Welcome To the Club House

Elizabeth and I began married life in 1962 and soon and very soon
found ourselves living in Washington, DC in a single bedroom apartment
with no furniture and no money to buy much of anything. But that didn't
stop us from exploring our new environment. I remember the time we
decided to splurge and purchase a gallon of vanilla ice cream. We did,
and on the way back to our abode took the wrong exit off one of the
"traffic circles" and ended up traveling across the Potomac River into
Virginia with our precious ice cream melting. No matter . . . we turned
around somehow and came back to DC and then saw the Lincoln Memorial
straight ahead of us. It was incredible to see things we had only dreamed of.

Elizabeth and I stood at the bottom and gazed up the stairs at Lincoln as
our ice cream continued to melt. A little later that year, some good friends
from back home came to visit us! They had a small daughter and when we
took them to see the Lincoln Memorial, I will never forget their daughter
standing at the base of all those steps leading up to the statue of Lincoln and,
in a big voice, confidently reading a small wooden sign on the ground next
to her "WELCOME TO THE CLUBHOUSE."   (The sign actually read:
"Please Stay Off the Grass.")

To me it is amazing to realize that on the day after Christmas in 1862, good
old Abe Lincoln authorized 38 Dakota Sioux to be executed in Mankato,
Minnesota. It was, and remains to this day, the largest mass execution within
the borders of our homeland.

I'm not sure why I think of all this just one day after this year's Christmas. I
wonder how many descendants of those 38 souls choose to think of what
happened that day 151 years ago?

                 May peace and peace and peace be everywhere. 
                                                                              -The Upanishads  600 BC

GREAT GRAY OWL

A few seasons past, the lemming population in the Far North (like northern
Canada) had diminished and the Great Gray Owls fled south to find food.
The call went out from the "Rare Bird Alert" system of the Audubon Society
that lots of Great Gray Owls were to be seen in northern Minnesota and
Wisconsin. Elizabeth and I packed up our stuff (Elizabeth's cameras, our
maps, binoculars, bird guides, and car food) and headed north! We were
not disappointed . . .  the following is one of the poems that grew out of that
excursion.

                              GREAT GRAY OWL

                       She floats moth-like, then glides.
                           Plunges into crusted snow.
                     Curved beak, talons hidden among
                                      soft feathers.
                         She rises with a small rodent
                    extracted from its once secure tunnel.
                                 Betrayed by sound.

E v e n i n g S i m p l i c i t y

a falling snowflake

delicate, labyrinthine

a bed of oneness.



          (A haiku written while watching
            a gentle evening snowfall.)

OH MY! THE ROOM IS SHRINKING . . .

Often, I visit the main, lower-level meeting room of the nearby Banfill-Locke
Center for the Arts. It is a great place for classes on painting, sculpture, writing, and
music performance. Always, it is a busy place!

One thing bothers me . . . all of the painting that goes on!

Not by artist-types - but by the folks who volunteer to keep the walls and ceilings in that
room, spotlessly shipshape. The volunteers must get satisfaction and joy by slightly
changing the hues of light-colored paints each time they give it
another coat.    (eggshell, winter white, light sage, etc.)

But, herein the problem presents itself!  Each coat of paint adds 1/32nd of an inch to the 
surface of a wall. (With 2 walls, that computes to 1/16 of an inch.) Not much you say.

But, go figure. The 24 X 15 foot room is getting smaller and smaller year by year. So -
go figure.

Here goes! If the room is painted on an average of 4 X's a year, that means that in just
one year, the width and length of the room is diminished by no less that 1/4th of an inch!

                                                                                     Average life expectancies:

    5 years         shrink by        1  &  1/4 inches                   Gerbil
  10 years         shrink by        2  &  1/2 inches                   Cottontail Rabbit
  20 years         shrink by        5 inches                               Beaver, Bottle-nose Dolphin
  25 years         shrink by        7  &  1/4 inches                   Wild Pig
  50 years         shrink by        14 &   1/2 inches                 Camel
  75 years         shrink by        21  &   3/4 inches                Parrot
  79 years         shrink by        22 inches                             Humans (in the US)

So, after a mere 1,056 years . . . just room enough in the room for . . .   a little chair.

Where Was I When the Shot Rang Out?

On that fateful Friday, 50 years ago, I was standing near the corner of 14th and P Streets in
Washington, D.C. along with a group of neighborhood gang members*. I will never forget
their faces and reactions as the police copter flew so low overhead. I feared it would crash as
it blared forth the announcement --

                              President Kennedy has been shot!

The gang's leader J.T. along with Oliver, Donny, Charles, and Sonny were absolutely
frantic! They hollered "Mr. Clem, don't go anywhere. Stay right here. Don't move. We
will be back."

                                    And . . . back they came . . . with scrapbooks.

They opened the pages of their precious books. It was immediately obvious that their
heroes were JFK and Cassius Clay. Together, we paged through their collections of
newspaper clippings and photos.

                                    And . . . we stood near the corner of 14th & P,
                                                      held each other,
                                                                      and wept.


                                                       -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -  -

*My spouse and I were living in Washington, D.C. at the time. Elizabeth was employed
 as a chemist at the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda. I was in my first year at
 Wesley Theological Seminary. I had chosen, as my student volunteer work requirement,
 to help begin a mission in the inner-city of Washington to address the needs of people in
 this black 2nd Precinct.

M A C K T R U C K S R U L E !

Tonight on T.V. there will be a special program on the "History and Manufacture of Mack Trucks."  I, for one, will be front and center. The other, glued to the T.V., will be my spouse, Elizabeth! So happy we share many of the same interests!

My fascination with trucks and truck trailers goes way back to early teen-age years. Now, in later years, I am keeping a running list of all the brands and models of truck trailers. It is easy to do, as the name-plate logos are riveted both on the back of the truck trailer and on the passing side of the trailer.

So far, my list has no fewer than forty-nine (49) brand names. Here they are!

      Wabash National, Fruehauf, Utility, Indianhead, Advantage, Stoughton, Morgan, Jindo,
      Trailmobile, Timpte, Hyster, Iveco, Interstate, Wayne, Champion, Thomas, Thiele, National,
       Navistar, Oshkosh, Reinke, Theurer, East, Econoline, Wilson, Haulmark, Kaufman,
       Kraftsman, Trail King, Towmaster, Western, Garwood, Barrett, Bame, Crysteel, Dorsey,
       Durabody, Jerr-Dan, Kentucky, Load King, Lufkin, Trail Boss, Troxell, VanGuard, Manac,
       Waseca, Hyandai, Everest/Maxim, and Great Dane, among others.
                         Note:  This list is quite incomplete and some trailer companies, just as with
                                    truck tractors, may have units on the road but are no longer are in
                                    business. However, the trailer parts largely remain available.

The list of truck tractors is much smaller: Western Star, Freightliner, Sterling, Isuzu, International,
                                                                  Kenworth, Hino, Iveco, Peterbuilt, Leyland, White,
                                                                  Pierce, Garwood, Volvo, McNeilus, Heil, GMC, FWD,
                                                                  Diamond Reo, Diamond T, among a few others.

MACK trucks still are my favorite . . . especially the red ones!  (Elizabeth likes red ones too!)

Just In Case

Would you believe?  I may actually expire before by U.S. PASSPORT!
But, most likely not.

In the meantime, it hangs securely around my neck in a tan "Lewis(N)Clark" travel pouch. There it is relatively safe from pickpockets and good-for-nothing, mother-my-dog, namby-pamby, general-run-of-the-road fleecers.

So, here is my passport, at-the-ready, just in case I move to Canada to avoid the blow-hards in Congress who, in a majority, are mere bags of wind and void of relevant discourse and thoughtful decision-making capability. Talk about oxymorons. What will it take for the winds of change to register with folks like that?

Come to think about it - the answers may be "blowing in the wind."

Oh dear . . . the congressional / executive impasse is over and the country is back running partially.
(So much for the "shut down" crisis.)

I guess that, for the time being, I can return my passport to the safe-keeping of our local bank's Safe Deposit Box.  What's that I hear?!  Something being postponed until January or February ???

SEIZE THE OPPORTUNITY !

A recent article in our local newspaper, told of how a care-giver would regularly take a young boy with spina bifida to a nearby wheelchair accessible nature center to actually get close to living animals. The paper told of what it meant to the young person. What a touching story.

The year was 1964. The place was a church in Churchville, Maryland. I have no recollection of her last name. Peggy was her first name. She was one of the regulars in the small church's youth group. She had spina bifida and was confined to a wheelchair. She loved the Beetles and could sing many of their songs. Peggy increasingly needed a lot of help to get around.

When it was announced that the "Fab Four" were coming to do a concert in Baltimore (it may have been the first in the U.S.) . . . the youth group advisors and I just knew that they were going to take Peggy and her friends to the Civic Center in Baltimore . . . a place where no one, even me, had ever dreamed to visit.

We were able to get tickets for everyone at less than $4 per person (which was a lot at that time) and contacted a church near Baltimore to make arrangements to sleep over the night after the concert, before heading back home.

I will never forget the group's joyful time with Peggy and her wheelchair. And, the crowd! The concert made history! The songs the Beetles sang that night included: "All My Loving," "She Loves You," "Roll Over Beethoven," "Can't Buy My Love," "I Want To Hold Your Hand," "A Hard Day's Night," and "Long Tall Sally."

Sometimes - things work out!

'Tis a Strange Autumn Indeed

As one of our neighbors said the other day, our seasons are really screwed up.

Over half or more of the trees in our neighborhood are still as green as if it is mid-summer. Some are covered with the colors of autumn. A few others exhibit the outline of naked branches silhouetted against the sky.

The geese have been strangely silent, as if they are confused about whether or not to fly south. There are no thin layers of ice on small ponds. Sometimes the days are November-grey. Other days, the sun shines as though it was early September. After a brief wind last night, the lawns in our neighborhood are free of leaves and are green as if it was mid-summer. Despite little rain since August.

One of my favorite fall images is when leaves fall straight downward around the base of a tree, lying there like a golden pool of light. Such a favorite image it is, that when Clem and I did a presentation on the fall solstice and looked through our published books of poetry - we found three pieces using this imagery!

My favorite, from Waiting for the Heat to Pass, is the following:

                                silent prayers

               leaves of amur maples

                                    their life energy spent

                       drift to the ground

        fade from brilliant reds and oranges

                            into pools of browns and golds

                   naked branches stark 

                                        in thin November air

                            they wait in stillness

                                      for the renewing touch

                   of soft snow filtered

                             through skeletal forms     

Nightmare on Urban streets

Summer road construction is nearing its end. Thank heavens!

All summer I have been chief navigator as we have gone from place to place in this city where we have lived for so many years. Clutching the street map in both hands, I have "re-routed" us to familiar places. Sometimes we even have gotten lost, adding more suspense to what usually are routine trips.

I must say the finished sections are smooth - and a huge improvement, especially on freeways. Dollars well spent on aging infrastructure has meant jobs for many. Hopefully going well beyond filling potholes, re-paving worn roadways will save the suspensions of numerous cars. And even prevent accidents in which attention to potholes rivals the risks of texting while driving.

A month or so ago, I had a terrible nightmare. You know those orange barrels that keep drivers from entering work sections? It has seemed as though they have been reproducing like rabbits in Australia.

 In my dream, I imagined they had become so numerous that there was no place large enough to store them until next summer. Therefore, the highway department workers busied themselves all winter long by continually loading them onto trucks and moving them to other sites, thus rotating their orange presence in our harried lives.

I think the source of my dream was a news article explaining that the summer's road construction was so complex this year, that it was too complicated for workers to remove barrels from finished stretches until the whole freeway was completed. The result? Cars restricted to one lane while passing lovely roadways still barricaded by those blessed orange barrels!

My dream indeed was a nightmare!

Farewell Summertime!

Perhaps it is because summer means T-shirts and shorts. Clothed just enough to be presentable in public. Leaving bare skin exposed and wind blowing through my hair, summer is the most sensual of the four seasons.

One of my favorites pieces of poetry reflects these times, repeated summer after summer. All I have to do is close my eyes and remember times past when my children were young. . .

embodied summertime 

hot sweaty body,
dirt between my toes,
smears from a grubby hand
brushing away mosquitoes
up one leg, down an arm 
and across my cheek, 
tired sore muscles and 
satisfaction of hard physical work
bring a garden of beauty to life

ahhh - body memories

cold clear water from
swimming pools, mountain streams,
blueberry picking time,
one eye alert for bears,
the other on ice cream buckets
slowly filling with blue fragrance, 
car trips and camping expeditions,
adventures with children,
backyard barbecues of chicken 
with secret sauce, 
fresh buttered ears of corn, 
big pitchers of minted tea  

evening loon calls
under star-studded skies,
full days of paddling a canoe,
flea market bargains
repaired and stripped of paint,
frosty tall glasses of lemonade,
nine months pregnant,
red ripe tomatoes, sweet basil,
yellow squash fried up with
onions and fresh dill

lazy summer days,
it seemed
they'd last forever
                      and forever

                                                          from one of my books of poetry
                                                                   Waiting for the Heat to Pass

The Wave Heard Around the World

The Grand Canal had slipped by. Our cruise ship was just leaving Venice.

The swells from the ship dwarfed the tiny ripples caused by the hosts of small boats that kept their safe distances. Their occupants looked upward and waved goodbye to all of us crowding the railings. Of course, we returned the gestures.  But, were we waving back and forth just to be waving? Something automatic. Being polite. After a few more waves, I stopped and simply watched. Did my wave really matter among all the waving? The ship left the harbor.

Later that evening, while at sea, an announcement came that Rosa Parks had died. That was October 24, 2005.

The thought washed over me of the unmistakable signal that a black seamstress had conveyed to a watching world. Hers was a seemingly simple gesture of defiance in refusing to relinquish her Alabama bus seat to a white man. Folklore has it that she was tired. Not true. Hers was a transformational act of bravery.

Hers was an intentionally dangerous move, born out of acts of imbedded cruelty and humiliation. I  remember standing by that very bus stop in Montgomery, reading the bronze commemorative plaque.

The gentle wave she began, watched by many - grew immense in size and intensity. Distant shores were rocked. Decent people around the world were being encouraged in their longings and efforts to be brave and daring risk-takers.  Rosa was the spark that set off the Montgomery Bus Boycott.

Now - in each day that goes by,  grows the awareness of an irrepressible reality that people of the world are interwoven in a common fabric.

Always have been.

                                           - Dedicated to the legacy of Rosa Parks who died at home in
                                             Detroit, Michigan on October 24, 2005 at the age of 92. Rosa
                                             became the first woman to lie in state in Washington, D.C. 
                                             She is a recipient of the Congressional Medal of Honor.

CIMICIFUGA

A startling smell to be sure!
Fall wind from just the right direction.
An incredibly sweet pervasive
    odor that commands attention.
And, there it is. A garden plant, tall and
    with spikes of blooming white flowers.

I must visit the place again soon -
    before the gift wears away.

"BETTER LIFE THROUGH PLUMBING"

Driving north from Minneapolis proper, there used to be a large painted message
on the wall of a warehouse "better life through plumbing." The warehouse has long
since been demolished . . . but the overall thought still vibrates across the world. Years
ago I was part of a mission work team that was assigned to work with families living
in a poor part of the Cumberland Mountains in southeast United States. The home we
came to work with was owned by a quite elderly woman. She lived alone and made
quilts to sell. She didn't have an outhouse and explained that she never had one but
would love to have one like her neighbors. Not fancy. Tar paper on the roof and a nail
for a door handle. One of the youth workers asked her how she took care of herself and
she replied "across the field by the forest." The group took two days to build an outhouse
of her liking. She worked right along with us and when the outhouse was done, she
said that she would like it if all of us could crowd into the structure and together pray
The Lord's Prayer. We did.

Sometimes life can be better than it is . . .

W H E R E ?

Where does

     mountain water flow?

To the sea?

To a bottomless pit?

To nurture life-giving crops?

Into our souls to refresh?


                  Flow

                        carefully

                                   water.

Sweet Teeth En Masse

It was early in the morning and I realized that there was

no milk for breakfast.

Going through the line at our CUB grocery store, 

I was startled to hear a cheer arise from some checkout clerks

the next aisle over. 

    Two thousand plus dollars . . . our first transaction of the day.

    (store manager comes running over) That person right over there, 

    the one going out the door, just bought 2,500 bars of Haagen-Dazs*

    ice cream! He said it was for a convention and said 

                        'if that's what they want . . .

                         that's what they will get.'

I could not help but stare. And yes, there they were. On a pallet . . . cases of

something all wrapped up being carted away.

Outside, I offered to hold one of the cartons until he could lift the rest into the 

back end of the small truck. He didn't take me up on my most generous offer.

          (No one seems to have ever taken me jump on ploys like that!)

So, I took my milk and went home.

Can't believe for the life of me, 

some people's palettes.

                       *Living briefly in New Jersey in 1961, I remember when Haagen-Dazs

                         first came out. The media said that the inventors of the ice cream

                         created the name so that it would sound exotic and Danish. The words,

                         evidently, were just made up.

W H A T G O E S A R O U N D . . .

The first poem was written on the day, four years after

a Discovery Shuttle astronaut lost grip on a tool while

doing an outside the shuttle procedure. The 15 lb. device

was allowed to go into orbit with little thought as to the

likeliness of ever having to "meet up" with it again. A 

direct hit would likely spell disaster. In 2004, it was

estimated that there were 10,003 pieces of space junk in

earth orbit - some small and some as big as a refrigerator.

Smaller pieces of "space chunks" fall ever 2-3 days, larger

chunks . . . every 10-12 days. On 4/29/03 a 2.5-ton Italian

satellite fell into the Pacific Ocean. It had been in orbit

for seven years!

The second poem was inspired by a Minnesota state-wide

air pollution alert in which everyone was encouraged to 

remain indoors unless absolutely necessary - especially

persons with asthma or lungs. Since I had both, I stayed

mostly inside.  I couldn't help but wonder where "road dust"

must go. With the help of the cooperative staff of the local 

Tires Are Us and Firestone outlets, I calculated that there 

is about 16.8 million tons of tire dust produced each year

in Canada and the U.S. If the dust is compressed into a 

somewhat-solid mass, that translates into a column that

measures 6 x 6 feet at the base and rising 140 miles into

space. Or . . . it would form a block the size of a football

field soaring to 9,835 feet. ( 1-1/2 times higher than

Mt. Washington.)

                              +   +   +   +   +   +

                   Heavy, vise-like tool, 

                   slips from astronaut's grip.

                   Released to orbit -

                   assumed never-to-be-seen-again.

                   Then, after three days -

                   a fifteen-pound emergency

                   looms. 

                   Shuttle rockets fire.

                   Dodges

                   disaster.

                   Almost not seen.

                       Often,

                              what goes around, 

                                         comes around.

                                +   +   +   +   +   +

                   Tire circles

                   wear thin -

                   spinning off rubber.

                   Particulate matter,

                   released to join soil, water,

                   air and -

                   lungs.

                   Disasters mostly unseen -

                   insidious.

                   Inner pollution.

                       Often,

                              what goes around,

                                         comes around.

 

A New Article Published on MinnPost

Elizabeth has an article just published on MinnPost. Its title is From here to Syria, the question haunts: Am I my brother's keeper?

Go to www.minnpost.com. and click on Community Voices to bring up the article. Check it out!

MinnPost is a on-line nonprofit nonpartisan news organization, providing "high quality journalism for news-intense people." Although their mission is aimed at issues of interest for Minnesotans, in this Internet age their site is visited by people all around the world.

A Toad Encounter of the Third Kind

Yesterday, I almost mowed over a toad.

It was early morning . . .
still the cool of the day.
By the time I got the mower started
the humid heat onslaught had begun.

So now, the task was at hand -
normally a twenty-one minute job
but today I aimed
for eighteen.

It was so hot that I skipped
stopping at the duckweed-covered
garden pond, replete with its little stream
gurgling over rocks along the edge.
A springtime home to many creatures,
one of which is always
a pair of toads.

Normally, not much attention is given them except
to enjoy their soothing evening calls or
to pause and try to spot them among the perennials
before they
plop into the safety of their pond.

Mowing around a corner of an organic bed
of garden vegetables, something moved!

Tiny it was and
hugely struggling through the long grass.

The mowing stopped and I cut
the engine with its whirling blades . . .

Then, two more diminutive strugglers emerged.

Kneeling, to peer into the grass
where the motion had been, I saw
their bejeweled eyes and lumpy skin.
The baby toads were so still and trusting -
I imagined they knew I would
cause them no harm.

I remembered a child, long ago
holding a toad up close and thinking -
those eyes are the most beautiful things in the world.

Still they are . . . except for
the dark brown eyes
of my sweetheart.

           Elizabeth, 
               I love you so much!
                      Clem
                                                    (Written the day before our Wedding Anniversary)

A Day of Remembering

On this day fifty years ago, Clem joined the marchers in Washington DC for the March on Washington. It was an event that changed both of our lives.

I asked him to be my guest essayist on my blog essays from the heart. Put this phrase in Google (or any other search engine that you use) and/or go to essaysbyecnagel.blogspot.com and see what he has to say!

NOTICED FROM MILES ABOVE THE EARTH'S CRUST

                               Call them          what you will
             Absorka, Bitter Root,         Big Belt, Cascades.
                                      From          an airplane window
             ranges of the Rockies         blend into
                                         one.

                                 From the         lingering blue sky below
                       a wisp of cloud         scuttles past -
                            soon to melt         away.
                                     Others         follow.

                  Serpentine streams         crawl from beneath
             melting drifts of snow         to congregate within
                          distant waters.        Slowed and captured by
                     walls of concrete,        reservoirs lay in wait
            to encourage farmland         to grow anew.
 
                                                        Recent snow on
       clear-cut mountain terrain         outlines curiously
                   unnatural patterns.        Perhaps,
                               from these         newly harvested slopes,
                  springtime streams         commence
                    their unhampered         rush
                                     to join         alpine lakes.

                  All, an emergence         of old and new.

                                    Waters         often appear pristine when
                               seen from         far above
                                                        earth's crust.

                       
                                                    -Written during an airplane flight
                                                      from Vancouver, BC to Minneapolis / St. Paul

What Is In Some People's Heads Anyway?

some folks must believe they are immortal
which means to live forever and a day
yet their behavior seems so contradictory

they speed down highways like the devil
was after them, tailgating the car in front and
weaving through traffic as if there is no tomorrow

if one is truly immortal, wouldn't that mean
they have all the time in the world - and more
to cruise along, breathe sweet air, enjoy the scenery

I guess they don't expect they will ever crash
endure crushed limbs and broken bones
or pass from this world into the next

if they weren't going so fast, I'd holler out
                          some of us are mortal and could die
the result of such "video-game" behavior

you know - games where the goal is to
beat the game, plowing through super-fast
to see how many other cars will flame out or

those TV shows full of high speed chases with
roadway violence to keep their audiences and ratings or
promises of impossible feats if you buy the latest models

as for me - I am far more comfortable when
cars stay in their own lanes, no texting please
and thank you, stay off my back bumper

I sometimes play the car-game, noting how often
their behavior gets them there no faster than me
and wonder how they can live so roiled up inside

meanwhile careful to yield to them, their claims
of entitlement their immortality seems to endow
this belief that all roads solely belong to them

I try not thinking bad thoughts such as
go ahead, crash and die some gruesome death
in order to discover they are mortal like me

So I think instead about lovely things, violets
blooming in the spring, the first soft snow
the love I receive and give away

and pray tiny prayers for safety
please God not today, I love life so much
and desire a few more sunshine-filled good days

A Falling Out

One week ago
while weeding
our organic flower garden
I met a nest of 
six-legged creatures.
Their angry buzzing wings
formed a swarm and
came in for 

the sting.

And, sting they did.

I managed to return
armed with a special petroleum-based
wasp spray laced with strange-sounding
chemical ingredients. *

Grace with the luck to
have survived the mere
eleven bites, I retreated inside
to care for a painful, puffy,
swollen hand.

Now, one week later, as
I write this poem
I am gratefully aware I
remain mostly alive.

          *Chlorothane, Cresoils, Dibutylphthalate, Dimethylphthalate,
            Epichlohydrin, Isophorone, Napthalene, Phenol, and Toluene

                (One source notes that these inert products "can cause nausea, vomiting, 
                  stomach cramps, skin/eye irritations, pancreatitis, nervous system disruption,
                  dizziness, respiratory paralysis, comas, and a sundry assortment of maladies 
                  including death.")

                                                                                     -Clem J. Nagel   7/29/2013
                 

                                                                                                  

Road Work Ahead

Every day another one of those diamond-shaped signs pops up.  With a sigh, I get out the city map to anticipate one more alternative route to some familiar place in this city where I have lived for over four decades.

In my imagination, I picture a factory somewhere - merrily turning out more signs for the highway department to pound into the side of the road. A factory run wild for which no one can find the
stop-button.

Then there are those more ominous orange barrels. I deny inner urges to mow down a section of them - deterred only by the possible damage they might inflict on the car. And ditto - another factory somewhere mass-producing these deterrents to smooth sailing down freeways and streets.

Most of these orange objects magically disappear when winter arrives. Which poses a serious question: what do they do with them all? Is there a large storage complex somewhere? Covering acreage that would be better served by living things like grass and trees and people?

In the national discussion about government storage of telephone data, some "in the know" types of ex-employees assert that there is a giant complex built in Utah to hold all of these records. It reminds of the first computer I ever met - taking up an entire room, floor to ceiling, carefully tended by specially trained people in white coats. A far cry from this nifty electronic miracle I now use, so thin there is not even an opening for discs loaded with software.

All our conversations to family and friends to arrange lunch and chatter about significant things like the weather forecast. Stored away in the hot desert sun

And preservation of my messages sent via my newly-learned skill of texting - of which I am so proud. Why yesterday, I texted a grandson that the purple string beans we planted are almost ready to pick - a culinary delight he has never experienced (when they are steamed, they turn a dark green and are the most succulent and tender green beans on the planet). Such significance that information is to our national security. I just hope that if some analysts somewhere listen in, they will jot a note to themselves to order these delights next January when the seed catalogs have arrived.

But back to the Road Work Ahead signs. Not even enough syllables to make the first line of a haiku poem. And muttering about them does not seem to have any effect on their reproduction rate.

I turn to another technique for coping with them. I repeat my mantra over and over: Jobs for Americans. Good for Cars. Jobs for Americans . . . At least I feel like I am doing my part to repair the faltering infrastructure in this country. Since Congress seems so incapable of doing anything constructive.

Perhaps I am too focused on staying out of danger on the road that I am missing the underlying theological premises here: Life is impermanent. Change is inevitable. Proceed carefully in life and remain in the present. Do not be distracted by memories of yesterday or last week - or projecting into the future as I try to remember what we need from the grocery store.

Perhaps these signs are REALLY telling me to slow down and smell the roses.

THE PASTURE REVISITED (Written in the style of Robert Frost)

Robert Frost placed "The Pasture" as the first poem in his book "The Complete Poems of Robert Frost". Frost has always been one of my favorite poets and this little poem is to me a "poem of invitation." (Maybe that is why he put it at the beginning . . . )

Several years ago (2006) I saw a reference to a "Robert Frost Poetry Contest" in which folks were invited to write a poem "in the style of Robert Frost" and enter it in the contest. I wrote "The Pasture Revisited."  After writing it . . . I had the horrible feeling that I had violated Frost's poetry and almost didn't send it in. I called one of my grandsons (Sam) and told him of my dilemma and he asked that I read it to him. I did. Sam's response was: "Grammpa, Robert Frost would be proud of that poem."

So, I sent it in and guess what !  It didn't win 1st, 2nd, or 3rd prize. But . . . the poem was selected as "one of 50 poems"  (out of thousands of entries) for "honorable mention."  That was simply amazing for me.

It is this poem that I would like to share with you. . . .

                      (the original Frost poem)

           The Pasture

           I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
           I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
           (And wait to watch the water clear, I may)
           I shan't be gone long. - You come too.

           I'm going out to fetch the little calf
           That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
           It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
           I shan't be gone long. - You come too.
                                                                             -Robert Frost

           The Pasture Revisited
               (written in the style of Robert Frost)

            I'm going out to grieve the pasture spring;
            I'll only stop to weep where water used to be
            (And watch ethanol corn grow, I may)
            I shan't be gone long. - You come too.

            I'm going out to see the feed lot calves;
            So hormone-filled, abandoned in dung,
            They totter, grow too fast. Each one.
            They shan't be around long. - You come too.
                                                                                     -Clem Nagel



         

Never Too Late

The neighbors cut down
the ash that did not know 
whether it was a tree or a bush.


Privacy screens once in shade
where nothing would grow
now bathed in light.


Opening up the space
around them to sunlight 
that now pours through.

We went out and bought
three varieties of grapes with
visions of vines heavy with fruit.

A January promise of tart jellies 
red and purple with just a touch
of sugar for filling waffle spaces.

The Wisdom of Purring Cats

Cats have got it right. Although no one has quite figured out exactly why cats purr, I suspect it has something to do with contentment. Cats who feel threatened or who are doing their duties as guard cats in their houses are not likely to purr. I would then extrapolate purring to underlying the common belief that cats have nine lives.

Pixie the Cat waits until breakfast is over and then stretches out in front of me so that I will pet her, stroke her chin and other such delights - while quietly purring away.

Maggie the Cat prefers her petting to occur while she lies on my desk as close to my keyboard as I will allow her. She will reach out with her paw and draw my hand to places she wants me to stroke - such as under her chin and her left front "armpit." (Why there? It's a mystery.) Meanwhile, she loudly purrs away. When she was a kitten, her purring could be heard across the room. As a responsible adult cat she has become a bit more dignified in seeing that her needs are met.

And me? As I am commandeered into this petting and purring routine, I relax and feel so good. Ahhh!

Research has shown that elderly persons (that's not me, of course) benefit, when they are allowed pets in nursing homes and assisted living apartments. A particularly touching photo/article on an online news source some months ago showed a women in clearly in her last days, lying in a hospital bed with her beloved pet snuggled up to her.

Then there is pet therapy (I am diverging from purring-effects momentarily). Benefits are documented about its many values. From helping children relax while learning to read to a whole array of situations calling for healing.

Now about this purring business. I wonder if human beings could learn to purr, would we be happier and healthier?

So just how do cats do this purring thing . . .?

FRICKIN' FRACKING

I suspected as much.    As I began to read through recent news reports on tracking
and mining sand in Wisconsin and Minnesota, I noted that both states situate their
mining sites adjacent to streams and rivers. These locations make "all the sense in
the world" since sand fracking requires a dependable and ample supply of water.

As a young person back in the fifties, I was taught an old, common-sense adage
"look before you leap" and, as I read the articles . . . I could see it coming. The "left
over" piles of overburden and processing chemicals often were stored on location
with little or no precautions as how to contain them. You can imagine what might
occur when deluges of rain would pour down. And, rain it did! You guessed it . . .
into the rivers it went and coursing down the streams and rivers went much of the
myriad polluting chemicals used in the extracting process. Compounds with intriguing
names as:

       glutaraldehyde, 
                 tetrakis hydroxymethyl-phosphonium sulfate, 
                           formic acid,
                     triethanolamine zirconate, 
            borate salts, 
    guar gum,
                thyoglycolic acid, 
                             phosphonic acid salt, 
                                         naphthalene, ethylene glycol (antifreeze),
                                    along with    
                          no less than fifty (50) 
                  other chemicals commonly 
                                               used as additives.

So much for our traditionally valued "quality of life" for fish and other aquatic life -
to say nothing about our sources of clean drinking water and don't even mention our
love of water for recreation . . . And, the bottom line:  lost tourist dollars that
partially support our economy.

Not sure what solutions there are to address these problems. To be sure, we do rely
on a steady flow of oil and gas liberated from deep in the ground. 

But at what cost?

Summer Flower Wayside

Baby's Breath
clouds of white
taking up more than
its assigned space

Culver's Root
quietly displays
layers of five
whorled leaflets

Cup Plant
sentinels on watch
tower over everything
all is safe

Giving It A Try

I have been watching my human learning to use her new computer (I catnap on her desk while she is working away) and I think I have the hang of it. Her old computer was not to my liking - much too slow for my nimble mind. But I think this new-fangled machine is the cat's meow.

So here goes - a blog by me, Maggie the Cat.

I want you to know that my sister Pixie and I have been taking our responsibilities seriously as owners of this house. When I am not here next to this computer, I am at the open sliding door in what I call my room in this house. It is a lovely screened porch (I believe that's what my humans call it) and can survey almost the entire back gardens from my post at the door. A cat needs to keep track of the activity outside - birds, squirrels, and the like.

Several nights ago, there were a couple of large animals I had not seen before with black masks across their eyes and striped tails. Pixie and I went on high alert. These creatures moseyed around sniffing at things in my backyard. I have no idea why they were doing this, but one must observe them carefully. Pixie and I both watched from my porch and then in a dignified way befitting responsible cats, we walked as fast as we could to the other end of our house to gain another vantage point.

Back and forth we went. Our humans paid little attention. Probably because they knew we were keeping track of these strange animals. I was glad I as inside, protected by a screen. I wouldn't have wanted to challenge one of these creatures to order to chase it away.They were BIG.

Earlier this week my two humans left and were gone over night. I think they figured we two cats were now mature enough to monitor this house in their absence. The Jan-human from down the street did not even come by, as she usually does when my humans go away. It was good to be fully in charge. Pixie even caught a little mouse and left it by the back door where the humans would be sure to see it when they returned.

It has finally stopped pouring water down from the sky outdoors (I'm glad we are inside cats, all tidy and dry). It has meant the return of sunlight which fascinates me as it plays on the walls and ceiling. I have tried to catch this light, but so far I have not been successful. My humans tell me Ansel Adams (another human) spent all his life trying to catch the light, so I guess I have plenty of time to strategize how I might accomplish light-catching.

Oh, I hear my human coming into this room where her computer lives. So I need to sign off until later.

cacophony

four am . . .

perched in the lilac bush

outside the bedroom window

he begins singing at the top of his lungs

signaling all the neighborhood robins

to join him in his enthusiasm

for the dawn he believes is imminent

doesn’t matter whether it is April or June

he consults the wrist watch worn

around his left leg with the precision

of a station master in charge of arrivals

regardless of when the sun

pushes the darkness away

no consideration given

to human occupants huddled in beds

after a long winter of snows

unwilling to shut the window

or bury their heads under pillows

to shut out the robins’ cacophony

life is like these dilemmas

one can’t have it all

sleep or singing can’t coexist

the robins make a clear choice

in favor of singing out their hearts

the better choice in this crazy world

Ode to My Cane

For some reason a number of odes had been showing up in my life, so I decided to memorialize my cane that has traveled far and wide with me.

Ode to My Cane

Trusty is her name
       keeping me safe from all harm.

She prevents me from
       falling flat on my face.

She has traveled across the globe
       putting her footprint
       on strange and foreign soil.

She has kept me upright
       during fierce seas
       and cobbled streets.

She endures all manner of weather
       snow, sleet, heat, rain, and ice.

She bears the signs of age
       her blackness nicked and scratched.

She wore out one padded handle
       so wears a handle transplant.

She endures being hung
       from tables and chairs
       while maintaining her dignity.

She is common in appearance
       a soul friend who resembles me.
     
She bears no envy of other canes
       with fancy painted designs or elegance

She is dependable and ever curious
       as to where we might go next.

And if I should ever be in danger
       I could use her to wield a mighty whack!

BLINK

          This sprung weather is like

                   dark grey, rain
                       bright green, sunshine
                   dark grey, rain
                       bright green, sunshine
                   dark grey, rain

                       then - 
                           finally night descends

                           as if the eyes of our neighborhood

                                are blinking
                                       in disbelief

                                                             -Clem Nagel

                         

We are BACK!

No, we did not die, leave the country (other countries do have Internet, you know), or quit writing all together.The problem is that we have been suffering from a serious medical disorder called Garden-body.

Seriously!

Garden-body occurs from an excessive number of hours and days spent gardening.

Usually, we begin cleaning up our garden sometime in March - after the snow has disappeared. Not that it doesn't snow here again in April, but late season snow does not usually last very long. Then, the first of April, we plant pea pods for stir fry, followed by radishes, lettuce, scallions, broccoli, and other cool season crops. By the first of May, when the oak trees' budding leaves are the size of mouse  ears, as my grandfather used to say, in go the potatoes. By mid-May, its time for tomato plants, peppers, and eggplant.

In between veggie planting, we trim dead wood out of shrubs, put in new shrubs, including a rose or two, split and move perennials, and put new perennials in empty spaces. Though by now there aren't many empty spaces left. It's like a symphony with its moods and movements, all carefully composed for the pleasure of its creator and its listeners.

However this year it was still snowing in early May and the ground covered with winter snows.

The result? Garden-body. We have done about  two months of gardening in two weeks. Other than keeping bills paid, milk and OJ, in the fridge, and gas in the car, our lives have been consumed by retrieving our garden from the effect of last summer's drought and this year's extended winter.

Now I am happy to say the hard work is over. And we can resume normal life. That is, if life can ever be described as normal.

The worrisome issue is climate change underlying all of the "crazy weather." Part of the present cause of weather events is melting Arctic ice, pushing cold air much further southward into the USA. When that cold air encounters warm gulf air it creates the makings of disasters. The melting ice floes from the high Arctic that we encountered, as we crossed the North Pacific last spring (that meant returning to Japan to find another route), was further evidence of these massive changes.

Folks here, me included, have been grumbling and complaining a lot about the weather this spring. One grey rainy day after another. But we have had it easy compared to other places around the world.
Excessive high temps in the SW and forest fires. Flooding in the east and central parts of this country. Tornadoes. Eastern  Europe flooded and unseasonably cold. The list goes on . . .

So in scheme of things, our sore Garden-bodys will heal. At this point, our garden looks like we are living in an English gardener's paradise.  And we now have time to "take pen in hand" and resume our writing lives.