B[ur]P: You're Feastin' on Oil, Gulf Coast!

Besides preparing for and hosting a prenuptial feast at our home and making sure that the big day for Daughter and future (now) Son-in-law proceeded "without a hitch" (except for the ultimate one, haha), not much has been going on here lately for me to write about. Well, except for the usual odd thought or two. I couldn't help but wonder about the incredible amount of traffic going to and from Pensacola Beach the past couple of weekends. The normal 40-minute drive to and from home became a much-extended (try twice as long) time for reflection and counting of blessings. What could be enticing these hordes of people to nothing more than a long stretch of sand held together by saltwater on one side and big buildings on the other? After all, aren't there still tar balls floating around after three years?

Pensacola Beach in much happier days (January--when the tourists were not here yet)

Was it just the long, stormy, and very snowy Winter making everyone and her brother ache to fly South and escape the cold and darkness?

Shrimp expertly prepared and arranged by Steven's Market Deli and Catering in Pace

Or was the promise of seldom-seen and tasted seafood delicacies like these succulent shrimp just too much temptation to resist for those unfortunate enough to live inland? Actually, that last bit might be closer to the truth. You see, BP money has been spewing its way all across the Southeast and even farther north, enticing people with "slick" advertising to come and visit the Gulf Coast and forget all about Winter...and tar balls. Oh yes. Those pesky little things.

Walk2Write's Famous Meatballs--not tar balls

Well, for the most part they now exist only in the bellies of certain bacteria that love to feast on oil and in the minds of some attorneys who probably keep them in jars or maybe in mothballs as evidence for future litigation. Because billions of dollars might not be enough to satisfy so many businesses hungry for more tourists and the money that they spend. How many businesses? It's hard to say for sure. According to one law firm (above link), "businesses do not need to be located on the Gulf Coast to file a BP oil spill claim. Any business owner who can show that their operations experienced a revenue decrease in 2010 may qualify for compensation from the settlement fund." Apparently, the fun(ding) may never end, or at least not until BP does.

If only there were more weddings instead of drilling disasters keeping the economy going. I happen to know a couple of weary wedding planners who nevertheless do a great job of mixing things up and noting little ironies--like, how weird is it that the bride and groom's seemingly random pouring of sand for part of the ceremony yielded an image remarkably similar to one of yin and yang? Very. Weird.

'Axe' the Frozen Sea: Bull Run Instead of Blue Angels Show at Pensacola Beach?

Pensacola Beach, sometime in late January 2013

It has been a while since I read Allen Josephs' Ritual and Sacrifice in the Corrida. So long in fact that it almost escaped notice again. Forgive me, book, it has been six years since my last reading. Why did it jump out at me then from my bookshelf, with its unassuming spine, sending shivers down mine? I open to the prologue, and it hits me. "Inspiration and Aspiration." Those words sound familiar somehow. Oh yes, my last post. And now the words that struck my frozen sea six years ago while I sat listening to the author's lecture:

"A book, the axe to chop the frozen sea inside, as Franz Kafka once reputedly remarked, can have a strange and not altogether logical genesis." Well put, Dr. Josephs. Your taurine dream described in such vivid detail in your book's prologue, sunk deep within my subconscious, gave me an idea, fantastic though it may be. Tonight on the local news, there was a brief segment about the Blue Angels. The sequestration deadline, pushed back to March 1, is looming on the horizon, and the locals are restless about it. The Blue Angels' shows that leave millions of dollars in their wake and wow tourists and locals alike may soon be on the chopping block.


Now, I "axe" you: Is that necessary? Well, maybe, from a practical standpoint, since this country simply cannot continue to spend more money than it makes. Some sacrifices need to be made now and then, just to keep things going, right? They aren't always pretty or pleasant, but there they are, keeping us on our toes, trying to outrun the bulls and gals in Congress and stay one step ahead of whatever it is they leave behind them. Is a Bull Run on the beach more doable than the Blue Angels? On second thought, I'd rather have the Blue Angels than a Bull Run on Pensacola Beach. Pamplona can keep those bulls running right where they usually do, and we'll continue to let the Blue Angels fly high. If the bulls and gals in D.C. want to chop something, let them work on cleaning up the stuff they leave behind and keeping their own houses in order. Sacrifice, indeed!

'Three Dimensions and If Possible Four'

We walked on a mountain last Saturday. You don't believe me? I've got proof. Some of it went home with us, stuck in shoe-sole crevices and trapped in trouser creases. That fine quartz sand drawing tourists to Pensacola and other beaches along the Gulf of Mexico has washed down from the Appalachian Mountains over millions of years. Tiny grains, eroded and deposited, not just once but endlessly by wave action and sea-level changes.

We had some tense moments last week...more than what we're used to these days. SAM and I drove back home last Friday afternoon to watch Grandson while his mom and dad went to a church retreat in Destin. The date was clearly marked on my calendar. March 11. Nothing out of the ordinary, right? Wrong. On the surface, everything was smooth, for Grandson's sake. As soon as I turned on the TV to watch the evening news, SAM reminded me. Disturbing images and sounds. Turn it off. Okay, I will, for a while.

You see I'm trying in all my stories to get the feeling of the actual life across--not to just depict life--or criticize it--but to actually make it alive. So that when you have read something by me you actually experience the thing. You can't do this without putting in the bad and the ugly as well as what is beautiful. Because if it is all beautiful you can't believe in it. Things aren't that way. It is only by showing both sides--3 dimensions and if possible 4--that you can write the way I want to. (Ernest Hemingway to Dr. C. E. Hemingway, 1925, Selected Letters)  

While Grandson made sandcastles on the beach, his other Grandpa who lives in Japan tried to get word to his daughter. Phone service was unavailable. Somehow, he managed to get a message to her on Facebook. "I'm all right," he wrote. That's more than I've been able to manage lately. Sometimes the words refuse to come out, and I can't even manage to call or send a simple e-mail message to someone dear to me. Or leave an encouraging comment on a Japanese friend's site. March 11--even before 2011--had already left its mark on me in "three dimensions and if possible four."

And life for a few years was pretty flat until this little guy showed up to hold my hand and make his mark on me--on March 11, in "three dimensions and if possible four." It's beautiful, don't you think? Life. Sometimes I need tangible reminders.

Day-Tripping--Not Lotos-Eating--in Florida: What Will POTUS Think of Pensacola?

I wonder what the President's impression of Pensacola will be after his visit today? He ought to be allowed to take a dip in the Gulf, immerse himself in it, taste its brine, feel its warmth on his skin, and be in awe of its Life-force to know what it really means to the "folks down on the Gulf Coast." Secret Aging Man and I made a point of day-tripping to the beach this past Saturday. We didn't see any tar balls on the sand or in the water, but we did see plenty of other interesting things. Just after I took this pic of SAM entering the water, some people walking by yelled out that there were rays, dozens of them, swimming around him. By the time I got down to the water's edge, the creatures were gone, heading west down the shoreline.

After SAM's immersion, we took a long walk on a deserted stretch of sand toward Fort Pickens. We didn't drive all the way out to the end but parked at the last pavilion before the gate. Our annual pass expired at the end of May, and we aren't sure that we want to renew it. It does save you money in the long run if you visit the place regularly.

By the time we got tired of walking, it was time for lunch, and we decided to splurge on a sandwich at the Pensacola Pier restaurant. I recommend the shrimp PoBoy. The shrimp have a light, tempura-like batter, and they're not exactly shrimpy. I was pleasantly surprised by their size, quantity, and fresh taste. A cold, 99-cent draft beer or two was a good choice to wash it, the sandwich and fries, all down. I was also surprised, though I shouldn't have been, that there were few customers at the restaurant and down on the beach to rent the umbrellas and chairs. SAM and I both thought that the restaurant manager ought to consider sending someone down to the beach to take food and drink orders. Maybe it's not allowed, though. There are lots of rules and regulations in place on the beach to keep things under control. Lifeguards and beach patrol vehicles--see the yellow truck?--do a good job of maintaining order and safety, even when there aren't many people out and about.

We didn't see many fishermen or women on the pier. It was eerie to see it so empty on a beautiful, summer Saturday.

The emerald-green water was calm enough that the surfer dudes found another use for their boards.

This little kayak dude seemed oblivious to the rule about not paddling directly beneath the pier. It could be dangerous to him because of the fishing lines and hooks dangling down and frustrating to the fisher-people trying to catch something. I was one of the people who called down to him to stay clear of the pier. He paddled away with a smile and without a care in the world.

It was a good thing the kayak dude was out of the way when a young man on the pier hooked this beauty. I think it's a kingfish. While he fought it for about 15 minutes, following its movement around the end of the pier, we talked to his mother, who occasionally yelled out encouraging words to him. She said they were from Gulf Shores, Alabama, and couldn't fish there anymore because of the oil slick. We were all rooting for the fisherman, but, alas, the fish broke the line by swimming underneath the pier. It was pretty quiet on the pier after that, and as we walked back to land, I stopped along the way and took this pic looking down into the Gulf waters. The sun was getting high in the sky, the air was getting hot, and I couldn't see what I was focusing on. I think it's a pretty cool shot, though--of what, I don't know.

The Lotos-Eaters

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,

"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."

In the afternoon they came unto a land

In which it seemed always afternoon.

All round the coast the languid air did swoon,

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream...

'Beggar to Beggar Cried': After Thirty Years of Give and Take? MOTS!

'Time to put off the world and go somewhere

And find my health again in the sea air,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

'And make my soul before my pate is bare...'

Thirty years have come and gone, and Secret Aging Man said he's ready to try for another thirty, as long as I am. Okay, but promise me we will always take long walks together. This one happened earlier this week in Gulf Breeze at Shoreline Park South.

'And get a comfortable wife and house

To rid me of the devil in my shoes,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

'And the worse devil that is between my thighs.'

Daughter went along for the walk and spotted this mushroom-and-child before I did. I guess I was too engrossed in the man by my side to notice.

'And though I'd marry with a comely lass,
She need not be too comely--let it pass,'
Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,
'But there's a devil in a looking-glass.'

'Nor should she be too rich, because the rich

Are driven by wealth as beggars by the itch,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

'And cannot have a humorous happy speech.'

Buildings by the score have sprung up along Pensacola Beach in the last several years and continue to do so, as you can see by the presence of that massive crane. More and more high-rise behemoths now obscure whatever view of the Gulf the residents of Gulf Breeze might have had in years past--and maybe even some of that famous Breeze. Their solid, dearly-paid-for presence replaces those shifting sand dunes that once formed a barrier between the Gulf and the Sound. Some people might argue that it's better to rely on the protection of these new barriers along the horizon that are fixed in place, anchored to the bedrock by beams of steel and pillars of concrete. What do you think?

'And there I'll grow respected at my ease,

And hear amid the garden's nightly peace,'

Beggar to beggar cried, being frenzy-struck,

'The wind-blown clamour of the barnacle-geese.'

A poem, this one by W. B. Yeats, shared with you by two beggars. (And I do mean beggars. I put myself at the mercy of the copyright holder by sharing it here on the blog. It's not in the public domain yet so I hope I'm not in trouble here. I do tend to invite it, though. Can we say the poem has been shared for scholarly purposes?) I don't pretend to understand it fully, anymore than I understand how a shifting-sand-dune, give-and-take marriage can last for thirty years in this day and age. All I know is that I want More of the Same.

Oysters to Pearls--Why are Those Sands of Time So Irritating?

The worst of sluggards only ask for a little slumber; they would be indignant if
they were accused of thorough idleness. A little folding of the hands to sleep
is all they crave, and they have a crowd of reasons to show that this indulgence
is a very proper one. Yet by these littles the day ebbs out, and the time for
labour is all gone, and the field is grown over with thorns. It is by little
procrastinations that men ruin their souls. They have no intention to delay for
years--a few months will bring the more convenient season--tomorrow if you will,
they will attend to serious things; but the present hour is so occupied and
altogether unsuitable, that they beg to be excused. Like sands from an
hour-glass, time passes, life is wasted by driblets, and seasons of grace lost
by little slumbers. Oh, to be wise, to catch the flying hour, to use the moments
on the wing! -- Morning and Evening Daily Readings by
Charles H. Spurgeon --

I don't eat oysters, at least not raw ones, but I always find pearls at the beach in Pensacola. When I saw this elasmobranch--a ray of some kind--slowing its pace to a crawl within inches of my feet on the morning of the new moon's appearance, my mind started racing. The old mind took a while to warm up. What was that book I read years ago about a giant manta ray--Manta Diablo--and a pearl? Was it Steinbeck's novella? No. I read that one again. Kino did not battle a ray, though there was some kind of devil dogging his footsteps. Why rack the old brain or follow loose ends online when someone at the library probably knows the answer? Scott O'Dell's The Black Pearl. Yep. That's the one. I'm not too proud to ask. Now if only I could figure out what kind of ray this is!

Bird (Pelican) Droppings, Moon Pie Hoistings, and Other Colorful Views from the Poor Man's Riviera

Pelicans have made a comeback to the Gulf Coast in ways I would never have expected. I knew that since DDT was banned, they have gradually been able to increase in number and grace the skies over Northwest Florida and neighboring states with their presence. Do you think it was to celebrate this victory over decimation that made enthusiastic citizens in Pensacola initiate "dropping" a large sculpture of a pelican on New Year's Eve? I am not sure, but I was hoping to witness and capture the scene myself. Unfortunately, Hubby and I missed the event (he is still recovering from a whopper of a cold), but daughter was able to attend with a friend. She forgot to take her camera, so I have had to rely on another blogger's perspective. Mobile, Alabama, a nearby city on the Gulf Coast, held its own unusual celebration with a Moon Pie drop. You have to hand it to the good people of this region (sometimes known as the Redneck Riviera but what I prefer to call the Poor Man's Riviera). They know how to have a good time in great style.


Though things like pelicans and moon pies are instantly recognizable and maybe worthy of celebration, lumps of "something" on the beach known for its pristine sugar sand are cause for pause. These objects on the shoreline near the Fort Pickens barricade (site closed since Hurricane Ivan) resemble rocks, but closer inspection of smaller, similar pieces revealed a wood-like texture. It might be debris that has finally washed ashore after a long time soaking in the sea. From an ancient shipwreck, perhaps?

The colors of the Gulf change from moment to moment, from silver here...

...to almost aquamarine here on the west side of the Pensacola Beach pier...

...to sapphire blue here on the east side of the pier. I think the change in color comes from a change in perspective. The angle at which light bounces back from the sea's surface to my eye and the lens of the camera makes all the difference. Of course, the two views from the pier were at a much greater angle from the surface than the view at beach level. And the angle of the sun's light hitting the water changes the color even more. I took the picture on the beach about two hours after visiting the pier on Tuesday.

A Psalm of Life

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream!--

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;

But to act, that each tomorrow

Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled dreams, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead!

Act,--act in the living present!

Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

--poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow--

Man O' War, Friend or Foe?

When fellow bloggers remind me that I am living in a virtual paradise (please see comments on my previous post), I consider it my duty to investigate their assumption. Hubby and I visited Pensacola Beach on Sunday and found the red flags flying for good reason. The surf was rough and DANGEROUS! The only people allowed in the water wore wet suits and rode flimsy boards. All other reasonable souls ate lunch, walked, and observed life on land.

These prints in the sand do not belong to us. Hubby and I wore sandals on the beach because we found lots of interesting blue blobs littering the beach. I initially thought they were jellyfish, but Hubby remembered that they are much more dangerous than mere jellyfish. They are PORTUGESE MAN (MEN?) O' WAR! Even busy people like the first Prince Albert of Monaco found them fascinating enough to enlist the help of renowned scientists to study them. The original Prince Albert, as a young man, had the foresight, intelligence, and initiative (and lest we forget, lots of time and money!) to explore the forbidding waters of the Arctic Circle and open an oceanographic institute in Monaco. It is too bad the current Prince Albert of Monaco found chasing skirts more to his liking as a young man than seriously following in his progenitor's footsteps. For some reason, in the last several years, he has suddenly discovered the old man's passion and has jumped on the global warming bandwagon (ship?). It had very nearly left him behind.


I was glad for once that Micah was not with us on the beach because he would have been tempted to pick one up and could have been injured. These creatures, though they appear harmless and quite beautiful, can pose serious threats to curious or careless people. They should definitely not be handled or stepped on. Anaphylaxis can even occur in some people who are hypersensitive to the toxins in their long tentacles, traces of which can linger on objects such as shoes and beach toys. In spite of their dangerous methods of capturing prey, they are not without their own predators. They do provide food for various fish as well as loggerhead sea turtles.




Hubby has been suffering lately with a head cold, and a warm day at the beach helped clear his sinuses and some muddled thoughts in my own head. Just a few hours spent watching the waves and the curiosities they leave behind them can do that for just about anyone who likes to ponder.

The Kraken

Below the thunders of the upper deep,

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides; above him swell

Huge sponges of millenial growth and height;

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous and secret cell

Unnumber'd and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant arms the lumbering green.

There hath he lain for ages, and will lie

Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

Then once by man and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

--a poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson--

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.

Outer Bands and Inner Peace After the Storm

My daughter wants me to go with her tonight to hear a band play at Bamboo Willie's. It's a popular watering hole on the Pensacola Beach boardwalk, on the Sound side, of course. This picture was taken last week when the water was smooth and easy on the eyes. Today, there are coastal flood warnings and small craft advisories posted for the Gulf Coast. I am not sure I want to cross that bridge to the beach tonight, and I might feel a little strange celebrating while the folks in Texas are preparing for the arrival of Ike. We will follow the forecast closely on the news.

I hope there is no loss of life from this storm, although you can be sure there will be loss of something. If nothing else, wildlife habitats, like the Gulf Islands National Seashore, always suffer encroachment by the rising flood waters. It's bad enough they have had to lose by encroaching development in years past. Things like the boardwalk with all of its enticements have replaced those natural barriers to nature's fury, the sand dunes which used to be there.

This picture of an elephant's ear plant, which I hear is a type of Caladium, makes me think of heeding warnings. I hope the people near the water leave quickly. They do not have much time left to evacuate. I probably should have done some research (click here) before I leaped at the chance to add this plant to my garden. Now I know. These plants can spread farther and wider than I would like them to. I may have to keep them in check by building a barrier. I planted them along with the liriope to prevent erosion in this bed on the north side of the house. This gardener never seems to learn from her mistakes.

Maybe some music will put me in a better frame of mind. I love to sit outside and listen to my windchimes. We bought these in a flea market near Cape Coral, Florida. I lost the card that came with them, but I think they are called Corinthian Bells. The company that makes them probably did not want them to resonate like "sounding brass or a clanging cymbal," and they are crafted so well that they can induce a peaceful feeling when the wind gently moves them.

At this moment a patter of footsteps was heard, and looking up they saw the live phonograph standing before them. It seemed to have passed through many adventures since Ojo and his comrades last saw the machine, for the varnish of its wooden case was all marred and dented and scratched in a way that gave it an aged and disreputable appearance.
"Dear me!" exclaimed Ojo, staring hard. "What has happened to you?"
"Nothing much," replied the phonograph in a sad and depressed voice. "I've had enough things thrown at me, since I left you, to stock a department store and furnish half a dozen bargain-counters."
"Are you so broken up that you can't play?" asked Scraps.
"No; I still am able to grind out delicious music. Just now I've a record on tap that is really superb," said the phonograph, growing more cheerful.
"That is too bad," remarked Ojo. "We've no objection to you as a machine, you know; but as a music-maker we hate you."
"Then why was I ever invented?" demanded the machine, in a tone of indignant protest.
They looked at one another inquiringly, but no one could answer such a puzzling question. Finally the Shaggy Man said:
"I'd like to hear the phonograph play."
Ojo sighed. "We've been very happy since we met you, sir," he said.
"I know. But a little misery, at times, makes one appreciate happiness more. Tell me, Phony, what is this record like, which you say you have on tap?"
"It's a popular song, sir. In all civilized lands the common people have gone wild over it."
"Makes civilized folks wild folks, eh? Then it's dangerous."
"Wild with joy, I mean," explained the phonograph. "Listen. This song will prove a rare treat to you, I know. It made the author rich--for an author..."

--from The Patchwork Girl of Oz by L. Frank Baum--


Click here for an interesting perspective on another Gulf city which is bracing itself for a lot of wind which will not be moving gently. I wish the residents peace after the storm.

Fortunes of Poetry on the Water and the Trash Heap

If "it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife," does it not follow that a married man in possession of a wife must be in want of a good fortune? He sure would find it helpful once the responsibilities begin to multiply and the bank balance reveals more evidence of subtraction than addition. Poor men! Well, at least some of them will get extra points for longsuffering. I know mine will.

These young people are more rich than they realize at the moment. I got richer by being able to spend the day with them this past Saturday. Boating and beach time took place on the "sound" side of Pensacola Beach. The water is much calmer there and therefore kid-and-boating-friendly.

While Grandma Martha watched Micah play on the beach, I was the lookout while my daughter-in-law took a wild ride on the tube. For some reason, Alan would not trust any of us women to drive the boat so he could take a turn on the water. I was a little hurt by his decision because I have a lot of experience behind the wheel of a power-boat. He probably remembers the times years ago, living on a lake in Illinois, when I tried to throw his father off balance. It was always done in a spirit of light-hearted fun, honestly!

My daughter-in-law proves that a good woman holds on even when things can get a bit choppy.

On Sunday morning, Sarah and I tackled the thorny problem presented by some Knockout roses. I love these shrubs for their resilience and beauty, but they tend to overstep their boundaries in this Florida climate. The plentiful rain and warmth we have had this summer at home apparently provided ideal growing conditions. I had to be ruthless and trim them severely. I usually perform this task late in the fall or early winter, but I only have a couple of more weeks until I go back to Illinois. I was also concerned that if Hurricane Ike paid us a visit, the shrubs would damage themselves and the screen enclosure by whipping about in the wind.

I know, it looks pitiful now, a veritable piece of destruction, but just give it a few weeks. It will be blooming again and as full as it was by next May, ready for trimming again. Maybe the canna lilies hidden behind its former mass will thank me with an abundance of flowers before I have to leave.

I can understand why Sarah leaves the rose bushes alone, even though she does a great job of maintaining the rest of the yard. Their thorns are fierce enough to penetrate the thickest gloves I have, and she has to be protective of her hands. She makes her living with them as a massage therapist.

We added a lot of stuff to the trash heap, or compost pile, if you prefer. We were rewarded for our hard work by what we found growing there. It was pure poetry.


Though I have grown cypress vine and morning glories before in my Midwest gardens, I have never grown them here in Florida, having found them to be a bit unruly once established. Somehow they managed to find their way to our trash heap, those little blessings on my mess. We usually burn the pile down a bit if it gets too big, but I think I will leave this mess alone for a while, at least until I come home the next time. It is trying so hard to cover up the evidence of my destruction.


"I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my brother Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were."
"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"
"I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love," said Darcy.
"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again...

--All quoted material borrowed from Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice--