Loose Leaf Notes

From an undressed
flush of morning sky
the moon’s half slip
hangs without regret
in a pastel shade
of blushed sunrise

_________Colleen Redman / Poets and Storytellers United

Where else but in Floyd can you learn from an old-timer how to forage ginseng one day and then meet Wavy Gravy – the Woodstock clown with an ice-cream flavor named after him – in town for FloydFest the next?

Where Else But Floyd is the name of my 30+ year poetry and essay-excerpted retrospective on living in Floyd, which I’ll be reading from at the 5th Annual Little River Poetry Festival on Saturday at 4:00.  It will be a poetic duet with festival co-founder Jack Callan, who will be sharing his Floyd inspired poetry in a set scheduled as “Mountain Magic.”

Prior to my reading, at 2:00 our friend Katherine Chantal (pictured on the left reading at the 2018 festival) will be reading from her new book of poems, Poetic Memoir Of a Nascent Senescent: Musings from My Sixties. “Poet-philosopher Katherine Chantal brings a poet’s eye and a medicine woman’s ability to diagnose and explain the human condition to others in a way she simply calls “eldering…” Throughout it all, she keeps a sense of humor and great gratitude – two vital ingredients needed each day in the aging process. Her keen observations are practical; yet help the reader to connect to the sacred…” writes festival co-founder Judith Stevens in a review of the book, which is available on Amazon.

In between my and Jack’s readings and Katherine’s, Judith (that’s her reading last year) will be leading a poetry workshop titled “I Am Made Of.” There will also be featured readers and open mics.  On Sunday at 2:00, I’m on the schedule again, repeating the poetry ensemble reading we did in Williamsburg last December, “Points of Agreement.” Held in the meadow at On the Water Outfitters from Friday (tomorrow) afternoon to Sunday afternoon, we’ll be social distance seating in the sunshine.  Hope to see some of you there. ________More details on The Little River Poetry Festival HERE. 

1. “To be human is to become visible while carrying what is hidden as a gift to others.” David Whyte

2. Our collective knees are bruised / from the wear of prayer and protest / Sometimes we are called to stand / to shake off the onslaught
of insult to injury / Sometimes we are called / to put down the unbearable / to carry an innocent / and claim their right / to breathe. Read “Right” in its entirety HERE.

3. We are surrounded by woods on three sides and the cicadas sound like a constant ambulance siren, or like I left the faucet running.

4. But it really sounds like a Star Trek Hand Phaser. Listen HERE.

5. “What if you were out with your dog an’ it run off with no, “May I go?”, an’ when you find the varmit, it’s sittin’ in a tent on a farm, Little River runnin’ by, and the dadgum dog is just layin’ there, listenin’ to some man or woman spoutin’ poetry? What?  I mean, what should you do?  Get rid of the dawg before it spoils the others?  Keep it tied up?  Or give it to your daughter who’ll put bows on it?  The dog could be ruined. Maybe you’ll stop pokin’ your head in down at the store.  You begin to imagine the talk behind the silence.  “His dawg went where?”  “Naw!” They may not know what people were talkin’ about in that tent – they may not know some of them were writin’ and readin’ about livin’ on these mountain lands, raisin’ families, an’ ideas that might of come to ’em in church – mostly just what it’s like to be human.  Some folks just wanta’ talk out loud about it…  Read Dog Gone in its entirety, which appeared in The Floyd Press and was written by the Little River Poetry Festival co-founder Jack Callan HERE. The festival is happening this weekend. Details HERE.

6. Joe said my tombstone should read “It was all about the photo-op.”

7. I’m pretty sure if I had my car parked in the yard, Mrs. Robin would try be a hood ornament. She poses all over the yard as if she was auditioning for the job… Read more about The Yardbirds HERE. 

8. If you search the word “cicada” on this blog, this comes up: “The word ‘cicada,’ for example, stops me in my tracks. Sorry, I simply cannot continue.” ~ Billy Collins on choosing poems for a poetry anthology

9. Poetically, I don’t like the word bucolic, the way Billy Collins doesn’t like “cicada.” I think it’s a self-conscious word that sounds like an illness, even though it means an idyllic country setting.

10. Topsy or Tipsy? I don’t think topsy is a word without turvy and turvy is definitely not a word, but tipsy is.

11. Our pool is open (with some COVID19 adaptions) and swimming is my mental and physical therapy, so it can’t be all that bad.

12. “You don’t need to think of yourself as bad in order to become better.” -Unknown

13. The grass may be greener on the others side but it still needs to be mowed.

____________Thirteen Thursday 

I’m pretty sure if I had my car parked in the yard, Mrs. Robin would try be a hood ornament.

She poses all over the yard as if she was auditioning for the job.

She does have something to preen proudly about.

This is Mrs. Wren. Every time the birdfeeder gets near empty, she starts filling it with twigs to make a nest.

She works very hard.

The other birds come to feed and she pokes her head out the window and scares them off.

These birds pay their room and board with fresh eggs every day.

Lately, I’ve been singing “I Am the Egg Man” to my grandson Bryce.

____________Our World Tuesday

-The following was written by the Little River Poetry Festival co-founder Jack Callan and first appeared in The Floyd Press on June 4, 2020. The Festival will take place June 12-14, 2020 at On the Water in Floyd. 

What if you were out with your dog an’ it run off with no, “May I go?”, an’ when you find the varmit, it’s sittin’ in a tent on a farm, Little River runnin’ by, and the dadgum dog is just layin’ there, listenin’ to some man or woman spoutin’ poetry?

What?  I mean, what should you do?  Get rid of the dawg before it spoils the others?  Keep it tied up?  Or give it to your daughter who’ll put bows on it?  The dog could be ruined.

Maybe you’ll stop pokin’ your head in down at the store.  You begin to imagine the talk behind the silence.  “His dawg went where?”  “Naw!”

They may not know what people were talkin’ about in that tent – they may not know some of them were writin’ and readin’ about livin’ on these mountain lands, raisin’ families, an’ ideas that might of come to ’em in church – mostly just what it’s like to be human.  Some folks just wanta’ talk out loud about it.

Well, here’s what happens.  We don’t have dog food, but people get fed good.  People get ideas an’ write ’em down.  Some o’ them get a wild hair an’ want to get up on a tiny stage an’ read ’em out loud.  They find that everybody in the audience is listenin’: we only heard snorin’ once in the last four years, and he was just layin’ on the ground, relaxin’.

Mostly, people there just started feelin’ good inside, started makin’ notes about ideas.  We might see ’em again the next year an’ they got a bunch o’ new poems they want folks to hear.  What they find is people come up to ’em after they read, an’ tell ’em what a good job they did, an’ how the poem reminded them of somethin’.  An’ there’s lots of hugs.  Why, you can even go kayakin’ while you’re there an’ write poetry while you paddle, or dawdle, or just float.  Amazin’ words pop into your head on a river.  You have no idea.  And it’s personal.

We have found that the wildlife likes to be mentioned in the poems.  It makes people write about what it’s like to be here on a mountain river, words in your quiver, sometimes laughter an’ tears, an’ best of all, cheers.  There ain’t nothin’ special, but it feels right.

Then we pack up and head on home. Over the Blue Ridge Mountains we roam, and hope you’ll all come back next year.  We plan to be there.  Here’s where and when.

We’re in the field next to “On the Water Outfitters” on Thunderstruck Road. Look for the white tent.  We start on Friday, June 12th, at 2:00 – 10:00 p.m., go all day Saturday, June 13th.  On Sunday, June 14th, we wrap it up at 3:00 p.m. Send you home.

There’s open mics, featured readers, yoga, kayaking, unrepentant lazing, and note taking.  You can buy a meal on site with a donation.  You can put your lawn chair out in the field and ignore everybody.  Or you can have an out-of-body writing experience and no one will think you’re crazy.

This year, we plan to space the seating in our Festival tent for social distancing.  We have a hand-washing station set up at the Porta-Potties, and we’ll be wearin’ masks and hope other attendees will, too.  Some people may choose not to wear masks and they will also be welcome.  We’re here to celebrate our resilience at a challenging time in our lives.  We’re here to love one another.

This will be our fifth year.

Bless the Sowers Family for puttin’ up with us.

It only costs $15.00 a day. Register at the tent.  Questions? Call Jack or Judith, 757-622-8721. Check out the Little River Poetry Festival’s webpage and their Facebook page for more.

Injustice is a pig pile
bearing down on our backs
a suffocating weight
that tests the limits
of what we can take

Our collective knees are bruised
from the wear of prayer and protest
Sometimes we are called to stand

to shake off the onslaught
of insult to injury
to drown out false power
with the voices of outrage

Sometimes we are called
to put down the unbearable
to carry an innocent
and claim their right
to breathe

___________Colleen Redman / Poets and Storytellers United

1. Birdfeeder Drama: There’s a little wren making a nest in our bird feeder.  She carries twigs and stuffs them in the holes meant for feeding.  She chases the other birds away, even the big cowbirds.

2. Trump’s tweets are an insult to the birds.

3. Or as my Facebook friend Mark recently said: All Tweet and no meat!

4.  This is the little wren is trying to nest in our bird feeder being vocal about shooing away all the other birds that come to feed.

5. We’re still rocking the pandemic weekends from wildflowers and botanical gardens to water. See “Me Jane, You Tarzan” HERE.

6. I think “Look” was the first word I fell in love with while reading Dick and Jane in first grade. I just liked the way it “looked.”

7. I recently ran into a friend while grocery shopping and said to her, “I’m socially awkward enough without adding this (pointing to my mask) to the mix.

8. We’re tourists to our own aging / We’ve never been here before / We take field-notes and pictures / and watch the other travelers / We cross our fingers / and look for simple pleasures / We count our blessings / give away our belongings / enjoy the view from the scenic route / and have a cup of tea – Read The Tourist in its entirety HERE.

9. Watch our little wren knock a cowbird off the feeder.

10. Cicada nymphs crawled out of the ground this week after 17 years. There were so many of them that they looked like a clone army climbing up trees. Once settled, their backs split open and they slipped out of their old bodies, reminding me of the old movie, The Invasion of the Body Snatchers. More on the cicada invasion HERE.

11. And now their constant drone sounds a collective protest, a metaphor for these times.

12. Having my husband working at home running a group program online and hearing him even with his office door closed is kind of like having the TV on all day in the background.

13. And here’s a shot of nature’s grocery store. What’s for lunch?

__________Thirteen Thursday

To the sound of Tarzan yell…

_______Wordless Wednesday 

It’s like watching a birth. Cicada nymphs crawled out of the ground this week after 17 years. There were so many of them that they looked like a clone army climbing up trees.

Once settled, their backs split open and they slipped out of their old bodies, reminding me of the old movie, The Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

First, they’re white and soft with undeveloped wings.

We watched one emerge, and, within half-an-hour, it turned dark and hard with fully developed intricate transparent wings. The adults are slow moving and clumsy.

They mate and live only a few weeks. The females deposit eggs on branches that fall, hatch and go back underground, and the 17-year cycle begins again.

This is my third cycle of the invasion of the cicadas, but I only remember the 1987 one when my son Josh was a young boy and set up battle scenarios using the exoskeleton bodies of the nymphs. We lived in the woods then and their locust drone was deafening, like a war cry of a continuous oncoming attack.

But now their drone sounds a collective protest, a  metaphor for these times. ___________Our World Tuesday

Leave it to a poet to have his last words upon leaving this world be: “My ride showed up.” – John Trudell February 15, 1946 – December 8, 2015

There’s an urge to contract
that brings waves of panic
the kind my sister had
when she started chemo
for the cancer she knew
would likely kill her

We fade out slowly
and revel in the parts that remain
bringing everything down
to a fine focus
and dismissing
what doesn’t engage

We’re unpacking
for an unknown journey
a one-way only stand-by fate
where we lose ourselves
and make our children cry
with no second chances
or way to comfort them

There is an acceptance, finally
that we’re not yet invisible
that we’re not incapable of joy
We’re tourists to our own aging
We’ve never been here before

We take field-notes and pictures
and watch the other travelers
We cross our fingers
and look for simple pleasures

We count our blessings
give away our belongings
enjoy the view from the scenic route
and have a cup of tea

__________Colleen Redman  / Poets and Storytellers United

/ dVerse Poets Pub

-The following is an article written by Judith Stevens, co-founder of the Floyd Little River Poetry Festival (June 12 – 14), with an addition that addresses the coronavirus. The story is featured in the Floyd Virginia Magazine on news stands around Floyd now. 

For the fifth consecutive year, Daniel Sowers, owner of “On the Water Outfitters” and the Sowers Family, will play host on June 12-14 at their family farm on Thunderstruck Road to a group of poets, musicians and poetry lovers from around the state and beyond.

During the weekend, many poets opt to accept the challenge to kayak down the Little River, across the road from the Festival location, while composing a new poem to be read aloud at a natural rock amphitheater to an appreciative audience seated in chairs on the riverbank.  These new poems are then posted on the Poetry Bulletin Board in the meadow tent throughout the weekend.

For the fifth year in a row, Little River Poetry Festival founders, Jack Callan and his wife, Judith Stevens, both poets from Norfolk, Virginia, are bringing a vibrant group of creative writers from the Hampton Roads/Tidewater area to cross-pollinate with the superb “home grown” mountain poets of the Blue Ridge.  Jack and Judith host a quarterly “Poetry at the Chrysler Museum” reading and Open Mic, in Norfolk, as well as a bi-monthly “Fairmount Five” poetry reading and a monthly “Fourth Friday Poetry Salon” at their home in Norfolk.  They also conduct poetry readings, workshops and poetry “happenings” in libraries, schools and colleges throughout Hampton Roads. Life members of the Poetry Society of Virginia, Jack is a former Vice-President of Virginia’s Southeastern Region.

The idea for the Little River Poetry Festival was conceived in Floyd, when Judith and Jack kayaked down the Little River and noticed a rock formation with an over-cropping “roof” that resembled an outdoor amphitheater.  Intrigued, they tried reading poems they had written on the float and were gratified to hear their voices amplified by the mountain.  In that moment, they envisioned a poetry festival on the banks of the river and in the field beyond.  When they approached their friend, Daniel Sowers, he encouraged them to give it a try.  He and his family invited them to begin that next summer (2016).  The rest, as they say, is history.

Finding excellent poets in Floyd and the surrounding area has been part of a continuing adventure. This year’s mountain poets include Colleen Redman, (Floyd); Chelsea Adams, (Riner); Erin McCarty, (Marshall); Jim Best, (Meadows of Dan); Beth Huddleston, (Winchester), and Floyd’s “Three Katherines:” Katherine Chantal, Katherine Sowers and Catherine Pauley.

They will be joined by Richmond poet Joanna Lee, Portsmouth poet Edith Blake, Yorktown poet Brian Magill, Virginia Beach poets Evangelina Poggi and Michael Link, Ohio poet/songwriter Kristi Paddock, student poets Coral Kendall (Radford) and Cas Horne (York, Pennsylvania) and others.

Each of the three days will feature Open Mics, poetry readings, workshops and poetry excursions – the kayak outing, a hike to a nearby mountain where the hikers can just enjoy the scenery or choose to write a poem about their experience on the trail.  Having explored Buffalo Mountain in former years, this year’s hike heads to Rocky Knob.

During the Festival, home-cooked healthy meals are provided on-site by donation and primitive camping is available for those who wish to camp in the meadow. (While some festival-goers choose to camp on-site, most select the Floyd Hotel, Oak Haven Lodge, or any of a number of excellent Bed and Breakfasts offered in Floyd and the surrounding area.)

Music at the Festival will be provided by Cleveland recording artist, Kristi Paddock, (keyboards and psaltery); local musician, Jim Best, (hang drum); Brian Magill, (clarinet, gamelan, and diggery-doo). There are usually new musicians who join us each year.  Some poems will be read to musical accompaniment.  We anticipate Riner guitarist Bill Adams, accompanying his wife as she reads her poetry.

Festival-goers are encouraged to bring their musical instruments as well as notebooks, poetry to share in some of the weekend’s five Open Mics, lawn chairs, rain gear (just in case!), flashlights, sunscreen, warm clothes for nighttime layering and summer attire for sunny days.

“Yoga for Health” is offered by certified yoga instructors each morning and during breaks throughout the day.  The Festival begins at 1:00 p.m. on Friday, June 12 and ends at 3:00 p.m. on Sunday, June 14.  Cost is $45 for the entire weekend, or $15 per day. (Drop-ins welcome.)  Add $35 for your kayak trip down the Little River.

If you write poetry, would like to learn how to write poetry, or simply enjoy reading poetry or listening to poems and storytelling, this gathering is for you.  All ages and abilities welcome.

This year, we plan to space the seating in our Festival tent for social distancing.  We have a hand-washing station set up at the Porta-Potties, and we’ll be wearin’ masks and hope other attendees will, too.  Some people may choose not to wear masks and they will also be welcome.  We’re here to celebrate our resilience at a challenging time in our lives.  We’re here to love one another.

For information or to register, call Judith Stevens and Jack Callan at 757-622-8721, or write us at 2931 Somme Avenue, Norfolk, Virginia 23509. Go to http://www.littleriverpoetryfest.com and Facebook     See you in June 12 – 14! – Judith Stevens – Read about last year’s poetry festival HERE.

The last few weeks of my brother’s lives played out like the conclusion of a dramatic Hollywood script, a plot with a twist.  The road trip they took, two weeks before the first death, became the beginning of a larger journey, the one in which they would both leave this world.

I have decided to share my book, The Jim and Dan Stories, chapter by chapter, to have it available online, since it is no longer available in print. The book, which was used in a Radford University grief and loss class for counseling students, is part an account of my brothers last weeks and their 2001 deaths a month apart, part memoir of growing up together on the South Shore of Boston in a large Irish Catholic family of 11, and part a chronicle of coping with the first six months of life-altering grief. I plan to post a chapter every Wednesday until the book is done. I added a new side bar category “Jim and Dan Stories” on the blog (to the right) for easy access to chapters which will amount to the whole book.

                                         20.

 Red Line to the Moon

  On the red line to Park Street from the subway train window, I saw the December full moon.  I was sitting next to two year old Patrick who was on the look-out for Christmas lights. “I see something!” he would periodically exclaim. I followed the moon while walking with my family to the Boston Commons and then to Fanueil Hall.  Under this full moon we found The Enchanted Village, a magical world of moving mannequin children who, dressed in late 20’s clothing, were placed in Christmas settings.  I had seen the Enchanted Village in the downtown department store windows of Jordan Marsh when I was five years old.  It was a vague memory that I questioned the reality of.  What a wonderful surprise to find out it was true, to find the Enchanted Village (now in a pre-fab heated building) again.  And how well it fit the theme of my trip, a re-visitation of my childhood roots.

We had almost walked passed it when I broke off from the group to take a closer look.  “I think it’s a wax museum,” I had said, by then everyone was curious.  The man at the door who was collecting our dollars wouldn’t let us pass until we told him something we had gotten for Christmas.

“A journal,” I told him trying to think fast. “Will that get me in?”

“It depends on what you write in it,” he answered with a grin.

I don’t remember seeing the moon again until the day I was riding in Sherry’s car to catch the ferry that would bring me to the water shuttle and then to Logan airport on the day I headed home.  It was up in the sky in the middle of the day looking like a ghostly visitation.  It was a ¾ moon by then.  I pointed it out.  “See what I mean about the mysterious moon.  I can never predict when it’s going to show up,” I said to Sherry, who was driving.

I looked for the moon from the ferry boat window, from the airport terminal, and from my window seat in the back of the plane, but I never found it again that day.  That was all right, though, because there was so much else to look at.

The ocean sculpts the land into hooks that look like Cape Cod.  One of those hooks is Hull.  The plane I was on, departing from Boston, flew right over Hull, low enough so that I got treated to a tour of places that I loved.  I saw 10 ½ Spring Street where our house used to be, the tower at the forts, the windmill at Pemberton, the outline of Allerton and Strawberry Hill.  I recognized the landscapes, parts of Hingham and Quincy, the mural painted gas tanks in Neponset. The city of Boston looked like a floating island of skyscrapers from my window seat in the sky.

I had no such recognition when we flew over Roanoke.  It was just after dusk but even if it wasn’t, I don’t know the landscape of Roanoke and its surrounding areas the way I know the South Shore of Boston. Everyone below had their porch lights on, but I still couldn’t find the mountains.

I was leaving the north where they had no snow and arriving in the south where they had several inches of it.  Things were still mixed up.  I was still sad that I had a whole other life that my friends in Virginia weren’t a part of and that my family wasn’t a part of my life here with them.  But I was happy to be back and as the days went on, in the paradise of my own yard, I remembered why I live in the country where my closest neighbor’s house isn’t part of my view, where the pace of life is slower, and the drinking water is better.

After a few days of transition, I called all my friends to tell them I was home and to tell them I was thinking of them.  After doing that, I took a deep breath and felt ready to begin the New Year.

The Lottery

  Most people in Massachusetts play the lottery and my family is no different.  Someone handed me a ticket to scratch after Sunday dinner (a roasted leg of lamb) when I was at my mothers, but I don’t use ATM machines, cell phones, or play the lottery.  “How do you do this?” I asked.  Scratching it felt like running my fingernails down a blackboard, not worth the few bucks I could have won, which I didn’t.

Back home in Virginia, a week later, I received a Love Link e-mail from Kathy, who had just gone to Atlantic City with some girlfriends from work.  She wrote, “Last year when I went on this same trip, I won $1,000 but not this year.  Oh well, we had fun and did eat well.”

I was cleaning my kitchen like a madwoman, spurred on by my new refrigerator, but I took a break to answer her. “I won big time!  I wrote. “I made the trip to Boston and back home safely, my energy held up, nothing bad happened, and I saw the people I love!”  I felt rich.

On the trip that Jim and Dan took together they had stopped in Atlantic City.  Danny, like several others in our family, loved to gamble.  Jim did too, but earlier in his life he developed an addiction to it, and, being the constructive person he was, he kicked the habit. He went more for Dan’s sake, he told me, and he even won a little money to help pay for his trip, which was good because Jim, who was usually on a tight budget, counted every cent of what things cost.

I thought about how Dan chose to spend his last few weeks doing what he loved best, visiting his family, traveling with his brother, stopping at several gambling casinos on their way back to Texas, and going to baseball games.  I thought about Dan in the hospital.  He never turned a visitor away.  He was so ill that I hung up a sign, “Limit visits to five minutes,” it read.  Every time I asked Dan if he was up for a visitor, he always nodded, weakly, yes.  And they all stayed for more than five minutes even when Dan was unconscious.  I got to see how rich Dan was in friendships and how even in the hospital, up until the end, he was true to himself, doing what he loved as much as he possibly could.

Epiphany, January 6, 2002

  In this physical world, we have to mine for treasure.  Gold and silver and precious gems are not usually found laying around on the surface of the earth.  It’s the same with us, we have to excavate our own treasure, down through the door of our childhood, through the pain of what hurts, into the grief of our losses.  Life nudges us to go deeper because to live only on the surface is superficial.  There’s so much more.

It was January 6, Epiphany, the day the three Kings brought gifts to Jesus, when Joe said to me, after we had been talking about Jim and Dan, “I have a song I want to play for you.  It’s from a Paul Winter CD and is called, “The Golden Apples of the Sun, The Silver Apples of the Moon.”  While getting it from the CD stack, he noticed Neil Young’s CD, “Silver and Gold” and played that one, too.  Then I played a song from a CD collection that Nelson put together, called “Angels in Waiting.”   It was about a woman who had lost her two brothers.  It was playing on the country radio stations when I got home from the last funeral, the first time I heard it.  I couldn’t believe it.  Did it come through the ethers and out of her pen? Did she write it just for us?  I told Nelson about it and he added it the collection of songs from Jim and Dan’s funerals.

Later that day  when I checked my emails I saw this response from Kathy, “I’m glad your trip made you feel rich because you are!  And I am, too!”  It was also later on that same day when I made this comment to Joe after meditating, “You know, my mediations lately are less about mediating and more about experiencing a sensation, a place of growing richness just under the surface that I’m staring to get glimpses of.”

There was something else I was getting a glimpse of, the ending of these stories, which I had been completely immersed in for nearly six months now.   I took a walk to celebrate that and the thought of getting my life back.

Ice Cream and the Zen of Grief

  Sometimes when I watch a movie, I get caught up in the story as though it were real.  Other times, when I watch a movie, I watch the actors and think, how do they do it?  Act with everyone on the set watching them?  Cry on cue?  Kiss someone they hardly know?

It’s the same way with books. Sometimes I read to enjoy the story, while others times I read to see how the author does it?  Sentence by sentence, how does one build a story?

Sometimes I grieve with abandonment and sometimes I watch myself grieve, like looking at myself in the mirror, partly because I’m vain, but mostly because I’m trying to figure it out, who the heck am I?

My eyes filled with tears on several occasions during my recent trip home to Boston, but I only cried once, when I lay on Danny’s bed, the night I slept at my mother’s.  Back in Virginia, I wrote to Sherry,  “It was a good week. I guess my being there took our minds off Jim and Dan.  We hardly cried at all.”  But I had only been home two days, and we both were crying hard once again.  Me, because I was writing about Jim and Dan’s bunk beds and she because of this:  “I’m a nurse. I should have been able to help Danny more,” she confessed.

“We couldn’t face the thought that Danny could die.  We were all in some denial, including Dan.  But I think we all did the best we could, and I think Dan knew that,” I answered her.

When I was staying with Sherry, I confessed to her my regret.  Danny had just got on a liquid diet after days of being tube fed.  I fed him clear broth, and Jell-O, and then some runny ice cream.  It wasn’t real ice cream; it was a corn syrup concoction with gooey red sauce and artificial additives.  What kind of food is that to feed someone who’s sick?  I was thinking spirulina and protein shakes.  He motioned for more, but I went on to the cranberry juice, leaving two more bites in the container.

Bless me Father, for I have sinned, I lied about the ice cream to my brother.  I still regret holding those two bites back.  It turned out to be Danny’s last supper.

The Final Draft

In this bubble of time that I’m in, my friends and family are, thankfully, just being themselves, but they also know if they hang around me they might end up in a story.  The truth is this:  All of life is one big story and they’re already in it.  And in the end all of us will ask, “How did I come across?”

Consider this:  Everything we do is creating a record whether on paper or not.  Are we happy with the story we’re making?  Will we like how it ends?  Will we go back and make the corrections to get the story we really want?

I’ve been riding the roller coaster of the writing life, diving like Dan did off Pemberton Pier, not the dive that broke his back, the one before that, which was perfect.  I’ve been scanning the widening horizon, like Jim looking out from the observatory tower, flying over the roots of my childhood, in and out of two worlds.  I’ve been pulling myself up from the hole I’ve been in, bringing up buried treasure with me.   I’ve been gambling my days, like playing the lottery, placing my bets on these stories.

There will be no “The End” to these stories because we’re all busy living the rest of them.  There will be no “Happily Ever After,” either, because life is a bittersweet balance that we have to choose to be happy about. Every ending is also a new beginning.  It all starts here, right now.______________Colleen Redman / Read chapters 1-18 HERE. Epilogue coming soon.

1. We’ve all been doing a lot of hanging out, and hopefully it’s not all on google hangout.

2. I don’t understand the word virtual.  It’s like a double negative. Is it real or almost real? The dictionary describes the meaning like this:  almost, but not exactly or in every way.

3. A soundtrack of birdsong / a wireless wind / I’m tuned in / to the virtual reality / of sunlight warming blossoms open / and borderless skies of turned up violet / I’m plugged in / to the solar powered village / of moon and star / to the data base of the highest technology / I’m turned on / to the smart reality / in the real world wide web / of earth’s diversity / with fragrant green / life size trees / and all the very best / in graphics  -Poem written before I had a computer and when I didn’t want one. About 25 years ago

4. We dissolve like salt / overwhelmed by water / fade like a photograph / overexposed by air / Every death is a big bang / that blows up our pretense / splits us like atoms in two… Read Bardo in its entirety HERE.

5. Bardo is “a Tibetan term for an “intermediate state,” either in the afterlife or in this life when something interrupts our normal sense of certainty and our old sense of reality isn’t available to us.” – Pema Khandro Rinpoche

6. From my Facebook IN THE NEWS series: “Trump fans are primed to be angry about Obamagate — they just don’t know what it is.” Bill Maher

7. “Trump’s insistence on huge, gala convention might put the corona back in coronation.” – My Dharmacratic poet friend Will

8. I think our catbird just gave me a wolf whistle. Check it out HERE.

9. Erotic iris and lily pond with koi fish. A a restorative and happy visit and a great place to get outside to in these pandemic times. HERE.

10. Relieve anxiety HERE.

11. Famous statues around the world wearing face masks. See HERE.

12. Talk or squawk?

13. “I dream of a world where truth shapes people’s politics, rather politics shaping what people think is true.” – Neil deGrasse Tyson

________Thirteen Thursday 

___________Wordless Wednesday 

I’ve always loved fairy tales, and the one I identify with most is Hansel and Gretel because I’m always leaving breadcrumbs to mark my way.

Today the garden was mud and I took a walk in the woods and wondered if I’d see a bear.

Funny how Hansel and Gretel was published by the Grimm brothers and the story is grim, about abandonment, being lost in the forest and a witch in a gingerbread house. The original Goldilocks and the Three Bears, which was not published by the Grimm brothers, was grim too because Goldilocks didn’t always get away.

I’m pretty sure our neighborhood catbird gave me a wolf whistle.

And the wood thrush plays hard to get.________Wild Bird Wednesday

/ Our World Tuesday

Last year we enjoyed a spectacular Tulip Tour at VA Tech’s Hahn Horticulture Garden in Blacksburg.  That was in April, now it’s May. I wasn’t sure what May flowers we’d see at the garden, but I knew there would be some Iris.

And there was!

We also saw columbine, in purple!

And don’t forget the peonies.

The above are some flowers I would expect to see this time of year, but there were just as many varieties that I had never seen before, sort of like spotting a new bird in my yard and being excited by it.

“I don’t know what this is!” I said over and over.

Probably my favorite place to hang out is water lily pond filled with koi fish.

Joe likes the waterfalls.

There are sculptures in the garden too, like this one by Frank Lloyd Wright and one by Floyd’s own Charlie Brouwer.

The giant globe thistles have always been one of my favorites at the garden.

And look at the size of these dogwood blossoms!

I’m always happy at the Hahn garden. It was a restorative and happy visit and a great place to get outside to in these pandemic times.

See our Tulip Tour HERE and a poetry reading at the garden last year that I read at HERE.

_________Our World Tuesday

– A Tibetan term for an “intermediate state,” either in the afterlife or in this life when something interrupts our normal sense of certainty and our old sense of reality isn’t available to us. – Pema Khandro Rinpoche

We dissolve like salt
overwhelmed by water
fade like a photograph
overexposed by air

Every death is a big bang
that blows up our pretense
splits us like atoms in two

Wherever you go
a part of me follows
and I carry a part of you

Pared down to presence
we rise and set
come down from the crosses
we are nailed to

Every day is a loss
of yesterday
Every tear is a seed
for new ground

___________Colleen Redman  / Poets and Storytellers United / dVerse Poets Pub

-The following first appeared in The Floyd Press on May 14, 2020.

The Floyd Farmers Market at the Community Pavilion opened for the season on May 2nd from 9 – 1 pm.  Opening on schedule as an essential service, market organizers made several adjustments for keeping vendors and patrons safe during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Following state guidelines to social distance and restrict groups to no more than ten people, market organizers were able to monitor foot traffic by providing one well-marked market entrance and one exit to and from the market. “I thought it went really smoothly,” said Melissa Branks, about the opening day. Branks, who manages the market for SustainFloyd, reported that there was no difficulty with social distancing. “We had a rule of only 10 customers at time and we didn’t have the need to enforce that.”

Organizers reduced the number of vendors in order to space out tables. Nine vendors sold locally grown veggies, locally raised meat, freshly baked bread and farm eggs.  An online pre-order shopping service is also available for customers and provides a further assortment of items, such as hand-turned bowls, vegetable starts, jellies, herbal tinctures and more. Pre-orders are made between Monday morning to Thursday night at floydfoodhub.luluslocalfood.com and can be picked up at the Saturday market, curbside or at a convenient local location.

Vendors and some customers wore masks, as recommended by state coronavirus guidelines. Masks made by the Mask Brigade of Floyd group were provided free to the customers who wanted them, Branks said.

At the next Farmers Market, on Saturday on May 9, vendors and customers were not only wearing masks; they wore hats and winter coats.  But the cold, windy weather didn’t deter shopping. Miriam Brancato stocked up on freshly-baked bread from Big Indian Farm. “I cut is up, freeze it and have it for weeks,” she said, adding that her cookie purchase (that she pre-ordered) goes faster and doesn’t need to be frozen.

The vendor for Big Indian Farm said that between the Floyd and Blacksburg Farmers Markets, they received and filled 60-70 pre-orders for the day, with the majority of sales going to the Blacksburg Market, where her husband was vending.  She noted that they have experienced a dip in Floyd sales, but added, “We actually did pretty well here.”

Bessie Weber of Kester Clark Farm brought 15 dozen eggs and sold out by noon. “The people who come, come to buy,” she said. “It’s been slower, as far as people go, but the sales have been good.”

The outdoor Farmers Market, which is in its 10th year of operation and is open every Saturday from May to November, continues to provide a Snap-Match token option for EBT (Electronic Benefit Transfer) shoppers. “They can shop for fresh food and double their shopping dollars,” said Branks.  Shoppers can also shop for fresh food at the Riverstone and EcoVillage Farm stores, which are open during the week.

“People have been very appreciative that we are up and running and that they have the ability to shop from the farmers,” Branks said. – Colleen Redman