A Place In My Heart

This week our son Andrew arrived for a short visit. I tell myself, no matter how short, any visit from him is a treasure, as it also is for our oldest son and his family. 

I feel gratitude for the time they give us and understand their busy lives and know that this is part of the long goodbye. We feel less important. Their lives, families, and work takes precedence. 

I haven't been closely involved with our sons and their families for years, yet I miss them every time they leave. And look forward to the next visit.

I am proud of them.

Andrew is a composer. He gave me permission to share one of of his songs in this blog. I have included the link for it at the end of this message. Click on it or if that doesn't work, copy and paste the link into your browser to listen. As I was listening to his music, I jotted down these thoughts:

Minstrel

He sits across the table from me,

our son,

strumming his guitar.

minstrel

wordsmith

troubadour

creative genius

lost in his craft.

LOVED!

He sings,

unaware of the effect

of his music on me.

It touches my heart in ways

too deep to express.

We see him infrequently these days,

each time is a gift

beyond measure.

Sandy Mason

A Place In My Heart

(full link: https://www.reverbnation.com/andrewleemason/song/33630678-a-place-in-my-heart)

Thanksgiving

 

When I think of Thanksgiving I think of family together in multigenerational joy. Children playing with cousins they seldom see. Siblings reunited, jokes and games played, laughter, shared memories, and love.

Travel was involved, sometimes great distances covered for the joy of time together. And oh the storytelling. When I was small, nothing pleased me more than my father regaling us with tales of his boyhood. Of him and his sister Pearl, sharing memories. We’d heard the stories before but we enjoyed hearing them again and laughing right along as they told them. We sat in rapt attention listening as they reminisced. My father’s laugh, oh his laugh was something to experience. His sense of humor was legendary.

Then there was the food. I’d wake Thanksgiving morning to the smell of turkey roasting in the oven, and my mother singing in the kitchen. I did not think I could make it all the way to the Thanksgiving dinner. Sure there were other less interesting and less tasty things to eat before the Thanksgiving meal, but everything paled in comparison to the feast.

 My mother set a small table for the kids. I used to look and listen to the conversations at the big table where all the adults were swapping stories and wish I could be there.

 Each child in our family was involved in helping in some way. My job was to polish the silver, my brothers had to climb to the high cupboards and bring down the best china. We set the table and then got out of the way of the adults preparing food. 

The years have rolled by and I hope that we have made equally special memories for our sons.  It seems that we are all involved in making memories for our children and grandchildren.

May you make joyful memories for your children and grandchildren to cherish.

 Happy Thanksgiving and may your blessings be great.

 In Thanksgiving

 For sunny skies,

   For mountain peaks.

For woodland deer,

   and snowy streets.

For smiles from loved ones

   far and near.

Thank you LORD,

   I’m glad I’m here.

Sandra Mason

 

 

                      

        

              

Pumpkin Time

For children,

the most joyous time of fall

is Halloween,

and pumpkin carving.

Our granddaughters, under the tutelage

of their father and uncle,

carved the largest pumpkins

from their garden.

Magnificent grand, hefty pumpkins,

gigantic, gargantuan,

full of large seeds,

spectacular beauties.

The girls cut out the tops,

scooped the seeds,

and carefully smoothed

the inside.

Online, their father and uncle

found spectacular jack-o-lanterns.

Each reproduced, with help,

the pattern they chose.

The carving begins,

they handle the carving knife,

carefully supervised by a loving

adult.

What joy to watch them

create works of art.

The children smile as they work.

And bask

In the love of their elders.

 

It looks as if I’ve taken a vacation from blogging. Here I am, the last day of August. It is time to post for this month. In case you haven’t noticed, I completely missed July. The truth of the matter is; I’ve not had one creative writing thought for the majority of this summer. I’ve been lost in the garden. That is a nice place to be, watching plants grow. There is the flower garden to attend to as well. I snapped the picture of some of my petunias this evening. 

It amazes me how much time a garden takes. There’s the early morning watering and harvesting. You must pick before it gets too hot. Then there is processing, either by canning or freezing. My satisfaction is well stocked fruit on the pantry shelves and a full freezer. I am also rewarded by the variety of colors of the flowers that have blossomed all summer long.

 September arrives tomorrow and I look forward to the geese returning to our field. Truth is, they have already made an appearance here. They gather in small flocks at first and later in the fall they appear in greater numbers on our field eating grain left behind by the farmer after his harvest is complete. I’ve attached a poem below about the geese:

Geese on the Field

They stand, sentinels of Fall,

resting and feeding on their journey southward

ahead of the gales of Winter.

Sometimes in large flocks,

but today two small family groups.

The first seven, watch quietly as the last four

sail in like graceful jets.

I never tire of watching them.

I looked again, and their flock has grown to eighteen.

Soon, they like Fall, will be a distant memory.

I embrace them knowing this is for but a moment,

and pray the Lord of all will guide them on their journey.

 

Sandra Mason, 9/25/21

 

 

The Art of Finishing

In this world of instant gratification, packaged meals delivered to your door, the just heat-an-eat generation is upon us. Where is the joy in that? Are there any out there who remember waking on Thanksgiving morning to the smell of a baking turkey? Or the smell of bread or rolls hot from the oven? How about the smell of apple pie hot from the oven? Speed seems to be the way it is now.

I have been weeding my blueberry patch. It is a slow process, no Weed Wacker in use here. It is the old fashioned, crawl-on-the-ground version of weeding, my version. What do I get out of this besides sore knees, dirty clothes, and sore hands? I get the literal joy of watching the berries appear, tiny at first. I get to watch them grow. This is not in the same category as watching grass grow. No, believe it or not, it’s actually fun to watch a crop grow, be it corn, tomatoes, or blueberries. There is excitement in seeing something you’ve planted grow.

My neighbor commented on how good the blueberry patch looks, she said that I should have taken a before and after picture. I had not thought at all about taking a picture. I was just happy to see the progress I make as I get the job done. Slow for sure. I don’t do very many things quickly these days.

What is the writing lesson hidden in this post? First, you have to start. Then you have to keep at it. When it is finished, you may think it looks great, but you should get other eyes on it. Others may see things you’ve missed. It isn’t time for harvest or celebration, for sure there is more work to do. My blueberry patch looks a lot better than when I started, and the weeds aren’t sucking nutrients from my  plants. Is it done? No, it’s done when you have a great crop of blueberries to share or freeze. As in writing, it seems to me that finishing, completing what you started is a pleasant experience.

Author Stephen Pyne once wrote. “Many start, few finish.” Let’s be among the few!

I noticed a quail similar to the one below when I looked out the window during a mighty wind storm. There he was trying to keep from toppling over. As soon as he disappeared from view I ran for my computer.  He didn't seem worried, but seemed a bit puzzled, as the wind nearly toppled him several times. He inspired this poem.

Quail

The young cock quail

huddles in the wind

Tipping like a tottery

old man, seeking balance.

 

His crest flutters like

a flag in the stiff gale.

Huddled near a small

Japanese maple,

he turns like a

weather vane.

 

His beauty is stunning,

with iridescent stripes

that glow on his sides. His

gray-blue feathers

sparkle.

He sports a

stunning rich brown

apron.

I’ve never seen one

so close before. I peer

from the window, and

marvel at his beauty.

And wonder at

his solitude.

Sandy Mason 

May 19, 2022

 

April is National Poetry Month and Writers Digest challenged us to write a poem a day. I stuck my toe in the stream and wrote a few, but not every day, oh no, I wasn’t brave enough for that.

I admire those who took the challenge and jumped right in. Here is my shaky step to one of the challenges:

How to Write a Poem

Poetry is
conservation of thought
and words.

Each word must say MORE than
narrative, which can go on
and on
and ON,
traveling
to a grand finale.

Poems need not go far,
they are sparse
fierce, pithy,
and pierce
the heart
and conscience
saying more
with less.