-
The Bloody Mary - Susan Donnelly
Sunday in late December calls for one, with a celery stalk and faint taste of Worcestershire, to be sipped while eating poached egg and corned beef hash, in a hotel dining room with someone you love. Touch the hairs at his wrist as the warmth endorses all bed-lingering, non-churchgoing. It's the solstice, remember, when your frugal father would hand around dollar bills so the day would last longer. Stir ice into the rich red and consider such Celtic rituals, as you watch, beyond the tall windows, pilgrims traveling the paths past snow-fringed trees in the park.
-
Chores - Maxine Kumin
All day heās shoveled green pine sawdust out of the trailer truck into the chute. From time to time heās clambered down to even the pile. Now his hair is frosted with sawdust. Little rivers of sawdust pour out of his boots.
I hope in the afterlife thereās none of this stuff he says, stripping nude in the late September sun while I broom off his jeans, his sweater flocked with granules, his immersed-in-sawdust socks. I hope thereās no bedding, no stalls, no barn
no more repairs to the paddock gate the horses burst through when snow avalanches off the roof. Although the old broodmare, our first foal, is his, horses, heās fond of saying, make divorces. Fifty years married, heās safely facetious.
No garden pump thatās airbound, no window a grouse flies into and shatters, no ancient tractorās intractable problem with carburetor ignition or piston, no mowers and no chain saws that refuse to start, or start, misfire and quit.
But after a Bloody Mary on the terrace already frost-heaved despite our heroic efforts to level the bricks a few years back, he says letās walk up to the field and catch the sunset and off we go, a couple of aging fools.
I hope, he says, on the other side thereās a lot less work, but just in case Iām bringing tools.
-
Christmas Mail - Ted Kooser
Cards in each mailbox, angel, manger, star and lamb, as the rural carrier, driving the snowy roads, hears from her bundles the plaintive bleating of sheep, the shuffle of sandals, the clopping of camels. At stop after stop, she opens the little tin door and places deep in the shadows the shepherds and wise men, the donkeys lank and weary, the cow who chews and muses. And from her Styrofoam cup, white as a star and perched on the dashboard, leading her ever into the distance, there is a hint of hazelnut, and then a touch of myrrh.
-
A thoughtGenerally, the world says, "Work first, and benefits come after." (E.g., exercise, then fitness.) That's good, because, even for bad work, anticipating the reward eases the pain. But if you must pay after, that looming bill taints the enjoyment of the thing enjoyed. (Of course, taking joy in the work is best of all.)
-
analog daysA 2011 photo of the Library of Congress' card catalog (now digitized).
Source: Dr. Amy Brady
-
You are what you eatDavid French: Weāre misinformed not because the government is systematically lying or suppressing the truth. Weāre misinformed because we like the misinformation we receive and are eager for more.... The market is very, very happy to provide us with all the misinformation we like. Algorithms recognize our preferences and serve up the next video or article that echoes or amplifies the themes of the first story we clicked.... Itās important to recognize that no person or movement is immune to the temptations of bespoke reality. Weāre all vulnerable... That means following as many or more people who disagree with me as agree with me. That means reading the best and smartest people I can find who disagree with me. These practices help both challenge me and humanize my opponents.
-
Hot Club by Marion Elliot
Delightful Django (presumably) and friends by artist Marion Elliot, via the equally delightful Spitalfields Life. (Follow for many more treasures.)
-
Welcome, Morning - Anne Sexton
There is joy in all: in the hair I brush each morning, in the Cannon towel, newly washed, that I rub my body with each morning, in the chapel of eggs I cook each morning, in the outcry from the kettle that heats my coffee each morning, in the spoon and the chair that cry āhello there, Anneā each morning, in the godhead of the table that I set my silver, plate, cup upon each morning.
All this is God, right here in my pea-green house each morning and I mean, though often forget, to give thanks, to faint down by the kitchen table in a prayer of rejoicing as the holy birds at the kitchen window peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it, let me paint a thank-you on my palm for this God, this laughter of the morning, lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isnāt shared, Iāve heard, dies young.
-
A difficult questionJonah Goldberg: "If Hitlerās bunker was in a hospital in 1945, you can be sure we would have flattened it from the air (no doubt after dropping leafletsājust as Israel has). But Israel has not done that. Nor should it do anything of the sort. They sent troops inācarrying incubators by the wayāto minimize collateral damage...
[What's a real solution to] the very real problem of Hamas using Palestinian babies to protect their murderers and rapists?"
ā½
Today, this little girl would have been 100 years old.
subscribe via RSS