MANY WILL NEVER SEE THE LIGHT OF DAY

This morning, I awoke to news that Pete Seeger had died peacefully after 96 years of breathing. For me, and for an untold many, he was a hero, a guide, a definer and, a clarifier. He was all that . . .  and much more. His life was as a beacon in seas of change.

In honor of Pete Seeger, I choose to share a writing of mine that was composed in mid-July, nine years ago from notes found scratched on notepaper the year prior. The writing "Eight Days in August" was never intended to be published.

                            EIGHT DAYS IN AUGUST

A partial night of fitful sleep. Recycled thoughts, a cacophony of images, all racing monkey-mind. Not peaceful. It's best to get up, leave the room, not to disturb Elizabeth.

So, that night, a year ago, I laid down in my backyard Guatemalan hammock. To me it was a familiar web of cotton strands, cradled between the 45-year old white pine and an equally old crabapple. Suspended over a gentle wildflower sanctuary, it is a favorite place to be. A good place to recenter - to look up at the distant night sky. Through the wispy frames of pine needles, star clusters faintly glimmer in a  kind of murkiness.

Star light straining to pierce the ever so polluted urban atmosphere.

Even so - I still could imagine the myriads of stars above the earth's envelope . . . just waiting for their chance of freedom.  I thought of the World Wide Web's launch on this very day in 1991. I thought of all the unleashed potential it offered for humankind to be knitted ever closer together in a common fabric.

I remember the hammock night sounds from that night. Pulsing calls of the diminutive lacewing insect, punctuating the autumn evening's cool. Perhaps a bit early . . . last year they began their calls in the middle of the month. Somewhere sounded the frantic flapping of a startled bird.  Like dry paper wings crackling against unforgiving branches.

Then came my dawnings from under that night sky. Awakenings flooded into me like a surge of unwanted water. On this very day, a mere sixty years ago, out there . . . somewhere, bomber pilots had just sent our payload. A single, one-hundred pound bomb. Sent downward, ground ward into a huge, urban mass of life and humanity.

Good God!

Forty times more children, women, and men were killed outright that morning . . .  more than all the stars I could ever possibly see as I scanned the heavens this night through the polluted air. It is said that some 78,000 died outright . . . on the spot. That some even evaporated. They say that another 62,000 died soon after. Many became sick. And stayed that way.

So . . . why couldn't I sleep that night? How could anyone sleep?

It was this week, eight years ago, my very first poem was given birth. Inspiration came while watching an insect's hopeless struggles in a vacated spider web. Death was coming long after the spider had abandoned its hammock of silk. I tried to help. It only made it worse.

It was then that it dawned on me that . . .  land mines are no different. They mindlessly wreak havoc on any living being that triggers their morbid mechanism. Some are made to look like toys. Children die most often. Children are so close to the ground. Adults are often maimed. Their vital organs are higher up. Farm animals die or have to be killed.

Tragedies set in motion for generations to come . . . with a predictable unpredictability.

That day, a first effort of a poem (Debris) was born, fully-formed, longing to find its way, across the world, through the World Wide Wed. Since then, more poems have found me and crept from my pen. Some published, most not.

Many will never see the light of day

50th Anniversary of Surgeon General's Dangers of Smoking Report

It was January of 1964. I was a graduate student at Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, D.C. and it was announced that the U.S. Surgeon General, Luther Terry, was going to give an address at  Baltimore's Johns Hopkins University that coming Saturday, January 11th. His subject: the health risks of smoking. There was no question about it! I was going to attend.

Ever since childhood, I have been death against smoking. My mom and dad smoked and I had serious asthma. I had such a hard time breathing, that at night I had to sleep propped up by pillows. I loved the out-of-doors and being able to get away from people who smoked.

I arrived at the huge, medical school teaching auditorium where the prevention was to take place. I was so impressed by the state-of-the-art multi-media screens and the theatre-like seating. There I was, in the midst of doctors, nurses, medical staff and . . . the room was filled with smoke. It appeared that most of those who came to hear the landmark report were habitual smokers. It was horrible, but I was determined to stay. And, I did.

Terry's address was most forthright, data-filled, and convincing. The audience smoked through the whole 90 minutes. I was so relieved to be able to leave the building and return to the out-of-doors. I don't recall if Luther Terry smoked during his talk.

Vacuuming Day

For some reason, Pixie the Cat is terrified of vacuum cleaners. I don't know if she thinks it will suck her right up into it. Who knows how a cat's mind works!

But vacuuming is one of those necessary tasks of life. Somehow, little bits of unidentifiable material accumulate on the floors. Makes for crunchy walking if it is neglected too long. So out comes the Blue Monster. And Pixie goes into high alert.

Meanwhile Maggie the Cat snoozes away the day in front of the fireplace, oblivious to the threats of sucking noises.

They are sweet cats who take their household duties seriously. There is rabbit and squirrel patrol in the morning. Our house is mice-free. And in the evening, there is lap-sitting to attend to - nothing like a warm cat on these wintery days.

I wish I could be as faithful to life's duties as the cats are. I get engrossed in writing and forget to turn off the fireplace when it gets too warm. I struggle to keep the numbers correct in our bank account. Bill-paying is my job and I double-check due-dates often to make sure I send these obligations off in time - only occasionally putting the electric bill in the phone bill envelope. Thank heavens there is some grace left in our mostly computer-driven world.

The two cats have whispered in my ear that they would like to try blogging. But there are limits. Besides I don't think long meows and purrs would translate easily on this English-spoken only site!

I have sometimes tried to see the world through their eyes. They have never set a paw outside our house. Their world consists of what they can see from windows around the perimeter of the house. If it can't be seen from these vantage points, it must not exist.

A bit like most of us humans. What we see - or choose to see - is all that exists.

Protesters plan to shut down Bangkok, something most folks ignore - and I am thankful that I was  there at a time when political protests were minor. Ditto for Kenya.  Memories of this fascinating land, its people, its animals, and its birds are treasures I hold in my heart. Driving through Nairobi by van during rush hour was more thrilling than any amusement park ride. Again, I was fortunate to be there at a relatively safe time.

Radiation is leaking from Fukushima - but radiation is invisible and most of us tend to avoid thinking about the whole disaster. Unless it reaches the shores of this country. Contaminated water in West Virginia hits a little closer to home since we stayed just outside Charleston just a few months ago.

However, images of the research vessel trapped in summer ice near Antarctica calls up vivid memories for me. When we rounded the tip of South America several years ago, considered the most treacherous seas in the world, we lucked out. The morning was so calm that we were able to circle the islands, which make up the Cape of Good Horn.

But a year and a half ago we had our own little adventure. Crossing the North Pacific by ship, we encountered unexpected ice, which became so thick that our route became impassable. We were forced to return to Japan in order to find an alternative route to Alaska. Memories of the sights and sounds of ice floes bumping into the ship are permanently engraved in my mind. This unexpected venture has become part of my particular perspective of the world.

I don't think Maggie and Pixie would have enjoyed the experience at all!

diminishments

I recently went to our local grocery store with my list. More than once,
I noticed that the boxes looked larger . . . but actually contained less of
the product. I shared my observation with another customer and the reply
came back . . . "yep, it is deceiving . . . but it's not illegal." I wonder how
long that's been going on?  Change happens.

                                    *  *  *  *  *  *

I tried to unscrew the plastic cap from a gallon jug of low-fat, Land-O-Lakes,
skim milk. Same brand, same variety, the same, the same, the same. Except,
for this time I had to dig in the kitchen drawer and find my industrial-strength,
adjustable, locking Vise Grip. I opened up the VG to the proper width and
gripped the lid and twisted it. The milk bottle cap let loose with a sharp "snap!"
What is this about??!  I'm aware that I can't do certain things that I used to . . .
but a bottle cap for heaven's sake?! No matter . . . I went to Google and entered
the question: "are milk bottle caps getting more difficult to turn and open?"
My goodness, gee whillikers, gosh darn. Lots of folks are reporting the very
same thing on the Internet.  Change happens.

                                     *  *  *  *  *  *

Earlier in the morning,  I was using a Q-tip to help remove some ear wax and
lo and behold the padded cotton tip was so puny and the stick was so slim it
bent with very little pressure. I wondered . . . am I losing my mind?? It was a
newly purchased box of Q-tips, so that eliminated an aging product well past
its shelf life. Again, Google reported loads of folks are reporting the same
experience.  Change happens.

Farewell Arctic Vortex!

The temperature is going up and up. No more Arctic Vortex -good riddance. Where ever do they get these names . . .

All day the words for the Everly Brothers hit song has been going through my head - changed just bit for this occasion of winter cold. The chorus for the original song goes like this:

Bye bye love

Bye bye happiness

Hello loneliness

I think I'm-a gonna cry.

What I have been singing to myself - over and over:

Bye bye Arctic Blast

Bye bye frostbite temps

Hello warmer air

I thought I was gonna die.

Perhaps this little ditty is the result of spending 72 hours holed up inside our warm house. Even the cats who have never set one single paw outside have cabin fever. Watching the rabbit who has been frequenting the deck gets old after awhile.

A small flock of robins stopped by this afternoon. I hope they were heading south - way south. Like I would like to do . . .