A to Z Blogging Challenge: Y is for Yclept Yeager, Dr. Robert

Geoffrey Chaucer, 1343-1400

Y is for Yclept Yeager, Dr. Robert

I like to give credit where credit is due.

That the credit is late doesn't (shouldn't?) matter to you.

You taught me from texts with English archaic

My papers, at first, you considered prosaic 

The poets you said you admired were dead,

But you brought them to life with a nod of your head

The books that you held in the palm of your hand

Transported the class to Ye Olde England

It was magic you did, to this day I will claim

"Chaucer, Shakespeare, Sidney"--You invoked them by name

And the words that they wrote were revealed to me

As though they were living and fluid and free

No longer confined to the books that were bound

Their words that you spoke from your lips became sound

And the poetry written all those centuries ago

Could reverberate now in tones high and tones low

It was quite like a dance or a symphony or play

And the students were part of the show every day

We were not just your audience to admire your teaching

But expected to act and with our own words be reaching

The high expectations you set then before us--

They were never forgotten, though they now need a chorus

Of voices reminding to make those words written

Daily on keyboard and not intermittent

If now I complain there's too much on my saucer

I know you would say remember Geoffrey Chaucer:

The Knight "bigan with right a merye cheere

His tale anoon [meant now, not soon!], and saide as ye may heere..."  

Please visit A to Z Blogging Challenge for links to more "Y's" posted by Challenge hosts and other writers.

Gleanings from a Blueberry Harvest

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend,

A something to have sent you,

Tho' it should serve nae ither end

Than just a kind memento:

But how the subject-theme may gang,

Let time and chance determine:

Perhaps it may turn out a sang;

Perhaps, turn out a sermon...

(from Letter to a Young Friend by Robert Burns, 1759-1796)

More moons ago than I care to count, my dad and I hiked into a German pine forest and emerged hours later with pails of wild blueberries. It was a ritual repeated each summer that we lived overseas and one that continued in a similar vein years later with my own children, though the later harvests came from a commercial operation rather than gleaned from the woods. The time we--my dad and I--spent picking the wild berries was interspersed with tales of hardship and bounty, sorrow and joy. I learned on those woodland walks to make cooing sounds like a dove with my cupped hands, to whistle with my thumb and forefinger as loudly as any boy could, and to cherish a father's childhood stories rarely shared outside of those special times.

...Ye'll try the world fu' soon, my lad;

And, Andrew dear, believe me,

Ye'll find mankind an unco squad,

And muckle they may grieve ye:

For care and trouble set your thought,

Ev'n when your end's attained:

And a' your views may come to nought,

Where every nerve is strained...

Our few bushes at home haven't yet reached the age where we can harvest pails full, so Secret Aging Man and I went a couple of Saturdays ago to Lundy Blueberry Patch north of Milton, Florida. It's one of those commercial operations, but the people who own and run it are generous to a fault with their berries and free advice. Dr. Lundy is a Master Gardener, no less, and encourages the pickers to try as many berries out of hand as they want from the various varieties he cultivates. How else is one to know which of them is the sweetest and most flavorful? We tried Tifblue, Brightwell, and Powderblue. SAM thought the Brightwell was best, while I gorged myself on and picked mostly Powderblue.

 I'll no say, men are villains a':

The real, harden'd wicked,

Wha hae nae check but human law,

Are to a few restricked;

But, och! mankind are unco weak

An' little to be trusted;

If Self the wavering balance shake,

It's rarely right adjusted!

Yet they what fa' in Fortune's strife,

Their fate we should na censure;

For still, th' important end of life

They equally may answer:

A man may hae an honest heart,

Tho' poortith hourly stare him;

A man may tak a neebor's part,

Yet hae nae cash to spare him.

Ay free, aff han', your story tell,

When wi' a bosom cronie;

But still keep something to yoursel

Ye scarcely tell to onie:

Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can

Frae critical dissection:

But keek thro' every other man

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection.

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love,

Luxuriantly indulge it;

But never tempt th' illicit rove,

Tho' naething should divulge it:

I waive the quantum o' the sin,

The hazard of concealing;

But, och! it hardens a' within,

And petrifies the feeling!

To catch Dame Fortune's golden smile,

Assiduous wait upon her;

And gather gear by every wile

That's justify'd by honour:

Not for to hide it in a hedge,

Nor for a train-attendant;

But for the glorious privilege

Of being independent...

The bushes at Lundy's farm are well-tended and drip-irrigated when necessary. As this University of Florida article suggests, blueberries are fairly easy to grow and maintain if a few simple guidelines are followed. After waiting for so long to grow my own blueberries--two major hurricane years in 2004 and 2005, wedding planning for Son in 2006, finishing English degree in 2007, moving to Illinois in 2008 and then back again the same year--I was eager to jump right in and get my feet wet. Being a little wet behind the gardening ears, though, I should have done some research when we planted the bushes early last spring. Then I might have picked off the blossoms last year and this spring to let the plants develop vegetatively and to encourage a strong root system. I also would not have planted several of them close to the pool discharge pipe because I would have read that they are sensitive to chlorine. At least I chose a few different varieties--though what their names are, I have no idea--from the farm in Alabama where we dug the suckers that we planted. I have learned something over the years: blueberry pollination is more successful if the pollinators have a choice of bushes to visit.

...The fear o' Hell's a hangman's whip

To haud the wretch in order;

But where ye feel your honour grip,

Let that ay be your border:

Its slightest touches, instant pause--

Debar a' side-pretences;

And resolutely keep its laws,

Uncaring consequences.

The great Creator to revere

Must sure become the creature;

But still the preaching can't forbear

And ev'n the rigid feature:

Yet ne'er with wits profane to range

Be complaisance extended;

An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange

For Deity offended!

When ranting round in Pleasure's ring,

Religion may be blinded;

Or if she gie a random sting,

It may be little minded;

But when on Life we're tempest-driv'n--

A conscience but a canker--

A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n

Is sure a noble anchor!... 

It seems that even universities not involved in promoting horticulture are jumping on the gardening bandwagon these days. The latest alumni mag from my alma mater proves that it is no exception. And why not? Gardening offers a rich source of marketing metaphors. Who wouldn't want to "grow success"? It can be a slow, arduous, painful, humbling experience, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Thank you, Dad, for all of those blueberry-picking-time "letters" you wrote.

Adieu, dear, amiable youth!

Your heart can ne'er be wanting!

May prudence, fortitude, and truth,

Erect your brow undaunting!

In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed,"

Still daily to grow wiser;

And may ye better reck the rede,

Than ever did th' adviser!

Pied Piping through Arcadia Mill, 'A Pleasanter Spot You Never Spied'

Flora and fauna like azaleas and bees easily win favor with me at this time of year in Florida. They both seem to understand their places in a delicate dance of beauty and utility.


Last week, the Secret Aging Man, Daughter, and I took some time out from our busy (or not, as the case may be) schedules to visit a fabulous tribute to Florida's history located quite near our home. The name of the place stops you in your tracks. Arcadia Mill. It evokes images of Pan cavorting about the rivers and forests, having a fine old time chasing nymphs and exploring nature. That is, until he meets up with a woodcutter, intent on having his own way with the trees and rivers.

The University of West Florida, Division of Anthropology and Archaeology, has done a fine job of coordinating the preservation of Florida's first industrial complex. You can tell that a lot of thoughtful interpretation and hard work have gone into building this place, for which "no maps, drawings, or photographs that would provide clues about the site layout or methods of operation are known to exist." The preserved site exists as a bridge--tenuous at best in this land of hurricanes and shrinking budgets--to span that fluid river which connects the past and the present.

Swaying bridges will keep generations of visitors like us intent on maintaining their balance. I can't wait until Micah comes of age to join us on this trail. When he is old enough to be trusted to follow the path without constant redirection, his voice will be heard ringing through the woods, just like ours were last week. Residents of a nearby posh neighborhood might not be too happy about the whole noisy business. The road to the site passes by a whole slew of fancy dwellings.

As for me, I prefer a fancy slough, complete with blooming shrubs like this wild blueberry bush. I hope I can return in mid-May to find a few berries left on it. The ones I planted in our garden a month ago have a few blooms too, but they aren't old enough to provide very many berries yet.

You don't have to worry about getting stuck in the muck at Arcadia Mill. Brand-new boardwalks keep you high and dry, unless you prefer straying from the main path like we do to find blooming bushes.

Timelines like this one fascinate me. I do wish, though, that they would start at the end (present) and work backwards (past). Robert Browning, it seems, favored a similar approach in his poem "The Pied Piper of Hamelin." In his travels, he came across the German town of Hameln by the river Weser and found some artifacts around which he constructed his elaborate poem. I suppose that he found something significant in the fact that Germans refer to a town-council chamber as a "Rathaus." The thought of politicians gnawing away at citizens' hard-won earnings (a common scenario in any society) must have inspired lines like these:

"Rats!
They fought the dogs and killed the cats
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats..."

I find beauty even in things that have chewed up our resources in the past. The UWF experts have had to contend with the fact that "very little of the site complex is above ground," precisely because of the chewing and gnawing that has taken place in Arcadia. Termites know their purpose in the scheme of things. Nothing goes to waste where they thrive, and it's a good thing that they do. Otherwise, all of us would be buried under a mountain of carefully constructed and contrived mistakes and regrets.

"...At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

'Tis clear,' cried they, 'our Mayor's a noddy;

And as for our Corporation--shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine

For dolts that can't or won't determine

What's best to rid us of our vermin!

You hope, because you're old and obese,

To find in the furry civic robe ease?

Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking

To find the remedy we're lacking,

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!'

At this the Mayor and Corporation

Quaked with a mighty consternation...."

Sylvan Settings and Golden Aurelia--Liminal Secrets to Good Health

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,
The seasons' difference, as the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,
Which when it bites and blows upon my body
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say
"This is no flattery; these are counselors
That feelingly persuade me what I am..."
--from As You Like It by William Shakespeare, Act 2, Scene 1--

I hope that my brothers and sisters in exile--holed up indoors while winter rages on outside--find some warm, Southern comfort in this post and the words of Duke Senior. On the last day of January, my Secret Aging Man and I walked some trails in the woods at UWF.

Peanut the Younger often takes chances by leaping onto favorite trees. She really seems to favor this Loropetalum. I'm thinking it must have an extra helping of prana--the life force or energy that is supposed to be holding this old world together. Our massage therapist daughter has taken a class in pranic healing and sometimes practices what she has learned on us.

The Secret Aging Man (aka Hubby) takes his pruning seriously and recommends a session for the crepe myrtle in the backyard. Lately, I have seen these trees around here, severely trimmed and making it look like a mad barber has been turned loose on the town. I agreed with the recommendation, but I'm afraid to show you the results of the session. Maybe I'll wait until there is some new growth sprouting in the spring.

At this time of year, when the evening comes early and the frosty air chases us indoors as soon as the sun sets, silly things like lava lamps take us back in time for a laugh or two.

The simplest things keep us satisfied these days, which is a good thing, because they are relatively cheap but oh-so-valuable for nutrition. Gold standards may change with time, but excellence in nutrition and health never goes out of style. Thomas More's Utopia (first published in 1516) found interesting solutions to the problem of maintaining a high standard of living in a world even then obsessed with possessions:

Now if in their society [Utopia] these metals [gold and silver] were put away in
some tower, the ruler and the senate might be suspected of deceiving the people
by some trick and getting some good from it for themselves--such is the foolish
anxiety of the mob. And then if they made platters out of them or other vessels
made by goldsmiths, if ever the occasion arose to melt them down and use them to
pay mercenaries, they realize that once people had begun to delight in them they
would be reluctant to give them up. To obviate these difficulties they have
thought up a method quite compatible with the rest of their arrangements but
very far removed from ours (for we value gold very highly and hide it away quite
carefully), a method which is therefore hard to believe unless you have
experienced it. Whereas they eat and drink from vessels of earthenware and
glass, beautifully crafted but inexpensive, they use gold and silver, not only
in the common halls but also in private houses, to make all the chamberpots and
lowliest containers.

I hope I am correct in identifying this jellyfish as Aurelia aurita, a moon jellyfish. It does not look exactly like the photos I have found online but close enough by description of size and color. Notably missing are the reproductive organs clearly evident in the other photos I have seen. It was not moving like the Portugese man o' war I saw on Pensacola Beach last month. Maybe its reproductive days are over, which would be a crying shame. It might be one of those valuable jellyfish deemed edible by discriminating palates in some Asian countries. Sushi, anyone?

...Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
--from As You Like It, 2.1.12-17--

Too Dark to Be Green--Blame It on Global Warming

"Write while the heat is in you. The writer who postpones the recording of his thoughts uses an iron which has cooled to burn a hole with. He cannot inflame the minds of his audience."

--Henry David Thoreau--


Apparently, I upset the apple cart and made some people close to me worried with my last too-dark post, so I will vindicate myself by jumping on the "green" bandwagon and blame it all on the oil business and global warming.



I am not necessarily looking down my nose at the notion of "going green." Well....yes, I am, in a manner of speaking. I took this picture looking down from the walking path at the local park. It represents an unused piece of land of at least an acre that is mowed and kept neat looking, but for what purpose? Sometimes I feel like the befuddled Lily Briscoe from Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse. I have to keep asking "What does it mean?"



I guess I could blame my ignorance on waiting until my mid 40s to finish up my undergraduate English degree, which I did last December. You see, I had some trouble being explicit enough to please my professors at UWF (University of West Florida). I got in the habit there and then of asking myself the "so what" question, but I still find it difficult here and now to be not so implicit. I might as well blame that bad habit on learning from a generation intent on hiding its true feelings--of horror and shame--about what has taken place in this world since the War to End All Wars behind a Janus-mask of discontent and self-improvement.

For some strange reason, I could no longer stand the heat in the kitchen, and I jumped at every chance I had to get out and take classes. I became what you might call a dilettante. Improve thyself became my mantra, but I was too afraid to trust my kids to the care of strangers. Blame that fear on the plethora of news stories in the 80s and 90s about sexual predators lurking everywhere and especially masquerading as loving childcare workers and teachers. What could I do? I did not like putting them in daycare when they were little, nor did I like making them ride a bus full of foul-mouthed and unruly kids home to an empty house. So I waited. I even homeschooled for a while. As Thoreau implied, I did not strike while the iron was hot. Ideas cooled in my hot little brain like cookies on a rack and maybe got a little stale too.


Wait. I need to slow down a bit. The speed bumps in life are there for a reason. They keep you from veering off the road into the ditch and make you appreciate the beauty you see and have.


Where am I going with these thoughts? To an empty baseball field at the local park, of course. It is the end of the season here for baseball. Football practice has already started, and school begins in a few weeks. All of the vans and SUVs which used to crowd the lots here at the park are resting silently in garages or driveways. The park is quiet now except for a few self-deprecating, middle-aged people who like to walk in the early morning and evening and talk about how things used to be, how bad they are now, and how good they could be again. Okay, I will be fair and limit the self-deprecating part of that description to just me. I will blame that bad habit on living too long in the Bible Belt, not taking the Gospel to heart, and learning to be cynical.


That last post of mine may have sounded a little negative. I will grant that supposition. It was meant to ring with irony. I felt tired of sounding sappy and wanted to try a different design for my "garden." Blame it on global warming. I am trying to cook up ideas that have cooled for too long, and the extra heat is taking its toll on my brain. I hope no one is keeping score.

"What was it then? What did it mean? Could things thrust their hands up and grip one; could the blade cut; the fist grasp? Was there no safety? No learning by heart of the ways of the world? No guide, no shelter, but all was miracle, and leaping from the pinnacle of a tower into the air? Could it be, even for elderly people, that this was life?--startling, unexpected, unknown?"

--Lily Briscoe in Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse--