Blue-and-Gold Daze

When I look at clouds on a day like today, such a blue-and-gold day, I begin to find shapes in them, faces even. You might not see them, but I notice a man and a woman staring eye-to-eye in this cloud. Their noses seem to be touching, as if they are about to kiss and are having trouble getting around those obstructions. I refer to days like this as blue-and-gold days because in my silly, romantic head I remember days like this one when Hubby and I first met in college. The days were crisp and cool, and the sky always seemed blue.


And I remember touches of gold in that long-ago landscape, like this goldenrod (Solidago) growing at Rend Lake. Today, hubby and I took a lunchtime walk there on the trail we usually visit. If you walk without a camera and walk too quickly, you will miss the change in the guard, the subtle shifts in bloom from the violets of spring to the hibiscus and milkweed (Asclepius) of summer...

to this fine specimen of what looks like blue lobelia. I found a picture resembling it in a book I bought at the Crab Orchard Wildlife Refuge Visitors' Center. Don Kurz, the author of the book, Illinois Wildflowers, writes that the "Mesquakies (tribe of Native Americans) finely chopped the roots and mixed them into food of a quarrelsome couple without their knowledge. This, they believed, would avert divorce and make the pair love each other again." Fortunately, Hubby and I are getting along pretty well these days, so I hope no one sneaks any lobelia into my dinner, at least not in the foreseeable future. I do enjoy looking at them, though.


One thing I do not like to see is a locked bathroom. There are not too many still open around Rend Lake this time of year. I could not help but think of Katarina's post about her dry privy and laugh. Oh, to be dry!

By the time we had walked about two miles from the parking area--after consuming lunch and tall glasses of water--to the beach, locked bathrooms were no laughing matter, at least not for me. We had to walk those same two miles back to the car.

Looking at that big expanse of water was not helpful either. I believe that a person can achieve a certain mind-over-matter control of certain situations like locked bathrooms. Sometimes, you have no other choice.


No, I am not considering what you might be thinking. Hubby and I are getting along just fine right now, thank you very much.



After taking this video of some action on wild asters and becoming entranced by the dance of the bees, I did feel a bit woozy. You might call it a blue-and-gold daze.

...White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,--
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously,--
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire,--
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee,--
Like a royal virgin town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down...

--from Christine Rossetti's poem "Goblin Market," 1859--

High Marks for Progress--Lessons for Me on a Tutorial Tuesday

To show you that I have a softer, gentler side, I present these Celosia flowers blooming with abandon in my mother's yard. I drove a few miles down the road this past weekend to visit her in Southeast Missouri, while Hubby finished up his 80-plus-hour week at the rig in Southern Illinois.


I hope that these pictures of Celosia can soften what now appears to me as a rather harsh comment left on TC's site, The Write Gardener. Maybe I should avoid visiting other blogs on Mondays. Those days invariably bring out the worst in me for some reason. It must be from the effects of the moon that gave its name to Monday.



My mom's hybrid tea roses are just about finished blooming for the year, but I found a single rosebud holding itself proudly above the rather tired looking leaves of the shrub. It's fresh and lovely.



Now here is a full-blown rose showing evidence of its encounter with some kind of marauder. Whoever he was, he must have felt sorry for the old gal and left her in peace for the rest of her show. She will live for a while longer on my blog.


I took my mom to lunch in Cape Girardeau at this historic eatery, Port Cape Girardeau. I wonder if the Coca-Cola being advertised so boldly on the side of the building contained at one time a secret ingredient to combat fatigue. Amazing, isn't it, how prices have changed?





After lunch, we took a stroll on the street-side of the Mississippi River floodwall. The wall has become a showpiece for the city, inviting visitors to take a step back in time.



Looking back up the hill from the floodwall, I could see the Common Pleas Courthouse, still in use today as a site for the administration of justice. It was built in 1854 and has witnessed a lot of pleas since that time.




Turning back to the floodwall and going back a bit farther in time, this panel on the wall captured my attention. Perhaps justice was more blind than usual in this instance.




At the edge of the wall, the river-level gauge bears witness to progress. Skeeter had an interesting remark about progress in her comment on my last post: Arrrgh! The river's dimensions, course, and boundaries have been fiddled with for years by a certain government entity known as the Army Corps of Engineers. They have made a valiant effort to spur economic progress to the area with barge traffic. Unfortunately, nature has a way of foiling the efforts of even the most dedicated public servants.



Cape Girardeau proudly proclaims its heritage and progressive attitude to any passersby who happen to be traveling on the river. It is a beautiful city with friendly people and a thriving healthcare industry, a virtual medical mecca for folks coming from hundreds of miles away.



This piece of progress came just in the nick of time for millions of travelers like me who cross the river from Illinois to Missouri. The old bridge was a crumbling bit of high anxiety that I dreaded every time I drove to Missouri to visit my parents. The kids in the back seat learned to pipe down whenever mom gripped the steering wheel in anticipation of the crossing. Two narrow lanes (one each way!), somehow, for many years accommodated heavy traffic which included semi-trucks. Horror stories about near misses occurring with great frequency kept this driver on her toes.



Crossing the bridge now seems like a cake-walk compared to the old days of white-knuckled driving. I felt confident enough to snap a picture (while driving!) of my approach to the bridge while heading back to the Land of Lincoln on Sunday afternoon. Kids, please don't attempt this stunt. Only (idiot) drivers with plenty of experience crossing dangerous, old bridges are qualified to perform this feat.



On the road home, when no other cars were in sight, I snapped another picture of the floodwaters which have almost completely disappeared from the floodplain on the Illinois side of the river. The wetlands tried to make a comeback this year and almost succeeded.

"The Earth Hath Bubbles"

Banquo: The earth hath bubbles, as the water has,

And these are of them. Whither are they vanished?

Macbeth: Into the air; and what seemed corporal melted,

As breath into the wind. Would they had stayed!

--from William Shakespeare's Macbeth, Act I, Scene 3--

I am back with Hubby in the Land of Lincoln, though I only get to see him for brief intervals now that the season of drilling for oil is in full swing here. He took these short videos for me. I try to avoid visiting the rig as much as possible since women are seldom seen on a drilling platform and could tend to be disruptive to the roughnecks. You can find another name I have chosen for them in an earlier post that discusses colorful oil field terms. I accidentally switched the order of the videos so please click on the second one first.

Most geologists subscribe to the theory that oil is a limited resource that originates from rotten plant and animal matter buried eons ago deep in the earth and subjected to great pressure underground. There are other theories out there, however, which challenge the notion that oil reserves are finite. It would be nice to find out those theories are true and not just the product of someone's imagination.

Waves, Goodbye! Let Me Wait in the Tidal Pool

When I Consider How My Light is Spent

When I consider how my light is spent,

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide;

"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"

I fondly ask; but Patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait."

--from John Milton's Sonnets, 1652?--

For some reason, I have always loved tidal pools. They represent a rest from the onslaught of time, but they are only a temporary respite, a place to catch one's breath. They are in-between areas. Most of my life has occurred in the in-between or interstitial places. I am always moving, sometimes by choice and sometimes not, but when the movement halts for a while I wait. I wait in traffic, on the phone while on hold, in the airport, on the plane, on the transport van, in the apartment. This jellyfish I found on Pensacola Beach Friday, my last day in Florida, would probably rather be moving freely about in the sea, doing its work of capturing prey and devouring it. The high tide has brought it ashore and deposited it in this pool. It waits until either the next tide takes it back to the sea or until the pool sinks into the sand and the sun and wind begin their dessicating work upon it.


This little man waits for no one. Before Sarah and I headed to the beach for my last look at the sea for a few months, we stopped by for a visit with Micah and his Grandma Martha. She takes care of him at his parents' home while they work.

He refused to ride in the stroller and insisted on stopping every so often to pick some wildflowers.

He and his dad's old dog Rocky led the way the whole time we were walking. Rocky suffers from arthritis in his golden years, but once he gets moving, he seems to be transformed to a pup again. I guess he takes his cue from his young master. I have noticed that some of my fellow bloggers are talking about the change of seasons, autumn, and dying, though not necessarily dying in the literal sense. This new season we are in, autumn, is another interstitial place, and I think that is why I like it so much. It is a time to rest, gather strength, and ponder the next growing season.

Another on the Same

Here lieth one who did most truly prove

That he could never die while he could move,

So hung his destiny never to rot

While he might still jog on and keep his trot,

Made of sphere-metal, never to decay

Until his revolution was at stay.

Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime

'Gainst old truth) motion numbered out his time,

And like an engine moved with wheel and weight,

His principles being ceased, he ended straight.

Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,

And too much breathing put him out of breath.

Nor were it contradiction to affirm

Too long vacation hastened on his term.

Merely to drive the time away he sickened,

Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened.

"Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretched,

"If I may not carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetched,

But vow," though the cross doctors all stood hearers,

"For one carrier put down to make six bearers."

Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right

He died for heaviness that his cart went light.

His leisure told him that his time was come,

And lack of load made his life burdensome,

That even to his last breath (there be that say't)

As he were pressed to death, he cried, "More weight!"

But had his doings lasted as they were

He had been an immortal carrier.

Obedient to the moon, he spent his date

In course reciprocal, and had his fate

Linked to the mutual flowing of the seas,

Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase.

His letters are delivered all and gone,

Only remains this superscription.

--John Milton, 1631--

I like the fact that John Milton seems intrigued and maybe just a bit disturbed by the contradictions imposed by time with its incessant shifts between movement and then stillness, work and then idleness. It should not be surprising that he felt that way. He spent most of his life on a rather large island, surrounded by the sea.

Love Bugs--Hermione's Revenge?

I love to see this Loropetalum shrub which I have trained into a tree. It blooms practically all year just beyond our front porch here in Florida, where the weather is still rather warm right now and the love bugs are swarming...again.





[Aside] Too hot, too hot!


To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods.


I have tremor cordis on me: my heart dances;


But not for joy; not joy. This entertainment


May a free face put on, derive a liberty


From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom,


And well become the agent; 't may, I grant;


But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers,


As now they are, and making practised smiles,


As in a looking-glass, and then to sigh, as 'twere


The mort o' the deer; O, that is entertainment...

--from William Shakespeare's Winter's Tale--

Rose in Illinois recently asked me what a love bug is. Can words adequately describe this free-loving menace to southern living? I have found a few words here and there that just might satisfy your curiosity about the critters. They are seldom seen alone, and you almost feel sorry for the poor males. I said almost. Washing windows is not recommended during love bug season, but I had no choice if I wanted to get this autumn chore done before leaving Florida this weekend. If I get home for Christmas, I would like to see the sun shining brightly through my windows and the Loropetalum blooming just beyond them.

Mea Culpa--My Bad?

Mea culpa. The Lily Briscoe in me wants to know: What does it mean? I will be doing my part to add to global warming in a few days when I board a plane which will take me away from Florida and back to my beloved in Illinois, the Land of Lincoln. I will leave a part of me here (besides what's now working its way through the septic system) like a time capsule waiting to be opened at the appropriate time.

Our daughter has many admirable qualities, not the least of which is her empathy for the unloved ones or misfits she meets in this world. She is now 26 years old and has maintained contact with one such boy she has known since high school in Kentucky. His name is Michael. Consider, for a moment the meaning of that name. He has a long, social-services history of being passed from one relative to "friend of the family" and from "friend" to state mental facility in the hopes that he might someday find a purpose in life and be able to make himself useful to society. His profound speech impediment makes it difficult to understand what he says. It is unlikely that he will ever find gainful employment or live a "normal" life as most of us would understand that term. Sarah has a connection with Michael--they met in a high school art class--and she is probably the only true friend he has left in this world. Not too many people would give him the time of day, let alone care what happens to him, given the kind of "life" he has lived and the things he has done--or not done, like earn a living, marry, or raise a family. She just found out last week that the home of the family he was living with burned down under mysterious circumstances. The lady who took him in was the niece of a man he lived with for several years, whose house also burned down. Michael's life reveals a puzzling pattern which will probably never be solved, no matter how many social workers or psychologists get involved in trying to solve it. Why? He does not communicate very well, and even if he did, his tale would surely implicate the social service system as an accessory to the many, varied abuses he has endured for most of his life.

Sarah is approaching a major crossroads in her life right now. She loves being a massage therapist, but, the economy being what it is right now, her business has slowed to a snail's pace. I convinced her to take a couple of classes this semester, one of them an introductory social work class. I thought that career would fit her personality like a glove. Now, I am not so sure. How would someone so empathetic manage to negotiate and survive the bureaucractic, money-hungry nightmare which has consumed so many misguided social agencies? They were once created to feed, house, and protect the hungry, homeless, and abused souls among us. What has happened to them? I have always taught her to respect and love the unlovable. Now I wonder if I have done the right thing, encouraging the sensitive, gentle aspects of her personality to overrun its natural instinct for self-preservation. How will she take care of herself if something happens to us?

She will probably not approve of my using this video or talking so candidly about her. I could pretend nothing is wrong, smile, talk of inane subjects, and leave calmly in a few days. After all, that is the usual course my life has followed for the last, almost five decades. Yeah, you could say the idea of mea culpa has been working its magic on me lately. My bad?