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.

The Barn

There it stood tall and gray, covered with cracked barn wood. It touched the sky. I had never seen anything like it or more wonderful. A huge door stretched high. My big brother Jon, pulled the door open and swung it wide. We crept inside and explored. There was a roomy place, for what we didn’t know. I immediately pictured a horse or pony for me in that spot. It was dusty, still and filled with possibility. I wondered what had lived there.

A fenced-in chicken coop with wooden nesting boxes, now empty and silent, completed the back of this barn. Beside it was an open shelter with an ancient metal bowl. We decided it gave water to a cow. It stood empty, full of dust and rust. A large sturdy manger completed the space. It was so tall that my three-year-old self could barely peek over it. I imagined it filled to the brim with fragrant hay to feed the long-gone bovine. A slanted ramp made entry possible for this cow.

My brother looked above us, was that a hay loft? Could we access it? I certainly couldn’t, I was too small. My brother, quick and lithe, scrambled up there. I looked longingly after but couldn’t follow. Ever industrious he scooted down, found a hammer, nails and some old boards. He pounded in the boards, standing on the lowest to complete the upper and wow, ACCESS!

Oh the joy of such a space. Nine years later, my father would build a board fence corral, to house a horse I cared for while her owner attended college. He cut that huge barn door in half and made a split door so I could open the top and keep a horse inside, although she preferred to stay outside. Four years later my father enlarged the corral with posts and wire for the horse I had so longed for. My very own precious gelding, a high school graduation gift that I found and requested, instead of a car. But that is a story for another time.

As I think of this story from so long ago, I also think of my brother. He, always so strong and sure nearly succumbed to Covid a few weeks ago. He is much better now and on the mend. When I think of how close we came to the unimaginable pain of loss, I think of the pain of those who did lose loved ones. My heart bleeds for them. We hope and pray and carry on as best we can. We find joy in family, friends, and creating beauty where we can. And we  look for better days. 

HARD LESSONS

I was trying to think of something to blog about this month and you can see that I’ve let nearly the whole month tick by without writing.

A memory blazed its way into my brain. I was a busy high school student, with a job, homework, and other interests. The last thing on my “to do list” was practicing the piano for my weekly lesson. Sometimes I’d sit down at the piano at 10:00 or 11:00 p.m. and, of course, the rest of the family was NOT PLEASED! It makes me laugh to think about it. No, I never was even a good pianist, although I could chord and accompany fiddle tunes for my sons. I did that by ear, not by note, as my piano teacher tried to stop my bent for playing by ear.

I am sure I was a terrible disappointment to her. I think at this particular lesson she had had enough of my faulty playing. She had been more than patient with me. And I, as usual, failed to meet her expectations.

She sat beside me on the piano bench and said, “You know, you will never be good at anything, because you like to do too many things.”

I was shocked and sad. Then I thought Wait a minute, I’m going to prove her wrong!” I did not respond to her words, but they NEVER left me. I set out to be the best I could be in each of my interests. Those interests gave me great joy and satisfaction over the years, art, music, particularly singing, horses, gymnastics. Later my partner and I had a very successful gymnastics school in Sandpoint. I had a bent for drama and, as an adult, was involved in children’s theater. I found joy in all of my interests. I still have many interests, too many other things to mention in this blog.

I truly am sorry I did not manage my time effectively enough to practice well for my piano teacher. I finally quit piano lessons. I am pretty sure she was relieved.

Right now I want to be good at writing. And it, like everything else, takes time to develop the right skills. I now have many experiences under my belt and memories to share.

The beauty of written expression calls to me. I love beautifully crafted sentences whether I or someone else has written them. Oh, the joy and power of well-crafted words! Don’t we all want to inspire? Whether it is poetry or prose. I can’t get enough of the written word, and hopefully, I will leave behind some of my own well-crafted words for others to enjoy!

Here is a poem I’d like to share this month. I looked at the crescent moon last October and saw a dark line of geese float across it. It was too beautiful to miss, so I headed inside and wrote the following:

 

Crescent Moon

 

A crescent moon

hangs in the dim turquoise

sky.

 

Night has come, and

geese fly in shadowy lines,

calling to one another as they

float across the bright lunar glow.

 

They hurry to water seeking

a safe sleeping place

on a lake or pond

far from predators.

 

Sleep safely

feathered friends.

 

Sandra Mason

October 11, 2021

 

 

Here it is, nearly the end of January and I have not yet written my blog. January, with its gray days, has been difficult this year. I decided to introduce a bit of light humor. Sometimes my musings take me to odd places and this is the result.

 

ODE TO THE EYEBROW

Dear eyebrow,

You used to be so

lush and thick.

I thought that you were

just the trick,

always there

so nice and slick.

I plucked and

thinned you,

tried to train you. 

You would not cooperate,

and now I fear

that you decide

to disappear.

***

What is it with eyebrows?

As men age their eyebrows get

bushy and unruly, wildly going where

no eyebrow hairs should go.

They angle outward

and upward

in spectacular manner.

While women’s brows

take a different tack,

they simply refuse

to grow back.

 

Thinner thinner

they become

until there’s just

a single one.