Pissabed?

After a winter of  monotone, spring's rapid green always takes me by surprise. I forget just how green; the speed of dandelions. I used to tag along with my grandmother, along rural Indiana roads, collecting enormous bouquets of dandelion greens. Did they grow more lush and tall then, or was it that I was smaller? We would come home with mountains of greens, to be trimmed and simmered with bits of bacon, canned and stored for the following winter.  

My local Kroger store carries dandelion greens in season. But what's the fun of eating them, if you haven't properly foraged? There was some discussion on Facebook last week about eating pokeweed greens. Apparently, they are poisonous, so they have to be cooked and drained three times before sauteing. Somehow that takes away from the fun of the hunt. I'm sticking to dandelion greens...or spinach...for that matter. It tastes the same. 

The dandelion was long popularly known as the pissabed 

because of its supposed diuretic properties, 

and other names in everyday use included mare's fart, 

naked ladies, twitch-ballock, hounds-piss, open arse, and bum-towel.

― Bill Bryson, A Short History of Nearly Everything

*dandelion at Willow Manor

Throwback Thursday, then and now...

Way back to the pixie cut bangs and sundress. My mother kept my hair cut very short. It was stylish then, I suppose, but I dearly craved a pony tail. So much, I clipped a sock on the back of my head, just to see what it felt like when I skipped around. Maybe that's why I enjoy doing stuff with my hair now. Chopsticks. Clips. Pencils. I still skip, when no one's watching.

lifestyle

Someone mentioned this week about my blog being a "lifestyle" blog. Five years ago this month, I started blogging fast and furiously.  I blogged about books, food, movies, and just about anything that popped into my little head. I never missed a day.

Then something happened. I started writing poetry. Gradually, the time I spent writing blog posts, shifted to time spent writing poetry. Then something else happened.  Facebook.  I took to Facebook like a duck to water, or shall I say, swan to water.  It's quick and easy to post a random thought, or current Willow Manor event, like the discovery of a dead moth, or spot of the floor that looks amazingly like Boris Pasternak. A conversation thread can be started at the drop of a hat, or feather, twenty-four-seven. Squawk! Do swans squawk? I think so, yes. 

To make a long story short, my way of life has become one of poetry. So, I still consider Life at Willow Manor a lifestyle blog. Even though I rarely visit blogs these days, except for Magpie Tales, I want to thank my faithful readers. Those of you not on Facebook, I promise to make an effort to post occasional recipes, movie reviews, and so on, so stay tuned. You are the best, dear peeps. You really, really are. 

photo: me a la Anne Boleyn, recluse at Willow Manor

I've gone global...

with a little website...

Tess Kincaid

Whataya think? 

Reflection

Another lovely read by R.A.D. Stainforth...

I see myself

as you might see me ―

move room to rug,

dream at each window,

make note of my reflection

and save it for later.

I murmur sleep-talk,

say only the most important words,

because you know

enough of the others,

to understand me completely,

as you do night trees

that brush the same stretched sky ―

the lucid winter sough.

tk/January 2013

image by Daniel Murtagh

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On Turning Fifty-Six

R.A.D. Stainforth's excellent read

It's the sum
of the first six

triangular numbers,

some kind of

Stonehenge black magic,

being born in '56,

then turning it.

Somebody said,

"Watch your back,

both Abe and Adolf

were shot in the head

at fifty-six ―

both the good and bad

could be targeted."

My Alice was good,

leader of a certain world,

hers no less tragic,

dead at the same age.

But I should be okay ―

my name doesn't begin

with the pyramid A,

I'll avoid theaters,

packing,

and most of all,

politics.

tk, October 2012

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me, October, 2012 

thunder in my hair

A thrill of thunder in my hair:

Though blackening clouds be plain,

Still I am stung and startled

By the first drop of the rain:

Romance and pride and passion pass

And these are what remain.

― G.K. Chesterton (and me)

rain today at Willow Manor

escape

Those who escape hell

however

never talk about it

and nothing much

bothers them

after

that.

― Charles Bukowski

screen at Willow Manor

self-portrait

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

e e cummings

Big News

unpressed/ʌnˈprɛst/ 
▶adjective

• 1. not squeezed or obtained by pressure

• 2. unironed
• 
  

There's some fun news at Willow Manor! Finishing Line Press has agreed to publish my second 26-page chapbook!  This collection of love poems is titled Unpressed, and will be available to purchase later this year. I'll be sure to keep you posted on the details.

The funny thing is, not too long ago, I didn't even know what a chapbook was.  I timidly posted my very first poem here at Willow Manor in July 2008, and not only were no rotten vegetables tossed my direction, you actually encouraged me to write more. Thank you, dear, dear readers for your most kind, faithful encouragement and support. This wouldn't be possible without you, my friends. You are the best. I know, I always say it, but you really are.

Ectoplasm

click to embiggen

ec·to·plasm (kt-plzm)
n.
2.

a. The visible substance believed to emanate from the body of a spiritualistic medium during communication with the dead.

b. An immaterial or ethereal substance, especially the transparent corporeal presence of a spirit or ghost.

There's something not quite right about the picture of the little girl above my desk. At first, I thought it was the reflection of my camera, but after close examination, the camera is visible inside the frame, on the lower right. Nothing else in the room can explain this kind of reflection on the glass.

My uncle bought this framed vintage photo, circa 1920s, at an antique shop in Florida. The girl is wrapped in transparent toile, has bobbed hair, and is wearing a religious medal.  He sent it to me last Christmas, because he said it reminded him of me, when I was a little girl.  She does look amazingly like me.

I posted this photo, from Tuesday, on Facebook, and one of my friends said the weird glowing green glob looks like ectoplasm, stuff that allegedly oozes from ghosts, and allows them to perform certain feats of telekinesis.  I'm not so sure about all of this.  What do you think?

click to embiggen

(For more about the ghosts at Willow Manor, click on the "ghosts" label below.)

Double Score!

artist proof, to Phyllis, 1978, by J. W. Rice
(click to embiggen)

I scored big at G-Dub (my local Goodwill store) this week. Not only did I find a brand new pair of Bass penny loafers, just like the ones Audrey Hepburn wore, for $4, I stumbled onto a gorgeous engraving or etching print. It's an artist proof, "to Phyllis", and signed by the artist J. W. Rice, '78, for $19. Beautifully framed, too, just how I would like it.

I did some poking around online, but didn't come up with anything much about the artist.  I hope someone out there will eventually help me out.  It's a lovely loose portrait of an older gentleman with longish 70s hair and a rumpled jacket; perfect now in the manor dining room. Anybody recognize him? He was lurking in the Goodwill store in Dublin, Ohio.

this is before I inserted two perfectly mellow 70s pennies

flickr flackr fluckr

I'm adding some of my photos to flickr, a few at a time. 

If you'd like to take a peek, click HERE for my page.

A picture is a secret about a secret, 

the more it tells you, the less you know.

― Diane Arbus

observed celestial recurrences

What's up with Willow these days?  Have you noticed?  She posts a measly poem once a week. That's it. Could it be, after four years of furious daily postings, she ran out of steam?  Well, yes, sort of ... she just ran out of blog steam.  I hear she's been hanging around Facebook a lot, and is busy putting together her second poetry chapbook manuscript. She tells me the time off has been therapeutic, and that she has finally coaxed her bloggy muse off the sofa.  So, stay tuned gentle readers; fresh new posts are on their way.

The daffodils have pushed through the winter soil at Willow Manor early this year, but I hear the manor Christmas tree is still up, gathering dust, while she's heavily into Philip Larkin, among others. She says she will take down the tree for Lent. 

And the empty pages?

Should they ever be filled

Let it be with observed

Celestial recurrences,

The day the flowers come,

And when the birds go.

Philip Larkin, from "Forget What Did"

click to embiggen

I also heard it from the grapevine that Willow is working on updating her image with a new pair of retro Michael Caine glasses. Now all she needs to be way cool, is lose the silly grin, and dangle a cigarette.

snow

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

endless potatoes

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.  

november

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

Ankle Deep

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.






Ankle Deep

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

it's about passion

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

press pots, vices, happiness

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 faraway thing,"

 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; 

a book to read when you're alone - 

just to be with someone you love. 

 Those things make happiness."

  

Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn