stills tolisten, and God in his heaven smiles, as its best is brought only at the costof great pain; driven to the thorn with no knowledge of the dying to come. Butwhen we press the thorn to our breast, we know, we understand... and still, wedo it.

Colleen McCullough, The Thorn Birds

Last week, on my birthday, I heard the tell-tale thud, as this little fella crashed into the glass of the french doors, and fell to the rain-drenched cedar deck. From inside, I watched, helpless, as he gasped his last few breaths. At least, I thought, this beautiful creature deserves to be remembered with a photo, before he becomes part of earth's patina.

Speaking of patina, please check out this excellent review of my new poetry chapbook PATINA, published this summer by Finishing Line Press, by Poet, Critic, Blogger Jenne’ R.Andrews, whose work has appeared in a number of journals including, most recently The Adirondack Review; her collections include the small press book Reunion, Lynx House Press, TheDark Animal of Liberty, Leaping MountainPress, and InPursuit of the Family, Minnesota Writers’Publishing House, edited by Robert Bly. She posts work in draft at La Parola Vivace inaddition to submitting individual work and book-length collections to journalsand presses. She has recently been writing “Rilke variations”—an exercise thathas become a vital part of her daily writing practice.

Click here to purchase PATINA from Amazon.

House Detective

2011-10-24T11:00:00.000-04:00

She's obviously been

with someone new

since she drifts

now and giggles easy

like she's spent

a few weeks

at a dude ranch

or with some weight lifters

or nudists

a funny sounding accent

has made itself at home

rolls off her tongue

like a cigarette

she tucks

behind her ear

to smoke later

most likely

she'll hit the road

drive the Lincoln Highway

by truck, stop

at mom & pop diners

from here to Omaha

maybe it's because

she's drinking coffee again

but I don't think so

tk/October 2011

Listen as R.A.D. Stainforth steps into the detective role:
(you can visit his excellent blog Black Dogs here)

image: Lee Friedlander, from America by Car
to join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here

They come to me for this...

2011-10-21T09:45:00.003-04:00

Search Terms October 20, 2011 (partial list)

It does give a taste of my blog content in a poetical sort of way...

trimming a mustache

tom terrific

castillo french sex

pre-revolution russia

bellows camera

boy standing at a window crying while it'sraining

clark gable ironic

things seen and unseen

leather lips

dabadabada dababada

never apologize for being smart

alan rickman smart

naked ladies

squaw bread machine

hippie mustache

flopsy y mopsy

old farmers

thomas hart benton

uncle leo's angry eyes

stag tattoo

john paul jones corpse

margit pogany

cockernonnie hair

knock on wood

ichabod crane traveling

soup can hair curlers

stag at sharkey's

For more on Captain John Paul Jones click here.

Ankle Deep

2011-10-20T13:20:00.000-04:00

celebrating my second birthday
October 20, 1958, Brown County, Indiana

October is my favorite month. It also happens to be the month of my birth, and maybe that is why
I consider autumn to be my personal spring, my genesis. The bite of fresh air, vibrant color, the delicious crunch of leaves, breathe life into my stagnate summer spirit. And isn't it curious, that autumn is a glorious burst of joy and sorrow, just as I happen to be a quirky mix of funny and melancholy?

The summer chapter of my life is winding down, and with the first small steps into autumn, it should be no surprise, that I find myself quite at home here. I'm snuggling in, making myself comfortable, brewing coffee, expecting a season of great passion, creativity, and happiness.

Scarlet is More Red
Than Red

Just beyond

the summer kitchen

down the hall

and to the right

past the prints

of children and roses

is a darker, quiet room

ripe with passion

and woodsmoke

where I bloom

brighter than fire

in wool socks knit

loose from other years

ankle deep in October

tk/October 2011

Ducks Take to Water

2011-10-18T09:43:00.000-04:00

They float

but never stray

rubberneck

with a certain naïveté

dry on the surface

as if they don't belong

I'd love to hold one

under the shallow

their showy

feathers mat down

until they are rat-like

as a drowned cat

I never was one

to begin with

Tess Kincaid

October, 2011

Listen to this reading by R.A.D. Stainforth. Tell me if his voice is not smooth as butter...

Check out his excellent blog Black Dogs here.

photo source here

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.

the morning after

2011-10-13T07:20:00.000-04:00

Let us have wine and women,

myrth and laughter,

Sermons and soda water

the day after.

Lord Byron, from Don Juan

Come in and help yourself to some delicious brunch. There's plenty of my favorite press pot coffee, brewed extra strong, since most of us had a just a few too many Last Word cocktails last night, including Branwell Bronte, brother of the three famous Bronte sisters, who came along with Alan Burnett. The Bug, didn't imbibe, but was seen flashing around a large nickel-plated revolver. I'm not sure exactly why.

In addition to our fascinating list of guests there was quite a bit going on all evening, which miraculously lasted 24 hours, including fencing competitions, drag racing, men in kilts, and Tom, Half Moose's attempt to scuba dive in the Scioto River. Steve Martin once again roamed the grounds of the manor without his pants, or even the rest of his clothes, for that matter. Tom's tuxedo came loose and floated down the river, on its way to the mighty Mississippi. Steve was only too happy to loan him his white suit, replaced by a metallic silver thong.

Reya was stunning in her fur trimmed mini Twiggy dress. Dino Hand, looking just as stunning in his Michael Jackson glove, spent most of the evening hovering behind her. Lord Thomas of Wellington entertained us on the piano, and Dr. Linthead, dressed in handsome Civil War general's uniform, took over, not even realizing he could play. Brendan absolutely outdid himself by writing a glorious mythological poem in honor of the ball.

Junk Thief's film presentation of the Willow Manor Ball, included yours truly ice skating with the ever talented Archie Leach. The diligent practicing of my woolly socks triple axel truly paid off. My personal highlight of the evening, was watching the sunrise over the Scioto, while the dashing R.A.D. Stainforth read me a passage of Lord Byron's Don Juan. He can read poetry just as well as he can tango, by the way.

Some might think this was simply a lot of silly nonsense. But, I happen to believe the fine line between fantasy and reality is the space where artists live. We should never apologize for this virtual world, if not celebrate it, gorge in its creativity. This is exactly what we did. Thank you for dancing that powerful dance on the splendid border between fantasy and reality with me, dear friends. It was good.

Congratulations to Fireblossom and Rob Kistner,

winners of the door prize of an Ohio Starbucks mug.

(please send me your mailing addresses)

WILLOW MANOR BALL 2011

2011-10-12T00:00:00.000-04:00

Tonight, tonight

The world is full of light

With suns and moons all over the place...

Welcome to the cyber event of the year! Willow Manor is bathed in soft candlelight and armloads of my favorite yellow roses. Like Mrs. Dalloway, I insisted on buying the flowers myself. The carpets are rolled back, ready for some waltzes, tangos, two-steps, and twists. Valentino said tile floors are best for the tango, but the creaky hardwood floors at the manor will do the trick.

We dance for laughter,

we dance for tears, we dance for madness,

we dance for fears, we dance for hopes,

we dance for screams, we are the dancers,

we create the dreams.

Albert Einstein

Please check into the comment section of this post and let us know you've arrived, and who might be accompanying you. If you would like us to visit your blog, to admire your lovely attire and date, make sure you sign the Mr. Linky widget at the end of this post.

Thank you so much for coming. I hope you enjoy the evening, which is miraculously lasting a whole 24 hours. Remember, everyone who leaves a comment today, will be considered a guest, and eligible for one of two elegant door prizes. So, please come in and enjoy the manor magic.

The band has already started up. Leonard Cohen, our traditional Willow Manor Ball Master of Ceremonies, is unfortunately unable to be here tonight. Lenny rang last night, home on the sofa, with a nasty case of bedbug bites, from his last gig in Bratislava.

But, I am proud to announce, the brilliantly talented Melody Gardot has agreed to fill in. There were no flights, soshe drove all night from Philly, arriving just minutes ago, looking absolutely stunning. Mel's already unleashing some of her delicious scat.

Speaking of les etoiles, Lucille Ball is the first to make a grand entrance, escorted by the magnificent Erich von Stroheim. Not wanting to be remembered for his role of Max in Sunset Blvd., he chooses full military attire over tuxedo, which I must admit is very becoming, if not a little frightening. I wonder if he keeps the gloves on while he dances? The touch of a gloved hand is so very sensuous. I shall soon find out.

As I show her to the powder room, for a little freshening of that bright red lipstick, Lucy promises to let me borrow her amazing white fox. She always looks very statuesque on the screen, so I am surprised to see that she is just my height, 5' 7". Her red hair is brilliant and she dazzles with confidence.

Oh, confidence reminds me, my escort for the evening is the inimitable and enigmatic R.A.D. Stainforth, yes, the same Stainforth who reads my poetry from time to time. Mr. Stainforth has impeccable taste in music, and was so kind as to help with this evening's selections. The latest scuttlebutt is the "R" in R.A.D. stands for Ronaldo, and that his mother is Argentinian.

He is due to arrive any moment, and I am more than a tad nervous, since I've never actually seen him, not even a photo. He tells me he'll be wearing a white gardenia in his lapel. I've instructed Phipps to keep an eye out for his dark blue Jaguar, with Nigella Lawson, some kind of British food writer, in tow. She is supposedly somewhat of a celebrity in Stainforth's part of the world, but I must admit, I'd never heard of her before reading his blog, Black Dogs. After googling, I'm not in the least bit threatened, but just in case she becomes an issue, I gave Lucy the key, and asked if she might give Nigella a tour of the manor wine cellar, maybe leaving her there, just for a little while, of course.

William Powell, who also received my special invitation, arrives with the stunning Virginia Bruce on his arm. Apparently, there is a little misunderstanding, when Myrna Loy hears from Lucy that Mr. Powell was my intended date, that is, before Mr. Stainforth accepted.

They are sorting it all out in the manor library. I just peeked in, and see that Powell and Loy have obviously made amends, and are are entertaining each other with a game of wall shadows. Tom's Dinosaur Hand will fit right in, which is a good thing. Maybe now, he won't be so tempted to pinch quite as many derrieres on the dance floor, as last year.

'Magine my 'emoshe when Miss Fitzgerald agrees to sing one of my favorite Gershwin songs, 'Swonderful. Oh, this song makes me feel amorous. Mr. Stainforth is ~~all over~~ dancing with Gustav Mahler's foxy wife Alma...excuse me...time for me to break in, I think...sing it Ella!

What am I wearing tonight? This ethereal, feathered heaven of a gown, delivered straight from Paris, perfectly perfect for a magpie, and I might add, very conducive to fluttering and twirling. Stand back, my friends, while I shake my tail feathers. Shoes? No, I've opted for my favorite pair of creamy Irish knit woolly socks. If the dance floor gets warm, no worries, since I adore dancing barefoot. I'm freshly pedicured with bright classic red polish, since I'm told Stainforth has a little foot thing going on.

What did I tell you? It looks like the peeps have sampled my favorite Last Word prohibition era cocktails. Things are really heating up on the dance floor. Seasick Steve and his band are cranking out Don't Know Why She Love Me But She Do to the max. Everybody is getting pret-ty crazy...

Almost nobody dances sober,

unless they happen to be insane.

H.P. Lovecraft

Last Word Cocktail

2 oz gin,

1 oz green chartreuse

1/2 oz maraschino

1/2 fresh cut squeezed lime

shake
add a fresh bing cherry...for cuteness

I instructed the bartenders to make up extra trays of these delicious babies,
guaranteed to make you cross-eyed in less than five minutes flat.

Remember, this is cyber food.

You can eat as much of, and whatever you like...

Feel free to help yourselves, between dances, to the exquisite buffet. We hired the same fabulous local Central Ohio caterers as last year, and by popular demand, the menu is exactly the same: Scottish quail eggs, in honor of my Sorbie ancestors, caviar, chocolate mousse cake; the works, not to mention the open bar stocked with hundred of bottles of vintage champagne, dusted off and brought up from the manor wine cellar. Speaking of, I haven't seen Nigella. I wonder if Lucy gave her the little tour?

My friend Sir Anthony Hopkins, "Tony" to me, is here tonight, looking exceptionally handsome. He is such a dear, and never misses a Willow Manor Ball. I have quite forgiven him for pulling that gun on Johnny Depp a few years back, after a slight misunderstanding about who was to be my date for the evening.

Traditionally, I save at least one dance for him, and because I'm rendered quite wobbly, after looking directly into his killer blue eyes, he probably thinks I've had one too many Last Word cocktails. But, it's because he makes me so very weak in the knees.

He will soon be in the library for his reading of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T. S. Eliot, who happens to be here, by the way. I just spotted him with Wendy Cope, deep in conversation, or something, behind a potted palm.

...and seeing that it was a soft October night...

To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

The last slow dance of the evening is Noel Harrison's The Windmills of Your Mind, sung by none other than the fabulous Barbra Streisand. Nigella Lawson is nowhere in sight, thank God, and I am wrapped in the arms of the dashing R.A.D. Stainforth. I am much relieved that he doesn't, in any way, shape, or form, resemble Charles Laughton, in any film role. In fact, he has been in high demand with the ladies, and even some of the men, with his incredible tango abilities. I thought Tony Hopkins' eyes were blue? Stainforth's are hypnotic; think Kaa, the snake, in Jungle Book.

Dear, dear Mrs. Miller has been itching for control of the mic all evening, to sing her trademark song, Downtown. She sings with such gusto, she sometimes forgets the words, and fills in with a few whistles, which I find quite charming. Whistling has become a lost art, I'm afraid. Sing it, Mrs. M...

The Beatles are experiencing some scheduling problems. George rang to say they were hung up in Altoona, Pennsylvania, at P.J.'s Bar & Grill, fixing a flat on the Volkswagen bus, and that they would most likely arrive at the manor too late to perform. But, hey! Looks like Ringo put the pedal to the metal, and here they are...yeah yeah yeah...

Well, my friends, it's been a lovely evening. Please drop by tomorrow around noon-ish for brunch and a rehashing of all tonight's gossip. The winners of the door prizes will also be announced. Someone please make sure Nigella gets safely out of the wine cellar. Glenn Buttkus, since you drove your powerful Impala, Mrs. Miller needs a ride home, do you mind awfully?

Now, if you'll excuse me,
I have a hot date with some poetry and a sunrise.
Ta-ta...

Thank you so much for making
The Willow Manor Ball 2011 a smashing success.

We danced too wild,
and we sang too long,
and we hugged too hard,
and we kissed too sweet,
and howled just as long
as we wanted to howl,
because by now
we were all old enough to know
that what looks like crazy
on an ordinary day,
looks a lot like love,
if you catch it in the moonlight.

Pearl Cleage

Please enter your name and URL in the Linky below,
if you would like us to visit your blog
to see what you're wearing to the ball,
or who your date might be.

saturn return

2011-10-09T21:00:00.000-04:00

Not much of a bungee-jumper,
I no longer fly free-form
but play a black orbit,

take a rain check on heights,
find myself a patron
in the daily grind
of coffee and the news.

Till one day, my muse
taps me on the shoulder,
says in a dyslexic whisper,

"Hey self, wake up!
It's dark and light together;
it's still morning, in the whole
scheme of things."

Now, suddenly, I'm a chess piece
that can go around corners,
a king who breaks free
of the one-step-at-a-time routine.

I find the game book on the shelf,
reread the facts of life,
then tell myself
I'm not afraid of falling.

Tess Kincaid

October, 2011

Listen to R.A.D. Stainforth's delightful reading of this poem:

(You can visit his blog Black Dogs here.)

image: Michael Sowa

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.

my date to the willow manor ball

2011-10-08T11:35:00.000-04:00

R.A.D. Stainforth, yes, the same inimitable Stainforth, of Black Dogs, known to read my poetry, from time to time, has most graciously invited me to be his date for the upcoming Fourth Annual Willow Manor Ball. I sent invitations to several other wonderful men, including William Powell, President Abraham Lincoln, and Monty Woolley, but the charming Mr. Stainforth rang me first. You know what they say about the early bird, and all that. A magpie knows these things.

I'm quite thrilled, and more than a little bit intrigued, to finally meet the enigmatic R.A.D., since no one, at least not anyone I know, has actually seen him in person. In addition to having a delicious voice, he is known to enjoy listening to Schnittke, and on occasion, reading Edward Thomas. He tells me, he'll be arriving at the manor in his fabulous Jag, so I'm hoping he'll take me for a spin after the ball. In fact, I wouldn't mind if he wants to park in the luscious patch of ferns, pictured above, for a bit of early morning poetry reading. Should I be nervous, having never seen him? He appears around the blogs only in a nondescript, faceless hoodie. Images of Charles Laughton, in the role of Quasimodo, keep pestering me.

Just in case you haven't heard about the cyber event of the year, mark your calendars. There will be a Mr. Linky widget provided for those who wish to share their dates and what they are wearing the the ball, which mysteriously lasts a whole 24 hours beginning at 12:00 a.m. on:

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Don't forget, there will door prizes chosen from everyone who attends (leaves a comment) here at Willow Manor on the 12th. When you arrive, hop on into the comment section, and join the fun.

One of the great things about a cyber ball is that we all dance like gods and goddesses. Make sure you have your dance cards ready, because we will be rolling up the carpets at Willow Manor. Valentino said tile floor was the best for dancing the tango, but in this case, the hardwood floors at the manor will do the trick.

no other end of the world

2011-10-05T10:30:00.000-04:00

A Song on the End ofthe World

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should alwaysbe.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under theirumbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightning and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels'trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be aprophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.

Czeslaw Milosz
translated by Anthony Milosz

This particular Milosz piece brings to mind the rather humorous storyof my fourth great-grandfather, Rev. Robert Goodloe HarperHanna. "Harper" was one of the earliest clergy in CarrollCounty, Indiana. He belonged to a denomination known as the Primitive Methodists and preached the Millerite doctrine.If he believed this radical doctrine, personally, he certainly failed to impress theoutside world with his sincerity.

Here's the account, according to the Historyof Carroll County, Indiana byThomas Helms, Chicago: Kingman Brothers, 1882...

One morning in April, 1848, John Payton rode byHanna's farm and saw him setting out an orchard. The inconsistency of his preceding at once struck Payton, who elected that a number of years must elapse, in any event, before he could expect any return of his labor, and if the final destruction of the world were so nearly at hand, was not his an unnecessary outlay of labor?

With this in mind, Payton addressed him:

"Howis this, Brother Hanna? This is April, and if your accountis correct,the end of the world will come in June next. It scarcely looks consistent tobe doing such work so nearly the borders ofeternity."

"Ohwell", replied Hanna, "we can't tell exactly; there mayhave been an error in the calculation."

my trusty '96 Land Rover at an abandoned farm
Dublin, Ohio
click to embiggen

Red Sense

2011-10-03T00:00:00.000-04:00

I'm impatient with religion

because when you mix in

just enough obsessive

Tabasco compulsive

it cooks up monsters

gods and terrible animals

that hit you broadside

like flying elephants.

Covered by the blood(y) Mary

in a massive state of grace

I learned early on

to play red light/green light

by carefully ticking

all the appropriate boxes

in the meteor shower

of pachyderm particles.

But now and then

I feel bad about the pennies

I've sucked from the sofa

with the vacuum.

Tess Kincaid

September 2011

Listen to the inimitable R.A.D. Stainforth read this piece:
(you can visit his excellent blog, Black Dogs, here)

Click here to join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

THE cyber event of the year...

2011-10-01T08:20:00.000-04:00

Peeps are already buzzing about the big event!Every year, Life at Willow Manor celebrates October, my veryfavorite month, in classic cyber style. I am pleased and excited to announce thisyear's

FourthAnnual

WillowManor Ball

Wednesday,October 12, 2011

A Mr. Linky widget will be provided, here at Life at Willow Manor, on the 12th. Youwill be able to sign up, in order for others to have the opportunity visit yourblog, to see who your date might be, or what you'll be wearing to this blacktie event. So, ladies and gentlemen, please mark your calendars, choose a date,(last year George Sanders and Charles Simic both showed up as mine) and do someglamorous cyber shopping for that perfect gown or tuxedo and plenty of bling.Feel free to take the above poster to advertise on your blog. No need to brushup on those dance steps, since we all dance like Fred and Ginger in cyberspace.

In addition to the festivities, there willbe...drum roll...door prizes chosen from everyone who leavesa comment here at Willow Manor on the day of the Willow Manor Ball, Wednesday,October 12th.

If you'd rather not post on your own blog, allyou need do to attend, is show up here at WM the day of the ball and leave acomment. Easy peasy.

Stay tuned. There will be lots of bloggy scuttlebutt leading up to the bigday!

sidebar-size poster

the number of dead people is increasing

2011-09-28T12:50:00.000-04:00

Isn’tit so weird how the number of dead people is increasing even though the earthstays the same size, so that one day there isn’t going to be room to buryanyone anymore? For my ninth birthday last year, Grandma gave me a subscriptionto National Geographic, which she calls “the National Geographic”. She alsogave me a white blazer, because I only wear white clothes, and it’s too big towear so it will last me a long time. She also gave me Grandpa’s camera, which Iloved for two reasons. I asked why he didn’t take it with him when he left her.

my paternal great-grandfather, Glenn Hanna
with his portable bellows camera, circa 1910

She said, “Maybe he wanted you to have it.”

I said, “But I was negative-thirty years old.”

Shesaid, “Still.”

Anyway, the fascinating thing was that I read in NationalGeographic that there are more people alive now than have died in all of humanhistory. In other words, if everyone wanted to play Hamlet at once, theycouldn’t, because there aren’t enough skulls.

―Jonathan Safran Foer

Speaking of dead people, photography runs rampant in my DNA. All my paternal grandfathers were photographers, starting with Joseph Lorenzo Dow Hanna in the 1850s, when photography was a new fangled art. Friday, on my routine Goodwill stop, I spotted this lovely old Kodak accordion camera, a smaller version of the one my great-grandfather Glenn Hanna used, back in 1910. It stirred that crazy photographic gene and I had to bring it home with me. All the grandpas nodded in approval.

image: Kodak folding accordion camera, my latest Gee-Dub find

mercury's not in retrograde

2011-09-26T22:15:00.000-04:00

Ilike to stand

outsidein the rain

withouta coat

letit trickle

downmy skin

allthe way to the street

whereit curls up

insilver drops

atmy toes

likemercury

froma broken thermometer

poolsaround my legs

andtickles electricity

throughmy lips and nose

tillmy float valve detects a flood

it'sokay to forget the umbrella

yeah,even the new red one

yougave me on my birthday

becausethey say

there's100% chance

ofprecipitation

Tess Kincaid

September 2011

Listen to this sexy reading by R.A.D. Stainforth:

(you can visit him at his excellent blog, Black Dogs)

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.

frayed and flaky around the edges

2011-09-23T19:30:00.000-04:00

Ialways wondered, though, what the fathers felt as they drove up the street theyused to drive down every night, and whether they really saw their formerhouses, whether they noticed how things got frayed and flaky around the edgesnow that they were gone.

I wondered it again as I pulled up to the house I’dgrown up in. It was, I noticed, looking even more Joad-like than usual. Neithermy mother nor the dread life partner, Tanya, was much into yard work, and sothe lawn was littered with drifts of dead brown leaves. The gravel on thedriveway was as thin as an old man’s hair combed across an age-spotted scalp,and as I parked I could make out the faint glitter of old metal from behind thelittle toolshed.

We used to park our bikes in there. Tanya had “cleaned” it bydragging all the old bikes, from tricycles to discarded ten-speeds, out behindthe shed, and leaving them there to rust. “Think of it as found art,” my motherhad urged us when Josh complained that the bike pile made us look like trailertrash. I wonder if my father ever drove by, if he knew about my mother and hernew situation, if he thought about us at all, or whether he was content to havehis three children out there in the world, all grown up, and strangers.

--Jennifer Weiner, Good in Bed

click to embiggen

images: abandoned farm, Dublin, Ohio

like chocolate

2011-09-21T09:55:00.000-04:00

My new favorite album is Melody Gardot's My Oneand Only Thrill. It has been playing nearly non-stop at the manor, as well as on my Facebook wall. If chocolate could be heard, rather than tasted, I swear it would sound like Melody Gardot.

Gardot,born February 2, 1985, is a Grammy-nominated American singer, writer andmusician. She has been influenced bysuch blues and jazz artists as Judy Garland, Janis Joplin, Miles Davis andDuke Ellington. Her music has beencompared to that of Nina Simone.

Ilove Gardot's amazing story, how she overcame the effects of a near-fatalaccident to become an extraordinary vocal sensation. During her recovery, she used music as a formof therapy. Not long after her release, she was signed by Universal Records andthe rest is history. Her lyrics aresophisticated and poetical; her sound is cool, dark and seductive.

Checkher out. You're gonna love her, almost as much as dark chocolate.

not yet

2011-09-19T09:35:00.000-04:00

My barometer

hovers in space

between hot and hotter

I rummage for tepid words

the dictionary people

are not pleased

to find me

looking aimlessly

at pictures of exotic places

with naked snake charmers

daydreaming kisses

like soft sweet leeches

I stare and cross my legs

become a holy man

too hot for anything

except swearing

Tess Kincaid

September 2011

Listen to the inimitable R.A.D. Stainforth's reading:
Oh, and by the way, go visit his excellent blog Black Dogs.

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.
image: The Snake Charmer, Henri Rousseau, 1907

Because someone has to remember...

2011-09-17T10:55:00.000-04:00

“I like places like this," he announced.

I like old places too," Josh said, "but what's to like about a place like this?"

The king spread his arms wide. "What do you see?"

Josh made a face. "Junk. Rusted tractor, broken plow, old bike."

Ah...but I see a tractor that was once used to till these fields. I see the plow it once pulled. I see a bicycle carefully placed out of harm's way under a table."

Josh slowly turned again, looking at the items once more.

And I see these things and I wonder at the life of the person who carefully stored the precious tractor and plow in the barn out of the weather, and placed their bike under a homemade table."

Why do you wonder?" Josh asked. "Why is it even important?"

Because someone has to remember," Gilgamesh snapped, suddenly irritated. "Some one has to remember the human who rode the bike and drove the tractor, the person who tilled the fields, who was born and lived and died, who loved and laughed and cried, the person who shivered in the cold and sweated in the sun." He walked around the barn again, touching each item, until his palm were red with rust." It is only when no one remembers, that you are truely lost. That is the true death.”

--Michael Scott, The Sorceress

click to embiggen

For more in my series Abandoned America, click on the label at the end of this post.
Images: abandoned farm, Dublin, Ohio

Wowee! My first book review...

2011-09-15T20:45:00.000-04:00

Check out this excellent review of my poetry chapbook PATINA by Randall Radic at Blogcritics Books. (click on this link for full article)

...in a hazy, lazy sort of way, Tess Kincaid's poems provide a sense of remembrance, a tantalizing wisp of recollection, an easy intimacy. Like a cold beer on a summer afternoon, her poems go down easy.

Poetry allows us - we human beings - to feel our emotions. Kincaid's poetry goes one step further. Her words allow us the luxury of emotional commitments to people and to objects. But emotional commitment implies familiarity. And familiarity connotes patina.

Radic is the author of A Priest in Hell: Gangs, Murders and Snitching in a California Jail, and Gone to Hell: True Crimes of America's Clergy. He is currently working on his next non-fiction book, Killing God's Enemies.

PATINA is now available to purchase from Amazon.

world famous pot roast

2011-09-13T17:35:00.000-04:00

It's still very warm here, but I am so ready for slow cooked comfort food, I made my world famous pot roast today. I cooked it for the first time in Little Red, my red cast iron pot. It is super-tender and full of flavor. Give it a whirl. It will be your favorite, too. I promise. This is a re-post from 2008, back when I was known only as "Willow"...

Pot Roast

Ingredients
1 (2-pound) blade cut chuck roast
2 teaspoons kosher salt
2 teaspoons cumin
vegetable oil
1 medium onion, chopped
5 to 6 cloves garlic, smashed
1 cup tomato juice
1/3 cup balsamic vinegar
1 cup cocktail olives, drained and broken
1/2 cup dark raisins

Directions
Preheat the oven to 200-225 degrees F. Place a wide, heavy skillet over high heat for 2 minutes. Meanwhile, rub both sides of meat with the salt and cumin. When the pan is hot (really hot) brown meat on both sides and remove from pan. Add just enough vegetable oil to cover the bottom of the pan then add the onion and garlic. Stir constantly until onion is softened.

Add the tomato juice, vinegar, olives, and raisins. Bring to a boil and reduce the liquid by half. Create a pouch with wide, heavy duty aluminum foil. Place half the reduced liquid/chunk mixture on the foil, add the roast, and then top with the remaining mixture. Close the pouch, and wrap tightly in another complete layer of foil.

Cook for 3 to 3 1/2 hours or until a fork pushes easily into the meat. Remove from oven and rest (still wrapped) for at least 1/2 hour. Snip off one corner of the foil pouch and drain the liquid into a bowl or measuring cup. Add some of the "chunkies" and puree with an immersion blender. Slice meat thinly, or pull apart with a fork. Serve with sauce. (Adjust longer cook time for larger cuts of meat.)

before...

and after...oh yeah...

utterly candid

2011-09-12T10:00:00.000-04:00

The Revenant, 1949, Andrew Wyeth

They say not to wear white

after Labor Day

but he is not afraid to be seen

in the same clothes twice

he knows not to read

too much into everything

without social significance

yesterday's mashed potatoes

are made to be worn year round

for centuries, even

a little room to swing around in

without must and dust and age

a private sort of greatness

a place of morning sun

where there are not quite

so many egg stains

Tess Kincaid
September, 2011

Listen to the inimitable R.A.D. Stainforth's reading of this poem:
(you can visit his excellent blog, Black Dogs, here)

miss america and a unibrow

2011-09-10T13:03:00.001-04:00

So, what, besides a fuzzy unibrow for my Frida Kahlo Halloween costume, did I find at Gee-Dub this week? A sweet little crystal clear depression glass bowl in the Miss America pattern for $1.99. Life is good.

Depression glass is translucent glassware that was distributed free or at low cost in the United States around the time of the Great Depression, 1929 to the early 1940s. The Quaker Oats Company and other food distributors would include a piece of the glassware inside the box, as an incentive to purchase their product. Movie theaters and business would sometimes hand out the glassware at the door.

Most depression glass was made in the Central and Midwest United States, where access to raw materials and power made it inexpensive to manufacture. Various companies made over 100 patterns. Since it has become highly collectible since the 1960s, it is becoming more and more scarce on the open market.

got blackberries?

2011-09-09T10:00:00.000-04:00

click to embiggen

There have been quite a lot of hits on my blackberry muffin recipe from 2008 in recent days, so I thought it might not be a bad idea to post it again. The oatmeal in this recipe gives it a wonderful old fashioned taste, incredibly moist, like something your grandmother might have made.

Whole Grain Blackberry Muffins

2 cups flour

1 cup regular rolled oats

1 cup packed dark brown sugar

1 1/2 tsp baking powder

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp allspice

1 cup milk

1/4 vegetable oil

1 tsp vanilla extract

1 egg

2 cups fresh blackberries

Whisk together the dry ingredients. Mix together the wet ingredients and gently fold into the dry. Carefully add the berries, folding gently, as to not crumble them into the batter. Fill muffin tins to the top. Bake 350 degree for 20 minutes. Makes 12 large muffins.

it's about passion

2011-09-07T11:00:00.000-04:00

my vintage rosaries
click to embiggen

I'm not sure exactly how I contracted the passion for collecting, but the symptoms were evident at a very early age. Maybe I enjoy collecting because it takes me back to the simple comfort and joy of my childhood Little Golden Book and postage stamp collections.

It may lie dormant for a while, but once you have caught the virus, it is a life long condition and it often returns with a renewed vigor. It might just be that it is instinctive for humans to collect, just as a magpie is compelled to hunt and gather shiny objects and drag them back to her nest. I definitely like to have my things about me, like Mary Kate Danaher in The Quiet Man.

McCoy pottery, mercury glass, insulators, tarnished silver
in my retro metal medical cabinet

chalkwork icons
click to embiggen

There is a certain explorer spirit in me. I like to dig in dusty places. One discovery often leads to another, to a fresh search and the start of a new collection. In fact, I would have made a great archaeologist.

Garage sales, flea markets, Gee-Dub (my local Goodwill store) and various antique shops are my favorite places to forage...the junkier the place, the better. The rarity or value of a particular piece, is not the objective for me, but the mellow and a little bit worn, the unwanted, the unappreciated and orphaned, are what happens to strike my fancy.

the manor is filled
with the scent of old books

Other people's gatherings are endlessly fascinating, since it reveals an obvious look at the personalities behind the collections. What objects do you like to hunt and gather?

I think that interiors need

a bit of a twist... most have
no sense of irony or of real life,

and there is nothing harmonious or soulful.

--Hubert Zandberg

jack-of-all-trades

2011-09-05T06:00:00.000-04:00

You find a way

through the plumbing

carve coal out of steam

cut a trench by osmosis

knock on wood

dig in your heels

every once in a while

you make sounds

like a locksmith

it's not easy to stay

use household words

take out the trash

but I'd like to sew

buttons on

someday

Tess Kincaid

September, 2011

reading: the inimitable R.A.D. Stainforth, Black Dogs
photo: abandoned farm, Dublin, Ohio

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.

bibliophilia

2011-09-03T09:30:00.000-04:00

In a good bookroom you feel,
in some mysterious way,

that you are absorbing the wisdom
contained in all the books through your skin,

without even opening them.

Mark Twain

photo: Karen Wickliff Books, Columbus, Ohio, my favorite second-hand bookstore, with the creaky hardwood floors and lovely retro tile

press pots, vices, happiness

2011-09-01T20:30:00.000-04:00

It started last week, when I was thinking about hurricane Irene, the possible flooding, those who would be without power. My mind took off on a rabbit trail. How would all those Manhattanites survive without their cuppas? I remembered that French press coffee making method. It doesn't require electricity, does it?

Every Friday, like clockwork, I pop into my local Gee-Dub (Goodwill Store) for a quick browse. What did I find, side by side, doppelgangers in the dishware? Two perfectly new French presses marked $3 each, in green wax china marker, looking all lonely and wishing for the kitchen at Willow Manor. I had to. Besides, I had already been thinking about French press coffee. It was fate.

That afternoon, I tossed some freshly ground coffee into one of the cute little glass and chrome pots, added boiling water, waited a few minutes, then slowly pressed the grounds to the bottom. Heaven; and even more so, since I had given up coffee several years ago, to cure my insomnia. To make a long story short, I am now drinking coffee again. It makes me happy. I'm sleeping fine. I love coffee. It was silly to give it up.

"People always think that happiness is a farawaything,"

thought Francie,"something complicated and hard to get.

Yet, what little things can make it up;

a place of shelter when it rains -

a cup of strong hot coffee when you're blue;

a cigarette for contentment;

abook to read when you're alone -

just to be with someone you love.

Those things make happiness."

Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

she considers

2011-08-29T19:30:00.000-04:00

She'll do it neat

surgically quick

Lavoris-clean in white shoes

like a 1960s doctor

rendering him lobscouse

Capote-cold blood overhead

like an icky red umbrella

fresh fodder for ants and crows

left crusted in poison ivy

for the American Pickers to find

she drives off

in a Lyndon Johnson limousine

to a quiet destination for a smoke

it feels good...

but his eyes are open

looking at her

like she just stole his bicycle

Tess Kincaid

August, 2011

reading: the excellent R.A.D. Stainforth, Black Dogs

image: Red Umbrella, Christopher Shay

and the pursuit of happiness

2011-08-25T04:30:00.000-04:00

My daughter, Elspeth, recently gave me a signed copy of Maira Kalman's delightful book, And the Pursuit of Happiness. She saw it in her favorite book shop, Three Lives & Company, Greenwich Village, and knew I would love it.

She was right, I immediately connected with Kalman's wonderful idiosyncratic style. We obviously have the same sense of humor, and I laughed out loud at her delightful remarks, since they could have easily been my own.

Inspired by the 2008 elections, Kalman embarked on a yearlong investigation of democracy and how it works, from town hall meetings in Vermont to the inner chambers of the Supreme Court. And the Pursuit of Happiness is a diary of her quirky drawings and observations in a lovely tribute to American history and democracy. Anyone who can make this statement, is one after my own heart:

The more I read, the more entranced I became.

Over 15,000 books have been written about Lincoln.

I won't claim to have read them all , or even any.

But it became clear, as I tumbled into his world, that he had a magnetic appeal.

I looked at images. I looked deep into his eyes and found that I was falling in love.

In love with A. Lincoln.

Kalman has also written children's books (another of my passions) about Max Stravinsky, the poet-dog, as well as done covers for the New Yorker. She is definitely on my A List.

kings of siam

2011-08-22T17:00:00.000-04:00

A line of royals

traveling lazy Susans

some kind of magicians

we learn to stutter

use hand signals

stretch wide as wings

in the open wind

our fleshy transmitters

pick up signals

from Sky King

or King Kong

there is no wrong

side of the tracks

only rock, paper, scissors

we ride around like sultans

meaning no harm

Tess Kincaid

August, 2011

Recorded by the most competent R.A.D. Stainforth. Check out his excellent blog, Black Dogs.

More Magpie Tales here

I found this unidentified photo in a stack of ephemera in a Missouri antique shop.

abandoned america iv

2011-08-18T06:56:00.001-04:00

The Barn and the Down

It stood in the sunset sky
Like the straight-backed down,
Many a time - the barn
At the edge of the town,

So hug and dark that it seemed
It was the hill
Till the gable's precipice proved
it impossible.

The great down in the west
Grew into sight,
A barn stored full to the ridge
With black of night;

And the barn fell to a barn
Or even less
Before critical eyes and its own
Late mightiness.

But far down and near barn and I
Since then have smiled,
Having seen my new cautiousness
By itself beguiled

To disdain what seemed the barn
Till a few steps changed
It past all doubt to the down;
So the barn was avenged.

Edward Thomas

click to embiggen

destination

2011-08-17T08:00:00.000-04:00

My walls are covered

in cave writings

transferable graffiti

between generations

passed between

number one daughters

like passwords

in the air at the first snow

tribal smudges bruise

my Achilles' heel

to scrape squeegee clean

or saddle-up and ride

Tess Kincaid

August, 2011

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this piece. Check out his excellent blog, Black Dogs.

Click here for more Magpie Tales.

abandoned america iii

2011-08-12T08:00:00.000-04:00

Nails

Aliens would render us useless

if they sucked all our nails

with some powerful magnet

like a big vacuum sweeping

up bobby pins

we would be a mess

without our carpet tacks

and gutter spikes

penny size brads

hammered down with the gusto

and sweat of a nation's brawn

a rapture of galvanized proportions

they'd leave the buns and beehives

of our landscape

in disheveled heaps, raped

uncoiffed bedrooms and barns

bad hair days scattered

across America

Tess Kincaid

nails, abandoned barn, Dublin, Ohio
click to embiggen

Recorded by the talented R.A.D. Stainforth. Check out his excellent blog, Black Dogs.

tomato tart with a baked egg

2011-08-09T20:55:00.000-04:00

Ever go to a practically empty fridge and wonder what you can toss together for supper? I like to keep a box of puff pastry on hand, and almost always have tomatoes, eggs and cheese. Dom, at Belleau Kitchen, inspired this quick, spur of moment little summer meal. Yum.

1 roll ready made puff pastry
1 package of vine-ripened tomatoes
5 tablespoons strong cheese
1 egg
salt and freshly ground pepper to taste
rosemary (I didn't have fresh on hand, so used dry)

Slice the tomatoes and lay them in an oven-proof roasting pan, drizzle with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and roast for 20 minutes at 325. Roll out the pastry, score a line around the edge, about an inch from the end. Grate cheese on top, add roasted tomatoes, and crack an egg on top. Bake until golden brown, about 15 minutes at 375. I sprinkled Parmesan cheese on each slice before serving.

twilight

2011-08-08T08:15:00.000-04:00

Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

Is it hares

or do rabbits dance

after the sun sets

in a peeved lilac bowl?

Is it written in some shepherd's almanac

or in the creases of a woodsman's hand?

Who holds the secret

that brings the bucolic vamp

infant and ancient

to swagger her spell

from the curve of her neck

hot, humming

like a boiling samovar?

Two long fingers twist high in a vee

strong with branches for many birds

she signals bats to circle

swifts to weave tribal high

in tribute above cattails

dame's rocket

before spitting out the bruised sky

chewed and swallowed

Tess Kincaid
August, 2011

Many thanks to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this piece.

To join Magpie Tales creative writing group click here.

abandoned america ii

2011-08-06T09:15:00.001-04:00

abandoned barn, Dublin, Ohio, July 2011
click to embiggen

Tall nettles cover up, as they have done
These many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough
Long worn out, and the roller made of stone:
Only the elm butt tops, the nettles now.

This corner of the farmyard I like most:
As well as any bloom upon a flower
I like the dust on the nettles, never lost
Except to prove the sweetness of a shower.

Edward Thomas 1878-1917

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth for this lovely poem.