earthy little spring supper

If you love eggs and mushroom, like I do, you're gonna love this earthy little spring supper. The two different preparations of the mushrooms creates two delicious flavors and textures. This recipe serves four, but can easily be cut down for a single serving. This is a wonderful vegetarian dish, and is very economical, as well. Plus, it's easy peasy to make.


poached eggs with mushrooms two ways

3 lb white mushrooms, divided
5 Tbsp olive oil, divided
3 lb white mushrooms, divided
8 large eggs
1/2 cup packed flat leaf parsley
4 garlic cloves
1 Tbsp red wine vinegar
3/4 tsp cumin seeds, toasted
flaky sea salt such as Maldon

Prepare the mushrooms:

Preheat oven to 450 with racks in the upper and lower thirds. Thinly slice two thirds of mushrooms 1/8 inch thick. Toss with 1/4 cup oil, 3/4 tsp salt and 1/2 tsp pepper, then spread evenly in 2 large 4 sided sheet pans. Roast, stirring occasionally, until all of liquid has evaporated and mushrooms are golden and crisp. 30 to 40 minutes. Meanwhile, cut remaining mushrooms into 1/2 inch wedges. Finely chop parsley with garlic. Heat remaining Tbsp oil in a heavy 12 inch skillet over medium high heat until it shimmers, then saute mushroom wedges with 1/4 tsp each of salt and pepper for 1 minute. Add vinegar and saute 1 minute. Stir in parsley mixture and butter, and saute until butter has melted. Remove from heat and keep warm, covered.

Poach eggs while mushrooms roast:

Bring 1 1/4 inches water to a boil in a deep large skillet or saucepan with distilled vinegar. Break each egg into a cup and slide into water, spacing eggs apart. Poach at a bare simmer until whites are firm but yolks are still runny, 2 to 3 minutes.

To serve:

Stir together mushrooms and 1/4 tsp toasted cumin in a large bowl, then divide among plates. Lift eggs out of poaching liquid 1 at a time with slotted spoon and transfer to mushrooms. Drizzle with oil and sprinkle with sea salt and remaining toasted cumin.

Serve with buttered baguette slices. Oh, yummy.


From September 2008 issue of my dearly missed Gourmet magazine.

earworm mysteries

Do you ever have music playing over and over in your head, making you nutty because you can't remember the name of the song or the composer? Or am I the only one who has this discombobulation occur? It happens to me all the time with classical music. I am pretty good about distinguishing a Mozart from a Bach, but there is always that illusive piece I can't quite put my finger on. So, I embark on a wild quest to identify it. If I don't, it stays in my head like a broken record, and drives me mad.

It doesn't help to hum it to WT. First of all, he's not really an expert on classical music. And secondly, even though I am lucky enough to have perfect pitch, my voice seldom does what my brain tells it. So, when I la-la-tee-da in my monotone style, no one can tell what the heck music I'm conveying, even though it's playing perfectly loud and clear in my head.

I'm happy to say, since the arrival of the internet, there are a few options that help me avoid total classical music insanity.

1. Post the question on a classical music forum. For example, you can ask if anyone can tell you what piece starts out with CCGEE, etc.

2. Search albums on Amazon. There's usually sound clips from each piece. This might take a while, but if you've narrowed it down to a composer, it can help.

3. If you've heard the piece on the radio, and know approximately when you heard it, you can email the station and ask them. My dearest local WOSU has been very helpful in this matter.

May all your earworms be beautiful, my friends.

(photo from google images)

daffodil glasses

Periscope up.
Through a sea of decay
the little unterseeboot
bobs the surface and flashes
a brilliant diving bell.
Tree, grass, root;
monochrome gray.
I had forgotten the color yellow.
Hell, forget the shades.
In the land of submarines
I need daffodil glasses.



willow, 2010


For more Magpie Tales participants, click [HERE].

my groucho marx

Monday was my paternal grandfather, Chester Hanna's birthday. He passed away in May of 2007 at the ripe old age of 93. He was surprisingly computer savvy for a man of his generation. I miss his daily emails. They weren't terribly newsy, but he fondly called me "kid", and it always brightened my day to see one of his messages waiting in my inbox. He handed down his love of genealogical research to me, and we spent many afternoons online, sharing family history.

He was born in Ervin Township, Howard County, Indiana on March 22, 1914, and lived in and around the area his entire life. He retired after working for Delco Electronics for 35 years, but always had a bit of an entrepreneurial spirit, dabbling in various businesses. For years, he ran a professional photography studio from his home, with a complete dark room in the cellar. I spent many a happy hour watching the photos magically emerge in the pans of fluid. To this day, I think of him whenever I walk into a photo shop, and catch that heavenly whiff of developing solution.

One of my dearest memories is standing in the back of his easy chair and asking for his black plastic comb, which he always kept, along with his assortment of pens in his trusty pocket protector. After I combed his Brylcreemed hair down over his eyes, he would peer out with a comical look, and make me giggle with delight. He was a quiet and unassuming little man. I always thought if he would just grow a thick mustache, and smoke a cigar, he would look exactly like Groucho Marx. But his personality was totally different; no singing of Lydia the Tattooed Lady, or silly Grouchoesque walks. And that's okay. I loved him just the way he was.

For more Sepia Saturday posts, click [HERE].

fly chowder?

Earlier this week, Alan, mentioned that posting a blog about blogging is a form of
omphaloskepsis (how's that for a word?) or navel-gazing, and potentially a boring
read. Blogging in itself is a tad on the egocentric side, is it not? I happen to enjoy
reading posts about blogging, since it's one of my major interests. Does that mean
I enjoy navel-gazing? Of course I do. I knew you would, too.

You've probably noticed I've given in, and joined the majority of bloggers who
have switched on their word verifications. I did it last week, since I was on the
road, and couldn't screen out the Viagra spam every five minutes several times
a day. I'll have to admit, it is nice. I think I'll leave it on for a while.

While being a tad inconvenient, it certainly is entertaining. Blogger is evolving
into an intelligent life form. I am amazed at how many times the word
verification includes my real name, preceded by "uni" or "un" or followed by
an occasional "ly".

Depending on Blogger's mood, it has been known to compliment my best comments with pressive, coolest, or crici. On the other hand, it tosses me just as many insults, like citicow, lowdfool, squat, or rejejune. Betsy happened to leave a comment on yesterday's "blogger house" post about her blogger weight gain, and the verification was taters. What kind of synchronicity is that? After reading a soup recipe post, I was requested to type flycowder. I kid you not.

Last week, when I felt uneasy about what sort of comment to leave, on a particularly touchy subject, the verification was awkworo. So, does this all-knowing Blogger also have the ability to look deep into my sowel (that's word verification for soul, by the way) and know how I feel, as I leave comments?
.
The most intriguing of all, have been joyodep and sewoollie. How can it possibly know the Deppster and I are doppelgangers, and that I am nutty about my woolly socks? I'll leave you now, to contemplate.


Dee-dum-dee-dum-dee-dee-dum-tee-dum. (That's the Hitchcock theme in case you didn't recognize it.)

(photo borrowed from Google images)

pardon the dust

Elisabeth mentioned her dislike of housework in her delightful post today.
She is lucky enough to have a housekeeper come in once a week, and
deliver her from such evils. I, on the other hand, have bravely maintained
the manor chores myself.

The funny thing is, back when the manor was bustling with three children,
two huge yellow labs, three cats, a hamster and a cockatoo, I was on some
kind of wonder woman quest, balancing home, school, church, a gift basket
business and catering business. The manor was always miraculously
sparkling.


Not so, now, with an empty nest and nothing to do but housekeeping stuff
and blogging. A thick layer of dust covers the furniture, like a blanket of
gray felt. Someone said it is actually good for wood to be protected by dust.
I wholeheartedly agree.

I like to think of the current condition of the manor as "blogger's house".
You know, like swimmer's ear or tennis elbow. So, pardon the dust. I've
realized the kitchen police and dust patrol are not going to ticket me for
any infractions. And you know what? It feels nice. If you happen to drop
by the manor, just pull the spiderwebs away from my face, so I can see you.


(I took this photo last summer at the main intersection of our little town,
which has been under construction. I immediately connected and gave
them a full pardon.)
.
.
This is a Theme Thursday post.

overheard at the manor

As we loaded up our trusty old Land Rover last week, preparing for
our trek across the Midwest toward Kansas, I forgot one crucial item.
The snore machine. It's the little white noise machine I can't live
(or sleep) without.

I've always maintained that WT could have easily been the next
Pavarotti. He has a beautiful, booming tenor voice, which he
fortunately passed down to our opera singing daughter. This talent
is also displayed nightly, in his great ability to snore. I'm not talking
any old mundane snores, like I am known to do, from time to time.
No, no. He treats me to private sessions of the world's most brilliant
snore performances.

The most impressive, and hardest of all to sleep through, would have
to be the big, broad sweeping Old Man River snores. Forget William
Warfield. WT can snore circles around him. As we crossed the
Mississippi last week, I could see him down there, snoring away on
an old riverboat.

Then there's the charming, fast-clip Gilbert and Sullivan style snores.
These are known to make me climb the walls after 15 minutes, and
sometimes, but hardly ever, make this girl use a big, big D.

A particularly alarming snore, is one that sounds amazingly like a car
back firing. I fondly refer to this one as the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
snore. The mornings following this one, I'm ready to take him over to
Midas for a new muffler.

Last, and my least favorite, is the creepy Hitchcockesque snore. This
one sounds like the doorbell at the manor, when the button sticks.
It's a choking sound that makes me feel like I'm being slowly
strangled with a 1950s nylon stocking. I instinctively feel for my
sewing scissors in the dark.

Needless to say, after a week of encore performances, I'm happy to
be back home, safe and soundless with my handy dandy little snore
machine. I slept 12 straight snoreless hours last night. And don't
worry, my friends, I don't keep my sewing box anywhere near the
bed.

mag 6

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,
towns of bad hair days
scattered across America.

.

.

willow, 2010

.

for more Magpie Tales participants click [HERE].

I'm back from Kansas. Sad days, planes, trains and automobiles.
Thank you all so very much for your emails, comments and
cards. Hopefully, I'll be back on schedule and make my way up
your particular street in the bloggyhood this week. I've missed you!

retail & railroad romance

With the passing of WT's mother this week, I've been thinking a lot about her family. Her maternal grandfather, William Isaac Cummins, owned and operated a general store in Kansas City. This photo, taken in about 1905, shows her mother, Ruth Cleveland Cummins, the young girl in the center in the dark dress, her parents William and Addie Cummins to the left, and her older sister and brother in law on the right.

WT likes to wear a big apron, just like his great-grandfather did, when he cleans up in the kitchen. It's surprising how much he favors him, in appearance, especially with the apron.

As the story goes, the store was located near the railroad stop, and Grandma Ruth met the dashing young railroad engineer, Ralph McIntire, one afternoon, as he sauntered into her father's store, on one of his frequent Kansas City stops. They chose a Christmas Eve wedding, marrying on December 24, 1916.

.

.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

breakfast

I want to throw one of those crazy parties
like in Breakfast at Tiffany's
wear a dress that looks like a bed sheet
smoke a cigarette
in an outrageously long holder
greet my guests
with 'darling' and a kiss

afterwards I'd put on big sunglasses
mosey up the street for breakfast
take a peek in Tiffany's window
danish in one hand
vendor's coffee in the other

the closest I'll ever come
is stand in the kitchen after breakfast
hum Moon River
chase away the mean reds
put coffee cups in the sink
run the little pink sponge
round and round the countertop.

willow, 2010

This is a Theme Thursday post.

Call Me Ishmael

.
.

She beckons me like Ahab.
This particular girl
dropped anchor at my door,

.
seeking a great white,
harpooned and wired

in my whirlpools of night.

.
Odd quickstep.

Her insomniac dance
marks time on my floor,
deck of the Pequod.

Lamp oil gone and no wick,

her windless sails hang thick

with sulphurous air.

She laughs in the dark,

lit only by the folly of revenge
and St. Elmo's fire.

.

.

.

.

willow, 2010

.

.

.

For more Magpie Tales participants, click [HERE].

Thank you, dear friends, so very much

for your kind and generous comments.

Your lovely words were a great comfort.

You are the best.

.

willow xx

4 May 1929 - 13 March 2010

WT's sweet mother stepped through

an open door tonight, into eternity.

She was much loved

and will be dearly missed.

.

.

Goin' home, goin' home,

I am goin' home,

Quiet light, some still day,

I am goin' home.

.

It ain't far, Jes' close by,

Through an open door,

Work all done, care laid by,

Goin' t' fear no more.

.

Mother's there, 'spectin' me,

Father's waitin' too,

Lots o' folks gathered there,

All the friends I knew.

.

Nothin's lost, all is gain,

No more fret nor pain,

No more stumblin' on the way,

No more sweat n' strain.

.

Mornin' star lights the way,

Restless dream all done,

Shadows gone, break of day,

Real life has begun.

.

There's no break, there's no end,

Just a livin' on,

Wide awake with a smile,

Goin' on an' on.

.

Goin' home, goin' home,

I am goin' home.

Here am I, all alone,

I am goin' home.

.

I am goin' home.

.

.

.

William Arms Fisher

.

.

my lady liberty

In my early childhood, I spent many idyllic days with my paternal

grandmother. The things that inspire me most, I can trace back to

this dear woman. For instance, my uncles tell me that I've inherited

her ability to artistically arrange things, like tablescapes. I have to

be careful not to turn every surface in the manor into some sort of

dramatic scene. I have fond memories of tagging along with her, to

an empty church on a Saturday afternoon, and watching her arrange

a beautiful altarscape. She used fresh flower cuttings from her

garden, rich fabrics, and an assortment of odd antiques for her

unique creations.
.

Speaking of flowers, I've also inherited her green thumb. Grandma

adored plants of all kinds. Local people would drive around her

corner lot, in the rural Indiana village of Burlington, extra slowly, just

to admire her glorious flowers, little fish pond, and fountain. One of

my favorite memories is helping her gather dandelion greens along

cornfield lined country roads. She taught me how to do essential life

tasks, like how to bait a fishhook with a nightcrawler at Wildcat

Creek.

Lazy afternoons, I sat by her side, as she peeled mountains of apples

for homemade pies. She wouldn't make just one. Her kitchen became

a pie factory, baking six or eight at a time. The charming fern pattern,

I watched her make in the crusts, with the tip of a teaspoon, I still use

to decorate my pies today. While the pies were cooling, I would

snuggle on her lap and listen to generous portions of the delightful

Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley.

.

Even though she could play the piano beautifully, she rarely did, but

insisted her children, my aunt and uncles, practice daily, with much

chiding and an occasional slap with the fly swatter. All the classics,

along with Chopsticks, of course, were indelibly embedded in my

little head. A daily dose of classical music is a must for me, to

chase the cobwebs away, and feel a sense of balance.

.

A year or two ago, I was randomly obsessed with Boris Pasternak

and all things Russian. I reread Doctor Zhivago, and bought both the

Lean, 1969 version and the HBO, 2002 series. When I mentioned

this to my uncle, he said it happened to be Grandma's favorite

movie, that she was crazy about Lara's Theme, and even had a little

music box that played the song. "Oh, I didn't know." I said, DNA

tingling. She would get such a kick out of my Zhivago hat. I can see

her smiling, and trying it on for size.

.

So, what, you're wondering, does the Statue of Liberty have to do

with this post? For me, Grandma's striking features favored those of

Lady Liberty's, and the souvenir statue she kept on her roll top desk.

Sadly, she died three days after her 56th birthday, when I was just

13. I regret she never knew the woman I grew to become, and was

not around to enjoy my lovely family. She will, however, always be

my Lady Liberty, lifting her symbolic ancestral lamp, giving me the

freedom and insight to embrace all she inspired in me.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

mr. banjo visits the manor

Well, guess who meandered up the drive to Willow Manor, all theway from the great state of Idaho? None other than the sweet JohnHayes, from Robert Frost's Banjo! He is making his way through the country, towards the east coast, stopping here and there to visit friends and family. Not only is John a great musician, he is a very talented poet, as well. Just last week, I was lucky enough to win a copy of his latest book, The Days of Wine and Roses, available for purchase over at his blog.

It's always a bit on the surreal side, meeting someone from the blog world; someone you know so much about, but have never actually met in person. We had a very pleasant afternoon, chatting about all things bloggy and poetical, and even took a wee spin over to my favorite second hand bookstore. Yes, the one with the creaky hardwood floors.

7/11

from 'A Few More Fold-Out Postcard Sonnets',

The Days of Wine and Roses

India ink spruce trees up on the hill it

could be anywhere watching the sunset's

locomotive crash into the swamp with its

refrigerators & rowboats & slightly effeminate

ferns & a black wool blanket overrun with

beetles & ladybugs & a snapshot of Jane with

a peach pie & a thermos It could be

anywhere anytime September 2 1988 Albemarle

County VA like a porcelain full moon that looks like

a magnolia blossom sprouting from a caboose that's

rattling & hooting through heaven like a

tugboat chugging through water lilies &

Marlowe's just now dropping a line to the past stating

If you miss the train I'm on you will etc

Jack Hayes

hats

You already know I adore hats. I love furry winter hats the most,

but, I have been known to wear all kinds; straw, floppy, pointy.

(No, Pete, this is not my hair, it's a hat.) I just put my Zhivago hat

away for the winter, and felt a twinge of sadness. I'm afraid woolly

sock season will soon be ending, as well. Sigh.

Looking very dapper in his wool cap below, is my great grandfather,

Glenn. I don't remember him ever going out in public without a hat.

It just wasn't proper in his day. (I must have been born in the wrong

time frame, as far as hats are concerned.) So, in his honor, I can't let

this week's Theme Thursday go by without posting my favorite piece

of hat poetry by Billy Collins. I wish I had written it.

The Death of the Hat

.
.

Once every man wore a hat.
In the ashen newsreels,

the avenues of cities

are broad rivers flowing with hats.

The ballparks swelled

with thousands of strawhats.

Brims and bands,

rows of men smoking

and cheering in shirtsleeves.

Hats were the law.

.

They went without saying.

You noticed a man without a hat in a crowd.

You bought them from Adams or Dobbs

who branded your initials in gold

on the inside band.

Trolleys crisscrossed the city.

Steamships sailed in and out of the harbor.

Men with hats gathered on the docks.

There was a person to block your hat

and a hatcheck girl to mind it

while you had a drink

or ate a steak with peas and a baked potato.

In your office stood a hat rack.

The day war was declared

everyone in the street was wearing a hat.

And they were wearing hats

when a ship loaded with men sank in the icy sea.

My father wore one to work every day

and returned home

carrying the evening paper,

the winter chill radiating from his overcoat.

But today we go bareheaded

into the winter streets,

stand hatless on frozen platforms.

Today the mailboxes on the roadside

and the spruce trees behind the house

wear cold white hats of snow.

Mice scurry from the stone walls at night

in their thin fur hats

to eat the birdseed that has spilled.

And now my father, after a life of work,

wears a hat of earth, and on top of that,

a lighter one of cloud and sky – a hat of wind.

.

.

overheard at the manor, a ghost post

I stash away all kinds of paper keepsakes; artsy cards, tickets from

treasured occasions, handwritten notes from dear friends, quirky

quotes ripped from magazines. There are boxes and boxes of my

precious ephemera, stuff anyone else would consider trash, tucked

into cubbyholes at the manor. Yes, my name is Willow and I am a

magpie. Or, maybe just a hopeless romantic? I know, you're

thinking pack rat, but I much prefer magpie.

Anyway, last week, I was sorting through one of my prized

collections and discovered several old paper perfume samples sealed

in cellophane, saved from my old retail days, some 30 years ago. I'm

not sure exactly why I kept them, but I don't always have a rhyme

or reason.

Just for fun, I tore open one of the packets of Nina Ricci's L'Air du

Temps, doubting any scent remained. Although, I never wore this

perfume, I was immediately transported back in time. It reminded

me of someone I knew. I'm not sure exactly who.

"Hey, they still smell! But different. Old and kinda mellow." I held

it out for WT to take a sniff.

"Gosh, it smells musty like the ghost perfume, I smelled again last

night, when I got up to pee."

Every so often, there is a strong scent of perfume in a certain spot

in the master bedroom at the manor, just between the door to the

bath and the bed. It's only detectable on occasion, late at night,

usually between 3:00 and 5:00, at times so powerful, it wakes me.

It's not a familiar scent, and it certainly isn't one I wear. It has a

uniquely aged, mellow quality, just like the old sample I opened,

yet deliciously pleasant, and mysterious.

Several years ago, a woman stopped by the house, and introduced

herself as being married to one of the grandsons of the elderly lady

who died at the manor. We invited her in and showed her around.

It had been years since she had been inside. Among many

fascinating things, she told us the master bedroom was once a guest

bedroom, and before it was remodeled in the late 1970's, there was

a hidden window seat, where the family cremation urns were kept.

This particular window would have been in the exact spot, just

between the door to the bath and the bed, where the unusual scent

often occurs, very late, in the still of the night.

.

.

For more posts on the ghosts of Willow Manor, click [HERE].

Keepsake

I strut my ivory stuff.

Trumpet the long mad dance

of four thousand strong.

Impi step low and loud,

a roar of hornets, hip-hopping

disco balls and bayonets.

Martini-Henry rifles, single-shot

breech loaders glitter

the rowdy crowd at Rorke’s Drift.

Leapin’ loin feathers!

Zulus fall like flies

in a savage dance hall blunder.

My beady eyes stare

from a fallen contestant

in a break dance of loss and plunder.

I’m a keepsake from the prom.

No wonder. Stringy tail

between my legs

and a bloody

Victoria Cross.

willow, 2010

This is a Mag 4 post. Click [HERE] for more Magpie Tales

creative writing participants.

old world meets new

I like to make this elegant, yet earthy little supper in early spring, just after the coldest of winter has passed, but before the arrival of warm breezes, and after I've tucked my Zhivago hat away for the season. It conjurs thoughts of all things romanticly Old World and Russian. Tell me if this little goody doesn't become one of your favorites, as well.

Salmon Pirog

dough:

3 cups flour

1 tsp salt

3/4 cup unsalted butter

1 Tbsp fresh lemon juice

4-6 Tbsp ice water

2 Tbsp canola oil

1/2 small head green cabbage finely shredded

2 Tbsp minced fresh flat leaf parsley, or 1 tsp dry

4 tsp minced fresh dill, or 2 tsp dry

salt and pepper to taste

3/4 lb fresh mushrooms, sliced thin

3/4 cup finely chopped onion

1 1/2 pound salmon fillet or four small, thin fillets

1 egg

1 cup cooked long grain white rice

1/2 cup sour cream

Use the top set of ingredients to make pastry dough. You know the scoop. Cut in the butter and then add the water until it forms a ball. Yada yada yada. Divide in half. Refrigerate.

Saute cabbage and 2 Tbsp water until tender. Stir in 1 Tbsp parsley with 1 tsp dill weed, and season with salt and pepper. Transfer to bowl. In same pan, saute the onion and mushrooms in canola oil until tender and liquid is evaporated. Season with salt and pepper, 1 tsp dill and 1 Tbsp parsley.

On lightly floured surface, roll out one ball of dough into a rectangle 10 x 14 inches. Cut dough lengthwise and crosswise making 4 small rectangles. Brush with egg wash (egg + 1 Tbsp water, dash salt). Spread 1/4 rice on each rectangle, leaving 1 inch border around edges of the dough. Do the same with the cabbage, over the rice, in a thin layer. Cut and arrange raw salmon over the cabbage layer. Season lightly with salt and pepper. Lastly, spread the mushroom layer over the salmon.

Roll the second ball of dough just like the first, cutting into 4 rectangles. Lay these over the fillings, lining up edges, stretching if necessary. Pinch edges to seal. Brush top with egg wash. Cut vents in top. Bake 375 on ungreased baking sheet for 20 to 25 minutes. Serve with sour cream, mixed with 2 tsp dill.

lincoln's doppelgänger

A grand set of mounted Longhorn steer horns hung in his bedroom, over his bureau. It was an awesome sight to a small girl, peering up from underneath. They belonged to my great-grandfather, Glenn, son of Palestine Hanna, featured here on past Sepia Saturdays, and were from his days in Albuquerque in the early 20th century. Across the top of the horns rested a stately black walking stick, tipped with a silver cap.


Three years ago, after the death of my grandfather, my dear aunt gave me the walking stick I remember so well. After close examination, I barely made out some engraving on the cap. I pulled out my trusty magnifying glass, and played one of my favorite roles, a giddy Sherlock Holmes. Compelled to a delicious hunt, I drooled investigative juices.

Rev. N. Gillam

by

L. H. Hicks

.

As the delicate script appeared from the patina, my DNA danced a little jig. First, I checked my ancestral file, which contains the names and notations of over 6000 people, which I am proud to say, took five long years to log in and document.

.

My fourth great uncle, Oliver Hazard Perry Hanna (1813 -1880), as it turns out, was married to a Rachel Gillam. Sure enough, Rachel had a brother, Nelson Gillam (1814 - 1902) who was minister of the Methodist Episcopal Church near Delphi, Carroll County, Indiana for many years.

.

At the Carroll County Historical Museum's online site, I found a photo of Rev. Gillam. There is a certain compelling, yet haunting, Lincolnesque quality about him, with the same deep set steely blue eyes and gaunt cheek bones. They could be brothers. (I feel another research project coming on.) I was unable to pin down the one who bestowed the gift, H. L. Hicks. I assume he was a dear friend, or possibly a parishioner of his church.

.

Here's what John Rutherford has to say in his book, Millennium History of Carmel Methodist Church:

.

Reverend Nelson Gillam’s ministry here in 1851 and 1852 was not the superficial kind in which numbers are counted, but the kind in which men are gloriously converted to God. His preaching was the type of Peter, filled with power and effectiveness.

.

He must have been quite a charismatic speaker. I would love to take a journey back in time and attend one of his Sunday sermons, his walking stick resting on one of the altar chairs, alongside the pulpit.

This is a Sepia Saturday post.

the wearin' o' the green

When I was in elementary school, it was not such a good idea to

show up on March 17th, wearing anything other than green. All

three hundred some students would take much pleasure in delivering

their hardest, twisting pinch. This odd practice taught me, at a tender

age, that you get pinched if you're a nonconformist. I also found out

that pinching gives you bruises, so you actually can have some green

on you, if you forget to wear it.

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Pinching those not wearing green on St. Patrick's Day is a long

standing American tradition, having really nothing to do with St. Pat.

It does, however, involve the Irish and Leprechauns. It's thought

that the pinching started in the early 1700s, in the Massachusetts

colony. It was believed, if you wore green, it made you invisible to

the Leprechauns, who were known to pinch anyone they could see.

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My mother, never big on holidays or traditions, certainly did not

promote the "wearin' o' the green". WE don't WEAR green on

St. Patrick's Day. She would say, with more than a little disdain.

WE'RE not Irish! Well, it only took a few years of coming home black,

blue, and green from school on St. Paddy's, for me to learn to look

lively, and be sure to wear green on March 17th. To this day, I

proudly wear, not only green, but my favorite shamrock brooch, as

well.

.

The amusing thing is, while I was doing genealogical research

several years back, I found that my paternal line, although

originating in Scotland, spent several hundred years in Ireland

before migrating to America. I also found a paternity issue in my

maternal line, which proved to be quite interesting. As it turns out,

my mother is, after all, of Irish descent, with a little Cherokee

thrown in for good measure.

.

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This is a Theme Thursday post.

grandly simple

I had seen the film Ashes and Snow mentioned here and there in
the blog world, but had never actually watched it, until last week,
when my dear friend Lorenzo surprised me with my very own copy.
As I opened the box, I could tell by the DVD cover, that this was no
ordinary film. The disc was packaged in a special brown cover,
handmade in Nepal, and sealed with natural beeswax. It was tied
with thread stained with tea leaves and a pretty little red bead.

When I popped the disc into the player, I wasn't quite sure what to
expect, as I settled down into my favorite corner of my TV viewing
nest. I was gently drawn into a languid pool of soft sepia. The
exquisite photography was paired with simple music, and the rich
voice of Laurence Fishburne, periodically reciting a man's touching
letters to his wife.

I was completely swallowed up by this magnificent work of art. This
was not just a movie; it was a spiritual experience. I can't remember
being this moved by art, since I saw the Frida Kahlo exhibit. I was
transfixed by its poetry; I couldn't move, much less laugh or cry.

The 60 minute film is the creation of Gregory Colbert, a Canadian
born photographer and filmmaker, who traveled on expeditions to
India, Burma, Sri Lanka, Egypt, Ethiopia, Kenya and many more to
document the incredible interactions between humans and animals.
Ashes and Snow attracted over 10 million visitors in NYC, Santa
Monica, Tokyo and Mexico City, making it the most attended
exhibition by a living artist in history.

I now have a new remedy for stress. I can pop in this ethereal piece
and watch it whenever I need to be transported to another world.
Thank you, dear friend. You knew I would swoon from the beauty.
My woolly socks were blown completely away.

mag 3 on da bus = dead weight

This week the ticket for Monday's The Poetry Bus has to do with
the topic of death and eternity, so I am killing two birds (since we're
talking about death, but not any magpies, of course) with one stone
and combining the bus and Tuesday's Magpie Tales photo prompt.
.
So, here's my version of "Mag 3 on Da Bus".

Dead Weight

What separates the living
from the dead?

I've heard it said
a few grams
of something
measurable

leaves the body
at the point
of death.

A minuscule weight.
Heavier than air.
More than
that last breath.

What's there?
Where does it go?
When does it start?

Can human scales
detect the absence
of a soul?

Is the sum
of our parts
less than the whole?

willow, 2010

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