Erica's Riddles and Taradiddles

A poem in memory of a friend passed away on New Year's Eve

2012-01-02T11:40:00.000-08:00

The Great Lover
by Rupert Brooke

I have been so great a lover: filled my days
So proudly with the splendour of Love's praise,
The pain, the calm, and the astonishment,
Desire illimitable, and still content,
And all dear names men use, to cheat despair,
For the perplexed and viewless streams that bear
Our hearts at random down the dark of life.
Now, ere the unthinking silence on that strife
Steals down, I would cheat drowsy Death so far,
My night shall be remembered for a star
That outshone all the suns of all men's days.
Shall I not crown them with immortal praise
Whom I have loved, who have given me, dared with me
High secrets, and in darkness knelt to see
The inenarrable godhead of delight?
Love is a flame:--we have beaconed the world's night.
A city:--and we have built it, these and I.
An emperor:--we have taught the world to die.
So, for their sakes I loved, ere I go hence,
And the high cause of Love's magnificence,
And to keep loyalties young, I'll write those names
Golden for ever, eagles, crying flames,
And set them as a banner, that men may know,
To dare the generations, burn, and blow
Out on the wind of Time, shining and streaming . . . .

These I have loved:
White plates and cups, clean-gleaming,
Ringed with blue lines; and feathery, faery dust;
Wet roofs, beneath the lamp-light; the strong crust
Of friendly bread; and many-tasting food;
Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon;
Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds; the keen
Unpassioned beauty of a great machine;
The benison of hot water; furs to touch;
The good smell of old clothes; and other such--
The comfortable smell of friendly fingers,
Hair's fragrance, and the musty reek that lingers
About dead leaves and last year's ferns. . . .
Dear names,
And thousand other throng to me! Royal flames;
Sweet water's dimpling laugh from tap or spring;
Holes in the ground; and voices that do sing;
Voices in laughter, too; and body's pain,
Soon turned to peace; and the deep-panting train;
Firm sands; the little dulling edge of foam
That browns and dwindles as the wave goes home;
And washen stones, gay for an hour; the cold
Graveness of iron; moist black earthen mould;
Sleep; and high places; footprints in the dew;
And oaks; and brown horse-chestnuts, glossy-new;
And new-peeled sticks; and shining pools on grass;--
All these have been my loves. And these shall pass,
Whatever passes not, in the great hour,
Nor all my passion, all my prayers, have power
To hold them with me through the gate of Death.
They'll play deserter, turn with the traitor breath,
Break the high bond we made, and sell Love's trust
And sacramented covenant to the dust.
----Oh, never a doubt but, somewhere, I shall wake,
And give what's left of love again, and make
New friends, now strangers. . . .
But the best I've known
Stays here, and changes, breaks, grows old, is blown
About the winds of the world, and fades from brains
Of living men, and dies.
Nothing remains.

O dear my loves, O faithless, once again
This one last gift I give: that after men
Shall know, and later lovers, far-removed,
Praise you, 'All these were lovely'; say, 'He loved.'

Cats and Dogs

2011-12-13T23:43:00.000-08:00

It seems to me that cats and dogs fill that gap that develops in long-lasting human relationships. . . when you've lived with someone long enough that you no longer gaze for long seconds into his or her limpid eyes without awkwardness or a desire to be the first to look away. Dogs and cats, on the other hand, gaze unabashedly into their humans' eyes - tenderly, adoringly, loyally. No embarrassment, no jokes to break the awkward silence. . . just long, silent looks that speak volumes.

Your editorial bias is showing. . .

2011-05-16T16:59:00.000-07:00

Charming No More: Strauss-Kahn Braces for the Wrath of American Puritanism

"Puritanism"? Really? "Puritanism"?? Because sexual assault and attempted rape are illegal?

Rain in the Forecast. . . Check

2011-03-14T13:06:00.000-07:00

Weed-blocking fabric made from corn. . . Check.

Organic compost. . . Check.

Organic leeks by the dozen. . . Check.

Rain in the forecast. . . Check.

Thank you, God, for gardens and gardening.

Robbing (Fiscally Responsible) Peter to Pay ("A Day Late, A Dollar Short") Paul

2009-07-24T11:25:00.001-07:00

The California legislature and governor have presented a new budget. . . one that "borrows" money from local government and special districts to pay bills at the state level. Hmm. . . I think we voted this option down in a special election just a few months ago. At least, I THOUGHT that's what the ballot read.

For Those of Us Who Are Clutter-Challenged. . .

2009-07-12T08:55:00.001-07:00

Organizing for Life: Declutter Your Mind to Declutter Your World by Sandra Felton

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
This book is a heavy-duty read. It's not about how to organize your house: It's about why many of us have difficulty doing so. A thought-provoking and sometimes disturbing read, it addresses issues such as self-esteem, alcoholic parents, attention deficit, etc., etc. Author Felton doesn't condemn; rather, she offers hope and concrete suggestions for the perennially disorganized and clutter-challenged.

View all my reviews.

This Comic Geek Speaks on comicgeekspeak. . .

2009-06-15T09:38:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I did a phone interview with the fun, smart guys at ComicGeekSpeak. We discussed how publisher Cinebook goes about translating Franco-Belgian comic books and graphic novels, what the response has been in North America, what it's like to work with a largely European workforce, etc., etc. It's a pretty animated discussion.

If you're interested in listening, the podcast is here.

Pay Attention to What Our Legislators Are (Not) Doing

2009-03-12T18:30:00.001-07:00

With a new Federal administration come new hopes, new promises, new impetus for change. It's an opportunity to do what many new administrations accuse their predecessors of not doing: action rather than talk. Particularly at this time, with the U.S. economy in the throes of dramatic adjustment, our elected Federal leaders have a tremendous opportunity to engender goodwill in the Americans they serve by demonstrating it themselves.

Voting to discontinue automatic pay increases for themselves would be a good place to start. In fact, several places would be a good place to start, but would any other be more applauded and more appreciatively viewed by their constituents - and at such little cost, relatively speaking?

Why, then, did our Congressional House leaders actively let this opportunity slip through their fingers this week?

Read about it here. If you feel strongly about it, call or email your senator to voice your opinion.

When your mom is an editor . . .

2009-01-14T23:41:00.000-08:00

. . . you might say stuff like this:
Teen son to mom, as he's wearing his homemade costume for the Napoleon Dynamite dance he's about perform in the school showcase (moon boots, a white T-shirt with "ringer" neckline and sleeve edges colored in marker, a paper decal of “Vote for Pedro” awaiting ironing and temporarily stuck on with pins, his dad’s old aviator-style glasses) -
“This is just a rough draft, but what do you think?”
It warmed my heart. :-)

The Bluecoats: Robertsonville Prison

2009-01-05T22:02:00.000-08:00

Does the above title ring a bell with you? No? This isn't surprising, unless you're a Francophone and recognize the translated title of a much-read volume in the comic-book series "Les Tuniques Bleues."

I'm now translating this series into English for publisher Cinebook. The volume Robertsonville Prison takes its setting from the infamous Andersonville Prison, which operated during the War Between the States. "The Bluecoats" takes a humorous look at the ineptitudes, inefficiencies and incongruities of humans and their actions in wartime. It's been extremely popular over the years with the French-speaking world (the comic-book series, not war) and is making its debut in North America.

Gone Ridin'

2008-12-27T02:10:00.000-08:00

Just a brief update to say that I'm out riding my bee-yoo-tee-ful new cruiser, a generous Christmas gift from my amazing children. :-)

Merry Christmas

2008-12-23T01:16:00.000-08:00

Most embarrassing news anchor line on election day 2008

2008-11-04T16:25:00.001-08:00

Brian Williams (white) to Tavis Smiley (black) after Smiley's observations about the import of this election:
"That's why we invited you to our family table."
Yikes.

The Troubles: 1968

2008-11-02T22:28:00.000-08:00

Professor MacKenna teaches his children to spit through their gapped front teeth at the American flag. When asked, they are to say they’re not from America. Ameri-k-a, he spells it out in conversation. Boann MacKenna cringes each time.

The children don’t question. Well, Siobhan, the baby, six, asks: “Why can’t we be American, Da? My friends are.”

Her elders stifle groans. They’ve heard it, all.

“Shuvvy, my love,” Mam coos.

“You’re no more American than my R’s,” MacKenna lectures his giggling brood, his brow knitted all over in a complicated cable pattern.

Even the older kids think he means arse. They’ve been taught to call it bum.

Mam shakes her fair head. “Gair,” she murmurs.

Gair. His Irish name. Some of the neighbors call him Gary and he seethes.

Gaping teeth aside, the five of them look American, Boann thinks. Red, brown, blond heads. Wide-striped T-shirts, frayed jeans, sneakers with rubber-capped toes. (Trainers they’re called back home, which the children know is not Home anymore).

At school, where they wear St. Margaret Mary’s chosen plaid, they look much like the others, the Americans. Their names are anything but: Breandan, Aedan, Boann, Emer, Siobhan.

Boann—a misery of a name to wear to middle school, where she is called Boo Ann. “Close enough, Sister,” she says each September, a small smile painted on her face.

She’s stuck in the middle at home, too. And what’s she called when she’s at home? Her nickname’s worse: Bobo. She doesn’t explain to Da that he’s given her a clown name, that they’re all clowns. Worse, she doesn’t tell him the neighbor kids call him Mr. Magoo. A cartoon character. Well, aren’t they all?

Boann drives her father mad with her American desires, habits, terms. Her dreams he only guesses at. She cocks her hip out when he lectures, sticks a tolerant look across her face like a plaster. Boann has a friend, an open-faced Proddie girl from down the block who came to the house once. Da answered the door to her trusting knock and glared until she ran back down the messy front walk.

Now they only speak at school, and to and from. They stow their friendship at the corner every day.

Da is not all bad. It’s hard on him that he’s not allowed in Belfast anymore. What was he called when he was at Home, then? His friends there knew MacKenna as Mac Cionaoith—“sprung from fire.”

It’s a derivation his children never can forget.

© Erica Jeffrey 2008

Critical thinking is just code for . . .

2008-10-22T09:47:00.000-07:00

. . . being an informed voter.

Who's your candidate in the upcoming election? Why?

If your man is Barack Obama, please visit the following site for a detailed, dispassionate overview of his stated policies, recorded votes, and issues on which he's been called to account and had to respond/recant publicly. Having read much of the material (and planning to read more via the copious links supplied), I wonder: Is Joe Biden running the most Freudian, passive-aggressive, covert campaign for VP in US history? When he said that Obama's response to an outside threat within 6 months of being elected would look like the wrong choice to the rest of us, I don't think he was being hyperbolic.

Please read carefully: The comprehensive argument against Barack Obama.

OUTRAGE!!!!!!!

2008-10-17T11:16:00.001-07:00

A tragic bus accident a few weeks ago in a nearby county left several people dead, including the owner of the bus. The bus was on its way to a casino. Investigations revealed that the bus and driver weren't properly licensed and that the driver may have been impaired by medications and/or alcohol.

One can find any number of offenses in this story, right?

So, obviously, the first lawsuit I've heard about is directed against . . . THE CASINO!??

The lawyer who has brought the suit on behalf of family members of a woman killed in the accident said on camera (and I paraphrase) that the casino needs to be held responsible for the fact that it earns money from people who are transported to the casino on buses! NOT casino buses: privately-owned buses! NOT buses driven by casino employees! NOT buses that may crash on casino-owned land!

Anyone who knows me well knows that I'm not a fan of casinos. My outrage isn't about protecting the casino industry. It's about SHAMEFUL, SHAM lawsuits motivated by greed.

I'm wondering . . . if someone gets in a car accident on the way to the lawyer's house . . . is the lawyer responsible because the accident wouldn't have happened if the driver weren't on the way to the lawyer's house?

Turn Down the Rhetoric!

2008-10-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

We're in the final push toward Election Day 2008. Of our honorable candidates, who, along with the rest of us, are staking so much on the ballots we'll cast in November, I make this request:

TURN DOWN THE RHETORIC!
TURN UP THE SUBSTANCE!

I don't want to hear another word about what the "other" candidate is hiding . . . I want to hear what you're planning.

I don't want to hear another word about failed economic policies or broken systems . . . unless it's a potential solution.

I don't want to hear another word about a citizen asking a "good question" in a town hall forum while the candidate stalls for a response . . . I want to hear a straightforward answer.

I don't want to hear another catchphrase from either side . . . We Americans are capable of analyzing sentences longer than 7 words, no matter what journalists have been taught. My comprehension is waaaay past that of an average 5th grader's, so I don't need your speeches and subsequent pundits' explanations broken down into small, manageable clauses lest they go over my head.

This election is serious business. Please, candidates and media, don't treat it like a sitcom that's geared toward the lowest common denominator.

A writer reviews my book . . .

2008-09-18T09:17:00.000-07:00

. . . and here's what he said: CaptainD's Book Reviews Blog.

Next up on my reading list is David's book, Space Oddity, which just arrived in the mail. David is a fellow reviewer for Curled Up.

Thank you, David!

Henry Ward Beecher said . . .

2008-09-17T13:38:00.001-07:00

The real democratic American idea is, not that every man shall be on a level with every other man, but that every man shall have liberty to be what God made him, without hindrance.

Who am I? (Guess!)

2008-09-14T20:25:00.000-07:00

I am 42 years old,

I love the outdoors,

I hunt,

I am a Republican reformer,

I have taken on the Republican Party establishment,

I have five children, and

I have a spot on the national ticket as vice president with less than two years in the governor's office.

-Did you guess?
|
|
|
|
|
|
I am Teddy Roosevelt in 1900.

Rural Decay

2008-09-14T08:23:00.000-07:00

I heard it on this morning’s news report—
another threat of coming urban blight,
another fear to keep us up at night,
another cloud to adumbrate the light—
how marching souls are leaving home in droves,
their lands devoured by the hand of greed,
their fields now sown with sand and not with seed,
their forests burned beyond the power to bleed,

and swarming cities as a last resort.
Twenty-five million scorched-earth refugees,
displaced from farm and plow and grain and trees.
Yet they are not the only companies
to turn their faces from their native soil
and seek to live upon another’s toil.

© Erica Jeffrey 2008

For those who don't think Sarah Palin gave birth to her 5th child

2008-09-09T11:36:00.000-07:00

. . . apparently the obstetrician who helped deliver him does:

Article in the Anchorage Daily News, dated April 22, 2008

Bibliography Entry for Ole Halverson

2008-09-09T10:14:00.000-07:00

Ole Halverson, born in 1930 in southwestern Wisconsin—in that lush region of river valleys and forested ridges known as the Wisconsin Alps—has never seen the native land of his forebears. Nevertheless, the heart of Norway beats within his works. Halverson still resides in the farmhouse where he was born, midway between Eau Claire and Prairie du Chien, on rich farmland that is home to some 100,000 Norwegian-Americans, most of them with ancestral roots in Gudbrandsdal, Norway.

Unlike the vast majority of Norwegian immigrants to the United States, Halverson’s parents railed against assimilation from the moment they landed at the St. Paul/Minneapolis Airport in 1921. Then newlyweds, Halvor and Lena had come to America to pursue farming on a larger scale than they found easily possible in Gudbrandsdal. They embraced the rolling hills of Wisconsin, the rich loam and mechanized equipment that New Gudbrandsdal offered, but they eschewed the adopted tongue of their fellow immigrants. Thus, their ninth child Ole—born and schooled at home—did not learn to speak English until he was sixteen. Today he writes exclusively in Norwegian, approving only official translations into English by youngest sister Ethel.

From his seminal work “Knut Brye”—the eponymous epic poem about the well-known sawmill foreman who provided shelter in the 1860s for newcomers to Wisconsin’s Ramsrud Hills—to his 2005 published collection Bad Axe, Coon Prairie, Viroqua, Halverson gives new voice to the childhood tales he heard of the early Norwegian-American experience. His “Uffda,” translated into eighty-five languages to date, recalls the devastation wrought by millions of grasshoppers in western Minnesota on June 12, 1873, and is, arguably, his best-known work. On the other hand, Halverson’s tribute to his parents’ enduring marriage, the naive “et kyss for de” (“a kiss for you”)—found scribbled on the back of a seed order form—is listed in numerous publications as “the most quoted love poem in the modern Norwegian language.”

In “The Garden of the Herrnhutters,” Halverson draws on the memoirs of A. M. Iverson*, pastor to a company of emigrants from Stavanger who settled in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, in the mid-1800s. This group, members of the Congregation of Brothers, sought to live in the countryside, away from the temptations of city living. A wealthy and well-educated benefactor, Nils Otto Tank, came to Milwaukee in 1850 to furnish them land and help them establish a colony. The settlement would be built on the model of Herrnhut—a village established by the organizer of the Church of the Brotherhood, Count Zinzendorf, in the mountains of Saxony. (Tank had undergone a religious conversion as a young man when he was injured and subsequently stayed in a private home in Herrnhut.) Nils Otto purchased land for the settlement in what today is Green Bay, then a small pioneer settlement. Forty-two adults were among the group that moved to the land to build the new village, which was named Ephraim, meaning “the highly fertile.” The colonists cleared the heavily forested land and built the structures in a process memorialized in “Denne Hagen av Herrnhuters.”

Halvorson writes in blank verse, which lends itself well to the combination of lilting cadences and stark images that infuse his work.

* Pastor Iverson’s memoirs are considered a wealth of information about the early days of Norwegian pioneers in America.

Distinction?

2008-08-28T00:19:00.000-07:00

I'm the only person I know who got injured watching the Olympics on TV.

Have you ever read Ray Bradbury's Dandelion Wine?

2008-08-27T11:35:00.001-07:00

I wrote this very brief, impassioned review of it just now. (Click on the teeny image of the book cover to reach it.)

Slow

2008-08-25T11:52:00.000-07:00

He yelled at the large young man crossing the road
against traffic—
the morning sun too much in his eyes:
"Idiot!"
and saw too late
the mouth agape, the frightened eyes, badly cut hair,
and felt the heat of shame
rise in his belly.

© 2008 Erica Jeffrey

It's OK to be a writer. For a job.

2008-08-05T00:00:00.000-07:00

Yep. It's more than OK. It's nice to have others read my writing as a sort of validation of how I invest my time, but I guess I'd keep writing even if no one else were reading my work. Happily, people do.

Why do many artistic folks feel a need to justify their chosen work? I, for one, didn't inherit this attitude from my parents, who were artists themselves. Yet, over the years I've guiltily hidden my stories and poems the same way I've hidden candy-bar wrappers and empty See's Victoria Toffee boxes.

Ironically, sometimes it's more "OK" in my mind to edit and proofread--and promote--other people's writing than it is to work on mine. Isn't that weird? What if chefs felt this way about the dishes they create? Or shepherds about their sheep? Or firefighters about the fires they battle? ("No, it's OK. I'll just leave this house to burn for now and come help you with that one.")

When I was a kid, I wrote for the pure joy and release of it. Then, as I entered adulthood, the whole money thing got entangled with the production of writing in my mind. It began to seem that without a concrete something being received in exchange for a story or poem or essay I'd produced, I wasn't really working. I was . . . playing.

I'd like to think more like the second worker in the following story: A visitor to the construction site of one of Europe's great cathedrals in the Middle Ages asked a stone cutter what he was doing. The stonemason replied, "I'm making a brick." The visitor asked another stonemason the same question. That stonemason answered, "I'm making a cathedral."

:-) :-) :-)

New blog to check out: Three Sisters Blog

2008-08-01T09:51:00.000-07:00

My friend Nicki, a wonderful young mother and writer, has started a blog with her sisters. One of them lives in Nebraska, so I already love their blog. They posted a plug for my book (Omaha Beach) today, which makes me love their blog even more!

Check out their writing: Three Sisters

Yakari and the Stranger

2008-07-21T23:19:00.000-07:00

One of my writing jobs is translating French comic books into English for Cinebook, the "9th art publisher." (If you know what that tagline refers to, send your explanation as a comment and I'll post it!) This fun work has introduced me to some classic Franco-Belgian comic books and graphic novels, including the beloved Yakari series by Job and Derib. Yakari is a young Sioux boy who can converse with animals. In each volume, Yakari learns a valuable life lesson through an encounter with animals.

In Yakari and the Stranger, the boy and his horse Little Thunder help a pelican that has a nasty cold. This charming story teaches a lesson, quite powerfully, about kindness--or a lack thereof--repaid.

These tales are a welcome change from the superheroes and angst that fill the pages of many popular comic books and graphic novels.

A River Runs Through It (the book, by Norman MacLean)

2008-07-01T14:24:00.000-07:00

A River Runs Through It and Other Stories, Twenty-fifth Anniversary Edition by Norman Maclean

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
Incredible writing: profound, poetic, unflinching, humane. The book and the movie have both had impacts on my work and the way I look at the people around me.

View all my reviews.

Unfinished Business

2008-06-22T23:26:00.000-07:00

Recently I found the following journal entry, which I wrote for a college class many, many years ago. I was 20 at the time. Who was I to be philosophizing?

Last year I got to thinking about unfinished business. I decided that living one's life is like weaving a rug.If you leave any threads untied or broken, they may hold secure as long as you're weaving. At the least stress, though, no matter how tightly you weave—maybe even as you're pulling it off the loom—the ends might loosen throughout and the rug fall apart.

I had gone through one of those familiar phases of trying to shape my actions around a few choice mottoes and proverbs. In this particular round, I paid off debts, confessed bygone mistakes and even went so far as to throw away some old, special letters I'd been saving. Once in awhile, I even cleaned my room.

I tend to overdo a few things. Well, sometimes I over-everything. It wasn't long before I was neatly wrapping up relationships that had been giving me trouble for awhile. Somehow, the idea of finishing business turned into not getting involved in any kind of business at all—that is, not getting into situations that would leave me obliged to anyone. That meant sticking to the basic necessities of socialibility and friendship and not cultivating any relationships that would leave a lasting, maybe bothersome impression on me afterward.

It didn't take long to see that those obligations and troubles were the brighter threads in the rug, and that the whole pattern looked pretty dismal without them. They were time-consuming, and difficult, but the end result was so much finer when they were included.

I also saw the nonsense in trying to tie off a thread before coming to the end of it. Use it until it comes to its end, then tie it off with a necessary bit sticking out behind the knot. Deciding to tie it off halfway through leaves a long end trailing off, looking clumsy and messy in the rug. Really, cutting anything off before it's finished is painfully wasteful.

A gallon of gas vs. a box of plastic bags

2008-06-14T11:54:00.000-07:00

Can someone explain something to me? SO MUCH of what we wear/put on our skin and hair/listen to/play with/drive/eat/smell is either derived from petroleum or gets to us, in part, because of petroleum. It's not just about the gasoline we put in our gas tanks.

Why is the cost of a gallon of gasoline $2.50 higher than it was a few months ago when the costs of other petroleum-based products have not risen commensurately? I know prices in general are up, but I haven't seen a $2.50 markup on a jumbo box of plastic bags or a tub of petroleum jelly.

If it's about supply, or investors, or refinery capacity, or those countries in the Middle East who are selling us petroleum, why isn't the cost of every petroleum-based product going up equally??

What do you think?

My book is on Amazon now! :-)

2008-06-06T22:50:00.000-07:00

It's here: Omaha Beach.

If you want to leave a review, I'll write it for you. HA. Kidding. If you'd like to leave a review on Amazon, Barnes & Noble or Target, that'd be sooooooper.

Not to be an alarmist, but . . .

2008-05-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

I don't recall what the Wall Street Journal wrote about preparing for Y2K, but here's what one WSJ journalist has said about rising food costs and possible food shortages in the USA:

"Load Up the Pantry."

At our house, despite efforts to cut back on unnecessary driving, I'm pretty sure we're spending more on gas for the cars than on food right now. The thought of food costs rising faster than the cost of oil isn't a happy one, even if we are an overweight nation.

Omaha Beach, part deux

2008-04-17T15:52:00.000-07:00

Not part two of the book, but part two of the publication news.
Omaha Beach now has a different cover (fab, fab, fab!) and a better layout inside. It also has an ISBN!

Here's a link: Look here.

On a side note, I returned home last night from a trip to London, where I worked at the London Book Fair for comic book publisher Cinebook. An international book fair is a great place to embarrass yourself by trying out your textbook French, German, Italian, Cantonese, etc. on people who actually speak the language. Tee hee.

If you're blondish and mention that you live in California, expect to be asked by at least one person from another country if you surf. I am, I did and I was. And I don't.

In a narrow, crowded restaurant with uneven floors in the Earls Court section of London, I enjoyed the best tikka masala I've ever tasted. At the tables on either side of ours (we were almost bumping elbows with the diners at those tables), unidentified and highly gutteral languages were being spoken with such intensity that I could practically feel the speakers' breaths in my face. It sounded like a throat-clearing contest.

My one tourist foray of the trip was to Hampton Court, just outside London. Hampton Court was taken away from Cardinal Wolsey by Henry VIII after Wolsey failed to persuade the Pope that it was a good idea for Henry to divorce his wife and marry Anne Boleyn. Some of the outstanding features of the palace include a 500-year-old astronomical clock (taken down for renovation during my visit), the Chapel Royal (closed between church services the day of my visit), the gardens and the Royal Tennis Court (designed not for modern tennis but for the centuries-old game jeu de paume). I was really disappointed to miss the chapel and the clock, but the living history presentations around the palace (including actors preparing a meal in the palace kitchen) assuaged my feelings. I'd watched several PBS specials on Hampton Court before this trip and am thrilled that I got to visit the palace.

Omaha Beach is now in print!

2008-04-01T16:13:00.000-07:00

To everyone who's been beating down my (virtual) office door asking when I was going to publish my Omaha Beach collection of short fiction . . . it's done! Omaha Beach is available in print and as a PDF download. These stories, many of them set near a fictitious lakeshore beach outside of Omaha, Nebraska, are about survival.

I'm revising the layout, so I've taken down the link to the preview site. :-)

The Fiction of Real Life

2008-03-25T15:21:00.000-07:00

Standing on the tarmac at Munich, rolling
new words around my mouth. Hübsch. Süß. Liebling. Mein Liebe.
I like them all.
I’m not sure I like you as well, but your face
anchored by your tender mouth
floats beside me in the falling mist—
your smiles, too, rising falling rising—
a barometer ticking off the measure of my tempers.

In two days we never once
mentioned Grass, Heine, Hesse or the rest of
the 27 Deutsch writers I’d memorized
in alphabetical order
in order
to impress you

You were too busy searching for my heart.
Implacable American. (There.
I said it for you.)

I was too busy building castles.

Now the fairytale mist gathers into real rain drops.
You lean into my shoulder for warmth. Again,
your timing is off, for
I’m shivering with cold and isolation.
Your precise lips part and form the words to
the first American ballad you ever learned:
“Are you lonesome tonight?” you croon
in sweet imitation of the King.

©2006 E.M. Jeffrey

Name this place . . .

2008-01-14T23:23:00.000-08:00

YEAH!

2007-11-13T13:27:00.000-08:00

One person at a time, one bag at a time, one effort at a time . . . She's making a difference!

Warp - Installment #2

2007-11-01T09:55:00.000-07:00

“Perfectly good!” Edgar sat up and leaned back against the headboard. “Darling, they were on their last leg, if you’ll pardon the odd metaphor. Those old shoes couldn’t hold air, much less water; your feet were coated in mud each time you took them off. It’s high time you had a new pair. I don’t need to buy your new shoes for you. You’re perfectly free to go out and buy anything you need and ’most anything you want!”

They’d had this conversation so many times in the past ten years that Edgar knew every dead end it held. He scowled at his wife’s slender back as she turned from him, scooped up the offending shoes and headed for the bedroom door.

She spoke as she walked. “I know, my sweet. I know we have plenty of money for these things, but I hate to throw it around. Who knows what’s coming further down the line? Maybe the kids will need help.”

Edgar tapped the paper with his broad fingertips. “Lu, the kids are provided for. Their kids are provided for. We’re provided for. This isn’t the old days, sweetheart. There was a point to all the scrimping and saving back then. You—we don’t need to do it now.”
Luella looked back from the doorway, her eyebrows lifted in an apologetic grimace. “I know, honey. I know I make you crazy by being so careful, but . . . I can’t help it. I grew up poor, and you and I started out poor. I don’t want to play that song again. Ever.” She disappeared down the hallway to the kitchen.

She’ll probably try to resuscitate her shoes, Edgar thought. He murmured, “But you’re living like you’re still poor, Lu.” He picked up the newspaper, willing away the unsettled feeling this talk always produced, and turned to the comics.

Warp - Installment #1

2007-10-18T14:08:00.000-07:00

“Blast!” Luella sang out from the bedroom closet, loudly enough for Edgar to hear.

Edgar tipped the newspaper down, turned his head on the bed pillow and looked over his glasses at his wife. In the gloom of the unlit closet, she was a vague and harmless shadow. “What is it, dear? And why don’t you turn the light on?”

She stood still, hands on her hips, staring at the closet floor. “I’ve ruined my gardening shoes. They’re completely mildewed. I’m surprised we didn’t smell them before this. I don’t need the light, thanks.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet from now on. Hmmm . . . sounds like a book title, doesn’t it? Barefoot Gardening for Fun and Profit.”

With a monumental effort, Edgar Rawlins managed not to scream at the top of his lungs. “I suppose so,” he breathed, and pretended to return to his reading. He knew Luella’s need to pounce on ambivalent replies.

The hunter sprang. Luella stepped out of the closet and to the foot of the bed in a trice. In a composed voice that didn’t fool Edgar, she asked, “You suppose I’ll garden in my bare feet, or you suppose it sounds like a book title?”

Edgar-the-prey folded, laying his paper on the threadbare flowered comforter. “The latter, of course. I don’t expect you to garden in your bare feet unless that tickles your fancy, Lu.” He didn’t add that he remembered—with a pleasurable stir of warmth in his belly—when it had tickled her fancy (and his) to garden in her bra and cut-offs, racing for her shirt slung over a rose bush when unexpected company drove up.

There was no point in bringing it up, he thought. Nowadays Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in any stage of undress—not because her figure wasn’t still lovely (it was) and not because she was of above-average modesty (she wasn’t). Luella wouldn’t risk being caught in her ten-year-old Maidenform bra, graying and held together by two safety pins.

His wife smiled in embarrassment. “Ed, I know you’d buy me new shoes in a minute if I asked, but I’d hate to. I’d hate to be such a spendthrift. These were perfectly good until I ruined them . . . .”

Earth stewardship: the right thing to do

2007-10-15T21:41:00.000-07:00

Today my youngest and I were chatting in the car about how easily people could save natural resources by making a few small, painless changes and maybe some bigger, sacrificial ones. The topic came up because I was drafting behind a semi for about 10 seconds before saying, "OK, we need to move now because this isn't a safe distance." That led to a brief discussion of wouldn't-it-be-nice-if-someone-invented-a-safe-way-to-draft-behind-trucks, which led to a likewise-brief discourse on how easily we can DO THINGS BETTER. Like . . . forgoing the repeat step in the shampooing process . . . sharing your magazine subscriptions among a group of friends instead of tossing each issue after you've read it . . . buying bamboo cutlery to carry around instead of accepting a handful of plastic cutlery at the drive-through . . . insisting politely to the store clerk that you don't need the soap bagged separately before being put in a larger grocery bag because (a) the soap is already wrapped in at least 2 layers and (b) you brought your own shopping bag . . . telling the server nicely that it's not necessary to refill your water glass each time you take a sip . . . using your worn washcloths and towels for rags instead of throwing them away and buying more paper towels . . . turning off the water while you brush or shave . . .

The Aerobic Mouse

2007-10-14T20:35:00.000-07:00

There's a new dance sensation at my house. It's called "The Aerobic Mouse." Here's how it goes:

First, you stand at the kitchen sink stemming apples to put through the juicer. You hear a noise coming from under the fridge, which at first sounds as though it's a vibration caused by the loud garbage truck outside that's throwing trash carts up in the air. Then, you realize that the noise is more of a chewing/gnawing/ nibbling noise. Yeah, definitely not just a vibration.

Next, you dislodge the folded grocery bags that are stuffed between the fridge and the counter, watching for a small scurrying creature to come running out. When that doesn't happen and the noises (which are definitely chewing noises, you now realize) resume, you kick the front of the drip pan under the fridge. The gnawing stops.

Got all the steps so far? Go ahead and review them if you need.

Now, return to your position at the sink. Continue stemming apples and feeding them into the Jack LaLanne juicer on the counter.

Here's the bit of tricky choreography: Spot a furry flash moving from the direction of the fridge to the bottom of the cupboard next to you, then streaking back to the fridge. In broad daylight. Jump, scream and run into the living room holding a dripping apple.

Good so far?

Hours later--after your significant other has cleared away detritus from around the fridge and set traps--resume your apple juicing activities in the kitchen. It's dark now. Again, stand at the sink and place the apples in the juicer on the counter between the sink and fridge. Glance out of the corner of your eye in time to see the rodent run out on the same path, wave, wink at you about the traps, and run back to the nether recesses under the fridge.

The next day, add a new step: Move the juicer to a new counter so your back is to the fridge and you cannot see the mouse/rat/capybara without turning around. As you feed apples into the juicer, perform a brisk aerobic hop to discourage rodent incursions around your feet. Remind the creature loudly that this is, again, BROAD DAYLIGHT.

Variation: Add loud music to avoid hearing a trap spring.

Life on the Farm

2007-10-12T10:13:00.000-07:00

A few years ago we traded in the city life for rural living. Unlike Lisa on “Green Acres,” I don’t adore a penthouse view (I've only ever enjoyed one, on a week's stay in smoggy Shanghai, China), but I do know I was ready to leave the nightly police helicopter tours over our block, the drug-dealers’ conventions at the local convenience store and the no-name, no-talk attitude of some of our city neighbors.

We looked at several areas before we chose a rural location that shall remain nameless but lies between Oregon and Mexico. With starry-eyed optimism, we bought a "fixer-upper" (translation: some of the outlets weren’t wired to ANYTHING but air) farmhouse with a couple of acres. The outgoing owners even left us several chickens and geese, one duck and a herd of 20 or so cats. They also left a stunning crop of summer squash, each the size of a didgeridoo.

To celebrate the move, we threw a big “Down on the Farm” party. Bales of hay served as seating; we gathered cornstalks into shocks; and I piled the squash into decorative cords on the front porch. We bobbed for apples and ran feedsack races. Overalls and straw hats were optional. When they heard our renovation plans, friends told us we certainly had a lot of vision to buy a (ahem) fixer-upper. As guests departed, we tried to give each one a cat and a squash as door prizes. No takers.

One of our first moves as farmette-owners was to get a big German Shepherd puppy. I drove to the owners’ house with a cardboard box in the backseat to use as a carrying cage; when I saw that the dog was big enough (at seven months) to eat the box, I stuck it in the trunk and let the dog have the backseat. After spending her first day under the porch, she proved herself to be a champion watch dog. She also taught us to never assume that all dogs can run free with the livestock, like that nice dog on "Babe." In other words, she developed a nasty habit of eating very fresh chickens. After we had to dispatch a couple of unfortunate ones, we clipped the others’ wings and kept them in the fenced barnyard.

The next animal acquisition was a pygmy goat. After she and my husband played an ongoing game of, “You add another strand of barbed wire to the fence, and I’ll show you how I can clear it,” we decided a leash was in order for a few days. Following her initial reticence, she quickly became a friendly pet.

Next, of course, was a pygmy billy goat (aka a buck). While the one we bought was about half the size of our nanny, he didn’t lack for libido. A few months later, they presented us with twins . . . twin whats, we wondered? Boys or girls? Our more experienced neighbor set us straight on that score and offered to castrate the little fellows for us.

I will only say that rubber bands took on a whole different light for me thereafter.

Later, when we sold one of the kids to the same neighbor, the nanny grabbed a $20 bill out of his hand and gobbled it down while my husband chased her around the pen. This was an expensive animal! The chickens, on the other hand, seemed a better investment. In return for scratch and water, they gave us fresh eggs. So economical. After doing the math on the feed and water bills, we learned we were paying about $14 per dozen eggs. But they were fresh!

Some of our farmette disappeared before our very eyes that first winter. Several fruit trees perished; apparently they’d been planted too deep and had drowned. My husband planted willow saplings by the goose pond, thinking with satisfaction of how the geese would enjoy their shade come summer. They enjoyed them all right . . . mostly the next day, when they ate every leaf and tender twig. Sadly, the trees didn’t survive. Not so sadly, most of the geese migrated south to our next-door neighbor’s horse pasture, where one mama goose trooped her brood through the mud on daily excursions.

We did manage to help hatch one gosling; having set eyes on me first after exiting the shell, he imprinted on me and became a friend closer than a brother. His nickname was the “Garden Goose,” for he followed me around the garden, helpfully eating broccoli seedlings, peas and most of my flower buds.

After a year of painting, repairing, updating, planting and spending, spending, spending, we felt gratified at what the hard work had yielded. We were also a bit wiser in the ways of the farm. Helpful neighbors were handy with useful advice and extra produce; my parents’ old pick-up truck proved invaluable (you do NOT want to take a smelly billy goat to the animal swap in your car); and we were adept at catching chickens for wing-clipping. I’m sure we provided some good laughs for our country neighbors, too.

We’re thinking of raising exotic animals next . . . say, rhinos.

Once upon a time, there was a Sioux boy named Yakari . . .

2007-10-08T21:20:00.000-07:00

. . . and Yakari rode a horse called Little Thunder. And, they talked to each other.

I translated this book. You can buy it!

2007-10-06T16:59:00.001-07:00

Where can you buy it, for instance?
Here.

OK, I like this book a lot.

2007-10-03T23:14:00.000-07:00

I've been buttonholing people about The Small-Mart Revolution for a few weeks. For the most part, they're not running and hiding when they see me, or at least no more than usual.

Enough chit-chat about it. And now: The book review . . .

If you do read this book, tell me what you think.

Why buy local?

2007-09-30T22:47:00.000-07:00

Behold the locally-made cake. It is a thing of beauty in so many ways. This cake was freshly baked to order by a small locally-owned bakery, using eggs from locally-raised cage-free chickens. The baker didn't cut corners by using cheap, suspect ingredients produced in a low-wage country under questionable conditions. She decorated it with skill (and food supplies) that would reflect well on her, sure that we would cross paths often, and she charged a fair price for her hours of labor without apology. The cake cost more than a less beautiful, less delicious cake would have cost at a giant retail grocery store . . . but what is the real cost of a "cheaper" product?

Let's see:
Lower price likely=lower pay for the store baker, cheaper ingredients, lost business for the locally-owned baker, lost business for local graphic designers who don't design the retail giant's advertising, longer wait in line at the giant retailer that doesn't hire enough clerks to prevent slow-moving checkout lines, less consumer control over the cake ingredients (add your own)

Locally-made=developing relationship with the local baker, larger portion of the cake's purchase price is invested back into the community, no waiting in long line at retail giant after purchasing unnecessary items while wandering across the stress-inducing store, no going to customer service to correct wrong price scan, more work for local graphic designer who designs the baker's logo and labels (add your own)

BUY LOCALLY-MADE PRODUCTS. EAT LOCALLY-GROWN FOOD. SUPPORT LOCALLY-PRODUCED ARTS.

If you're feeling literary . . .

2007-09-27T18:13:00.000-07:00

Here's a review I wrote recently of a challenging book:
The Last Journey of Ago Ymeri. The story is set in Albania.

The Great Pumpkin

2007-09-25T13:44:00.000-07:00

We grew this pumpkin this year ("Big Max" variety) and are mighty pleased with it. (Also grew the smaller pumpkins and the corn.) After we picked The Giant, we watched "Lords of the Gourd" on PBS. Now we're thinking we need to make a special pumpkin patch next year, dedicated to giant pumpkins.

Review of In the Ghost House Acquainted (a book of poetry)

2007-09-23T15:45:00.001-07:00

In the Ghost-House Acquainted, by Kevin Goodan, Alice James Books, Farmington, Maine, 2004, 56 pages

If the poems of In the Ghost-House Acquainted were not composed in the moment after—after love’s loss, after revelation, after moonset, after lamb-pulling—then surely they were meant, at least, to be read in that moment. They are messages from a man acquainted with work and rest, grief and joy, death and life. It is not essential to have experienced all that Goodan writes of in order to appreciate his work; and if we are novices in the occupation of grownup life, the poet will instruct us in our necessary preparations for that life.

Informed by an acquaintance with the Bible (both Old and New Testaments), Goodan has written verse that beckons us to consider the lilies of the field—and the dead lambs in the diesel-fueled bonfire—and how our own place in the cosmos may resemble those members of our shared creation. Along with Psalmic structure and diction, many of the poems in this book contain phrases that seem taken directly from familiar Bible verses, yet upon inspection reveal subtle word shifts that point to a particular speaker: farmer as co-creator with God. For example, in “In the Ghost-House Acquainted,” Goodan writes: “I close the simple flowers//and bid the moon now rise//for Death is not my harbor.//And I walk among derelict combines//that they might know//and come unafraid.”

The poet’s speaker sings with humility, with quiet anger, and with pain masquerading as bravado, too. In his “Canticle for the Day-Labor,” the speaker is both taskmaster and servant, waiting on the good graces of his lord, aware that grace is given in many guises:

temper me make me plow blade
an implement for the deep earth
a pleasure in the sowing
and if I bleed make it plentiful
make it sweet like honey
like a train spike through the skull
and I will push the land
and dispatch winter
for the veins of my lord
are always open

Goodan’s poems are redolent of country life—not the pretty, polite kind pictured in glossy magazines for weekend gentlefolk, but the kind of living that coats one’s hands with amniotic fluids from pulling a stuck foal and rips one’s heart out from watching the mare clean the already-cooling body of her stillborn. He tutors his readers in the large and small benedictions of farm life, never letting us forget in any single poem that those blessings can be recalled in a moment. And we, Goodan reminds us, hold the power to bestow or revoke benedictions as well—not because we can or want to, but because we must. Consider his “Barn-Cleaning”:

A pigeon topples down,
cocks a dazed head.
I catch it, try snapping its neck
like a wet towel in air.
Stupid bird! [. . . ]
An alien eye.
I set the bird’s head
against a flat rock.
Wings beat my ankle
but I do not rise.
Four and twenty birds
twitch in a barrel.

A word that peppers some of the poems in this collection, scree, is indicative of the precarious nature of life on a farm (or anywhere else). This material life, which feels solid and sure because it is the only existence we know at present, is so much loose rock beneath our feet, Goodan tells us. A gust of wind, a torrent of rain, or the imperceptible shuffle of emotions across our days can dislodge the precarious debris beneath our feet that we call daily life and throw us off of our mountain into an unfamiliar valley: “I’m in the pasture calming down the mares,//calculating what might be taken//by the hurricane as sacrifice.//Anything not rooted might be taken” (from “If I’m Not a Garden”).

Goodan speaks of human loss with such palpable authority that it is tempting to search for a biography of the poet in order to confirm his right to do so. How could he write of these moments unless he has experienced them? we want to know. What happened to these people? we wonder, for he has created individuals whose fate resonates in our imaginations. A lover, a father, even a horse caught in barbed-wire fencing, are not mere fodder for his poetry: They inhabit his poems and our minds long after we have put down this volume. Consider “His Voice Had Grown Softer Each Day”—a goodbye as eloquent as any elegy read aloud at a memorial service:

I need you to get me a ticket, he said.
For what, I asked, waking at the foot of his bed.
For the train, he said. They say I need a ticket.
Except for the small lamp the room was dark.
The air was cool and clear. The first night of September.
Do you know who they are, I asked
and he said, oh yes. They are smiling and waving—
I haven’t seen them for so long.
They want me to climb on board. . . . I need my ticket.
I want to give you a ticket, I said.

Haboo, the speaker says into the ear of a mare straining in birth—“what the Skagit children said//when the storyteller stopped://keep the story going.” In this collection of poems, Goodan keeps the story going—a story that has been unfolding from the beginning of Earth’s time: life, death, sowing, harvest, burial, blood, ice-laced trees in winter, fragrant loam, rain on scree, keening wind, and the stillness that signals we are “Near the Heart of Happening.”

© Erica Jeffrey

On kisses and clothing

2007-09-21T13:11:00.000-07:00

Is anyone else alarmed/amused/bothered/perplexed/saddened by the realization that many people won't buy used clothing at yard sales or thrift stores because it "might have germs"--or insist on fastidiously sanitizing their hands after shaking hands in greeting--but willingly have sex with a number of partners in a week? Without so much as washing their hands first?

An Introduction to Art Gekko (AKA An Introductory Taradiddle)

2007-09-19T17:23:00.000-07:00

Art Gecko is the name of a movement long misunderstood in the art world. Art Gecko, which reigned supreme in interior design for about five minutes during 1926, was, of course, a direct descendant of Art Deco. The main difference between the two styles was that Art Deco’s sleek, stylized lines brought elegance to interior design, furniture and very tall buildings, whereas Art Gecko—with its overriding obsession with the gecko form—graced one very short building in Des Moines, Iowa and a rest stop near San Francisco. Both were later torn down and replaced with portable toilets.

The Art Gecko movement began shortly after the Art Deco movement was named in 1925 A.D., following the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes in Paris. Herb Sillcox, the founder of Art Gecko (who has recently come out of hiding in an attempt to revive the movement), organized and carried out the one-man exhibition that would in turn give Art Gecko its name and small but rabid following: the Exposition Internationale des Rest Stops Décoratifs et Geckos Modernes in Des Moines.

Art Gecko was a natural and understandable effort to amend the previous century’s apparent oversight of geckos in painting, sculpture and tatting. Sillcox often bemoaned the fact that so few extant art pieces portrayed geckos in any form and medium. Whereas symmetry, simplicity and geometric patterns were characteristic of Art Deco, perhaps the only recognizable characteristic of Art Gecko was the predominant positioning of geckos in each work.
Important influences upon Art Gecko were Hulke Sillcox (Herb’s mom), whose crocheted afghans featured a gecko in every granny patch, and Bette Greenhouser, at whose notorious Des Moines card parties female guests were invited to clamp a gecko on each earlobe as they walked in the door. Cubism, with its emphasis on the geometric, had a huge impact on Art Deco—but absolutely none on Art Gecko. Sadly, no leading designers took up the banner of Art Gecko and brought it to the forefront in any of the fine or domestic arts. In fact, it would not be until the late 1970s or 1980s that a popular clothing manufacturer would place a gecko on T-shirts and other apparel, thus lending credence to Sillcox’s insistence that he had changed the way the world looked at geckos.

Art Gecko grew increasingly compulsive in its obsession with the gecko form as it became apparent to Sillcox and his handful of maladapted supporters that the movement was not a major one. While the spiritual center of the Art Gecko movement continued to be Des Moines, a disgruntled adherent who had moved to California attempted to branch off by carving geckos on the stalls of a San Francisco Bay Area rest stop. He was soon arrested for defacing public property and jailed on unrelated charges, where he spent his days writing hate mail to Herb Sillcox.

While the Art Deco form can be viewed today in Radio City Music Hall’s interior and the Chrysler Building’s exterior, there are no remaining public monuments to Art Gecko. Herb Sillcox’s storage building in Des Moines was razed in the 1960s, and the rest stop near San Francisco was destroyed in a freak fire. (Coincidentally, the erstwhile Sillcox disciple had been released from custody just two hours prior.) Art Gecko founder Sillcox promises to rebuild his movement from the ground up.

© Erica Jeffrey 2007

Why taradiddles?

2007-09-18T22:37:00.000-07:00

According to dictionary.com, a taradiddle is "pretentious nonsense" or "silly pretentious speech or writing," or "twaddle," or even "a fib."

Excepting "a fib," taradiddle seems a fitting description of much of the writing to follow in this blog. Thanks to drlogan for suggesting the title.

And now . . .

Book recommendation for today: The Small-Mart Revolution, by Michael H. Shuman.

If you're into graphic novels, please consider publications from the new-ish publisher Cinebook Ltd. Check out the Yakari books if you're shopping for young children. They're listed here on www.amazon.com.

And another plug . . . check out the book reviews at
www.curledup.com.

Happy midweek to you!