a bit more poetry

Much of the poetry I've been writing is raw, emotional, and not really fit for public consumption. The class focuses on the telling of personal stories through poetry. There are two I think I can share here. Both were written during the course of the class and have been whittled and reworked and thought half to death. This one turned out lovely, I think, and brings back sweet, precious memories.


wisdom

he told me once he couldn't claim to know
the meaning of life but he thought it involves
finding someone who makes happiness real

he told me once he had little idea
if there truly is a God, but he thought
the best evidence is in my dark eyes

he told me once I should live for today
concentrate on being in this moment
because nothing lasts, time erases memory

*******************************************************************

The memory this poem is based upon is an old one. Even so, the finished poem seems immediate to me, as well as just a bit ugly, just a bit violent.


Seeking Control

She never could stand secrets
tried to strip them from my mind
with tricks, bribes, pointed questions,
searching for answers I wouldn't spill

She crept into my room
dumped my purse on the bed
violated my privacy
as easily as she smiled

writing poetry

I began a poetry class this week. Like everyone else, I wrote the requisite haiku and rhyming verse in school, but I've never made a serious attempt at writing my own poetry. I've been reading lovely books by people like Lucille Clifton, Robert Bly, Ted Kooser, Dorianne Laux, and Marie Howe. Our first assignment was to write a piece about the way that poetry came into our lives. The first poem I remember really affecting me in an emotional way is a short piece, long since committed to memory.

The Amulet

Your picture smiles as first it smiled,
The ring you gave is still the same,
Your letter tells, O changing child,
No tidings since it came.

Give me an amulet
That keeps intelligence with you
Red when you love, and rosier red,
And when you love not,
Pale and blue.

Alas, that neither bonds nor vows
Can certify possession;
Torments me still the fear that love
Died in its last expression.

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I thought about the day I first read this poem and how I came to own the book of Emerson's poetry. It is odd what comes back to you holding an old book in your hands.



"The Early Poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson", Copyright 1900

Mother filled my late childhood
With auctions and farm sales.
She drove miles and spent long hours
Eating cheap barbeque sandwiches
While bidding a few dollars on boxes
Packed with someone else's life.

One hot June day under a Redbud,
She picked among the tables and the piles.
I dragged along bored behind her
Until I saw a box of books near the house.
They smelled of leather and age,
My idea of heaven.

In the corner, covered in brick red linen,
I saw a volume not much larger than my hand.
I was seventeen, immersed in unrequited love.
I opened the linen cover, looked on yellowed pages,
and as I read "The Amulet",
Poetry spoke to me.

Home Sweet Nowata

I spent the better part of an hour talking to an old hometown friend on the phone this morning. While our conversation touched on home only peripherally, it started me thinking about my recent near-obsession with all things Nowata. I’ve had lunch recently with a couple of schoolmates, ornery boys who’ve turned into wonderful men. I’ve been thinking of Nowata often in the past few months. Perhaps it’s the upcoming all-school reunion and all of those pictures I’ve been uploading from old yearbooks and from inside an old metal box I’ve had since middle school. Maybe it's following what's going on with the children of old friends who live around Nowata, seeing pictures of them going to spring dances, FFA events, showing animals in the spring livestock show, or playing baseball in the frigid Oklahoma spring. Perhaps it’s the contact with so many old friends from home since I joined Facebook last summer to keep up with my lovely daughter as she attends college. I could blame it on Joan-Marie and her lovely descriptions of life in small-town Oklahoma. But honestly, I think I am simply homesick.

Just look at the countryside. Why wouldn't I be homesick for lovely Green Country? There is nothing prettier to my eyes than a pond in a cow pasture when the grass and the trees are lovely and green. Part of what draws me is knowing that underneath that beautiful grass and on the edges of that pond, the dirt is a lovely, rich, dark color. Not red. Dirt, my friends, should not be red.

Lovely old buildings in Nowata are more than just lovely old buildings to me. So many memories float into my consciousness from looking at this picture of the courthouse. My great-grandmother lived down that street to the north when I was in elementary school, right next to Sheila Stinnett, my life-long friend and distant relative. There was an organ in Grandma Bonnie's formal living room that she played by ear and a cellar that I spent many an hour in during the spring, staring at a bare bulb, jars of home-canned fruits, vegetables, pickles and preserves, and listening to an old transistor radio for the all-clear. I obtained my first marriage license in the courthouse after Anita Folk drew my blood out at the hospital, the only woman I've ever known who could do so without bruising or hurting me. Mrs. Folk also happened to be the make-up artist from the dance recitals of my youth and the mother of my old classmate, Dee Ann. Free association leads me to thoughts of Miss Vicki, dance classes in the basements of the Savoy, and Noweta Lodge, a summer writing course with Joyce Hifler in one of the high school annex buildings, and my 1974 red-and-white Chevy pick-up, the one with a 454, chrome running boards, dual wheels, and a chrome cow catcher on the front. I wish I had a photo of that truck. All that from a picture of the county courthouse.

There's nothing prettier than Nowata County in spring. Other seasons have their pleasures, but for me, spring has always been Nowata's best season. Warm days, cool nights, vegetation turning green, the gallardia, butterfly peas, and coneflowers blooming in pastures and alongside the roads, and the daffodils, forsythia, and lilacs blooming in the well-manicured town lawns. Nothing prettier.

I've been thinking about taking a drive north, an hour past Tulsa up Highway 169. There are people I'd love to see, but the main draw this time of year, for me, is the natural beauty of the place where I spent my childhood. There is just something about that little town that's always gotten under my skin. I said to a friend recently that you can't really ever go home again. And I suppose in some ways that's true. But if I ever loved a place and thought of it my whole life through as home, it's a little town called Nowata. It is, simply, home.

*Pictures are all Google images. Really. I just searched Google Images for "Nowata County". Try it. There are pictures of the bowling ball art, the motel signs, Ironman sports, and Main Street. It's kind of awesome.

Good Luck for the New Year, Southern Style

As we approach the end of the year and the end of the holiday season, I always reach for one certain pantry staple.

If you grew up in the South or your family has Southern roots, you probably know that black eyed peas are considered lucky in this region of the country. People serve them on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day in many different ways. My mother used to make black eyed peas with ham and serve them with cornbread. My Southern grandmother served Hoppin' John with hush puppies.

According to my family, black eyed peas should be the first thing you eat as the year changes and we leave behind the old to take up the new, which is the reason I always serve them New Year's Eve. I have made my mother's recipe and my grandmother's recipe. My children would never eat them, not even a bite. Come to think of it, I didn't eat them readily as a child, either. I experimented to find a way to prepare black eyed peas that my children might enjoy. For the last five or six years, this recipe has been a staple of our New Year's Eve celebration:

Black Eyed Pea Salsa

olive oil

1 cup chopped onion

1/2 cup chopped ham

2 cloves garlic, minced

1/4 teaspoon ground cumin

1/4 teaspoon pepper

1 15 ounce can black-eyed peas, drained

1 14 1/2 ounce can diced tomatoes, undrained

1/3 cup minced fresh cilantro

1 tablespoon seeded, finely chopped jalapeno pepper

Heat olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add onion, ham, and garlic. Saute until onions are tender, about five minutes. Stir in cumin and next three ingredients; bring to a boil. Remove from heat and stir in cilantro and jalapeno. Spoon salsa into a bowl; cover and chill one to eight hours.

Serve at room temperature with pork or chicken or as a dip with crusty French bread or tortilla chips. Yields about 3 1/2 cups.

Those of you who have recently indulged yourselves (you know who you are) will be happy to know this is a healthy, filling treat. Plus it's tasty and lucky to boot.

Happy New Year to you and yours!

already longing for spring

The last roses of the season bloom in the autumn air. The dogs run in the back yard, barking their little fool heads off at a squirrel, a bird, the neighbors' dogs, or perhaps a passing pedestrian. The mornings are cool, the afternoons warm, and the nights clear and cold.

Autumn always incites a bit of longing in me. While I enjoy the cooler weather, the shortened days do not agree with me, the bleak winter looms, and my beautiful vegetation begins to succumb to the cool of the night. Already, I've lost my clematis, the lantana, the candymint, and the prairie daisies. The cool crept up quietly, gradually and nearly unnoticed, and I think my gardenia bloomed its last this summer.

From November to February, I live for the spring. Christmas hasn't held much excitement for me since the days of my youth. As an adult, the holidays are too often spoiled by the rushing, the tension, and the hassle. As I woke this morning, I heard birdsong in the back yard through the window above the bed. In the dawning morning, the sound of the bird singing sweetly filled my head with visions of greening grass and blooming flowers. Only upon full awakening did I remember the date.

But the promise of the coming spring, so near and yet still distant, will sustain me through the dark months, keep me hoping and longing for the new life that will surely greet me there. I'll pass the winter reading, planning, and yearning for the moment the crocus peeks through the cold January ground, a harbinger of the delicious spring joy only weeks away.

I'd never make it in Minnesota.

pumpkins, cats, bats and ghosties

This is not a food blog, and yet...another recipe.

Perfect Sugar Cookies

a la Martha Stewart

Ingredients

2 cups all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup sugar
1 large egg, lightly beaten
2 tablespoons brandy, or milk
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

Directions

Whisk together flour, salt, and baking powder in a medium bowl. In the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with the paddle attachment, cream butter and sugar; add dry ingredients, and mix until incorporated. With mixer running, add egg, brandy (use the brandy, people, don't wimp out and use the milk), and vanilla; mix until incorporated.

Transfer dough to a work surface. Shape into 2 discs, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate for at least 1 hour.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line baking sheets with nonstick baking mats or parchment paper; set aside.

On a lightly floured work surface, roll out dough to 1/8-inch thickness. Cut into desired shapes, and transfer to prepared baking sheets, leaving an inch in between. Leftover dough can be rolled and cut once more. Bake until lightly golden, about 10 minutes; do not allow to brown. Transfer to wire racks to cool.

Makes 2 dozen.

White Chocolate Ganache Glaze

a la Kim

2/3 cup cream

1 tablespoon Karo syrup

6 ounces white chocolate

powdered sugar, for thickening

Coarsely chop white chocolate, place in a small bowl and set aside. Combine cream (don't wimp out; this is not the time to watch your diet) and Karo syrup in a small pan. Heat over low heat until steaming. Pour over chocolate and let sit until melted. Stir to combine. Let cool. If the glaze is still a bit thin, add powdered sugar one heaping tablespoon at a time until you reach the desired consistency. I think I used about four tablespoons. I colored the glaze orange with yellow and red gel food coloring, the kind used for cake decorating.

Makes more than you'll need.

Assembly

To ice the cookies, place a wire rack on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper or silpat. Place cookies on rack. Spoon ganache over the cookies, allowing excess to drain onto cookie sheet. Let the cookies sit until the glaze is firm, dry and no longer sticky.

The glaze is much easier to use than traditional icing. I got the idea to use glaze on the cookies from the Magpie's lovely black forest cupcakes. I adapted the chocolate ganache recipe for white chocolate. The boys loved these. The husband, not so much, but he's not big on sweets. I adore them. Hence the blog post. Make them. They're worth it.

Happy Halloween!

Bob Dylan at the Brady

Set List:


Gonna Change My Way of Thinking
The Man in Me
Beyond Here Lies Nothin'
The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum
This Dream of You
Cold Irons Bound
Po' Boy
Honest With Me
I Feel A Change Comin' On
Highway 61 Revisted
Workingman Blues #2
Thunder on the Mountain
Ballad of a Thin Man



Encore:


Like a Rolling Stone
Jolene
All Along the Watchtower

A view of the "Old Lady on Brady" from Brady Street.

A view of the west side box office entrance from the car.

The marquee.

A single production bus on the west side, stage left. We watched the caterers load their vehicle here as we left after the concert.

Production buses on the east, about 5pm. By 7pm when the theater doors opened, they were gone.

We arrived early, parked the car in the Brady's small lot and walked to The Mexicali Border Cafe for a quick dinner before the concert. After eating, we walked the half block back to the Brady. The crowd had arrived, forming lines at both the east and west doors. To say the crowd was an eclectic mix of people is an understatement. The youngest fan, aged about eight, seemed just as excited as the oldest fan in the crowd. We saw another mother-daughter there. Just in front of us, a pair of sisters, we thought, and to our left a charming older couple who were seeing Dylan for a second time. We saw a tattooed, pierced, flamboyant couple aged around 25 in the center section enjoying the show just as much as the old-timers who were a little slow getting to their feet when the up-tempo tunes began. One young man with a head of curly hair and a pretty face clearly had his eye on our lovely daughter, though her mother's presence probably inhibited his approach.

The Brady Theater is a 1914 Western Classic Revival building with a spot on the National Register of Historic Places since 1979. It seats about 2,800 in an auditorium and balcony. The acoustics are magnificent, and there isn't a bad seat in the house. Our lovely daughter purchased tickets before sale to the general public began and our seats were quite good, one section from middle toward stage right about eight rows back and right on the aisle, just as the floor starts to rise. Whether we were standing or sitting, we had a great view of Dylan all evening.

We entered as soon as the doors opened, bought souvenirs (a sweatshirt, a t-shirt, a poster, and a keychain), and found our seats. For about 45 minutes, we watched the crowd and waited. As the auditorium filled, taped music played in the background. The stage was set and lit an ethereal blue. Right on time, the house lights went down, the stage lights darkened, and the announcer said, "...the poet laureate of rock-n-roll, the legendary Bob Dylan". As the music started, we stood, we clapped, and we yelled. The atmosphere was electric.

Dylan began strong, enthusiastic and energetic. During the set, the bulk of the audience stood, only sitting for perhaps two songs early on. Stage left on keyboards, he sang as only Dylan can, and if you weren't familiar with his lyrics, it might have been tough to identify the song. Every piece was restyled, almost unrecognizable, yet still somehow familiar. It is a testament to the man as a musician and a writer that regardless of the arrangement, the songs still impress.

The stage lights were cut between each song; the pauses were long enough to shift positions and instruments without time for anything else. Music rose, fell, and rose again in a satisfying, regular rhythm. Five musicians took the stage with Dylan, two on guitar, one on bass, one on percussion, and one on keyboards. Enough instruments for ten musicians graced the stage. Dylan sang, played keyboards and an electric harmonica (or perhaps just a miked harmonica) but never touched a guitar. The band was simply fantastic. And oh, did Dylan sing. Up front with just the harmonica and his famous throaty, scratchy voice, Dylan bobbed his head in that familiar way, smiled, danced and distinctly fed on the energy of the audience. I've often heard him described as a musician, not a performer, but I'd have to disagree. The man entranced the full-house audience without ever saying a word. When the lights when down after a spectacular Ballad of the Thin Man, I could have gone home happy.

The audience whooped, hollered, clapped and stomped to an empty, dark stage for a good five minutes. Grown men could be heard yelling "Bobby!" Someone beat the arm of a chair or a wooden column, producing a hollow, regular thump. When the band re-took the stage, the applause was deafening. Dylan introduced his band, thanked his friends in the audience, and tore into a completely unfamiliar, absolutely fabulous rendition of Like a Rolling Stone, moving seamlessly into Jolene, then racing into a fantastic All Along the Watchtower surely influenced by the Jimi Hendrix cover. The lights went down briefly, and when they came back up, Dylan stood center stage, all in black, flanked by his band in taupe suits and black shirts. After a moment, the house lights came up and the crowd went wild. Including our lovely daughter and me.

Picture notes: All of the shots here are by me except for the poster, which was lifted from the Brady Theater website. We have a shot of Dylan on stage, but it is in our lovely daughter's camera which remains, at this time, in Tulsa. Will share it later if it is any good. Cameras were not allowed inside the theater. Somehow, our little one made it inside concealed in a high-heeled cowboy boot. I'm not saying whose.