tag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:/blogs/spirit-quest-blog?p=23SPIRIT QUEST BLOG2022-05-09T07:34:45-04:00Dogwood Daughterfalsetag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946112020-01-13T11:06:42-05:002020-01-13T02:51:26-05:00Hidey Hole
<p>Hidey Hole</p>
<p>When I was a little girl, I used to like to drape old blankets and quilts over the picnic table and benches in the back yard and make a sort of tent. Then I'd crawl inside and enjoy the feeling of being safely hidden from the rest of the world. Sometimes when my mother washed the sheets and hung them out on the clothesline to dry in the sun, I did the same thing. I'd make a sort of nest in between the sheets. I loved the feeling of being temporarily apart and hidden from the rest of the world. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Who amongst us hasn't longed for our own little safe place to hide? There are still days when all I want to do is close and lock the door, pull the curtains and hide under my blanket. Days when I don't want to leave the house and hassle with traffic: when I don't feel like talking to anyone: when I feel like I'll scream if I hear one more piece of bad news: when I I wish someone else would cook and clean up the kitchen, do the laundry and go to the bank and grocery store. When all I want is to quietly disappear in a hole and left alone to just BE.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That feeling of needing a place to hide was the impetus for my song, "Hidey Hole." I know I'm lucky. I live in a wooded area with a lot of space and privacy. In many ways, my litttle studio behind the house IS my hidey hole, my little retreat, where I'm free to think, create and just be....sometimes for many hours at a time. And I thank my husband for that.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For me, making music has not meant making money. But right now, it feels like my calling and my husband respects that and even keeps me up financially without making me feel guilty. Thank you, Bob Fowler. You really are the wind beneath my wings. And I also need to thank my mother, albeit posthumously. It is in large measure because of her frugality that I was afforded a musical education early in life and had the necessary funds to build my little studio last year. So thank you, Mommy Jean. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>You can hear "Hidey Hole" on my Music page. It's available on the Digital Downloads page on Reverbnation. </p>
<p>I welcome all comments. They won't, however, be visible until I 'approve' them. Sorry, that's just the way the website is set up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949372019-12-22T09:33:33-05:002020-01-13T11:10:22-05:00Call Me Crazy
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/256e36cdf0a6e4c14e042b33e731ce228258beec/original/160-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I took this photo at The Museum of Appalachia a few years back. Doesn't this guy look like he's posing?</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Walking on Outer Drive, I pluck a long white hair (mine) from the front of my black cape. Releasing it to the wind, I watch it drift and settle among the dead leaves, a single cigarette butt and other twiggy debris next to the curb. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As my little dog and I continue, it occurs to me that I have left a strand of my own unique DNA back there by the curb. I guess the anonymous smoker has too: I know from my own Ancestry.com test how much information is likely contained in the traces of spit left on that cigarette butt. And of course, the twigs and leaves, my little dog, the birds, grass and every driver who passes each carry their own unique genetic signatures. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>DNA is, I suppose, the alphabet of life, a finite set of symbols or 'letters' that some mysterious hand arranges and rearranges in an infinitude of novel expressions. Whether the hand belongs to God, Nature, the Creator or the Whirlwind that spoke to Job in the Bible, all are, I think, simply names for the same Great Author who writes his continually unfolding Book of Life. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Call me crazy, but I am delighted and comforted by the notion that I am neither more or less than a tiny entry in the vast library of the Great Universal Author <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Whatever you celebrate, I wish you comfort and joy this season. </p>
<p>Happy Holidays!<br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martha Maria <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949362019-12-17T05:57:23-05:002020-01-13T11:10:21-05:00Different Dimensions and the Intersection of Moments
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/96521d7177769a444ae7566d167112e0e95073e5/original/c423f2fcd62877c7985035a1dedda2fe-jpg.gif/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjU0eDQwMCJd.gif" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="254" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>In dreary December dusk, I walk on the cold, gray street. The internal clock of my brain tick tocks: just one more week til Christmas and I've still got stuff to do. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Overhead, I hear a flutter like the audible ripple of a Spanish dancer's fan unfurling. I search the trees. Is it a bat? No, not a bat; gray on gray, a lone sparrow flits from branch to branch, as if following my path on rapid, beating wings.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> She doesn't sing. Other than the rustle of flight, she moves in silence. I wonder if, like me, she's cold. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Tentative, I try my own voice and hum Silent Night softly while I watch the agitated flutter of her wings. Silent Night reminds me not of Christmas Eve but, rather, the Winter Solstice. It was on the longest night of the year that my mother lay dying while my sister and I watched swirling crystalline snow sweep past her drafty nursing home window. <span style="color:#ff00ff"> <br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff00ff"><br></span></p>
<p>Suddenly, my sparrow friend swoops low and disappears into a different dimension: a tangle of brambles next to the road. She'll probably sleep in there. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>"Birds and trees, people and ghosts," I think, "We all inhabit different dimensions. On occasion, we pass through the open windows of each other's lives but only for a few finite moments. For the most part, the dimensions inhabited by our fellow beings remain closed and unknowable to us." <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The internal clock of my brain tick tocks: it's time to turn around. As I walk, I wonder about the little sparrow; why was she out so late and alone? Did she get lost from her flock? <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> I hope not, but I am not of her flock, nor is she of mine. Beyond our fleeting intersection, we have nothing to offer each other. Still, as I hurry to the cozy dimension of my own home, I wish her well. May she too sleep safe, warm and dry tonight in the tangled dimension of her own small, bramble nest. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949352019-12-12T12:22:01-05:002020-01-13T11:10:19-05:00On Trees, Dogs and Time
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/6a77b38dc2360e8db4dcbc6c7e01658a9d79e75d/original/markus-spiske-ctc3zw019ym-unsplash.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTk5eDQ0OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="449" width="599" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Photo by Marcus Spiske, Unsplash</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>In dread winter cold, I walk under skeletal trees. It snowed yesterday, not much, just a dusting. Most of it's already melted and trickling into Wet Weather Creek. I didn't want to walk this morning, but I know from experience that getting started is the hardest part; once I'm warmed up, I'll be glad I got outside. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The woods have a spare beauty in winter. I love looking at the architecture of trees. I pause for a moment to study the intricate lace of bare branches against the pale blue sky. On impulse, I extend my forearm and examine my five branching fingers and trace the tree of blue veins under my skin. Mentally, I consider the trunk like structure of my torso, the column of my spine and the axonal neurons and dendritic synapses that populate my brain. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In a flash, I'm struck by how much I am like a tree or conversely, how much a tree is like me. We are so much like trees, in fact, that many of our cells are classified as being dendritic in structure, that is 'having a branched form resembling a tree.' (as defined by Wikipedia.) <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The dendritic form is, I suspect, the underlying pattern for all manner of organic movement,growth and energetic activity, an archetype of sorts, an essential construct in the continuing evolution of Life on Earth. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I unlock my door, slip back inside my warm house and pour a cup of coffee, it occurs to me that time is comparatively generous with trees; most trees will out live me. As time goes, we humans are not given much. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p> I wonder how average life span is allotted to different kinds of plants and animals. Is length of life a measure of importance in the ecosystem? Or is time capricious? </p>
<p>I once read that there are sponges living in the South China Sea that are over ten thousand years old. Sitting by the fire with my little dog, I only wish she could live longer. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If any of Earth's creatures deserve a long life, it is, I think, dogs. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949342019-12-06T12:26:07-05:002020-01-13T11:10:18-05:00On Dreams, Magical Numbers and Music
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5116b8c120a07fbe920fc7838d1eba511b03475e/original/pretty-image-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="480" /></p>
<p><em><br></em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Of all the even,</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em> odd and prime</em></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>I find 5</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em> to be divine</em></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>I am 5; 5 is I</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Circle round and round. </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p>Dream: I hold a white wooden slate with removable numbers in my hand. I am arranging and re-arranging the numbers, noting the sequences in long columns. There is, I sense, a relationship between pairs of numbers. Four, for example, has a mysterious correspondence to one. And the numbers themselves, properly sequenced, are the notation for an elusive melody, but I'm confused. The numbers keep falling out of the slate and I can't remember which numbers go where. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I wake up, I remember a small hand held puzzle from my childhood, a little red and black plastic frame with sliding numbers. Getting those numbers to line up was harder than it looked. Not as hard as Rubik's cube, but hard enough to keep my five year old brain entertained. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I was little, individual numbers, like colors and letters of the alphabet, were seemingly endowed with personality and character: 7 was mysterious; 6 and 9 were menacing; 2 was easy and generous; and 5, my favorite, was magical, friendly and beautiful. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Five fingers, five toes, so easy to add and multiply. Five times five equals twenty five, a whole quarter! Five cents, the price of a Three Musketeers bar or a Coke. Two arms, two legs, plus one head equals five. I am 5, five is like me! </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">+ + + + + </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p>Yesterday, while I was cleaning up for Christmas, I found this note, scribbled in my own hand, tucked inside a book (<span style="text-decoration:underline">Numbers and Time</span> by Maria-Louise Von Franz.) </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>"My favorite number is 5 - </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>my affinity for parallel fifths. </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>My second favorite number is 3, </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>the minor third.</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>And lastly, the 7th, which acts like salt,</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>adding savor to the broth of melody."</em></p>
<p>I love finding notes to my self. I suppose last night's dream was a continuation of yesterday's scribbled thoughts, although tellingly, the melody I sought in my dream remained elusive, resistant to labored, conscious effort. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As a composer, I have observed that melodies most often reveal themselves to me when I'm relaxed and not consciously thinking about much of anything: like in the early mornings, while I'm drinking coffee in bed, or walking alone, driving or just doing something mindless like washing dishes.<br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I used to think musical composition required effort, but now, I know that isn't true. The older I get, the more convinced I am that beautiful melodies are not so much composed as they are discovered. And, as in my dream, melody and harmony are, I suspect, the audible manifestation in time of numbers divinely arrayed and revealed. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">When I read my old note yesterday, I noticed that all my favorite numbers in music were primes. And intuitively, I immediately sensed the close relationship between the 7th and 2nd intervals, 2 also being a prime. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p>Where am I going with all this? I'm not sure; I'm still finding my way. Yesterday, I saw a cute little sports car with a tiny bumper sticker: <em>"All who wander are not lost." </em>As a rule, I don't much care for bumper stickers, but I liked that one, though to my mind, it needed a corollary: <em> "And all who WONDER aren't either." </em></p>
<p>For me, the greatest gift of old age is time to simply idle, reflect and wonder, much as I did so many years ago when I was a curious child. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949332019-10-28T09:03:44-04:002020-01-13T02:52:13-05:00Arctic Autumn: Iceland
<p style="text-align: left;">When I travel, I always carry a notebook and end up writing lots of music and poetry. <br> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> Arctic Autumn is a suite for solo piano I composed while visiting Iceland in late September, 2016. What a marvelous country Iceland is! <br> <br> In Iceland, my heart felt lighter. The peacefulness and beauty of the country is, I hope, reflected in the music. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> <br> I recorded these pieces in early 2017. However, like so much of what I do, I promptly forgot about them. I was reminded of them when a friend recently went to Iceland and shared her pictures. She got me to revisiting Iceland in my own mind. After listening to these little pieces again,I decided to publish them. Better late than never, right? I hope you enjoy them. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Arctic Autumn will be live on Spotify and Pandora in the nexxt few days. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> <br> As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind people like you. Thank you.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=724444148/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=2ebd35/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 364px; height: 484px;">&amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/arctic-autumn-iceland" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/arctic-autumn-iceland"&amp;amp;gt;Arctic Autumn: Iceland by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949322019-10-05T03:06:47-04:002020-01-13T11:10:16-05:00Of People, Dogs and Stories
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/60d6aab53ddb4b46a53c4ac611a70716768869e7/original/file-resized.jpeg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">My sweet friend, Chica. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sitting under the autumn sky, I listen: to the distant voices of children at play, the steady drone of a small airplane overhead, the whistling chatter of woodland birds, and the faint rasp of oak and poplar leaves as they cling, dying, to the limbs of their mother trees. </p>
<p><br><br>I watch my dog, her posture alert as, with fixed gaze, she guards her small fenced domain. With ears erect, she sits motionless, attentive to what, I don’t know. <br><br>“Chica, what are you thinking?” I ask. </p>
<p><br>She turns and looks at me with one eye raised and her head cocked as if to ask, </p>
<p> <span style="color:#ccffff"> “Thinking? What’s that?”</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffff"> </span><br><br>“Maybe you’re not thinking,” I say. “Maybe that’s not what dogs do.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I close my eyes and try to enter Chica’s canine mind. Hmmm. Maybe her brain activity isn’t so much what we would call ‘thinking’’ as it is continuously reacting to the stimuli in her environment, especially the rich sensory input from her superior nose and ears. </p>
<p><br><br><br>Sometimes I envy Chica, she who does not worry and over think everything the way I do; she who has no memory of an unhappy childhood; she who knows nothing of remorse or regret; she who is not plagued by the knowledge of inevitable loss and death; she who, with no sense of future or past, tells no stories, neither her own or anyone else’s.<br><br><br>I suppose that’s the primary difference between us humans and the rest of the beasts: we are the creators and tellers of stories while they, who dwell in the eternal present, are not. <br><br><br>I’d like to be free of some of the stories that have been niggling at my brain for over sixty years now, but some stories replay forever and not all have happy endings. <br><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc">As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind people like you. Thank you. Martha Maria <br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
<p><br> <br><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949312019-10-04T13:31:41-04:002020-01-13T11:10:15-05:00Long Journey
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/bb9f60e297446015387e1a81a32386bc6fb32e6d/original/first-matryoshka-museum-doll-open.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDM1MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="352" width="500" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The original matryoshka set by <a title="Vasily Zvyozdochkin" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vasily_Zvyozdochkin" data-imported="1">Zvyozdochkin</a> and <a title="Sergey Malyutin" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sergey_Malyutin" data-imported="1">Malyutin</a>, 1892 Source Wikipedia</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>At home, alone, curled like an infant in the womb, I am neither awake or asleep, but rather, floating in the liminal space between. Resting with my cheek on the satin pillow, my face turned toward the whirring blades of the fan, I startle to the realization that I don’t know where I am. </p>
<p><br><br>More puzzled than afraid, my mind instantly sends tentacles out to explore the possibilities concealed in what seems like a peculiar slice of collapsing time: I'm a baby sleeping on a purple couch; I’m a child in the green bedroom on Atlanta Road; I’m a teenager in the antique brass bed on Ditman Lane; I’m the lonely young woman under the window fan in an Atlanta apartment house.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I shuffle through alternative scenarios, with the sense of being both a participant and observer, hurtling toward some kind of vortex. I’m still not afraid. I wonder why. </p>
<p><br><br>Suddenly, without warning, I snap back. Ah! I know where I am. I’m at home in this good old house in the woods, the one where I live with my good husband, and where we raised our two good sons. </p>
<p><br><br>Now I open my eyes. I see the air purifier glowing with its blue and red lights next to Chica’s crate. I recognize the familiar sensation of the satin pillowcase against my cheek. </p>
<p><br><br>I not only know where I am; I know exactly who I am; I am the old woman none of my younger selves could have imagined. But, paradoxically, I’m still all those younger selves too. <br></p>
<p><br>Like a set of Russian nesting dolls, my psyche contains the infant on the couch, the child in the green room, the teenager in the brass bed, the searching young woman in the Atlanta apartment and a host of other transient personas.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But now, I am also the contented old woman who, at long last, has managed to make friends with all of her past selves. It’s been a long journey. <br><br><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949302019-09-30T03:22:54-04:002020-01-13T11:10:13-05:00Estate Sales - A Booming Business
<p>As I step out the front door, the wang of skunk hangs in the air, oddly pleasant at a distance, like the faint aroma of a musky wild perfume. The air is blessedly cool this morning with sun light falling in the slanted rays of autumn. <br><br><br>Heading down the circle, I see an estate sale in the house at the far end of the street. On a whim, I decide to check it out. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/7292fc6ea7155f229e6e6a7de85f682683b34581/original/estate-sale-flyer.png/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzY0eDI4MSJd.png" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="281" width="364" /><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Cars line the curb in front of the middle class rancher where I and a few other hundred strangers will, over the course of the weekend, sift through mounds of shabby articles: outdated clothes, mismatched dishes, pots and pans, enough coffee cups to serve a regiment, faded linens, obsolete electronics, a few earnest attempts from unknown artists, dusty souvenirs, countless knickknacks, books nobody’s opened in years, baskets, jelly jars, holiday decorations, and a mess of other cast-offs and sundries. <br></p>
<p><br><br>Estate sales always strike me as a sad testament to the homely little junk filled lives most of us, myself included, inhabit. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> <br><br>Picking over dingy artifacts, I am more voyeur than bargain hunter. There’s nothing here I want. Even before I walked down the driveway, I knew there would not be. <br> <br> <span style="color:#ccffcc"> I hope to God my sons never have an estate sale! </span><br><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span><br><br>A few years back, I said to Walker, “After your dad and I are dead, I don’t want any strangers prowling through this house. You and Joe take what you want, then dump the rest. Promise me, Walker! Tell me you’ll rent a dumpster and just haul it all away.” <br><br><br><br><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949292019-09-10T10:30:43-04:002020-01-13T11:10:12-05:00September 10 - Observations on Another Early Fall Morning
<p>2019</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I step out the front door, the sentinel stationed in the oak tree near the house alerts his friends. "Watch out," he caws. "She's back!" <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>A distant and immediate reply echoes through the woods. "Caw, caw! Message received. We'll keep an eye on her."</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>To the crows in the woods, I will, I suppose, always be an interloper. Still, I wonder, after all these years of watching me refresh the water in the big enamel bowl and scatter stale bread and tortilla chips in the yard, why do they continue to eye me so suspiciously? <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>"Oh well," I think, "I sort of enjoy their noisy rancor. I get it: I'm a curmudgeon too." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>With my journal and coffee, I settle into my favorite lawn chair to listen to the world wake up. The usually raucous cicadas are nearly silent this morning; a faint knocking sound emanates from the brambles on the other side of the garage, probably a squirrel trying to open a walnut. And a single engine plane putt putts across the sky like a noisy graceless bird and disappears behind the trees.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> +++++++++++++++++++++<br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/de250c13d023a8ac88cc6c2bfee9013e5f07d9c7/original/paper-wasps-featured.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDQwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="400" width="400" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Looking down, I notice some sort of large insect flailing on the edge of the drive way. I put on my glasses and bend down to take a closer look. It's a wasp. I see a needle like stinger protruding from his stripped back end. He's dying. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>While I watch, I wonder why fate has brought me to this time and place to witness the death throes of a creature I consider repugnant and dangerous. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Death is, I suppose, an agonizing labor for all creatures, even a wasp. Briefly, I consider putting him out of his misery. Would it be an act of mercy to grind him underfoot?</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I hesitate. Truth be told, maybe I don't want to put him out of his misery; in fact, maybe what I really want to do is punish him and every member of his species for the torment his ancestors inflicted on me so long ago, when I was a little girl, just four years old, and living on Atlanta Road. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> +++++++++++++</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>1956<br><br>Under the whirring wings of the window fan, I lie on my narrow bed. An old fashioned ice bag with an aluminum cap presses against my burning forehead and drips down my neck. <br></p>
<p><br>Dr. Thomas stands next to the bed, holding his black bag and talking in a low voice. “Just watch her,” he says to Mother. “I think she’ll be alright.”</p>
<p><br><br>Now I’m alone; the bedroom door is shut. The soft patter of a laugh track emanates from the living room where Anita is watching TV. Pans clatter in the kitchen. Mother’s cooking supper. </p>
<p><br><br>Gingerly, I touch one of several stinging red welts rising on my wet face and neck. How can I be on fire yet still shiver with cold beneath my white cotton sheet? How long will it take for this misery to pass? </p>
<p><br> <br>I hear the screen door open and slam shut. Daddy’s home. I recognize his footfalls. No sooner is he through the front door than Mother’s shrill scold begins: “Andy, I told you that wasp nest had to come down!”<br><br> +++++++++++++++++++++++++++</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sitting on the drive way, I watch the thrashing limbs of the dying wasp with detached, scientific interest. A mere fixture in the environment, like a stone, or a leaf, or a tree, I am nothing to him. Likewise, other than as a specimen, he is nothing to me. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I suddenly notice how hot I am. While I've been idly pin balling between 1956 and this curious early autumn morning, the brutal September sun has climbed high overhead and is grilling the top of my head. It's time to go inside. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I take one last good hard look at the wasp and decide not to grind him under the heel of my shoe. With neither sympathy or animosity, I leave him to flail, thrash and die in his own good time. After he's dead, maybe the ants will eat him. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> <br></p>
<p> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949282019-09-06T13:42:50-04:002020-01-13T11:10:10-05:00The Persistence of Nature
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/3e5dcb9b1dae27339d0d31c6006f2992366cec0e/original/69747082-10157352416152416-1356022686899240960-o-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p> Paradise at Home</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Friday, September 6, 2019</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nearing 11:00 a.m. and it’s still pleasantly cool in our shady little holler. Sitting under the patio umbrella next to the black eyed Susans and purple basil, I know how lucky I am to have landed in this little Eden we call home. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the woods, the oak and hickory trees are beginning to drop their nuts. Overhead, a red tailed hawk proclaims ownership of the wide blue sky and no more than a few feet away, the slender gray string of a worm snake attempts to slither across the rough pavement of the driveway. I watch while he struggles, flipping over several times, exposing the pale yellow stripe on his skinny belly, then righting himself and shimmying onward, undeterred.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>He’s a harmless little fellow on a mission, doubtless spurred by some imperative his primitive reptilian brain deems crucial both to his and his species' survival. The instinct of all living things is, after all, to persist.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>Now my gaze falls on the persistent vegetation surrounding the house. We had it cut back and cleared a couple of years ago, but it's back. Poplar saplings and invasive privet graze the windows and the ivy clambering up the walls will ruin the paint if we don't get it off. After the leaves have finished falling, I'll call Mr. Davenport and get his crew out here to clean the place up again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>Sitting alone in the early autumn sun, I contemplate the future: after Bob and I are gone, I wonder how long it will take this house to be enveloped by the encroaching woods? Likely no more than five or six years.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>And what about when the last homo sapien draws his or her final breath, will the Earth shrug our species off as one more experiment among many, terminating in yet another evolutionary dead end? I'm guessing the earth will persist, not only surviving but thriving for at least another few billion years after our paltry and insignificant species has passed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>These thoughts don't make me sad. On the contrary, the notion of being shrugged off strikes me as a relief. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>If you find anything you like at Dogwood Daughter or Lily Cat Music for Kids, please share my little websites with others. I will be sincerely appreciative. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949272019-08-16T13:05:05-04:002020-01-13T11:10:09-05:00On Mother's Birthday
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/ce50073f8d5e8939f6236875ca6e7267a3bddae7/original/dscn3146-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>August 15, 2019 Oak Ridge, Tennessee<br><br>I sit at the dining room table writing a check. “What’s today’s date?” I ask my son. <br><br>Joseph whips out his cell phone. looks at the calendar and says, “August 15.”<br><br>“Tomorrow’s Mommy Jean’s birthday,” I say.<br><br>“How old would she be?” he asks.<br><br>“Well, she was born in 1924,” I say, "do the math.” <br><br>“Ninety five.”<br><br>“Yes,” I reply, suddenly wistful and sad.<br><br>I sit for a moment, thinking. How many years has it been since Mother's death? Thirteen? I can’t remember how old she was when she died. The number 84 springs to mind, though I’m not sure why. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’m not sure of much of anything any more.<br><br><br> <span style="color:#ccffcc"> ++++++++++</span><br><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pattie Jean Walker was born August 16, 1924 in Sugar Tree, Tennessee. Delivered by Dr. Ingram, my Mother was born at home. <br><br>At ten and half pounds (I wonder how they weighed her, on a kitchen scale perhaps?) Pattie Jean was a buster of a baby. It's a wonder she and her mother both survived her birth. <br><br><br><br> <span style="color:#ccffcc"> ++++++++++++</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>August 16, 2019</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm sitting outside with my papers and books. I like to sit outside in the morning before the sun is high enough to heat up our shady little hollow in the woods. <br><br>These days, I dawdle many mornings away, reading, writing, drinking coffee or just sitting idle under the trees. These easy mornings are one of the gifts of retirement.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> I’m always charmed by the humming songs of the insects. Today, I’m also gifted with the assertive little soliloquy of a cardinal singing his heart out from behind the tangled blackberry and forsythia bushes next to the driveway. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>I watch a chipmunk dart back and forth once, twice, then disappear in the tall grass beneath the azalea. A mysterious shadow undulates behind the dense stand of wild horse tails next to the fence, but I’m too lazy to get up and investigate. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now I notice how the poke salad bush next to the drive way is drooping under the weight of its deceptively luscious looking clusters of deadly purple berries. Mother knew how to cook and detoxify poke salad greens, a long process requiring, as I recall, first boiling them in water followed by a good long simmer in pork fat. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> <br><br>I’ve eaten poke salad, but never cooked it. Honestly, I'm afraid of the stuff. Mother, however, was not afraid to cook anything. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>Growing up on a farm during the Depression, my mother had to learn to do all sorts of things I never did. Born and raised in a house without running water or electricity, her mother cooked on a wood stove and her daddy worked the fields with mules. Their lives were hard scrabble, but my mother said she was never happier than in Sugar Tree. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> <span style="color:#ccffcc">+++++++++++++</span><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> <span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've been sitting outside, on this my mother's 95th birthday. It's a beautiful morning, but the sun has found my shady spot and it’s time for me to go in. As I close up my books, gather up my papers and coffee cup, I take one last look around. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The world of men has changed much, I think, in the ninety five years since Mother was born, but the natural world is, I believe, a constant. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I doubt the sights and sounds of my Mother’s first morning on August 16, 1924 in Sugar Tree, Tennessee were too different than mine are this morning with chipmunks, barking dogs, a boisterous cardinal’s song, a host of noisy insects buzzing in the trees and perhaps even some species of mysterious shadow playing furtively behind a garden fence. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Several years ago, I was sitting in my bed listening to a cricket sing on the other side of the wall and this song came to me. I wrote it for my mother. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=1741143762/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=333333/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/cricket-behind-the-wall" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/cricket-behind-the-wall"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Cricket Behind the Wall by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Cricket Behind the Wall<br> <br> Cricket sings behind the wall <br> And he chirps his ancient story <br> It's the one his mother sang <br> And my mother heard before me <br> <br> It's a story without end <br> In a voice that's very small <br> It's a song that transcends time <br> There's a thread that binds us all <br> <br> <br> Cricket sing behind the wall <br> I'll listen all night long <br> There's a chill now in the air <br> And the leaves are almost gone <br> Tell me, do you ever wonder <br> Why everything must die? <br> When you sing your mother's story <br> Do you feel like you might cry? <br> <br> Cricket teach your children well <br> To sing behind the wall <br> And I'll teach my children well <br> To listen for their call</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br> copyright 2008 Martha Maria</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, if you find anything you like on my little website, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter (and Lily Cat Music for Kids) with someone else. Thank you!</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949262019-08-03T14:34:57-04:002020-01-13T11:10:07-05:00Joyful Noise
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/9a9f31c80d56d98d86fcf579d1282c679059af6c/original/1919033-395432292415-4511082-n.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzIweDU0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="540" width="720" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99cc00"> <span style="color:#ccffcc"> The deep green woods where we live. </span> </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Poised at the rim of the deep green woods, I stand under rain wet leaves. With feet planted in loamy black soil, I listen, mesmerized by the pulsing wall of katydid song that rises and falls in a delirious hymn to life. With big rain drops plopping on my head, I follow the flight of a drab brown wren as she flits from limb to limb, fluting her own bright melody above the katydids’ din, like a homely little prima donna warbling her aria over a raucous chorus. <br></p>
<p><br><br>An audience of one, I linger, puzzling over these everyday miracles: How do a million or more katydids manage to sing as one, rising and falling in unison? Who or what is their conductor? And how is it possible for a wren to sing so loud? The volume of such a tiny creature’s voice, powered by an even tinier set of lungs, is a wonder. And finally, do animals sing solely by instinct, or do they, like me, also sing for joy? <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I stand, rapt, at the edge of the woods, my heart flutters behind the bony cage of my ribs and seemingly soars with the joyful noise emanating from the trees. Surely, I think, this exuberant summer song is nothing less than an ecstatic canticle. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ah, if only I could compose music like that! </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"> +++++++++++++++++++++++</span><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/3977771402d0b098b8b2f3d17d598fa77d5ddc0e/original/267966-10150250878022416-3887818-n.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzIweDU0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="540" width="720" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Banging on the garbage can lid, I shriek at the doe, her gait casual and slow, as she high steps through the ravine. Half way down, she stops, turns her head and looks at me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Fixing her eyes directly on mine, she lifts her snowy white tail and takes a good long pee, as if to say: <br></p>
<p>"Piss off, old woman! Every tomato, flower, bush and tree you plant on this place belongs to me. Everything here is mine to eat!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If you find anything you like on my little website, please share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria <br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949252019-07-17T09:40:09-04:002020-01-13T11:10:05-05:00A Summer Morning and Night
<p>I had every intention of mastering some old recordings and getting them ready for release. Really I did, but then, the muse called and weak as I am, I broke down and composed... just a little.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>You see, my trouble is, I love to compose. In the right mood, I'm okay with recording. But I always loathe the grunt work required for internet distributors (you know, iTunes, Amazon, Spotify and a gazillion others.) There's nothing creative about it; it's just tedious data entry. I hate it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>And, it is with regret that I report I haven't changed much since my father's pithy observation when I was a teenager: </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color:#ffcc99">"Martha, you know what your trouble is. Your trouble is you want everything to be sound and color." </span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Yes, Daddy, you were right fifty years ago and you would still be right today. That being said, I'll do better tomorrow; I'll roll up my sleeves and get busy with all that data entry. Shoot! I might even do it tonight.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">In the meantime, here's a little two piece suite for piano that I did last night and this morning (when I was supposed to REALLY be working.) I made this a freebie, free listening and download both for personal use. Please, no commercial use. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2885468964/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=333333/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 362px; height: 482px;">&amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/summer-morning-summer-night-piano-suite" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/summer-morning-summer-night-piano-suite"&amp;amp;amp;gt;Summer Morning, Summer Night - Piano Suite by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949242019-07-14T09:13:35-04:002020-01-13T11:10:05-05:00Just Passing Through-Part 1
<p> </p>
<p>I dreamed I was racing up a flight of steps, two at a time. I felt so elated and light: surprised too. I haven’t raced up steps two at a time in years. These days, I climb steps laboriously and descend with extreme caution. <br></p>
<p><br>We live in a split level house. As soon as you walk through the front door, you’re confronted with two sets of steps and a decision: up or down?<br></p>
<p><br>As steps go, ours aren’t bad: not too steep, carpeted and handrails on both sides. Still, I remain wary and careful. It was in this house on these very steps that my mother in law fell and broke her hip. That accident was, I believe, the beginning of her long unraveling. <br></p>
<p><br>As Bob and I age, the layout of this house will become more challenging. Sometimes I toy with installing a lift in the foyer. My aunt and uncle had a small elevator between the first and second floors of their townhouse in New Orleans, which I found ever so fascinating and luxurious as a child. If an elevator allows Bob and me to stay in our little house in the woods, I’m all for it. This house is, after all, where I intend to die.<br><br>+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++<br><br>I read something interesting the other day, I think on the BBC website, the gist of which was that scientists now estimate that at least a hundred billion people have already lived and died on this, our good green Earth.<br><br> <span style="color:#ffcc00"><em>A hundred billion. Let that number sink in.</em></span><br><br>“If a hundred billion people have already done it, I guess I can too, “ I mused to my husband as we walked on West Outer Drive. <br><br>“You have no choice,” my husband replied.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++<br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pkPou18YqZA" width="560" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div> <br>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> Yesterday, my sister and I sat at the dining room table perusing old photographs, passing them back and forth. Nearly everyone in those grainy old black and white prints is dead: Mother, Daddy, all but one of our twenty something aunts and uncles, numerous cousins, and even most of our classmates. <br><br><br>If you, like me, are lucky enough to get old, eventually you too will count fewer living than dead among your circle of loved ones and friends. At 67, I’ve outlived all but one of my closest childhood friends. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br>I can still hear my mother’s sighing voice as she lamented, “I don’t know why I’ve outlived all my people. I wish I’d just go on and die.” Long life was for her, I believe, less luck than a curse. The last survivor of her extended family, she was acutely lonely in old age. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br>I haven’t out lived all my people yet, but I’m getting close. I miss so many good souls. They visit me in my dreams, but in my waking hours, I'm beginning to feel a little bit lonely too. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Part 2 to follow. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++<br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, if you find anything you like here, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter (and Lily Cat Music for Kids!) with someone else. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949232019-04-26T13:43:01-04:002020-01-13T02:52:12-05:00A Lizard Called Margarita
<p>Yesterday, the sun was hot on the garden wall and the lizards were back, sunbathing, running helter skelter, chasing each other in and out of the cracks in the old concrete.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Ah," I thought. "It's really summer now. The lizards are awake." It's hot too. Only April and the afternoon temperatures are already climbing into the 80s. It's looking like we might have another record breaking heat this summer.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I've mentioned before, we live in a rain forest: lizards and all kinds of other critters are abundant around here. You can't be squeamish and live in the woods like we do.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Sometimes the lizards even make it into the house. How? Who knows. I guess through the tiny cracks around the door and window frames. This is an old, leaky house. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I don't really mind the occasional lizard in the house; they're harmless. I draw the line, however, at snakes, and yes, we've had a couple of snakes in the house over the years. Although it's been nearly a decade, I still put my boots on every time I venture into the laundry room. And I haven't set foot in the bomb shelter for years and I don't intend to: I'm pretty sure there are snakes in there. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>But, getting back to the lizards: a couple of years ago, a lizard got in my studio. Every time I walked in and saw her, I shrieked a little...scaring the bejeezus out of her I'm sure. I tried catching her several times, but never could. (As an aside, I wonder what she found to eat in there.) Finally, I gave up and decided that she had chosen me for a friend and room mate and I named her Margarita. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>That's how my little lizard friend Margarita, the blue tailed lizard, became the inspiration for a suite of playful little piano pieces I called Blue Tail Bagatelles. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As always, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter and Lily Cat Music for Kids with others. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind people like you. Thank you. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Enjoy. Be Well and Good Luck, Martha Maria <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> <iframe name="full" src="https://widget.cdbaby.com/88fc8fe5-367d-47d9-a5c2-ce714232fbb7/full/light/opaque" style="width: 100%; height: 520px; border: 0px;"></iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949222019-04-23T01:33:43-04:002020-01-13T11:10:04-05:00Can Any Death Be Tiny?
<p>I count their lifeless shells: shiny black, dead beetles scatter widely on the asphalt street amongst fallen leaves and twigs, a crushed white cigarette butt and one perfect tulip tree flower. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I lean in close to admire the tulip flower’s creamy white petals painted with dreamsicle orange, its fully erect fat pistil and slender long white stamen, all set like jewels on a tricorn of pale green leaves. Then, with a cautious toe, I prod an inert beetle; he’s dead. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Walking on, I puzzle over what might account for so many tiny deaths overnight. Or is there any such thing as a tiny death?<br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Question: are all deaths equal?</p>
<p><br><br> <span style="color:#ccffcc">* * * * * * * * * * </span> <br><br><br>I slow my pace to look for the subtle coloration of trillium in the dense foliage alongside a driveway further down the street. I spot two, both yellow. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>One flops over, bent with a broken stem. I’m not surprised, trillium are fragile. But the other one stands erect, its broad, mottled leaves spread like a miniature umbrella. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I wonder if the new residents have noticed the trillium growing on their property; and do they know about the woman who committed suicide in their house? <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I doubt it. The house has changed hands more than once since the woman’s death and besides, it happened such a long time ago. <br><br><br> <span style="color:#ccffcc">* * * * * * * * * * </span> <br></p>
<p><br><br>Back on Wendover Circle, I notice a single beetle still feebly moving. I stop to observe his slow, painful journey…where? He seems to be trying to circumnavigate a twig.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>While I watch, his delicate back legs struggle and fail to find purchase in the pitted asphalt. He flails and stops.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Should I help him? How? I hesitate, then, gently edge him on to a soft new green leaf and lay him in the loamy green shade of my neighbor’s wild flower garden. Will he survive and perhaps even thrive in his new home, or have I only prolonged his death throes? I can’t know the answer to that question. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Is there any such thing as a tiny death, or are all deaths equal? I can’t know the answer to that question either. <br><br> <br> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949212019-03-06T11:21:42-05:002020-01-13T11:10:03-05:00Thinking About Memoir
<p><br><br>An old woman in a tie dyed dress, I walk on Wendover Circle. Rain drops plip plop on my head from the overhanging trees. A big cold drop runs down my face and hangs on the end of my nose, tickling. My wet hair’s plastered to my head too, but I don’t care. I love the smell of earth and sky after a good night’s rain. </p>
<p><br><br>Walking alone, I listen to my own inner voice accompanied by the ambient sounds on the ridge; peepers pulsing in the ravine, the savage cry of a lone hawk circling overhead, and the occasional report of a distant gun in the valley. I hear the gurgle of an unseen river racing under the street and wonder how long it will take last night’s rain to make its way back to the ocean. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I remember how Tommy, Esther and I used to dam the rain water racing by the curb in front of the old house on Atlanta Road, sailing paper boats on our engineered lakes, whooping and stomping, laughing and splashing, while rain drops ran down our faces in tiny, trickling rivulets. As children, we were so joyfully alive, delighting only in the present moment. </p>
<p><br><br>Living in the present moment is the gift of youthful innocence. As an old woman, I seem to chase moments as they vanish faster and faster into the irretrievable and irremediable past. <br></p>
<p><br>My life has become memoir and memoir, my life. <em>C'est la vie</em>. <br> <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949202019-02-20T01:00:31-05:002020-01-13T11:10:03-05:00Pinballs
<p>I was standing in line at Kroger’s the other evening when I was startled by a young man reaching around my legs to grab a couple of energy drinks out of a cooler. I jumped like a scared rabbit and let out a little shriek. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>“Oh, I’m sorry, Mam,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>I looked in his face. I could tell he was a nice guy. He really hadn’t meant to scare me. He was just in a hurry. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br>“That’s okay,” I replied, and watched as he rejoined his family at the next register: a pleasant faced wife, slightly plump, her dark hair pulled in a tight knot on top of her head, and a couple of handsome, curly headed sons who waited, patient and still, while their parents pulled out their wallets and counted out several bills. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br>As I unloaded my buggy, I watched all four, curiously, out of the corner of my eye. “I’ll never see them again,” I thought, as they filed out of the store. “I’ll never know any more about them.” </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>As I stood waiting for the cashier to ring up my own order, I had the momentary sense that people everywhere are like pinballs randomly pinging around a giant cosmic arcade. We collide on occasion, as I did with that nice young man with the good looking family. But then, we inevitably return to our own little self contained worlds, each of us having our own unique and mostly unshared perceptions and experiences. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span id="__mce"><br>Wheeling my cart through the parking lot, I watched cars pulling in and out, most loaded with people I’ll never know. “There’re over seven billion of us careening around this planet,” I thought, “and not a one of us will ever experience exactly the same day. We’re just pinballs,” I told myself. “Randomly colliding pinballs.” <br><br></span><br><br><br><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949192019-02-05T02:40:51-05:002020-01-13T11:10:02-05:00Raised by Wolves
<p>Day 1, Mindful Meditation Class <br><br>I sit on the back row alone; I like sitting alone. <br><br>I look around the room. There’re plenty of empty chairs. I put my car keys, pen and papers on the chair next to me; nobody’s going to need that chair. <br> <br>I glance at the clock on the wall. Two minutes past one. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>The instructor moves to the center of the room and introduces himself. He’s a retired psychiatrist with a religious background, but, he cautions, we’re not going to talk about religion in this class. Our focus is the neuroscience of meditation; how can a meditative practice enhance our mental and physical well being? <br> <br><br>The instructor continues, in a genial and encouraging tone. We’re going to jump right in he says, and start with a little 3 minute meditation.<br><br>Okay, I’m game. I settle into my chair. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Imagine an hourglass,” he says. “The top is wide, the middle narrow, the bottom widens again. We’re going to start at the top. Notice the wide environment first, everything here in the classroom. That might include the light, your chair, the carpet, the sound of my voice.” <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Dutifully, I look around, studying the ceiling, the chairs and blackboard, the two dusty erasers in their tray, the rectangular white movie screen with its long string hanging down, the instructor’s cobalt blue sweater, khaki pants and boots, a black fanny pack and walking stick on the floor in front of me and the usual sea of gray heads that make up our little coterie of retired and elderly students. <br> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The instructor continues: “Now, we’re going down to the narrow center of the hourglass” he says, “narrowing all the way down to the breath. Focusing on the breath, just the breath, be with your breath. Not forcing anything. Just noticing. Noticing how the breath sustains us without our even thinking about it.“<br> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cradling my hands in my lap, I close my eyes and breath deeply, in, out, in, out. I’m aware of my stomach expanding and contracting as if I were singing. Now I focus on the slight pause between each inhale and exhale. I'm relaxed. I let my shoulders slump. My head nods on my chest. This feels good.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Drifting along in a mindless reverie, I suddenly startle to the interruption of a heavy door opening and closing, followed by the harsh metallic click of a bolt snapping into place. Footsteps. Now I sense movement both behind and to my left. <br><br>Geez, what the f@ck? <br><br>I open my eyes; a pair of unfamiliar hands are moving my car keys, pen and papers off the chair. For a nano second, I watch the hands and my papers hover mid air. <br><br>“Can I sit here?” she asks. <br><br><br>I grab my keys, pen and papers and put them on the floor in front of me. “Yea, sure,” I mumble. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Inside, I’m fuming. Who the hell is this graceless stranger? Why didn't she have enough sense (if not courtesy) to stand quietly in the back of the room until our little meditation was over? And with at least a dozen empty chairs on either side of the room, why did she feel compelled to rouse me out of my meditation so that she could sit in that one particular chair?</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>I close my eyes and struggle to get back into the zone. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>We’re moving down the hourglass again. I’m supposed to notice something else…but what? I try to follow the instructor’s directive, but my concentration is broken. I keep thinking about the intruder to my left. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>I’m not only angry; there’s something about her vibe that repels me. I move my chair a few inches to the right and lean as far away from her as possible. Closing my eyes, I try to relax again. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>But then it starts: the blowing and coughing, coughing and blowing, followed by even more blowing and coughing. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br> Inwardly, I watch the word 'septic' march across a neon landscape. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>Meanwhile, the instructor, who has wakened us from our little meditative interlude, talks a bit about the inevitability of interruptions to the meditative process. Yea, she’s an interruption all right! Is it my imagination or are other people actually turning around and shooting pointed looks in her direction. Why doesn't she excuse herself and go get a drink of water? <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> <br><br>Now the Kleenex comes out again. More nose blowing ensues. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> <br>Oh Snap! I've had just about all I can take. I’m ready to start screaming! Quick, I gather up my keys, purse, pen and papers and flee. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>Safely alone in the hall, I let out a sigh and whisper, “Sweet Jesus!” </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> <br>What was that all about, anyway? A message from the universe, perhaps? Did I just fail some kind of cosmic test? </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>Nah, the universe doesn’t care about little old me. That was just one more graceless human being among the many millions of graceless human beings who have walked the good green earth since time began. No big deal.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Jumping in my car, one of Daddy's phrases comes to mind: ‘raised by wolves.’ Yea, that’s it. <br><br><br>As I pull out of the parking lot, I hear my Daddy's voice echoing across the vast chasm of time. “Ah, Martha, some people are just uncivilized. They’re the ones who were raised by wolves.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Daddy was right. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yet still, I wonder, who was that woman and why did she have to sit in THAT chair? <br><br> <br><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949182019-01-02T13:34:27-05:002020-01-13T02:52:11-05:00Division or Addition?
<p>This morning, as I walked round and round my own driveway, the word 'individual' sprang to mind.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>'Individual' comes from the Latin root dividere, meaning to divide, separate or cleave apart. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In arithmetic, to divide is to split a whole into smaller parts. Division, put to best use, I think, is for sharing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My husband and I often divide and share a beer. My sister and I used to divide a stick of gum when we were little. And it behooves all of us as citizens and tax payers to divide and share the considerable cost of maintaining roads, schools, parks, public spaces, national defense, etc. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But as I walk around my drive way, it occurs to me that, though we Americans have historically revered the so called rugged individual, logically neither I or anybody else is truly individual. Back in the house, I grab the dictionary to look up synonyms for 'individual:' I find single, separate, discrete, independent and solo. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Well, all I can say is thank God I'm not individual! If I were truly separate, discrete, and independent, I never would have survived, much less ever made it out of the cave. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Fortunately, I am, like every other human being on earth, an amalgam of characteristics inherited from the millions of forebears who have preceded me, starting, if you like, with the Biblical Adam and Eve or (more likely it seems to me) the little African hominid named Lucy, whose 3.2 million year old fossilized remains were discovered by Donald Johanson and Tom Gray on November 24, 1974 in Ethiopia. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/d95bfb745bc0f0a9bfdf5a3ece4230d683a8654d/original/d2004e6f3764ad91924cb70ba20dc0cb-1-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQ5eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="249" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Lucy's" fossilized remains</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>Not only do all of us literally carry our ancestors' collective DNA on an unseen cellular level; we're also the vessels that carry their scientific, technical, cultural and linguistic development, discovery and invention. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>So, as I walk this morning and ponder, it seems to me that we humans are not the result of millions of years of division as much as of addition. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>As an aside, I will opine that rejecting the notion of discrete individualism doesn't make me feel diminished. I've always thought of one as the 'largest' number. Why? Because the number 'one' is whole, inclusive, undivided. Divisions, portions or slices of any whole, while more numerous, are always smaller than the whole from which they're derived. Addition enlarges. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I would be interested in hearing the thoughts of others. Leave comments or contact me (dogwooddaughter@dogwooddaughter.com) if you wish.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be well and good luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948992018-12-31T08:48:29-05:002020-01-13T11:09:37-05:00Community, Belonging (and other stuff)
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5df6f03a0ffbecbfedb6e4f9f1d256fdd78a9fd1/original/13.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDMzOCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="338" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Driving down Hilltop into Oliver Springs, my eyes stray to the mountains, drawn, as always, by the figure of the giant sleeping woman in the hills. I admire the twin peaks of her breasts, the soft hill of her rounded belly, her knobby knee caps and the smooth ridge that delineates her mile long legs. </p>
<p><br><br>She is so beautiful! I have loved this woman since I was a child. I am her child. My bones and flesh are made of her dusty bones and flesh.<br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>Like me, she sleeps flat on her back, like a corpse, hands folded on her upper chest. One day, I know I’ll close my eyes for the last time and sleep with her forever. I do not dread that day.</p>
<p><br><br>A child of these fertile green hills and mountains, I belong here. I will not leave East Tennessee; I will not leave my mother. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> +++++</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“He saw me sitting in the audience and he knew I’d call him out.” She sounded proud of herself. <br><br>“Why would you do that?” I queried. <br><br>“Because he’s NOT Appalachian. He’s from Michigan,” she said. </p>
<p><br><br>“So what? He’s been here over forty years,” I said. “I knew him in the early seventies in Knoxville. He used to play the hammered dulcimer for us to dance at the Laurel Theater. Nobody’s done more for Appalachian culture than he has.” <br><br>“I’ve known him a long time too, she said. “He’s NOT Appalachian.” <br><br> “ I think he's earned the right to call himself whatever he wants. I guess in your book, I’m not Appalachian either,” I said.<br><br>“You’re not!” Her tone was emphatic. <br><br>“What? I was born and raised in Oak Ridge at the foot of Wind Rock Mountain. I’ve been playing the mountain dulcimer since I was a little girl. My mother was a farm girl from Sugar Tree, Tenn. and yes, my dad was Hispanic from Texas, but so what? If I’m not Appalachian, then, pray tell, what am I?”<br><br>“I don’t know but you’re not Appalachian,” she countered. <br><br>“I don’t give a tinker damn what you think,” I replied, my voice rising. </p>
<p><br><br>I watched her mouth work in angry silence for a moment. Then, my fellow workshop attendees and I watched as the self appointed guardian of all things Appalachian slammed the front door and, like Elvis, left the building. <br><br> +++++</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>I was riding back from dinner with another workshop attendee. Passing the last gas station before the tunnel, my eyes fixated on a caravan of over sized pick up trucks loaded with middle aged white men flying Confederate flags. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br>They didn’t strike me as a particularly successful or prosperous looking bunch. They were, by and large, a scruffy assortment in faded blue jeans and tee shirts, mostly pudgy, gone to fat, men who likely knew their best days were behind them as soon as they graduated from high school. <br><br><br>Watching them, I couldn’t help but remember my father’s wry remark when I was in high school and boys used to drag up and down Delaware Avenue honking their horns to get my attention. It worked: I nearly always ran to the window. Daddy, however, was unimpressed: <br><br> “Martha, boys who honk their horns like that can't do anything else." </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br>Forty years later, Daddy would likely say something similar about these Confederate cowboys in their run down pick up trucks. As my companion and I descend the mountain and enter the tunnel, I hear my long dead father’s voice: <br><br> “Martha, men who parade around flying Confederate flags can't do anything else."<br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>In the past, just being white would have afforded these same men a leg up, but not any more. The country is changing and they know it. Behind the bravado, they’re probably scared of being left behind and they will be, if they don't adapt. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> <span style="color:#00ff00"><em>"Get on board, little children</em></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#00ff00"><em> There's room for many a more"<br></em></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#00ff00"> </span><span style="color:#00ff00"><em> </em></span> <br> <br><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> +++++</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I’m sitting on the couch in my peaceful little house in the woods when I see a small news item: the Trump administration has re-designed the presidential seal, replacing ‘en pluribus unum” with his campaign catch phrase “Make America Great Again.” </p>
<p><br><br>Current events and the president’s own rhetoric suggest that “Make America Great Again” is code for “Make America White (and male dominated) Again.” </p>
<p><br><br>I shake my head in sorry disbelief: the President and his adherents are living in an a hopelessly dated dream world. The train’s already left the station; demographic trends reveal that by the middle of this century, whites will be a minority in this country. In a lot of places, they already are. </p>
<p><br><br>The American melting pot, including Appalachia, is fast tracking toward a varied and infinitely interesting mixture of languages, cultures and colors. We will never be a nation of WASPs (White Anglo Saxon Protestants) again. <br><br> <span style="color:#00ff00"><em>The future is knocking. Like it or not, answer we shall! </em></span> <br><br><br> +++++</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>Lunch break's over. After my little briggazee with my fellow workshop attendee, we all sit uncomfortably, looking down. Time to play nice, I think.</p>
<p> <br><br>She apologizes first. Tells me what she really meant to say is that I’m not a traditional Appalachian, that traditional Appalachians are of Scottish and Irish descent and I’m not that. Okay, I can take that fairly gracefully (though that’s not entirely true on my mother’s side of the family) and accept her apology. </p>
<p><br><br>Following her example, I half heartedly apologize too, mostly for imposing an unnecessary and unpleasant scene on everyone present. After apologies have been made, we slog through the last couple of hours remaining in our workshop. <br></p>
<p><br>But at three o’clock, I’m relieved to go home. She probably is too. <br><br>On the two hour drive home, I puzzle over what happened. The whole episode still niggles at me.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Don’t we all have the right to define ourselves? What kind of arrogance does it take to tell another person what he or she is? And what makes people want to hoard the insularity of their own little group, as if they were safeguarding diamonds?</p>
<p><br><br>It’s a question that looms large not just between two cantankerous old women at a workshop, but currently challenges and vexes much of the country, especially since the inauguration of President Trump.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Who gets to decides who belongs and who gets 'thrown off the island?'</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> +++++</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I was the instigator of that little workshop tiff over a year ago. The self appointed guardian of all thing Appalachian with whom I tangled dropped out of the remaining workshop sessions, opting for private meetings with the instructor instead.</p>
<p><br><br>I guess I ran her off. I'm not proud of that. But I am proud of standing up for myself, for claiming the right to define who I am and to what tribe I belong. </p>
<p><br><br>It’s been two years since Trump was inaugurated and issues of race, religion and belonging have intensified on the national scene, with the Muslim travel ban, testing of the ‘Border Wall’ prototypes, and the violence in Charlottesville. Further, the so called Dreamers, the sons and daughters immigrants who were brought here illegally as children, are still living in the unresolved nightmare of limbo while ICE deportations proceed at an unprecedented and unmerciful pace. <br></p>
<p><br>I have a hunch that all of our possessive impulses, both personal and national, are motivated by a sense of scarcity and fear that there won’t be enough to go around. It’s true that resources aren’t allotted equitably in this country. Many people, especially children, don’t have adequate food, housing, education or or access to opportunities. It’s also true that a number of people, the super rich, have far more than any reasonable person could need. </p>
<p><br><br>How much is too much? How much is too little? And why don’t we aim for a society in which consumption is dictated by the general welfare instead of a dog eat dog ethos? </p>
<p><br><br>Jesus and his little band of followers were living demonstrations of the plenty principle. Like the loaves and fishes, if we’re grateful, take what we need and share, there will be enough for everybody and our lives will be enriched by a sense of community. </p>
<p><br><br>'Community' is such a lovely word; isn’t that what we all long for, a sense of community, of belonging to something larger than ourselves? Healthy communities aren’t closed; they welcome newcomers and are enriched by people bringing a variety of new ideas, talents and material resources. <br><br><br>Closed communities don’t thrive. Most don’t even go down in a blaze of glory, but fizzle out, killed by the stale, hackneyed, boring and monotonous. <br><br><br>I don’t know exactly where I’m going with all of these thoughts. I’m not prescient and can’t see where our country is going, I just know it’s going somewhere. Life doesn’t stand still for anyone or any nation.</p>
<p><br><br>I see a stark choice in the near future. We can either extend an inclusive, welcoming hand to others, regardless of color, ethnicity or religion and thrive as a nation, or we can shut ourselves off and collapse like a slow dying star, falling inward into a black hole of our own making. <br><br> +++++</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I sit in bed, drinking coffee, gazing out the back window. The trees are naked and seem to shiver in the cold gray light. The wild rhododendrons are my thermometers. I can see by the way their leathery leaves are folded tight against the dormant buds, that it's frigid out. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wind Rock Mountain is just visible across the narrow valley. There's a giant cross on that mountain, a scar from an abandoned strip mine some twenty if not thirty or more years old. That scar should have healed by now, but it never has. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The cross on the mountain, like the giant sleeping woman, has come to define the mountains for me. The mountain vista is my ground of being. In my bones, I am a mountain woman, an Appalachian, the granddaughter of immigrants from Mexico, England and Ireland, and a loyal, ardent, vocal American. </p>
<p> </p>
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<p>I remember when I was a little girl and Mrs. Thomas called me a 'little half breed.' She meant it as an insult. Now I take her insult as a compliment. My life and personality are made richer by having grown up with a foot in more than one culture: Tex Mex on my father's side, West Tennessee farmers on my mother's side, and the good people of the Appalachian Mountains who taught me how to play the Appalachian dulcimer when I was a little girl and generously shared their songs and stories with me. </p>
<p> </p>
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<p>I think of myself as a vessel, an open container eager to be filled with everything and everybody beautiful, wholesome and good. That's what I want for my children. For everybody else's children too. For everybody in this long suffering world. </p>
<p> </p>
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<p>Be well, good luck and Happy New Year,</p>
<p> Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949172018-08-31T02:22:38-04:002020-01-13T02:52:11-05:00The Whole Enchilada
<p>This morning, as I walk round and round the drive way, I recall Daddy.<br>In his last few years, he also walked round and round, not on the drive way but on the sidewalk in front of the old house on Dana Drive. </p>
<p> <br><br>With cardiomyopathy, he tired easily, and often stopped to rest. I inherited Daddy's heart; in old age, I too have developed cardiomyopathy caused by a thickening muscle on the left side of my heart.<br></p>
<p><br>I don't mind walking further afield with my husband, but alone, I'm wary of getting too tired and dizzy and stay close to the house. I walk at a moderate pace round and round my own drive way, stopping often, if not to rest, to write.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> The habit of taking notes and recording random thoughts and observations is another characteristic I inherited from Daddy. He never went anywhere without his notebook and pencil. I too am a compulsive note taker and never go anywhere without my little moleskin notebook and (preferably purple) pen in hand or purse. </p>
<p><br><br>Unfortunately, I didn't inherit Mother's strong heart; I got her face instead. Sometimes, I feel a familiar tight lipped sensation fall across my mouth and instantly, without even looking in the mirror, I sense my own face turning into my mother's.<br></p>
<p><br> <br>As I get older, I realize how like both of my parents I really am. When I was young (and dumb), I would have been horrified at the thought. Now, I welcome and even delight in that knowledge. My parents were, like everyone else, flawed humans but I loved them and there's no one else I'd sooner be like than either one of them.</p>
<p> <br><br>Truth is, we inherit the whole enchilada from our ancestors, not only their glorious achievements, but their failures and weaknesses too. We're all complex, yin and yang, sinner and saint, shadow and light. In short, we're only human and regrettably, at times, some of us are barely even that. <br> <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949162018-08-19T16:06:07-04:002020-01-13T11:10:00-05:00The Detritus of Lives Interrupted
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/cb4db5629f716d669dd3151cfa3f56af0b94d9b3/original/dscn0582-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzUweDU2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="562" width="750" /></p>
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<p>The old Applewood Apartments have at last come down, gone, leaving little evidence of the thousands of lives that were lived there. Demolition complete, the grounds have been smoothed over and seeded with grass, an era passed. </p>
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<p>I travel Hillside Avenue a lot. Nearly every time I go out, in fact, I head East on West Outer Dr., down Illinois Ave., and take a left on Hillside, and from there, either turn right on Highland or Pennsylvania Avenue. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Over the years, I've watched many children get off the school bus at the Applewood Apartments; seen many a soccer ball kicked around; and waved at many people sitting out on the steps, cooking on their grills, or just standing in front of the apartments talking to neighbors and enjoying the evening. </p>
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<p>When the Applewood Apartments were vacated, I felt a little sad. They weren't elegant, but were always the most affordable shelter in Oak Ridge. When I was a girl, they were the go to place for newly weds just starting out; in later years, they were the destination of migrants (of which we have a surprising number in Oak Ridge) and others who found themselves down on their luck.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shelter is an interesting word. Related to the word 'shield,' shelter is a place of protection, a safe haven. Shelter is, however, a foreign concept in Oak Ridge; we don't have a homeless shelter.</p>
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<p>We Oak Ridgers are all about growth, prosperity and home values. Our chichi little burg is not tolerant of the shabby; shoot, zoning doesn't even permit mobile homes within City limits lest they diminish the value of the faux English and French McMansions that have sprung up like mushrooms.</p>
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<p>Admittedly, the Applewood Apartments were old and in bad shape. Over a number of years, the owner took measures to make the apartments safer and more attractive, painting and shoring them up. However, as a citizen observer, it seemed to me that the City was intent on shutting them down. From my perspective, the City gave little indication of being interested in working with the owner.</p>
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<p>Last May, I parked my car on Hillside and walked around the old apartments with a camera. Though demolition was already underway, the place was quiet, nobody else around. </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/6f018ccc2e2fd197640d9a38b71531a39aa50dbc/original/dscn0633.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I ignored the signs</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/1bfc1cf2ee1c0f0c39d81e8b3e2e7a045c60531d/original/dscn0570.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzUweDU2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="562" width="750" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">My approach, wild flowers in the yard</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/aa61f3e7afc74d6e835b63032409073650faed80/original/dscn0593.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The bulldozer was silent, not another soul around</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8aefcbff745fa594280edb8f35361eab46384319/original/dscn04851.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDU2OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="568" width="800" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A lot of life happened on those long, communal porches</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/0e0d9b88e9ffc090b856cf6a6072cc28768ebe69/original/skitched-20180819-213654.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Njk5eDUyNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="524" width="699" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Someone rushed away and forgot their ball.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/05c06f685d6366237b0c980cb629e0fcb589e3cb/original/dscn0598.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Njc1eDUwNiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="506" width="675" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Abandoned crib</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/9459c0a600b9fecca97c49ec4dddf8957bc38115/original/dscn0603.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Clothes left hanging in the closet suggest a hasty departure.</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/80582185a1beef1f733c7192d173ab8c55b28538/original/dscn0504-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The screen is testament to someone's effort to create beauty in her home. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/122eb6803d8add6ff9de3bea0b040c5c6034c8ea/original/dscn0630.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Green flower vases</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8e2d935d889e516cbe40412d31532154822a658c/original/dscn0596.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Mattresses, TVs, tables, chairs, cat trees, clothes, lamps, dishes; everywhere evidence of hurried departures. Did people abandon their possession because they had no where to take them?</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/87c4915746d146cef4f6d3446a5e903ce5640e06/original/dscn0592.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzUweDU2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="562" width="750" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I saw lots of abandoned cleaning supplies. This was the only vacuum cleaner, but I saw several mops, brooms and buckets. Also, jugs of bleach, fabric softener, detergent, etc. </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/4ce31f539d07b909880b6165f801f4ee072ed075/original/dscn0490-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">What lonely looks like</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/bcb596231e83b61f2cc33f3935393a2ff26f17ac/original/dscn0611.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/1f5bd2ed9f24b29331651efdc395e504f7456d38/original/dscn0626.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Half way gone</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/84d25d36d5af59613d3a2055c32aac5a9c251020/original/dscn05681.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzUweDU2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="562" width="750" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Never heard of a drink called Wicked Apple. Makes sense: if not The Garden, something was lost here.</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b4eaca168d21b70498489623fffd6ee99a55f612/original/dscn0572.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzUweDU2MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="562" width="750" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Oh, but the wild flowers! Here, early dandelions. </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/6a9dcb0d52a590b2b9e5b9d348c13713b056419d/original/dscn0574-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Last look back</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949142018-08-18T11:36:39-04:002020-01-13T02:52:10-05:00A Favorite Place Remembered
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/e61f8ff42a23717070db1443a54cc85543c1ee5b/original/close-up-clothes-clothesline-1122167.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQwMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="401" width="600" /></p>
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<p> </p>
<p>I’ve never been much of an artist, but sometimes I like to challenge myself with something new, so I signed up for a water color class at our local arts center. Sitting at my desk with my new paper, brushes and paint, I listened attentively to the teacher talk about emotional spontaneity in the life of an artist. She concluded with a prompt:</p>
<p><br></p>
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<p>“Go back to your favorite place when you were a child,” she said, “Now, paint that.”</p>
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<p>A single image flashed in my mind. With little skill, but plenty of enthusiasm, I began painting: a defiant looking little girl with her hands on her hips peering out from between a row of clean white sheets hanging on the line to dry. Sitting next to her in weedy green grass, a black and white cat.</p>
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<p>It’s funny, the special places we remember from childhood, most of them humble, many of them hidden. The clothes line of my memory was in our back yard at the old East Village house on Atlanta Road. I lived there between the ages of three and seven. My most vivid childhood memories are from that house and neighborhood.</p>
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<p>We didn’t have an electric clothes dryer back then. Few did.</p>
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<p>Mother washed our clothes in the rhomboidal tub of the wringer washing machine standing on its spindly, bug like legs in a corner of the kitchen. After feeding the wet laundry through the wringer, she carried the clothes outside in a big wicker basket and hung everything—linens, Daddy’s white shirts and under shorts, Anita’s and my pastel dresses, and her own thin nylon panties and white cotton bras— on the line to dry. I remember the sweet scent of sun and wind that infused our clothes back then. No detergent or fabric softener has ever duplicated that clean fragrance.</p>
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<p>I always liked playing under the clothes line, but my favorite days were when Mother washed sheets. Bed sheets made a lovely bright white tent for a secretive little girl to play in. Hidden in my make shift tent, I whiled many hours away, alone with Black and White Friend Girl (my cat) lost in the simple pleasure of my own imaginings.</p>
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<p>Even as a child, I was a loner. Now I wonder why I didn't keep that painting of the defiant little girl with her cat. For some reason, I threw it away.</p>
</div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947202018-08-06T12:56:20-04:002020-01-13T02:51:44-05:00Do Not Tread on Y-12's Peaceful Green Lawn
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#008000">Originally published Aug. 5, 2013</span></p>
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<p><span style="color:#008000"><span style="line-height:22px">Hiroshima Day, August 6, 1945</span></span></p>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">Sixty seven years ago, the U.S. dropped the world's first atomic bomb, so innocuously nicknamed 'Little Boy' on the city of Hiroshima, Japan. It is estimated that in the initial firestorm, 80,000 persons instantly perished,vaporized or burned alive. Many thousands more perished slowly over the ensuing weeks, months and years, from radiation sickness, various cancers and other maladies. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">The uranium fuel for Little Boy was enriched in the calutrons of the Y-12 Nuclear Weapons Plant in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Through the 1940s, 50s and 60s, during the Cold War, nuclear weapons production continued at break neck industrial speed in Oak Ridge.</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="color:#008000">To commemorate Hiroshima, I wrote and recorded a song a few years back. This afternoon, I set my song to some historical photographs of Hiroshima. I offer you the resulting video now. </span></div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;"><span style="color:#008000">67 Years Later, August 6, 2013, Oak Ridge, Tennessee </span></div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">On September 30, 2009, the Pentagon revealed the actual size of the U.S. nuclear stockpile: 5,113 nuclear warheads. Thankfully, both the U.S. and the Russians are reducing the size of their respective nuclear stockpiles, but not nearly enough. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">The U.S. and Russia, co-signers to the START treaty, have mutually agreed to reduce their respective stockpiles to no more than 1,550 warheads each. And as an aside, the relatively primitive bomb named Little Boy that leveled Hiroshima packed a yield of 12 kilotons. Our modern warheads carry yields of some 340 kilotons. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">Last summer, Sister Megan Rice, an 82 year old Catholic nun and peace activist, along with Greg Boertie-Obed, 57 and Michael Walli, 63, cut through the chain link fence surrounding the Y-12 Nuclear Weapons plant. Armed with wire cutters, flashlights, bread, and baby bottles of human blood to symbolically splash on the weapons plant, these three brave souls reached the most secret inner sanctum of the Y-12 Nuclear Weapons Complex. Sister Megan Rice also carried a worn Bible and a letter which read:</div>
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<div>“We come to the Y-12 facility because our very humanity rejects the designs of nuclearism, empire and war. Our faith in love and nonviolence encourages us to believe that our activity here is necessary; that we come to invite transformation, undo the past and present work of Y-12; disarm and end any further efforts to increase the Y-12 capacity for an economy and social structure based on war-making and empire-building.”</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">All three of the elder peace activists expected to die that night. As their progress continued across the Y-12 campus, undiscovered and unimpeded, they prayed and sang hymns: <em>Peace Like a River</em> and <em>Down by the Riverside</em>. They hung their peace banners and splashed blood on the walls of the so called "Fort Knox of the Nuclear Weapons Industry" where hundreds of metric tons of enriched, bomb grade uranium are stored and through whose gates every nuclear warhead in the U.S. arsenal must pass. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">Apparently, unbeknownst to most of us, a few other things have been passing through those same gates. Of late, there have been a number of breaches at the Y-12 facility, much to the embarrassment of the federal contractors and both the U.S. Departments of Energy and Defense. </div>
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Sister Megan Rice and Misters Obed and Walli were initially charged with simple criminal trespass, but as the incident gathered international attention, federal charges continued to expand and eventually included sabotage and a number of other felony indictments. Prevented from speaking on their feelings about the dangers of nuclear weapons in federal court, all three peace activists were convicted. <br>
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After the break in, Congress held investigations (in which one Congressman thanked Sister Rice for demonstrating how porous the security at Y-12 actually was!) Y-12 was closed for a period of two weeks. And, perhaps most impressively, Y-12 officials erected many miles of another flimsy chain link fence, this one to protect the site from the dastardly peace activists that descend on the lawn in front of the Y-12 Gates from time to time, most especially, to commemorate Hiroshima Day.
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">In past years, I've been to some of those Hiroshima Day demonstrations. Oh, indeed, the activities of the peace activists were shocking, dangerous and alarming! They actually rang a bell and read the names of victims who died at Hiroshima. What is worse, they hung paper cranes on the fence along Y-12! </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">Tomorrow, they won't be doing any of those things, at least not on the grass, for the NEW fence does not allow any trespassers on the green. No, the new fence goes right up to the edge of the road, with bright yellow and black no trespassing signs displayed every few feet, effectively outlawing any sort of demonstration. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">Thank God! I feel safer already. After all, the existential threat to the survival of Planet Earth is not INSIDE those gates! I'm so relieved that our all knowing government officials and their corporate flacks have, in their superior wisdom, criminalized free thinkers who might have the audacity to appear with paper cranes, banners and bells at the gates of Y-12 with the intention of treading on that peaceful green lawn.</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px;">Martha Maria </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px;">August 5, 2013 </div>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949132018-07-23T05:47:42-04:002020-01-13T11:09:51-05:00Ordinary
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8b30accfe5845b10614254a2a90f6847cd5fe52a/original/cabin-july-4th-peaches-dinner-party-099-300x401.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAweDQwMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="401" width="300" /></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br><br>While I circle the drive way, we pass each other like planets in retrograde.<br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>Her small horny back, mustard yellow and black, traverses wet, pebbled shadows. I admire her deceptively delicate feet, so tiny, as she clambers over withered leaves, rocks and rough concrete. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br>Hannibal crossed the the Alps on the back of an elephant in 216 B.C.. Undeterred by forbidding terrain, his feat remains unique in human history.</p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">Seemingly determined as Hannibal, so goes this intrepid little millipede as she disappears to cross the vast plain beneath the looming underbelly of my Dodge Caravan. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br>I circle the drive way, once, twice, three more times, watching, waiting for her to emerge on the other side of the van. On my fourth trip round, she reappears, still chugging along like a miniature freight train, her articulated back undulating without zigzag or hesitation. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>How do purpose, intent, and the notion of a fixed destination arise in the brain of a millipede, I wonder. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>Now I stop, put on my glasses and lean over to get a better look at the completion of her small, yet immense journey. She pays me not the slightest attention as she crosses the remaining strip of concrete and plunges into the towering green jungle of my weedy garden.</p>
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<p>Where is she going and what will she do when she gets there? Just two more ordinary mysteries to ponder on another ordinary day. </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949122018-07-21T12:43:22-04:002020-01-13T11:09:50-05:00The Great Outdoors
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/e738adbdef380f15c883fe79de544edcb29fb0e7/original/dscn0005.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><span id="__mce" style="color:#008000"><em>“You kids need to get outside. Go play in the great outdoors!” Mommy Jean, circa 1957<br></em></span></p>
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<p>When the sun slides low in the sky, I venture outside. Emerging from the cool air conditioned comfort of the house, the first breath shocks; muggy summer air hits my lungs like a wave of warm soup. <br></p>
<p><br><br>Standing under long shadows on the drive way, I listen to the symphony that erupts in the woods; katydids, in cacophonous, pulsing unison, songbirds trilling goodnight and the grunting croaks of romantic bull frogs hidden in the tangle of wild ginger, English ivy and ferns. <br></p>
<p><br>Coarse grass pricks the soles of my bare feet as I wander off toward the garden. Daisies glow like white stars against purple basil, nearly black in dwindling light. The deer, so pesky yet beautiful, have decapitated most of the lilies and hosta. I hope they don't move on to the Black Eyed Susans tonight. <br></p>
<p><br>As my skirt brushes gray green foliage, a pungent aroma rises from the tomato vines. I love that smell! I pop a firm red cherry tomato in my mouth. It’s still warm. Rolling it around on my tongue, I bite down on velvety flesh and savor the explosion of sweet sour juice and pulpy gelatinous seeds. Ummmm. Delicious!</p>
<p><br><br>Alone under the dome of the darkening sky, surrounded by the hypnotic thrum of katydid song, inhaling the perfume of the teeming green woods and garden, I stand enthralled, made small by the sensory overload and grandeur of nature. <br></p>
<p><br><br>My air conditioned house is delightfully cool and comfortable and I’m awfully glad to have it, especially in these Dog Days of summer. But there’s no poetry, no wild splendor in the controlled comfort of small, closed rooms. I seek and find wonder, enchantment, and mystery in the untamed realm of what my mother called the 'great outdoors.’ <br></p>
<p><br>Mommy Jean was right: Kids of every age (even really old kids like me) need to 'play in the great outdoors.' Truth be told, 'the great outdoors' is cathedral, circus and school to me. I need no other. </p>
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<p>Thanks for visiting Dogwood Daughter. As always, I ask you to share my little website with someone else. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you. </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria <br></p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949102018-05-27T05:24:19-04:002020-01-13T02:52:10-05:00A Quick Hello and a Freebie
<p style="text-align: left;">Hello. It's been a while since I posted any new music. It's not because I've not been composing, but rather because I've not been making any effort to get new stuff out. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I resolved this week to do better, and so, with the help of a little tequila, I got busy in studio, composed a new little set of tiny poems for solo piano, recorded them and threw them out on the internet. I made them a 'pay what you want' download on Bandcamp, which means, of course, you don't need to pay anything. They're free for personal use. Please, no commercial use, as I am reserving copyrights. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">By the way, the cover art is a photo I snapped of my own overgrown, and weedy little garden. Happy Summer! I appreciate each and every one of you. </p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=291673196/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=2ebd35/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 366px; height: 486px;">&amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/summer-garden-little-poems-for-solo-piano" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/summer-garden-little-poems-for-solo-piano"&amp;amp;gt;Summer Garden - Little Poems for Solo Piano by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949052018-04-22T13:32:42-04:002020-01-13T11:09:42-05:00The Twin Killjoys of Worry and Fear
<p>I sit on the couch fretting about one thing or another, none of which I can control. Bob sighs with exasperation. “Martha, I wish you didn’t worry so much,” </p>
<p>"I wish I didn't either," I reply. And I mean it. <br></p>
<p><br>Bob’s right. I do worry too much, even though I tell him that worriers often see real danger where other more care free types do not. “We worriers are the survivors of the world,” I say. <br></p>
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<p><br>Yet, survival and living are not synonymous. Living implies a joie de vivre that mere survival does not. And, as I can attest, nothing takes the joie de vivre out of life more than worry and fear. <br></p>
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<p><br>Sometimes, when worry overtakes me, I take deep breaths, repeat a mantra, or try to distract myself with books and music. But worry is a learned and deeply ingrained habit. </p>
<p><br><br>Both of my folks were children of the Great Depression. Like others who came of age during those brutal years, I think they remained worried and fearful most of their lives. They worked hard to achieve security, but never quite trusted that it was theirs to keep. <br></p>
<p><br>They knew, from experience, that security was precarious; like the stock market crash of 1929, everything they'd worked for and achieved could be snatched away at a moment's notice. And so, they lived vigilantly, on guard against any and all sorts of real and imagined dangers. <br><br> <br>I once remarked to a friend that I can’t recall either of my parents ever telling me to ‘have fun.’ My sister and I heard a lot of cautionary phrases like 'watch out, be careful, don’t run, don’t talk to strangers, wait until you’re older, slow down, not so fast, stay out of the deep end, don’t dive,' etc. <br></p>
<p><br>Mother’s and Daddy’s world was a dangerous place and to a degree, their assessment was rational. As the old saying goes, no one gets out of here alive. But there’s a fine balance between rational and irrational.<br><br><br>Where Anita and I were concerned, Daddy, especially, veered off the rational track into the realm of Crazyville. He wouldn’t allow Anita to ride a bicycle until she was 12 because she might get hurt; he wouldn’t permit either one of us to join a high school social club because we might not be properly supervised; and most onerous, he wouldn’t let me join my high school’s marching band because the band traveled to away games with the football team and God only knows what kind of peril a pretty girl might encounter with those randy foot ball players! <br><br>Like I said, Crazyville. <br></p>
<p><br>Yet, the nut doesn’t fall far from the tree. I too have squandered much precious time fretting and wringing my hands in the hellish landscape of my own little Crazyville. If not for my husband, out of fear, I too would have deprived my boys of normal, healthy experiences the way Daddy's fear deprived Anita and me. Fortunately, my husband, who doesn’t worry, ran interference: “Martha, stop! You have to let them go. Let them be boys!” he’d say. </p>
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<p> I think I mostly did. <br><br><br>Living with the inevitability of risk is a fact I’ve reluctantly come to grips with. I just wish it hadn’t taken me 66 long years to arrive at what should have been an obvious realization: worrying is both futile and a killjoy.</p>
<p><br><br>Realization doesn’t automatically translate into change either. Old habits die hard. I'm still a worrier and likely always will be. <br></p>
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<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria <br><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949092018-04-13T12:55:52-04:002020-01-13T11:09:49-05:00Postcard from the Secret City - Going back to Atlanta Road
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<p>I stand on the side walk deliberating. Shall I knock or walk away? Every door and window is covered with black burglar bars. The sign in the front window reads, “Smile, you’re on camera.” <br><br><br>Everything about this house screams, “Go AWAY!” But I really want to go in the back yard. <br><br> I NEED to go in the back yard. <br><br><br><br>I throw my shoulders back and try to affect an air of confidence. As I climb the steps to the front stoop, an old black and white photograph of Bear Boy and Susie momentarily flashes across my mind, both propped next to the front door against the shingled exterior of the house. I was four when I asked Daddy to take a picture of my teddy bears one Sunday afternoon. The red shingles are gone now, replaced by brick. <br><br><br><br>Mother's little garden under the living room window is gone now too. Looking around, I almost catch a whiff of the smelly pink Vigaro fertilizer she used to spade around her flowers, mostly zinnias and spirea. Though the yard and house are neat and well kept, nothing here suggests personality, warmth or even life. <br></p>
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<p> The place seems dead. <br><br> <br><br><br>A tangled, dusty spider web hanging between the burglar bars and door frame tells me the front door hasn’t been opened in months, if not years. I knock on the glass, listen and wait. Nothing.<br><br><br>Well, I’m here, I think, might as well try the kitchen door. I walk under the new car port attachment on the side of the house, I recognize the outside storage room door, noting the pad lock. That little storage room is where Daddy kept not only his tools and lawn mower, but his wine making supplies. The disapproving Baptist preacher next door was forever ‘borrowing’ tools as an excuse to get in that little room and check up on how much wine Daddy was making. <br><br><br><br>Standing on the back steps, I remember two tall metal garbage cans next to the kitchen door and the simultaneous sense of horror and fascination I felt as I watched Mother cut the head off a snake coiled in one of them. <br><br><br><br>I knock on the back door, hard. A white sedan’s in the car port; someone must be inside the house. While I wait, I take note of the camera focused on me from overhead. A little beyond the car port, my eyes light on the drunken tilt of a tall metal cross bar in the back yard. Oh my God, Mother’s clothes line is still here! <br><br><br><br>After several minutes, the inside door opens, ever so slowly. An ancient looking woman in a pink cotton housecoat peers through the thick glass and metal bars of the burglar door. Her weak blue eyes look startled, suspicious and afraid.</p>
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<p>Oh Lord, she’s scared of me! I bet she lives alone and is terrified of everybody, hence the burglar bars and cameras. She’s converted her house into a fortress. <br><br><br><br>I try to sound friendly. “Hello, I say. I used to live here, in this house, when I was a little girl back in the ‘50s. Do you mind if I go in your back yard? I’d like to see it again.”<br><br><br><br>Her mouth hangs open. Her hands fumble, as if trying to communicate something, but I don’t know what. Is she mute? Has she had a stroke? Something is wrong. “Can you hear me?” I ask.<br><br><br><br>I think she nods yes, but I’m not sure. I try again, speaking louder this time. “I lived in this house when I was a little girl and I’d like to go in your back yard. Is that okay?” Still mute, her head nods in slow motion and the door softly closes. <br><br><br><br>In the back yard, I lean against the clothesline and close my eyes.</p>
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<p><span style="color:#008000"><em>My beautiful young mother strides across the grass carrying a big straw laundry basket. The basket is heaped with wet linens she's just washed and cranked through the wringer in the kitchen. Wearing a home made organdy apron, I watch her hang sparkling white sheets in the morning sun. She's singing, a hymn of course. “Wake up my brothers, sing in the sun shine. We’ll understand it, oh by and by.” </em><br> </span><br><br>I open my eyes and look at the little green postage stamp of a yard. It seemed so big when I was a child. Mother used to dig up the ground behind the clothes line every spring and plant pink gladiola bulbs. We had a picnic table too. Esther and I used to drape quilts over the table and around the benches, then crawl inside and pretend we had a tent. <br><br><br><br>Gazing around the yard, I recall the home made wooden sand box Daddy made where I mounded wet sand over my feet and stirred sand soup in the aluminum sauce pan Mother gave me.</p>
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<p>Finally I walk over to the far side of the house to look for the creek. It’s not much more than a trickle, hidden behind a screen of willows. When I was a child, it seemed immense as a river.<br><br><br>I can feel the old woman’s eyes watching me from behind the curtains. I should probably go. Walking back to my car, I take one last look at the tiny front yard and sidewalk. <br><br><br> Everything here seems so small, diminished by time. <br><br><br>When I was a little girl, the length of Atlanta Road was my world. To me, it seemed an enchanted, benevolent and beautiful place. Even today, in its ordinary and small homeliness, I still feel some of that enchantment. Why? Because Atlanta Road was the last place I saw my Mother happy. Or if not happy, at least not as sad as she soon became. <br></p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/45306d0e952589ab2fcd138aa4f379cacfa99845/original/dscn0743-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Looking up Atlanta Road from the house where I grew up. The church is one of the original army chapels dating from the Manhattan Project, 1943. <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949082018-04-11T03:24:03-04:002020-01-13T11:09:48-05:00Through the Camera's Lens
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/0b4e967085a56748631c8a5469d74a35476aecfb/original/dscn0477-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk4eDIyMiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="222" width="798" /></p>
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<p>A few weeks back, I bought a little point and shoot camera. I have a bigger, better camera (Bob bought it for me last year) but I wanted a small camera I can slip in my pocket and carry everywhere. </p>
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<p>Having a camera in my hand transforms my vision. I notice details, mentally frame images and even have the sense of looking at the familiar with new eyes, as if I were a stranger.</p>
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<p>Yesterday afternoon, I went to Jackson Square with my camera. The place was empty. The desolation made me nostalgic for the old days when Jackson Square was hopping. If you, like me, are an old Oak Ridger, you know what I mean.</p>
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<p>When I was a little girl in the 1950s, my mother and I took the bus (yes, Oak Ridge really had city buses) to Jackson Square to shop, get our hair done, bank, or just walk around and browse the latest merchandise and visit with people in the shops. My mother knew most of the clerks and cashiers by name and they knew her's and my name too. Back then, the sidewalks and stores were bustling. </p>
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<p>That's no longer true. Yesterday was a beautiful, sunny day yet, between 2:00 and 3:30 p.m., Jackson Square was all but deserted. </p>
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/04e35d6f45b90eafb691b47b42e24d50b2b0a2d6/original/dscn0433-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
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<p>South side of the square where bricks are inscribed with the names of Oak Ridgers. I saw many names of people I knew as well as many others I know to be dead, may they rest in peace. </p>
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/72860ef3a2db1e64bcb9a734449cfef061b0edda/original/dscn0451-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
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<p>Yesterday, I asked one of the shop keepers why the 'NO CONTACT WITH WATER' signs were up. He shrugged and said, "We don't know." </p>
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<p>I wondered if it's not because the fountain was sold to citizens as an 'interactive'. But wet concrete is slick, hard and dangerous. My friend's grandson fell while running around the fountain and got hurt a couple of years ago. Perhaps there have been other injuries. At any rate, I've thought for some time that our little 'interactive fountain' is a liability for the city. </p>
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/c68abfff5f9ebe9cb9773d160afb306c2263bfdb/original/dscn0450-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
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<p>While chatting with the same shop keeper, he asked me if I had noticed the new sculpture. "Yes," I said, "I took a picture of it. Is it supposed to be an atom?" Another shrug. It was erected for the Dogwood Arts Festival he said, and will remain on display for one year.</p>
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<p>As an aside, he and his friend informed me that we Oak Ridgers are no longer to refer to ourselves as 'The Atomic City.' The preferred term is now 'The Secret City.' </p>
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<p>I think we should drop both monikers. 'The Atomic City' and 'The Secret City' probably sound creepy or even scary to outsiders. If we want new people to move to Oak Ridge, we don't need to emphasize our atomic or secret anything. </p>
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8981acd7cad4b7dea683b306d768b3d226eb6cd2/original/dscn0459.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
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<p>The main drag through the middle of Jackson Square</p>
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/26d6fc95ec6344896a3610aca3f6b9dc33d082eb/original/dscn0472.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>A million bucks doesn't buy much any more. The fountain, pavement and benches cost tax payers one million dollars. It also cost Jackson Square business people a considerable amount of lost business and revenue as the project dragged on (and on, and on) way over schedule with mud, ice, scarce parking and a general mess. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/13abaa2a0ba1eeb6982ab7af46c1de6275f0fbed/original/dscn0442-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The garden on the south side of the square, maintained by a local garden club, is a lovely spot to sit. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/c97d765d5b7a054b5138131241af567c09971509/original/dscn0443-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Walk way to the lower level</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/9cbc0e9592c25f74cb056e447431d06fad2fca8b/original/dscn04711.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>There are benches around the fountain, albeit seldom used. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Built in 1943 as part of the Manhattan Project, Jackson Square is both beautiful and rich with history. I don't know what it will take to reanimate it. Many hoped that the fountain would be transformative, but it was not. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I drive and walk around Oak Ridge with my little camera, I see old neighborhoods and shopping centers in decline, deserted or both. Frankly, the whole city could use a little reanimation. It doesn't help that our property taxes are high, we're head over heels in debt and our City Council is repeatedly duped by the next pie in the sky scheme to 'turn Oak Ridge around.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've lived here a long time and I've concluded that maybe we're not going to turn around. Maybe we're not going to grow. Maybe we're not going to do anything but limp along indefinitely. Looking through my camera lens, I see a whole lot of maybes in Oak Ridge and very few sure things. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949072018-04-10T12:24:28-04:002020-01-13T02:52:09-05:00Where Have All the Geese Gone?
<p>In morning light, I walk alone under rain washed April sky. Bissell Park is curiously silent: the honking song of the geese is gone. </p>
<p><br><br>Accustomed to side stepping their mess, today the path is clean. The usual litter of cigar like little green goose turds has been washed away by rain.<br></p>
<p><br>I stand for a moment admiring the graceful sway of the willow tree in its coat of tender new leaves. Dandelions and violets bloom in a wide field still bright with prisms of rain. </p>
<p><br><br>Through every season of the year, geese mysteriously appear, disappear then reappear in Bissell Park. I've never seen a nest in the park; I wonder where their nests are.</p>
<p>Where ever they've gone, they won’t stay long, no more than a week or two. And when they come back, they’ll probably bring a passel of goslings. <br><br>I hope so. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949062018-03-22T12:45:28-04:002020-01-13T11:09:43-05:00Back to Sugar Tree
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/86fc186ec7c5843ec5740d63d2265a3691988040/original/dscn0124.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p><span style="color:#008000">My husband, Bob, took me to Sugar Tree for my birthday last week. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#008000"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#008000"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#008000"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#000000">“Martha, don’t be</span> disappointed if you can’t find it. Places change.”<br><br>“I know,” I say. My voice trembles as I watch the flat fields on either side of I-40 roll by. “It can’t be far; we’ve already crossed the Tennessee River.”<br><br><br>“How long’s it been since you’ve been to Sugar Tree?” Bob asks. <br><br>“A long time,” I sigh. “At least thirty, maybe even thirty five years.” <br><br><br>We ride in silence for a few more miles. There’s not much of anything on either side of the interstate. West Tennessee doesn’t look nearly as densely populated as East Tennessee. Mother used to call Sugar Tree ‘the back side of no where.’ <br></p>
<p><br>We speed past fields of wintry brown stubble and bare limbed trees. It’s still a little early for spring green. <br></p>
<p><br>As we drive, I recall the birthday parties of my childhood; playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, opening presents and eating cake and ice cream at the picnic table in the back yard. Some times, spring arrived early and we had perfect weather for an outdoor party. But other years, winter lingered late, damp and cold and the party had to move inside. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>Today, my 66th birthday, the weather is sunny and warm, perfect for traipsing around fields and graveyards. This little trip is Bob’s birthday present to me; he’s taking me back to Sugar Tree to look for my mother’s roots. She's been dead nearly ten years. <br><br><br>An exit sign comes into view. “That’s it! I say. “Exit 126!"<br><br>“Are you sure?” Bob asks. </p>
<p><br><br>“No, but it feels right. I know it's close to Parsons. When we get to the stop sign, turn left,” I say. It’s on the other side of the highway.” </p>
<p><br><br>As soon as we cross the overpass, I start searching for the old Stuckey’s gas station and candy shop. I’ll know how to get to Sugar Tree if I can just find that old Stuckey’s. I recall the tiny gravel road behind the building that wound down to the fertile black fields of Tennessee River bottom where my mother and her people lived and farmed so long ago, a place they called ‘Sugar Tree.’ <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>As Bob drives, my heart sinks. There’s not a Stuckey’s anywhere, just a sketchy looking strip club on one side of the road, an adult book store on the other. “You want to go in?” Bob jokes. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>“Let’s go over there and ask,” I say, pointing to a Marathon convenience store a little ways down the road. <br></p>
<p><br>A middle aged woman with shoulder length blond hair is just pulling out of the parking lot as we pull in. I jump out and run to her car. “Excuse me,” I say. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for a cemetery. Are you from around here?” <br><br>“I’m from Camden,” she says, rolling her window down a little more. “Do you know the name of the cemetery?” <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“No,” I say. “But it’s in Sugar Tree. The cemetery’s next to a little church called Wesson’s Chapel. It's on a hill. And there’s a school there, too, or there used to be, a little one room school house. My mother was born and raised in Sugar Tree. Have you heard of it?” <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Oh, I know where you mean,” she says, her voice warming. “My Daddy’s buried up there too.” She extends a heavily inked arm and points. “You go up there,” she says, “and turn right. You’ll find the road.”<br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Your daddy’s buried there? “ I ask. She nods. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What was his name?” I ask. “I wonder if he might be kin. It was mostly a Wesson family cemetery.” <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“My Daddy was a Bell.” she says. I shake my head. “I don’t remember that name.”<br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I turn to look where she’s pointing, I have a eureka moment! “Is that white building the old Stuckey’s?” I ask, incredulously. <br> <br>“Yep.” <br><br>“The same building?” <br><br>“Yep.” She nods. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The walls and even the windows of the old building have been painted over. Seductive black silhouettes of nude dancers pose frozen against the white cinder block facade. A big sign out front reads, ‘Burgers and Babes,’ a smaller one, “Teazers: Gentleman's Club.” <br></p>
<p><br>“Oh, my God!” I say. “I bet the old folks in Sugar Tree would be shocked to see that!” <br><br>She shrugs.<br></p>
<p><br>“I knew it was behind Stuckey’s!” I say, feeling elated. “Is the gravel road still there?” <br></p>
<p><br>“It’s still there, but it’s not gravel anymore,” she says. “It’s paved. “ <br></p>
<p><br>My heart is racing. I’m so happy, I could do a little dance right there in the Marathon parking lot. “Oh my God, I say, pressing her plump arm. “Thank you. Thank you so much! You don’t know how much you’ve helped me.” <br><br><br>“You’re welcome, she says. “Good luck. I hope you find it.” <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That’s it, over there,” I say, breathless and excited, as I hop back in the car with Bob. “That used to be the Stuckey’s. It even kind of looks like the old Stuckeys. I remember the shape of the building.” <br><br><br>As we turn into the Teazers parking lot, I ask Bob to stop the car. I want to snap a picture of the sign, a souvenir of this improbable moment.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I knew Sugar Tree would be changed,” I say, “but I never dreamed there’d be anything like this. Lord a Mercy. Mother would be so shocked!” <br><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949042018-03-19T02:03:11-04:002020-01-13T11:09:42-05:00Mutts
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/4b74b134fc1d44b48fad35b998cddc412dea441c/original/dscn0294-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDg3eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="487" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> Chica</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">March 19th<br><br>“It’s supposed to rain today,” my husband says, opening the closet door and selecting one of his new shirts. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br>“Oh no!” I say. “Just when we’ve gotten Chica all clean and prettified.” <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>Chica is the mutt we adopted from Slum Dog Rescue. She’s a funny critter with a big personality and very long hair. We had her groomed last Saturday. Now her long hair feels like silk, her nails are clean and she smells good. But smelling good and feeling silky won’t last. Nothing does. She’ll get muddy and wet in the back yard today. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>When I picked her up on Saturday, the groomer said, “We were trying to figure out what kind of dog she is. She’s unique.” <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>“I know. She has a wonderful personality,” I say. “What do you think she might be?” <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>“I don’t know,” she says. “We couldn’t figure her out. She’s kind of shaped like a basset hound, but her hair and face is almost like an English sheep dog. And she’s so cooperative. Whatever she is, she’s a good one.” <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>“I know,” I reply. “She’s the perfect mutt.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> + + + + + <br><br>I’ve never had a pure bred dog. Never wanted one either. Maybe I like mutts because, as it turns out, I’m pretty much a mutt too.<br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>I got my Ancestry.com DNA test results back this weekend. Bob and I sit on the couch perusing them together. “Martha, you’re a human melting pot,” he says. “Are you surprised?” <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>“No,” I say. “I knew the de la Garzas were all mixed up. That’s what my mother said the first time Daddy took her down to Brownsville right after they got married. She met Tio Carlos, with his blue, blue eyes and said, “Law me, you people are mixed up!” <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>The de la Garzas were originally from Monterrey, Mexico. During the upheaval of the Mexican Revolution (1911) my grandfather picked the whole family up and moved to Texas. He didn’t go far; the family home in Brownsville wasn't much more than a mile away from the International Bridge. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br><br>With his brown eyes and black hair, Daddy looked Hispanic, but his uncles and father, whom we called Papa Teyo, had blue eyes. Still, I always thought there was a Native American cast to many of the faces in the de la Garza family, something in the chiseled bone structure and cheekbones.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>I was right. My Ancestry.com results show that I have a significant percentage of DNA from Native American tribes, specifically from the Mexican states of Tamalipas and Nuevo Leon, and south Texas. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> But, as Bob observed, I’m a veritable human melting pot with DNA from Western Europe, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Britain, the Iberian Peninsula, European Jewry, Finland/Russia, Scandinavia, the Middle East and even a tiny bit from East Asia and Polynesia. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>Like my darling Chica, I am a unique mutt. <br><br> + + + + + <br><br>As I ponder my Ancestry.com results, I wish everyone in the U.S. could take a DNA test. With our country's legacy of slavery and immigration, I imagine many Americans would find that they too are mutts. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>I wonder if knowing how mixed up our DNA really is might go a long way towards eradicating racism, prejudice and white supremacy. Very few of us are pure breds. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> I’ve heard it said of our country that ‘diversity is our strength.” I believe that’s likely true not only on the macro, national level, but on the micro, personal levels as well. Strength, goodness and talent can be found in every race and ethnicity. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>My ancestry results have given me a lot to think about. I’m not disappointed to discover what a mutt I am. On the contrary, I'm delighted.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Over the last few days, I've found myself studying my own face and eyes in the mirror and giving thanks to my ancestors from all over the world who contributed to my make up. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> Like Chica, the other mutt in the family, I’m a good mixture. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Are we not all good mixtures, my fellow Americans? <br><br> <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949032018-02-21T11:46:34-05:002020-01-13T11:09:41-05:00Peculiar
<p>February 21</p>
<p><span id="__mce" style="color:#008000"><em>Crepuscular, a word drawn from the Latin word for “twilight,” is a term for animals that are active primarily at dawn and dusk.</em></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#008000"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#008000"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#008000"> </span></p>
<p><em><br></em></p>
<p>I’m sitting in bed drinking my first cup of the morning. The days are getting noticeably longer. Light is already filtering through the curtains. It’s warm outside too, eerily warm. These sublime days of sunshine and near eighty degree temperatures have been a little unsettling, February is supposed to be the grayest, coldest and bleakest month of the year, yet here we are, another early spring already arrived in the southern highlands. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>Uh oh, Chica’s barking. I sit for a minute, listening, hoping she’ll quit of her own accord. Nope. I jump out of bed, open the window and holler, “Chica, stop barking at those crepuscular critters.” Her bark obligingly fades to a low growl. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>Hopping back in bed, I have to laugh at myself. ‘Crepuscular critters.’ Hmmm, that’s an interesting turn of phrase. My mother, the farm girl from Sugar Tree, used to say ‘critters’ but I never heard her say ‘crepuscular.’ I shake my head at the realization that my speech patterns are a peculiar conglomeration of my mother’s rural Tennessee dialect and the bookish vocabulary of an over educated boob. (The boob being I.) <br></p>
<p><br>Then I reconsider. Maybe I’m not all that peculiar. After all, Appalachia is, like everywhere else, changing. Maybe a little too fast. </p>
<p><br><br>Sipping my coffee, I wonder what sort of crepuscular critter has caught Chica’s attention. Surveying the woods beyond the fence, I don’t see any deer. Maybe there’s a skunk out there. But the windows are open and I don’t smell anything. I love skunks or what my mother used to call ‘pole cats.’ They’re such beautiful little critters. There’s one in particular with a predominantly white back that I take care to avoid, sitting in my car sometimes, to watch her waddle off the drive way and back into the woods before getting out of my car.<br></p>
<p><br>I ponder that word ‘peculiar,’ even saying it aloud, testing it on my tongue. ‘Peculiar’ was one of Daddy’s favorite words, one he used to say in a wry rather than disparaging tone, as I recall. Still alone, in the half light, I consider how the faint tang of skunk spray wafting on the wind at a distance has a peculiarly pleasant, albeit wild, odor yet up close and personal, is downright sickening. Mysterious. </p>
<p><br><br>Inhaling the aroma of the Sumatra coffee my husband bought the other day, I watch the sky lighten over the mountains. The woods are waking up now too. A dissimulation of birds— robins, cardinals, finches, sparrows, wax wings, mocking birds and my favorites, the mourning doves— fills the air with song. The Barred Owl too gives one last hoot before retiring to the fir tree to sleep off the night. I wonder what he breakfasted on. Sometimes, in the wee hours, I hear the shreiks of a wee, whimpering beastie as a Barred Owl rips and gulps its flesh. I shut my eyes and try to imagine the horror of being eaten alive. <br><br> If nature isn’t cruel, it’s surely ruthless.<br></p>
<p><br>Now a peculiar light floods the woods. Beyond the trees, it looks like it’s already raining up on Wind Rock Mountain. If I want to take a walk before the rain moves down in the valley, I better get this day started. One last scalding swig of coffee and I’m up. Where are my boots? Where are my house keys? Why am I here and what am I doing? <br></p>
<p><br>I don’t know. I still haven’t figured all that out. I wonder how many other women my age have. I’m content to spend time in the quiet solitude of the woods, reading, playing the piano, taking walks, sitting on the porch, watching the wind and trees while I listen to the spring peepers in the ravine and the wild lonely sounding cries of the hawks that circle overhead. <br></p>
<p><br>Am I peculiar? Probably; a peculiar piddler of sorts, I suppose, as I muck and putter through my remaining days. But in old age, I find meaning, contentment, and even wonder in the small, simple life I lead in these beautiful woods here in the mountains of East Tennessee. <br></p>
<p><br>In less than a month, I’ll be 66. Life is so very kind to me; I have much to celebrate. <br><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949022018-01-24T00:55:02-05:002020-01-13T02:52:08-05:00My Aversion to Difficulty
<p>There's a bottle of Sally Hansen nail polish sitting on the cluttered table next to my side of the bed that I would call taupe. But, according to the lettering on top of the small gold bottle cap, my current nail color is actually 'Soy Latte.'</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I examine my short nailed old woman hands. Years of dishwashing, cleaning bathrooms and gardening without gloves or sunscreen are evidenced by rivers of ropey green veins under thin mottled skin now freckled with mysterious little constellations of brown age spots.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Though my hands are hopeless, I still have moments in which I aspire to glamour. I'm right handed, so painting my left hand is easy. Five deft swipes and I'm done.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I hold my left hand out, fingers splayed and admire my work. Looking good!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Okay, the easy part is done. Time to move on to my right hand. Because my left hand is clumsy, painting the right hand is always a challenge. So, taking the easy route, I decide to put it off. I'll wait for my left hand to dry before tackling the right. Seems reasonable.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Meanwhile, I assemble my equipment: cotton balls, Q-Tips, and a lavender bottle of acetone nail polish remover. Experience has taught me that I will need all three. My inept left hand will inevitably smear polish all over my right hand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But as it turns out, I don't need acetone, Q-Tips or cotton balls after all. Why not? Because I never get around to painting my right hand.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>That's correct. I've been going around for days now with one hand painted, the other not. And because I neglected to apply a top coat, my left hand now looks like a chipped, soy latte disaster.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I know, I'm shameless. Even as I write this, I can hear my long dead mother's voice: "Oh Martha, I don't know how I could have raised a girl with so little pride!" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Why did I never get around to painting my right hand? I could say I got distracted, sleepy, or forgetful, or perhaps that my husband turned out the light. There could even be a smidgen of truth to any one of those excuses. But I know the real answer: Painting the right hand is difficult. No swipe, swipe, done, but rather, swipe, oops, grimace, saturate a cotton ball, swab, scrub, and start all over again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Like I said, difficult. And I've had a life long aversion to difficulties, even the little ones. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#cc6633">UPDATE: Last night, after publishing this shameless blog, I painted BOTH of my hands, not with 'Soy Latte' but an unnamed coppery color by Sally Girl. Yea! A small but satisfying accomplishment. </span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949012018-01-23T08:26:37-05:002020-01-13T11:09:40-05:00Opening Some Windows
<p>Sometimes I drive around Oak Ridge, studying the old cemesto houses, looking for original windows. There aren’t many left. I still love the original casement windows with their thin, wavy glass panes opening out like sails on a ship.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I remember the delicious currents of air that used to blow through the house when I was a little girl, lifting filmy white organdy curtains that danced in the breeze, weightless as ghosts. I remember the sounds that wafted through the open windows of our neighborhood: the whoosh of passing cars, the sputter of lawn mower engines, the buzz of insects and whistling bird song, the clatter and bang of myriad indoor and outdoor chores and the high pitched ring of children’s voices. And I still miss the way those open windows admitted the ordinary and intimate odors of life: cut grass, honey suckle, car exhaust, frying bacon, burning leaves, fertilizer, and rain evaporating on asphalt. </p>
<p><br><br>There was a time when WINDows did, in fact, open to let the wind in. But that was a long time ago, before air conditioning and heat pumps.<br></p>
<p><br>Now, I seldom see an open window, not in a house, a school, or even a passing car. Most of us live behind our closed doors and windows, sealed off from one another and our environments. Could the price of our temperature controlled comfort be a sense of isolation, a disconnection from each other and the rest of the world? <br></p>
<p><br>I wonder if the first step in dissipating an epidemic of social isolation might be as simple as opening some windows and letting a little fresh air in. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/aac420434d7a106e2423361bb96edda252633163/original/open-window.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzIweDI0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="240" width="320" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Photo taken from Grumpy Young Women blog spot (no attribution given) </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I'm an indie artist with no advertising budget other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60949002018-01-17T10:02:50-05:002020-01-13T11:09:39-05:00Shades of Truth
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#ff9966"><em><span class="_y9e _s8w _Tgc"><strong>Aristotle</strong> - the <strong>golden mean</strong>. Moral behavior is the <strong>mean</strong> between two extremes - at one end is excess, at the other deficiency. Find a moderate position between those two extremes, and you will be acting morally.</span></em></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff9966"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff9966"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff9966"> </span></p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/7c97d108149b9fb73d62735c7975dc3e41479204/original/458px-sanzio-01-plato-aristotle.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDU4eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="458" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Plato (left) and Aristotle (right), a detail of The School of Athens, a fresco by Raphael.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“In other words, lie?” he asks.<br><br>“Yes,” I say.<br><br>“Martha! I’m surprised at you.” <br><br>“Why?” I ask. “The universe isn’t always truthful. Nature certainly isn’t. What about camouflage, isn’t that a lie of sorts? There are no absolutes; not many, anyway. A white lie told for a good purpose can be a good thing.” <br><br>Silence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I rattle on, dimly aware that I’m reciting a script I’ve heard before. “Black/white, good/bad, truth/lie. There're two extremes at the end of every pole. The trick is to find the Golden Mean, the middle way. That's what the Greeks did." </p>
<p> </p>
<p> <br>Idly, I gaze out the car window as we pass Walgreen's on the way to CVS to pick up my prescription. My eyes stray left, to the lawn in front of the Catholic Church. I wonder when they made that rock garden in the shape of a rosary around St. Mary's statue. I never noticed it before. Oh well, the building and grounds have changed since I was a girl. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I add one last punctuation mark to my mini discourse about the Greeks, I'm aware of having left the absolutes of the Roman Church far behind. Talking about the Golden Mean, I suppose I sound like the long lapsed Catholic I am. No surprise. Daddy was a lapsed Catholic too.</p>
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<p>Feeling a little self conscious now, I'm ready to wrap it up. "Sometimes it's okay to shade the truth," I finish. "Brutal honesty can be a fault." </p>
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<p> Then, still riding in the car, my voice trails off, and for a moment, I can see Daddy sitting, legs crossed, in his old maple rocking chair on Ditman Lane; from across a deep chasm, I seem to hear his voice. “So Martha," he concludes, "it's best to take the middle path in all things, find the Golden Mean." <br></p>
<p> <br><br>Bob breaks the spell. “Martha, that’s too deep,” he says and laughs. <br><br>He says it as a joke, but there’s an undertone of seriousness to his voice. He’s right. It is serious. The words that have just tumbled out of my mouth are not mine. They're Daddy's. When I was a little girl, Daddy always talked to me about serious things and I was glad he did. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As we pull into the CVS parking lot, I can't help but laugh a little at myself. I’ve been channeling Daddy. Again. <br></p>
<p><br><br>How old was I when I sat on the couch in the kitchen, watching Daddy smoke his pipe, and listening to him tell me about the ancient Greek philosophers and their Golden Mean? No more than ten, certainly. Maybe not even that. </p>
<p> <br><br>At age 65, I catch myself channeling both of my parents, more and more often. Sometimes, I feel an expression flit across my face, my mouth and jaw set in a particular aspect, and, without even looking in the mirror, I sense Mother making her familiar presence known through me again. </p>
<p><br>On other occasions, a piece of music will drift through the air, and the electric jolt of neurons firing in spontaneous and joyful combustion are, I sense, a peculiar species of intellectual and sensory delight I will always share with Daddy.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And sometimes, I hear myself repeating one or both of their words, almost verbatim, like today. <br></p>
<p><br>I suspect we humans are not so much individuals as amalgams of every ancestor who’s ever walked the earth. Not only my mother and father, but all of my progenitors, are alive in me today. The joys and travails of their flesh, minds and spirits are all collected, transcribed and passed down through their and my common DNA </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>No man is an island. We’re all a part of the evolutionary and experiential mains. The inhabitants of the past are not past, but always and forevermore present in the living just as you and I shall be in successive generations. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. As an indie artist, I have no advertising other than word of mouth from kind visitors to my website, like you. Thank you. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948982018-01-01T11:49:28-05:002020-01-13T11:09:36-05:00Happy New Year
<p style="text-align: center;"> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/3a866aa906d6c344222fe657037917a0e9fa8137/original/0bc4692e481e1db21e237455764bf5fb-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzYweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="360" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>"2018? It’s hard to believe,” I muse out loud, half to myself, half to Bob. <br><br>"Yep," Bob says.<br><br>Mentally, I count back. Joseph was six when we moved here, just out of kindergarten. <br><br>“Let’s see, that means we’ve been here, what, 20 years?” I query. <br><br>“Yes,” he says. “Twenty years in May.”<br><br>I sit in the rocking chair next to the fire drinking coffee out of the small clay mug I bought at one of Elaine Graham’s estate sales. Estate sale management is a booming business in Oak Ridge as the old timers die off. <br></p>
<p><br>I look around the living room, thinking how much my mother in law’s house has changed in twenty years. We moved into her house after she died.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ruth’s taste ran to mid century modern with lots of blond Danish furniture and white wall to wall carpeting. Now, the upstairs is more home spun with hardwood floors and a conglomeration of hand me downs and worn flea market finds. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>It’s a good house, spacious, quiet, deep in the woods. Perfect for someone who, like me, needs solitude and seldom leaves the house, perfect for Bob too, a restless soul who can’t stay home. Removed from our neighbors by a couple of acres of woods, we’re still within minutes of downtown Oak Ridge. <br><br>We’ve been happy in this house. <br><br>Thank God Bob’s daddy had the vision to build down here in the woods on the edge of the ravine. I love the privacy. It’s secluded enough to walk around naked in the back yard, and on occasion, we've actually done that. </p>
<p> <br><br>It was Seneca the Younger, as I recall, who walked nude for fifteen minutes in his garden every day, enjoying a ‘sun bath’ for health’s sake. Good idea. Even though I drink a lot of milk, the last time I had a physical, lab tests showed I was low on Vitamin D, or ’the sunshine vitamin’ as my mother used to call it. As soon as the weather warms up, I’m going to take a page from Seneca’s book and start taking some sun baths, in the all natural, behind the house. <br></p>
<p><br>It will, of course, be a few months before the weather warms up enough for sun bathing. If past is prologue, the bleakest part of winter, January and February, will see temperatures drop into the single digits. I’m hoping for a dry winter: no snow. <br><br>Snow keeps me house bound. I’m afraid of slipping and breaking yet another bone. Severe osteoporosis is the single best reason for me to start sun bathing and getting some Vitamin D. I’ve had a whole series of small fractures this year. At age 65, the good news is that over all, I feel pretty good; the bad news is my old bones are starting to, as Yeats said, ‘fall apart.’ <br><br><br><br>Yes, everything eventually does 'fall apart.' Bodies. Cars. Vacuum cleaners. Houses too. This house in particular. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> Bob’s parents built our house in 1963 and though we’ve made changes to the exterior and upstairs, downstairs has seen little repair and almost no remodeling. After fifty five years, the floor, the ceiling, a lot of things down there are literally falling apart. </p>
<p>That's about to change. <br></p>
<p><br>I’m getting new walls, as in new paint, next week. Also, a new floor, new couch and curtains, and I’m not sure what all. When it’s finished, we will, at last have a proper place to put up a few house guests (instead of bunking them in my studio.) I’m hoping our little house in the woods will welcome some visitors in the new year. <br></p>
<p> <br><br>I feel oddly optimistic about 2018. I say ‘oddly’ because current events would not suggest a rosie year in the making, but on a personal level, I feel good about life. Not complacent or self satisfied, but pleasantly surprised to have discovered, at long last, that I’ve grown into a somewhat likable ‘Self’ that I could not have imagined when I was a depressed and self destructive young woman. <br></p>
<p><br>Though my bones are ‘falling apart’ and I don't have nearly as much stamina as I used to, I’m happy to report that there are rewards to old age, a genuine and easy friendship with oneself being chief among them. <br><br>I wish you a Happy New Year. <br><br>Be Well and Good Luck.<br><br>Martha Maria <br><br> <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948972017-11-30T02:18:17-05:002020-01-13T02:52:07-05:00A Gentleman in Old Copenhagen
<p style="text-align: left;">I'm happy to share my latest creation, a new classical suite based on the stories of Hans Christian Andersen. I'm publishing this little set of pieces as a joint project of Dogwood Daughter and Lily Cat Music for Kids. It's intended as music for both adults and children.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As Lily Cat Music for Kids, I always try to compose music that both adults and children will love and even listen to together. Take a listen to "A Gentleman in Old Copenhagen' here at Bandcamp, where streaming is always free. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">When I get around to it, I'll probably load it on iTunes, Amazon and the other major digital distributos, but for now, it's just on Bandcamp. Bandcamp (and CDBaby) are both so good to indie artists like me. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1189973419/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=e99708/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 366px; height: 486px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/a-gentleman-in-old-copenhagen" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/a-gentleman-in-old-copenhagen"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;A Gentleman in Old Copenhagen by Dogwood Daughter with Lily Cat Music for Kids&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And now, the story of how I came to write a suite for Hans Christian Andersen, as it appears on the Bandcamp site:</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">When my mother was a little girl in Sugar Tree, Tennessee in the 1920s, the only book she owned was a beautiful turquoise bound volume of the Hans Christian Andersen's fairy tales. With a gold leaf embossed spine and color plates, it was a Christmas gift to her from her adult cousin, Aline Adkins, whose husband and father both had good paying jobs with the state; Aline could afford to buy books.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> My mother's family could not. Daddy Walker was a subsistence farmer. The Walker family was desperately poor during the Depression. There were times little Pattie Jean didn't even have a coat long enough to cover her long, gangley arms and legs. Books were luxuries her parents would have liked to have given her but couldn't.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> <br> My mother treasured her gift from Aline. As far as I know, it was the only book she brought with her when, at age 19, she moved from Sugar Tree to Oak Ridge and eventually married Daddy.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> When I was a little, my mother's book of Andersen's Fairy Tales became my favorite book too. I spent hours downstairs, curled in the old rocking chair, reading those wonderful tales and poring over the illustrations.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> <br> Once, when I asked my mother which stories had been her favorites when she was a little girl, she answered without<span class="bcTruncateMore"> hesitation: "The Emperor's New Clothes' and 'Big Claus and Little Claus.' Those weren't my favorites. In fact, the sinister story of "Big Claus and Little Claus' always scared me. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span class="bcTruncateMore"><br> <br> My favorites, the ones I read over and over again, were The Wild Swans and The Mermaid. <br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span class="bcTruncateMore"><br> <br> I don't know what happened to my mother's book. I wish I did. It disappeared somewhere between moves and other familial upheavals. I've searched for the same edition of that old book on line but have never been able to find it. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span class="bcTruncateMore"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span class="bcTruncateMore"><br> Fairy tales are not just for children. They are parables of the human condition, imparting perennial wisdom and psychological insights. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span class="bcTruncateMore"><br> <br> Like the tales themselves, this new classical suite is not just for children. It's for adults too. Nor was it my intention to compose tone poems. That is to say, I've not attempted to tell the narratives as much as to impart a sense of the feelings they evoked in me when I was, as James Agee observed, 'so successfully disguised to myself as a child.' <br> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span class="bcTruncateMore"><br> As always, I ask you to share my music with others. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind people like you. Thank you. Martha Maria</span> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948952017-11-04T12:09:01-04:002020-01-13T11:09:34-05:00Traipsing Through Time
<p> </p>
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<p>Walking alone on Outer Drive, a single snow flake falls through the chill autumn air, lights on my hand and melts away.</p>
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<div class="text_exposed_show">
<p>Glancing down, for a moment, the hand I see does not belong to me. It's Mother's, still sporting the flashy cocktail ring she bought at the pawn shop in Nashville so many years ago.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Garish and tacky, the ring is the sort of bauble a Dolly Parton wannabe might have worn before falling on hard times. We used to make fun of it when Mother wore it. She wore it every day; she loved it.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>She gave it to me before she died. Nobody else wanted it. It’s still garish and tacky, but spectacular in its own way. Today I’m glad I have it. I miss her.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A noisy UPS truck hurtles past and I snap back on the elastic treadmill of time. Once again, the hand wearing the flashy ring is mine. Inhaling the fragrance of dying leaves and damp sky, I turn toward home, passing the houses of people I know I'll never meet.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As I walk, I think, “Traipsing through time is all any of us have. That’s life; there isn't anything else.”</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Almost home on Wendover Circle, a bird seems to speak from high in a tree. “You have miles to go before you sleep,” he calls. “You’ll get there soon enough, old girl, but not yet; not today.”</p>
</div>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948942017-11-03T11:38:37-04:002020-01-13T11:09:34-05:00Projection Club - 1966
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a2e1659d9533ae0d9ddebc11f231b67b6c483502/original/filmstrip-projector-500.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDU0OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="548" width="500" /></p>
<p> </p>
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<p>I remember the Projection Club members as the most earnest and serious young men at Jefferson Junior High School. Outfitted in puffy pants drawn tight at their trim waists, slide rules and mechanical pencils tucked into their breast pockets, they were privy to the secrets of the storage room at the end of the hall where the school’s audio visual equipment was kept: movie, filmstrip and slide projectors, reel to reel tape recorders, record players and a few overhead projectors. Developed by 3M in 1963, overhead projectors were the latest advance in educational technology back in 1966. <br></p>
<p> <br><br>The Projection Club faculty sponsor was the geometry teacher, Mr. Smith. He was a good teacher. He had a gift for making geometry fairly clear even to mathematically challenged students like myself. I liked him. </p>
<p><br> <br>Mr. Smith taught basic Euclidian geometry while standing at the front of the room writing on the overhead projector’s plastic film with an oily black erasable marker. In retrospect, I think the single greatest advantage the overhead projector had over the blackboard was the teacher’s ability to face and maintain eye contact with the students. </p>
<p><br><br>Teaching five classes, five days a week, I wonder how many miles of diagrams and proofs Mr. Smith wrote, erased and rewrote ad infinitum, on that long roll of plastic film. And some fifty years later, I can’t help but wonder where Mr. Smith and all those earnest young members of the Projection Club might be today? Are they still among the living? I hope so. <br><br> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948932017-10-25T12:30:07-04:002020-01-13T11:09:33-05:00The Last Twilight
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=2522996044/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=ffffff/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/the-last-twilight" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/the-last-twilight"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;The Last Twilight by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The Last Twilight<br><br>In the last twilight<br>Of once Eden earth<br>Let us bear witness<br>Each one in his turn<br><br>Sift through the ashes<br>Of all that's destroyed <br>Witness the twilight<br>Of man's final voyage<br><br>There's nothing new<br>Not under the sun<br>No place left to raid<br>The conquest is done<br><br>No more new worlds<br>They've all be explored<br>Exploited, polluted<br>Tortured by war<br><br>While people of faith<br>Uncertain or none <br>Sense that the twilight<br>Of mankind has come<br><br>Sometimes I wonder<br>Why I and my friends<br>Were born in the Twilight<br>To witness the end<br><br><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I feel as if we are living in the last twilight of man's reign on this good earth. Of course, as a native of Oak Ridge, Tennessee, one of the three Manhattan Project sites where nuclear weapons were developed and manufactured, I've been haunted by the specter of nuclear annihilation all my life.</p>
<p><br><br>A nuclear war over Korea would be the logical conclusion to what our parents set in motion in this sad little Secret City way back in 1943. Nuclear destruction is, I am convinced, an inevitable eventuality given the number of thermonuclear warheads that are stockpiled and maintained on hair trigger alert. Even more troubling is the flawed nature of the people in whom we have vested decision making power.</p>
<p><br><br>I suppose as they churned out thousands of thermonuclear warheads, it did not occur to our fathers who were the scientists and engineers of America's nuclear weapons program, that there was no assurance that every Commander in Chief would be a responsible actor, much less a sane one. </p>
<p><br><br>As I write tonight, a third strike group is en route to Korea. With his petty, goading tweets, Trump is, I feel, attempting to provoke Kim Jong Un into a first strike. I fear and evidence mounts that our Commander in Chief is not sane. I only hope that Kim Jong Un IS sane, sane enough to resist the bait of the narcissistic, stubborn and stupid old man who currently occupies the Oval Office. </p>
<p><br><br>These are my opinions. I have no interest in debating trolls or anyone else. Be well, good luck and may the peace of the Lord be with us all.<br><br>Martha Maria </p>
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<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948922017-08-25T00:58:22-04:002020-01-13T11:09:33-05:00Contemplating Avian Angels of Death
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8636e8b19010372828a31e17e9249e1f4de9bca0/original/amerblackvulture.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p> Photo borrowed from <a href="http://www.empken.com/wiki/index.php5?title=American_Black_Vulture" data-imported="1">Emperor Ken's World</a> website</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A flock of vultures clusters on the transmission tower. Black wings folded, they sit like silent statues oblivious to the curious little woman who peers up at them from below. If I were dead or dying, they’d surely perk up and take an interest, but I’m not dead.<br><br> <span style="color:#ccffcc">Not yet. </span> <br><br><br>I’m just an eccentric old hippy in sensible shoes and tie dyed dress ambling down West Outer Drive on my morning walk. Age, I notice, has transformed my vision. I used to think vultures were ugly, even creepy. But today, with their sober, bent bald heads, they strike me as impossibly beautiful; like kindly angels of death. </p>
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<p> <span style="color:#ccffcc"> I pause, transfixed.</span></p>
<p><br><br>As harmless as lambs, vultures don’t kill anything. They are, rather, the under appreciated garbage collectors of the world, the humble scavengers who clean up the inevitable stench and decay of that most dreaded destination toward which all living creatures must travel: death.</p>
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<p> <span style="color:#ccffcc"> I can think of no more noble calling.</span></p>
<p><br><br>I’ve read of ‘sky burials’ in which a human corpse is left on a mountain top, high holy ground, or even a temple platform, to be devoured by carrion eating birds like vultures. A sky burial seems ever so much more beautiful and ecologically sensible to me than our wasteful western way of pumping a corpse full of chemicals, sealing it in a stainless steel box and burying it six feet under ground. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>But I’d hazard a guess that, other than on some Native American reservations, sky burials are illegal in every state of the union. There is, however, a growing interest in simple, more natural burials in the United States. If you, like me, are interested in green burial options in your locale, you may be interested in taking a look at the <span style="color:#ccffcc"><a href="http://greenburialcouncil.org" data-imported="1">Green Burial Council</a> </span>website. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I told my husband and children some time back that I want a natural burial, and God forbid that one of them should go first, I'll arrange the same for them. It's my hope that, short of a sky burial, after death my body can be recycled and given new life in the leafy fronds of a weeping willow tree. How about you? </p>
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<p><br>As always, I ask you to share my little website with other people. I’m an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you. <br><br>Be Well and Good Luck,<br><br>Martha Maria <br><br> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948912017-08-18T06:36:43-04:002020-01-13T02:52:06-05:00Hell Hole
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"><em>Excerpted from my memoir, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Postcards from the Secret City</span>. I drove down Atlanta Road and Ditman Lane the other day, remembering our family life in both of the old houses.</em></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"><em>I think moves are hard on children in general; they don't care about new, shiny, bigger, or better. I was seven years old when we moved to Ditman Lane the week before Thanksgiving, in 1959. That move sure was hard on me. <br></em></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
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<p>Saturday Morning, December, 1959<br><br>I sit at the kitchen table, the new maple one with the three captain’s chairs and the single first mate’s chair. I’m the only first mate; everyone else, even Anita, is a captain.</p>
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<p><br><br>I stare at my turquoise melamine plate. Something’s wrong, my throat is closing up. I feel like I’m going to gag.</p>
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<p>Daddy’s sitting at the table too, wolfing breakfast down with gusto. Mother stands at her new built in copper tone stove, drinking coffee and flipping pancakes. <br></p>
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<p><br>I look around our new kitchen. The turquoise counter tops and copper fixtures are shiny. Morning sun floods the braided rug in front of the fire place in the den next to the kitchen. On the other side of the swinging door, the living room is empty. The comfortable old couch and rocking chair where we used to sit on Atlanta Road are in the basement. Mother and Daddy are going to buy new living room furniture.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>My bedroom furniture is new too. I have a fancy new white and gold twin bed with a turquoise satin bedspread. But Mother won’t let me sit on or sleep under the bedspread. I’m supposed to fold and put it on the new gold satin chair in the corner before I go to bed. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>Daddy finishes his pancakes, pushes his chair aside and heads back downstairs. He’s staining the floor in his study. The varnish he’s using stinks of over ripe bananas, ether and insecticide. I’ve been trying not to breathe through my nose all morning. Now my head hurts and I can’t eat. Everything-- pancakes, milk, maple syrup, even the air-- tastes like oily, noxious varnish. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>I sit alone at the table, contemplating my surroundings. Despair settles over me. I want to go back to Atlanta Road. This new house on Ditman Lane is a hell hole. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948902017-08-07T04:48:37-04:002020-01-13T11:09:31-05:00Finding my own quiet little island
<p>Monday, August 7</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/cd99f17e1b2a15bcf1cc704692288d9fe7283f1b/original/393651-10151495329307416-255894204-n1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDUzMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="533" width="400" /></p>
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<p>Early morning. I sit in the dark, my back propped against pillows, a cup of scalding coffee cradled in my hands. The rhythmic tick of the clock’s pendulum is hypnotic, as familiar and comforting as the sound of my good mother’s heartbeat when I sat, my head nestled against her chest, as a little girl. Outside, a light summer shower falls. Through the open windows and wafting curtains, I listen to the whispered conversation of tall trees in droning rain. <br> <br><br>Early morning is my favorite time of day. Sitting alone, attuned to my own internal dialogue, I sometimes feel as if I’m sitting in the company of a peculiar, albeit interesting, stranger. (Aren’t we all strangers to ourselves?) Her random thoughts are occasionally crazy, frequently unsettling, and often uncannily accurate. As I sit, I jot down some of her insights. Like dreams, if I don’t write them down, I tend to forget them. <br><br><br>I’m retired, with no deeds to do, no promises to keep. I have time to sit alone in the dark. Still, it’s not always easy. Digital temptations (addictions, really) abound: Facebook, Twitter, emails, 24/7 cable T.V. Every morning, I have to make a conscious decision to say ‘no’ to all that and willingly enter the solitary island of my own little world. I notice when I do, I feel more peaceful, productive, creative and optimistic for the rest of the day. <br><br><br>My quiet time alone is probably much like what other people call meditation, prayer, or mindfulness. Or maybe it's not; I don’t know. But whatever it is, I recommend it. As an aside, I think children need the same kind of internal quiet and privacy. I suspect we all do. <br><br><br>Be Well and Good Luck, <br>Martha Maria <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948892017-07-30T05:52:57-04:002020-01-13T02:52:05-05:00Never Too Late
<p style="text-align: left;">Sunday, July 30</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I'm sitting in bed sipping my 3rd cup of coffee. I've turned off T.V. The news never gets any better.</p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Without conscious prelude, a word appears in my mind's eye. I see it, clearly, not in any context, but rather as if hanging alone in the middle of an otherwise blank screen: <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> nimbus<br></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Hmmm. I wonder what that means. It's a word I associate with clouds. So why am I thinking about clouds this morning? </p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">I glance out the window where the bright July sun casts stark edged shadows under the eves of my studio and the wide serrated leaves of the mulberry tree. No clouds out there. </p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I sit with my coffee, puzzling. Are clouds hovering over my inner landscape?</p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">Aha! A sudden insight. Early this morning, I chanced upon a quote from Nietzsche in an email: "Without music, life would be a mistake."</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Those seven words hit me like a gut punch. Between the ages of 16 and 50, my life was a mistake. <br></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I quit piano when I was sixteen. Later, when it was time for me to go to university, I made a point of choosing a school that had a weak, bare bones music department. I didn't want to take any chances with being pressured (or tempted) to study piano again. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Why did I quit playing the piano? No mystery, I know exactly why. The sad truth is, I couldn't bear to play the piano any more while Daddy was alive; I had to wait until he was dead. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Daddy was an unrelenting perfectionist. For him, my performance at the piano was never good enough. I withered under Daddy's critical eyes. Music, which had always been my first love, also became my greatest fear. <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I'm not over that old fear. I still feel the tension in my body when I sit down to play piano and I only play in the solitude of my studio which is detached from the house and private. I don't even play or sing for my husband or sons. They never hear a note out of me. No, I create and record my music in complete isolation. The only sharing I do is via the internet when I toss a recording into the world wide web as if tossing a pearl into the ocean. <br></p>
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<p>I don't pretend to make money in music. I don't. Nor do I seek widespread recognition. I have only two goals: 1) recovery of the musical self I repressed for so long and 2) to respect myself as an artist and composer. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">I'm happy to report that, at the age of 65, I have belatedly accomplished both. It's never too late. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ffcc00">Here's a little preview of what I'm currently working on: Ghost Waltz, a suite for solo piano. Not finished or downloadable yet but free listening to the first four tracks. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2352115314/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=e99708/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 360px; height: 480px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/ghost-waltz" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/ghost-waltz"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Ghost Waltz by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria <br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948882017-07-26T04:26:55-04:002020-01-13T11:09:30-05:00La Canicula
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/ca2b5933484f5eb33b8a38f1f7e1abff24b38b36/original/img-20170404-0921281-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTc4eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="578" /></p>
<p> <span style="color:#ffffff"><em>My new little dog, Chica</em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>My dad, who was Hispanic and from South Texas, called the Dog Days of summer ‘La Canicula.' ‘Canicula’ is another name for the Dog Star, Sirius, the brightest star in the summer sky.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>In the Northern Hemisphere, the Dog Star rises before dawn in July and August. My dad told me that when he was a kid in Brownsville, old folks believed it was the cumulative heat of the Dog Star and the sun that accounted for the 100 plus degree temperatures of late summer. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p><br>La Canicula was also known to be an unhealththy period, a time when surgery should be avoided. I suppose germs do thrive in the heat, making (sweaty) wounds all the more susceptible to infection. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br><br>Here in Tennessee, we’re smack dab in the middle of the Dog Days too. Unlike South Texas, we haven’t had any 100 plus degree days yet, but afternoon temperatures have climbed well into the 90s. It’s humid too, but in the South, we’re used to it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As some of you know, I defied my dad's folk wisdom and had surgery last Tuesday. It went better than the surgeon expected, not nearly as complicated or as long a procedure as anticipated. I'm grateful for all the prayers and well wishes sent my way. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've made a terrific recovery and as of today, am back to taking my mid morning walks. This little poem came to me while I was walking today. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> Dog Day <br><br> I walk in shadow<br> I walk in light<br> threading my way <br> through flames<br> Katydids roar<br> in raucous heat<br> the Dog Star calls<br> my name<br> burning my<br> radiant face<br> <br></p>
<p> Gravity keeps<br> me grounded</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>If you find anything you like here, please tell others about Dogwood Daughter. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria <br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948872017-07-17T13:16:13-04:002020-01-13T02:52:05-05:00To Whom Much Is Given
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>"To whom much is given, much is required" Luke 12:48</em></p>
<p><em> </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I think I must have come into the world with a musical gift; I began playing the piano by ear on my own when I was four years old. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Honestly, my musical ability is a gift that mystifies me. Though I work alone in my studio, composing, singing and playing lyrics and melodies, I'm not sure exactly how I do it. The process works best when I slip into auto pilot mode and become a sort of channel and take dictation from the universe.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I've been thinking about the universe's generosity to me lately. Because so much has been given to me, maybe it's time for me to start giving some music away. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">That's why today I'm putting my spiritual album, titled "In the Tample of My Shabby Soul" as a 'pay what you want' download on Bandcamp. If you don't want to pay anything, that's okay; Bandcamp always offers customers the opportunity to pay (that's how they make their money, after all, by taking a percentage of sales revenue.) I do, however, ask that you download my music for personal use only. No commercial usage or distribution please! Thank you. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well, good luck and enjoy! Martha Maria</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> <iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=3775361557/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=de270f/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 370px; height: 490px;">&amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/in-the-shabby-temple-of-my-soul" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/in-the-shabby-temple-of-my-soul"&amp;gt;In the Shabby Temple of my Soul by Dogwood Daughter&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt;</iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948862017-07-14T03:15:13-04:002020-01-13T11:09:29-05:00Mauerbauertraurigkeit
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>Mauerbauertraurigkeit, noun, from the German, meaning the inexplicable urge to push others away, even close friends and people you really like<br></em><br><br><br>Without really understanding why, I’ve gone through life ignoring ringing phones, pretending not to be home when there’s a knock at the door, neglecting to respond to most invitations, letters and emails, and generally avoiding any and all social, civic and religious organizations. <br><br>It’s not that I don’t like people. I do. I just don’t like being with them; at least, not very often. <br><br>In short, I’m a loner. Looking back, I realize that I was a loner, even as a child. Not a total recluse, I had a few neighborhood friends with whom I played, but I spent most of my time alone, reading, practicing the piano, or just piddling and dreaming.<br><br>At age 65, I haven’t changed much. I still spend my days reading, playing the piano and piddling, though most of my dreams have fallen away. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> **********************<br><br>I pass the baby farm next to the turnpike. Slowing down, my eyes stray to the puddled pasture where the alpacas and donkeys graze. The wet green field is dotted with widely scattered alpacas, some clothed in pure white wool, others in rusty brown. They remind me of miniature, spotless giraffes with their improbable long, slender necks and big front teeth. They appear to be solitary creatures, aloof in temperament. Each grazes alone. <br><br>I scan the field looking for the two donkeys. Everything about them charms me: their big, square jawed faces, their round, fat bellies, and the soft mottled gray coloration of their shaggy coats, blending into the drab winter landscape. <br><br> There they are, side by side under a bare sapling. Constant companions, they stand close together; they love each other so much. <br><br>I live like an alpaca, alone and aloof. Since Mother and Daddy died, I've even fallen out of touch with most of my blood kin. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I have often wished to be more like the social donkeys. But, as the cartoon character Popeye used to say, "I 'yam what I 'yam" and for better or worse, I 'yam a loner. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> ************************</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>As I pushed my buggy past the cold case of hot dogs and lunch meat, I heard a voice say, “I wondered how long it would take before I would run into you at Kroger’s.” <br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br>I did a double take. It had been a while since I’d seen my sister. Her hair was longer. Mine was too. She looked like she’d gained weight, but I had too. It took a me a minute to realize with whom I was face to face. When it hit me I started crying. <br><br>As I clung to her, I whispered, “I feel like I’ve been alone my whole life.” <br><br>“That’s exactly what I said this morning,” she said. “Mother and Daddy just had two only children. We were both alone. “ <br><br>But it wasn’t just my sister and I that were isolated and alone in that green and pink house on Ditman Lane. We were all alone. Mother, Daddy, Anita and I circled each other like four alien planets, on guard and wary, careful not to ever bump.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> ****************************</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><br>My solitary nature has long been a (sometimes worrisome) mystery even to myself. Now that I’ve learned the word, ’mauerbauertraurigkeit,’ I’m relieved to know there are other odd balls in the human tribe, who, like me, for reasons inexplicable even to themselves, are compelled to go through life alone. We are the withdrawn souls who voluntarily inhabit our own small shells in self imposed solitary confinement. <br><br>But solitary confinement, even self imposed, can be a lonely, glacial place.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">I wrote this song for my mother, now gone many years. I've made it a pay what you want download for personal use. Please, no commercial use, however.<br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> <br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=3539233344/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=2ebd35/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/forgotten" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/forgotten"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Forgotten by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Forgotten <br> <br> Forgotten language of sighing wind <br> Forgotten faces of long lost friends <br> Forgotten voices of all the ghosts <br> Whose tongues are stilled by death's cruel repose <br> <br> But if I could remember <br> Then I'd remember you <br> Before the time of sorrow <br> And exile from the womb <br> <br> I wish I could remember <br> Before I was alone <br> Before we all were strangers <br> And every door was closed <br> <br> Forgotten language of sighing wind <br> Forgotten faces of long lost friends <br> Forgotten voices of all the ghosts <br> Whose tongues are stilled by death's cruel repose <br> <br> Forgotten faces, forgotten souls</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I'm having surgery on July 18th and would appreciate any and all good wishes, prayers or vibes you can send my way. Thank you. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948852017-05-07T01:51:49-04:002020-01-13T02:52:05-05:00New from Lily Cat Music for Kids
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=3366106030/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=ffffff/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 470px;">&amp;amp;lt;a href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/album/thank-you-pretty-cow-ancestral-english-poetry-music" mce_href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/album/thank-you-pretty-cow-ancestral-english-poetry-music"&amp;amp;gt;Thank you, Pretty Cow: Ancestral English Poetry &amp;amp;amp;amp; Music by Lily Cat Music for Kids&amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">A couple of years ago, I was wondering around a thrift store in San Francisco when I found a lovely little book titled A Treasury of Verse for Little Children selected by M.G. Edgar. It was an old collection, published in 1908. As I perused the poems, it seemed to me that many of them called out to be set to music. That's how this project began.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> <br> Meanwhile, my son, a classical guitarist, got interested in lute music. Hearing him practice, I got interested too and started expanding and improvising on fragments of lute tunes I heard him playing.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> <br> With this album, I've created a collection of music and poetry that pays homage to our great English literary and musical heritage. Thank You, Pretty Cow is Volume I. I expect I'll be releasing Volume II in the not too distant future.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br> <br> Meanwhile, as always, it's the goal of Lily Cat Music for Kids to offer beautiful music that both kids and adults love listening to. I hope you and your family love listening to 'Thank You, Pretty Cow.'</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, I ask you to do me the favor of sharing Dogwood Daughter and Lily Cat Music for Kids with others. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948842017-05-03T13:21:48-04:002020-01-13T11:09:27-05:00An impromptu 'Postcard from the Secret City"
<p>Noon, first Wednesday of the month. Drill time. Happens every first Wednesday, at noon. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sirens are going off. I used to have a magnet on my frig: red, white and blue, emblazoned with the American flag and eagle. The gold lettered caption read, "What to do if the sirens go off." Seal the windows, of course, shelter in place, and wait for information.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Around here, sirens mean an accident at the nuclear weapons factory, the one with the oblique, Orwellian name: The Y-12 National Security Complex.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>How, I wonder, do the masters of the universe have the gall to call the thermonuclear warhead factory a 'security complex' when it is nuclear weapons that pose the most dire and urgent threat to the security, indeed, the life, of every living thing on the planet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Oh, but as Sister Megan Rice observed at trial, some people are getting very rich off of nuclear weapons.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the Secret City, politics and public discourse are dominated by those who divvy up the vast sums of federal money that flow through this town, the federal contractors, managers, sub-contractors and sub-sub contractors, the elites who are just a little too comfortable, cosseted in their cookie cutter MacMansions, sucking government teat.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Do I think they're patriots? Nope. I think they're self delusional degenerates who've lost touch with their own humanity, sold out, made a deal with the devil.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"What so profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" Jesus must have been a seer, peering into a looking glass darkly, surveying The Secret City, and weeping at the mushrooming gluttony of the nuclear weapons industry. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948832017-03-10T03:26:00-05:002020-01-13T11:09:27-05:00Changes in the Secret City
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">I just came in from walking. We're having an early spring here in East Tennessee with warm rains. Spent pussy willows litter the driveway. The forsythia is coming out along the bank and in the woods behind the house. The sunny daffodils, violet periwinkle, crocuses and Lenten roses, both white and bloody red, bloom under the trees. And next to the mail box at 122, I noticed a cluster of purple hyacinths. Other than bird song and peepers, it's quiet on the ridge. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal; min-height: 29px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal; min-height: 29px;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">I saw three trucks and three cars on West Outer Drive while I walked. More than usual. On many mornings, I see no more than one or two cars pass in the 45 minutes or so I walk. Seldom do I see any sign of life in any of the houses either. Many of the residents in my neighborhood are elderly. At 65, I'm elderly too, but most of my neighbors are considerably older than I, in their eighties. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal; min-height: 29px;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">The other day, while I was walking, I started counting up the number of people who have died on Wendover Circle (and its two short side lanes) since Bob and I moved back here. I counted twenty two. A few others have moved to nursing homes or assisted living. Several of the houses are empty.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">We moved back to Wendover Cr. after my husband's Mother died twenty years ago. Yes, this peaceful little house in West Hills, down the long drive way and nestled in the woods, is where my husband and his late brother grew up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal; min-height: 29px;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">The West Hills houses were built in the early 1960s, at the height of the Cold War, when everything was go-go in Oak Ridge. Back then, Oak Ridge was economically vibrant, full of young families. It's not anymore.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">The old K-25 Gaseous Diffusion Plant, the biggest building under one roof in the world, has been dismantled. And though business is still go-go at the Y-12 thermonuclear weapons plant and the Oak Ridge National Laboratory, few of the people who work at either live in Oak Ridge. Every week day, between 4:00 and 5:30 p.m., thousands of cars crawl, bumper to bumper, out of Oak Ridge, back home to West Knoxville, Farragut, Hardin Valley, Karns, and other distant communities.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal; min-height: 29px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">As a town, we are struggling, I think, to re-define ourselves. Once upon a time, Oak Ridge was an exclusive and privileged little federal enclave of well paid scientists and engineers. At this writing, more than half of our public school children qualify, under federal poverty guidelines, for the free school lunch program.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">Likewise, a town that used to be overwhelmingly made up of home owners is now largely comprised of renters in deteriorating housing stock. Yet, there are a plethora of McMansions scattered along Whipporwill, Chestnut Ridge, Briarcliff and the rarified air above the marina.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">It's my observation that Oak Ridge is increasingly a town made up of two classes of people: the haves (the top tier feeding at the lucrative federal trough) and the have nots.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-kerning: auto; font-language-override: normal; font-feature-settings: normal;">Will the current construction of our new Main Street Oak Ridge significantly impact the economic and social divide? We shall see. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948822017-03-06T12:24:33-05:002020-01-13T11:09:26-05:00Beware the Ides of March
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica; min-height: 29.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">I've got a birthday coming up. A big one: 65. My birthday is March 15th, the Ides of March.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/3ba82dd0afda15f8d5abcb7597214668402c7330/original/photo-on-2017-02-18-at-13-533.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><em>An almost birthday selfie. Me, in my studio today. </em></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Funny, when I was a little girl, I'd never heard of the Ides of March. I was sorry not to have been born two days later, on March 17th, St. Patrick's Day. I wanted my birthday to be a national holiday. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica; min-height: 29.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica; min-height: 29.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">I remember asking Daddy if there wasn't something special about March 15th. Wasn't it some kind of holiday? I asked.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica; min-height: 29.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">"March 15th is 'Lincoln Tax Day'" he responded, with an immediacy that seemed authoritative. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica; min-height: 29.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica; min-height: 29.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">I went to school and started bragging about having been born on 'Lincoln Tax Day.' My 3rd grade classmates looked puzzled, but were polite.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica; min-height: 29.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica; min-height: 29.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">I'm embarrassed to report that I repeated that Lincoln Tax Day nonsense for a few years. It wasn't until I was in high school and studying William Shakespeare that I heard the phrase 'The Ides of March.'</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> "Beware the Ides of March,' is probably the best known line from Shakespeare's great tragedy about Julius Caesar. Julius Caesar, the second emperor of Rome, was, in fact, stabbed to death by Brutus on the floor of the Roman Senate on the Ides of March in 44 BC.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">And just this morning, scouring the internet, I gleaned another interesting little historical factoid about my birthday, March 15, 1952. On that date, a world record setting rain fell over La Reunion Island in the Indian Ocean: 73.26 inches in 24 hours.<br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">That's a coincidence. When I was in my twenties, my friend, Doug, plotted my horoscope. I was, Doug said, the wateriest person he'd ever met. Everything in my chart, sun, planets, and moon, were in water signs.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">I wasn't surprised. I feel like a watery spirit: fluid, changeable, unfixed. And even as a child in the Secret City, I was a deep diver, ever pondering the big questions, a worrier who was no stranger to oceans of tears. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">********************************</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">As always, if you find anything you like here, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else today. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948812017-02-19T08:29:45-05:002020-01-13T02:52:04-05:00Three Angels - Renewed
<p style="text-align: left;">Recently, I joined an on line salon of creatives where members are encouraged to explore unfamiliar (uncomfortable?) mediums of expression. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p> I'm comfortable with music. I make music the way an apple tree makes apples: naturally. Writing requires more effort. It doesn't feel easy or natural but I do it the way some people work jigsaw puzzles. I like to play with and try new word combinations.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Drawing or painting, however, are alien to me. I have no natural aptitude for either. So, last night, I went to the local hobby shop and bought water color pencils and a little notebook. This morning, feeling a little bit scared, I sat down on the living room couch to try them out.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">At first, I didn't know what to do and stared at the blank page. Finally, I decided to try drawing Three Angels. Why? Well, they have easily identifiable characteristics: halos, wings, and they wear long garb. I figured I could make a stab at suggesting those characteristics without worrying about exacting perfection. But I've been thinking about angels lately too, specifically, revisiting my old Three Angels Project which I still consider to be some of my best work. I've been listening to it myself occasionally when I do yoga or sometimes before I go to sleep. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#339966">My new little angels picture is not great art, just my own small effort to be brave and try something new.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/0b809d1a96d34e06b638f10c187269b531502359/original/skitched-20170219-150129.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDUyNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="524" width="799" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Here's the Angels in the House suite, seven little pieces which were inspired by the three angels who 'visited' me in the studio for one week a few years ago. An abbreviated story of how I was introduced to these Three Angels is in the notes on the Bandcamp site. Just click the link on the player below and you'll get there.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2581811509/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=2ebd35/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 358px; height: 478px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/angels-in-the-house-music-from-the-three-angels-project-please-click-on-individual-tracks-for-the-complete-story-of-this-project-thanks" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/angels-in-the-house-music-from-the-three-angels-project-please-click-on-individual-tracks-for-the-complete-story-of-this-project-thanks"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Angels in the House - Music from the Three Angels Project (Please click on individual tracks for the complete story of this project. Thanks!) by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#339966">Streaming entire tracks is completely free on the Bandcamp: no email sign up or any other hoop jumping required.</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#99cc00"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">When I wrote and recorded these little pieces, they seemed to come from a source outside of myself. That's often the case when I compose. I've heard other composers confess to similar feelings. Sometimes it seems as if great melodies are discovered rather than composed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Question: Were there really three angels in the studio with me the week I composed this suite? I don't know. I'm still mystified by the experience myself. I only know that something inspired me to effortlessly compose and record these little gems, one right after the other. I felt indescribably at peace and happy while they were with me too. Whether there were angels or not, I remain grateful for the gift of the music. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And now, after doing my first little picture of my angels, I won't be afraid to pick up my colored pencils and sketch pad to piddle diddle next time. There's no judgement, only the joy of creating something new. I'm glad to have been given the suggestion to try stretching my wings and do something uncomfortable. <br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">We humans are all artists. I'm no more an artist than anyone else. Our art is our lives, well lived, well loved. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else today. I'm an indie artist with no advertising budget, just word of mouth from kind folks like yourself. Thank you.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948802016-11-11T08:18:44-05:002020-01-13T11:09:25-05:00Walk A Mile In Our Shoes - Economic Calamity In Rural Appalachia
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/f6ce86564a5bd6c57e99987dd3ea13eaef613119/original/imgp2219.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The beautiful Morgan County Courthouse, Wartburg, Tennessee</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#99cc00"><em><span style="color:#ccffcc">"It is an easy thing for one whose foot is on the outside of calamity to give advice and to rebuke the sufferer." Aeschylus, c. 460 B.C. </span></em></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>On Monday, Nov. 7, I was in a neighboring mountain town with my husband. He had some business at Roane State, the community college campus on the edge of town, so I asked him to drop me downtown and pick me up at the local cafe when his appointment was finished.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I wandered around town, I was struck by how empty the streets were. A lot of the buildings were empty too. Wartburg, like so many of the towns in Appalachia, has fallen on hard times. The coal mines and mills that were the backbone of the local mountain economies have nearly all closed. The result is economic calamity. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/9a406bedf953fc217ba9bc03329a32493b8dc1c4/original/imgp2211.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="596" width="799" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Across the street from the Courthouse</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>The people who live in these small towns are good people, people who want to work and do not want to live on government handouts; nor do they wish to watch their friends and family members succumb to opioid and methamphetamine addiction, as so many have.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> But where, pray tell, are these mountain town dwellers supposed to find work? The local MacDonald's, perhaps? Wendy's? Nobody can support a family busting their butts for minimum wage.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#99cc00"><em><span style="color:#ccffcc">As Ross Perot famously said when running for President in 1992: "We are becoming a nation of people who fry each others' hamburgers and do each others' laundry." </span></em></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#99cc00"><em><br></em></span></p>
<p>And though I've not visited the Rust Belt or the Mid West, I read that their problems are much the same as ours: few decent jobs. </p>
<p>Yet, our fellow citizens comfortably cosseted in the bedroom communities of the financial and technical centers of the U.S., blind to the sufferings of American families in the heartland, seemingly find it easy to "rebuke the sufferer(s)," and relegate them to a "basket of deplorables." </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b672920890f5bf0a2d0159e9e0b530e09c5753b0/original/imgp2227.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Donald Trump flags flying at the Morgan County Courthouse on Monday, the day before the election</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We Red State residents are NOT deplorables. To dismiss support for Donald Trump across the American rural landscape as evidence of rampant ignorance, xenophobia, misogyny and racism is its own type of willful ignorance. I sincerely ask everyone who has labeled Trump voters as 'deplorable' to come to our towns and walk a mile in our shoes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I didn't vote for Trump. He's always struck me as a huckster. But I well understand why so many people around here did. For the first time in a very long time, a politician seemed to acknowledge the painful problems of the American rural underclass and promised that he would fix them. Were his promises empty? I'm afraid they might be, but I pray they are not. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There is a deep divide in this country. The first step in healing the divide is to acknowledge it. There's an awful lot of hardship in small town U.S.A., not, in most cases, because the people did anything wrong, but rather, because globalism and free trade agreements have rendered the American industrial and factory workers, miners, steel workers and textile laborers expendable. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Many years ago, Ram Dass wrote a book titled, "How Can I Help?" That's an appropriate question for all of us to ask ourselves right now. How can I genuinely be helpful in making my country and the lives of my fellow citizens better? Tiny gestures count just as much as grand gestures. Listening with civility and making a genuine effort to understand the point of view of others is a good place to start.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I said, I didn't vote for Donald Trump, but he was lawfully elected. If he does even a tenth of what he promised to do to turn the rural economies around, I will praise him. And if he fans the flames of division and hatred, I will also work against those policies. But now is the time to wish Mr. Trump well and pray for his and OUR success. </p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000">January 9, 2017 Update: I am dismayed at the team of oligarchs Mr. Trump has put together. Further, his sophomoric tweet storms, amounting to juvenile temper tantrums, are terrifying. What's he going to do if Kim Jon Un insults him? (And he WILL, count on it!) Launch a nuke?</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000">I had hoped that the office of President of the United States would make a better man out of Mr. Trump. Evidence to date is not encouraging. </span></p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948792016-10-25T08:26:58-04:002020-01-13T11:09:23-05:00Big Girl and Her Little Friend
<p>Well, dadgum! My camera broke. I guess I took my last photographs, at least for a while, last Sunday.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> I went to Norris with my husband, who is taking a photography class at the local college. He needed to take some photos for a class assignment, so I tagged along and, with my unsophisticated little old Nikon (about ten years old?) I took a few photos while Bob snapped away with his big, fancy camera. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm not sure why Bob's taking a photography class. He's already a great photographer. In fact, he worked both as a professional news reporter and photographer for nearly 40 years. But he's retired now, and says he wants not only to keep his skills sharp but to learn even more about digital photography and the various kinds of editing software.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I didn't get into photography until Bob surprised me with the gift of my small Nikon camera a few Christmases ago. As usual, he knew me better than I knew myself. I had never even thought about taking pictures, but photography quickly became another one of my passions. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Here's the last picture I snapped last Sunday.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/068327e37920918ec148965f948e6bcd8480e226/original/skitched-20161025-145842-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p>I call this photograph Big Girl and Her Little Friend. The Big Girl is, to quote someone in the news of late, YUUUUGE, but so gentle. She's an enormous, beautiful dark mare who likes to sidle right up next to you and rub her big black face right next to yours. Her little friend, the white pony, wasn't nearly as trusting. Stand offiish, yet curious, is more his style. I had the feeling that he wanted to stay close to his big black girl friend and make sure the two legged strangers who had wandered into their pasture did her no harm. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else today. I have no advertising budget other than word of mouth from kind people like you. Thank you. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948772016-08-23T10:12:47-04:002020-01-13T02:52:03-05:00Blue Tail Bagatelles
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<div class="sub-section-dropdown-content notranslate field" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color:#00ffff">A few weeks ago, a blue tail lizard took up residence in my studio. At first, I jumped and screamed every time I saw him, which was every time I walked in. But after a while, I got used to him and decided maybe he was my friend. On a whim, I wrote a little piece for my new lizard friend. And then another, and another until I had a lovely little suite of trifles. Hence, the title: Blue Tail Bagatelles.</span></div>
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<div class="sub-section-dropdown-content notranslate field" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#00ffff">As I wrote these little lizard bagatelles, I intentionally wrote them as 'flash' pieces. What do I mean by 'flash'? I took my cue from the new literary genre known as 'flash.' 'Flash' literature is very, very short literature, like maybe 500, 700 or 1000 words. It's increasingly popular, especially on line. There are websites devoted entirely to 'flash' literature. Short doesn't mean poor quality, however. No, indeed. In fact, in 'flash' literature, every word takes on increased significance. When there are few words, each one must carry weight and nuance.</span></span></div>
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<div class="sub-section-dropdown-content notranslate field" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color:#00ffff">That's the approach I took to these little 'flash' bagatelles: my intention is for each to be a tiny jewel. I think I've succeeded. They seem to delight everyone who hears them: old people, young people and especially children. Fans have mentioned that they like listening to them in the car while commuting or carpooling. They're great to listen to while cooking dinner, folding laundry, taking a bath, doing yoga. Most of all, people tell me that my 'Blue Tail Bagatelles' make them feel happy. And THAT makes me happy! 'Happy music' is GOOD music. Enjoy!</span></div>
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<div class="sub-section-dropdown-content notranslate field" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color:#00ffff">As always, I ask you to do me the favor of sharing Dogwood Daughter with someone today. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you. </span></div>
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<div class="sub-section-dropdown-content notranslate field" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color:#00ffff">Be Well and Good Luck,</span></div>
<div class="sub-section-dropdown-content notranslate field" style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color:#00ffff">Martha Maria </span></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948762016-07-23T09:56:49-04:002020-01-13T11:09:21-05:00Everything You Need
<p><span style="color:#99cc00">"If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need." Marcus Tullius Cicero, died 43 BC, Rome</span></p>
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<p>I thought of Cicero's words this morning while I puttered around in my weedy little garden that gives me so much pleasure. It doesn't ever yield an abundance of food, because we have little sunshine down here in our wooded little hollow. But still, we manage to bring in a few tomatoes, lettuce, squash, egg plants, peppers and always herbs. </p>
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<p>Herbs are my favorite thing to grow. I love to just stand out in the garden, brush them with my hands and sniff. I feel the same way about tomato foliage, the most refreshing scent in the world. I wish someone would bottle it. I'd douse myself in tomato foliage cologne every night after my bath if I could. </p>
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<p>I took a few pictures this morning, of my garden and library. I've finally got nearly enough shelves for my books. When Mr. K's went out of business, I bought 13 of their shelves and lined them up in my living room, bedroom and studio. </p>
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<p>The foothills of the Cumberland Mountains where I live are as green as the Emerald Isle. If Ireland is the land of fifty shades of green than East Tennessee must be the land of a hundred.</p>
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<p>If you've never been to beautiful East Tennessee, it's worth a visit, but don't come in the summer. It's too hot. And don't come in the winter, either. It's too gray and damp. Come in the glorious spring or fall. You won't be disappointed. <br></p>
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/e738adbdef380f15c883fe79de544edcb29fb0e7/original/dscn0005.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Cherry tomatoes</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/fcde0841f4b5ea5b5ee5195c60326adfc428ab53/original/dscn0001.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Petunias and variegated sage</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/73104ea129544eb1399c87e251911fe11fba12de/original/dscn0011.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Guard duck. My friend, Barbara, gave me this guy.</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b97cf3404634a70214934f7ce8c4a45977f61128/original/dscn0004.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Black Eyed Susans have volunteered all over my yard. I'm glad they have. They bloom all summer and they're so bright and beautiful. My husband remarked just the other day how pretty they look blooming right outside the front door, and their color is spectacular against the purple basil. </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/936bca70d391f676437032d0aa3680da81b1f84b/original/dscn0009.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Impatiens in the foreground, purple basil in the background. If you want to make a beautiful, simple salad, nothing looks prettier than lining a plate with purple basil leaves, arranging yellow tomatoes slices on top of them, then sprinkling with chopped fresh green oregano and tarragon. Lovely! </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8ff53c6c02013c8c96555c596a278f2f89abfbe7/original/dscn0052.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Red lettuce and thyme</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/9e52048762773c691bf47d3c08fae13d12933c65/original/dscn0036.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Bones and skeletons enchant me. This is the base of my 'skeleton tree,' a honey locust tree I've hung with all sorts of skeletons. My son says it looks 'weird' but I think it's beautiful. See those thorns? You definitely do NOT want to tangle with a honey locust tree. Those thorns are deadly sharp, which seems apropros for a skeleton tree. </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/311ead31d0980837bed46f1206ecbc09d6caa78e/original/dscn0012.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">St. Frances under the pussy willows</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/25a75c110f2bdb84b10906e91295fbad9311e447/original/dscn0021.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">We live in a temperate rain forest. I love being surrounded by trees. Standing on the driveway, looking west, and all I can see are the woods.</p>
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5273780dcc07f9099bab7b543e8d0d10257d68c0/original/dscn0061.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The shelves I bought from Mr. K's in a corner of my living room. I write and work at the table on the right, next to the over flowing laundry basket. Occasionally, I might try to pair some socks....but not often enough. The single greatest mystery in my house is where, oh where, do all the socks go? </p>
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<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5c6d5656d23d6d51870289bf32a354e43a207559/original/dscn0070.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzk5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="799" /></p>
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<p>I beg to differ with Cicero on one point; a garden and a library are not quite enough for me; I need a porch. This is the screened porch where, weather permitting, I sit and drink coffee, write and think. I haven't been out there in a while, the weather's been too hot. My favorite season on the porch is the winter, with a hot drink and a wool blanket. </p>
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<p>Wherever you are, I hope you also have a garden, a library, and a porch. </p>
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<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
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<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948752016-07-17T01:42:42-04:002020-01-13T02:52:02-05:00Everybody Has to Carry Their Own Sack of Rocks
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b85111c098c89ba808f180bb23953f1debce3121/original/img-8119.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDM0eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="434" /></p>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">I sat on the bench in front of the magazine stand at Barnes and Noble, idly thumbing through glossy, ad driven publications I had no intention of buying.</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">Outside, the sky was spitting big drops of hot rain. Inside, the air conditioned store was crowded; All of the seats in the cafe were taken, the arm chairs by the windows were full and even the benches in front of the magazine stands were a little crowded.</div>
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In the manner of strangers politely ignoring each other, I and a portly little man dressed head to toe in blue, sat side by side, heads bent over our magazines, sharing a hard,wooden bench. Abruptly, he swiveled in my direction and said, <span style="text-align:-webkit-auto">"Excuse me." </span>
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<span style="text-align:-webkit-auto"> </span><span style="text-align:-webkit-auto">"Yes?" I said. </span>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">He held up the home improvement magazine he'd been perusing and gestured toward the giant, two page photo spread of an immaculately ordered, multiple tiered, color coordinated clothes closet. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"Does your closet look like this?" he asked. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"No! I laughed. "In fact, right now, I can't even close the doors to my closet what with all the shoes and crap falling out all over the floor." </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"Well, I can close the doors to my wife's and my closet," he said. "But it sure doesn't look like that." </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"We've probably all got too much stuff now," I said. "It's unsustainable." Then, presuming our conversation ended, I went back to my magazine, when, to my surprise, he spoke again. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"I have to keep our closet door locked," he said. "My wife has Alzheimer's and she's always trying to pack up our clothes to go somewhere…some mythical place we've never lived." </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">I looked up and met his eyes. "My mother had Alzheimer's," I said. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"I'm sorry." he said. We sat in silence for a few seconds. Then I asked, "How long has your wife had Alzheimer's?"</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"Between six and seven years."</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"Oh," I said. "My mother was a very long lived Alzheimer's patient. She was in very good physical health. She just didn't have any mind."</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"My wife too, he said. "She's in great physical shape."</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"It's a terrible disease," I said.</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"She has trouble at night," he said.</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"Oh, she's a Sun Downer," I said. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"Yes!" he said, his voice sounding genuinely surprised and delighted to have found another person who understood the syndrome. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"My mother was a Sun Downer too," I said. </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">Then we both went back to our reading, but as I sat with my head in my magazine, I found myself wondering how often the poor fellow got out alone, if he had regular help looking after his wife, and if he had any idea how bleak a future with Alzheimer's was likely to be.</div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">Alzheimer's can and often does last for twenty or more years, and it always gets worse. </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00">Much worse. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">After a few minutes, I put my magazine back on the news stand and went to look for my husband. I found him sitting in one of the big arm chairs on the far side of the store. He scooted over and I attempted to sit down next to him but didn't fit. We both laughed. </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"We used to be smaller," I said. </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"We used to be younger," he said.</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">I perched precariously on the edge of the chair and put my head on his chest. "Yes, but I didn't love you nearly as much back then, not like I do now," I said.</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">
<span style="text-align:-webkit-auto">He stroked my shoulder and I told him about the conversation I'd just had with the fellow dressed in blue over in the magazine section. "He doesn't even look very old," I said. "About our age, maybe younger. </span>What are you reading?" I asked.
</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">He showed me the cover, "The Economist," he said. </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"Are you gonna buy it?" </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"No," he said, and closed it. </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"You know, once you start talking to people, you find out that nearly everybody has some kind of tragedy. It's just the nature of life," I said. </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"That's right," he said. "Everybody's got something. Or they will eventually. We all do." </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"I guess the lucky ones just have one or two," I said. "Seems like a lot of people get tragedies by the dozen, one right on top of another."</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">We sat a few minutes more, by the window, not talking.</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">"Let's go," Bob said abruptly, slapping his knees.</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">As we walked toward the exit, I remembered an old saying: "Everybody's got to carry his own sack of rocks." </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
<div style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">Looking around at all the people in the store, I wondered what kind of rocks they were carrying, even the children, for children have sorrows too. I thought about how some people haul immense boulders with grace and discretion while others make a huge, pity party splash out of every crummy little pebble in their sacks.</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><span style="text-align:-webkit-auto">Some of us hide our rocks, I thought, while others can't wait to show them off. </span></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><span style="text-align:-webkit-auto"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">And as I pondered, I concluded there's only one thing I know for sure: Everybody who visits this mortal plane will be burdened by their own sack of sorrows. Our only hope, as individuals, families, nations and even as a species is, I believe, mutual compassion for the universal tragedy of our common human existence. </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else today. I'm an independent artist, with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you. </div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"></div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">Be Well and Good Luck,</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;">Martha Maria </div>
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<div style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2;"> </div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948742016-07-06T09:07:40-04:002020-01-13T11:09:15-05:00Eating Blueberries in Bed
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/2891452b4cc11d5fdb330026606a042cf8140436/original/imgp2164.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTk5eDQ0OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="449" width="599" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>7:07 a.m. </p>
<p>I'm sitting in bed, drinking black coffee, nibbling pumpkin seeds and popping fresh blueberries in my mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm alone, enjoying my own inner silence and the raucous scold of an agitated crow in the woods beyond my window when my zoned out morning reverie is broken by the sensation of something wet and cold on my belly. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pulling my flimsy night gown aside, I retrieve the fat, just rinsed blueberry poised on my ample hip. I hold it in the palm of my hand and study it for a moment. It's still intact, not leaking juice, no purple stains on night gown or sheets.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <span style="color:#99cc00">I go to pop it in my mouth again and surprise! I miss my mouth for the second time. Geez Louise! What's going on here? </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></p>
<p>I don't move, but sit bemused. Retrieving the blueberry a second time, I look at it and begin to consider a few scenes likely looming in my future: how many more blueberries, I wonder, will escape the maw of my mouth and roll down the hills of my wrinkled belly before I meet my Maker? How many dribs and drabs of this and that will I drop all over my food stained clothes as I attempt to find my own toothless mouth before I finally quit this all too brief mortal life? I sigh and think: </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99cc00">I'm getting old. </span> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I remember my grandmother's palsy, the way her fork shook uncontrollably as it laboriously inched between her plate and mouth. On her worst days, more peas fell on the table, in her lap and on the floor than ever made it past her lips. I think about her unspoken embarrassment and rigid pride. I recall my Mother's wordless pity for her own mother, whom she loved and always called 'Mama.' Silence hung over our round maple kitchen table like a curtain while we all pretended not to notice Mama Walker's tremor. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And now, this morning, here I sit, some fifty odd years later, an old woman myself, wondering why neither we nor Mama Walker could ever acknowledge her illness. I don't know why, but in retrospect, our pretense seems ever so sad. Surely it had the unintended consequence of making Mama Walker's suffering, both physical and emotional, worse because she had to carry the burden of her infirmity alone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As an aside, Mama Walker's tremor was not Parkinson's or any other nameable disease. Her doctor at Vanderbilt Hospital simply called it a 'familial tremor.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter and <a href="http://www.lilycatmusicforkids.com" data-imported="1">Lily Cat Music for Kids </a> with someone else today. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck. </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948722016-06-20T04:55:09-04:002020-01-13T02:52:02-05:00I'm Back! And Craving Burnt Sugar Icing
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8f82253f2d89b674835b027b82869f924bd48402/original/dscn9812-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ0OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="448" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Have you ever seen the back of a peacock? </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00">What follows is a blog I wrote on March 6th, but never posted. I know, I've been away for a while. Not blogging, not doing much of anything creative, to tell you the truth. </span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00">I've had a strange and unsettling last couple of months, with both emotional and health challenges. But, I'm back, feeling optimistic and with my creative mojo still intact. I'll be posting a lot of new music and other work shortly. </span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00">Thanks for sticking with me. And by the way, I'm turning the 'Allow Comments' option back on. I turned them off because I was inundated with Asian spammers advertising designer knock offs. I'm hoping my spammers will have given up and gone away by now. </span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00">If you want to leave a comment, I'd love to hear from you. Really! Just know that comments won't be published until I approve them. That means you can leave either a public or private comment. Let me know if you don't want your comment to be published and I'll respect that. </span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00">And, here's the front of that peacock. </span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8dcf996d8a8b504da837066b7d5f1e1e4f2fa196/original/dscn98382.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDU0eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="454" /></p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00"> </span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#33cccc"><span style="color:#99cc00">Okay, here goes with the old blog I wrote on March 6th. Be Well and Good Luck. MM</span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Craving Burnt Sugar Icing</p>
<p>I take a bite of Pink Lady apple. I bought a bag of them at the flea market last Saturday. I love apples for breakfast, with a mug of strong, black coffee and a handful of raw almonds. Except this morning, I'm out of almonds. Oh well, not to worry! I'll just open one of those bags of candied pecans I bought after Christmas when they were marked down for quick sale at Kroger's.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I stand at the kitchen window, savoring the morning, my apple and candied pecans. They're a sweet, salty and crunchy combination. Delicious! Or 'scrumptious' as my mother would have said. They remind me of her and her burnt sugar icing.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>"Burnts sugar' is what she called caramel. She used to make burnt sugar icing when I was a little girl. I remember watching her as she caramelized white sugar until it turned golden brown in her cast iron skillet on top of the stove, then added butter, cream, vanilla and a pinch of salt, cooking it on low heat until it reached the mysterious 'right consistency' and finally stirring in chopped pecans. When she was through icing the cake, she'd give me the cold skillet to lick, which sometimes I literally did, turning it upside down and scouring it with my tongue and getting the end of my nose sticky.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Now, I'm an old women, nearly 64 years old, thinking about my dead mother and wondering how long it's been since I've tasted one of her good caramel cakes. Too long</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I wish I were a better baker, but I never learned to bake, not like Mother anyway. She baked from scratch and didn't even use written recipes. She invented recipes in her head the way I invent melodies in mine. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I seldom bake cakes and when I do, I use a Betty Crocker mix, which means my cakes are never dense, moist and heavy like Mother's. Sometimes I add a couple of extra egg yolks and tablespoon of potato starch or coconut flour to give the cake a little more heft and moisture, but those extra ingredients do little to disguise the taste and smell of preservatives that boxed mixes have. And I usually avoid the whole cooked icing dilemma by making a simple cream cheese or butter cream frosting.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I did attempt to duplicate Mother's burnt sugar icing once, but it was a failure, not just once, but twice. I didn't cook it long enough the first time and it was runny; so I put it back on the stove and cooked it again, but then it got hard as a rock.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The Kroger's bakery sells a yellow cake with caramel icing that's a sorry second best for Mother's, but will do in a pinch. Caramel is still one of my favorite flavors and sometimes when I see those packaged caramel cake slices in Kroger's, I nearly tremble with craving. That's when I buy a couple and wolf them down guiltily in the parking lot while sitting in my van. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But I suspect it's not just caramel that makes me tremble with craving. What I'm really craving is my mother. There will always be an empty place in my heart that only her love could fill....except my mother, though she did her best, could never fill it because she had an empty place too. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I have a friend who has been researching epigenetic transmission of trauma. That's the scientific name, she tells me, for trauma passed down from one generation to the next, from mother to daughter. Intuitively, I feel there's something to that. I don't know what happened to Mother in Sugar Tree. I have my suspicions, but I'll never know for sure. She and all of her Sugar Tree kin are long dead and I doubt if any of them would tell me anyway. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As much as I would have liked to have had a daughter, it's probably a good thing I only had sons. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948712016-02-24T00:10:57-05:002020-01-13T02:52:02-05:00Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy, Down in my Heart - And the Burden of My Mother's Mask
<p>I just brewed a fresh pot of coffee. I'm drinking Sumatra Dark Roast from the World Market and it is such a delicious luxury and pleasure to sit in the living room, as I am now, drinking from a beautiful china cup, nibbling on a white chocolate, Macademia nut cookie and listening to one of my oldest and favorite vinyl records: the incomparable Anton Rubinstein playing the Chopin Nocturnes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Rubinstein is my favorite pianist of all time. He has none of the flash of Horowitz or the fastidious precision of Artur Schnabel. (Yes, I confess to a preference for the pianists of a generation past.) But what Rubinstein does have is a tender, delicate touch that exudes love for the instrument, the music and the soul of the composer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>No other music or musician has ever moved me as deeply as Rubinstein playing Chopin, except perhaps when I was five years old and belting out, "I've Got that Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy Down in my Heart" in the basement of the Cumberland Presbyterian Church in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I thought that boisterous spiritual was the most gloriously uplifting music in the world. Singing in chorus with about fifty other children before we dispersed to our Sunday School classrooms, I wished that song would never end. I remember feeling so buoyant and exhilarated, I don't believe I would have been surprised to take off and soar all around that simple, concrete block room, literally flying on the wings of song. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I have wonderful memories of that Cumberland Presbyterian Church. It was, in many ways, the center of my world when I was a very little girl. Why? Because it was the center of my mother's world. The Cumberland Presbyterian Church was, I think, an island of normalcy in the ever so strange 'Atomic City' where we lived in the 1950s. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was at the Cumberland Presbyterian Church that my mother found other people like herself, people from working class and rural backgrounds rather than Oak Ridge's pointy headed scientists and engineers, and their sophisticated wives, all of whom my mother imagined as being her superiors. </p>
<p><span style="color:#339966">My mother was self conscious in Oak Ridge, a town that boasted the highest per capita rate of Ph.Ds in the U.S. She lived in fear of being found out as simple farm girl with no more than a high school diploma. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Her icy reserve, which was likely misconstrued as snobbish aloofness, was actually social anxiety and timidity. But at the Cumberland Presbyterian Church she could drop all of that pretense and just be herself; plain old Pattie Jean Walker from Sugar Tree, Tennessee: not Mrs. A. de la Garza, the anxious and self effacing wife of one of those brilliant, pointy headed engineers. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mrs. A. de la Garza was the carefully constructed persona my mother inhabited everywhere in Oak Ridge except the Cumberland Presbyterian Church. It was a persona that required the vigilant maintenance of an ill fitting mask. She wore that mask for over fifty years, but I don't think it ever got any easier.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> I can still hear the sad regret in her voice: "I wish I'd never left Sugar Tree." I wish she hadn't either. She might have been happy there. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948702016-02-23T00:50:32-05:002020-01-13T02:52:01-05:00Rainy Day Reverie - Genesis Unfolding
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/81a50d62002d53a9a25c5875882426d1ac06e958/original/img-4048.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The sky, looking north from West Outer Drive</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I just came in from walking. My feet are cold and wet, my red moccasins soaked. We must have had a gully washer last night. The wet street is littered with hundreds of stranded earthworms, washed down the slopes of the grassy yards on either side of Wendover Circle.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's not cold for February. But the big drops of rain plopping on my head from the wet trees overhead are making me feel chilled and I decide to turn around after a little less than a mile. I really should have worn better shoes and brought an umbrella. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I walk home, I count the earthworms on the street, but when I reach 100, I quit counting. What's the use? All of them, except the very few I pick up and place in the grass, will surely die as soon as the sun comes out and the street dries. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Some of the worms have already been run over by cars and lie smashed and inert. But others still wriggle feebly on the asphalt. I pity them in their futile struggles to get back home to the safety of leaf litter and loamy black earth.</p>
<p>This stranding of earthworms on concrete streets and sidewalks is, of course, a consequence of human activity, of our 'civilizing efforts,' and relentless impulse to disturb and 'improve' the natural world. It's easy to forget that we also belong to the natural world and could not survive without it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Walking on, I can't help but think of how much I have in common with the earthworms. I too am essentially a worm, a tube, albeit a much larger and longer one than they, and with appendages. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wendover Circle is quiet. I've yet to see a single car. Lost in my own thoughts, I ponder the consciousness of worms. Do they feel fear, despair or hope, I wonder. Do they feel anything at all? I suspect they do. After all, whenever I'm threatened or afraid, I feel panic and fear most acutely in my own gut. You know, that horrible sinking feeling in the pit of your being, what some people call 'visceral fear.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As usual, there's a deep, ancestral wisdom in the language we speak. The phrase 'visceral fear' along with 'gut reaction', 'gut wrenching', and even 'nauseating' are all expressions we commonly use to describe our most basic and instinctual reactions to revulsion, loathing and terror.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But of course, our guts do not belong to us alone. We share our entire alimentary tract with billions of friendly bacteria who make the human gut their home. We humans and those bacteria are mutually dependent. Without them, it would be impossible for us to digest our food or absorb nutrients. In fact, last fall, I met a fellow who told me he had very nearly died a couple of years back after taking an antibiotic which killed not only the pathogen for which it was prescribed, but also the good bacteria in his gut. He said he was hospitalized for weeks and very nearly lost the battle.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A gut devoid of friendly bacteria is a death sentence for us humans. Our essential relationship with bacteria only reinforces my intuitive sense that everything and everybody, whether immense, microscopic or in between, are literally connected and inseparable; we are, I believe, at one with the whole of Creation.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"> <span style="color:#ccffff">I don't feel degraded by this thought, but oddly comforted, even uplifted.</span></span><span style="color:#ccffff"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p>To the north, I hear a cow bawling in the valley and I notice the spring peepers are continuing their early chorus. By the time my little white house in the woods comes into view, my feet and hair are soaked and I'm uncomfortably cold. It will feel so delicious to peel off these wet clothes and sit by the fire with a cup of hot coffee. But before I head down the drive way, I lean over and pick up one last little earthworm and place him in the grass. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I know that by saving him, I'm also saving myself for surely he and I are, at this singular moment in time, both cells in the limitless and egalitarian body of the Almighty Creator. I have never believed that the work of Genesis was finished in six days. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>No, I believe that Creation continues without ceasing, is expansive, eternal and inclusive, and is the one essential, enduring characteristic of God and the universe. This morning, I am privileged and grateful to be present as both witness and participant in the work of Genesis. Genesis is still unfolding.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck and please do me the favor of sharing Dogwood Daughter with someone else today.</p>
<p>Thank you. </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948692016-02-22T13:18:55-05:002020-01-13T11:09:11-05:00When It's Nearly Time to Let Go
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/2823ba09591fcbfcd0629cee7139b4cc8dd914a4/original/skitched-20130310-212703-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUxeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="451" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Sweetie, a few years ago in middle age, before she lost her eye sight</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>February 22, 2016</p>
<p> I open the bedroom curtains for my first look at the new day. It's sunny and a pair of cardinals perches in the bare branches of the snow ball bush next to the fence. Several finches chatter noisily in the lower branches of the same bush. I always wonder how such tiny creatures can make such a big noise.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Beyond the fence, a transparent white vapor hangs low between Black Oak Ridge and Wind Rock Mountain. Ever since I was a little girl, I've felt there was magic in the sight of clouds descending to touch the earth. The cloud feels like an omen; it's going to be a good day. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My old dog, Sweetie, is sleeping next to my feet. The first thing I do every morning is nudge her to see if she's still alive. She's still with me but she had a rough night, which means my husband and I also had a rough night. Every time she roused to pace, pant, and cough, my husband and I roused too. None of us got much sleep. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>If she has another bad night, I suppose I'll have to sleep in the living room with her. My husband has to get up and go to work and can't afford to keep losing sleep. And besides, I'm the one she wants to be with. She knows she's my dog. We're sisters. In fact, while everyone else calls her Sweetie, I call her 'Sister Dog' most of the time. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I think she's always been my dog, in a million life times before this one. In fact, I'm pretty sure that in some of our lives together, she's been the mistress and I've been the dog. I recognized her as an old friend from the first moment I saw her picture on the internet. I printed the picture and brought it to my husband. "This is my dog," I said. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> She was two years old then, just a slip of girl when I got her. And she was SO beautiful, a Black Lab / Irish setter mix. I thought she was the most beautiful dog I'd ever seen. She still is beautiful, but ancient, weak and sick; fourteen years old with diabetes, arthritis, thyroid disease and blind. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The last time I took her to the clinic, the vet asked me if I had considered euthanasia. "Oh no,", I said. "Not yet. But what do you think?"</p>
<p>And then the vet kindly noted that Sweetie had just wolfed down the two pieces of jerky she'd been offered while in the examination room. "As long as she still has an appetite and enjoys food, I don't think it's quite time either," she said. The vet's words felt like a reprieve. But I know, in my heart, it won't be too much longer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The other day, Sweetie and I were sitting together in the foyer. I had just taken her outside and after several attempts, we'd both given up on getting her up the steps in this split level house. "Sweetie," I said, "If you need to die, it's okay. I'll be alright. I love you more than any dog I've ever had, but if you need to go, I'll understand." And though she's completely blind, she gazed intently up at my face as if she were looking right into me and I know for sure that she understood every word I said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> She'll let me know when she's ready. She's not ready today. But she may be tomorrow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948682016-02-18T05:57:04-05:002020-01-13T02:52:01-05:00Memories Transmuted
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/2ef02487aa64374f6f92aefecae6e6e60bc470b9/original/dscn9723-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTk5eDQ0OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="449" width="599" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Elm Grove, the old neighborhood, today</p>
<p> </p>
<p>February 16, 2016 </p>
<p>The weather is unseasonably warm. I can hear the spring peepers chirping in the ravine. In the garden, the day lilies are already starting to poke through the wet dirt and the weeds are getting an early start too. Only the sky still looks wintery, gray and unsettled.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The sky suits my mood. I've felt unsettled lately, I suppose the result of Seasonal Affective Disorder (so aptly called by its acronym, SAD) and a vague sense of unease I've had ever since I buried my mother's ashes last December.</p>
<p style="text-align: left; padding-left: 30px;"> </p>
<p>I'm not sure why, but old images and memories from childhood, most of which I'd just as soon remain forever buried, have been resurfacing and plaguing both my dreams and waking hours. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After all these years of living with myself (64 next month) I've learned not to resist unwelcome thoughts. It's useless and besides, memories recalled are the bottomless creative well from which I can draw, again and again; they are a perverse sort of gift. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I made a map of the old neighborhood the other day and it triggered all sorts of memories, of neighbors, pets, toys, playmates, even an instance when I saw a spectacular cloud (shaped like a giant poodle) in the sky.</p>
<p>Memory is such a curious and unpredictable phenomenon and, I notice, one that cannot be turned on or off at will. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> Memories </p>
<p> </p>
<p> I don't know why they stay</p>
<p> I wish they'd go away</p>
<p> Those pictures from the past</p>
<p> That rise half veiled, unframed, awry</p>
<p> And dangle in my restless mind</p>
<p> When I can't go to sleep </p>
<p> </p>
<p> The phantom wreathed in pipe smoke</p>
<p> Or is that Daddy's face?</p>
<p> The blue hell in the furnace</p>
<p> Flames licking at the grate</p>
<p> </p>
<p> *Michi's rigid body</p>
<p> Lying in the street</p>
<p> A river of pink water</p>
<p> In a soapy bathroom sink</p>
<p> Washing my dead kitten</p>
<p> Trying to wash him clean</p>
<p> </p>
<p> *'Michi' (pronounced 'Mee-chee, 'Kitty' in Spanish)</p>
<p> was my kitten's name. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a2e1f8035cb2f9d48e0fc18c6448967315a3ca72/original/dscn9690.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTk5eDQ0OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="449" width="599" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The old Elm Grove Shopping Center. Once full of young families with children, the neighborhood is all but abandoned now. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/7c34c9c52bcd6ea2af9189e3c799344ae83f0891/original/dscn97291.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The water tower at the top of Delaware Hill. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, if you find anything you like (or even makes you 'cuss') at Dogwood Daughter, please tell someone else about me and my little website. I'm an indie artist, with no advertising or marketing other than word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948662016-01-29T06:06:27-05:002020-01-13T02:52:01-05:00A Mother's Heart
<p>I am looking at the front page of today's Oak Ridger. Below the fold, a caption catches my eye. "UN health chief: Zika virus 'spreading explosively.'"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The story in our local paper is not the first I've heard of this terrible virus. I've been reading about it on line for a couple of weeks now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What makes this mosquito borne illness so terrifying is the effect it has on the developing fetus of infected pregnant women. In Brazil, it has been linked to an epidemic of infants born with microcephaly, an irreversible condition in which brain and skull development remain small and inadequate. Prognosis for infants with microcephaly is not good. Intellectual disability, multiple sensory and developmental impairments are usual. Early death is frequent. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5f021be8761f9a3d2397fc5d2f342c09895cd0ea/original/screen-shot-2016-01-28-at-2-08-51-pm-0.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDMyMSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="321" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Image from <a href="http://latinamericanscience.org/spanish/2016/01/virus-zika-mas-casos-mas-evidencia-mas-hipotesis/" data-imported="1">Latin American Science</a> </p>
<p>My heart breaks not only for the affected infants, but also for their dear mothers. It's been said that no mother can be any happier than her most unhappy child. I think that's true and not just when our children are little. As the mother of two adult sons, I can tell you that when they are troubled or sick, their travails wear me down with a relentless and preoccupying sorrow that my own personal afflictions do not. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I don't think we human mothers are unique either, at least not among the mammals. Who hasn't read of a heroic mother dog or cat who has braved a burning building to rescue her babies? Not long ago, I saw a video of a mother rabbit battling a big old black snake in her pathetically futile attempt to protect her babies from being eaten alive. And one of the saddest things I've ever witnessed was a mother squirrel shrieking at a red tailed hawk while it impassively raided her nest and ate her young. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Nature is cruel. In the universal scheme, I wonder if there is any hierarchy of value assigned to different forms of life. Or, is all life deemed equivalent? Does the universe favor the life of a human baby over that of the Zika virus? I doubt it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the Hindu religion, God has three countenances: the Creator, the Sustainer and the Destroyer. And though we would choose blissful ignorance of the Destroyer, inevitably we all have to face destruction. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;"</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> William Butler Yeats</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Life chips us all away. Everyone and everything is continually breaking down. It's the nature of the universe. Even the vast universe itself will eventually succumb to entropy as it stops expanding and begins its slow, inevitable, cooling collapse. Everything dies. It is our shared and common fate. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">But still, how can one's heart not break for all the suffering mothers and children? No one escapes destruction, but the pain a mother feels as her own child is destroyed, whether by the Zika virus, cancer, gang violence, random shootings, poisoned water in Flint, or anything else, is surely the most horrible torture ever devised. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">We need to help each other. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948652016-01-28T07:35:11-05:002020-01-13T02:52:01-05:00It's Always Something (But it Could Always Be Worse)
<p>It's always something, isn't it? I don't know about you, but even in the best of times, I never feel completely at ease. I'm always waiting for the next shoe to drop. I'm more a glass half empty sort of person than a glass half full. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I try to maintain a glass half full perspective. But I'm a de la Garza. Our family mantra was, "Be careful!" I'm trying to remember if I ever heard either one of my parents say, "Have fun." I don't think so. In fact, I would go so far as to say that in our family, fun and joy were suspect.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> After having two sons of my own, I do believe that to a large extent, temperament is innate and my innate temperament is obviously melancholy. But I'm also sure that environment has an influence and that I learned my pessimistic outlook from my mother and father.</p>
<p>That being said, I had a few very down moments in the wee, wee hours last night. I tripped over my dog and fell down again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/7a15cf67ab87cb89bf2b3d86222c38c3bd2ea5db/original/dscn5838.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The sweet old lumpus I tripped on. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. When I went in the bathroom, my dog (Sweetie, a fourteen year old, 75 pound black lab/Irish setter mix) was sleeping on the rug in the hall. While I was in the bathroom, unbeknownst to me, she moved into the bedroom. I didn't notice she wasn't in the hall anymore, nor did I see her big shaggy, black body on the rug in the dark bedroom.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>On the way back to bed, I tripped over her and fell all the way down, splat, on the floor. I twisted my right foot and ankle and bruised my bad knee. And I was pretty shaken up. Sweetie, of course, was unhurt. In fact, she hardly moved.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I hoisted myself up, painfully, and staggered into the kitchen, swallowed a couple of Aleves and got a package of frozen brussel sprouts to put on my foot and went back to bed, where I tossed and turned, while my foot throbbed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My heart and mind were both racing as I lay in bed fretting about the fragility of my old bones and body and wondering how long it will be before I can walk normally again. And since I couldn't sleep, I decided to put on my ear phones and listen to The Unitarian Church of Dublin podcast. The church broadcasts its sermons by podcast every week and I have become sort of addicted to them, especially the soothing voice and sermons of their minister, Bridget Spain. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I listened to her latest sermon based on the book <span style="text-decoration:underline">Conversations with God</span> by Neale Donald Walsch. That's a book I've avoided like the plague for several years now, afraid to pick up. I've known two people, both several years ago, who committed suicide while reading that book. One was my dear friend, Alison. The other was more an acquaintance than a friend. She was, at the time, the president of the Unitarian congregation I was attending in East Tennessee.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>At any rate, I listened to Rev. Spain's sermon and I must say, I remained unconvinced that God was speaking and dictating to Neale Donald Walsch. But I'm no more or less convinced that God dictated to Walsch than I am that He dictated to the authors of any scripture, be they Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, or another religion. I tend to believe that all of those writings are like every great story, simultaneously fictional yet true. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But while I was listening, I started thinking about the ways in which the universe communicates ("All coincidence, traced to its origin, is seen to have been inevitable." An ancient Sanskrit proverb I DO believe) and what message I might need to take away from my fall:</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> "Hey, wake up! You're wasting time." </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Hey, stop facebooking and make some REAL contact."</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> or "Hey, you think YOU'VE got it bad. You should get down on your knees and thank God you're not in Syria."</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>And so, I've shifted my perspective today. I've decided to be grateful that I was not hurt more badly. I did not break any bones. The space heater, which I fell against, was not on so I wasn't burned and branded either. And I still have a husband and two sons that I love and who love me and a good friend, Barbara, with whom I can share my doubts, sorrows and joys.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> When I called her this morning, she said, "Martha, you want me to come over and get you and cheer you up?" "Yes!" I said. "Okay, I'll come get you and we'll go out to dinner." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yes, I have much to be grateful for. And perhaps the universe found it necessary to slap me up the side of the head just to get my attention so it could tell me to, "Shape UP, dammit! And get busy! And stop feeling sorry for yourself!" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>To paraphrase Julian of Norwich, "All is well, all is well and all manner of things shall be well." I'm choosing to believe that today.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I'm an indie artist, no advertising, only word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank you.</p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948642016-01-05T02:02:48-05:002020-01-13T11:09:07-05:00A Sense of the Surreal at the WalMart of Cemeteries
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/d265940beb3503338c12fd3adf30c2ee8c1927f3/original/le-contemplateur-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjYyeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="662" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A couple of weeks ago, I was at the Memorial Park out on the highway between Oak Ridge and Solway. My parents are buried there. Why they bought plots there, I don't know, but they did.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> The cemetery isn't pretty, or peaceful. On a hill overlooking a busy highway, it's a mostly treeless grassy landscape reminiscent of a golf course populated with a sea of flat grave markers (not stone monuments, which I could get into, but flat markers on the ground for ease of mowing, I suppose) decorated with garish plastic flowers. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> The highway it sits on is the main thoroughfare for commuters between Knoxville and the Oak Ridge National Laboratory and Y-12 Nuclear Weapons Plant, so it's always noisy with a gazillion cars and trucks ceaselessly speeding by. Though it's close to the beautiful Clinch River, the view is marred by the immense power lines running between the Bull Run Steam Plant and Oak Ridge. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In short, it's what I consider to be the WalMart of cemeteries. My parents and in laws are all buried out there. And honestly, the people who work there couldn't be nicer. But I don't want to be buried in that place, nor will I ever bury anyone else there again. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I sat at the ticky tacky cemetery on December 21 in the chilly, damp wind, surrounded by all those plastic flowers, I had the disconcerting sense that I had been plopped into someone else's dream, that nothing I saw was real, that life itself was an inescapable illusion, simultaneously bleak, hilarious, and meaningless.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> At first, it was no more than a sneaky little smile that played around my lips. I tried to suppress it, but I couldn't. I smiled broadly and then, it got worse: I started laughing and then hooting and kicking my legs hysterically. I couldn't stop. Except I was crying at the same time.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When my little lunatic spell passed, I felt empty. I walked back to my van and sat in the parking lot for a bit. Finally, I felt an overwhelming urge to drive to every house I ever lived in with my parents and sister: the little A house on Pacific, the East Village house on Atlanta Road, and finally the house Daddy and Mother built at 111 Ditman Lane.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> As I drove from house to house, remembering the years spent in all of them, the memories they stirred seemed just as illusory and dream like as the episode in the cemetery. But this time, nothing was funny. I felt alone and apart, separated from something essential.</p>
<p>The pang of loss was not for something I ever had; we were not a happy family. The pang was for the love and affection that other families seemed to enjoy but we did not. And now it's too late. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The next day, while I was sweeping the living room floor, this little song came into my mind. I jotted it down and later in the afternoon, I came out to the studio and recorded it. The accompanying photo is a picture I snapped of the Clinch River above Norris. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else today. I'm an indie artist with no advertising budget, only word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thanks. Martha Maria </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=3161275027/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=2ebd35/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/flowing-river-of-life" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/flowing-river-of-life"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Flowing River of Life by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948632015-12-12T08:40:02-05:002020-01-13T02:52:00-05:00Over Zealous Deli Clerks and Department of Labor Flacks
<p>Note: To date, over 33,000 Cold War nuclear workers have died from work related illnesses in the U.S.. These are not illnesses from nuclear power plants (a common misconception) but from nuclear weapons production. My little home town, Oak Ridge, Tennessee, was and continues to be ground zero for nuclear weapons production in the U.S. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99cc00">1996</span></p>
<p>My boys used to love to go grocery shopping when they were little. The Kroger's in Bearden was sample heaven. The deli regularly gave away toothpick speared cubes of cheese and luncheon meat while the adjacent bakery counter freely sampled bite sized morsels of donuts, muffins, brownies and other in store baked treats.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I never chided my children for helping themselves to more than one sample. I didn't care how many samples they took. Why would I? Why would anybody? Kroger's was and still is a mega corporation that can well afford to give away more than a few samples.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But there was one deli clerk in particular who did care, a lot, apparently. She was the self appointed guardian of free samples. She hovered over me and my boys, giving us dirty looks, scolding ("Only ONE per customer!") snatching trays up and whisking them behind the counter with an exaggerated air of disgust. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I told my small sons to be polite and not talk back, but to ignore her and take what they wished. Why?</p>
<p>"She's an employee," I explained. "She doesn't buy the samples and they don't belong to her. They belong to Kroger's. Eat what you want." </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99cc00">Fast Forward, 2015</span> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/2bf9997beb3166c5b6a60746c34f9936e8c66655/original/img-6414.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p>I'm in the Oak Ridge History Room at the public library, talking to the surviving widow and daughter of a dead nuclear worker. I'm there to work on my memoir. They've come to research as they desperately try to navigate the labyrinth of the federal nuclear worker's compensation laws, but they've been repeatedly road blocked by the federal flacks that administer the program. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Their experience is not unique either. I've been told repeatedly by sick workers and their survivors of the ridiculous hoops they have to jump through, often for years, before eligibility for benefits or compensation is finally granted...IF they're lucky! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I wonder why the victims bear such onerous burdens of proof? Why are they charged with submitting dosimeter records? Why must they submit incontrovertible evidence that a certain cancer or illness could only have been the result of a particular incident or work place exposure? Why have I been told repeatedly of the disdain and rudeness with which the Department of Labor flacks treat the sick nuclear workers and their survivors? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I hear these litanies of abuse, I wonder why federal employees would treat their sick and suffering fellow citizens so callously. After all, the monies they dispense don't come out of their pockets any more than those little cubes of bologna came out of the pocket of that demented deli clerk. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I wonder what motivates such people. Some kind of psychological illness, I suppose. But the stingy deli clerk was relatively harmless. The stingy federal flacks who make it difficult, if not impossible, for sick nuclear workers and their survivors to qualify for benefits and compensation, are doing real, grievous harm. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>By the way, I took three samples of pumpkin cheese cake when I checked out at Joe Muggs in Books A Million yesterday and they were delicious!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948622015-12-10T12:31:30-05:002020-01-13T02:52:00-05:00Hibernating (Just Taking Up Space)
<p style="text-align: left;">The woods outside my window are gray this morning, enveloped in thick, low hanging clouds. The skeletal trees, bare of leaves, look ghostly in the mist.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p>If it were colder, I'd say the sky looks snowy, but it's too warm for snow. A few of my bedraggled, black eyes Susans are still trying to bloom and the other night, Bob said, incredulously, "I hear spring peepers."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The unnaturally warm weather doesn't make for a very Christmasy mood either. Still, I've half heartedly hung Christmas lights in the living room. I do love the cozy aura they lend the room late at night when I sit on the couch by myself, with a mug of hot chocolate or Tension Tamer tea, trying to trick myself into believing I'm sleepy so I can go wallow wide eyed in the bed for a few hours. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>l</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/0f8109b44f9461a43b3dd0a690a706eef3f609e2/original/1149032-10151761432372416-197707616-n-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjkweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="690" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Christmas lights at home</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I get older, I sleep less and less. From what I read, that's normal for people my age. Maybe it's Mother Nature's gift, her way of elongating time even as time grows shorter. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lately, I've been feeling guilty about the considerable time I'm wasting, however. I can't seem to get in the mood to write, compose, record, sweep the kitchen floor, wash and dry a rag of laundry, or even take a walk. I'm about as listless as a hibernating bear.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I once read that some of the native American tribes venerated bears in part because they freely move between the unconscious (hibernating) and conscious (active) states. I also recall reading that female bears give birth and nurse their cubs while in their winter torpor. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I hope that, figuratively speaking, on a subconscious level, I'm nursing some new, creative project while I schlep my listless self through what is turning out to be a near catatonic December. When I'm not creatively occupied and productive, whether spinning straw into gold or making chicken salad out of chicken shit, I feel useless and guilty for just taking up space. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Meanwhile, here are a couple of links to the album, titled Appalachian Christmas by Dogwood Daughter, I put out last year. It's a good one, if I do say so myself. Streaming on Spotify.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> Download on iTunes <a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/appalachian-christmas/id926449975?app=music&ign-mpt=uo%3D4" data-imported="1">HERE</a> and on Bandcamp <a href="https://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/appalachian-christmas-folk-carols-from-the-mountains" data-imported="1">HERE</a></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=2032346661/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=2ebd35/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 470px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/appalachian-christmas-folk-carols-from-the-mountains" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/album/appalachian-christmas-folk-carols-from-the-mountains"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Appalachian Christmas (Folk Carols from the Mountains) by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, if you find anything you like (or makes you cuss) at Dogwood Daughter, please do me the favor of telling other folks about it. I have no advertising budget, just word of mouth from kind folks like you. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Thanks. Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948612015-12-08T13:33:31-05:002020-01-13T02:52:00-05:00My Country, Your Country, Our Country
<p style="text-align: left;">I love the American melting pot. We are Catholics, Jews, Protestants, Muslims, Agnostics, Buddhists, Atheists, Wiccans and probably a lot of other religions that I've never even heard of. But we're all Americans, one nation, under God, and INDIVISIBLE, though some would try to divide us for their own political ambitions.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> I'm proud of our leaders, both Republicans and Democrats, who have reminded us today that patriotic Americans come in all stripes, colors and religions. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I wrote this song, titled My Country, Your Country, Our Country, two or three years ago. As I listened to the news this evening, with so much loose talk about banning Muslims from the U.S., I revisited this song. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Oak Ridge is a multi-cultural town and there have always been people here of many religions, including Muslims. Over the years I've found them to be good Americans, kind neighbors and friends, and fellow Boy Scouts to my sons. The rash of anti-Muslim talk today has made me feel sad. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=3339346586/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=0687f5/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/my-country-your-country-our-country" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/my-country-your-country-our-country"&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;My Country, Your Country, Our Country by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948602015-12-04T06:06:35-05:002020-01-13T02:52:00-05:00Something Pink
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/087fc968e44cfe7ed03fb6024cc1497d88a39f9f/original/skitched-20151204-115030-cropped.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjM1eDQ5OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="498" width="635" /></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff6666">I love this photo. I didn't take it and cannot remember whether I downloaded it from the Morgue Files or Free Photos at Crew. I'll look for the source and if I find it, will post later. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>"I need something pink," I heard myself say as I walked into the bedroom to get dressed this morning. But other than lipstick, I don't have anything pink.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pink isn't a color I usually gravitate to. Not for clothing anyway. When I walk in the Good Will and peruse their racks, organized by color, I don't even bother to look at the pink section. Ditto for orange, red and yellow. The bright colors don't appeal to me.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Instead, I head for white first, followed by beige, gray, blue and black: white, because it goes with everything; beige, because it's close enough to white to be nearly interchangeable; gray, because my hair is gray and I kind of like the head to toe effect with the gray boots I live in; blue, because when I was little, my mother always said light blue was my most becoming color; and finally, black, because it's slenderizing. (I've had a life long love affair with slenderizing black, even got married in a svelte black cocktail dress because it magically took several pounds off of my lush figure.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But today, I'm tired of dull clothing. And I'm tired of the dull gray days of December which are a reminder that I'm hurtling inexorably toward my 64th Winter Solstice. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> Today, I need pink. I crave a pink sweater or blouse, or even better, a soft pink shawl, to wrap myself up in. So, I think I'll head out for a little treasure hunt at the Oak Ridge Good Will this afternoon. And if I don't find something pink and to my liking there, I'll mosey on over to the KARM Store (Knoxville Area Rescue Mission.) I love how when I check out at KARM, they tell me how many meals for the homeless my purchase has made possible.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Knoxville Area Rescue Mission was my mother's charity of choice. She sent them a check every Christmas. She had a great heart for the downtrodden and little people of the world, I think because she grew up so hardscrabble herself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the midst of the Great Depression, my mother not only didn't have anything pink, she was lucky to have clothes that even fit. She told me about the coat she had to wear one winter. It was too little to button and hit her legs mid thigh while the sleeves only came halfway down her arms. She said she used to nearly freeze to death walking to school in that little coat. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And right now, there are a lot of poor and even homeless people in my town, Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Over half of our school children now qualify for free lunch and there was an article in The Oak Ridger just last week about the number of homeless students currently in our school system.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> A friend who works for the State of Tennessee once told me that Oak Ridgers would be surprised to know the number of people who are living in their cars or even in tents on the Green Belt. Last year, my husband and I noticed a tent pitched in a woody ravine for several weeks when we walked down the hill from West Outer to Netherlands Road. Yes, there are homeless people, not just in the big cities, but in quiet little old Oak Ridge. And the weather is turning ominously colder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948592015-12-02T01:15:40-05:002020-01-13T11:09:03-05:00Chocolate Rolls, Ghosts, and Existential Loneliness
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/6657bb569901aa26170398f55b92ed6da4071aca/original/dscn2810-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDIzeDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="423" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Ghost Portraits</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I just sliced a left over biscuit, poured chocolate syrup on the doughy inside, wrapped it in foil and stuck it in the oven to heat a little bit. It's a poor but quick substitute for a real chocolate roll. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Chocolate rolls were the ultimate treat in my mother's lunch pail when she was a little girl in the one room school house they called 'College Hill' in Sugar Tree, Tennessee. She didn't get a chocolate roll very often. Wheat flour and chocolate had to be bought with cash money, unlike the usual fare produced on her family's farm; pork, corn, peanuts, sorghum molasses, turnips, black eyed peas, sweet potatoes, milk and eggs.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Chocolate rolls were a simple and utterly delicious treat made from pie crust dough sprinkled with sugar and cocoa, dotted with butter, rolled up and baked in the oven of the wood burning stove Mama Walker cooked on. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When we were little, my mother occasionally made chocolate rolls for my sister and me. I too thought they were the best treat ever. I've tried making the real thing a few times, but, like everything else I cook, mine never taste as good as Mother's. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After Mother went into assisted living, my sister and I found a chocolate roll secreted on the top shelf of a cabinet in her kitchen. I don't know why the image of that single chocolate roll has haunted me all week, but it has, and I've felt so sad.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've had an aching awareness of a basic sense of loneliness that goes beyond either the presence or absence of companions. I'm lucky. I share life with loving companions every day and I am so grateful for them. But I'm still lonely.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What I feel is, I suppose, the existential loneliness of our common human condition. We are all confined in a particular body and psyche that cannot ever be fully shared, escaped or shed until the ultimate solo act each of us faces: death. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mortal existence is a prison for all of us, a sort of solitary confinement within ourselves. We are all, I suspect, from birth, lonely exiles from our Mothers' wombs. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I wrote this song, titled <em>Forgotten</em>, for my mother. Of all the people that are gone, I miss her the most. But the truth is, I missed her even when she was still alive for she also was a solitary soul, apart, trapped in her own private and too often tortured prison. She was unreachable in life just as she is in death. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> <iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=3539233344/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=fe7eaf/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/forgotten" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/forgotten"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Forgotten by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe> </p>
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<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Lyrics to Forgotten</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Forgotten language of sighing wind</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Forgotten faces of long lost friends</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Forgotten voices of all the ghosts</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Whose tongues are stilled by death's cruel repose</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 29px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">But if I could remember</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Then I'd remember you</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Before the time of sorrow</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And exile from the womb</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 29px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">I wish I could remember</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Before I was alone</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Before we all were strangers</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And every door was closed</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 29px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Forgotten language of sighing wind</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Forgotten faces of long lost friends</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Forgotten voices of all the ghosts</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Whose tongues are stilled by death's cruel repose</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 29px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Forgotten faces, forgotten souls</p>
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<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I'm an indie artist and I need word of mouth advertising from kind folks like yourself. Thank you. </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946212015-11-23T02:47:45-05:002020-01-13T11:06:47-05:00What's for Dinner, When Every Day's a Feast?
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<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#99cc00">This is a re-run of a blog I wrote in 2011. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"></p>
<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lAC1Y4QvAJY" width="560" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">About twenty five years ago, my oldest niece, Catherine, dated a young man from County Cork in Ireland. He was here in East Tennessee, attending veterinary school at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;"> Dennis was an ambitious but poor young man who made his way to the U.S. and finished veterinary school by dent of his own hard work, drive and smarts. Dennis was the son of a hired man on a pig farm in Ireland. His dream was to become a horse doctor at a big race track. I lost track of Dennis several years ago and I don't know whether he realized his race track dream or not, but I do know that he graduated from the UT Veterinary School and the pig farmer's son became a doctor.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">I remember the first time I laid eyes on Dennis and his brothers. I saw them in Hill's Department Store, in Knoxville. At first encounter, I didn't realize that my niece was with these three strange looking young men, strange because they all looked as if they had walked straight out of the 1800's with wooly, high water pants, suspenders, newsboy caps and the pastiest, whitest complexions I'd ever seen.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Fascinated and curious, I did my best to stare inconspicuously, but then, to my amazement, who should walk up and join them but my niece? </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">I couldn't believe it! Where on earth, I wondered, did Catherine find these three guys?</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Well, Catherine was also student at UT and had met and started dating Dennis there. When I ran into them at HIll's, his brothers were visiting and trying to figure out a way to stay in the states themselves. Catherine introduced me to her three new friends. Lovely, lilting accents and manners. And actually, not bad looking, if you could get beyond their pallor and Victorian garb.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">All three of these young men were quite taken with the abundance of junky merchandise at Hill's Department Store (out of business for some years now, but rather like a big dollar store.) For three poor, rural Irish boys, the whole place was something akin to a wondrous treasure chest. But the cheap trinkets at Hill's paled in comparison to the wonders of Kroger's Grocery Store. For Dennis, it was as if he'd been transported to the land of milk and honey. The abundance and variety of available food was overwhelming!</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Dennis said when he first arrived in the U.S., he couldn't get over the common American query, "What's for dinner?" Seems like a pretty ordinary question, doesn't it? It's one I ask myself just about every day, as I ponder what to cook for my family.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">But to Dennis, that question was startling, and one he never heard back home. He said growing up on the pig farm, no one EVER asked 'What's for dinner?' because everyone already knew exactly what was for dinner. Dinner would be the same as the night before, and the night before, and the night before that. In fact, the dinner menu never varied: it was always pork, cabbage, potatoes, bread and tea. That was it. Day in and day out.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">I began to understand the pasty white complexions.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">How different it is here! Every day I cook a lot, always lunch for my husband and me and dinner for all four of us. And my never ending dilemma is 'What shall I cook for the next meal?' Most of the time, it seems like no sooner do we finish one meal than I have to start thinking about the next one. Too many choices? All that deciding, planning, shopping and cooking, sometimes it seems like a burden.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">I guess it's a burden I'm lucky to have. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">And so my inner dialogue goes: should I shop out of my well stocked freezer (full of venison, bread, popsicles, frozen berries, hotdogs, vegetables) or hit the stores? Kroger's, for lamb? Or the butcher shop for prime beef or all natural chicken? Rice, polenta, or potatoes? What kind of greens? Or should I make slaw? Hey, maybe fish would be a nice change. And what kind of veggies? Milk or juice?</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;"> You get my drift; the choices, decisions, and combinations are practically endless. And I AM thankful. I really am. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Today, I'm approaching the feast of Thanksgiving, planning what to cook, but knowing that Thanksgiving is really not that different than most other days in this country. The majority of Americans sit down to what most of humanity would call a feast just about every day. I thank the good Lord that no one in my family is hungry. In fact, we're a little too well fed, and our complexions are plenty rosy. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">At this moment, I'm sitting at my computer, drinking my breakfast coffee. It's about 8:33 a.m. in these beautiful Cumberland Mountains, the sun is shining on red maple leaves outside my window and I'm thinking, "What shall I cook for dinner today?" It's decision time again; should I start thawing something from out of the freezer or opt for a trip to the grocery store? It's a nice dilemma to have. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px;">Be Well, Good Luck and Happy Thanksgiving!</p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948582015-11-19T12:01:01-05:002020-01-13T02:52:00-05:00The Last Leaf to Fall
<p>I'm sitting in bed under my snug old comforter. The edges are frayed, the underside stained, the stuffing is matted and thin, and yet, this soft old rag still feels delicious tucked around my bare legs and feet. I sleep under it every night. Bob calls it my nest. I think it's something akin to an adult version of 'pink blankie,' the threadbare remnant I used to wind around my forearm and nuzzle while I sucked my thumb when I was a little girl. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I woke up early this morning. I'm usually an early riser, but I never hop right out of bed and get dressed. Instead, I stagger to the kitchen in my nightgown and bring coffee back to bed where I lollygag for an hour or two...or three...reading and writing, checking email, or idly sitting and starring out the back window at the woods and mountains. Today, I notice the woods are beginning to look wintery.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/70cb634af857f774495399e1be27483ab80000d7/original/img-4107.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NzAweDUyNyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="527" width="700" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Most of the leaves have fallen off the trees and the mountains are clearly visible across the narrow valley. I love to rest my eyes on the mountains. Wind Rock Mountain looks blue from here and I can clearly see the sharp white blades of the windmills etched against the November sky. The blades are motionless today; there is no wind.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Though most of the trees in the woods are bare, the little maple tree next to the fence wears a thin cloak of mottled red leaves. The air is so still this morning, the papery leaves cling unmoving to the dry, sapless limbs of the weary little tree. I wonder which leaf will be the last to fall.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My mother was the last leaf to fall from her family tree. Even eight years after her death, I can still hear her voice: "Oh me, I don't know why I've outlived all my people," she would say. "I wish I could just go on and die." </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, sighing, she would disappear into her inner world, a world from which my sister and I had always been excluded, for she never quite considered either one of us to be 'her people.' 'Her people' were the family and friends she had grown up with in Sugar Tree. Anita and I were of her flesh, but not of her tribe.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I didn't think it would happen but somehow it did; I got old. I've seen many, but not nearly enough, glorious autumns and, through the seasons, I've seen too many people die. My parents and all of my aunts and uncles are gone as are several of my childhood friends; Esther, Patti, Jarrett, Rita and last week, my old high school buddy, Hal.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>This November morning, as I nestle under my comforter and stare out the window, I feel lucky to wake up in this cozy little house where the woods and mountains are mine to gaze upon every morning. I love my life. I'm no where near ready to die, but I hope I never end up like my mother did, the last lonely leaf on a bare, lonely tree. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to do me the favor of sharing Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I'm an indie artist with no advertising except for word of mouth from kind folks like yourself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well, Good Luck and Happy Thanksgiving to all! </p>
<p> Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948572015-11-06T13:42:34-05:002020-01-13T02:51:59-05:00Pearl's Ring (or 'You Reap What You Sow')
<p>I hadn't seen Pearl for years, not since Mother died and that's been nearly eight years ago. But when I walked into the Catholic Thrift Store yesterday, there was Pearl standing at the cash register, looking as glamorous and beautiful as ever. As a matter of fact, at that moment, she was purchasing a sexy purple night gown and negligee. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It was late in the day. Pearl and I were the only two customers left in the store. We stood at the register talking, oblivious to the cashier who reminded me that I had only ten minutes left to shop before the store closed. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> "That's okay," I said. "I don't need anything." </p>
<p> "Those are beautiful earrings!" Pearl said. Pearl ALWAYS notices clothes and jewelry.</p>
<p> "Oh, these were my mother's," I said. </p>
<p> "Your mother was so beautiful," she said. "How long has it been since she died?" </p>
<p> "Oh Lord, nearly eight years," I said. "It's hard to believe." </p>
<p> "And how is your sister?" she asked. </p>
<p> "She and her husband are doing really well," I said. "They have three grandchildren and they just spent a whole month in Florida." </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The clock on the wall ticked on as Pearl and I continued talking. There was some costume jewelry in the case next to the register and, with five minutes left before the store closed, we asked the peevish cashier to pull a few of the gaudier rings out. We tried several on but they were all ugly or had stones missing. But while we looked at our hands, I couldn't help but notice the large silver ring Pearl was wearing. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> "That's a beautiful ring," I said. "The stone is so beautifully cut."</p>
<p>"I bought it off QVC," she said. "It's sterling silver and topaz. I bought two of them."</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, glancing at the clock, Pearl said, "It's four o'clock, I've got to go!" </p>
<p> "I need to go too," I said. "And besides, I think we're plaguing her." I nodded toward the cashier and said, "You look tired."</p>
<p> "Well, I've been here since eleven o'clock and I'm ready to home!," she said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then something amazing happened. Pearl took the big silver and topaz ring I'd just admired off of her finger and held it out toward me. "I'm giving you this ring," she said. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> "I can't take your ring," I said.</p>
<p> "Why not?" she asked. " I WANT to give it to you. I told you I bought two. I don't need two. I want you to have this one."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Stunned, I didn't say anything for a minute. Finally, I said, "Thank you, Pearl. That is unbelievably generous." Then I kissed her on the cheek and she left.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/ade02ac19694d9f52c9975b664d9f204d093940f/original/dscn0251.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Njk5eDUyNCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="524" width="699" /></p>
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<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I drove home, I realized I don't even know Pearl's last name. I don't know where she lives. I don't know anything about her except that when my mother was in Assisted Living, Pearl worked as a sitter or companion for several elderly people in the building, not my mother, but many others. I remember her as being so very kind and unfailingly cheerful, a genuine ray of sunshine in what was often a gray, dismal and lonely world.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Not all angels have wings.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Pearl's ring is beautiful and I will wear it often, not just because it's beautiful, but because I think it was also a message to me from the universe, a reminder that karma exists. Why do I say that?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Because yesterday, before I went to the Catholic Thrift Store, I went out of my way to perform two small acts of kindness.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> First, I wired some money to a Facebook friend in Bangladesh to buy crayons for needy children in six tiny, rural schools. He distributed their crayons yesterday.</p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/6141feed9c19fe1bca2c0c110012f9ee1ffd3986/original/11999876-911864068895932-1833348097-n-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color:#99cc00"> Some of the children holding their new boxes of crayons.</span></em></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> Two, while out on errands, I saw a woman I know that always strikes me as being lonely. Rather than running the other way, I called her name to say hello, knowing that I would be detained for some time and it would not be easy to break away. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Two small and relatively insignificant acts of kindness, but I think they are the reason that the universe, in the guise of Pearl, rewarded me yesterday. It was, I think, the universe's way of reminding me that you really do reap what you sow.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thank you, Pearl. If I knew your last name, I'd send you a card. I love the ring, but even more, I love your gesture and the message you brought me. </p>
<p>Finally, dear Readers, should you wish to know more about the needy children of Bangladesh, here is the link to my friend's Facebook page: <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/642795125862659/" data-imported="1">Children Care & Social Development</a>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948552015-11-02T12:02:56-05:002020-01-13T02:51:59-05:00A Different Kind of Secret
<p style="padding-left: 30px;">There've always been plenty of secrets in the Secret City. When I was growing up, I never knew exactly what kind of work my father did. I still don't and I'm not alone in being mystified by what our parents were up to behind the gates of the nuclear facilities in Oak Ridge. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> Recently, I attended my 45th high school reunion where I saw my old friend Judy with whom I not only attended high school, but kindergarten and first grade at Glenwood Elementary School in the late 1950s.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> Judy's dad, Sheldon, worked with my dad at K-25 (the Gaseous Diffusion Plant where they enriched uranium using fluorine gas.) Our fathers were friends as well as co-workers. Judy said, "Your dad was one of the people my dad talked about until the end. He had so much respect for your father." "I know," I replied. My dad felt the same way about your dad. I remember how he used to say, 'I like Shel Jacobs'."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>We were quiet for a moment, reflecting on our dead fathers. Our silence was abruptly broken when Judy said, "But I don't know what our fathers did. Do you?" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"No, not really." I replied. "I mean, I know some of what they did, and I've found a lot of Daddy's papers on line, some even for sale and I always wonder who's selling his work and why. But his papers are just numbers to me, pages and pages of calculations that I don't understand."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>What I do know is that our fathers made bomb grade uranium, for that was K-25's original task and so remained for at least the first fifteen years of the Cold War. </p>
<p style="padding-left: 210px;"> </p>
<p>Later, in the 60s and 70s, they developed multi level cascades and enriched uranium for other purposes: nuclear power plants, the navy's nuclear fleet, cancer treatments and I don't know what else.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> When Daddy retired, he was the manager over combined operations at K-25 and the nation's other two gaseous diffusion plants located in Paducah, Kentucky and Portsmouth, Ohio.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I suppose it goes without saying that Daddy was privy to many nuclear secrets. Sometimes those secrets came home with him in his brief case. I remember once when I was a teen ager and he went to Walgreens to pick up a prescription. "Stay in the kitchen and watch my briefcase," he told me. "Keep the doors locked and don't let anybody in this house."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I didn't think much about it at the time. Now, as an adult, I'm astounded to contemplate those thirty minutes or so of a slight, teen aged girl left alone to guard nuclear secrets.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I don't know what level of clearance Daddy had. Clearance was commonplace in Oak Ridge, nothing special. The old Manhattan Project and Cold War warriors of Daddy's generation routinely held secrets that were critical to national security. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That hasn't changed. Oak Ridgers still keep secrets crucial to national security. But there has been one change lately. In the last year, Oak Ridge has erupted with a team of anonymous bloggers and internet commenters whose malice toward one City Councilwoman in particular is cloaked behind the cowardice of pseudonyms and initials. This is a new sort of pusillanimous and self serving secretiveness and, in my opinion, an unhealthy development which undermines our sense of community. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When an anonymous commenter repeatedly calls a City Council member a 'cancer,' that commentary strikes me as malignant.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When anonymous bloggers habitually troll Facebook lifting comments and skewering them for their on line fodder, I think that falls into the category of unneighborly, if not downright anti social behavior. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It is possible to disagree on public policy and politicians without resorting to anonymous malice and secrecy. If one is too ashamed of commentary to sign it, perhaps it is not commentary that should be expressed or, at the least, should be expressed differently, with civility. </p>
<p>My opinion, take what you like and leave the rest. </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948542015-09-13T13:33:44-04:002020-01-13T02:51:59-05:00Socialist Paradise
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color:#cccccc">Short excerpt from my memoir about growing up in Cold War Oak Ridge, Tennessee </span></em></p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color:#cccccc"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/fe27a6f81f2c8874ea369548d07fc2e9ba195089/original/dscn3119.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDk5eDM3NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="374" width="499" /></span></em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color:#888888">That's me, standing in front of the old East Village house. My dad's new 1954 Chevy is parked behind me.</span></em></p>
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<div>Coddled, we were. All of our needs, and most of our wants, were satisfied by the monolithic federal bureacracy. </div>
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<div>
<br>Our government cottages were pleasantly spacious, set amongst the towering oaks of Black Oak Ridge, many with panoramic views of the Cumberland Mountains. </div>
<div>
<br><br>Our egalitarian neighborhoods were bordered by lush greenbelts where we children swung on wild grape vines, dabbled and waded in shallow creeks, stacked logs and rocks into forts and shelters, and generally played in our own private childish world, unsupervised by over cautious adults. </div>
<div>
<br><br>While our fathers labored unseen behind the gates of the bomb factories on the vast federal reservation, our mothers spent their days tidying up their nearly identical government cottages and preparing meals of Campbell's soup casseroles, Jello instant pudding and limp canned vegetables. </div>
<div></div>
<div></div>
<div>
<br>Many of our mothers smoked and listened to soap operas through much of the day: Love of Life, Search for Tomorrow and The Guiding Light. There were, of course, mid morning coffee klatches with friendly neighbors and more than a few martinis and glasses of wine with the same friendly little groups of housewives in the late afternoons. </div>
<div>
<br><br>Federal dollars flowed seemingly without limit. No expense was spared in fostering our sense of wholesome wellbeing. Oak Ridge Public Schools were equal or superior to any private school in the U.S. Our little burg of 30,000 citizens was a cultural oasis, with its own symphony, ballet, theater, library, parks and public tennis courts. </div>
<div></div>
<div>
<br>The irony is that Cold War Oak Ridgers lived in a socialist paradise, even as our continued reason for existence was churning out thousands of nuclear bombs, ostensibly to keep the free world free and stop the spread of godless Soviet socialism.</div>
<div></div>
<div>
<br>The immense irony of our federally subsidized, socialist way of life was, I suspect, lost on most. </div>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948532015-08-21T09:45:15-04:002020-01-13T02:51:59-05:00What We Borrow
<p>It didn't take long. My fastidious neighbors who weed whacked the woods, tonsured their shrubs into static green spheres, had an enduring love affair with Round Up and regularly patrolled their clipped lawn picking up every stray twig that had the temerity to fall on their pristine domain- have only been gone a few short months.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yet, when I walked past their house this morning, I noticed that Mother Nature is quickly reclaiming what belongs to her.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Twigs, sticks and leaves litter their grass. The ivy they so detested and obsessed over is now scrambling up the trees as if to make up for lost time. Weeds are poking out of the cracks in the hard shell of their driveway and the curb next to their house is already populated with wild violets, plantain, dandelions, one tiny tree, several tufts of pale, weedy looking grass and even a Lenten Rose. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I pause to observe (and admire) how much Nature has accomplished in so little time, I'm reminded of how brief our earthly tenure is. Proprietary though we may feel, ownership is an illusion. None of us own anything; we merely borrow from Mother Nature for a little while.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And how long is our 'little while'? Not long at all. On average in the U.S. it's about 76 years for men and 81 years for women. </p>
<p>Hmmmm. That gives me something to ponder: I have about 18 years left.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I continue walking, I ponder some more. Other than my own little individual life, what about the human species as a whole? Will humans, like dinosaurs, dodo birds and saber tooth tigers, become extinct and disappear? I wonder what the earth will be like without us. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I suspect Mother Nature will probably blow all of us off with a sigh of relief, inexorably invading, cracking, crumbling and toppling our concrete and steel hard scapes, returning our sterile cities to riotous, unrestrained, green abundance, in the same rapid, easy fashion as those hardy little weeds have cropped up in the drive way of the empty house on my street. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948522015-08-20T10:29:17-04:002020-01-13T02:51:59-05:00When Fate Arrives
<p style="text-align: left;">The tulip poplar leaves are always the first to fall and today, though it's only August 20th, their bright yellow four pointed leaves litter the black asphalt of Wendover Circle. After a week of rain, there are a good number of green hickory nuts scattered on the street too. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As I walk, I'm careful to watch my step. It was, after all, a nut, specifically an acorn, that rolled under my inflexible hard soled clog last September and sent me reeling on the unforgiving concrete, splitting my knee cap in two.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Bones can be set and wired, and eventually, they knit and glue themselves back together, but they're never as good as new. Sort of like a broken tea pot, I've been glued back together but I'll always have a crack. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As I walk up and down the street, glancing serreptitiously at my pedometer...how many more steps to go?...my knee twinges and complains. But today, unlike last September, I'm at least sensibly shod. I have on shoes with flexible soles and, most importantly, I have a cell phone in my pocket. If I fall down today, I can call for help; I won't have to drag myself home like a worm again.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Hard headed as I am, I have learned this lesson: No one is immune to the vicissitudes of fate and sometimes fate arrives in small, harmless looking packages. Like acorns. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Now I never step out of the house without my cell phone. I also threw those hard soled Dansk clogs away. Good riddance! I'm pretty sure that had I been wearing flexible soles when I stepped on that acorn, my ankle would not have turned and I could have righted myself without falling down.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Oh well, eventually, it's always something. Ultimately, life is not safe for any of us. When the big one comes, I suspect it will probably come as a surprise.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> I wrote this song as my own birthday approached. So many of the people I've loved are now dead: my mother and father, aunts and uncles and several childhood friends. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=6522296/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=4ec5ec/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/death-may-come-as-a-surprise" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/death-may-come-as-a-surprise"&amp;amp;amp;gt;Death May Come As A Surprise by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, I ask you to do me the favor of sharing Dogwood Daughter and Lily Cat Music for Kids with someone else. I'm an indie artist, with no advertising. But I do have kind people like you. Thank you.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948512015-08-03T05:09:57-04:002020-01-13T02:51:59-05:00Seventy Years Ago - Are We Any Wiser?
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<p style="text-align: center;">6th of August, 1945 <br>80,000 people died <br>In a firestorm burned alive <br>Hiroshima, my love..<br><br>Tears and memories mark the place <br>Morning when men fell from grace <br>Paper cranes small children make <br>Hiroshima, my love..<br><br>Ring the peace bell in the park <br>The flame of peace a tiny spark <br>Pray for peace in every heart <br>Hiroshima, my love..<br><br>Born from rubble, born from ash <br>Willow trees reclaim the past <br>Let there be world peace at last <br>Hiroshima, my love..<br><br>Ring the peace bell in the park <br>The flame of peace a tiny spark <br>Pray for peace in every heart.. <br>..Hiroshima, my love.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Seventy years ago, August 6, 1945, the first atomic bomb was dropped by the U.S. on the Japanese city of Hiroshima. At least 80,000 people died, burned alive in a firestorm. </p>
<p>The U-235 uranium which fueled that bomb, so innocuously named Little Boy, was enriched in my home town, Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Both of my parents worked on the project.</p>
<p>Seventy years later, the Y-12 Nuclear Weapons Plant in Oak Ridge continues operating twenty four seven. Today, the U.S. arsenal includes thousands of nuclear weapons of many types, all many times more powerful than Little Boy. And the U.S. arsenal is still maintained on hair trigger alert.</p>
<p>What does hair trigger alert mean? According to the <a href="http://www.ucsusa.org/nuclear-weapons/hair-trigger-alert#.Vb_z1yg0z78" data-imported="1">Union of Concerned Scientists</a>, it means that our warheads are ready to launch at a moment's notice, making all of us and the world less, rather than more safe. </p>
<p>When will we be wise enough to stop the insanity? As the Union of Concerned Scientists observed shortly after Little Boy and Fat Man were dropped over Japan, the only way for any nation to win the nuclear game is not to play. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">A new national park was recently created to preserve the sites of the Manhattan Project in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, Los Alamos, New Mexico and Hanford, Washington. The only worthy mission of such a park, in my opinion, is the study of peace. We could and should establish an international institute here for the study of conflict resolution, justice, cooperation and peace. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">We don't need to celebrate the Bomb; it's nothing to celebrate. We do, however, need to take what we've learned from that sad turning point in human history, the dawn of the nuclear age, and study how to live peacefully with one another, for not to do so is suicidal.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> I doubt that more than a handful of tourists would ever come to Oak Ridge because they love the bomb. I do believe that many people would travel from all over the world for the love of peace. The world, especially young people, is so very hungry for peace. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948502015-07-06T10:59:03-04:002020-01-13T02:51:58-05:00The Curious (and Marvelous) Case of the Ants and Elaisomes
<p><em><span style="color:#33cccc">Excerpt from my forthcoming memoir, Born in the Graveyard of the World, about growing up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee during the Cold War. In the 1950s, Oak Ridge was the primary site for enriching the uranium used in atomic bombs. </span></em></p>
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<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">The road was full of red ants carrying mysterious white spheres which, by ant standards were huge, roughly a third as large as the ants themselves. Some of the ants seemed to lurch and struggle mightily as they bore their burdens from the woods next to the Summerfield house, down the length of the long driveway, across both lanes of Wendover Circle and down a grassy embankment at the edge of Walton Lane. </div>
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<br><br>My husband and I stopped to observe them in their immense journey. "What are those white spheres they're carrying?" my husband asked. "Eggs, maybe?" I ventured. My husband shrugged. We watched for a few more minutes and then, mystery still unsolved, continued walking. </div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color:#33cccc">Photo from Botany Blog, http://botany.thismia.com/2009/09/27/welcome-to-my-botany-blog/</span></em></div>
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<br>The next day, I was at the McClung Museum looking at an exhibit of photographs by Alan S. Heilman. Before the age of digital cameras, Mr. Heilman was taking exquisitely detailed and revealing photographs of flowers, cones, fungi and lichen, tree bark, mosses and sundry other natural objects with old fashioned box cameras and film. </div>
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<br>It was while reading the explanatory note accompanying his photo of white trillium (my favorite wild flower) that I unexpectedly learned what the ants I'd seen the day before were carrying. They were carrying 'elaisomes' <br><br><br>Elaisomes are little spheres of lipids and proteins manufactured by plants as a sort of seed case. They make dandy insect food and the ants and trillium have evolved a mutually beneficial relationship. </div>
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<br>When the trillium elaisomes are mature and fall, the adult ants harvest and take them home to their developing larvae, which devour the fat and protein rich seed cases but leave the stripped seeds intact. Later, when feeding is over, the tidy ants clean up the mess, sweeping the debris outside and laboriously carrying the discarded seeds far away from the nest. Sometimes these tiny inadvertent trillium farmers even bury the seeds.<br><br>"What a subtle and marvelous scheme!" I thought. </div>
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<br>I was the only person in the exhibit hall and as I stood alone in the cool silence of the dim light reading about elaisomes, I couldn't help but marvel at the synchronous improbability of my having pondered the riddle of ants and mysterious white spheres one day and receiving an unsought, explanatory missive from the universe the next.</div>
<div style="font-family: Helvetica;"> <br><br>How curious the universe is, I thought. And how evident that it communicates with intention. And I wondered what the real message of the ants would ultimately be and when it would finally be revealed to me. </div>
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<br><br>For the next few days, the ants and elaisomes niggled at my brain, not on the front burner, but in the background, as I made my customary rounds, doing laundry, cooking, and grocery shopping. </div>
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<br><br>It was when I was idly lollygagging in a grocery aisle at Kroger's, checking out items in the marked down for quick sale bin, when the full message was suddenly and unexpectedly revealed, as if in a flash, without warning. <br><br>"That's it!," I thought. </div>
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<br>And immediately, without warning, elastic time snapped like a taut rubber band and I was pitching backwards through nearly sixty years passed. A memory long buried surfaced and I was no longer an old woman in a grocery aisle but a wee little girl, sitting with elbows propped on a gray formica table, chin in hands, eyes wide and fixed, hypnotized by the feverish activity between two clear glass panels in a green plastic frame. <br><br>Daddy had brought home an ant farm! </div>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=3492342449/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=4ec5ec/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 200px; height: 314px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/ants-at-the-picnic" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/ants-at-the-picnic"&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Ants At the Picnic by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ccff">When I first started composing (about ten years ago) I had an ancient Lindeman Grand Piano in my living room. Lindemans were the second piano company in the U.S. The first U.S. piano manufacturer was Chickering. Back then, I composed a little set of pieces call "Animal Dances for Vintage Piano." Ants at the Picnic is one of the pieces from that little suite. And you can tell, this is, indeed, a vintage piano. This recording also predates my studio and I recorded this in my living room while my children were at school and my husband was at work. Will I ever re-record the Animal Dances on my Steinway? I doubt it. They wouldn't be for Vintage Piano any more. I still love the voice of that old Lindeman piano, which the Steinway dealer took straight to Nashville when I traded pianos. I wonder who is playing it now.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ccffff">As always, I ask you to do me the favor of sharing Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I have no advertising budget, just word of mouth from kind folks like you!</span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Be Well and Good Luck,</span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Martha Maria </span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948492015-06-25T04:48:32-04:002020-01-13T02:51:58-05:00A Cracked God
<p>The long black snake was coiled in a dry glass aquarium. Mr. Smith placed the glass box on top of a table at the front of the room, then took a mouse out of a cage, lifting it by the tail. The mouse, suspended like an acrobat from a trapeze, splayed and wiggled its little legs ever so briefly before the doughy, red cheeked Mr. Smith plopped him in the box with the sleepy snake.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The inert snake roused instantly, awakened by the mammalian smell of mouse meat or, perhaps, the tickle of tiny mouse feet skittering in panic around his coiled gray back. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The lazy snake was in no hurry. The horror show in the glass box played out in slow motion.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Sitting at my desk in the next to the last row by the windows, my stomach churned as Mr. Smith enjoyed the show at close range. I remember how his pudgy hands held and twisted each other with seeming relish, how his wide eyes gleamed as they fixated on the scene in the glass box.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I alternately looked out the window and squeezed my eyes shut. But then, halfway against my will, my eyes would open again, drawn to the glass theater at the front of the room, for yet another nauseating peep.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I thought of Mr. Smith and my 7th grade science class yesterday afternoon when I clicked on a link that took me to a YouTube video of a ragged little brown bunny, in the wild, doing heroic battle against a big old black snake in the grass who was dispassionately swallowing her babies. Though one could argue that the video recorded a natural act and snakes must eat too, it was hard for me to watch. I clicked away before the video was over.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> A few hours later, as I tried to settle into sleep, my mind wandered back to another scene my husband and I had witnessed a couple of years ago; a mother squirrel shrieking on a high tree branch as a hawk settled on her brown leafy nest and devoured her babies. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And then, as sleep continued to elude me, I pondered thousands of hidden scenes of massive, industrialized horror enacted on my behalf every day, just to put meat on my table. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Every day is Auschwitz for the chickens." Isaac Bashevis Singer.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p>What is it, I wonder, that impells inorganic matter, the water, minerals and clay we're all made of, to animate and enact these daily scenes of horror? It is the mysterious life force some of us call Nature and others call God. And seemingly, like the ancient symbol of the coiled snake consuming its own tail, the life force is an endless loop which both creates and destroys itself without ceasing. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But why with such cruelty? Why not gently?</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It was Emerson who opined, "There is a crack in everything God has made." How right he was! The world and everything in it looks more cracked every day, which leads me to conclude that God, who I believe created the universe and everything in it, is also cracked.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>There's a common assumption that God is perfect, but I don't believe that. I believe that, like the men He created in his own image, God is also cracked and imperfect.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, if you find anything here that either delights you or makes you cuss, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I depend on word of mouth from kind folks like you. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948472015-05-26T00:41:55-04:002020-01-13T02:51:58-05:00The Normalization of Deviance
<p>I have been reading a book the last few days titled <span style="text-decoration:underline">At Work in the Atomic City, A Labor and Social History of Oak Ridge, Tennessee</span> by Russell Olwell, published by the University of Tennessee Press.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Olwell suggests that the very hazards of the work in the Atomic City (exposure to fluorine gas, transuranics, uranium, plutonium, mercury, byrellium, strontium, and a host of other toxic substances as well as heat and fire hazard in the work places) gave rise to a culture of what sociologist Diane Vaughn call<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline">ed the 'normalization of deviance' in which 'decisions about safety become embedded in a bureaucratic system that defines risk as acceptable.' Hazards were kept hidden because of production expectations during both WWII and the Cold War.</span></p>
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<p><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline">I write as one who has been in Oak Ridge a very long time and has seen hundreds of people either killed or made very sick by work place hazards at the federal plants. I remember the stunning revelation that over the years, millions of pounds of mercury were intentionally released into the Oak Ridge environment; I recall, under Secretary of Energy Hazel O'Leary, the anecdotal release of information about the way in which a number of cancer patients in Oak Ridge were treated like lab rats in radiation experiments, experiments which Senator John Glenn, lead Senate investigator, likened to the medical atrocities of the Nazis. </span></p>
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<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc">October 4, 1995, Marlene Cimons, Los Angeles Times </span></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 20px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">WASHINGTON — President Clinton apologized Tuesday to the survivors and families of those who unknowingly were subjects of government-sponsored radiation experiments, and ordered his Cabinet to devise a system of relief--including financial compensation.</span></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 20px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">"When the government does wrong, we have a moral responsibility to admit it," Clinton said. "The duty we owe to one another to tell the truth and to protect our fellow citizens from excesses like these is one we can never walk away from."</span></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 20px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Saying "our government failed in that duty," he apologized "to all the American people who must be able to rely upon the United States to keep its word to tell the truth and to do the right thing."</span></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 20px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Clinton made the remarks as he accepted the recommendations of an advisory committee he appointed to study the secret experiments, which began in 1944 and continued for three decades.</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
<p style="padding-left: 120px;"><em> ***************</em></p>
<p><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline">There have been and still are way too many secrets in the Secret City. Secrets are, in my opinion, poison. Why? Because they are lies: lies of omission. </span></p>
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<p><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline">But of course, our business, our bread and butter in the Secret City is and always has been poison, i.e. weapons of mass destruction, atomic bombs, in short, industrialized death. I suppose that kind of enterprise does eventually have a dulling effect on the consciousness and consciences of a city as a whole as well as its individual citizens. And besides, as Plowshares Peace Activist Sister Megan Rice said in Court after breaking into Y-12, some people are making an awful lot of money in Oak Ridge from manufacturing atomic bombs.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline"> I suspect Sister Rice is correct and a fair amount of the most closely guarded secrets in Oak Ridge have to do with money and the identities of the fattest pigs feeding at the vast federal trough. </span></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline">As I watch the botched and drawn out so called investigation of our Oak Ridge Police Department play out in real time and the anonymous attempts at intimidation on an anonymous website, I can't help but wonder if the culture of secrecy and outright dishonesty, the so called 'normalization of deviance' at the federal facilities in Oak Ridge, might have infected our city politics as well. </span></p>
<p>Local politics is sure looking deviant to me. And it seems that anonymous slurs and inuendo are the new normal in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> And so it goes in 'The Secret City.'</p>
<p>My opinion. Take what you like, leave the rest. Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948462015-05-08T11:14:49-04:002020-01-13T02:51:58-05:00The Reptilian Brain (we've all got one)
<p><span style="line-height:22px; orphans:2; text-align:-webkit-auto; widows:2">Walking on Outer Drive in the early morning, I look down and notice a small silvery 'S' glinting on the asphalt. It's a worm snake, white belly up, lying dead in the street. Idly, I wonder what killed him. He's not flat, so he wasn't run over by a car.</span></p>
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<p><span style="line-height:22px; orphans:2; text-align:-webkit-auto; widows:2">I continue walking and about fifty yards down the road, I encounter a second little fellow, also a worm snake, about the same size, perhaps ten inches long, belly up near the curb. Curiously, he's not flattened either.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="line-height:22px; orphans:2; text-align:-webkit-auto; widows:2"> And finally, just a short distance away, I notice a third little snake, also dead. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="line-height:22px; orphans:2; text-align:-webkit-auto; widows:2">As I walk I can't help but wonder what killed them. Are their deaths connected? Probably not; more likely just a case of unrelated coincidence. But then I remember a Sanskrit proverb:</span><span style="line-height:22px; orphans:2; widows:2"> "Every coincidence, traced to its origin, is seen to have been inevitable." </span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><span style="line-height:22px"><span style="line-height:22px">Whenever I remember that proverb, it gives me the chills. I wonder what path has already been set in motion for me. </span></span></p>
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<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">I continue walking under the rising sun. It's getting hot and I shed my jacket and tie it around my waist. A hawk circles overhead, aloof. He's not interested in me or the dead snakes, but hawks aren't carrion eaters.</p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> Turkey buzzards are, though, and we have a lot of buzzards around here. I wonder if the buzzards will find the snakes and eat them. Or perhaps the crows will. I noticed a crow eating road kill, a squirrel, just yesterday. </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">As I get closer to home, I find myself pondering the reptilian brain and wondering if it has any awareness of death when it comes. I'd like to know because those three little snakes are, after all, my cousins, evolutionarily speaking. </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> I too have a reptilian brain. We all do. It's the oldest part of the human brain, located just above the brain stem. It's the reptilian brain that keeps the body's automatic systems running, regulating heart beat, breath, digestion and other basic functions. </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">I suppose it's the reptilian part of the human brain that clings most tenaciously to life. So it seemed with both of my parents. </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> I recall my poor Daddy, in a coma, while his heart continued to beat sporadically and his shallow breath labored on. And my Mother also, who in her last weeks on earth lay in her bed like a breathing corpse, with unseeing, blank eyes, no more than a husk of herself, nobody home. </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">How much do we have in common with our reptilian cousins? And why do so many of us have an instinctive fear and loathing of reptiles in general and snakes in particular, even the harmless ones like those pitiful little worm snakes on the road, who are, like everything else in creation, our relatives. </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">In the deepest and most ancient recesses of our large human brains, aren't we all reptiles? </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">And perhaps indiscreetly, I might opine that I am, unfortunately, acquainted with a few two legged reptiles that I wish had never slithered out from under their rocks. </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;">Martha Maria</p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"><br></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948452015-05-06T06:40:48-04:002020-01-13T02:51:58-05:00Misinformation
<p>My husband was at City Hall this morning. While there, a City employee remarked to him, "I see you sent your wife to take notes for you yesterday."</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>She was referring to the City Council work session I attended yesterday afternoon. Let's get one thing straight: </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">I did not take a single note!</span></p>
<p><br></p>
<p> In fact, I did not even have pen, pencil or paper in my hand. The only thing I took out of my purse during the entire meeting was a protein bar, which I offered to the fellow sitting on my left whose stomach was growling.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> And just for the record, I count that same fellow who was hungry yesterday as a friend. We graduated from Oak Ridge High School together and he is a man for whom I will always have affection. Typically he and I see City politics differently, but I don't care. As I told him, I know what sterling qualities he has and he will always have a place in my affections.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000"> More importantly, I hope that people of good will can see political issues differently while maintaining civility, affection and respect for one another.</span></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Why did I attend that City Council work session yesterday? Well, I'm an old Oak Ridger. My parents came here during WWII, I was born here in 1952, and I plan on dying here. Unlike many relative new comers, I'm not planning on leaving Oak Ridge. I'm here for the long haul.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I love my home town and as a community, we're confronting a lot of challenges and changes.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I want the best for my little town, as I'm sure my (hungry) friend does. We just happen to disagree at present on what the best outcome on a particular issue would be. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My interest in City government, especially of late, as it gets a little too interesting (you know that old Chinese curse, 'May you live in interesting times!') has nothing to do with my husband or his work: he's the local Knoxville News Sentinel reporter. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My husband does not need or want my help, nor do I want to help or influence his news reporting. When and if I decide to take notes at a public meeting, you can be assured, it will not be for my husband, but rather for my own blog or a manuscript I've been working on for some time now about life, past and present, in this unique little Secret City. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As always, if you find anything here that makes your heart sing or even makes you jump and shout, please do me the favor of sharing the link. I'm an indie artist with no advertising other than word of mouth.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Watch for digital release of my new album of nocturnes for solo piano next week. For those of you who suggested names for the album, my sincere thanks.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>You can now stream Dogwood Daughter on Spotify Radio. Lily Cat Music for Kids is on Pandora, Spotify and Radio AirPlay. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948442015-05-04T01:35:25-04:002020-01-13T02:51:58-05:00Missing the Public Library
<p>The main room of the Oak Ridge Public Library reopens today. It's been closed these last three months for installation of LED lights, energy saving, no doubt. I hope the new lights don't kill the serene atmosphere with glaring, over bright efficiency.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A library is a tender place: a nurturing womb, an incubator for dreamers, a refuge from the cold of winter and the heat of summer; and for many people, an island of tranquility in a bickering world.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> A library is also a community of sorts where regular patrons quietly acknowledge each other with a nod or smile, where librarians become familiar helpers and friends and where deeply thoughtful souls, both living and dead, inhabit the shelves and freely share their insights and stories with all comers while demanding nothing in return. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> Libraries are holy places. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As a little girl, the Oak Ridge Public Library was my home away from home, my retreat when I needed a place to go. And I needed a place to go fairly often.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I'm one of the lucky ones now: I no longer need a home away from home. The home I live in with my husband and son is, thank God, an island of tranquility and I am grateful for that. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So I don't go to the library every day the way I used to. In fact, I don't even go every week. Yet, I have felt vaguely rattled and disturbed while the library was closed. I guess old habits die hard. Emotionally, I still like to know it's available in the background, a sort of emergency escape hatch, just in case some unforeseen shit unexpectedly hits the fan. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And let's be honest. I'm sure there are a number of people for whom the library is what it used to be for me: an escape, a near daily refuge, an island of tranquility in an acrimonious world….or, as the case may be, of late…in an acrimonious Secret City. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As City government seems to many of us to be devolving into disturbing and dangerous territory with the current City Council and the so called 'investigation' of the Oak Ridge Police Department, the library remains one of the quiet and 'safe places' in an increasingly hostile, cacophonous, and fissuring little burg. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so it goes, in the Secret City.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948422015-04-19T13:28:29-04:002020-01-13T02:51:57-05:00The Most Basic Rule of Cross Examination
<p>My father was not a lawyer, but he read a book titled "The Art of Cross Examination" when he was a young man. I still have that old book. It's on the shelf in my husband's office.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My dad told me more than once that that book had a tremendous impact on him. He also repeatedly told me that the single most basic rule of cross examination is not to ever ask questions for which you do not already know the answer or outcome. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I have a feeling a couple of people in my home town, Oak Ridge, Tennessee, are going to wish they had followed that rule. I am referring to a public records request made by a school board member and her husband for e-mails between a City Councilwoman and constituents. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Since that request became public, I have been watching the commentary on the various Oak Ridge Facebook group pages. The commentary has been interesting.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>1) The suggestion was made that public records requests are now in order for said Board of Education member's e-mails as well as the e-mails of other elected officials and employees. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>2) One person has floated the possibility that the e-mails the Board of Education member is actually seeking are ones about what many still consider to be the mysterious death of a young man who was a high level employee in finance in the Oak Ridge City School System at the time of his death. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>3) A number of people are questioning the propriety of the Board member as she ridicules the Councilwoman and other citizens with whom she disagrees on an anonymous website that she has admitted owning. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>4) Finally, the issue of the Board of Education member's tardiness in paying her and her husband's county property taxes has become an issue on Facebook. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My take away from public reaction on social media this weekend is that my dad was right. Don't ever cross examine or question anyone publicly unless you're fairly sure of the outcome. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>At this moment, to me, it looks like Pandora's box is open and more than a few demons have been loosed in our ever mysterious and frankly weird little Secret City. I have a feeling that some of those demons are going to come back to bite more than one person in the ass. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And life goes on….. </p>
<p>Just for the record, unlike the owner of the anonymous website, I sign my work.</p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948412015-04-08T05:25:15-04:002022-05-09T07:34:45-04:00An Ordinary Day (The Memoirist)
<p style="text-align: center;">Bob and I subscribe to the Friday, Saturday and Sunday New York Times. I know a lot of people don't like the Times, but I think it's the best newspaper in the country. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My favorite Sunday section is the Book Review. In fact, I never throw them away. I've got stacks of Book Reviews squirreled away in various pieces of furniture (probably fire hazards!) </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As a rule, the book reviews in the Times are insightful, knowledgeable, sensitive and well crafted. I read the reviews not only to discover new books but also to admire the beautiful prose of the reviewers themselves.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But last Sunday, I read the most awful review of Abigail Thomas's new memoir titled <span style="text-decoration:underline">What Comes Next and How to Like It</span>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm a big Abigail Thomas fan. I admire her candid, open heart and easy turns of phrase. But what I most love about Abigail's writing is that she, more than anyone else I know, can take the most ordinary things in life and elevate them into something sublime. Her wonderful writing gives me hope that I too can transform my own ordinary, very small life into something beautiful that transcends the ordinary.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Karen Powers, who reviewed Abigail's book in last Sunday's paper, evidently was not moved by Abigail's musing about beds, dishwashers, dogs or snails. I feel sorry for Ms. Powers. Her snarky writing was, I thought, revealing of a sour outlook. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After I read her review of Abigail's new book, I threw the newspaper down in disgust and sat stewing for a moment. Then, still in bed, I picked up pencil and paper and wrote the following: </p>
<p> </p>
<p>An Ordinary Day</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">A good life does not depend on material accomplishments or acquisitions, but rather, the recognition of the simple goodness of being alive. It's hearing the hawks cry in the morning, the birds whistling in the woods, the rooster rousing in the valley, and the muffled tread of bare feet shuffling down the hall. It's the smell of coffee brewing in the kitchen and the comforting softness of feather pillows against my back. It's the taste of apples and almonds for breakfast and the invigorating renewal of cold, living water splashing on my face and hands. A good life is nothing more or less than a series of moments-- homely, ordinary moments-- in the gift of another ordinary day </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=1871869890/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=e99708/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 400px; height: 492px;">&amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/the-memoirist" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/the-memoirist"&amp;gt;The Memoirist by Dogwood Daughter&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948402015-04-02T08:03:15-04:002020-01-13T11:08:53-05:00Oak Ridgers - We're All Squatters Here
<p>In 1942, 56,000 acres in Anderson and Roane Counties in East Tennessee were condemned by the federal government to make way for the Manhattan Project. Anderson County lost a full one seventh of its land.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> Federal agents prowled the hills, valleys and ridges, tacking condemnation notices on fence posts and front doors. About a thousand families were affected. Residents were given two weeks to vacate. Despite protests and even a Congressional inquiry, property owners were paid at what was, even in 1942, the paltry price of $47.00 an acre.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Between 1942 and 1945, the population of Site X, later known as Oak Ridge, swelled to about 90,000 residents. But, by the 1950s, the population had decreased to around 30,000 and has remained relatively stable ever since. As the population fell and the town became somewhat normalized (though the Secret City will never be truly normal) the Atomic Energy Commission began selling off surplus land and property.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Government owned houses built during the War were offered for sale, first to their occupants and then to the general public. Unused government owned acreage along the Turnpike, Emory Valley and Illinois Ave. was sold to developers and new houses and apartment buildings, along with shopping centers and restaurants, began mushrooming, all of it built on surplus government land. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The fact is, no one in Oak Ridge owns or lives on land that wasn't seized from someone else. The house I grew up in on Ditman Lane was built on surplus land my father bought in 1959. The house where my husband and I currently live sits on surplus land my father in law bought in 1963. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Over the years, a lot of the land condemned and seized in 1942 has been sold to individuals, private companies and developers. As you might guess, the new owners are typically not related to any of the original settlers that were here before World War II.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm of the opinion that if there had been justice or even courtesy extended to the old families, the surplus land would have been offered back to the original owners or their descendants before being advertised to the general public. I've always thought the unused land should have been offered to the original families at the same $47.00 an acre price paid to them in 1942, perhaps adjusted upward for inflation, or maybe even adjusted downward in recognition of the patriotic sacrifices made.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> A few people have gotten very rich off land purchased from the government in Oak Ridge. I don't think that's the way it should have been, however. The lives of the old settlers were disrupted, extended families broken up and generations dislocated, with little more than a fare ye well. It seems to me that restoring land ownership when possible would have been the right thing to do. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>All of us who came to Oak Ridge after 1942 are, in effect, squatters, albeit legal ones, sitting on land to which we have little moral right. Why do I bring this up now? I'm not sure really except to say that as I was listening to a citizen defend his considerable investment in Oak Ridge at a City Council meeting the other night, I found myself thinking, "But all wealth in Oak Ridge, yours, mine, and everybody else's, is based on the seizure of somebody else's rightful property." </p>
<p>My opinion, take what you like, leave the rest. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948392015-03-16T15:20:36-04:002020-01-13T11:08:52-05:00My Perfect Day
<p>Yesterday, March 15, was my birthday. And because of the love and generosity of my husband and two adult sons, it was a perfect day.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The day started off with a kiss and a box of tea cakes from my husband and so, what the hell? I ate the breakfast of champions: black coffee, tea cakes and dark chocolate. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then I slathered on some sun screen and my husband and I headed out for a walk. It was a warm, fine morning and we walked in the woods on the Greenbelt in Oak Ridge, which was another milestone for me: the first time I've braved a hiking trail in the woods since my leg injury in September. How glorious it felt! I have missed the woods. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/34cb07dd614057168e2864115dd42e98bd461b1c/original/dscn9764.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /> The woods yesterday. The weather was spring like, but you can see, the woods still look like winter here. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Next, out to lunch with my husband and sons, the three people in the world I most love and with whom I always feel loved. My son, Joseph, insisted on telling the waitress it was my birthday and guess what! Birthday girls get free cake and ice cream at Aubry's. So I fell off the wagon again and ate warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream and caramel sauce. Unfortunately, now that I know how delicious it is, I'll probably have to keep going back for more.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>After lunch, Bob and I took off for the Little Ponderosa Zoo in rural Anderson County. </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/ae44ad7046c72c4090bb530b38020ef2ab7620b4/original/dscn9776-1.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzc0eDU4MSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="581" width="774" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Our official greeter</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I love the Little Ponderosa! It's a sweet little country zoo that takes in exotic animals with no where else to go and gives them a forever home. It was my choice to spend my birthday there. And a big thank you to James Cox, the owner, who insisted on comping my ticket and giving me a bucket of feed to share with the animals. He also unlocked the cabin for me. Yes, there is a lovely old cabin on the place where Mr. Cox's mother was raised and I always like poking around, looking at the kitchen implements, gazing out the window and wondering what it felt like to live in that primitive little house so many years ago. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a88c4027a28da331943f6add8482837d9fcba63f/original/dscn9781.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDU4OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="588" width="800" /></p>
<p>This is George, who was rescued from a meth house. George was mistreated by his former owners and needs quiet and calm. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/fb4bf930a7becb760c3bee4b59868ade7005706e/original/dscn97891.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">One of very many very friendly goats. But watch your clothes. Clothes are food to these guys!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/96c95a89f37be8e1638c96358513ae4a2ae4abae/original/dscn9800.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Lots of ducks in the pond and creek</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/e84184e9c1ce11581661e6112cfdeb0d7cb081ac/original/dscn98141.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Bob looking out the cabin window</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/f75cf97c8f4e724dc209379a13d35b01cb601b08/original/dscn9838.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The family that lived in the cabin. The oldest little girl is Mr. Cox's mother. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b133536fc0d08f6807c0b61be897c7aa161f7503/original/dscn9841.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDU5eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="459" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/abd14151e3dab5d5a95335668067cae0ad0a5072/original/dscn9843.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/376b8770742c2d87dfe54a8361fabfa9d1013042/original/dscn9858.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/43c18fd64b76e0fc55c563ca8c03e10b2d315505/original/dscn9901.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The camel who made away with my feed bucket</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5a2fa6b632ed45ef1616d8779e9c6de2bd07e292/original/dscn9894.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY0eDU5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="599" width="464" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The turkey who delighted in making himself very large</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5481d4178e05903fb84c67c86f86d8436f209bb0/original/dscn9909.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Birds in paradise</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/229b41437df31208fc42b57ed571860ef9707575/original/dscn9877.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A satisfied sheep. He looks the way I felt yesterday...just happy to be alive on such a glorious day!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm so glad I chose the Little Ponderosa for my birthday excursion. The weather could not have been more splendid and honestly, petting and feeding animals is good for the spirit. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>After the zoo, my husband (who I call 'the funnest man in the world') suggested we top off the afternoon with a quick stop at the Good Will in Clinton. He knows me TOO well! I can't resist a treasure hunt. And of course, I did find a treasure or two: books, what else?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Back in Oak Ridge, we stopped at Gold's gym, where I played and exercised a bit in the pool and Bob did his usual workout with the weights and on Jacob's Ladder. Then we went to the Cafe at Books a Million for cupcakes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And at long last, after my perfect day, I came home, took a bath, ate two more tea cakes washed down with milk, and said, "Thank you for a wonderful birthday. But now it's over. Good night." Then I climbed into my warm, snug bed and went to sleep feeling grateful and counting my blessings. </p>
<p>Sixty three is going to be a very good year!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well, Good Luck and please share Dogwood Daughter with someone else today. I have no advertising budget, only word of mouth. Thanks. </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948382015-03-13T08:04:25-04:002020-01-13T11:08:46-05:00Merciful Morning
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5dca737c5335bf872e511b2bfaf65be7c99f1911/original/dscn9735-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQ4eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="448" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Venturing up to the top of the street, my knee braced and cane in hand, I walk alone, observed only by a solitary hawk drifting on outstretched wings overhead. The air feels warm and soft on my face. Crocuses bloom purple and gold next to the mail box and a cluster of daffodils with pale green stems stands with tight yellow buds preparing to unfurl. The grass and ivy, washed clean by overnight rain, glisten in the sun and as I walk, I have a sense of well being. I feel optimistic for the first time since my leg injury last September. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p>"I'm going to try walking alone this morning. Do you think it'll be alright?" I asked my husband.</p>
<p>"Sure," he said. "Just take your cane and phone." </p>
<p>As I pass the spot where I fell last September, I look at the hard gray asphalt and think, "This is where I encountered old age. Abruptly!" </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The truth is, my knee is healed but it's not as good as new. It's not going to be either. I'm going to be partially dependent on a cane for the rest of my life and my real hiking days are over. But today, I'm okay with that. I've made peace with my situation. And for all the agility and athleticism I lost, I've gained an appreciation for the inevitable shift from body centric youth to the more contemplative pleasures of old age. Then I recall the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson: </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="color:#33cccc">"For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else." </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px 0px 10px; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span style="color:#33cccc"><br></span></p>
<p>Emerson was right, I think. Everything's a trade off. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I continue walking up and down the street. The mail truck passes and the post lady and I both wave.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Last night's rain must have been a gully washer. Earthworms are scattered, distressed and feeble, all over the street, washed out by the over night downpour. With a gentle hand, I pick them up one by one and place them back on the velvet blanket of the good black earth, covering each with a cool,damp leaf.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Surely a few of them will survive but more will probably die. "Oh well," I tell myself, "At least they'll die at home in their beds instead of on the hard gray asphalt of this unforgiving street."</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I watch some lie inert where I place them, but others wriggle and begin trying to burrow right away. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>"Earthworms, people, what's the difference?" I muse. "Perhaps I'm no more to the Dreamer than these earthworms are to me. But at least I can be merciful and then maybe, just maybe, I can hope that the Dreamer will also be merciful to me."</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Then I pick up my umpteenth earthworm and place him in the loamy soil, covering him with a withered brown leaf. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#33cccc">* * * * *</span></p>
<p>Randall called me this week to let me know that he's almost finished mastering my new piano album and he says it sounds very good, which makes me very happy! A collection of Nocturnes for Solo Piano, I still haven't decided what to call the album. If you have a suggestion, you can shoot me an e-mail. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I thank you for visiting Dogwood Daughter. If you find anything here that makes your heart sing, please share Dogwood Daughter and <a href="http://www.lilycatmusicforkids.com" data-imported="1">Lily Cat Music for Kids</a> with someone else today. You are the only advertising I have. Thanks! </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p><br></p>
<p class="bq_fq_a" style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 20px;"><br></p>
<p><span style="line-height:20px"><br></span></p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948372015-03-11T01:27:18-04:002020-01-13T02:51:56-05:00He Knew How Dangerous It Was
<p>In the mid 1970s, I was in my early twenties, a college graduate without prospects: no boyfriend, no job. I was adrift, with little idea of where to go or what to do with the rest of my life. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> I applied for jobs but couldn't get my foot in the door anywhere which shouldn't have been a surprise given that my liberal arts degree hadn't prepared me to actually do anything. And to compound my particular problem, the mid 1970s were bleak in general, with years of seemingly endless 'stagflation.' </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Rejection can wear a body down fast and after a series of failed interviews, I was pretty down. At that point, I think I would have taken a job anywhere, even out at K-25, X-10 or Y-12. At least they paid well.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But Daddy wouldn't help me get a job at any of the Oak Ridge plants, even though as a Carbide Corporate Fellow and chief executive at K-25, he easily could have. It would have taken no more than a word from Daddy and I would have been hired. I asked him to help me, but he refused, with little more than a tight lipped 'no.' </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Since he wouldn't help me, I wondered why he was willing to help my friend, Becky. He got her a job out at Y-12. Why did he favor Becky over me? </p>
<p> My feelings were hurt; I felt slighted, and even rejected by my own father. I was pissed. I guess I stayed mildly pissed for a long time. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * * * * </p>
<p>Fast forward 30 years: Daddy was dead; I was married to the love of my life, the mother of two fine sons and happily making a career for myself as a musician and songwriter. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Then, one day, I was diddling around on the Elm Grove Elementary School website, talking to my old friends and classmates in cyber space, when I recalled how hurt my feelings had been when my Dad got Becky a job but refused to help me. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A couple of days later, the phone rang. It was Becky, who had read what I'd written on line. "Martha," she said, "I didn't know you were upset when your Dad got me a job." </p>
<p>"Well, I was," I said. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><span style="color:#ffff00">"Oh Martha," she said, "He just didn't want you working out there. He knew how dangerous it was! He didn't want me working out there either, but he knew I had two children to support."</span></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It's funny how sometimes you hear something that instantly transforms everything you've ever thought or believed, something that immediately resonates as truth, something so obvious that you wonder how on earth you could have been so stupid for so many years. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><span style="color:#ffff00">"He knew how dangerous it was."</span> Transformative words! I KNEW instantly that Becky was right. Daddy wasn't slighting me; he was protecting me from a perilous workplace.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In retrospect, I feel sure that not only did Daddy refuse to help me get a job at one of the Oak Ridge plants, but rather, even took measures to make sure that my applications were buried and never saw the light of day because, as Becky said, <span style="color:#ffff00">"He knew how dangerous it was."</span> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Fast forward again. It's now been nearly forty years and my friend, Becky, like so many others who worked at Y-12, has berylliosis. And thanks to Daddy, I do not. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><span style="color:#ffff00">From Wikipedia, the on line, free encyclopedia: </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0.5em 0px; line-height: 22px; color: #252525;"><span style="color:#ffff00"><strong>Berylliosis</strong>, or <strong>chronic beryllium disease</strong> (<strong>CBD</strong>), is a chronic allergic-type lung response and chronic lung disease caused by exposure to beryllium and its compounds, a form of beryllium poisoning. As an occupational lung<a style="text-decoration: none; color: #0b0080; background-image: none; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;" title="Occupational lung disease" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Occupational_lung_disease" data-imported="1"> </a>disease, it is most classically associated with aerospace manufacturing, beryllium mining or manufacturing of fluorescent light bulbs (which once contained beryllium compounds in their internal phosphor coating).<sup> </sup></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0.5em 0px; line-height: 22px; font-size: 14px;"><span style="color:#ffff00">The condition is incurable, but symptoms can be treated</span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948362015-03-10T01:52:01-04:002020-01-13T11:08:44-05:00Life (and Money) in a Federal Town
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/70c36fe48fc2ee9d3cf0e90cdb9d2881f25f2b97/original/dscn9632.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I took this photo yesterday while I was walking. This sculpture was erected in the park in front of the</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Municipal Building by the Breakfast Rotary Club in 1995. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Oak Ridge, Tennessee did not even exist before 1942. There was nothing more here than a few tiny rural communities tucked into a series of valleys hidden behind the ridges and foothills of the Cumberland Mountains in the upper East Tennessee Valley. But in 1942, there was a war on: a big war, World War II. And Albert Einstein wrote a letter to President Franklin D. Roosevelt advising him of the feasibility of producing and using the ultimate weapon, a weapon that would effectively assure the end of the war with an Allied victory. That weapon was an atomic bomb. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The Manhattan Project </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">in 1942, General Leslie Groves picked three secret sites to locate the different facets of atomic bomb manufacturing. Scientists at Los Alamos, New Mexico designed the bombs, so innocuously named Fat Man and Little Boy. Plutonium for one of the bombs was produced in Hanford, Washington. Uranium for the other bomb was enriched in my home town, Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Collectively, the entire enterprise was code named The Manhattan Project. My parents, Andy and Jean de la Garza, came to Oak Ridge in 1944 where both worked on the project.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p>Originally named Site X, Oak Ridge did not shut down after the close of WWII. On the contrary, atomic bomb manufacturing ramped up exponentially during the Cold War. And today, March 10, 2015, modernizing the current nuclear weapons stockpile, management and storage of fissile material and other work ancillary to the maintenance and manufacture of nuclear weapons remains Oak Ridge's bread and butter. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Essentially, Oak Ridge is still a one company town except our 'company' happens to be the U.S. Federal government.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ultimately, nearly all the money that flows through this town comes from the federal government, some directly through Department of Energy offices and other vast sums of monies through a network of private contractors and sub-contractors. Salaries paid to employees at the Y-12 Nuclear Weapons Plant, the X-10 Oak Ridge National Laboratory, as well as those involved in the clean up of the city's legacy of extensive pollution, are funded by federal tax dollars. Even retirement and health insurance packages are commonly administered through those same private contractors.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I think it's accurate to say that billions of federal dollars flow through Oak Ridge every year.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Born here in 1952, I've observed some outward changes in Oak Ridge. One of those changes is the very obvious growing divide between the 'haves' and have nots.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I was growing up during the Cold War, people in general did not live ostentatiously in Oak Ridge. Most of the highest placed and salaried scientists and managers raised their families in the old cemesto neighborhoods right alongside the non-salaried workers who were also living and raising their families in the same original government housing. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> Even to this day, I notice that many of the surviving old timers in Oak Ridge continue to live modestly in those same cemestos or in the middle class mid-century ranchers they built in Emory Valley, the West End and on East Drive during the 1960s and 70s. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But today, there is a wide and seemingly growing economic divide in Oak Ridge. I don't know how many McMansions there are in Oak Ridge, but it's a substantial number, perhaps between two and three hundred. At any rate, immense houses perch all along Whipporwill Dr. and its side streets, Briarcliff and the entire area overlooking the municipal golf course and lake.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> Concurrently with those same McMansions, however, Oak Ridge has a growing number of truly indigent residents. The last published data showed that over half of our school children qualify for the federal free and reduced lunch program. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm left to conclude that some people, those who occupy the McMansions, are getting a very large share of the billions of federal dollars that flow through our town. Conversely, a growing number of residents are getting a smaller share of those monies than the typical resident did in years past. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A relative newcomer to Oak Ridge asked me recently if Oak Ridge had always been 'like this.' She was referring to the divide she sensed between the average citizen and the relatively small number of people who seem to be the decision makers and occupants of those very grand houses. "No," I replied. "I don't think Oak Ridge was 'like this' when I was growing up." When she asked me why I thought it had changed, I said, "There are billions of federal dollars that flow through this town every year and human nature being what it is, I can't help but believe that most decisions are based on who's going to control and benefit from how that money's spent." </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948352015-03-06T09:36:55-05:002020-01-13T02:51:56-05:00Real Messed Up - The Perils of Plastic Surgery (needles and all that other stuff!)
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She's been needled, she's been wrapped</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She's been polished like a stone</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She's been dyed, she's been painted</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">How very strange she's grown!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She's been lifted, she's been sculpted</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She puts up a real good front</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She's been suctioned, she's been molded</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She's been real messed up!</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> "She's made herself so freakishly grotesque, I was mesmerized," he said. "I couldn't stop looking at her." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My friend was right. Mrs. X is, indeed, freakishly grotesque. But she's not a natural born freak, but rather, the kind that is achieved only after considerable cost and effort. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I don't know what all kind of work she's had done but she's the only woman I know who looks like a big plastic mannequin with a curiously striking resemblance to the half human Dr. Spock.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> Like every other mannequin, Mrs. X appears neither young nor old, but rather, inscrutably ageless. She could be an overgrown child with unnaturally wide, blank eyes or an ancient crone with flat, dyed dark hair. But as it happens, I know her approximate age: she's in her fifties. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I wonder what drove Mrs. X to get so 'messed up.' I pity her, though I suppose my pity would make her angry. However, I can't help but feel sorry for anyone who is so embarrassed by her natural appearance that she transforms herself into a freak. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> There are values and rewards to youth and they are, admittedly, sexy, flashy, beautiful and exciting. How well I remember! I reaped them all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> But for those of us who are lucky enough to live long and grow old, age has its own quiet rewards, among them self acceptance, understanding, and, not least of all, near invisibility. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#99cc00">"The first forty years of life furnish the text, while the remaining thirty supply the commentary: without the commentary, we are unable to understand aright the true sense and coherence of the text, together with the moral it contains." Schopenhauer, The Ages of Life (1891) </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm well along into the age of commentary, on the cusp of 63, white headed with a wonky knee, a wonkier mind and a wonderful sense of freedom that allows me to unabashedly go to the pool at the gym where I work out in a Good Will bathing suit without bothering to comb my hair or even shave my legs, relieved at long last, to have been rendered nearly invisible by the gift of old age. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948342015-03-04T10:57:12-05:002020-01-13T11:08:43-05:00Oak Ridge - Our Toxic Waste Problem
<p style="margin: 0px;">A couple of years ago, I was riding in the car with four of my old classmates from Elm Grove School. All of us were born in 1952. We were on our way to Hendersonville, North Carolina to visit our beloved 3rd and 4th grade teacher, Miss Picklesimer, now in her nineties.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">En route, we remembered and talked about old friends and the places we used to hang out: the Elm Grove Drug Store and Fountain where we consumed a gazillion cherry cokes and french fries, the summer playground, the Ridge Theater where a movie ticket cost a quarter, and, of course, the immense and cavernous tunnels that ran for miles under city streets. Back in the old days, most of us were free to roam all over the city as long as we got home in time for dinner. There was a lot of laughter in that car as we five old girls sped down I-40 in North Carolina. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">But after a while, our conversation took a darker turn and we discovered that four out of five of us riding in that car had lost their fathers to one of the cancers related to work place exposure in the Oak Ridge nuclear facilities. All of our fathers had worked at K-25 and three out of four of our mothers, the surviving widows, had applied for and been awarded compensation for their husbands' deaths by the U.S. Department of Labor. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Grimly, we recalled the hazardous conditions at K-25, the largest building in the world, where uranium was enriched in cascades that exposed workers not only to radiation but myriad other highly toxic substances. Jayne recalled how her father used to come home from work every evening and remove his shoes and clothes in the garage before coming in the house. Jayne said that she and her sisters were forbidden to touch his work clothes and shoes. "He knew how dangerous it was," she said. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">As an aside, I once asked one of my father's old colleagues why he thought Daddy, who died of heart disease, had escaped a work related cancer. His reply was that my dad was never on the floor of the plant but rather, as a mathematician, was tucked away in an office somewhere doing the calculations for the cascades. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">K-25 closed in 1987</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;">Today, K-25 is a Super Fund Site and has been renamed the East Tennessee Technology Park. What was once the largest building in the world under one roof is now all but gone, most of it trucked to waste sites in the West or the EMWMF disposal site behind the Y-12 Nuclear Weapons Plant, also in Oak Ridge. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">To give readers a sense of the level of contamination at the K-25 site, I am including the following excerpt from an Investigative Report commissioned by Energy Secretary Richardson in 1999. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"><br><span style="color:#ff0000"> "Conservative estimates indicated that 35,000 pounds of uranium were released into the air from all sources. 4,300 pounds of uranium a month was unaccounted for or released to the environment. ETTP operates an incinerator which handles radioactive, hazardous and uranium-contaminated PCB wastes. ETTP generated transuranic elements (isotopes with atomic numbers greater than uranium) such as neptunium-237 and plutonium-239; fission products such as techneitum-99; PCBs; toxic metals; and volatile organic compounds such as trichloroethene (TCE) and present risk to the public. Some contaminants migrated outside the Plant boundary. Waste disposal practices included direct discharge of radioactive materials, toxics and caustics to holding ponds and storm drains, and incineration and burial. Reports reflected a number of spills of nitric and hydrochloric acids, in one case 200 gallons. Numerous large fires and explosions were reported. It is impossible to characterize exposure because of inadequate surveys and incomplete records. Records indicate that as contamination levels increased, exposure controls were reduced. Contamination above limits was commonly detected. Operations have released a variety of contaminants into the environment, such as burial of low-level and hazardous waste in landfills and dumping directly into the Clinch River. Large amounts of contaminated equipment and scrap material were sold at public auction. Tens of thousands of pounds of fluorine and hydrogen fluoride were emitted annually. The investigation team identified over 600 releases of uranium hexaflouride, and a large, visible cloud was released outside a building. Exposure to 'intense clouds' of uranium powder dusts was prevalent and resulted in intense beta radiation fields. Each month dozens or workers were identified as having exposures exceeding plant control guides. Extensive contamination was prevalent. Records indicate many air samples in excess of Plant Allowable Limits. Both chemical and radiological materials have routinely been discharged from the Plant, from both sanitary sewage and storm water systems and materials were directly discharged in Mitchell Branch and Poplar Creek. One million pounds of blowdown water was discharged a day. The hexavalent chromium concentration in Poplar Creek is equal to the level regulated by the site's permit. Contents of 500 uranium hexafluoride and other gas cylinders were emptied into the unlined holding pond by shooting the cylinders with high-powered rifles, and this pond discharged into Poplar Creek. Records confirm that radiation exceeded drinking water standards. Over 80,000 drums of pond sludge with low concentrations of uranium were generated in 1988. Ventilation was modified to discharge mercury fumes above the roof. Elevated levels of mercury were found in urinalyses. Records refer to the recovery of tons of mercury. Traps would blow out spilling mercury on the floor. Air sampling in the 1990s identified mercury levels several times the Threshold Limit Value. Continual and voluminous process leaks (blowoffs) were vented to the atmosphere. 4,300 pounds of uranium hexafluouride were released per month. Losses were excessive. 10,000 union grievances were filed and management disputed grievances concerning safety in favor of economic considerations. Many storm drains were not monitored before 1992, and routine and accidental wastes have adversely impacted the environment and the aquatic habitat. Weaknesses in the sampling and monitoring of air pollutant emissions raise concerns regarding the accuracy of public dose and exposure calculations. Environmental radiological protection and surveillance are not compliant with DOE Order. Few records reflect involvement by the Atomic Energy Commission in investigations of serious events. Levels of airborne radioactivity were as high as 35,800 dpm/ft3, and far exceeded the PAL of 2 dpm/ft3. [That's radiation levels over 17,000 times the maximum limit.] Airborne radioactivity far in excess of normal background levels was measured off-site as far as five miles away. A number of criticality and sub-criticality accident experiments were performed and posed a severe radiation hazard. Bladder cancer rates were seven times higher than for the general population, and stomach ulcers were 6.5 times greater. Inhalation of airborn radiation can increase the risk of future cancer." [verbatum from the Report]</span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"><span style="color:#ff0000"> </span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px">Unfortunately, though the K-25 site has largely been remediated, toxic and radioactive waste in the larger Oak Ridge environment is not past history. In fact, a proposed target for completion of clean up of the entire Oak Ridge reservation, at last report, was 2046. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px">And so, last night, March 3, 2015, I attended, as a spectator, an Oak Ridge City Council work session in which a Department of Energy representative made a presentation on the next nuclear waste site that is contemplated being built in Oak Ridge. Councilwoman Ellen Smith did say, last night, (again, verbatim, I was taking notes) that there is some "really nasty, scary stuff" at Y-12 and X-10 which will require clean up and disposal. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px">It is worth noting that the proposed site for storage of said 'really nasty, scary stuff' is located a scant eight tenths of a mile from a residential neighborhood in Oak Ridge.</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px">I also learned last night that the proposed waste site for high level radioactive and toxic waste can only be built in Oak Ridge under current regulations because it falls under the category of 'remediation.' Were it not categorized as remedial, regulations would disallow it being built given the geological unsuitability (porous clay and abundant water) for such a site. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px">More to follow, as my thoughts jell. </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0.0px"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 13px; font-family: Arial; min-height: 15px;"><span style="letter-spacing:0px"> </span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948332015-02-22T00:53:07-05:002020-01-13T02:51:55-05:00The Point Man
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/08a976f2699a43f97e0d89c0f6edfb49d423f58e/original/dscn9634.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(I took this photo at an ancient graveyard in Ireland nearly three years ago when I went to Ireland for my 60th birthday)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99ccff">"Lost time is never found again." Benjamin Franklin</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00">I got an e-mail from my friend, Colleen, last week in which she said that my blog posts of late seemed 'wistful.' </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00">Colleen's right. I do feel wistful. Perhaps it's winter, which seems all too long this year. Perhaps it's the wobbly state of my leg which has never quite recovered from injury last September and I'm beginning to fear never will. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00">Or perhaps it is my 63rd birthday, fast approaching: Beware the Ides of March.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00">But more likely, I'm made wistful by the realization of how little time any of us really have and how much time I've wasted over my nearly 63 years. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99cc00">Certainly I wasted much of my youth. Many do, hence the old saying, "Youth is wasted on the young." How true that was in my case! </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99cc00">And, as I told Colleen, I still waste time and I don't know why. Why I ever turn on the TV or dip into Facebook, I don't know. Neither are satisfying and yet I persist in doing both. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99cc00">I am mystified by my own profligacy. On some level, I like so many of us in the industrialized world who are accustomed to the advances in modern medicine, suffer from the illusion of immortality. I pretend that time still stretches long before me, when, in fact, it now stretches long behind me. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99cc00">And therein lies my own willful madness. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#99ccff"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99ccff"><br></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#6262ff"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">The point man's life stretches long behind him</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#6262ff"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><br></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#6262ff"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">Time is a relentless foe, he thinks</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#6262ff"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">It cuts to the quick</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#6262ff"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">But everything's negotiable</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#6262ff"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">Even the final jinx of the clock</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><br></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; widows: 2; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">And bathing himself in new laundered light</span></span></span></p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#6262ff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"> </span></span>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#515eff"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">He plunges and dives into ravening night</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#515eff"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">Flashing and flailing, whistling and sailing</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">Dancing, he capers ablaze</span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><br></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">He's a bold new morning star</span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">Hear him call! He's falling away</span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="font-family: Noteworthy-Light; font-size: 15px; orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#99ccff">Careening, speeding toward madness</span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#00ccff"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="color:#99cc00"><span style="color:#99ccff">While life stretches long behind him</span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: center; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99ccff"><br></span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00">My Lily Cat Music for Kids album is selling steadily, albeit slowly, at CD Baby. It is the work I am most proud of. I have a sense that it was probably the work I was meant to do. I invite you to listen to all the tracks (free streaming) at this link: <a href="http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/lilycatmusicforkids" data-imported="1">CD Baby</a> You can also find Lily Cat Music for Kids on Pandora Radio and Spotify. </span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00">I'm also delighted to report that Lily Cat Music for Kids' second album is now half way finished. I love writing music and songs for children. It has become my favorite thing to do and, I believe, is probably the most important work I will ever do. </span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"> </p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00">I ask you to do me the favor of please telling someone about Dogwood Daughter and/or <a href="http://www.lilycatmusicforkids.com" data-imported="1">Lily Cat Music for Kids</a> today. I'm an indie artist, a solitary soul, in the woods of East Tennessee. I have no marketing or advertising budget; I depend on word of mouth from kind people like you. Thanks! </span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00">Be Well and Good Luck, </span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00">Martha Maria </span></p>
<p style="orphans: 2; text-align: left; widows: 2;"><span style="color:#99cc00"><br></span></p>
<div style="color: #6262ff; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#515eff"><br></span></div>
</span></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948322015-02-06T07:49:39-05:002020-01-13T02:51:55-05:00Forever
<p>I'm sitting in my living room next to the fire place in my mother's old petticoat chair. What's a petticoat chair?</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/4769c8910405145d496d1834c9904dec595419de/original/dscn9585.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDUzMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="533" width="400" /></p>
<p>It's a chair with a full back but only one arm and side so as to accommodate a lady's petticoats without crushing them. My mother's old petticoat chair is pink velvet and, coincidentally, though I don't wear petticoats, the open right side perfectly accommodates the computer on my lap as I sit by the fire, drink tea, read e-mail, write and….confession time….diddle around on Facebook. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/28d26629f681ee2d7dd29c6ec0f65d2867927ad0/original/dscn9572.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDk5eDM3NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="374" width="499" /></p>
<p>I have been materially blessed all my life. I've never wanted for food, clothing or shelter. I know that everyone isn't so lucky and I'm grateful.</p>
<p>Sometimes as I sit by the fire and consider my snug, warm and beautiful surroundings, I have a sense of wonder. I love everything here. Perhaps too much. </p>
<p>There are times, however, when I feel overwhelmed with sadness, realizing that my life, with all of its wondrous pleasures and gifts, is quickly galloping by. Just as this chair was not my mother's forever, it shall not be mine forever either. </p>
<p>It's been said so often as to become cliche, but when everything else passes away, only love remains. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Forever</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">This fireplace and pink velvet chair</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Where I drink tea and idly stare</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Will not be mine forever</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">This little house deep in the woods</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Where life has been both full and good</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Cannot be mine forever</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Nor can this yard behind the fence</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Where ivy creeps and lank weeds bend</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Belong to me forever</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">These two deft hands with fine blue veins</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">How sad to say not even they</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Will be my hands forever</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">But the smile you give me when I wake</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">And all the love we two have made</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">I know are mine forever</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">And I thank you, Love, my treasure</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b75aff46f424523ac10829d42e6a3063128c4cd7/original/img-5088.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6ODAweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="800" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>My love and I </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I do want to tell you that I am releasing an all piano album shortly. It is a set of 13 nocturnes I've been composing over the last year. It is in Nashville now being mastered by the great Randall Merryman (who has been the recording and mastering engineer for many years to some of the biggest stars in music and yet, for some reason, is always so good to me. Thank you, Randall!) I'll let you know when the album is finished and available. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Also, I'm going to try turning on the comments again. That function has been off for months now as I keep getting spammed by what I suspect are Asian counterfeiters of high end, designer merchandise. How, oh how did my little website earn their unwanted notice?????</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And last, I ask you, as always, to please share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I have no marketing or advertising budget, only word of mouth from good people like you. Thank you!</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948312015-01-16T07:10:01-05:002020-01-13T02:51:55-05:00Elsewhere
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Row, row, row your boat</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Gently down the stream </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Life is but a dream</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">January 15, 2015. It's cold and damp outside but the house is warm and the flames from the gas logs give the living room an aura of coziness.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Other than my sweet old dog, I'm alone in the house, but I'm not lonely. I'm never lonely anymore. I'm content and have no desire to be elsewhere. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">And besides, there is no elsewhere. I have and always will look out at the world from the same center with the same eyes, heart, mind and soul that were bequeathed to me at conception. There is no escape to elsewhere, not in this life, nor I suspect, in the next.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> Only belatedly have I realized that the years I spent longing for elsewhere, alternately running toward and away from tens of elsewheres, never amounted to anything more than running in place while asleep. Maybe to die is to finally wake from long slumber and recognize, for the first time, one's self and place in life's long, fuzzy dream. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">I'm currently working on my next album, all new piano compositions, organizing them to send to the most talented mastering engineer I know in Nashville, the great Randall Merryman. This little piece, Return from Elsewhere, will likely be among them. In fact, I may even name the album as a whole "Return from Elsewhere." So, even though it's for sale here on Bandcamp, don't buy it yet….wait until it's mastered. Randall is a magician and makes everything I do sound so much better. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=1038490010/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=0f91ff/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/return-from-elsewhere" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/return-from-elsewhere"&amp;amp;amp;gt;Return From Elsewhere by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Happy New Year. Be Well and Good Luck to all. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Martha Maria </span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948302014-12-23T06:03:32-05:002020-01-13T02:51:54-05:00Remember Y2K?
<p>2014, almost over.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> I remember the close of 1999 and the approach of the new millennium. A lot of us were in a dither about Y2K. Would our computers crash? Would computer dependent entities like banks, utilities, transportation and communications come to a screeching halt? Some of the predicted possibilities were dire. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Fearing the worst, my neighbors on the other side of the woods installed a mammoth gas tank and generator in their back yard. I still hear the monster kick on when power goes out, which isn't an infrequent occurrence in Oak Ridge. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As Y2K approached, I didn't succumb to the costly worry of my neighbors, but I did buy a few cases of canned beans and gallon jugs of distilled water. Other than that, I figured we could make do with candles and cooking over our charcoal grill. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Thankfully, we were all worried for naught. No dire consequences; 1999 slipped into 2000 seemingly without a hitch. And my husband, Bob, who had thought me slightly unhinged as he watched me hauling canned beans in the house and schlepping jugs of water down to the basement, courteously resisted saying, "I told you so." </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>What he did say, however, is "Martha, you worry about the wrong things." But that's an old refrain, something he's been telling me for years. In fact, I believe he said it just yesterday. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Of course, worry about anything is the wrong thing, given that worry is, in and of itself, a waste of time and energy. And oh! What physical and mental energy worry does require, both while awake and asleep, even invading our dreams. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#99cc00">"Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow; it empties today of its strength." Corrie Ten Boom</span></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But I come from a long line of pessimists and worriers. Is it genetic or learned? Probably a little of both. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And so, though I am intellectually aware of the uselessness of worry, I still expend an inordinate amount of time and energy worrying over this and that, profligately throwing time and energy away. That alone, I suppose, is a 'sin,' a word which I once read, in its original usage, came from archery and simply meant 'to miss the mark.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Missing the mark" strikes me as a good description of worry. The mark is in the present. Worry resides in the future or the past. I don't like resolutions but this year, I'm going to try, if not resolve, to stop worrying so much. It's a real sin. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas to all. </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p>P.S. As always, I ask you to do me the favor of sharing <a href="http://www.lilycatmusicforkids.com" data-imported="1">Lily Cat Music for Kids</a> and Dogwood Daughter with someone else today. I'm an indie artist and I need your help. Thank you. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948292014-12-21T08:23:34-05:002020-01-13T02:51:54-05:00Six Years Gone this Winter Solstice
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/19068f8d8b3c05ca2b0777fc26eb687b32848661/original/solar-system-printable-sm-graphicsfairy-resized-cropped.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Nzc3eDQ4NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="484" width="777" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mother died six years ago today. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everything about those few days surrounding her death seemed surreal. But what is the difference between real and surreal? Only that one is perceived by the mind, the other intuited by the soul.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My mother who was a troubled and unhappy woman even in the best of times, spent her last few years in the terrifying fog of Alzheimer's, perpetually lost and alone in a strange place with strangers, unable to remember anyone or anything in her environment, not even herself.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>More than once, she worried aloud, "Do you know who I am?" "Yes," I'd say, with pretended brightness. "Then who am I?" she'd ask. And when I said her name, she'd look at me blankly before finally saying, "Well, I guess that's right."</p>
<p> </p>
<p><em><span style="color:#ccffcc">"All happy families are alike: each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way." </span></em></p>
<p><em><span style="color:#ccffcc"> Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina</span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I never knew my mother to be happy. I've been going through old photographs and I'm struck by how sour we all look in every one of them: Mother, Daddy, Anita and I, an unhappy family. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But in the last few seconds, as my mother lay dying, she opened her eyes and for no more than a nanosecond, I glimpsed pure rapture and joy in her eyes as she passed into eternity.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Outside, in the gloom of the Winter Solstice, snow was swirling as the good Earth tilted toward deep space, away from the life giving heat and light of the yellow sun. I was alone, cast into outer darkness. An era had passed. Mother and Daddy were dead. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">* * * * * </span></p>
<p>As always, I ask you to do me the favor of sharing Dogwood Daughter and Lily Cat Music for Kids with others. I'm an indie artist and have no advertising budget, only word of mouth from my website visitors, like you. Thank you.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><span style="color:#00ff00">Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanza, or just Merry Winter in general to everyone.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948282014-11-30T09:46:45-05:002020-01-13T02:51:54-05:00Daddy's Birthday
<p style="text-align: center;">"What must I do to make the dead at last agree to speak to me in my dreams?"</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> All Rivers Run to the Sea, Eli Wiesel </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/3ea27686b279e501b40a8f331b98e9fa6d25bd1a/original/dscn3124-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">November 30th, Daddy's birthday. If he were still living, he would be 92 years old. But he's been gone for eighteen years now. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">He was 62 when he got his pacemaker which gave him another ten years. Some of those years were good but too many were not, as he developed cardio myopathy, which is medical jargon for a weak heart muscle. I think his last couple of years were very hard, though I'm ashamed to say that I didn't understand how hard. I'd always thought of Daddy as some kind of Super Man. The extent of his illness and frailty was incomprehensible to me until after his death. I could not imagine my life without him being in it. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Shortly after Daddy died, I occasionally felt his presence. Once I sensed him standing behind me as I washed dishes at the kitchen sink. Another time, I distinctly heard his laughter. But then he went away and seemed to remain stubbornly absent, even from my dreams. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And his absence worried me a little bit. I wondered if he was mad at me. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">But on this, his birthday morning, rather than making my customary bee line for the kitchen to get my caffeine fix as soon as I woke up, I lay in bed quietly contemplating everything and nothing about this mysterious life, wondering what kind of fragment I am in the long chain of ancestors and future descendants who make up the mundane family and blood line to which I belong.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> As I lay in bed, listening to the rhythmic tongue of my old dog as she licked and washed her paws, I had a wonderful thought: Daddy didn't go silent and disappear from my life.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">In fact, it's Daddy who encourages me every day: when I go in my studio, for it was the money he left me that enabled me to build it; when I touch the piano, for he was the one who knocked on Mrs. Greer's door and persuaded her to take a four year old child as a student, paid for years of piano lessons and sat in the rocking chair by the hour listening to me play and sing while he smoked his pipe and nursed his bourbon; and finally, every time I open a book, take up pen and paper or just get lost in my own thoughts, for it was he who taught me to love the life of the mind. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I put Daddy on a pedestal when I was a little girl. I don't any more. Now, at age 62, the same age he was when he got his pacemaker, I see Daddy realistically. He wasn't a god, just a very smart and complex man. He was like me and the rest of humanity: walking dust, curiously flawed and perfect, all at the same time. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I no longer idolize Daddy, but I will always love him and be thankful for the gifts he gave me. And I sure am looking forward to talking to him when I pass over to the other side. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I'm an indie artist and depend on good folks like you for word of mouth advertising. Thanks. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948272014-10-14T06:00:00-04:002020-01-13T02:51:54-05:00Seeking Shelter in a World Gone Mad
<p>I've stopped listening to the news. Well, most of the time, anyway. </p>
<p>I'm finding that it's nearly impossible to completely avoid the news, however; it's everywhere, instantaneous, sensational and demoralizing. Scary too, especially lately what with ebola, ISIS, trigger happy cops and a shaky economy. It's enough to make me want to curl up under the covers and cry…or at least seek temporary respite in sleep.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> But lately, even my sleep is heavy, troubled and sour. I think all the bad news has permeated both my waking and sleeping consciousness. I suspect I'm not alone either. I wonder how many thousands, or even millions, of people all over the world are experiencing the same sense of unease. </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Iron Night</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center; min-height: 18px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">In the grip of iron night</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Somber, grim and deep</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">I lay aside my small bruised life</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">And hunker down to sleep</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center; min-height: 18px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Frightened by I know not what</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">I burrow 'neath the covers</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">And seek the ragged rim of death</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">In heavy, dreamless slumber</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">As always, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter and Lily Cat Music for Kids with someone today. Thank you.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948262014-10-12T06:02:17-04:002020-01-13T02:51:54-05:00One Body
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">"That which is not good for the swarm, neither is it good for the bee." Marcus Aurelius, The Meditations</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><em>Marcus Aurelius, wrote those words in 167 A.D. The corollary is, of course, that to neglect the needs of the bee is to neglect the needs of the swarm. </em><span style="font-style:italic">In other words, we'll all sink or swim together. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style:italic"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="color:#ff0000">Nowhere is that more evident than in matters of public health.</span> </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><br></em></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">The U.S. is the only first world country on earth that does not provide free, universal health care to every citizen. In the case of a deadly contagion, such as ebola, that failure to provide universal, affordable health care may have disastrous consequences. It is, after all, difficult to control a disease when the people who are infected don't seek prompt medical attention because they fear the expense. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Understandably, people who don't have medical insurance put off going to the doctor for as long as possible. Typically, they don't show up in emergency rooms or a doctor's office until they are very, very sick. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And, as is suspected by many in the case of the Liberian man who died of ebola this week in Texas, when uninsured people show up in emergency rooms, they are more likely to be refused admission and sent back into their respective communities to infect others. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">With diseases like ebola, lack of adequate and timely medical attention to anyone is, in fact, a danger to everyone. Sick people need to be identified and isolated as early as possible to prevent disease from spreading. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> But realistically, how likely is that when sick people can't afford to go to the doctor? </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * * * * </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">It's true that Obamacare has improved affordability of health insurance for a whole lot of folks. But it's not a panacea. Obamacare doesn't cover everyone.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">In Tennessee, where I live, in a fit of civic depravity, Governor Haslam refused the federal Medicaid expansion, leaving an estimated 200,000 Tennesseans without any medical coverage at all. Perversely, his refusal of the Medicaid expansion also blocked the influx of an estimated $60,000,000 annually of new federal money into the state of Tennessee. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">What kind of stupidity is that? Well, in a word, it's unChristian stupidity. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Quoting St. Paul in his letter to the Corinthians, <span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="text-indent:-8px">" And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honored, all the members rejoice with it. Now ye are the body of Christ and members in particular."</span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As I read that, it's my understanding that St. Paul is saying that we are all, like it or not, connected to each other, like individual cells in a larger body. And when one part of the body suffers, the entire body is afflicted. Seems like something we should all think about, especially these days, don't you think? </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * * * *</p>
<p><span style="text-align:left">Epidemics have come and gone throughout human history: the Bubonic Plague, Spanish flu and AIDS all come to mind.</span></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> Ebola may or may not be the next pandemic. Who knows? But one thing's for sure: the little bugs and pathogens that infect us are getting smarter and evolving faster than our ability to fight them. We're bound to face an epidemic sooner or later. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I think our best hope for maintaining good public health in the U.S. will be to provide universal, not for profit health care to every man, woman and child in the country. I don't think it will be necessary to reinvent the wheel in order to do so either. Medicare has been in place for decades and it works beautifully. Why can't we expand Medicare to include every American who wants it?</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> We CAN afford to provide medical care to all of our citizens. We're the richest nation on earth. We have the money. The question is, do we have the will? </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">My opinion, take what you like, leave the rest. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948252014-10-03T09:21:52-04:002020-01-13T02:51:54-05:00Missing the Boat
<p>This morning, I was riding in the car with my 22 year old son. I was asking him if he could help me set up an Ebay store for my music. He advised against that, said he guaranteed I'd lose money.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> "Okay," I said. "What do you suggest?"</p>
<p>"Well, Etsy would be a good match for you," he said. "And Soundcloud." </p>
<p>"Soundcloud?" I said. </p>
<p>"Yea," he said. "You know, for exposure. If you're not using Soundcloud, you're missing the boat." </p>
<p>"Really???, " I said. No surprise there, I usually DO miss the boat, I thought. </p>
<p>"Yea, that's how So and So became a star," he said. (And I'm sorry, but I can't remember So and So's name right now.)</p>
<p>My son continued as we passed Weigels and came to a stop at the red light. "So and So put a couple of tracks up on Soundcloud and everybody wanted to hear more, so he made an album. You should put two or three tracks on Soundcloud. "</p>
<p>"Ohhhhh…." I said, and our conversation trailed off as we turned up Montana Ave. I did set up a Soundcloud account about three years ago, but never did anything with it.</p>
<p> I guess I should have followed through and gotten on board back then, but as usual, I missed the boat. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>Now it's afternoon and I am sitting on my bed with my laptop. I've just come from exploring Soundcloud where I posted a track from my new Christmas album. </p>
<p>Yes, I FINALLY recorded a Christmas album. It's another one of those projects I've thought about for years but somehow never got around to until this summer. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The album is called "Appalachian Christmas." It's a 15 track album of Christmas standards and folk carols from the southern mountains, all with new arrangements by me, Dogwood Daughter. And, since Randall Merryman of Nashville did such a fabulous job mastering my Lily Cat Music for Kids CD, I had Randall master this new Christmas album as well. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I really love this album and I hope you will too. It will be available on iTunes and Amazon the first week of November (if not before.) Also, I'm making a very few, limited edition physical CDs. (CDs will have a bonus track too!) They'll be available from CDbaby in November or you can always contact me directly and I'll get one to you. Just shoot me at an e-mail at:</p>
<p> <span style="color:#00ff00">dogwooddaughter@dogwooddaughter.com</span> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And here, for your listening pleasure, is the one sample track I just loaded on Soundcloud. Do you know anyone else who actually listens to Soundcloud? If you do, I ask you to please share this Soundcloud link with them. In fact, please do me the favor of sharing the link anywhere and everywhere on social media.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>You know my refrain: I'm an independent artist with no advertising other than the good will and word of mouth from kind people like you. I'm sincerely asking you spread the word and help me make my Christmas album a success. Thank you!</p>
<p> </p>
<p><iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/170501904&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948242014-09-26T04:07:31-04:002020-01-13T02:51:53-05:00Reading the Signs
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>"All coincidences, traced to their origins, are seen to have been inevitable."</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Sanskrit Proverb</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I'm an old soul. I was older than my parents on the day I was born. I'm psychic too, or at least deeply intuitive. I can't count how many times I've had premonitions of events to come.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> I don't talk much about my psychic abilities because when I do, even my own husband seems skeptical. But on September 3, I most certainly had a clear presentiment of my impending fall. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">All day long, as I walked up and down the steps in my split level house, I clung tightly to the bannister. "You better be careful," the little voice in my head kept whispering. "You could fall down. It could happen any time now." </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And the next day I did fall, but I didn't fall in the house; I fell on the street a couple of hundred feet away from the top of my driveway.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> An acorn rolled under my foot and as time slowed down, I seemed to watch my own body pitch forward. On the way down, I heard the voice in my head again. But this time, the voice wasn't whispering, it was screaming. " I TOLD you to be careful! I TOLD you you could fall! I TOLD you it could happen any time!"</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I lay in the street. A fat crow sat in the tree overhead and seemed to eye me disdainfully before cawing and taking off. I watched his black underbelly glide effortlessly against the morning sky and disappear. Then the street was silent except for the frenzied yipping of the schnauzers behind curtained windows at the old Pare house. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I was pretty sure I couldn't get up. I knew that my right leg was broken. I continued laying in the street and began calling for help. I called as loud as I could but no neighbor peeked out the window or cracked open a door. Not a single car came by either. Like the rest of Oak Ridge, Wendover Circle was deserted and desolate. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">"I'm just going to have to get home by myself," I thought. I was about 200 feet away from the top of my driveway. I tried to stand up but my right leg crumpled.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I pondered my situation for a moment. Then I began what seemed like an endless journey, crawling and dragging my injured body home.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Thank God my son had not yet left for class! His old Monte Carlo was still parked in the driveway. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">"Walker, Walker!" I yelled. Walker ran up the driveway. "I can't get up," I said. "My leg's broken. Drive your car up here." Somehow, my strong son got his injured mother in the car. "Call your dad," I said. "Tell him to come home. He'll have to drive me to the hospital in your car" </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">A week later, as the nurses were prepping me for surgery, one of the them unwrapped my leg and said, "Have you SEEN her leg?" The other nurse looked down. "Oh my God, you must be tough!" </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> Actually, I hadn't seen it either. It had been tightly wrapped and in a stiff brace for a week and I had pretty much been immobilized and in a hydrocodone stupor. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I sat up on the gurney and examined the mottled, mustard yellow and purplish bruise running the length of my leg from knee to ankle. "I guess I am tough," I said. "I was by myself and dragged myself home."</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> Then I lay back down and winced as the nurse began gently scrubbing my leg. "This too shall pass," I thought. "This too shall pass." </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Falling</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">There's a bloody red crack</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In the shell of the sky</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I stumble, legs buckle</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I'm broken inside</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Like an insect, I crawl</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The road home's so long</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">If my arms were wide wings</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Like a bird, I would fly</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Yes, I guess I am a tough old bird. I'd like to think I'll never have to be that tough again. But I will and so will you. No one gets out of this world uninjured or alive.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be strong, be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">P.S. As always, I ask you to share my website with someone today. I'm an indie artist. I depend on word of mouth advertising from kind people like you. Thanks. </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948232014-09-23T12:50:57-04:002020-01-13T02:51:53-05:00When Will the Big Bomb Drop?
<div style="color: #000000; font-family: Verdana, 'Trebuchet MS', Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffff; margin: 8px;">
<p style="text-align: center;">"Before you judge me, judge yourself.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Are you so sure of the ground you stand on?"</p>
<p> <em>Sophocles, Electra</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm not sure of anything. I was born and raised in the Secret City during the Cold War years of the 1950s and 60s.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Outwardly an idyllic, peaceful little Camelot with wooded ridges and valleys dotted with government built homes modeled on quaint Cape Code cottages, occupied with seemingly perfect young, nuclear families, our small town was an island of privilege in rural Anderson County, Tennessee. Amenities included public tennis courts, parks, a voluminous library, superior schools, even our own little local symphony orchestra and playhouse, all funded directly or indirectly with federal monies.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Our mothers were homemakers who baked with the help of Betty Crocker in the mornings. Many mixed martinis in the afternoons before serving up suppers of soggy canned vegetables, jello salad and casseroles made with Campbell's Soup. We ate around formica kitchen tables and listened to Walter Cronkite on our black and white TVs. </p>
<p>It was the height of the post war baby boom and we children were numerous, well scrubbed and mostly above average. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Our fathers, wearing badges that doubled as IDs and radiation docimeters, disappeared behind the fence every morning, carrying government issue brief cases. They were scientists and engineers, highly educated elites with generous compensation packages. But we children never got to witness our fathers at work. We were not permitted behind the fence. The work our fathers did was top secret.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But we knew that our fathers were not behind the fence making radios, televisions or vacuum cleaners; they certainly weren't inventing new toys like slinkies or hoola hoops; nor were they canning soup or soggy green beans. We knew what our fathers were doing: they were making atomic bombs.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And far away on the other side of the world, we knew that the Russians were also making atomic bombs, probably in their own little secret enclaves. And as always I wondered, who would destroy whom first? And would it be worse to die or survive the nuclear holocaust? I never doubted that it would come. We practiced for it every day. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>After school, the well scrubbed children of Oak Ridge played in the green woods, swinging on grapevines and sailing paper boats on shallow, gurgling creeks. On sweet summer evenings, we played Mother May I, caught lightening bugs in Mason jars and squealed through games of Hide and Seek in the dark.</p>
<p>Mostly, we were happy.</p>
<p>But day in and day out, through every season of the long year, promptly at five o'clock, the air raid sirens went off. Loud sirens were installed throughout the Secret City to warn us of an impending nuclear attack and most of us had bomb shelters, some make shift, some fancy, in our homes. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The siren right next to our house on Delaware Avenue wailed with bone rattling intensity every afternoon, shaking me out of my childhood reveries, innocent play, and piano practice. Every day at five o'clock, I was reminded once again that even children must ponder the imponderable:</p>
<p> When will the big bomb drop? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>More on this later. </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p style="font-family: Verdana, 'Trebuchet MS', Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Martha Maria </p>
</div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948212014-09-19T14:21:27-04:002020-01-13T02:51:53-05:00Life Isn't Lived Backwards (When traipsing must cease)
<p>I've always a been a walker. Funny, my mother's maiden name was Walker. She was a 'walker' too, at least until she got too old and feeble. Even in assisted living (Alzheimer's) she continued with her walking regimen. She walked up and down the halls of the Oak Ridge Retirement Center, purposefully every morning, in order to get her exercise.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My dad was a walker too. Tremendously vigorous in youth, he was a fine physical specimen until his heart gave out. Sorrowfully, his good heart started giving out at age 62, when he got his first pacemaker.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> But before heart disease, I remember watching him do his push ups downstairs in the old Ditman Lane house: 100, on his fingertips. And like my mother, even in old age, Daddy continued walking, albeit slowly, laboriously, a frail old man with his walking stick, a notepad and mechanical pencil tucked in his shirt pocket, ever ready to capture his thoughts and ideas. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Like Daddy, I walk with a notepad and pencil tucked in my pocket too. It is when walking alone, while my mind is paradoxically at rest yet alert, that I make unbidden leaps of insight, connect the dots and hatch new ideas.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> Daddy's notebooks were full of numbers, he was a mathematician. My notebooks are full of words and music. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But now, I'm floundering like a fish on this wide ocean of a king sized bed, my right leg in a rigid cast, confined to the house and unable to get outside and walk. And because my body has stopped its free flow of movement, it seems that my mind has done the same. I have a sense of mental lethargy, as if my brain were stuck in a morass of sticky molasses. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>How, oh how, to get the creative juices flowing again?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yesterday, I decided to close my eyes and 'think' a walk. As I began my reverie, I was struck by the typical mid day silence, indeed abandonment, of the streets out here in West Oak Ridge. In the 1950s and 60s, the residential streets of Oak Ridge were alive with children, housewives, and cars: in short, Life. </p>
<p>Now, the old neighborhood streets are dead, the houses silent. Vitality has vanished, activity ceased. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so, as I mentally walked out West Outer Drive yesterday afternoon, I wrote these two little <em>cantos:</em> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(1)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Locked and shuttered frozen tombs</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Dozing through the afternoon</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The only voice the stricken hum</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Of heat pumps clicking off and on</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(2)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Stone gray dome of yawning sky</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A funeral wreath circles high</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">On wide black wings, six buzzards fly</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Waiting on Lord Death</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">They're always overhead</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">*************</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I was born in the Secret City in 1952, the crest of the baby boom. In the 1950s and 60s, Oak Ridge and the nation enjoyed an intoxicating sense of power and wealth.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> In Oak Ridge, our brash young fathers, scientists and engineers, were masters of the universe, the lords of life and death, alchemists and arbiters of global survival or destruction. Our mothers were fine, beautiful and modern, relieved of drudgery by a host of new appliances, happy homemakers eager to stay home, bake cookies and make babies. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Federal money flowed into our little town: Oak Ridgers were special and superior. We were prosperous. We were home owners. We were proudly, even arrogantly, different. We were splendid nuclear families. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">But life isn't lived backwards. We're not special or superior any more. Federal money is no longer unlimited, not all the fathers are high salaried scientists and engineers, and few women have the luxury of staying home to be full time homemakers and mothers. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Like the rest of 21st century America, people here are struggling just to get by. Over half of our school population is on free or reduced lunch; and more than half of Oak Ridgers are currently renters, not home owners. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Our little Secret City is being dragged, kicking and screaming, into a future of normalcy and belt tightening frugality. We're not what we were in the 1950s and 60s. We haven't quite figured out yet what we are now and what we want to be in the 21st century. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">More on this later. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948222014-09-19T03:35:07-04:002020-01-13T02:51:53-05:00Children are People Too
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b7886d8d0c26afb366592abca6c8c1dd08c03991/original/10629580-10152395357248581-6375132974599795096-n-cropped-cropped.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQ2eDI3NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="274" width="446" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I think most of us are over scheduled, over stimulated, starved for sleep and exhausted. And I'm not just talking about adults. I'm talking about our kids.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Yesterday, I was watching a Facebook discussion about homework. The parent of a 5th grader, whose child was coming home with 4 hours of homework (after a full, seven hour day of middle school) asked, 'How much homework is too much?</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Well, after a 7 hour work day (and that's what school is, a child's work day) I think four hours is too much. I don't know any adult who would not be exhausted and resentful at an 11 hour workday. So why would an adult impose those same draconian hours on a young child? </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">People need down time, to be left alone to rest, play, dream, think, crunch on a glass of slushy ice and loll around on the couch. And guess what, folks! </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000"> Children are people too. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> But children are generally pressured in this country to hurry up and succeed….that word,<span style="color:#ff0000"> succeed:</span> I hear it, read it, see it, all the time. Parents, teachers and politicians, they all want our children to succeed. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Which begs a deceptively simple question: What is success? </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I'm going to hazard a guess here. When parents, educators and politicians say they want kids to 'succeed', I think what they really mean is that they want kids to hurry up, strive and compete, get into a top college, secure a high paying job, make a lot of money, buy a big house, climb the corporate ladder and ultimately, make mommy and daddy proud.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">In other words, they think of education as an economic investment, a commercial product, something you buy now and sell later, at a profit. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And therein, I think, lies the fundamental problem and source of dissatisfaction with public education as it stands in this country today. Until we value education for its own sake, not because it will 'pay off' in the future, but simply because it expands the individual and brings joy to every heart, mind and soul it touches, I predict that our educational results are going to be lousy. Our children will feel brow beaten and exhausted; they will view school and learning in general as odious labor; and most sadly, they will miss out on the priceless joy of having a well educated mind. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I like to quote Mommy Jean. That's what we called my mother. Mommy Jean was a farm girl from Sugar Tree, Tennessee. She came to work in Oak Ridge in 1944. It was the era of the Manhattan Project and she was 19.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Mommy Jean was very, very smart, a wide reader and astute, but she didn't go to college; she only had a high school diploma. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">She did, however, want a good education for both of her girls. I can see her standing in the kitchen now, dish rag in hand, exhorting my sister and me, "Get yourselves a good education!" NO ONE can ever take that away from you!" </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And we did. Both Anita and I have post graduate degrees. I've never made a lot of money so I suppose a lot of people would say that I've not had a successful life. But in my own eyes, I am successful.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I love and am loved. I've raised two fine young men. I do creative work that I consider 'right effort' and I hope makes a positive difference in the world. I am well educated and, as I have said before, other than my family (and dog), nothing in life has given me more pleasure than the life of my own well educated mind. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">These are my opinions. Take what you like, leave the rest. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, I ask you to share Dogwood Daughter with someone else today. I have no advertising, just word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thanks. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948202014-09-16T15:10:59-04:002020-01-13T02:51:53-05:00In the Shadows, Under the Bed
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">Last night, my 20 year old son Walker humored his injured mother. He took me for a ride in his 1986 Chevrolet.</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> I can't drive right now. My right leg has been in an inflexible, over the knee brace ever since I broke it nearly two weeks ago.</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> I had surgery last Thursday, I'm mending well and honestly, my leg doesn't even hurt much any more. But I will say that being stuck in an inflexible and cumbersome leg brace is a physical and mental challenge. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">I can't drive so I'm pretty much stuck in the house. And though I've always been a homebody, being stuck at home is not the same as voluntarily choosing to stay home.</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> I'm feeling restless, confined and just a little bit stir crazy. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">Not only can I not drive myself, it's also impossible to maneuver myself into the passenger seat of most cars with my long leg extended. And that's where Myrtle comes in. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">'Myrtle' is what Walker calls his big old, two door, 1986 Monte Carlo that his dad bought him when he turned 16. Myrtle's exterior paint is weathered, thin and dull; her interior is ragged (the ceiling is literally hanging in disintegrating shreds of fabric and a fine dust sifts down on our heads as we ride.) She's temperamental and balky about cranking sometimes too, but with her big doors and spacious leg room, she is, for the time being, my only ride.</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> And I am grateful, both for Myrtle and for my patient son, Walker, who takes me for rides. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> Last night, as Walker steered Myrtle down Robertsville Road, I sat in the passenger seat and began talking about Mr. Darling. Mr. Darling was the cat Walker adopted when he was in nursery school, the cat we thought would live forever, but didn't. He died last spring. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">I was telling Walker that someone had contacted me yesterday about buying two more copies of Lily Cat's Very Good Day and had volunteered that her favorite song on the album was the one titled 'The Big Cat in the Sky.' "It has so many levels," she said. "It's not just for children and it's not just about a cat. It's about so much more." </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> I wrote and recorded 'The Big Cat in the Sky' the day after Mr. Darling died. I remember having the uncanny feeling that I was channeling Mr. Darling's voice as I worked on that song. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> "I hesitated to include that song on the album," I told Walker. "I thought it might be a little dark for a children's album. But I'm glad I did. It's one of my favorites and besides, I suspect most children are a whole lot more conscious of death than adults give them credit for." </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"> </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">Passing houses along Robertsville Road, watching the clouds move off to the East, I continued musing to Walker. "You know, I think most children are intimately acquainted with the dark side of life anyway. They know what skulks in the shadows and lurks under the bed, what waits for everyone in the dark. They know…it's Death."</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">"And old people, they're aware of death too," I continued. "Children and old people, but young people, like you,Walker…. and like I used to be... people in the prime of life, they never think about Death," I said. "They're oblivious." </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">And then we lapsed into companionable silence, as Walker steered Myrtle down Illinois Ave. and turned into the new Kroger's parking lot and searched for a spot close to the door. As we crossed the parking lot, he held my hand to steady me. In the lobby, he settled me into a motorized cart and for the next twenty or so minutes, he patiently followed me as I raced up and down the wide, clean grocery store aisles, softly whispering to myself, "Whee, whee!" </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">A note about my new CD, Lily Cat's Very Good Day: </span></p>
<div style="font-family: Times; font-size: 13px; background-color: #fdfdfd;"><em><span style="color:#000000">"I found the music on this CD sweet, comforting and transcendent. With her soothing and lovely voice, Martha Maria addresses a number of issues important to children: school anxieties, death, questions about God, and self-identity. I would recommend this CD to parents and children without question!"</span></em></div>
<div style="background-color: #fdfdfd;"><span style="color:#000000">--Rev. Sharon Waters, ordained Disciples of Christ pastor</span></div>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#d2b48c">You can listen to The Big Cat in the Sky (free, of course) at this link. Just click and go to track number 11. </span> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1233433379/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=e99708/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 470px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/album/lily-cats-very-good-day-15-track-album" mce_href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/album/lily-cats-very-good-day-15-track-album"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Lily Cat&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;#39;s Very Good Day - 15 Track Album by Lily Cat Music for Kids&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">As always, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter (and Lily Cat Music for Kids!) with someone today. As an indie artist, I have no advertising budget, but, lucky for me, I do have fans like YOU! Thank you. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#d2b48c">Be Well and Good Luck,</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#d2b48c">Martha Maria </span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948192014-09-09T22:53:20-04:002020-01-13T02:51:52-05:00The Letter Writer's Mirror
<p>I want to clarify something: Bob Fowler's wife has not ever tried to get a job with the Oak Ridge School System.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Over 30 years ago, a single woman, fresh out of university, did put in an application with the Oak Ridge School system along with nearly every other public school system within a hundred mile radius. That young woman was I, but I was several years away from being Bob Fowler's wife. I was't even dating him. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Yet, this morning, my husband received an anonymous e-mail (aren't all brave and forthright people anonymous?) which read, in part, "Bob, ever since your wife couldn't get a job in the OR school system, you've been trying to put it to the school system."</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Bob was mystified. "You've never tried to get a job with the Oak Ridge School System," he said to me. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>"Well, actually, I did, several years ago," I said. "But I wasn't your wife. I put in an application with Oak Ridge when I got out of grad school, but that was over 30 years ago. I applied anywhere and everywhere within a hundred mile radius," I said. "Thankfully, I was hired by Knox County and never looked back." </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That little tidbit of misinformation about Bob Fowler's wife was actually the nicest thing the anonymous letter writer had to say. The rest of the letter was vile, filled with evil gossip about the mother of a little girl who was run over and killed by an Oak Ridge School Bus a few years back.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The mother of that deceased child is currently running for a seat on the Oak Ridge School Board. Obviously, the letter writer 1) feels threatened by that woman's candidacy and 2) probably has or knows someone with access to Oak Ridge School records going back many, many years. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Reading the letter, I felt simultaneous revulsion and pity. The letter writer strikes me as being both repulsive and pathetic.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Like all letters, the letter is the mirror of its author and it's not a pretty picture. It is the portrait of an evil, secretive, unhappy and cowardly soul, for only cowards send anonymous letters. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>As I've opined before, the internet is a glass house. People tend to forget that. But it would be well to remember that there is no such thing as an anonymous e-mail. Every e-mail address is traceable. It takes a little doing sometimes, but it's do-able. I found that out this morning. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948182014-09-08T02:04:32-04:002020-01-13T02:51:52-05:00Ten Books
<p>Yesterday, I was idly scrolling through my Facebook home page when I happened upon an interesting post. A woman I know, who is a well known and widely published author herself, had been asked to list her ten all time favorite books and authors. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I was surprised that not many of my favorites were on her list. Oh well, different strokes for different folks, as they say. But reading her list set me to thinking about my own list. Limited to no more than ten, who and what would I choose? </p>
<p>In no particular order, I give you my ten: </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>1) Isaac Bashevis Singer, <span style="text-decoration:underline">A Day of Pleasure</span>. Also, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Satan in Goray</span>, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Shosha</span>, T<span style="text-decoration:underline">he Magician of Lublin</span> and just about every other story Singer wrote about the lives of the Eastern European Jews before WWII. His later stories, set in New York, have never interested me as much. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>2) Loren Eiseley, whose books I still carry around as if they were holy writ. Perhaps they are. If I could only take one book with me to a deserted island, it would be <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Invisible Pyramid</span>, although my first encounter with Eiseley was at age 18 when my father mailed me a copy of <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Night Country</span>. Eiseley's memoir, <span style="text-decoration:underline">All the Strange Hours</span>, is probably my favorite memoir. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>3) Miguel de Cervantes, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Don Quijote de la Mancha</span>. Don Quijote was my father's favorite book. It took me a while to understand the depth of Don Quijote. When I was young, I could not see the tragic yet heroic sense of life beneath the comic buffoonery of the old knight. But in my mid twenties, I dipped into Don Quijote again and the tragedy of Don Quijote became, for me, the tragedy of every man. The fictional character of Don Quijote was and still is more real to me than many people I've actually known in the flesh. And of course, the wisdom of the quotes and proverbs of Don Quijote are as well known in Spanish as are Shakespeare's in English. Like Shakespeare, Cervantes had an intimate understanding of the human heart. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>4) Charles Frazier, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Cold Mountain</span>. I could read <span style="text-decoration:underline">Cold Mountain</span> over and over (and I have!) for the beauty of the language. Set in Western Carolina, which is geographically and culturally much the same as my native East Tennessee, the imagery and language of <span style="text-decoration:underline">Cold Mountain</span> delight me. And the richly drawn characters, depicting humanity in its entire depraved and noble panoply, are both particular and universal. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>5) William Faulkner, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Light in August</span>. I love the unrestrained stream of consciousness in this book, and Faulkner is, I think, the quintessential southern writer. His observations on the false moral rectitude of a certain class of white southerners and the ugly legacy of slavery in the American South is unparalleled. (By the way, you can listen to the very brief speech William Faulkner gave upon his acceptance of the Nobel Prize for Literature at this link: https://soundcloud.com/rahrens87/william-faulkner-nobel-prize-1</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>6. Hans Christian Andersen, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Andersen's Fairy Tales.</span> An old copy of Andersen's Fairy Tales was my first favorite book. I read those stories over and over, curled up in the rocking chair downstairs. My favorites were The Little Mermaid and The Swans. The book had been my mother's when she was a child, the only book she owned, a gift inscribed with Merry Christmas in the 1920s. The essential quality in all of the Andersen stories is, I think, a tender, sympathetic heart for the suffering of others. In that sense, Andersen's stories are Biblical. A little while back, I wrote a set of piano pieces for children based on the stories of Hans Christian Andersen. You'll find them on The Listening Room page of my other website, <a href="http://www.lilycatmusicforkids.com" data-imported="1">Lily Cat Music for Kids</a>. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>7. And speaking of Biblical, I would have to include the King James version of the <span style="text-decoration:underline">Gospel of Luke</span>, the physician who relates the story of Jesus and his disciples in such moving and poetic, yet plain spoken, language. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>8. Gabriel Garcia Marquez!!!! I think I read <span style="text-decoration:underline">One Hundred Years of Solitude</span> in 1972 or 73. I read it straight through in one weekend, stretched on the couch, laughing uproariously at times. Marquez's gift is to make the fabulous and absurd apparent in the ordinary. Like Singer's <span style="text-decoration:underline">A Day of Pleasure</span>, and Eiseley's <span style="text-decoration:underline">All the Strange Hours</span>, Marquez' autobiography, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Living to Tell the Tale</span>, is a revealing, beautifully written memoir of a keen observer (Marquez was a journalist before taking up the novel.) But my all time favorite among so many favorites written by Marquez is his masterpiece <span style="text-decoration:underline">The General in his Labyrinth. </span> Like Beethoven's 9th symphony, it is the product of a titan working at the height of his powers. <br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>9. Stephen King's <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Stand.</span> I read <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Stand</span> one summer in the 1980s when I lived alone in a hot apartment on Sutherland Avenue in Knoxville. I still associate that book with open windows, curtains wafting in a hot breeze and the sound of traffic and lawn mowers. I'm not really into horror-fantasy anymore (old age, I suspect) but I've always thought that Stephen King is the unparalleled master of the genre. <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Stand</span> is about as good as horror-fantasy gets. And honestly, I'm not so sure that the premise of the plot, a pandemic that kills off ninety nine percent of the human population, isn't prophecy instead of fantasy. As our deluded sense of invincibility escalates, I wonder if we won't finally be humbled as a species by a microbe (ebola?) </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>10. Kurt Vonnegut, <span style="text-decoration:underline">Cat's Cradle</span> and <span style="text-decoration:underline">Slaughterhouse Five</span>. Cat's Cradle is essentially about scientific hubris. There was (and is) a lot of that in the little Secret City where I grew up, Oak Ridge, Tennessee, a city founded on and sustained by the manufacture of nuclear weapons. Slaughterhouse Five (The Children's Crusade) is a an anti war polemic which should have been required reading for every chicken hawk in the Bush/Cheney administration who thoughtlessly thrust the children of others into harm's way for what? Hell! I still don't know. "And so it goes." </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I just hung up the phone from talking with my friend, Barbara, who tells me she's been seeing a lot of 'Ten Best' lists on Facebook lately. Oh well, as usual, I'm late to the party. But so far, I've only seen one book list and besides, not everyone is on Facebook. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I'd love to hear about other people's favorite authors. If you have some recommendations, I hope you'll share them in the comments section below. I just turned the blog comments back on today in hopes that the spammers will have gotten discouraged and gone away. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Note to Spammers: NO, I do NOT today or ever want to buy any Louis Vuitton or Nike knock offs! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter. I'm an indie artist and dependent on kind folks like you. Thank you! </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948172014-09-06T11:54:35-04:002020-01-13T02:51:52-05:00Lazarus
<p>I will repeat, I'm a wuss, not brave, never have been. Afraid of pain, afraid of death, afraid of life…Afraid. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I have a friend named Barbara who is brave. One time, we were talking, I forget about what. Probably about getting lost, because I've had a life long fear of getting lost that keeps me from going a lot of places, at least alone. I remember asking Barbara, "Were you scared?" She practically guffawed as she replied, "Martha, I've never been scared in my whole life!" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Wow," I thought, "I can't imagine. What does that feel like? I've never not been scared."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My mother was a scaredy cat too. She also had a fear of going places alone, of getting lost, and a whole host of other fears that I knew about and many more that I'll probably never figure out. I suppose fear is why she drank. Maybe alcohol gave her a little courage, or if not courage, at least numbed her fear a bit. I suspect alcohol is the most commonly used form of anesthesia in the world.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And speaking of anesthesia, I will have to be put under deep anesthesia next Thursday for my leg surgery. I was hoping for something like 'twilight sleep' but the surgeon said 'no,' it's going to have to be done under deep anesthesia. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I think of anesthesia as a 'little death,' as a temporary cessation of being. Just the thought of anesthesia scares me to death.</p>
<p> That expression, 'SCARED TO DEATH,' is such a revealing phrase, don't you think? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Isaac Bashevis Singer wrote that it is the fear of death that underlies every other fear man has. He tells the story of a rabbi who dies only to be told by the Angel of Death that his was a case of mistaken identity, that it actually wasn't his time to die and he's going to have to go back into the world and do a little more living. </p>
<p>The poor old rabbi despairs at the news. He doesn't want to go back. He's so happy at being relieved from Life's omnipresent fear of death that he doesn't want to ever have to go back and live with that fear again. </p>
<p>I suppose that from the point of view of Isaac Bashevis Singer, we are all, on some level, 'scared to death.' Some of us are able to acknowledge that fear and some are not, not even to ourselves. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And what was it that started me off on this particular train of thought this morning? It was something I found jotted in the margin of a book I just picked up, a note in my own handwriting, a scribbled thought from I know not when: </p>
<p>"The story of Lazarus is the story of resurrection, the calling forth of the organizing principle of Life, the animating Spirit which enlivens what would otherwise be no more than micro particles of elements as are present in rocks and dust."</p>
<p>May we all be enlivened and find resurrection, in this world or the next. Amen. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=4193088742/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=ffffff/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/swimming-toward-the-light-new-classical-piano" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/swimming-toward-the-light-new-classical-piano"&amp;amp;amp;gt;Swimming Toward the Light (New Classical Piano) by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Please share Dogwood Daughter with someone today. Thank you. </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948162014-09-06T03:31:46-04:002020-01-13T02:51:52-05:00Day 3-Hydrocodone, Hunger and Ferris Wheels
<p>My appetite has returned, at least for ginger snaps and chocolate. I relented and took the hydrocodone late yesterday afternoon and immediately fell into deep sleep. I took it again around 10:30 and gratefully slept through the night.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I feel better this morning. The pain is not nearly as intense, the swelling and fever in the leg have diminished and I only have a slight drug hang over. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I'm also ravenous. Ravenous for chocolate, ginger snaps, roasted pecans and black coffee.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Bob says I'm sure to be getting a little stir crazy by tomorrow and he'll take me to Krogers where I can ride around in one of those little motorized shopping carts. "Oh boy," I said. "That'll be better than a ferris wheel!"</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Now I'm thinking about the old ferris wheel that used to be in the downtown shopping center when I was a little girl in the 1950s. Not only a ferris wheel, but a 'Merry Mixer' and Merry-Go-Round too. Our little downtown was a hopping place back then. Now, like so much of Oak Ridge, it's shuttered and dead.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b91b4645a62c486357d3bb026be6b2d54a41e662/original/6892348212-ef9d028482-m.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjQweDE4NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="184" width="240" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Downtown Shopping Center, Oak Ridge, 1960s</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p>I'm tentatively scheduled for surgery next Thursday. The surgeon gave me a good prognosis: a likely 20% loss of movement in the leg and a 100% chance of developing post traumatic arthritis. Sort of what I expected. I know from past experience that although the body desperately wants to get well, it cannot ever entirely forget an insult or injury.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. Folks like you are my only advertising. Thank you. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck! (and be careful!) </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948152014-09-05T04:30:56-04:002020-01-13T02:51:52-05:00Queasy-Day 2
<p>Day Two, after the fall:</p>
<p>This is the kind of pain that makes me queasy. I've been slightly sick to my stomach for hours, though I'm paradoxically hungry. Yet, nothing looks appetizing. </p>
<p>I had a bad night. It got better after I took some valium. Valium takes some of my anxiety away. I'm a wuss, not brave, never have been. I've never been care free either. Worse case scenarios typically plague my pessimistic mind. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Right now, I'm wondering if my leg will ever be the same? How am I going to manage getting up and down the steps in this split level house? What if my leg buckles and refuses to support me for the rest of my life? What if I get an infection from the surgery and die?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My dad died of a hospital infection. He did have heart failure, but heart failure was not what killed him. He died from massive infection. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> Even as he lay on a bed of ice in the critical care unit, his fever soared to 105. He was on a ventilator. His brother, who was a retired physician, told my sister and me that either the tracheotomy tube or the ventilator was most certainly dirty when they put them in and that was what killed Daddy. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My father, who was so self confident and even arrogant at work and home, was like an obedient, unquestioning lamb in the presence of doctors. Though he was still able to enjoy a glass of wine and follow the stock market in his hospital room, when the doctor came in and told him that his blood gases did not look good, Daddy hid his face in his pillow. </p>
<p>"We might as well take you downstairs now," the doctor said. "Take you downstairs" was the doctor's euphemism for a tracheotomy, ostensibly to help Daddy breathe. </p>
<p> It was Saturday morning.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mother called to tell Anita and me. Before I left my house, I called Daddy's brothers in Texas and told them it was time to come. Some how, I knew it was the end. Mother and Anita didn't think so. But I knew. </p>
<p>When I got to Oak Ridge, Daddy was in the critical care unit and could only have one visitor at a time. When I went in to see him, he was alert and talking a little. I think I told him that I loved him. I think he said it back. We were never ones to say that easily. The nurse told me my fifteen minutes was up and I left. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the waiting room, Mother and Anita were talking to my mother's Cumberland Presbyterian minister. I think his name was Roy Sampson, but I can't remember for sure. Mother was a Presbyterian, Daddy a Catholic.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> "I'm going to call the priest now, I said." "NO!" Mother and Anita both chorused. "It's not time yet. That will only scare Daddy." But I insisted and mother's minister backed me up.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I called the parish house from the wall phone and got Father Michael. Father Michael was just about to perform a wedding and could not come, But Father John was available. Father John was not a pastor, but rather an accountant, a priest that traveled from parish to parish sorting out the financial records. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Father John arrived and went in to give Daddy absolution and administer the last rites. When he came out, he told us that Daddy had been very agitated at first, but as soon as he had put the tiniest crumb of the host on his tongue, he had immediately settled and seemed at peace. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Within five minutes, the doctor came out and said that Daddy was struggling to breathe and had requested to be put on a ventilator. "NO!," Mother said. "He doesn't want any kind of life support." But again, I interjected, "If he is asking for a ventilator, he wants it." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so, that was the beginning of the end. Some improperly sterilized implement introduced a lethal pathogen into his already frail body. As he lay sedated, he got very, very sick. </p>
<p>Technically, Daddy's official time of death was not until two days later but I knew he was gone long before. The empty shell which lay on a bed of ice was no more than a relic, a lifeless mannequin implanted with with an electronic pacemaker that continued to jolt his heart muscle, forcing it to beat spasmodically, even after the resident spirit had departed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Euthanasia is not permitted in this country, it is illegal. But it is practiced. As Daddy's pace maker continued to discharge electrical commands, his heart feebly obeyed. It required several large doses of morphine for his heart to finally flat line. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As his laborious death unfolded, I had a sense of unreality. Daddy's brothers stood at the end of his bed watching. Anita, Mother, and I were by his side. Catherine too. Perhaps David Abraham. I can't remember. I do remember that I cried, but with a sense of obligatory detachment, almost as if I were a spectator. And I knew that Daddy was a spectator too. I could feel his spirit hovering above all of us, watching from the corner of the ceiling.</p>
<p>Both birth and death are perilous, painful labor. The body is a long suffering, hard working, faithful vessel and loyal servant, resilient yet fragile, too often taken for granted and neglectfully used. </p>
<p>I am queasy with pain on Day 2 of leg injury. But perhaps this injury is a gift, an enforced time of reflection, acceptance and making peace with the moment when my heart too shall inevitably flat line. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948142014-09-04T10:42:39-04:002020-01-13T02:51:52-05:00A Wicked Sense of Humor
<p>I'm sitting in bed, propped on pillows, surrounded by books, computer, iPad, coffee and pain pills. My right leg is immobilized and I'm putting off going to the bathroom for as long as possible. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>This morning, as I was taking my usual early morning walk around the circle, I stepped on an acorn, my stupid shoe (Dansko, with unyielding soles) rolled sideways and I fell down, splat, on the rock hard pavement. I knew as soon as I hit that my knee cap was broken, completely split in two. I could feel the deep split through my skin and leggings.</p>
<p>And oh, the universe does have such a wicked sense of humor! As I was walking, I was mentally composing this little poem:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Bedtime Prayer</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">There will surely come a time</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">When it's easier to die </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Than to straggle through the world</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And traipse among the living</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">But please, Lord, not tonight</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">May I rise with morning light</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To straggle on again</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And traipse a litle more</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Let me traipse among the living</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align:center">I'm not ready for the ending</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> Amen </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">My distracted traipsing came to a painful and sudden end. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p>When I fell, I was by myself. I yelled and yelled for help, but no one heard me. I'm not sure how, other than sheer force of will, I dragged myself to the top of our driveway where I was relieved to see that Walker's car was still parked next to the house. Thank God he hadn't left yet! He heard me yelling and came to my rescue. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Even after Bob and I got home from our long morning at Park West Hospital, the universe was not yet through with me. There was one more wickedly sly jab flashing on my telephone, a recorded message targeting the elderly, warning them of the dangers of falling with a sales pitch for one of those "I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up" gizmos you wear around your neck.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> I deleted that message. Maybe I should not have. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">But I'll tell you this: I won't ever walk alone again without taking a cell phone with me! And I'm throwing those stupid Dansko shoes away!</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I have a feeling I won't be doing much traipsing for a while. Hell, I can't even drive. What, oh what shall I do with my immobilized self? I'm waiting for another message from the universe.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p>I have an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon tomorrow. The emergency room doctor assured me that there was no recourse other than surgery. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As always, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter with someone today. Word of mouth is my only advertising. Thanks!</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948132014-09-03T13:58:12-04:002020-01-13T02:51:52-05:00Full Circle
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=2680521279/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=4ec5ec/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/full-circle-solo-piano" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/full-circle-solo-piano"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Full Circle (Solo Piano) by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I wrote this little piece after getting in touch with an old friend from Atlanta. I had not seen or talked to him in nearly 30 years. I'm not sure why, but a line from T.S. Eliot's <em>The Waste Land</em> kept running through my head after Bobby and I talked.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><strong>'We shall not cease from exploration, and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."</strong></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The exploration of self, life, and one's rightful place in it, is arduous and slow for some of us. It was for me. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My old friend and I were both troubled young adults. I'm happy to report, however, that we both ended up in a good place, happy, well adjusted and fulfilled. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I wish I had not wasted so much time unfulfilled, trying to be what I was not. And how many others, I wonder, do the same? </p>
<p>Why must we be our own harshest critics? </p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948122014-08-27T11:43:48-04:002020-01-13T02:51:51-05:00The Internet- The Ultimate Glass Tomb
<p>Last Sunday, the first page story of the New York Times Week in Review section was an article titled <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/08/24/sunday-review/dealing-with-digital-cruelty.html" data-imported="1">'Dealing With Digital Cruelty" by Stephanie Rosenbloom.</a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>My take away from the article was 1) anonymity and faceless distance on the web does encourage our worst behaviors and 2) there are smart ways to deal with unpleasant web encounters and even learn something about ourselves in the process.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, the very next day, I and a few others, had just such an occasion to learn the same lessons directly in a little Facebook group to which I belong. Here's what happened.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Facebook group where this happened is devoted to the discussion of local city council and school politics. On Monday, a member of the group posted a link to the N.Y. Times article about digital cruelty, with her suggestion that members read it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A little background about our city: the Secret City enjoyed nearly unlimited federal largesse during the heyday of the Cold War when atomic bombs were big business out at the plants. But, since the close of the Cold War and the economic collapse of 2008, federal funding to our little city has declined. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Additionally, the Pellissippi Parkway between Knoxville and Oak Ridge has made it just as quick for workers to drive to the federal reservation from Knoxville as from Oak Ridge. Consequently, the majority of new federal contractor workers choose to live in Knoxville, not Oak Ridge. That has resulted in major demographic shifts. Our population now has an unusually high number of elderly retirees. Over fifty percent of our population as a whole is now classified as 'economically disadvantaged.' So, of course, sales tax revenues have been drying up too. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In short, there has been and continues to be considerable economic and social upheaval in our little Secret City. We are in the midst of major changes and uncomfortably trying to redefine ourselves as a community. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Change is always hard and there is 'spirited debate' all around, not only across kitchen tables, at water coolers and in city and school meeting rooms, but on line as well. For better or worse, social media has become, for a significant number of people, the de facto public forum. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Our little Facebook group thankfully does not permit members to hide their identities behind web monikers. For that, we can thank the forethought of our founder who must have known the toxicity of anonymity. So honestly, I have never seen any exchanges in the group which I think qualify as 'digital cruelty.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But there is, of course, pointed commentary which calls elected officials and city/school employees to account for both policy decisions and spending. There has been considerable expose of data which makes a certain segment angry and defensive. Finally, there is the usual give and take of good people, some of whom sincerely see black where others see white. We will all, I suppose, eventually have to make concessions to arrive at the gray area of consensus. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But isn't that what a public forum is supposed to do? When has democracy ever been tidy? I went to school in Spain under the Fascist rule of Franco. As they say, the trains ran on time and the country was quite tidy, but tidiness was (and still is by some) much over rated. I much prefer the messy give and take of democracy. But I digress.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Shortly after that link to the New York Times article was posted in our little group, some members began recalling what they perceived as 'digital cruelty' in other internet venues over the years by the self same person who had posted the N.Y. Times article. One member even posted a screen shot of something that person had written which dated all the way back to 2007! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"Wow," I thought, "all the way back to 2007! Amazing." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I read the screen shot, I could not help but recall that old admonition, "People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones." The world wide web, it seems, is the ultimate glass house.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then, I recalled the Facebook pages of friends who are now dead. Their photographs, timelines and scattered commentary still remain, hanging in Facebook cyber space. The name of one woman who has been dead for several months still eerily appears in the column of persons available to Facebook chat on line. Spooky, right?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, I decided to check out my own old FB page, MarMelodian. I haven't recorded as MarMelodian since 2011 and I tried to 'kill' that FB page a long time ago, but as of Saturday, there it was, still hanging out in cyber no man's land. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The world wide web is the new immortality. I wonder how many of us would have been lured into it had we known that there was no going back, for it is not only a glass house in the present, but seemingly, a glass tomb for all comers, a glass tomb which will last forever and ever, in perpetuity, whether we like it or not. </p>
<p>So please, don't throw any stones! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just as an aside, I make no judgement about the woman who posted the article. I don't read her blog and know little about her. But I thank her for the lesson she provided to me and probably several others about the internet this weekend. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>By the way, I checked my website stats this morning and saw that in August, I've averaged 227 daily visitors to Dogwood Daughter. I don't know who most of you are (though i wish I did!), but I appreciate every one of you. As usual, if you find anything here that you like, I ask you to please share my little website with someone else. </p>
<p>You are my only advertising. Thanks!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948112014-08-17T02:31:49-04:002020-01-13T11:08:29-05:00An Act of Kindness - Guest Blog from Melanie Reynolds Heiberg
<p style="margin: 0px 0px 6px; line-height: 19px;"><span style="color:#00ff00">This is a guest blog from my Facebook friend Melanie Reynolds Heiberg. I read her story and asked her if I could publish it as a guest blog on Dogwood Daughter. Melanie graciously said 'yes.' Thanks, Melanie, both for the inspiring example and for permitting me to share it here. </span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px 0px 6px; color: #141823; line-height: 19px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">I was at the General Dollar a few days ago, standing in line behind a mom and her teenage son. She was buying what looked like a box of cereal, 2 cans of soup and some light bulbs. She scanned her debit card and it kept on denying it. I felt bad as I am sure many of us have run low before pay day and know what that's like. She looked embarrassed and tried searching for another form of payment in her wallet. After a moment she looked up at her teenage son and told him "sorry we just can't get it".</span></p>
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<p style="margin: 6px 0px; color: #141823; line-height: 19px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">I just so happened to have found money I had hidden in my drawer the day before and not a clue as to why I had done it. I asked the cashier how much it was and I said I would pay. The look on the mom's face was one of great surprise. I told her to just pay it forward and that I know it will come back to me as it always does. She was very thankful and promised to do just that.</span></p>
<p style="margin: 6px 0px; color: #141823; line-height: 19px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 6px 0px; color: #141823; line-height: 19px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 6px 0px 0px; display: inline; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">I had the distinct feeling that what was in that bag was all her son would be eating that night and in the morning. There must be some kind of Cosmic Draw with me and the General Dollar! <em> </em></span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948102014-08-14T10:32:34-04:002020-01-13T11:08:28-05:00The Short, Tragic Life of an Elephant Named Twinkles
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<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/269b2adaec46c2d016ef9f6526c87187308e5947/original/unknown1.jpeg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjczeDE4NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="185" width="273" /></p>
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<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#d2b48c">I found this photograph on line. This is Twinkles, in 1984, I suppose just months before she died. </span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">The improbably named Twinkles stood alone, a prisoner enclosed on a barren knoll, not unlike the Biblical Golgotha. Her massive legs and trunk were crusted over with dusty red clay and she swayed. She swayed endlessly from side to side, her big, heavy lidded eyes with those stiff lashes seemingly empty, blank. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">I stood outside the fence and watched her. I think I probably swayed a little bit too, in sympathy. I identified with her rhythmic rocking. Sometimes I clinched my arms tightly around my own torso and like Twinkles, rocked in misery. I rocked myself seated on the twin bed in the hot attic room I rented in Buckhead. I recognized, in Twinkles, a kindred spirit: we were both lonely; we were both depressed. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">I spoke to her softly, crooning. "You are just soooo beautiful. So very beautiful. I'm sorry you're sad. I wish I could help." </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">She moved a little closer to the fence, still swaying. "I can tell, you are such a good, good girl," I continued. "Poor baby. Why don't they at least give you something to play with? Like maybe some railroad ties? I bet you could pick them up and move them around." </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">But there was nothing in her bleak little landscape, no trees or toys, just dust and a few sparse tufts of coarse, weedy grass. I watched as she continued swaying. Minutes slowly ticked by. Her days must be endlessly long and lonely, I thought. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">I probably stayed with Twinkles about half an hour before I wandered away from her enclosure to go have a look at some of the other animals in the zoo, but it was hopeless. I could not make myself muster any interest in tigers, monkeys, or prairie dogs. My mind kept straying back to Twinkles. I sensed that she and I were animal/human soul mates. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">More than anything, I wanted to help her, but I felt helpless. All I knew to do was to go back and try to convey some sympathy and affection to her with my presence and voice. I wanted to comfort her and I hoped that she would understand.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">I stayed with her until closing time. Other people came and went and I watched them as they watched her. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">It was Sunday and the zoo closed at six p.m. At a quarter 'til six, a voice came on the loudspeaker and asked visitors to start making their way toward the exit. I reluctantly said goodbye to Twinkles and followed the rest of the crowd out. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">The next morning, I went back to my menial and meaningless job at the Atlanta Convention and Visitors Bureau where I worked on publications for Bureau members. The Atlanta Zoo was, of course, one of our biggest dues paying members and advertisers. Their ads in our directories were always full page, glossy splashes with photographs of smiling children and sleek, contented looking animals. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">It was perhaps a year or so later when I heard the sad news: Twinkles was dead. The newscaster said that she had only been twelve years old, not much more than an adolescent in elephant years. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">She had developed some kind of malady with her feet and was supposed to have been sent to a farm in Alpharetta to rest and recover, but for unknown reasons, the zoo didn't send her there. Instead, they sold her off to some third rate little circus in North Carolina where she soon died under mysterious circumstances.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">As it turned out, Twinkles was not the only animal associated with the Atlanta Zoo to die under suspicious circumstances in the early 1980s. In fact, she was one of nine. The Humane Society lodged a formal complaint and the Atlanta Zoo was cited as one of the ten worst zoos in the country. With the publicity surrounding Twinkle's sale and death, the zoo was very nearly shut down.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">It did not shut down however, and to its credit, it reinvented itself and made a significant turnaround. Today, it is said to be one of the better zoos in the U.S.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">Twinkle's death occurred in 1984. That was 30 years ago. And yet, this morning, while I walked alone, I found myself thinking about her again. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;"> I don't know why, but Twinkles still haunts me. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0px;">Martha Maria </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948072014-08-11T08:18:02-04:002020-01-13T02:51:50-05:00Blue Night
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><span style="color:#ccffff">I like cemeteries. I like the quiet and sense of being removed from the rest of the mad world. I enjoy the company of the dead.</span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><span style="color:#ccffff">There are a lot cemeteries around here, over 90 family plots dotting the Secret City and the federal reservation, all predating WWII and the forced removal of families that inhabited these secluded valleys, before their farms and homes were condemned by the federal government in 1942 to make way for the Manhattan Project. </span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><span style="color:#ccffff">When I visit the old cemeteries, I feel sad in the presence of the many graves of infants. It seems that more infants died than survived. I'm haunted by graves of babies, children carried and born by mountain women year after year, only to die in their mothers' arms. </span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><span style="color:#ccffff">In the Rather Family cemetery on the federal reservation there is such a row of tiny graves, brothers and sisters that did not survive. </span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><span style="color:#ff0000"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/79b2f0bf5134be1c4e6d8f3946b306c6fd05549f/original/dscn2663.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/10d04d54e1b58ab6b6931c28b42a4cd8342a6c51/original/dscn2666.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/4acb6c3ce2a840ed31da2a6e519d8a1a55dfd58c/original/dscn2683.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTk5eDQ0OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="449" width="599" /></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><br><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/56507fbcfd0c87216d5619876e1c124ae1792547/original/dscn2667.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTk5eDQ0OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="449" style="border: 0px initial initial;" width="599" /></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8f22bb63b7ad2da1ce1a3828040b8c8b415efec8/original/dscn2672.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></p>
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<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/4c7c216ab59b1bdd4b3481905ffb3e120d86a081/original/dscn2684.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTk5eDQ0OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="449" width="599" /></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"> </p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="color:#ccffff">Sometimes I find myself pondering the lives of all those mothers of dead babies that lie sleeping in the old mountain cemeteries. I wonder how their poor, bereaved mothers were</span><span style="color:#ccffff"> able to hang on to their sanity. Those hard working farm women must have been so worn down by grief and physical exhaustion.</span></span></p>
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<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ff0000"><span style="color:#ccffff">Blessedly, I have been spared the sorrow they must have felt as their babies were buried one by one, yet it was in trying to imagine their sorrow that I wrote this poem. </span></span></p>
<div><span style="color:#ff0000"><br></span></div>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><br></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">Blue Night </span></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">Tiny birds flit through the slits of her dreams</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">Circling her pallet on pale tattered wings</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 29px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">Like dry rustling shadows, they bloom from her head</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">And whisper of babies born shriveled and dead</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 29px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">She dreams of wee fingers on wee perfect hands</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">Of blue rosebud lips that never drew breath</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 29px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">She dreams of wet rain and shifts 'neath her quilt</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">Her swollen breasts weeping with blue drops of milk</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">As silver blue moonlight falls on gray walls</span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">The small cabin shudders, a whippoorwill calls</span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">'Til bright Venus sails on clouds of faint dawn </span></span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0">And a doe with white tail gently nuzzles her fawn </span></span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; font-size: 24px; line-height: normal; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><span style="color:#c0c0c0"><br></span></span></p>
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<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff">In closing, I do want to announce that I'm coming out with a new Christmas album for the coming holiday season, a compilation primarily of southern Appalachian folk carols. It's in Nashville being mastered right now. This Christmas album is the fulfillment of a project I've dreamed about for a few years now. It's finally done and I am very, very pleased with the results! </span></p>
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<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff">As always, if you find anything here that makes your heart sing, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter with someone else. I have no advertising except for you and I thank YOU for coming. </span></p>
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<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Be Well and Good Luck,</span></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Martha Maria </span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948092014-08-08T12:39:31-04:002020-01-13T11:08:27-05:00Mirror, Mirror On the Wall
<p>I just came back from my weekly shopping trip to Krogers. Wednesday is Senior Discount Day, 5% off total puchase for seniors aged 60 and over. With our new Super Krogers in Oak Ridge, going to Krogers is not just a simple trip to the grocery store anymore either, but rather, an expedition to Wonderland, where every kind of consumer good imaginable is on colorful and seductive display.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> Ever since it opened on June 29th, I've found myself wandering around Super Krogers in a stupor, idly looking at and fingering this and that: margarita glasses, shower curtains, socks, drink dispensers, ugly bric-a-brac, office supplies, etc. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so today, while I was mindlessly exploring the women's apparel department, I had an unexpected encounter. As I came around a corner, I came face to face with a little bitty silver haired woman wearing purple leggings, black patent leather clogs, a tee shirt emblazoned with a green fluorescent skull, and insanely long, green rhinestone earrings. My first fleeting impression was, "Hmmm, she looks kind of interesting. I wonder who she is." </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">But as her movements mirrored mine, I did a double take. "Oh my God," I thought. "THAT'S ME!" Then I started laughing. I was looking at my own reflection in a floor to ceiling mirror. And I want to tell you, I felt really happy at that moment. Why?</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Because it was a joy to discover that I finally liked my own reflection! It's about time. It only took me about 62 years.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I was a fat and asthmatic little girl. Being the fattest girl at Elm Grove Elementary School worried me considerably. "Mother," I would ask, "Am I as fat as Andrea?" Mother would look me up and down appraisingly and then say, "Yes."</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">In the 5th grade, I took a sudden growth spurt and became skinny, but I also got pimply and my face seemed to grow ahead of the rest of me, not in an attractive way either. My mother fretted over my 'horse face' and took me to Dr. Mills. And my sister, Anita, ever the wit, used to cat call, "Don't trip on your face" as I retreated up the steps. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I remember one painful afternoon with my mother when I was 12. We were in her bedroom alone. I was trying on a new dress. It was deep, wine colored cotton with white piping around the neck and three quarter length sleeves. I stood in front of her full length mirror while Mother stood next to the bed, appraising my appearance. "Oh Martha," she finally said, "You're so ugly I'm worried about you." </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Like every teen aged girl, I spent hours gazing at myself in the mirror, trying to divine what other people saw when they looked at me. Standing sideways: are my breasts big enough? Sucking my belly in: do I look fat? Dabbing Clearasil on my pimples: do I look like a pizza face? Parting and combing my hair this way and that: will anyone ever love me?</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I never heard my mother say those three little words, "I love you." Not until after my father died. And she only said them then because I said them first. I was 46. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">But Mother found it easy to say, "You are so despisable." Not despicable, with a 'C' mind you, but in her Sugar Tree dialect, 'despisable' with a long 'z' sound. She said it often, though she didn't 'say' it so much as spit it out, as if something nasty were on her tongue. I suppose it was nasty. 'Bitter hatred' is, after all, a cliched phrase in the English language. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Honestly, this blog has taken an unexpected direction. I don't like 'pity parties' as my mother disparagingly called all complaints and lament. Nor do I like whiners. But this most certainly is not a lament. No, no, no. On the contrary, it's a celebration!</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">For at age 62, after a lifetime of dieting, dying my hair, applying make up with a trowel, and on a gut level feeling repulsive and apologetic for the face and body that were so ugly they worried my mother, I'm happy to report that today, I liked the looks of that silver haired little woman in the mirror. I was drawn to her. She looked like my kind of person, someone I might even like to be friends with. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As a post script to all of this, I would tell my readers that my mother was not well. She was deeply unhappy and it was her talent to make others unhappy. And she didn't despise me all of the time. Sometimes I think she loved me, at least a little bit. I did love her and I still do. I hope she finally found some happiness on the other side. R.I.P. Mother. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946522014-07-14T04:50:44-04:002020-01-13T11:07:11-05:00Remembering Inspirational Teachers
<p style="text-align: center;"> 1.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Old as my own mother</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">There is much I would remember</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">But elusive memories fade</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">As my inner lamp glows dimmer</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> 2.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">All the pyrrhic dancers</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">That flicker on cave walls</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Distract the slaves in chains</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Until the dance dissolves</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In frenzied dying blazes</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Before the curtain falls</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've always thought of the summer of 1967 as my magical summer. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That was the summer I met two transformative people in my life, my husband, Bob Fowler, and my teacher, Mr. Countess. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My father was not one to permit intellectual idleness. Just because school was out for the summer never meant a vacation from learning. There were books to read and report on to my dad; mathematical games and card tricks to be mastered and then reinvented using different numbers of cards; and of course, always, more piano practice.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But 1967 was different. Instead of being schooled and tasked by Daddy at home, he sent me to summer school at our local high school. In my home town, junior high included 7th through 9th grades, so summer 1967 immediately preceeded my high school entrance. In retrospect, I suppose Daddy thought summer school would be a good way to ease me into my new high school life.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I enrolled in a class titled 'Humanities.' I doubt if I had any idea what 'humanities' meant. I don't remember how I selected that class either. Maybe I closed my eyes and dropped my finger in the catalog, or maybe Daddy made a suggestion. Regardless of how I came to occupy a seat in that class, it was my introduction to a teacher who forever changed my life.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Mr. Countess was a young man in his twenties. He was an idealist, passionate and knowledgeable about the arts and philosophy, and I suspect, a little bit of a rebel. The curriculum he presented certainly ignited the rebel in me. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>What did we study? Well, I think we started off with the early Greeks, specifically Plato's cave analogy and the unforgettable drama "Oedipus the King" by Sophocles. Both had profound effects on me and I began questioning the nature of reality versus perception, and the role that fate or the gods play in all men's lives.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> We read the American Transcendentalists, Thoreau and Emerson. To this day, Thoreau remains one of my favorite writers. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We did not stop at literature and philosophy. We looked at and discussed the works of Romantic and modern artists; Monet, Picasso, Kandinsky, and, of course, the very famous 'Scream' by Edvard Munch.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> We listened to (and I learned to love) avant garde music, especially Gian Carlo Menotti's operetta "The Medium" and the poignant "Wozzek" by Alban Berg. As we discussed Menotti's "The Medium", we threaded our way through Marshall McLuhan's <span style="text-decoration:underline">Understanding the Media: The Extension of Man</span> and his very current phrase, 'The medium is the message.'</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Mr. Countess stood on the stage and recited the verses of American poets, among them Lawrence Ferlinghetti (Don't Let that Horse Eat that Violin!) and Oak Ridge native George Scarbrough. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I have not had many transformative teachers in my life. In fact, I think I can count them on one hand: my father, my piano teacher, Mrs. Greer, Miss Picklesimer at Elm Grove Elementary School, and Mr. Countess. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Inspirational teachers are a gift, to be cherished as the most precious of treasures.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I thank all four of my inspirational teachers. I use and think about the things they taught me every day of my life. And what about those two little poems I started with here this morning? I'm very sure that both of them found their nascence when I first peered into Plato's cave some forty five years ago, guided by Mr. C. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I suppose it's true that the good die young. Mr. Countess did, way too young, and too many years ago. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p>copyright Martha Maria, 2012</p>
<p><em><br></em></p>
<p></p><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/Yj6eW5-GZ2I" width="420" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948082014-07-08T12:53:34-04:002020-01-13T11:08:26-05:00The Best Things in Life are Really Cheap (or FREE!)
<p>I'm sitting in my studio next to my favorite little whimsical lamp. I love the warm glow the velum shade casts and that crazy coffee pot design. I keep it on an old candle stand right next to my studio entrance so that as soon as I walk in the door, I can turn on a light. That cute little lamp is my protection from all the big, bad things that go bump in the dark and it only cost me $3.99 at the <a href="http://www.gwiktn.org/locations/Store_Pages/Oak_Ridge.htm" data-imported="1">Good Will</a> in Oak Ridge. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/1c6c84feba8b090618deaf07728ee990a112e6d0/original/dscn99931.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDgweDY0MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="640" width="480" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Today, as usual, I am outfitted almost entirely in used clothes. My light cotton, flowered blouse, so cool (in both senses of the word) is also from the Goodwill. I've practically lived in it this summer. I gave $2.00 for it. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/6ca85e06ecad9bdc845f32f80f6bc5a1b9c85a57/original/photo-on-2014-07-08-at-13-09-4.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> My sandals are from the <a href="http://www.gwiktn.org/locations/default.htm" data-imported="1">Knoxville Good Will</a>. I bought them last Sunday, for $1.99. As soon as I bought them, I put them on. I've been wearing them ever since.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/16a8aa633ade970e5cf63322bbf344f243afeb54/original/photo-on-2014-07-08-at-13-09-2.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I'm also wearing a beautiful ornament in my hair today. I bought it last week from my friends at the <a href="http://satruck.org/search" data-imported="1">Salvation Army</a>. I actually paid $2.99 for it, which is a little pricey for me, but it's beautiful, unusual and besides, it really holds my thick hair. (Looking at this picture, I can hardly believe how WHITE my hair has gotten!) </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/28d2877585fd6001a266c4c97df4ea6a6d13be9c/original/photo-on-2014-07-08-at-13-10-4.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjQweDQ4MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="480" width="640" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * * </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Now, let's go in the house and take a look at the dining table where my husband and I just finished eating lunch. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b9a0f779286e2ff536adf38f50a3e2bf1009e71d/original/dscn0041-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">That cut glass pedestal bowl was a find at the Catholic Thrift Store (<a href="http://www.stmarysoakridge.org/Parish/whiteelephant.html" data-imported="1">The White Elephant</a>) at St. Mary's in Oak Ridge. It's so beautiful! I used it last Christmas to serve egg nog. Now I fill it every week with apples and leave it on the dining room table. By the way, pink lady apples are my new favorite variety. I think they're the perfect apple. I've been buying them three bags at a time at Trader Joe's every weekend. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">The white milk glass bowl in the front is also from the Catholic Thrift Store but the volunteers had thrown it in the FREE box outside! I couldn't believe it when I saw it. It's old and has the beginning of a crack on the inside, but to me, that suggestion of a crack only makes it more beautiful. Don't we all get a few cracks as we age? </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I love that bright table cloth too. It's very fine, soft fabric. Those blocks of color are not printed, but rather woven into the shiny, damask like cloth. I bought it for little more than a song at the Salvation Army store in Montreal, Canada last fall. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And while we're in the dining room, I'll just mention that the plants were nearly all freely given by friends or marked down for quick sale at Kroger's, in need of a home and little loving care. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * * </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Now let's mosey on out to my front yard. I love lawn furniture and yard art, but I don't buy it. I collect it from the side of the road during the annual spring rummage round up in Oak Ridge and oh, what treasures some folks leave on the curb, free for the picking. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a2ba73d41244d8dd94b325d9cd6885b1f92bd6d7/original/dscn0013.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">These garden chairs were thrown out on West Outer in front of an old flattop. I've honestly forgotten where I picked up the table. The concrete planters were discarded on Beverly Circle. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/bbaf94081e9d8bd431a549907571fe8b5894370b/original/dscn0033-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">As you can see from this photo, my poor fig tree was hammered by the Polar Vortex's sub zero temperatures last winter. We cut it back severely in hopes of shocking it back to life. The birdhouse hanging on it was a find on Walton Lane. I picked up at least two bird houses during the rummage round up that year. I think I retrieved the bird feeder hanging on the shepherd's crook at the same house. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/30addcb27588c1567c72fa3890ed5301542cb2b7/original/dscn0034-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Looking out the back door toward my studio, I have to mention that the bricks that line the concrete walk between the house and studio were freebies from an old dam wash out on a creek in upper Anderson County. They were in the middle of a gravel road in the woods and I stopped and threw them in my trunk. The little hexagonal table next to the studio door was retrieved from the curb in front of an old cemesto in the east end of town. I usually put a plant on it. And that little concrete pineapple on the step was another curb freebie, but I don't remember exactly where. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * * </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">But best of all, there is the freely given feast for our eyes that we enjoy every day: the green, green woods where we are blessed to live. I give you one last picture, this one taken a couple of days ago, standing in front of my house, looking toward the woods. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/da930a9180a7fc2f4ed672df2392bb8d153af65b/original/dscn0027-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I like old, shabby, quirky stuff. I love objects that have been used and loved and show it. I enjoy knowing that I, in many ways, live a re-cycled life. I don't want shiny, new stuff. It's not because I can't afford it (though I don't like to waste money either.) It's because new stuff just doesn't interest me. Given the choice between a five thousand dollar gift certificate from Rooms to Go or the Salvation Army, I'd pick the Salvation Army any day. How about you? </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And now I hear thunder. It sound like we're about to get the sweet gift of summer rain. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<div>As always, if you find anything here that makes you think, smile, sing, dance</div>
<div> (or even feel like giving me a good cussing) please tell a friend about Dogwood Daughter today. You're my only advertising and I depend on kind folks like you. Thanks.</div>
<div> </div>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948062014-06-28T16:55:15-04:002020-01-13T11:08:17-05:00Captain Kangaroo, Bunny Rabbit and Disobedient Minds
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b233474c445216fcf2d23bff3ba95b00020446f7/original/unknown.jpeg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MjkzeDE3MiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="172" width="293" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Yesterday, June 27, was Captain Kangaroo's birthday. He was born in 1927 and died peacefully in his sleep at the age of 76 in 2004. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">When I was a little girl, I faithfully tuned in to WBIR, Channel 10, Knoxville, Tennessee every morning at 9:00 a.m. for my daily dose of the Captain and his crew at the Treasure House: Mr. Greenjeans, Tom Terrific. Dancing Bear, Mr. Moose, Grandfather Clock, and the very naughty Bunny Rabbit.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Yesterday, I was talking with my friend Mary Ann about the Captain. "Bunny Rabbit was my favorite," I said. Of course, I had a fixation on bunnies in general as a child, imagining a six foot rabbit frozen in the grain of the wooden door of my bedroom and keeping my mother's old powder puffs in a Loveman's box and calling them my pet bunnies (because bunnies have powder puff tails, remember?)</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/9e5470a8e3ad452833f9d1b1e796ec8b61725739/original/images2.jpeg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mjc0eDE4NCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="184" width="274" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Mary Ann said that Bunny Rabbit had also been her favorite character. "Maybe it was the glasses,' she ventured. "Oh, it wasn't the glasses for me," I said. "Bunny Rabbit was naughty, tricky and disobedient, all traits to which I aspired." </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">That's true. I've always had a disobedient mind. When I was little, it felt like a curse at times because my parents were not unwilling to take the most draconian measures to enforce obedience. My life would have been easier if I had just fallen in line, but falling in line was never in my nature. Now that I'm older, I know that a questioning, disobedient mind is a gift and I would not want any other. </p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000">J</span><span style="color:#ff0000">ust as I was when I was a little girl, I'm still stubborn and think for myself. And yes, I've made a lot of mistakes, but at least they've been my mistakes, not somebody else's.</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000"><br></span></p>
<div></div>
<p style="text-align: left;">I've been thinking about the word 'disobedient' a lot lately. It seems to me that there is increasing societal pressure to be unquestioningly obedient to all sorts of big and little authority figures with a corresponding escalation in the use of strong arm enforcement and disregard for civil rights.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Consulting the dictionary, I find that 'obedience' is "the act or practice of obeying; dutiful or submissive compliance.' Synonyms given are 'submission, subservience, and deference.' Further, in ecclesiastical contexts, obedience is defined as 'the rule or authority that exacts (such) conformity.' </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I have known many people in my life but none whose whose hearts, minds or spirits have merited submission, subservience or deference. There certainly aren't any politicians I'd put in that category; they strike me as a fairly debased group in general.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> I did not nor would I put my parents in that category either. I loved my parents but they had their own set of troubles and were at least as fallible as anyone else.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> Wracking my brain, I cannot think of any preacher or religious figure, other than Jesus Christ himself, who is worthy of obedience. I notice in the Gospels that Jesus doesn't appear to be very concerned about nitpicking obedience either. His commandments were very few: love God, love each other, and stop judging. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I think of disobedience now as one of the virtues of a broad, questioning and independent mind. I don't want to be a sheeple. I still want to be like Bunny Rabbit. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">RIP, Captain</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">If you find anything you like here, please tell someone else about my website today. Word of mouth is my only advertising and I need all the help I can get. Thanks!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Be Well and Good Luck.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948052014-06-15T00:18:59-04:002020-01-13T11:08:16-05:00The Democracy of Death
<p style="text-align: center;">I saw this on Facebook the other day. It was shared by one of my Facebook friends from a page titled The Mind Unleashed. I like the idea of a 'mind unleashed.' I have frequently said that I've cultivated a 'disobedient mind.' But I think I like 'unleashed' better. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/94fb4cf527c5b0418756048ed9f092d9e5aac0a4/original/10390475-741777912546023-2584983162509467530-n.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAzeDQwMyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="403" width="403" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">As that wonderful bumper sticker says, "Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History." Well behaved men seldom do either. Of course, who cares? I mean about making history. We are still such a young species, no more than a blip, not yet as long lived as were our Neanderthal ancestors. Yes, I read recently that all people on earth, with the exception of sub-Saharan Africans, carry Neanderthal DNA in their cells. I liked that. So, Neanderthals were not a failed species after all. They live in us! I love the fact that I carry Neanderthal DNA. I'm also glad that, unlike that capricious autocrat called Life, Death is unfailingly democratic, and even handed or, as the poster says, our graves will be the same size. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5bd4178c1adcffe0eab7f7f1f21820b1e39b1f71/original/dscn96341.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="t" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">This is a photo I took of a graveyard at a monastery in Ireland (at the<span style="color:#ffff00"> <a href="http://www.glendalough.ie/" data-imported="1">Glendalough Ecclesiastical Settlement</a> </span>in County Wicklow) It was founded by St. Kevin in the 6th century. I was told that some of the graves here date as far back as the Viking Invasion of the isle. The Viking invasions of Ireland began in year 830 A.D. and lasted through much of the 12th century. Hence, that would make some of the graves in this cemetery over 1,200 years old.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> Although 830 A.D. seems like a very long time ago, it is, in fact, only a tiny fraction of the 4.54 billion year history of planet Earth. Just thinking about 4.54 billion years makes my head spin...like it's unleashed!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Judging from the magnificence of these Irish gravestones and monuments, I suppose this graveyard was the final resting place of the upper classes, probably nobility and churchmen. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/e05ce25056351019d6d4bc6dbaa118ed617bc4cd/original/dscn9262.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzAweDQwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="T" height="400" width="300" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And this sad looking little grave yard is one of the 92 family plots that were seized by the U.S. federal government in 1943 for the Manhattan Project. This one is located behind some houses in Woodland next door to a Weigels convenience store and gas station on South Illinois Avenue, not more than a mile away from the gates to the <a href="http://www.y12.doe.gov/" data-imported="1">Y-12 National Security Complex.</a> Y-12 is the bomb factory in Oak Ridge, where nuclear warheads are maintained and the nation's store of bomb grade uranium is safeguarded. (Well, we hope it's safeguarded. The penetration of the shoot to kill zone by the elderly Catholic nun, <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/sf/wp-style/2013/09/13/the-prophets-of-oak-ridge/" data-imported="1">Sister Megan Rice</a>, and her two companions called Y-12's security into serious question a couple of years ago.) </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">One of these photos depicts the graves of the high and mighty, and the other, the graves of the poor and humble. Superficially different, the actual graves in these cemeteries surely are much alike, for Death treats us all the same. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And finally, here is a little something, maybe a prose poem or maybe just a scribble, I wrote last week while drinking coffee in the early a.m. in my bed. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ffcc99"><span style="color:#ccffcc">The Democracy of Death</span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ffcc99"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Death is a democracy, egalitarian and even handed, drafting every soul to soldier alone into that most melancholy country where ardent, lusty worms writhe in sightless eyes and penetrate the flesh of rich and poor alike; and I, for one, am glad to know that Death is impartial, a democracy, egalitarian and unfailingly even handed. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And on that ironically cheerful note, be well and good luck! </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#00ff00">P.S. </span> My new children's album, Lily Cat's Very Good Day, by Lily Cat Music for Kids, should be up on iTunes in the next few days! Yea! And I want to share a wonderful message a fan sent to me about that album:</p>
<p> <span style="color:#00ff00">"I think you are promoting peace and harmony on a grass roots level." </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>In case you don't want to wait for iTunes, you can buy it here: <span style="color:#00ff00"> </span> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#99cc00">(Shhh....it's cheaper here too!)</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1233433379/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=2ebd35/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 470px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/album/lily-cats-very-good-day" mce_href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/album/lily-cats-very-good-day"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Lily Cat&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;#39;s Very Good Day by Lily Cat Music for Kids&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">As always, I ask you to share anything you find here that you like. My only advertising is word of mouth from kind folks like you. Thank YOU! </span></p>
<div><br></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948042014-06-06T02:45:42-04:002020-01-13T02:51:49-05:00Another Cosmic Mystery - Where do all the socks go?
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/9c0d0a43b385e6d7923c1efc6d78a908616e8194/original/dscn9993.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm lounging in my studio rocking chair, with my feet propped on the table in front of me. I'm wearing socks today, mismatched as usual, solid navy on the left and gray striped on the right. Personally, I've never cared whether my socks matched or not. My husband Bob, however, does care. Not about mine, but about HIS. He only wears socks that match. And that's a little bit of a problem. Why?</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Well, because I'm the de factor laudress in this house and for some reason, I can't keep track of socks, mine, his or anybody else's. Hence, there's always a small mountain (or molehill) of unmatched socks piled on a chair in the living room.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/1bcef318d9a50aad3c6320d5cb8f3a46fceaad10/original/dscn9997.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDQ4eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="448" /></p>
<p><br></p>
<p> I have a confession, however.</p>
<p>That small mountain of socks is not my ONLY stash of unmatched socks. I've squirreled away a few sacks of single socks I've given up on behind the bookshelf in our bedroom and in the back of my side of the closet. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The unknown wanderings and final destination of socks in this house are a genuine cosmic mystery. They seem to disappear into thin air.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Their journey begins on the laundry room floor where they land when my husband drops them down the laundry chute. Their next stop is the dirty clothes hamper where I throw them to percolate a couple of days until I get around to washing another load of clothes. And I do believe this is where it gets tricky.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Bob ties his socks together before throwing them down the chute. But I untie them before tossing them into the washing machine. Why do I do that? I don't know. I guess don't feel like they'll really get clean unless I do. Anyhow, somehow between the washing machine, the dryer and bringing them upstairs to fold and put away, I typically manage to lose some socks and end up with several lonely singles, bereft of their mates. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Often, of course, a mate will show up later, perhaps in another load or clinging, unnoticed, to another piece of clothing, most often inside a tee shirt. But just as many permanently and mysteriously disappear. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>There's a solution to this problem, of course: only buy identical socks. I think that's a splendid idea! Then there would be nothing but matching socks throughout the house. No more studying socks for subtle variations in weave, color and pattern. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>If I had my way, there would be nothing but identical black men's dress socks in this house. But that's not going to happen because I neither buy or wear the men's socks. Bob does. No, I'm just the incompetent laundress who washes and manages to lose half of them. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Oh well, matched or mismatched socks don't really matter in the big scheme. I suspect little does. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As always, I ask you to please share Dogwood Daughter with someone today. As an indie, I depend on you, my readers and fans, to spread the word about the value of anything you find here. </p>
<p>Be well and good luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948032014-05-25T11:03:34-04:002020-01-13T11:08:12-05:00Lily Cat Music for Kids' 1st full length album is out! Yea!
<p>Finally, after a year of recording, my first full length Lily Cat Music for Kids album is finished!</p>
<p>Honestly, I think this is the best work I've ever done. I LOVE writing for children. I'm thankful to my old 3rd and 4th grade teacher, Mary Helen Picklesimer, who called me a couple of years ago and insisted that I start writing for children. Frankly, I thought she was crazy when she told me I had to do it. But, as usual, Mary Helen was right. At the time, she was 89 years old and I was 60. After all these years, she is still my teacher! What a wonderful gift she has been in my life! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Last week, I picked up the newly mastered album from the great Randall Merryman in Nashville, Tennessee. Randall, of course, makes everything sound better because he's a great sound man and recording engineer. Thank you, Randall, for making me sound so good.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm making a physical CD too. CDs will be available this summer. You will, of course, be able to order CDs from me directly. I'll keep you posted on when they become available. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In the meantime, here, for your listening pleasure, is the Bandcamp link. Listening is always free on Bandcamp.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/album=1233433379/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=2ebd35/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 470px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/album/lily-cats-very-good-day" mce_href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/album/lily-cats-very-good-day"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Lily Cat&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;#39;s Very Good Day by Lily Cat Music for Kids&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>Also, with Bandcamp, you can purchase digital downloads of both individual tracks or the entire album. That's one of the great things about Bandcamp. There are other things as well. Artists can price their albums (not true on iTunes.) I've priced this album at $7.00 on Bandcamp, a bargain compared to prices on the dominant internet download sites. Purchasing from Bandcamp is such a terrific way to support indie musicians and yes, we REALLY need your support!</p>
<p>Here is my Bandcamp link.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> I ask you to please share both Dogwood Daughter and Lily Cat Music for Kids (both me) with others. As a small indie artist, I have not advertising budget and I depend entirely on word of mouth from people like you. Thank you! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck! Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948022014-05-20T06:46:34-04:002020-01-13T02:51:49-05:00Lousy With Appliances
<p>Sometimes I think modern, labor saving appliances are more of an aggravation than a convenience.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Case in point: my dishwasher.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yesterday, I had a repairman come out. I've been washing dishes by hand for the last several months. Why? Well, to put it bluntly, because my supposedly clean and sanitary dishes were coming out of my Maytag dishwasher still looking downright nasty. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I don't think my dishwasher was ever very good at removing streaks of peanut butter from knives and spoons or red lipstick from the rims of cups and glasses. I gave up on heavily soiled pots and pans a long time ago and always scour them with a rough sponge in the kitchen sink. But of late, even ordinary plates and bowls that we eat off of, ones that are not particularly dirty to start with, have been coming out of the dishwasher still covered with cruddy looking remants of greasy food. Ugh!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So yesterday, I finally relented and called an appliance repairman. </p>
<p>He replaced a broken paddle on my dishwasher and, with a lot of sighing, freed the innards of all the teabags and plastic drinking straws that SOMEONE (I shall not say WHO) has apparently been carelessly tossing into the machine.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> After I wrote a check for a considerable sum (parts and labor) the repairman left and, over the course of one giddy afternoon and evening freed from the chore of dishwashing, I gleefully exclaimed several times, "Oh, it will be SO nice to have a dishwasher that actually works! </p>
<p>But alas, twas not to be, at least not for me!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Around 9:00 p.m., I finished loading the machine, put the detergent in the dispenser and triumphantly pushed 'start.' Then, feeling luxurious, I headed to the bedroom to settle in with a good book and a bowl of frozen cherries. For perhaps fifteen minutes, I was oblivious to mayhem in the kitchen until…. my husband came in the bedroom and said, 'Martha, I hate to tell you this, but the dishwasher is leaking all over the floor." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>"OH NOOOOOOOO!" I screamed and raced down the hall to the kitchen doorway to watch hot water trickle out of the dishwasher door and run all over the wooden floor. I turned the machine off and cautiously peeked inside. Steam rose from soapy, sloshing water. I quickly shut and latched the door while Bob brought bath towels from the linen closet to mop up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Then, like Scarlett O'Hara, I decided that 'tomorrow is another day' and I went to bed and spent a restless night dreaming about dishwashers and other wayward appliances. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Today, the same repairman came back. He's a nice guy, he didn't charge me this time. His diagnosis? Bad gasket in the dishwasher door. It needs to be re-placed. And why wasn't it leaking before? Because the water pressure was too low, but now, with a clean machine and two working paddles, the water pressure is sufficient to push the water right out of the leaky door. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>What to do? Pay for ANOTHER part and very expensive labor and hope nothing else goes wrong for a while? Buy a new machine? Cautiously use the broken one I've got with a stratgically placed pan on the floor to catch the leaking water? Or just wash dishes by hand?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the repairman was leaving, I sighed and said, "Well, my mother never had a dishwasher. I reckon there's no reason why I have to have one either. They're a convenience for sure, but certainly NOT a necessity."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>So, after lunch today, I filled the kitchen sink with warm sudsy water and washed the dishes by hand. They're neatly stacked in the drip tray on the counter right now. I'll put them away when I get home from my yoga class late this afternoon. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And honestly, given my track record with appliances (which is unfailingly BAD) I think I'm just going to forget about dishwashers and wash the dishes by hand from now on. It's true, my mother never used a dishwasher. And, unlike the dishwasher, I'm not broken down and in need of new parts. I suspect I'll be more fastidious about scrubbing peanut butter off of knives and lipstick off of coffee cup rims too. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> And besides, I've noticed something else: while my hands automatically soap and rinse dishes, and I idly stare at the woods and Bob's little garden from my kitchen window, my mind is often in a curious paradoxical state of relaxation and alertness in which I am gifted with insights and creative ideas. Maybe NOT having a dishwasher is actually a gift, the gift of a little solitary 'down time' just to be alone and think. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60948002014-05-05T12:18:01-04:002020-01-13T11:08:10-05:00A Weekend on the 'Quiet Side of the Smokies"
<p>Bob and I got away this weekend and spent two nights in Townsend, Tennessee, the gateway to the <a href="http://www.smokymountains.org" data-imported="1">'quiet side of the Smokies." </a></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We discovered a charming little motel named<a href="http://www.docksmotel.com/aboutus.htm" data-imported="1"> Dock's </a>in Townsend. Located on the banks of the pristine Little River, Dock's isn't fancy, but we're not either. It suited us to a tee. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Our room was large, clean and rustic with knotty pine walls and ceiling. We had a full kitchen outfitted with pots, pans, silverware, and a Gevalia coffee maker, which was a big deal for serious coffee drinkers like us. And though I wasn't expecting Wi-Fi, I was pleasantly surprised that Dock's has it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We arrived on Friday evening, checked in and unloaded the car. Then we decided to meander around Townsend for a bit. There was a festival going on at the visitors' center and we spent a little time there listening to old timey music. But there was a cemetery across the street and as usual, I was irresistibly drawn to the tombstones and spent a lot of time traipsing, wondering and pondering the lives of the folks buried there. Some of the graves were very old. The oldest one I saw belonged to a man born in 1740 and buried in 1787. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>On Saturday morning, we started our day at <a href="http://www.nps.gov/grsm/planyourvisit/cadescove.htm" data-imported="1">Cades Cove</a>, driving the scenic loop and getting out at several spots to mosey around old cabins, churches and graveyards. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5224041ad11a24f5ae6de82e7639e1961d93e8d8/original/dscn9643.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We saw lots of deer and a couple of bears. I did manage to get one good photo of the black bear we saw browsing on undergrowth in the forest. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/d76200c7a3152d1103650f9de8064c5d3f1e4f02/original/dscn9691.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ2OCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="468" width="600" /> </p>
<div><br></div>
<p>After a picnic lunch of apples, cheese, corn chips and chocolate, we headed out of the cove and back to Laurel Springs Road to hunt for <a href="http://www.everytrail.com/view_trip.php?trip_id=2070157" data-imported="1">White Oak Sinks</a>. Bob had been wanting to go there ever since a neighbor told us about it a few weeks ago.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> The White Oak Sinks trail isn't marked and it's not on the park trail maps either making it a little hard to find. It's also a hard, steep slog in and out, but it's well worth the effort. </p>
<p> <img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/c117efc55e06f64c8be83860d5c80f5f5b62f43c/original/dscn9875.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Trail into White Oak Sinks</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p> Never have I seen so many wild flowers in one place: masses of pink, white and yellow trillium, tiny wild irises, purple phlox everywhere, and the rare native Tennessee orchid, the beautiful pink Lady Slipper. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8d19766f612b8cdf41249de409bd261c0af4da49/original/dscn98032.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDY0eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="464" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Lady Slipper, a native Tennessee orchid</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/05ab77d036b407ed706b20bc52c5c0d7b9faeb7f/original/dscn9827.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">There are many varieties of trillium. We saw so many white and pink ones with leaves like this in the Sinks.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">I've blogged about trillium before, one of my favorite wild flowers. We only have the yellow and red ones with variegated leaves around my house. I saw all kinds at the Sinks, however. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/6b66a9622097ad0b1b7346e2d2aa56271c30284d/original/dscn9870.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Are these wild geraniums? I think they are, but I'm not sure. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/056989595f46754a63169ce6381827a0e31ff47b/original/dscn9839.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">I love moss!</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/15a517599dbbc33de920f6b6d4f70899161a99dd/original/dscn9850.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDg4eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="488" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Fern unfurling.</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a2698a1dfc37d56d8f5d83c4f51eee11506e3c69/original/dscn9915.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Wild iris. These are relatively rare. Very tiny and low to the ground. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/dfea1f77e1f9a07312dfcfafdb46d81e728e9ca7/original/dscn9864.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Cascade at the Sinks.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>After hiking all afternoon, we were ready for a good dinner. On Friday night, I'd noticed a log building off the main highway in Townsend with a sign that read "Miss Lily's Cafe." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Miss Lily's was a great choice! We both had the mountain trout. Bob got his grilled, but I threw caution to the wind and ordered the fried. Delicious! Miss Lily's desserts looked to die for too and I thought a long time about her Hello Dolly bars, but decided to just say 'no.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/3ba8fe2de4d9080418d3d07b4e9e3667c313810c/original/dscn9953.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Bob on the footbridge across the Little River near Miss Lily's Cafe</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>After dinner, we walked by the river until dark, then drove back to Dock's and collapsed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> Waking to a beautiful Sunday morning, we drank Gevalia in bed and read until mid morning. Check out time was 11:00 and it seemed to come awfully fast; time to say goodbye to Dock's and our little escape from 'real life' in Oak Ridge. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We had a wonderful weekend! We're already planning on going back to Dock's for another little get away this fall. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Thank you for visiting Dogwood Daughter. As always, I ask you to share my Dogwood Daughter link with someone else. My only means of advertising is by word of mouth from visitors like you, and I appreciate every single one of you!</p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, Martha </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947992014-05-01T02:36:50-04:002020-01-13T02:51:49-05:00Lily Cat's Very Good Day "What I love is that Lily Cat music is fabulous for all ages."
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Finally, after all these years, I'm making and releasing two physical CDs. The first one out will be for my childrens' music label, <a href="http://www.lilycatmusicforkids.com" data-imported="1"><span style="color:#cc99ff">Lily Cat Music for Kids.</span></a></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc">I honestly think that this album is my best work. I don't know why it took me so long.</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc">I first started thinking about recording childrens' music nearly thirty years ago when I taught music at Fort Sanders Developmental Center in Knox County. Finding quality recordings for children back then was frustrating! So much of the childrens' music on the market then (and now, frankly) was garbage that was hard for me, as an adult, to listen to. "Children and their parents deserve better," I thought. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc">With Lily Cat Music for Kids, it is my intention to produce quality music for children that is intended not JUST for children, but for the adults in their lives as well. I think I have succeeded! As a fan wrote to me last week,</span> <span style="color:#00ffff"> <span style="color:#cc99ff">"What I love is that Lily Cat music is fabulous for all ages."</span></span></p>
<p> </p>
<p><span style="color:#00ffff"><span style="color:#00ff00">The album is currently being mastered in Nashville. I hope to have it out and ready to deliver by June 1. If you want one, drop me an e-mail at dogwooddaughter@dogwooddaughter.com. In the subject line, please write, "Lily Cat's Very Good Day." Ask me to add you to the Lily Cat e-mail list and I'll be in touch with details as soon as the album is ready to ship.</span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#000000"><span style="color:#ccffcc">It will also be available for internet download at iTunes, Amazon and all the other major music outlets on line. </span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#00ff00">As always, i ask you to do me the favor of telling someone else about Dogwood Daughter. As a small, indie artist, I'm completely dependent on word of mouth advertising. Every share helps me so much and I am sincerely grateful. </span></p>
<p><span style="color:#000000"><span style="color:#ccffcc"> Thanks. Be Well and Good Luck, Martha Maria </span></span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Here is the album art work. </span></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/8f82ed907a7510e4bb713f85076333357ea7086b/original/skitched-20140424-180817-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDc3eDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="477" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">And here is a listening sample, the opening track, titled "This is God's Big World." </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=1969573519/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=0f91ff/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/track/this-is-gods-big-world" mce_href="http://lilycatmusicforkids.bandcamp.com/track/this-is-gods-big-world"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;This is God&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;#39;s Big World by Lily Cat Music for Kids&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947982014-04-26T00:40:03-04:002020-01-13T02:51:48-05:00When An Old Teacher (Me) Runs Into Her Former Students
<p>Today, Bob and I made a day of the Dogwood Festival and Earthfest in downtown Knoxville.</p>
<p> Earthfest is always a fun event with bands, food, vendors and artists. It's an interesting crowd too, tending more toward the tie dyed than the buttoned down set, so of course, I feel right at home there. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> I ran into several old friends today and I enjoyed catching up with every one of them. But I have to say, the highlight of my day was encountering one of my former Spanish students from Lenoir City High School.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> As I rounded a corner, I heard someone say, "Miss de la Garza." I turned around and said, "Oh, hi!" pretending that I knew exactly who I was talking to, though I hadn't the faintest idea. I was wracking my brain as he got out of his chair and began his approach. I suppose my face must have looked as blank as I felt because the next words out of his mouth were, kindly, "You don't recognize me, do you?"</p>
<p>"No," I admitted. </p>
<p>"I'm Justin Harris," he said.</p>
<p> "Justin Harris!," I exclaimed and spontaneously hugged his neck. I was so delighted to see him! Justin was one of my students at Lenoir City High School when I taught there about a zillion years ago. One of my favorite students too. He and another young man named Clay were, I think, my all time favorites out of the hundreds of students I taught over the years.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I was a little shocked when Justin told me he now has a twenty year old daughter--shocked at how old that makes me!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It hardly seems possible that the sixteen year old boy I remember who sat in the back of the room (behind a girl named Laura who was a cheerleader and a gifted language student who went on to become a Spanish teacher herself) could now be the father of a twenty year old woman. But as Justin said to me today, "Do the math! There's nothing unusual about it."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Justin's right, of course. There's nothing unusual about him having a twenty year old daughter. After all, he was a married man of 22 when he became a father. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Justin and I talked, a good looking young man as tall as Justin joined us. Yes, I had the great pleasure of meeting Justin's fourteen year old son who is a charmer himself. I do believe that if I were still teaching, Justin's son could easily become another one of my favorites.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's true, teachers DO have favorites. But as I told Justin, I have fond memories of nearly all my students at Lenoir City High School. It's not that all of them were brilliant or even very good students (though many of them were) but they were, by and large, earnest, really nice young people that I liked and respected. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I love seeing my former students, especially as they and I get older. Now that I'm 62 and they are in their forties, when I run into them, it feels as if I'm reconnecting with old friends. I hope they feel similarly about me. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947972014-04-09T08:23:58-04:002020-01-13T11:08:02-05:00It's Spring and the Snakes are Out
<p>As many of you know, I live in the woods and we have a lot of snakes around here. I've blogged about snakes before.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A couple of years ago, I had a spate of snakes in my house. Thank the Lord, I haven't seen a snake inside the house for a couple of years now, but just in case, I still wear boots every time I go in my laundry room or garage.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Today, I was walking at the top of the street when I spotted a dead baby copperhead. It was flattened, run over. I hate snakes in general, even the non-poisonous ones. But I have a special loathing for copperheads. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Copperheads are venomous snakes, pit vipers related to rattlesnakes and cottonmouths. We have rattlesnakes here too, but while the rattlesnake is timid, the copperhead is aggressive and will instinctively strike anything warm. That's why I never go outside at night without boots. I've tried to make that a rule for my sons too, but they're 20 and 22 now and they do as they please. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Last year, I was home alone and took the garbage out. It was the afternoon so I saw the snake before I smelled him. That's right. Copperheads smell. They smell like cucumbers or watermelons. He was a big copperhead,about the size of a man's arm, sunning himself on our driveway, not too far from the house. I knew I had to kill it myself. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's dangerous to get close enough to a venomous snake to kill it. That, in fact, is how most people get bitten. But there is a solution: wasp spray. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Wasp spray has a long range, you don't have to get close to a snake to hit it with a good stream of poison. You do, however, have to hit it in the face. The poison must get inside the snake through his eyes, nose and mouth, especially his mouth. Once it's in his mouth (usually from flicking his tongue) it's a certainty, he WILL die. It may take a while however, so continue exercising caution. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I sprayed the hell out of that copperhead on my driveway last summer. I probably burned up half a canister on him. As I watched from a safe distance, he seemed to become pretty much immobilized. When he was still, I took a long handled shovel, crushed his head, chopped at his neck (but couldn't detach his head completely) and pitched him in the woods.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Here's a link to an article about using wasp killer to kill snakes. Just for the record, I've read that wasp and hornet spray in the face can also kill a human. <a href="http://www.westernnebraskaobserver.net/story/2013/07/04/news/authorities-now-carrying-wasp-spray-for-snakes/650.html" data-imported="1">Carrying Wasp Spray to Kill Snakes</a>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I know there are people who say not to kill any snake, that they all have a place in nature. To that I reply, "Venomous snakes DON'T have a place in my house or yard!"</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck and watch out for snakes!</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947962014-04-05T11:50:14-04:002020-01-13T02:51:48-05:00Trillium (Do they look flagrantly erotic to you? They do to me!)
<p>After a winter that seemed to linger cold and damp forever, glorious spring has finally arrived in the Cumberland Mountains! The wild redbud and dogwood trees are in full flower and yesterday, most tellingly, while my husband and I walked, I spotted one of my favorite wild flowers, a trillium. </p>
<p>You have to look hard for trillium. They're not flashy in coloration. Their three mottled green leaves blend inconspicuously into the surrounding foliage. </p>
<p>I took a few photos of the one I spotted yesterday and I'm posting a couple of them here. The flower had not yet opened. You can see here that it's still tightly curled into a long, pointed tongue of a bud. When it uncurls, its throat will be pale yellow. </p>
<p>Yellow seems to be the most common color of trilliums around here, though I have seen a few white ones and fewer still of the deep, bloody red ones. The red ones are my favorites; they look so unabashedly erotic!</p>
<p>I'm going hiking tomorrow and will take my camera. If I find a red one, I'll snap a few photos and post them for you here.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a2a1a2878334b4ba795122e9b4a1d280283afb69/original/dscn6236.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">This is the one I saw yesterday that was not yet opened.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/9e8bf112961cb764297e85217c79f840315ed8b6/original/dscn6315-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I took this photo of one in full bloom last year. I'm posting it just so you can see what their flowers looks like. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Please, as always, I ask you to do me the favor of telling someone about Dogwood Daughter today. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I so much appreciate it!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Be Well and Good Luck</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947952014-04-02T08:49:37-04:002020-01-13T02:51:48-05:00Kissing the Man in the Moon (and other news)
<p>I know it's spring because I'm sitting in my studio and a bumble bee is noisily buzzing around the place while I write. I've been writing a lot lately. I'm taking a writing class on line with Sheila Bender through the <a href="http://www.storycircle.org/index.php" data-imported="1">Story Circle Network.</a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've never taken a course on line before but I'm glad I signed up for Sheila's! After just two weeks, I feel like I've already benefited both from her instruction and the feedback from her and my fellow students. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Everyone in the class is working on memoir. Our assignment last week was to write a lyric poem. I wrote three but only turned one in. All were based on memories mined from my five year old mind. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>This week, we're working on prose poems. Prose poems? Until this week, I didn't even know there was such a thing. I've already written five of those. After I sit with them for a little while, maybe I'll share a couple here on my website. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Meanwhile, here's a new little piano piece I wrote. It's sort of a lullaby without words. When I composed it, I intended it for an album of lullabies for my Lily Cat Music for Kids label. But after I recorded it, I decided it really was more suited to adults than children. It's called "Kissing the Man in the Moon." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Here it is. For the next week, I'm making it a no minimum download fee required; in other words, it's free, as my gift to you. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Please tell somebody about Dogwood Daughter today. It's easy to hit the little blue 'share' button at the bottom of the page or just e-mail the link. I appreciate it! </p>
<p> Be Well and Good Luck, Martha Maria </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=3675401779/size=large/bgcol=ffffff/linkcol=63b2cc/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/kissing-the-man-in-the-moon" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/kissing-the-man-in-the-moon"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Kissing the Man in the Moon by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947942014-03-28T10:05:33-04:002020-01-13T11:08:00-05:00All My Wishes Fulfilled - Goats and The Indigo Girls
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/cdf235faf1388a7867f85104c33d28dd33bc49c5/original/dscn9301.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDM3NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="375" width="500" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Cashmere goats at Mountain Hollow Farm in Tazewell, Tennessee. Lots more photos from the farm at the bottom of the page. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I remember when I graduated from college in January of 1974. I found a little job in the catering department at the University and stayed in Charlottesville until June, when the rest of my friends would be graduating and leaving town.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I moved into an apartment with three other women. I didn't have enough money to buy furniture, so in my bedroom, I lived on the floor. Literally. I slept on the floor without a mattress, in a sleeping bag; I sat on the floor; I propped a mirror against the wall and crouched to peer at my own reflected face from the vantage of the floor.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I was a young woman of 21, newly graduated from college, I was afraid. I had no particular calling, no particular boyfriend, and no particular plans. I was at a loss and scared that my future was over before it had even started. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I could not imagine how lucky I would be at age 62: in good health, still in love and loved by a wonderful husband, with two adult sons who are my pride and joy, a faithful old dog, and my own private studio in the woods where I can pursue the calling I finally found in my fifties. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I turned 62 a couple of weeks ago, my husband kept asking me what I wanted for my birthday. I didn't want any THING. I wanted a new experience and he, as he usually does, delivered.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My new experience was to visit a working cashmere goat farm and comb the goats. Conveniently, my birthday fell on a Saturday when spring goat combing was scheduled at Mountain Hollow Farm in Tazewell, Tennessee. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Up close and personal with the goats was a messy, smelly wonder! They are SO beautiful, surprisingly docile, and completely motivated by food. I did have one unexpected encounter with a sharp horn, but was not really hurt. It was fun! There were several other animals on the farm that trotted over to the fence curiously when my husband and I were there: a pony, horse, lambs, dogs, one duck, several chickens, and a llama, all apparently living in harmony. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tazewell is about 60 miles from Oak Ridge, up close to the Kentucky border. I'd never been up there, so aside from goat combing, it was a new little road trip with unfamiliar sights and places to visit: a fabulous small cafe (where I had warm strawberry chess cake, right out of the oven with a cup of scalding, strong black coffee…so scrumptious!) a country flea market on the side of the road and an unfamiliar Good Will where I scarfed up a vintage leaping lamb planter for a cool 99 cents! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Finally, to top off the day, Bob and I drove back home via Knoxville where we took in a performance of The Indigo Girls with the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra. Their concert was exhilarating, uplifting and inspiring! They are likable, charming performers and, of course, great singers, musicians and songwriters. Hearing them in concert with a full sized symphony orchestra was mesmerizing, a real high.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When we got home and pulled in our drive way late Saturday night, I said, 'Oh good, both the boys are home!" Walker was awake and we talked a while. Joe was asleep, but had left a card and potted white orchid on the dining table for me. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I finally went to bed, I lay next to my kind, sleeping husband and listened to my blind old dog as she snored through her long black snout and I thought to myself, 'My life is so good and I have so much to be thankful for. How did I get so lucky?" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I don't know, but I am so blessed, so happy, and so much luckier than I ever deserved or thought I would be. And although I'm not in what others would call my 'prime years' now, I know that I actually am. Yes, youth had its compensations: a strong back, glowing skin and hair, sex appeal, fearless naiveté, and the luxury of enough time to make lots of mistakes. But, I would not go back and repeat my anxious twenties for anything, not for all the money in the world. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've never hidden my age and have never understood why some people (especially women) do. Yesterday, I had lunch with a group of friends from the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Universalist Church in Knoxville. Our ages run from 60 to 87. We were talking about age and someone said that there are women who don't even want their ages published in their obituaries. </p>
<p>What kind of crazy is that?????</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I freely tell my age and look for every senior discount or advantage I can find. So far, I'm happy to report that I far prefer the advantages of advancing age over those of youth. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Here are links to Mountain Hollow Farm, The Indigo Girls and the Knoxville Symphony Orchestra websites as well as a few photos I snapped at the goat farm. <a title="Mountain Hollow Farm" href="http://www.mtnhollow.com" data-imported="1">Mountain Hollow Farm</a> <a title="The Indigo Girls" href="http://www.indigogirls.com/home.html" data-imported="1">The Indigo Girls</a> <a href="http://www.knoxvillesymphony.com" data-imported="1">The Knoxville Symphony Orchestra. </a></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Please help me by sharing my Dogwood Daughter website with someone else today. It's easy, just hit the little blue share button at the bottom of the page or e-mail the web address to a friend. Every share helps me so much and I am sincerely grateful for each and every one. Thanks. </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/75849d9f77d4c79724d913749dc143f591834edd/original/dscn9363.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The farm house in the background and the first goat who came curiously out to greet us.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/318f7b274da0a94d9b34110efa9f35315798bcf7/original/dscn9403.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDM3NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Three Goats" height="375" width="500" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Looking for food. The proprietor had given my husband a shaker of food to lure the goats over. it worked!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/da794a6ebfaa170f4858358e2a3072b263b06749/original/dscn9412.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">This handsome, gentle fellow was looking for some food and affection. The goats don't seem to look for any affection, just food. The proprietor told me that the goats are not smart or affectionate. They are solely motivated, according to her, by food or coercion. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b56cc817a3d906b4cedbca7a6b17273549a627c0/original/dscn9366.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Bob walks down the road.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b194c73f59daa76f2d6e1861096e3a5c95a0bed2/original/dscn9389.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6MzgzeDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="383" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">What a beautiful face! </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/d7279722dd48a09c05eb134b61aa0700be95a1ab/original/dscn9387.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/2c3ef9df111bea5805640c005d498bd84897a110/original/dscn9410.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NTAweDM3NSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="375" width="500" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Bob and his new friends by the fence. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/cdfdf8a311b5a0d1b582307aa1dae6ab1df9e0a9/original/dscn9316.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6Mzc1eDUwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="500" width="375" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Looking down the county road where Mountain Hollow Farm is located.</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947932014-03-18T02:32:00-04:002020-01-13T11:07:55-05:00Rnning Out of Time
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>My birthday was last Saturday, March 15th. I turned 62.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>One day before my birthday, on March 14th, Rita, an old friend and classmate from high school, died unexpectedly. Not quite two weeks before, I and several others had eaten lunch with her and enjoyed her hardy, deep tenor laugh as she drank a margarita.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> When we parted that afternoon, she said she was going to stop by the hospital on her way home. She wanted to check on Helen, another old classmate, who was near death and did, in fact, die the next day. Rita asked me if I would like to go to the hospital with her, but I declined. I had already been to see Helen twice and since she was unconscious, I didn't want to go back again. Rita went anyway. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>A week and a half later, Rita was also dead. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I've had a a curious sense of unreality about both Rita's and Helen's deaths, a sense that I, and all of my old friends from the Oak Ridge High School class of 1970, are quickly running out of time. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I've been looking at my many plans and unfinished projects with a sense of hopeless urgency, knowing I'll never have enough time to finish them all. Hell, forget about projects! I know I won't even find enough time to sort through my chaotic cabinets, drawers and closets. I suppose that inevitably an estate sale agent will be tasked with prowling through and disposing of the remains of my messy sojourn here.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Life isn't supposed to last forever and I don't want it to either. Perhaps naively, I'm hoping to find a better place in the next world. But, on the other hand, I'm not nearly ready to blow the candles out, not yet. And I feel so sorry and sad to lose my friends whose candles have already been extinguished: Jarrett, Patti, Esther, Jimmy, and in the last two weeks, Rita and Helen. I wonder why some people live to be ninety or even a hundred and others are called so early. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Is there a reason or is it all just a crap shoot?</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I don't know. I only know one thing for certain. The longer you live, the sooner you die.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I and my classmates have now lived 62 years. We're old by all standards; card carrying members of AARP and social security eligible. Surely Death will be coming to call on many of us sooner rather than later. Yes, we are running out of time. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I was in my studio on the evening of the day Helen died and this little piano piece came to me, seemingly without effort, as if from another dimension. I turned on the recorder and captured it. The title arrived simultaneously with the music: Running Out of Time. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Ironically, the only disc I made of this piano piece was in Rita's possession when she died. She wanted to make copies for herself and another friend. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Since this melody arrived seemingly as a gift to me, I decided to make it a gift to others. On the BUY button, there is no minimum dollar amount for download. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be well and good luck, Martha Maria </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><iframe src="https://bandcamp.com/EmbeddedPlayer/track=1903812867/size=large/bgcol=333333/linkcol=4ec5ec/tracklist=false/transparent=true/" style="border: 0; width: 350px; height: 442px;">&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/running-out-of-time-farewell" mce_href="http://dogwooddaughter.bandcamp.com/track/running-out-of-time-farewell"&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;Running Out of Time (Farewell) by Dogwood Daughter&amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;</iframe></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947922014-02-28T08:10:01-05:002020-01-13T02:51:48-05:00Discombobulated, Paranoid, Afraid
<p>On Monday night, I went on line to check my bank account. As soon as I opened it, my heart started racing and I felt panicked. Someone was debiting my account every couple of hours, mostly in increments of $235.00. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It was close to midnight and my bank was, of course, closed. I called the toll free VISA number. I told the woman who answered what was going on and asked her to block the card. She said that she did block it, yet overnight, two more $235.00 debits went through. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Tuesday Morning: I was in the bank lobby when they opened at 8:30 a.m. I talked with the assistant branch manager, a young woman named Amanda, who has never been anything but extremely helpful to me in the past.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Amanda immediately pulled up my account and went through it with me; she blocked my VISA card (since apparently it had NOT been blocked the night before.) She filled out the paper work to file with Visa. Fnally, she sent me to the police department to file a report and told me not to worry because everything would be straightened out and my account was covered against such fraud. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>The Oak Ridge Police Department was also very helpful. I'll be picking up my police report to file with VISA on Monday morning and taking it back to Amanda. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>FRIDAY MORNING: The phone rang around 10 a.m. It was Amanda calling to tell me that someone had used my card number to purchase two dresses last night at a company called Wholesale Dresses. She told me not to worry because I would not have to pay for those dresses. She just wanted to warn me in case I checked my account on line this weekend; she didn't want me to panic all over again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I am surprised at how much this security breach has discombobulated and frightened me. I have felt unsettled and insecure in general all week. Even though my house and studio have a top of the line wireless security system, my dog barks the moment anyone pulls in the driveway and I share a house with three strong, adult men, I still feel vaguely afraid, almost as if I'm being watched.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Reasonably, I know that's nonsense. In fact, the policeman told me that it's doubtful that whomever is using my card number even knows who I am. He says that there are people who 'sweep' the internet continually looking for sixteen digit numbers (the number of digits on all credit cards), grabbing them and using them until they are blocked. Then, they just move on.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Actually, when the officer did some checking, he found that most of the charges on my account were coming from France. (I haven't been to France in two years.) He says the source of fraud is nearly always Europe, Asia, or, sometimes Africa.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> But this unsettled sense of fear I have isn't about reason. It's about my privacy having been invaded and violated. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I do, however, have a couple of take aways that ARE entirely reasonable. One is not to EVER use your credit card on line no matter how secure the site looks. Amanda told me that it's really not smart to use anything but Paypal on line. Message received: I won't, not ever again. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My other take away is that there is nothing like a home town bank when you really need personal service. My bank is Citizens First out of Wartburg. They have always been wonderful to me but in the last few days, Amanda has been a comforting hand holder and her reassurance has meant so much to me. At times like these, I am so grateful not to be with a big, impersonal bank.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And actually, I have another take away. This week, at the same time this credit card crap has come to light, a woman I went to high school with has been in the hospital on oxygen and a morphine pump, struggling to breathe. It is unlikely that she will ever leave the hospital. Thinking about her and the other fifty some odd souls from my high school graduating class who have already left this world, I have a sense of how trivial my little Visa dust up really is. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But I'm human, likely more fallible than most, and trivial, shallow crap often preoccupies my thoughts. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947912014-02-22T03:12:36-05:002020-01-13T02:51:47-05:00My Definition of Civic Depravity
<p> Consulting the dictionary, I find that 'civic' is defined as an adjective 'denoting of matters pertaining to citizenship.'</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Now I flip to the entry for 'depravity' and find that it is a noun defined as the state of being depraved. Reading further, I find that 'depraved' is defined as being 'morally corrupt or evil.' </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In my lexicon, therefore, 'civic depravity' is an act that is morally corrupt and evil which is perpetrated in regard to one's responsibility for both the common and individual welfare of the citizens of a state. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Getting down to specifics, let's look at Governor Haslam's refusal to expand Medicaid in Tennessee. I consider his refusal to do so an act of civic depravity. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I give you my reasons now: </p>
<p>1) 161,000 adults in Tennessee with low or no income who would have qualified for Medicaid under the expansion will have NO health insurance because of his decision. They are the unfortunate ones, people who fall into the so called 'gap' in the Affordable Care Act. They don't qualify for tax credits to help pay for private insurance but they can't qualify for Medicaid either. They're barred from the entire (both public and private) health insurance system. In other words, they're out of luck.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>2) 6 BILLION dollars of federal funds that would have flowed into Tennessee via an expanded Medicaid between 2014 and 2019 will NOT be flowing into our state. That's right. The governor has turned down 6 billion in federal dollars. Divvy that 6 billion dollars up by our state's nearly 6,400,00 residents and guess what: that makes every single Tennessean (man, woman and child) nearly one thousand dollars…out of luck.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>3) Hold on to your hats. Economically, the news gets even better. Because of Governor Haslam's failure to expand Medicaid, Tennessee employers are going to be footing a bigger tax bill. How much bigger? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> A whole LOT bigger!</p>
<p> </p>
<p> According to Jackson Hewitt, Gov. Haslam's decision is going to cost Tennessee companies between $48 million and $72 million in 2015. Here's why. There is a 'shared responsibility' clause in the Affordable Care Act which penalizes employers if even one of their employees qualifies for a subsidy to purchase insurance on the insurance exchanges. In other words, low income employees who would have qualified for Medicaid under the expansion, will still be able to apply for a tax credit on the exchanges and when they do, they will AUTOMATICALLY trigger a penalty for their employer. And the amount of that penalty is not trivial either. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Employers are going to be penalized between $2,000 and $3,000 thousand per person for every one of their employees who qualifies for the tax credit on the private insurance exchanges.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Uh oh. </p>
<p>I wonder if our pro business governor reckoned on that. In fact, I'm wondering how much HIS company, Pilot Oil and Gas, will pay in 'shared responsibility' penalties. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Governor Haslam is, by the way, a Republican. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Did you know that exactly half of the states have not opted into the Medicaid expansion? That's right, 25 out of 50 states have not said 'yes' to the expansion. Do you think it's a coincidence that every single one of those states is headed by a Republican governor? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It doesn't take a genius to connect the dots. It's got to be political. I think Governor Haslam has thrown 161,000 Tennesseans under the bus just to pander to the hard right wing of the Republican party. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>After all, the decision not to expand Medicaid makes no economic sense in our state, either for employers or employees. (It's bad management!)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But Gov. Haslam's disregard for the welfare of low income Tennesseans goes beyond poor management. It is reckless and hard hearted to deny health care to real people, people who will worry and suffer more, and yes, die at a higher rate than necessary, because Governor Haslam has effectively barred them from accessing the health care system. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In my book, Governor Haslam's refusal to expand Medicaid makes him guilty of what I call 'civic depravity.' It is a morally corrupt and evil act that is detrimental both to the welfare of the state as a whole and to 161,000 low income individuals who are not abstractions, but rather, REAL people: our neighbors, our brothers and sisters, our fellow Tennesseans. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Just my opinion. Take what you like and leave the rest.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be well and good luck, </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947902014-01-25T08:29:21-05:002020-01-13T02:51:47-05:00Are Guns Starting to Affect Our Bottom Line in the U.S.? - Thoughts after news of the latest shooting, Mall of Columbia
<p>It's Saturday, January 25, 2014. Just a few minutes ago, I was listening to the news while cleaning the upstairs bathroom. An ongoing interview with the usual talking heads was interrupted by a 'breaking news' story. It's not a new story, but the repetition of the same old story that occurs regularly in this country.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> The locales vary, though the most common places do seem to be schools, shopping malls and movie theaters. The names of the heavily armed shooters change, though they are nearly always men. And of course, the names of the victims who frequently are strangers to the shooter, tragically in the wrong place at the wrong time, keep on changing….and quickly being forgotten by most of us. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I'm referring, of course, to our national plague: gun violence. The 'breaking story' today is of a shooter in the Mall of Columbia in Baltimore, Maryland. Last I heard, three people were confirmed dead. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Coincidentally, the other day, while riding in the car, I heard another interesting news story on National Public Radio. This one was about a commercial currently being broadcast on television stations overseas. The ad, featuring the music of Roseanne Cash, is aimed at enticing foreign visitors to start coming back to the U.S. We need more tourists. Apparently, the number of over seas visitors to the U.S. has fallen significantly in recent years. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The economy doubtless accounts for some of that fall, but I wonder if our reputation as a heavily armed, violent country accounts for some of the decline. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Today, millions of people overseas are listening to the news, maybe CNN, maybe another network. But I'm sure millions of them have already heard about the shooting at the Mall of Columbia and are asking, "What the hell is wrong with the U.S.?"</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Good question. Not to diminish the personal tragedy of these events, at this moment I'm going back to my original question: Are Guns Starting to Affect our Bottom Line? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Think about Mexico, specifically YOUR feelings about Mexico. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I personally know a lot of people who haven't been willing to travel to Mexico for years. Why? Fear, of course. Fear of the country's known violence. Honestly, would YOU want to visit Mexico now (anyplace other than a heavily walled and guarded tourist resort) given what you know about the kidnappings and murders that routinely happen across the border? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>People outside the U.S. know about the mass school, shopping mall and movie theater murders in this country. They know about the guns people carry that enable them to get off a zillion rounds in a few seconds. They know that guns like that don't have anything to do with hunting. They are guns marketed for one purpose: to kill as many people as possible in the shortest amount of time.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><span style="color:#ff0000">Does it make sense to suggest that people outside the U.S. are just as afraid to visit the U.S. as the average American citizen is to visit Mexico? I suspect it does. </span></p>
<p>And I'm not just talking tourists. What about foreign business people? Are they reluctant to come here and do business because of our violent reputation? Is it plausible that we might even be losing out on jobs because foreign companies are reluctant to open plants or offices here, believing it a dangerous place to send their people?</p>
<p> </p>
<p> I'm just thinking out loud here, but I really wonder if gun violence, especially these mass shootings, are not taking a significant toll on our economy and jobs.<span style="color:#ff0000"> </span></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The fact is, people who carry guns don't carry them because they WON'T EVER use them. They carry them because they MIGHT use them. And it's no secret that there are millions of guns in the U.S., nearly as many guns as there are people. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hard to draw any conclusion other than that there are apparently an awful lot of Americans who MIGHT use a firearm…on somebody else.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> And then, of course, throw in the insanity of the 'stand your ground' laws which seem, to me, like an open invitation to murder someone and get off scott free. Can't ANYONE say, after shooting someone down, that the law permitted them to do so because they were in fear for their own life? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>If we're losing foreign visitors because of gun violence, we're punishing the ordinary folks who are just trying to make a modest living in cities, towns, resorts and parks all across the country: waiters and waitresses, restauranteurs, gift shop proprietors and clerks, taxi cab owners and drivers, hoteliers, souvenir manufacturers, etc..</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And honestly, the economic repercussions pale in comparison to the tragic consequences to innocent victims and their families.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> But you know law makers. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Most of them don't give a tinker damn about the victim, the families, or public safety. They do care a great deal about personal aggrandizement and kowtowing to the gun lobbyists who make generous donations to their re-election coffers.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Maybe the effect of guns on our bottom line could get their asses moving toward some sensible gun law reform.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947892014-01-24T13:38:22-05:002020-01-13T02:51:47-05:00Overlapping Circles
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/813b4ee64281fe37f5a99c4e5017211bb8406636/original/img-3363.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">I'm in Norris, Tennessee watching a mule trudge round and round as he crushes sorghum cane. He's been trudging for hours under the rays of the proximal September sun which feels like a broiler on my skin. The mule, however, seems unperturbed by the heat. His pace is unhurried and patient. He neither slackens or quickens. Entranced, I watch his powerful body, his long, doleful face and big, soft, muley eyes. His eyes seem unfocused, at least outwardly. He's on auto pilot.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> As I watch his impassive face, I wonder if his eyes are really unfocused. Or, are they focused inwardly instead? Does a mule have an inner landscape and if he does, what does he see there? Another mule, perhaps? A friend with whom he shares a pasture or barn? Does he recall the sugar or apple someone might have given him earlier in the day? Does he look forward to finally being done with another day of work, being unhitched from his traces, and enjoying the freedom to move his body, legs and head in a direction of his own choosing? </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Is he aware that his life is dominated by walking in circles on auto pilot?</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">And how about my own circles? Pushing the same useless stuff round and round the house; washing, soiling and rewashing the same dishes; finishing one meal only to begin thinking about preparing the next one; washing and folding the same pair of jeans and bleaching the same white towels; walking in endless circles as I traipse through the woods and neighborhood, lost in my own circular thoughts; driving to and from the same grocery stores, gas station, gym, and thrift shops; rising and retiring in the same bed every morning and evening; emerging from the dark womb of the universe at birth and journeying back to what will surely be the same unconscious darkness when my earthly journey is finished. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Do I hold any awareness of the endless circumnavigation of overlapping, circular paths in my own life? Am I on auto pilot too? </p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">The last words of Jesus were, 'It is finished.' When he uttered those words, I sense that he knew what 'it' was. Honestly, I don't know what 'it' is and I'm afraid I never will. My biggest fear is that 'it' will be nothing more, or less, than endless, loopy circles. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">I watch the mule again. Sorghum juice trickles from the grinding stones into a large, iron cauldron. Off to the side, the farmer is boiling and skimming another batch of juice. When the first batch is boiled down to the perfect sweet, syrupy consistency, he will remove that vat from the fire and begin boiling and skimming the raw juice the mule is presently crushing.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">It's late September and the sorghum season is ending. At our house, we will consume several jars of the ambrosial stuff in the next few months, pouring it on cornbread, biscuits, waffles, peanut butter sandwiches and ice cream. I will season many pans of baked beans with it too. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="min-height: 14px; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Then, next spring, a new sorghum season will begin. The farmer will plant, cultivate, harvest and process another crop of sorghum, the same elixir on which my mother raised me and I have raised my own sons. And so will begin another overlapping set of circles I and my family share with the farmer. I notice that my circles are never isolated, but seemingly must over lap with other beings and on this particular day in late September, even with the round abouts of a patient and beautiful mule. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Be well and good luck. And I ask you one favor: please share my website address, www.dogwooddaughter.com, with one person today. Many thanks. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947822014-01-23T02:01:49-05:002020-01-13T02:51:46-05:00Postcards from the Secret City - In Search of my Atomic Childhood
<p>Recently, a new book titled <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Girls of Atomic City, the Untold Story of the Women Who Helped Win World War II,</span> by Denise Kiernan, was published. It's been a best seller, not only here in Oak Ridge, but even landed on the New York Times bestseller list.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Kiernan's book features interviews with the now very old women who came to the Secret City, Oak Ridge, Tennessee, during WWII to work on the Manhattan Project. Little did they know, at the time, that they were working on an atomic bomb, the bomb that would ultimately be dropped on Hiroshima, Japan on August 6, 1945, ushering in the dawn of the Atomic Age.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My mother was one of those girls of the Atomic City. A 20 year old farm girl from Sugar Tree, Tennessee, she arrived in Oak Ridge in 1944. She found work as a 'climber' at the K-25 Uranium Enrichment Plant. 'Climbers' were slender, strong young women who climbed all over the immense vacuum tubes in what was, at that time, the largest building under one roof in the entire world. Her job was to search for leaks.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>She considered the exciting war years as the best years of her life. No doubt, they were exhilarating, especially for the young women of Oak Ridge, thrust into the heady atmosphere of danger, secrecy, and patriotic zeal alongside brilliant and, for the most part, young and single scientists and engineers.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> My dad was one of those brilliant young men, having graduated from the Rice Institute (now Rice University in Houston, Texas) at the age of 18. He had arrived in Oak Ridge with one of the early groups who worked on the Manhattan Project in a nondescript looking office building on Manhattan Island in New York City. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>In reading <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Girls of Atomic City</span>, I'm struck by the justifiable pride in the accounts of women who are now in their 90s. Like my deceased mother, they remember the WWII years as exciting and glorious: I'm sure they were. I'm sorry not to have experienced that part of Oak Ridge history.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I am one of the daughters of that glorious and heroic WWII generation, the mothers and fathers who, for good or bad, harnessed the energy of the sun and unleashed it on the world. And though their nuclear research and development was also applied to many peace time uses, it was bomb production that was and and continues to be the real bread and butter of Oak Ridge, for bomb production did not halt after the close of WWII. On the contrary, it ramped up exponentially during the Cold War and retrofitting and maintaining nuclear warheads is still big business in our little town.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I'm a Cold War baby. I was born in Oak Ridge, Tennessee in 1952. I'm still here. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The experience of the children of the Cold War in Oak Ridge was not anything like the heady days their parents experienced during WWII. The Cold War years were relentlessly threatening, with drills, sirens, bomb shelters in our homes and the ever present knowledge that Oak Ridge was, along with Washington D.C., at the top of the Russian target list.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> In the late 80s and early 90s, we learned some other dirty secrets about our childhood hometown: many years of horrific environmental devastation and what seemed to have been routine exposure of the population to heavy metals as well as chemical and radiological toxins that were knowingly inflicted on workers and residents by the 'Masters of the Universe' who were the directors of the multi billion dollar business of manufacturing nuclear weapons. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The veterans of the Oak Ridge Manhattan Project have not been reticent in telling their stories about WWII. But for some reason, their children, the children of the Cold War, have been very quiet.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Maybe we're afraid of being labeled as whiners, since we were cosseted and coddled with federal largess in our exclusive and prosperous little federal enclave. But, it's been my experience that, when we Cold War babies get together one on one or in small groups, not all of us have glowing memories about everything in our atomic childhoods. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've undertaken my own project: I'm writing a memoir. It's not a historical document, but rather a personal reflection on my own experience growing up in this ever so strange little town. My memories are not all bad, but they're not all good either. It's hard not to look back on those Cold War years in which thousands of nuclear warheads were manufactured and stockpiled, without a sense that there must have been some mass insanity going on.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Right now, my working title is <span style="text-decoration:underline">Postcards from the Secret City: My Atomic Childhood.</span> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> A couple of weeks ago, I drove over to the east end of town, my old neighborhood, and took some photographs. I've been photographing the old neighborhoods and cemeteries as I write.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Will I ever publish my memoir? Maybe. Honestly, I'm not sure yet. But in the meanwhile, I'll share a few of my recent photos of my old stomping ground on the other side of town. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be well and good luck. Martha Maria </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/6220d45ee146622662305926c7e33feae190a484/original/dscn8768-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">This is one of the old cemeteries, a family plot, which was left when the federal agents seized the land that became Oak Ridge in 1943. These little cemeteries, which always seemed, to me, the saddest places in the world, dot the entire city, in the most unlikely places. This one is behind an old E-2 cemesto on lower Georgia Ave. There are 92 such family cemeteries in Oak Ridge. As an aside, the old war time houses, which are constructed out of cemesto (pressed asbestos and cement) will stand forever, though they were never intended to last for more than ten years. Why? The asbestos makes them prohibitively expensive to knock down. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/934dba32776f65b4d118badbc0ed74c5e3b48cde/original/dscn8879-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Next stop, Atlanta Road. We moved to Atlanta Road when I was three. Before that, we were in a cemesto on Pacific Road. We lived on Atlanta until I was eight. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/62fb6c4265802d888efd06c54c936ebbc72bd317/original/dscn8860.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDgwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Looking up the Road to Atlanta " height="800" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Looking up Atlanta Road from the sidewalk in front of the house where we lived. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a384c2c7c733354fa16d19cc544542d4cbe3c3ca/original/dscn8866.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The old house where we lived on Atlanta Road. The carport was not there, nor was the driveway. The front picture windows (where my friend Esther fell out) are the same size but have been replaced with new vinyl ones, replacing the aluminum frames. The house was not bricked when I lived there either. It was sided with maroon red cedar shakes. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/30a3b3f77910c1405a42ea843515561b07599aa0/original/dscn8845.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The old radio station. Yes, Oak Ridge used to have a radio station. I think the ATO part of their call letters stood for 'atomic.' Their studio office and tower were only about two blocks away from our house on Atlanta. I was a big fan of WATO, and listened to it every morning while I sat in the rocking chair. The story hour was broadcast at 8:00 a.m. After story hour, Mother and I listened to the popular music of the day while Anita was at school and Daddy was working at K-25.. I remember wondering how all those bands got in and out of that tiny building so quickly. I had no conception of recorded music: we didn't have a record player. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/59476899947d9df0bd1559c76ad9759e98bdb6f5/original/dscn8889.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">This is, I think, the last WWII era dormitory building still standing. Single men and women without families were housed in dormitories during the War, where they shared common baths. No kitchen facilities. Other than this one, which is still a dormitory but now privately owned, the dorms have all been knocked down. My mother and father both lived in dormitories during the war. After they got married, they lived in an E-2 apartment at the corner of New York and Vermont Avenues. That E-2 is gone now too, replaced by one of the medical buildings in the hospital complex. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/5352345e7900d798862f6d70b98a7280925664d4/original/dscn88931.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Dormitory Corridor</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/3c713be91e012fc80bfdb60b58a57e049429ab25/original/dscn8905.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Just in case….of an accidental exposure at one of the nuclear sites. A lot of research has been done here on nuclear medicine, some laudatory, some not. I would recommend reading a book titled <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Plutonium Files</span> if you have an interest in such things. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947412013-12-12T13:00:04-05:002020-01-13T11:07:47-05:00The Old Folks' Friend
<p style="margin: 0px;">My father once told me that when he was a little boy in Brownsville, Texas, pneumonia killed so many elderly people that it was commonly called "the old folks' friend." </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">In reading my home town obituaries, I notice that even in the age of antibiotics, a significant number of elderly folks still succumb to pneumonia. I know first hand that not all pneumonias are bacterial or treatable with antibiotics. Some are viral and others are even fungal. I've had all three.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">When I was 18, I had viral pneumonia and was sent home from the University of Tennessee where I was attending summer school. There was no treatment other than rest and time.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Three years later, while at the University of Virginia, I contracted histoplasmosis, a fungal lung infection. That's the only time I've ever had an out of body experience. I thought I might just as easily die as recover. It was the early 1970s, before the modern anti fungal drugs, clotrimazole, myconazole, etc., hit the market. My histoplasmosis infection became systemic and I was sick with bizarre symptoms which flared and remitted for years before I was finally treated with a six month regimen of what was then the new and truly miraculous anti-fungal drug called Nizoral. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Just a couple of years ago, I had a third pneumonia. Luckily it was bacterial and responded readily to antibiotics. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">My mother referred to all sorts of pneumonia as "wet lung fever," which is, I suppose an apt descriptor, as were so many of her quaint, rural expressions from Sugar Tree, Tennessee. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Yesterday, I learned of yet another Oak Ridge elder who recently succumbed to pneumonia. As I was thinking about her, this little rhyme (doesn't rise to the level of poetry, really) took shape in my mind, seemingly of its own accord.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">The Old Folks' Friend</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Wet lung fever, grim as Death</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Snares an elder in its net</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Rattle, cough, shake and chill</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Wet lung fever's bound to kill</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">Before the sun comes up again</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">That's why it's called 'The Old Folks' Friend'</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">I've neglected music and my website of late as I've been working on a manuscript for a writer's workshop I'm attending in January. My deadline is December 15 and I'll be thankful to put that manuscript aside for a while and get back to my first love, music. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">I hope that everyone is having a splendid December. Be well, good luck and wishing you and your family a happy and blessed winter holiday.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947292013-11-26T09:40:20-05:002020-01-13T02:51:46-05:00The Old Cat's Goodbye
<p>Looking out the window, my eyes fall on Mr. Darling's grave up under the trees on the far side of the drive way. My son, Walker, buried him there and marked his grave with a small garden statue of a kitten. Walker, now twenty, got Mr. Darling when he was in nursery school.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mr. Darling had several names over the years, but I was always partial to his first name, Mr. Darling. Walker changed his name several times when he was little. Mr. Darling, on the other hand, thought his name was simply "Kitty." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>He was an outside cat. As the life of a cat goes, I think his must have been nearly perfect. He enjoyed the freedom of roaming and hunting in the woods, but also the security of two meals a day, a bed in the garage, and four indulgent humans whom he had trained to come to the front door when called. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mr. Darling was affectionate, but not a lap sitter. He only tolerated being held for a very few minutes at a time before he'd had enough.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> Over the years, I worried considerably about keeping his rabies vaccination current. He was impossible to catch and stuff in a cat carrier. Fortunately, I have an understanding vet who let me take the rabies vaccine home. The last shot only took me three attempts, as most of the first two ended up on the sidewalk rather than in Mr. Darling, who seemed to be eerily psychic (or paranoid.) Every time I tried to lure him in for a shot with canned mackerel and cream he suspiciously slunk off into the woods.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I think I'm psychic too. On the day Mr. Darling died, as I was walking that morning, I thought to myself, "Mr. Darling's old and liable to die any time. But I think we gave him a good life."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later that afternoon, when my husband and I stepped out the front door to take a walk, we heard Mr. Darling meowing loudly in the woods. I think he started calling for help when he heard us outside.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>We found him, eyes dilated and glazed like saucers, his body twisted and limp, under the abandoned tree house in the woods. As soon as we got to him, though obviously distressed and in pain, he began purring in thanks. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>We took him to the Emergency Veterinary Clinic in Knoxville. After many tests, the vet told us that Mr. Darling, if she could pull him through the night, would not ever be himself again: he would never be able to live outside and would likely be paralyzed. My husband, Walker and I made a decision: it was time to let Mr. Darling go.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the vet gave him his final shot, we held him and he never stopped purring…purring so very loudly. And as best he could, he rubbed his face on our hands and kissed us affectionately. He knew he was saying goodbye. He was also saying thank you.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mr. Darling, at the end, showed such bravery and nobility of spirit. I told my husband that Mr. Darling had given me one last gift, a lesson in how to die. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I remember reading a quote once from one of the ancient Stoics, and I cannot even remember which one at the moment. But, paraphrasing him loosely, he opined that simply living was no great accomplishment, that living was, in fact, something even one's animals and slaves did. It was his opinion that what made a life truly great was not as much how one lived as how one met Death. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Applying that standard to Mr. Darling, I'd say he had a great life. He met Death well.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I wrote a song, "The Big Cat In the Sky," the day after Mr. Darling died. Is it possible to channel the voice of a cat? I don't know, but I felt like I was channeling Mr. Darling when I wrote and recorded this song. It's more likely, however, that I was simply delusional. It wouldn't be the first time. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm posting the song under "Writing From Life" in the Listening Room. I'm also making it a free download. </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, and Happy Thanksgiving to all.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947262013-10-24T02:54:01-04:002020-01-13T02:51:45-05:00Native Quack Grass
<p>Several years back, I was helping my neighbor across the street weed her yard. Her sloping, wooded yard was terraced with Crab Orchard stone. For those of you who don't live around here, Crab Orchard is a small community on the Cumberland Plateau, famous for the rare salmon pink stone quarried there.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My neighbor was a retired geneticist at the Oak Ridge National Laboratory. In retirement, native flowering plants became her passion. She ardently collected and planted them in the deep shade of her long, sloping rock gardens: trillium, Solomon's Seal, several varieties of ferns, wild geraniums and iris, Lenten Rose, dogwood, and truly wild gold and orange Roane Mountain azaleas and dusty pink rhododendrons. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>There was one native plant, however, that was not welcome in Mrs. Von Halle's garden: Quack Grass. It was Quack Grass that we were so industriously pulling as we talked that morning. As we worked, she informed me not only of its common name, "Quack Grass", but also its botanical name, which I have forgotten, as well as its habitats and the uses to which birds put it. That morning, her yard, like mine, was over run with the stuff.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>What my neighbor called "Quack Grass" seems to grow nearly everywhere around here and is impossible to eradicate.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Don't get me wrong. Quack Grass isn't offensive. It's not noxious, toxic or dangerous like poison ivy, which also grows in abundance in these East Tennessee mountains. It's just a pest, pesky to gardeners, at any rate.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Ducks, on the other hand, love the stuff. As its name implies, it grows along the banks of rivers and creeks. But it also thrives alongside dusty road sides in searing summer sun as well as in deep, cool shade such as that found in Mrs. Von Halle's wooded rock garden. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Quack Grass is so tenacious, abundant, and adaptive, I've wondered if it could not be harvested and converted into some industrial use. Ethanol perhaps? Rope or fabric? Or processed and made fit for human consumption? It's probably a vast reservoir of stored energy and nutrition. (I've tried eating a blade or two myself: it's tough, not very tasty, and hard to swallow.)</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * *</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p>As time has a habit of doing, it slipped away. Mrs. Von Halle got too feeble to take care of her garden and moved to Kentucky. Her once spectacular gardens are now all but completely obscured by thick, wiry Quack Grass. And though my garden has never been spectacular, it has, on occasion, been pretty. But over the years my interests have changed. I've tended my garden less and less and as I look out the window, I behold my own private sea of Quack Grass.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Right now, the Quack Grass is blooming with the tiniest of pink seed pods and scattering them prolifically for next year's crop. By December, its green leafy blades will have turned brown and died back for the winter. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">The quack grass is blooming with tiny pink pods</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"> That scatter their seeds where I wish they would not</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></p>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">It sprouts everywhere there's a square inch of dirt</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Takes over my garden and smothers the herbs</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Thriving in sun or deep shade of woods</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Once it takes hold, you've got it for good</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">You can pull it and mow it right down to the ground</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Though you needn't bother, it always rebounds</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">But, what I call a pest, the ducks call a nest</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">And where I see a weed, the ducks see a feast</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">Quacking and strutting and gobbling it down</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">There must be some virtue that I haven't found</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">In the quack grass that's blooming with tiny pink pods</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc">That scatter their seeds where I wish they would not</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; text-align: center;"></div>
<p><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff99cc"> </span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947252013-10-16T10:52:17-04:002020-01-13T02:51:45-05:00The Ring Snake
<p> I hate to see anything suffer and though I loathe most snakes, I can't help but feel a little fond of the comical looking little ring snakes around here.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> They're tiny, no bigger than a worm, and they have round eyes that give their faces an almost cartoonish appearance. Most of them seem to have yellow bellies and necklaces but occasionally I see one that has a salmon pink coloration instead. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Yesterday, as I walked my dog, I saw a pitiful little ring snake at the top of the street. His tail was crushed but he was still trying to wriggle his head a bit. I saw him again in the afternoon. He was, mercifully, finally dead. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height:22px">The Ring Snake</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="line-height:22px"><br></span></p>
<div style="font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">This fellow's so tiny</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">That you might mistake</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">His curves for a worm</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Except he's a snake</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">I saw him this morning</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Thrown next to the curb</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">He wasn't dead yet</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">But mortally hurt</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">His head was intact</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">But his tail badly crushed</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">It was flattened no doubt</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">By a car or a truck</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Some time in the night</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">When the asphalt grew cold</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">And made a poor snake</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Too sluggish and slow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">To crawl off the street</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">To the safety of weeds</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Now I'm filled with pity</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">To see how another</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Innocent creature</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Must languish and suffer</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">A harmless ring snake</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Most unlucky fellow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">With a soft underbelly </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">And necklace of yellow</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<div style="text-align: left;">Here's a happier image of a ring snake, a little drawing I did of a tiny ring snake in a surreal garden landscape. </div>
<div style="text-align: left;"></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"> </div>
<div style="text-align: left;"></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/392372fd426b061006b8dc41af335bd5ad7e4e45/original/drawingpadapp-1.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /> </div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Be Well and Good Luck,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">Martha Maria </div>
<div><br></div>
<br>
</div>
<div style="font-size: 15px; text-align: center;"></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947242013-09-24T06:55:28-04:002020-01-13T02:51:45-05:00Star Gazing
<p>My father was an amateur astronomer. He made his own telescope and spent many hours out in the yard at night star gazing and making notes on his ever present index cards. </p>
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<p>I also spent a lot of time out in the yard, star gazing with him when I was a little girl. I don't know if I just wanted to be with Daddy or if I felt semi-coerced to feign greater interest in astronomy than I actually had. But now, without ever having owned a telescope (Daddy gave his telescopes and books to a boy scout troop when his interest in astronomy waned) I find that I also am a star gazer, one who enjoys walking at night with her eyes on the sky, silently naming constellations and stars to herself. </p>
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<p>My life is much enriched by my knowledge of the heavens and their constellations. I am charmed not only with the beauty on display in the heavens, but also by the picturesque and often melodious names of the constellations. I love the myths and stories about the gods, animals and heroes for whom the stars are named.</p>
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<p>In the summer sky, we inhabitants of the northern hemisphere are treated to the magnificent Summer Triangle, populated by The Eagle, The Swan (Cygnus) and the Lyre. Three of the brightest stars in the entire sky are found in the Summer Triangle: Vega, Altair and Deneb.</p>
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<p>The Summer Triangle is my favorite sight in the summer sky. And of course, who could not love the superior beauty of the mighty hunter, Orion, who tracks across the winter sky? I always feel that the seasons have truly shifted and that another year has inevitably slipped away when I spy Orion overhead in the fall.</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;">Summer Triangle</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;">I take my ragged blanket</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And spread it on the grass</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To sprawl beneath the stars</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> And watch their lambent dance</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The Swan triangulates</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">With the Eagle and the Lyre</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Orbs gleam and glow and blaze</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">On curtains of sapphire</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And the iridescent pearl</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Of the solemn silver moon</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Glides astride the Eagle's wings</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Sublime, serene, aloof</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In her halo of pale blue</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;">How splendid is the pageant</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">That plays above my head</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The wonders of the universe</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Are great and I am blessed</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">For I have as many stars as the rich man</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947232013-09-23T10:21:51-04:002020-01-13T11:07:43-05:00September at Dusk
<p>I've always loved the fall. There's a poignant, almost sad beauty in the dying foliage, the geese flying in arrows overhead, and the sound of the insects' last heroic hurrah in the weedy grass and woods. </p>
<p>I like to take a walk after supper and the other evening, I started writing this little poem as I walked. (As I'm typing this, I hear a hawk calling outside.)</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;">September at Dusk</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;">I pause in my walk</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To look for the hawk</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">That whistles so wistful and high</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To study the trees</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The flush of their leaves</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And gawk at the glowing red sky</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Now that autumn's begun</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The slant of the sun</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Lies low like a long crimson blush</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And the maples look tired</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Against twilight's fire</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Limbs torched and bloodied by dusk</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">When leaves whisper and sigh</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Is that how trees cry?</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Do they mourn because summer has passed?</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And as shadows grow long</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Are they sad summer's gone</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Like a fugitive, vanished too fast?</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;">Do trees wish that summer could last?</p>
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<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947222013-08-22T03:06:31-04:002020-01-13T02:51:44-05:00A Fairy World Apart - On the Cumberland Plateau
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#888888"><span style="color:#ccffcc">I'm blessed to live in what is surely one of the most beautiful spots in the world, East Tennessee. The Smokey Mountain National Park is justifiably famous and it's still the most visited national park in the U.S.A. However, it's always crowded and the Smokey Mountains are certainly not any more beautiful than the Cumberland Mountains, where I live. </span></span></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#888888"><span style="color:#ccffcc">I love to go to the Cumberland Plateau with my husband. We can spend the day hiking among the boulders and along the creeks on the plateau. We take a picnic and eat at the summit. On the way up and down, we see very few people on the trails. The few folks we do run into are usually from around here too. We don't get many tourists in these parpts. I suppose we're too out of the way. And frankly, that's how I like it. </span></span></p>
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<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#888888"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Here's a little poem I wrote as I walked up the trail a few weeks ago, behind my husband, on the way up to the top. It was a beautiful day, sunny but cool, as it frequently is on the plateau. All in all, it could not have been a more perfect day. </span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#888888"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 12px; margin-left: 0px; text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">On the Cumberland Plateau</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #010101; min-height: 15.0px;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">I crawl among the crannies</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">On the plateau's stoney top</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Climb weathered folds and creases</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Of lichen covered rocks</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Verdana; min-height: 15px; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 15px/normal Verdana; min-height: 18px; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">And there I find my fairyland </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"> A wondrous world apart</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Where boulders thrum in chorus</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">With the drum beat of my heart</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; min-height: 29px; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 24px/normal Verdana; margin: 0px;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">My joyful, pulsing heart</span></p>
<p><span style="color:#ccffcc"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#888888"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><br></span></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc"><span style="line-height:22px"><br></span></span></p>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a20f67ce1e13c292bfd90927f02dfbf8706a25e1/original/dscn6129.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/caf4e8a4cd8dbb2f6cff49932ae80036b40f28f1/original/dscn6105-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff">That's my husband, Bob.</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/0935882ac2a7b1b619a15c990361607bc897b221/original/dscn6106-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /> </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffcc">Don't these trees almost look like some kind of prehistoric creatures creeping out of the boulders? </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Be Well and Good Luck,</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ccffff">Martha Maria </span></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947212013-08-12T08:38:55-04:002020-01-13T02:51:44-05:00Withered Beauty
<p>When I was in my twenties, I took a class based on a book titled 'Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain.' I can't tell you that my drawing was ever very good, because it wasn't. I don't have any natural artistic talent. But the course was not a disappointment, because it taught me something more important than how to draw: it taught me how to see.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I recall very clearly the moment when I realized that my vision had changed. I was riding the city bus home from work, surrounded by people. The full spectrum of the city's population was represented on the bus in terms of race, ethnicity, age, economic and social classes. What I remember clearly is a sudden realization that every single face I looked at was breathtakingly beautiful. EVERYTHING I saw was beautiful. My vision had been transformed.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A couple of years ago, my husband got me a camera for Christmas. I had never suspected that I would love photography. As usual, my husband knew me better than I knew myself. After a timid start, I became passionate about photography. That was a couple of years ago. I have not tired of photography. I am still passionate about it.</p>
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<p>What is the source of my passion? It is that photography, like drawing on the right side of the brain, transforms my vision. When I look at the world around me from the perspective of a photographer, even the most mundane things become beautiful. </p>
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<p>Today, while I was walking, I decided to take photographs not of flowers and trees at the height of their summer glory, but rather, as the inevitable decay of late summer sets in. I purposely sought to discover and capture the beauty of life as it inevitably grows tired, withers and decays. In East Tennessee, late summer is ebbing into early fall. </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/ca92bce5829051e551800b168fad3e087146bfb6/original/dscn6864.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Magnolia Cone</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/0b74441f051263b2de7f811bcaea1fd04dd1ab09/original/dscn6888.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDU3MyJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Withering" height="573" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Withered Peony</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/a66b7bd31f3d5347791a218fad3984590f769b97/original/dscn6837.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Lilies" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Lilies Gone to Seed</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/b97b7f3fa7340bd018c78f44314c0ce25f631d31/original/dscn6947.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Grape Holly " height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Dying Grape Holly Leaves</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/16c00b106bdd4b62f8df0a200192fd0c64d2fdda/original/dscn6953.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDQ1MCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Leaf" height="450" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Leaf Burning Brightly</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/3b6deb1ddbd568177db8b746929ec54b33ab0ba7/original/dscn6831.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I saw so many spider webs this morning and they always remind me of my favorite story when I was a little girl, Charlotte's Web. One day, I expect to look up and see a web that spells out "Some Pig." </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947192013-08-03T04:35:14-04:002020-01-13T11:07:36-05:00The Perilous State of Freedom
<p> </p>
<div>I grew up in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Oak Ridge is the site of the X-10 National Laboratory, the Y-12 Nuclear Weapons Plant, and the now defunct K-25 Uranium Enrichment Plant. </div>
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<div>Our so called "Secret City' was built in WWII as part of the Manhattan Project. The fuel for Little Boy, the bomb dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, was manufactured here in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. During the Cold War, production of nuclear fuel and warheads relentlessly continued around the clock, twenty four/seven, in our little town hidden in the Tennessee mountains. </div>
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<div>As you can imagine, bombs and nuclear attack were the ever present mental back drop for the children who grew up here. </div>
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<div>As a child, I knew, as did all my friends, that Oak Ridge was very high on the target list of the Soviet Union. During the Cold War years of the 1950s and 60s, we lived with the omnipresent threat of nuclear annihilation.</div>
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<div> Most of our houses had bomb shelters stocked with tanks of water and stacks of Campbells soup cans. Our schools were equipped similarly and we practiced getting on the bus to flee to Jellico Mountain, in the event of attack. Every few hundred yards, the avenues of our neighborhoods were punctuated with air raid sirens, which went off every afternoon at 5:00 p.m. Our house on Delaware Ave. was right next to the siren and I remember well that deafening and terrifying high pitched wail. </div>
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<div>Many of the children with whom I went to school at Elm Grove Elementary School did not believe that we would ever grow up. We had a fatal sense of doom hanging figuratively over our heads every moment of the day. No joy was untainted by the underlying terror. </div>
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<div>So yes, I know what it is like to live in terror, the terror of innocents being senselessly attacked and annihilated by a merciless enemy from without. I am not unsympathetic to those who live in terror of another 9/11. But I will tell you this: if we are so terrified of foreign enemies that we willingly give up every semblance of privacy and freedom we have historically enjoyed as U.S. citizens, if we cheerfully submit to being photographed, tracked, monitored and spied upon, in every facet of our daily lives, then we have, in my opinion, already lost the War on Terror.</div>
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<div>That old saw about freedom not being free is actually true. The cost of freedom is, perhaps, a precarious sense of uncertainty, life without a 100 percent guarantee of physical safety.</div>
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<div> But, on the other hand, it is an uncomfortable truth that life is ultimately not safe for anyone, even under the best of circumstances. The nature of life is and always has been perilous. We all die; of that alone, we can be certain. </div>
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<div>As for myself, I prefer the perilous State of Freedom over the cocooned predictability and illusory 'safety' of the Totalitarian State, where Big Brother, the N.S.A., F.B.I. and a host of other government surveillance apparatuses industriously sweep up and pore over my thoughts, speech, actions and movements. </div>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947182013-07-29T04:39:59-04:002020-01-13T11:07:35-05:00Who Will Help the Helper?
<p>On my flight btween Charlotte and Houston, I sat next to a Southern Baptist minister. He was on his way to Houston for a Southern Baptist Convention.</p>
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<p>He was a friendly fellow. As he struggled down the narrow aisle of the airplane, carrying a bulging backpack, I watched his eyes scan the seat numbers. When he realized that he was going to be sitting next to me, he smiled broadly as I stood up to let him pass unencumbered to the middle seat. I was sitting in the aisle seat. A young man already occupied the seat next to the window. </p>
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<p>Murmuring 'excuse me' the minister settled into his seat. Of course, I did not yet know that he was a minister.</p>
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<p>It didn't take very long for him to divulge that information, however. I learned it shortly after I pulled out my book: <span style="text-decoration:underline">Advice on Dying</span> by His Holiness the Dalai Lama.</p>
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<p>With a sidewise glance, my seat mate said, "That looks like an interesting book." </p>
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<p>"It is," I said. </p>
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<p>"I've got an interesting book too, he said, reaching into his backpack and lifting a red leather volume with gold edged pages. "It's called the Bible."</p>
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<p>"Oh, I like that one too," I said. "I've got it on my iPad. I especially love the King James version for the beauty of the language." </p>
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<p>"That's the one I prefer too," he said, "because it's familiar. It's the version I heard and memorized verses from as a child." </p>
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<p>A few seconds of silence elapsed, as my eyes went back to my book. Then, suddenly, a question: "Are you a Buddhist or into Eastern religions?" </p>
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<p>"No, I'm a Catholic," I said. I didn't bother to tell him I'm a lapsed Catholic. "But I'm open to anyone who is living in the Light," I said, "and I believe the Dalai Lama is living in the light."</p>
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<p>Then came the revelation. "I'm a Southern Baptist minister in ________" He named a town in a southern state. "I'm on my way to Houston for the Southern Baptist Convention." </p>
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<p>Then, the floodgates opened. He talked pretty much non stop for two hours (the young man in the window seat was either asleep or pretending to be.) </p>
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<p>The minister told me of a myriad of troubles in his church: gossip, feuds, power plays, who said what about whom on Facebook, members threatening to quit, quitting, then rejoining, money and addiction problems within the congregation and his struggle to mediate and hold it all together. </p>
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<p>Then more personal information was revealed. Both he and his wife had had gastric bypass surgery for extreme obesity. His surgery was successful and he had lost a huge amount of weight. His wife, however, was not in good health and had had several surgeries since.</p>
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<p>Then he told me about his daughter, chronologically an adult, but still like a baby in diapers, severely impaired. He called her his angel but confessed that the lack of sleep and extreme fatigue he and his wife suffered with her care was a continual physical and emotional drain.</p>
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<p>Finally, he told me about his adult son who lived out west. After his convention, he was going to extend his trip to go visit his son. At last, I thought, this conversation is going to take a happier turn, but not so.</p>
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<p>He told me of his son's troubled adolescence. He had finally given his son a choice: join the military or get out of the house.</p>
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<p>The son had joined the Army and done three tours in Iraq. "Now he's got a real short fuse," he said.</p>
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<p>"I never understood what that war was all about anyway," I said.</p>
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<p>Then, he took off again, educating me on the dangers of Islam to all Americans. It was their religion, he assured me, to kill all non believers. "They're different," he said. "They're not like us."</p>
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<p>I said little. I didn't tell him that I had demonstrated against the Iraq war before it started, that I had posted a sign in my front yard that said, "NO WAR ON IRAQ" and even I, a simple housewife in E. Tennessee, could look into the beady little eyes of George Bush and the cold, cruel eyes of Dick Cheney, and the face of every other chicken hawk in their criminal administration, and see that they were all lying.</p>
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<p>I held my tongue. "What is the point of commencing a political row with a stranger on an airplane?" I thought.</p>
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<p>And besides, it seemed to me that the poor fellow had been starved for someone to whom he could unburden himself. I felt real sympathy for him. It's the minister's job to listen, to pastor and shepherd the flock, I thought, to be the Helper. </p>
<p> But who listens to the minister, I wondered. And who will help the Helper? </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947172013-07-01T11:01:38-04:002020-01-13T11:07:35-05:00Ruffling A Few Feathers - Thinking About Back Yard Chickens
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">It reminds me of early mornings in Brownsville, Texas when I was a little girl. We used to go to Brownsville every summer to visit my grandmother. My cousins kept poultry in her back yard, and later, in the side lot.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">But Mama Maria's house wasn't the only house in Brownsville with back yard chickens. I could hear roosters crowing all over town and probably from across the international bridge in Matamoros as well. Even back then, I wished we could have chickens at home in Oak Ridge. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">And now, when enlightened cities everywhere are allowing back yard chickens, I wonder why Oak Ridge City Council is so resistant to permitting chickens within our city limits. Chickens are good for the environment. They're voracious insect eaters. We'd have far fewer mosquitoes, ticks and pesky garden bugs if we had a few chickens to gobble them up.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> And wouldn't it be wonderful to be able to walk a few steps out the back door and gather truly fresh, free range eggs? Have you tasted REAL free range eggs lately? The yolks are bright orange and they taste SO delicious. Not anything like the tasteless pale yolked eggs those poor cooped up chickens produce for mass market consumption.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Even large cities like Knoxville and Nashville permit back yard chickens within their city limits now. Chickens are beautiful; the ultimate living garden ornaments (along with peacocks!) And I've seen some very charming chicken coops in Knoxville too. My friend who is an architect has a back yard chicken coop that might better be called a 'chicken palace.'</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">So, what makes Oak Ridge so adverse to chickens? Honestly, the only thing I can figure is snootiness. At the risk of ruffling a few feathers and as a native Oak Ridger who has lived here for most of her 61 years, I can say with some authority, and regret, that Oak Ridge has always been sort of snooty. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Here's the deal: for many years, we thought Oak Ridge was special. We didn't want just 'anybody' to live here. Certainly not anyone who lived in a mobile home, for instance! And apparently no one who might want do something as déclassé as keeping back yard chickens. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> No, Oak Ridgers only wanted people like themselves: smart, sophisticated, and educated people for neighbors. Remember that city slogan: "Oak Ridge, where smart things happen."</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Yea, right…..</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">It's ironic that after so many years of rejecting folks, now we're the ones being rejected every day around 5:00 p.m. Have you noticed the thousands of cars streaming OUT of Oak Ridge every afternoon? They come here to work and then LEAVE in droves! Few people who work in Oak Ridge have any desire to live here. They reject that idea every day.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">It's time, in my opinion, for Oak Ridgers to get off their high horse. We're not so special, after all. Let's start welcoming nice, well kept mobile home parks and yes…..back yard chickens! Lots of back yard chickens.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;"> I wish I could have my own little flock. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">In the meanwhile, I'm enjoying listening to the roosters down in Marlowe. And, I've added a new piano piece at the top of The Listening Room, the third in a set of trifles for solo piano. This one is "A Day in the LIfe of Pepe the Rooster." Enjoy!</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Feel free to leave comments about back yard chickens. How do you feel about them? </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 24.0px Helvetica;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946172013-06-20T02:59:31-04:002020-01-13T11:06:45-05:00Uncle Jim's Freezer Pickle Recipe (a re post from July 2011)
<p>It's not quite the Dog Days of summer yet, but it sure feels like it in East Tennessee! We've had a week straight of 96 plus degree temperatures. I'm not talking the 'feels like' heat index, either, but actual air temperature. With the high humidity, the 'feels like' temperature is well over 100.</p>
<p>So, with hot weather and a garden that's over flowing with cucumbers, what's a body to do? Certainly not stand over a hot stove! So, how about making some freezer pickles?</p>
<p>I opened my first batch of pickles yesterday, and let me tell you, they are hands down the BEST pickles I've ever tasted! And so easy! I got the recipe from my sister, Anita, who got it from our Uncle Jim.</p>
<p>Uncle Jim was my mother's brother. He was a wonderful person! A few years back, I was with my mother in the kitchen when, seemingly from out of nowhere, she asked me who I thought was the most successful man I knew. I immediately said, "Uncle Jim." </p>
<p>Uncle Jim was loved and respected by everyone in his small West Tennessee town. He had a long and happy marriage and was adored by his two girls and all of his grandchildren. He wasn't a rich man, but he wasn't poor either: he made a good, honest living and put both of his daughters through college. He was a deacon in his church but not a religious fanatic. He was, I believe, comfortable in his own skin. He seemed happy and being around him made me feel happy. I don't know how else to describe him other than to say he had good vibes and was a good soul. </p>
<p>He was also a good cook! Not just at the barbecue grill either. Uncle Jim REALLY cooked. He made biscuits and cobblers and spaghetti and fried chicken and ......freezer pickles!</p>
<p>Here's his freezer pickle recipe as Anita gave it to me:</p>
<p>5 cups sliced cukes</p>
<p>1 cup sliced onions</p>
<p>1 cup sliced peppers</p>
<p>Toss the vegetables with 2 tablespoons of UN-iodized salt. Let sit for at least an hour. The salt will leach the liquid out of the vegetables.</p>
<p>Drain the liquid but do not rinse</p>
<p>Bring 2 cups sugar, 1 cup white vinegar, 1Tablespoon mustard seeds and 1 Tablespoon celery seeds to a boil, just long enough so that the sugar completely dissolves.</p>
<p>Pour over the vegetables. Pack in containers (I use the cheap plastic tubs they sell at the grocery store) put in the freezer. </p>
<p>I let my batch marinate in the freezer for two weeks. After at least two weeks, take out of the freezer, thaw and store in the frig until they're gone (which won't be very long!)</p>
<p>You can, and I have, modified this recipe in many different ways. You can leave the onions and peppers out. When I made pickle spears, I cut up seven cups of cukes and left the other veggies out. I also left the celery seeds out because I've never liked celery seeds. You can cut your cukes in rounds or in spears. I've done both. You can pickle all sorts of vegetables this way, not just cukes. So far, I've tried squash, peppers, zucchini, and Anita says carrots are good. I bet those crinkle cut carrot rounds they sell in the produce section would be ideal. </p>
<p>In one batch, I used mustard seeds and fresh garlic. I'm also thinking of trying water melon rind pickles, leaving out both the mustard and celery seeds and using whole cloves instead. This fall, I'm even going to try pickling crisp, tart and firm apple slices (Granny Smith maybe?) substituting apple cider vinegar for part of the white vinegar, maybe using a few ginger slices and cloves too. I bet you could do the same thing with whole, peeled peaches. Every once in a while when I was a little girl, my mother used to buy a jar of pickled peaches. She didn't do that very often because they were expensive. We thought they were a rare treat. </p>
<p>Well, that's what I'm doing with all those cucumbers which Bob is so good at growing. Turns out, he's also good at growing water melons! Much to our surprise, we've noticed the two water melon vines he set out have several little melons, getting fatter by the day. They're supposed to be yellow inside. We've never had those before and aren't exactly sure how big they're supposed to get. And guess what! After WEEKS of being stuck in a hard green limbo , the figs are FINALLY ripening. I harvested my first fig today. </p>
<p>Hope you enjoy Uncle Jim's Freezer Pickle recipe. If you want to share some of your summer recipes, please do! You can write them in the comment section. </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947162013-06-19T09:13:59-04:002020-01-13T11:07:34-05:00What the Wild Things Do
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<p>What do the wild things do?</p>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">The other day, I heard this query. It came from a fellow writer who found herself (willingly, I believe) without human companionship in an untamed area of the American West. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Well, I don't know what the wild things do out there but I suspect that they do pretty much what the wild things do right here in the woods of East Tennessee.</span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Here, the wild things are either eating or they're getting eaten. <span style="line-height:22px"> I hear them doing it every night, as I lie in bed with the windows open, listening to the sounds of the woods behind our house.</span></span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px"><span style="line-height:22px"> </span>Wild things are not gentle. They are oblivious to the pitiful cries of the creatures they are devouring, the creatures they are mercilessly eating, eating alive. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Few living things in the woods get the opportunity to wear out from old age, to simply lie down and finish life peacefully. No, the most 'natural' cause of death in the woods is to be eaten, for in the wild, life preys on Life and it feeds and thrives on Death. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Nearly everything in the woods eventually gets eaten. Most creatures don't even survive infancy. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">One of the saddest things I've ever seen was a mother squirrel shrieking in distress as she sat on the branch of an oak tree and watched a red shouldered hawk eating her babies right out of her nest. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Some nights, it is impossible to shut out the piteously shrill cries of a small creature as it is being eaten. At times, the cries seem to go on forever. Even my dog looks disturbed and solemn when that happens. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px"> Around here, the most common nocturnal predators are the raptors, primarily the Barred Owls who fill the woods with their maniacal screeches all night long. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Their cry sounds like the senseless repetition of a lunatic: "Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?" followed by demented cackles. My sons used to be so frightened of that sound when they were little boys. Frankly, I still find it unnerving. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">But many animals that one doesn't ordinarily think of as predatory really are. Possums and ground hogs will eat the young of other small animals. Even raccoons are predators.</span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Raccoons are deceptively cute. They're actually fierce, dangerous animals with razor sharp claws. Raccoons have been known to pick up a turtle with their clever little hands, rip the bottom off the shell, then devour most of the turtle alive, casually throwing down the shell and lumbering on. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">The woods of the Eastern Highlands are full of all sorts of critters that prey upon one another: coyotes, bob cats, bears, snakes, spiders, numerous insects, badgers, and both red and gray foxes. There is still, on infrequent occasion, a reported sighting of one of the legendary, secretive and much feared mountain panthers. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">I do see a LOT of mild tempered white tailed deer in our yard. They don't eat other critters. Their eyes look gentle and I believe they really are. They come here to browse on my azaleas, figs, peaches, and my husband's vegetable garden.</span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px"> But we humans are predators too. We prey on the deer. I have a freezer well stocked with venison and we eat it several times a week.</span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px"> So you see, I also am a wild creature, feasting on the Death of other denizens of these woods. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">As I sit on my couch, facing the dense expanse of trees, so beautiful, lush and green, I know that the woods beyond my window are not serene. They are filled with millions of life and death battles. At this moment, innumerable creatures are eating and being eaten.</span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Eventually, we're all food. Personally, I'm hoping to be buried in a linen shroud in a 'natural' cemetery. I'd like to be food for a tree. </span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Be Well and Good Luck,</span></div>
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<div><span style="line-height:22px">Martha Maria </span></div>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947152013-04-05T14:33:51-04:002020-01-13T11:07:33-05:00Dreams
<p>I wake up, get out of bed and head down the hall to the kitchen to squint at the clock over the stove. It's ten til six, just like it was yesterday morning, and yes, the morning before that. </p>
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<p>I pour a cup of coffee and tip toe back into the bedroom. Bob is still asleep. I know when he'll wake up too, for his internal clock is just as precise and predictable as mine. Bob will open his eyes at 6:15. </p>
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<p>Quietly, I turn on my little book light and climb back into bed. Comfortably seated with two pillows behind my back and the comforter draped over my lower body, I cradle the warm mug in both hands, enjoying the heat and wonderful aroma of hot black coffee. Taking my first sip, I sit back to enjoy the quiet of the morning and let my mind wander and wonder. </p>
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<p>Uncanny, I think, how I wake up at exactly the same time every morning. I mean TO THE MINUTE. And typically, Bob does too. </p>
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<p>Listening to Bob breathe and Sweetie snore, I let my mind sift back through the landscape of the previous night's dreams, trying to piece together the fragments I can remember.</p>
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<p> I'm surprised to have dreamed about a young man I knew a long time ago when I was in college. I had not consciously thought about him in several years. Puzzling, I wonder why he has re-occupied a place in my thoughts, or....... perhaps more intriguingly, is it possible that he never left them but has been lurking beneath the surface for going on forty years now.</p>
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<p>Oh well, I'm sure there's a lot more buried in my subconscious than my conscious mind will ever fathom. </p>
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<p><em><span style="color:#e6ee10">Musing in the early morning twilight, I wonder if it's possible that we have the relative importance of our waking and sleeping hours exactly reversed. </span></em></p>
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<p>Most of us probably believe that sleep is secondary to wakefulness. Isn't it commonly held that the purpose of sleep is to rest up and restore the body and mind for our active and waking hours, the hours we consider to be our 'real lives'? </p>
<p>But what if the opposite is true, if, in fact, wakefulness is the servant of sleep? What if the purpose of being awake is just to enable us to participate in our other more important lives, the ones we conduct in those surreal dreamscapes every night? </p>
<p> "Life is a dream.' That phrase has been so often repeated as to become hackneyed and trite. But maybe the reason it's been repeated so many times is because of its essential truth. </p>
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<p>I wrote the lyrics to this song, 'Dreams', a little over a year ago. I've been meaning to record it for a while, but have been slow to get around to it. Why?</p>
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<p> I'm not sure exactly, except to say that my waking mind tends to be a self important perfectionist who is seldom pleased with any of my efforts. But, today, I've decided to tell my waking mind to shut up.</p>
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<p>The fact is, EVERYTHING I do, at least while awake, is imperfect. But what choice do any of us have but to keep on trying? That's what life is, I suppose: just one little effort after another with the hope of occasionally getting something right. </p>
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<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Dreams never lie</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">They just surprise</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Like little jokes or puns</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Some things that you know</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And more that you don't</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Are conjured one by one</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">A glittering fantastic show</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Contrived for you and you alone</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">You're the star of every act</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Essential truths, not tawdry facts</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Mythic visions, epic love</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Heroic deeds and daring stunts</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">There you are in every scene</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">The staring role in your own dream</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">A sleepy tourist of the night</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">The unknown country your own mind</p>
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<div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><div class="video responsive"><div class="video-container"><iframe frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/dP1LHJMy914" width="560" class="wrapped wrapped"></iframe></div></div></div></div>
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<p style="text-align: left;">Finally, if you, like me, are curious about the deeper meaning of your own dream life, here are a couple of links you may find of interest: www.dreamforth.com and www.dreambible.com </p>
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<p style="text-align: left;">Wishing you sweet dreams and peaceful sleep. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947142013-03-26T00:57:11-04:002020-01-13T11:07:32-05:00My Happiest Memory of Mother
<p style="margin: 0px;">My mother suffered at least 13 years from Alzheimer's. We suffered too, my father, my sister and I. Alzheimer's is not just an individual affliction, but rather, afflicts everyone with whom it comes in contact.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">My first clue that Mother was developing dementia was a worried phone call from Daddy. I'm ashamed to admit that I did not take his worries seriously. Mother had always been paranoid, short tempered and resistant to logic in general. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">My reaction was something along the lines of, "So what else is new?" Then I suggested that he call Bill and have him send out a video player and some old movies. "Try to get her to watch some movies." I said. "Maybe you can even watch some together." </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Daddy was pretty much house bound with congestive heart failure by then. Now, I shudder to think what it must have been like for him, sick and weak, and trapped in that house with Mother. On the day he called, I had no idea that he would be dead two short weeks later. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">After his death, it became painfully clear why Daddy had been worried about Mother's mind. The general messiness of her lifelong personality disorder was now exacerbated by confusion, forgetfulness, frenzied agitation and fear.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Daddy had always been the only person who could sort of half way keep a lid on Mother. With Daddy gone, she was wild! </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Alone in the house, she became a danger to herself. No matter how many times I took her numerous prescriptions down to the pharmacy so Dr. Overton could sort the pills and put them back in the right containers, Mother would, just as often, pour them all out in a bowl again and eat them like M & Ms.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">She was still driving too. I cringed every time I saw her driving in town with that wild look in her eyes.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Finally, after two trips to the hospital (both drug related) my sister and I were done.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> Fortunately, she had signed over power of attorney to my sister and me while Daddy was still alive. We arranged for her to live in Greenfield, an assisted living facility a couple of miles from her house.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">We cleaned her house out and sold it. We sold the cars and Daddy's lawn tractor. We kept a few of her antiques and gave everything else away.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">She was able to take her own bedroom furniture and favorite chair to her new bedroom at Greenfield.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">When she realized what was going on, she was, naturally, furious at first. But eventually she settled down and became at least as content at Greenfield as she could have been anywhere else. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">And there was actually one benefit to her Alzheimer's. As her memory got worse, her mood got better. She seemed to forget whatever had made her the angry, paranoid, and sharp tongued woman I had always known. She became a simple, eager to please, charming little girl who still lived with her mama and daddy, sister and brothers, in Sugar Tree, Tennessee. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Several times a week, I'd go over to Greenfield after lunch and take a nap with her. She would already be in her big old double bed and I'd say, "I've come to take a nap with you." "Well, alright," she'd say, and move over. She had no idea who I was. But she was always accommodating and willing to share her bed with me. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">One day, I knew I shouldn't but I couldn't stop myself. I had to ask her, "Mother, do you know who I am?" Then I sat and watched her face, for what seemed like the longest time. I could see the cogs grinding ever so slowly behind her puzzled eyes. She looked troubled. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Then suddenly, she brightened and sat up straight. Her face lit up with a genuine smile. "Yes!" she said, triumphantly. "You're somebody who's good to me, " </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">That is my happiest memory of Mother.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947132013-03-18T01:50:27-04:002020-01-13T11:07:31-05:00The Apocalypse
<p><span style="color:#99ccff"><span style="color:#ccffff">"<em>We are talking now of summer evenings in Knoxville, Tennessee, in the time that I lived there so successfully disguised to myself as a child." </em><em> </em></span></span></p>
<p><em><span style="color:#ccffff"> From Knoxville: Summer, 1915, James Agee's preface to his novel, <span style="text-decoration:underline">A Death in the Family</span></span></em></p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>An <strong>apocalypse</strong> <span style="color:#ccffff">(<span style="color:#ccffff"><a style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial;" title="Ancient Greek" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ancient_Greek" data-imported="1"><span style="color:#ccffff">Ancient Greek</span></a>: <span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc"><a class="extiw" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial;" title="wiktionary:ἀποκάλυψις" href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%BC%80%CF%80%CE%BF%CE%BA%CE%AC%CE%BB%CF%85%CF%88%CE%B9%CF%82" data-imported="1"><span style="color:#ccffff">ἀποκάλυψις</span></a></span></span> </span><em>apocálypsis</em>, from <span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc"><a class="extiw" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial;" title="wiktionary:ἀπό" href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%BC%80%CF%80%CF%8C" data-imported="1"><span style="color:#ccffff">ἀπό</span></a></span> and<span style="color:#ccffff"> <span lang="grc" xml:lang="grc"><a class="extiw" style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial;" title="wiktionary:καλύπτω" href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%CE%BA%CE%B1%CE%BB%CF%8D%CF%80%CF%84%CF%89" data-imported="1"><span style="color:#ccffff">καλύπτω</span></a></span></span><span style="color:#ccffff"> </span>meaning 'un-covering'), translated literally from Greek, is a <a style="text-decoration: none; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial;" title="Disclosure" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disclosure" data-imported="1"><span style="color:#ccffff">disclosure</span></a> of knowledge, hidden from humanity in an era dominated by falsehood and misconception, i.e., a lifting of the veil or revelation, although this sense did not enter English until the 14th century.<sup><a style="text-decoration: none; color: #0645ad; background-image: none; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; white-space: nowrap; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apocalypse#cite_note-Oxford_English_Dictionary_p._386-1" data-imported="1">[1]</a></sup> In religious contexts it is usually a disclosure of something hidden. - From Wikipedia, the on line encyclopedia </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ccffff">-----------------------------------</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Speaking from personal experience, I believe that most of us remain disguised to ourselves not only in childhood, but probably up until the moment of death.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Who among us can really answer the seemingly simple question, "Who am I?"</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I can't. I can describe my history, my appearance, work, relationships and the roles I've played, my beliefs, hopes, etc. But the fundamental question of who I essentially am remains veiled. I have no answer. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I haven't been a child for a long time, but I'm still "disguised to myself." My essential self remains hidden, secret, undisclosed. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> I'm fairly certain that the people I've loved also remained disguised to themselves whilst on this earthly plane, limited, as we all are, by our five relatively dull senses and confined to a mundane, three dimensional realm. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> But when my mother died, at the very moment of her death, her face took on a glowing radiance. There was an intense inward gaze and joyful recognition in her eyes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I believe that her inner light was unveiled and she finally saw that it was good.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I think about my mother a lot. I wrote this poem, <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Apocalypse</span>, to her on February 10th. It strikes me as an odd coincidence that an old acquaintance from long ago wrote me recently, and his language in correspondence was uncannily like the language of my poem.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>There is a Sanskrit proverb: "All seeming coincidences, when traced to their origins, are seen to have been inevitable." </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I doubt there are any accidents. I post this for my acquaintance from long ago, for my mother, and for anyone else who drops by Dogwood Daughter. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">On the eve of the wan, wintry solstice</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">At 7:37 p.m.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Your eyes opened very wide and seemed to gaze inward</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Your face had the look of a small child, delighted and surprised to open a momentous gift</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And for less than an instant, I glimpsed your inner lamp</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The light you had labored so long to conceal</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Even from yourself, was fleetingly and radiantly unveiled</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Then you were gone, leaving no trace of yourself in the empty carapace</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Lying withered amongst the crumpled sheets of the institutional bed</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The anemic moon trembled</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And I laughed like a mad woman</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Standing among the frozen cars in the parking lot</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A solitary figure in a fractured snow globe</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Suddenly dizzy as the globe churned</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I thrust my arms outward, flailing</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">but found nothing to hold on to save the icy snow and outer darkness</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I was</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">slipping, falling, sinking, calling</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Oh God, please help me! Please help me now."</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And bathed in the thin white milk of the gauzy moon</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I was born again,</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Baptized by crystalline waters of snow and tears</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">On the longest night of the year</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Home again, I sat with your ghost</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">On the couch, in the living room</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In the gossamer glow of TV and Christmas tree lights</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">We laughed and laughed</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">You and I</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(we couldn't stop)</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">like two old soldiers</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">After a long battle is finally won</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">You sighed, with relief</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And I crowed like a rooster:</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Aha! So THIS is the Apocalypse!"</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em> </em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><span style="text-decoration:underline"><br></span></em></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947122013-03-15T07:08:17-04:002020-01-13T11:07:30-05:00Cyborg Generation - At One With Our Machines
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-style:italic"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em> </em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>When I was about four years old, there was a place in the woods behind our house that I thought was enchanted. It was a sandy little clearing in the trees studded with beautiful outcroppings of limestone. The rough, gray, stones were covered with furry green moss and lichen. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>In retrospect, the most curious feature about that little landscape was the abundance of giant elephant ears growing there. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong><br></strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>How I loved that little clearing! i used to go up there and sit by myself, perched on one of the protruding boulders, watching the trees, my face turned toward the sun, and listening to the sounds of the woods: the whisper of soft breeze, bird song and the chatter of squirrels. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong><br></strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>That little clearing was not very far from the house but it felt like a different world, screened by the tall trees at the edge of the woods. I enjoyed being alone there and thought of it as my special, private place (though I was sure that I shared it with a tribe of unseen fairies.)</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>When I was eight, we moved to another house. Our new house was also near a woods. Those dense woods were the playground of all the children that lived on my street: Becky, Joanie, Billy, and me. We built forts, concocted 'soup' out of creek water and weeds, made mud pies, swung on grape vines and came down with lots of horrible cases of poison ivy. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong><br></strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>Back then, the woods seemed like our natural habitat. We played there, rain or shine and only reluctantly went in the house.</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong> Nowadays, I hardly ever see children playing outside and the natural world no longer seems to be their preferred habitat.</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><em><strong>It was not the preferred habitat of my two sons. They and their friends were mad for all things electronic: game systems, videos, computers, and hand held devices.</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><strong><em> L</em></strong><span style="font-style:italic; font-weight:bold">ately, I can't help but notice that everywhere I go, people are sitting or walking in public, oblivious to their surroundings, lost in the screen world of their smart phones, fixated on texting, facebooking, googling, tweeting, and gaming. Too frequently I am treated to the scintillating conversation of strangers: </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> <span style="color:#ffff00"> ("Where you at? I'm at Walmart. What are you doing?")</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>I'm beginning to wonder if we human beings have evolved into a race of cyborgs. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><strong><em>What is a cyborg? </em><em>Here's the dictionary definition: ' </em>a human being whose body has been taken over in whole or in part by electromechanical devices.</strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-size: 16px; font-family: Verdana; min-height: 19px;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>And truthfully, I wonder if I am not turning into a cyborg myself. After all, here I sit, typing on my lap top computer, my ipad next to me, writing a blog intended for publication on the internet, whilst I intermittently check my e-mail and facebook page. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><em><strong>But I DON'T have a smart phone yet and I hope I never get one! I'm sticking with the dumb phones.</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><strong><em>CYBORG GENERATION</em></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong><em> </em></strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Hyper connected cyborgs</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Populate our race</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Now humans and machines</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Are symbiotic mates</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight:bold; font-style:italic"> </span></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Pets with names like Apple</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Nestle in our palms</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Lavished with attention</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>We're at their beck and call</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><em><strong><br></strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Like Pavlov's drooling dogs</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Buzz and twitter, hum and ding</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>We jump to answer every ring</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Lest we miss a single tweet</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; text-align: center;"><em><strong>We're mesmerized by drivel</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Blue skies and trees are not required</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Fresh air and sun are not desired</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><em><strong>The cyborg realm is all we need</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: center;"><em><strong>Connected, vivid, sterile, clean</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><strong><br></strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> Now I'm going to go take a walk in the woods. And guess what! Today is my birthday. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong>I hope you have a terrific weekend. Be well and good luck. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong>Martha Maria</strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0px; font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 14px;"><em><strong> </strong></em></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947112013-03-10T12:50:08-04:002020-01-13T11:07:29-05:00Traipsing Through the Universe
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">My old dog Sweetie has a new lease (or should I say 'leash' ?) on life. Now on thyroxin, insulin shots and arthritis medication for her aging hips, she's eager to walk again. Oh, and her tail is starting to grow a little hair. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">That's right. Her tail, once so bushy, was nearly bald. Her belly was getting bald too. I had thought she was getting bald from old age. After all, she is 12 years old (84 in human years!) But the vet told me that losing hair on the tail is a classic symptom of thyroid defiency. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Though Sweetie and I are walking again, we don't walk nearly as far as we used to. When we were both younger, we often walked for miles. Now, we walk about two miles at most.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">I let Sweetie be the boss. She tells me when she's tired and wants to turn around. How does she do that?</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> Well, she starts by getting really pokey. And if pokey doesn't work, she stops dead in her tracks, sticks her neck out and, with a stubborn look on her face, refuses to budge until I turn around.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Here's a little poem I wrote last week about we two old friends, Sweetie and I, taking an evening stroll. We like to walk at night. I especially love to walk and gaze up at the stars in the clear winter sky.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> My father was an amateur astronomer and I spent many an hour out in the yard with him and his telescope. Every time I see Orion, I think of Daddy. And in the early winter evenings, Orion is high in the sky and spectacularly beautiful: the broad shouldered hunter, wearing a bright belt and sword, and accompanied by his faithful dog, Canis Major. The dog's eye is Sirius, nick named the 'dog star.' </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"><em>Traipsing Through the Universe</em></p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">The old girl whines and I reply</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">"Okay, let's get your leash"</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">And we two friends slip out again</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">To prowl nocturnal streets</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">We walk in blissful silence</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">'Neath throngs of shining stars</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">That lend their luster to the lawns</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">And sleeping beasts of cars</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">We feast our eyes on starry gleam</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Immortal shafts of light</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">That play among the galaxies</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">In boundless feats of flight</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">And I lose track of time...</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">She slows her pace as if to say</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">It's time to turn around</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">So we retrace the way we came</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Through drowsy parts of town</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Two tiny specks of dust, that's us</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> Together homeward bound</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Traipsing through the universe</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Our steps the only sound</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Happy Trails and Good Traipsing to you this week,</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946202013-03-05T00:01:58-05:002020-01-13T11:06:46-05:00Reprinted from 2011 - My Take on Unpaid Service Work - One Reason Why There Are No New Jobs in this Economy
<p>Yesterday, several people in Philadelphia were arrested while 'occupying' the Comcast Lobby in downtown Philly. The Comcast Company was targeted by occupiers because COMCAST pays NO property taxes in Philadelphia. That's right. The mega-corporation, COMCAST, qualified for a tax abatement. How many home owners do you think qualify for tax abatements in Philly? I don't know the number, but I would reckon it very few!<br> <br> Yesterday, I had my own little experience at the Comcast Office in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. I went down to find out about Comcast's new Infinity changeover and see about getting the converter box now necessary to receive cable channels. I was greeted by a HUGE line that doubled around the lobby. Most people were standing in line with Comcast equipment, assorted boxes and cables. Oh, and you should have seen the expressions on people's faces....would not have taken much to start a riot....and I felt tempted!<br> <br>When I arrived there were two service windows open, when I left there were four. There was still a long line, albeit not as long. While standing there, I had an EPIPHANY!<br> <br>Here's the deal. Comcast has the customer schlepping and working for Comcast! How? Well, we're making trips to the Comcast office to pick up Comcast equipment, to return defective equipment, connecting Comcast equipment to TVs, attempting to problem solve Comcast equipment or system failure....in other words, things that should be a Comcast SERVICE are now performed free by the customer him/herself<br> <br>I notice the same thing going on at grocery and retail stores. The self check out lines have the customers performing as cashier and bagger. We're all working for the big oil companies too, pumping our own gasoline. And then when eating out, don't we place our own orders and carry our own food to the table at half the restaurants we patronize? <br> <br> IS IT ANY WONDER THAT THERE ARE NO NEW JOBS IN THIS ECONOMY????? There is no such thing as service in our so called 'service economy.'<br> <br>Meanwhile, the mega corporations are making record profits. To add insult to injury, they are sitting on HUGE piles of cash and not creating jobs. <br> <br>That's right, the so called 'job creators' are NOT creating paid jobs. They are, however, very successfully (and nefariously, IMHO) figuring out how to trick all of us into performing unpaid work! In fact, we're PAYING THEM FOR THE PRIVILEGE OF DOING THEIR SERVICE WORK.<br> <br>They can't do that, however, if we refuse to cooperate. So, let's figure out how to start mucking up the works. We can start by NEVER going through a self service line at a retail or grocery store. There is one little independent gas station in my town that still offers attendant pumped gas....I'm heading over there now. <br> <br>Oh, and about Comcast yesterday, I told them we didn't need to watch so much TV anyway, so please remove us from the enhanced or premium or whatever you call it service and keep your box.<br> <br>Got suggestions about other ways to circumvent corporate ploys to make the customer do what used to be and still should be paid service work? BY ALL MEANS, PLEASE SHARE!<br> <br>Be Well and Good Luck MM</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947042013-02-27T09:07:30-05:002020-01-13T11:07:29-05:00The Spider's Tattoo
<p>Sorry to have been absent from Dogwood Daughter for a few weeks. I've had a series of unfortunate incidents in February that have kept me from doing much creative work. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Bob came home from Whistler at the beginning of February and brought us the Noro Virus. Everyone in the house has had it now, with the exception of Joe. It's pretty horrible, but blessedly short lived.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Noro was followed by a cold. Not a particularly big deal, more of an annoyance than anything else. But, since I'm a singer, a cold does keep me from recording. It typically takes my voice at least a week to recover from a cold.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And finally, and most terrifying, my thumb was bitten by a brown recluse spider. Honestly, I don't know when I've been so scared. For a couple of days, I thought it was entirely possible that I might lose my thumb.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Thankfully, it's healing. I got extremely good care at the University of Tennessee Hospital emergency room. I cannot praise them enough. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>So now, I'm just plain washed out, run down physically and truthfully, exhausted by the anxiety of my thumb drama. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I told my husband that damage to my hand would sorely test my equanimity but I would try to take it gracefully. There are left handed pianists, after all. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Just last week, Bob met a woman who was born without arms and with only one leg. She does everything with her foot. He bought one of her paintings. She is a lesson in courage for sure. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>So, given the troubles and trials that others have to confront on a daily basis, I count myself blessed. I live comfortably, am well fed, surrounded by loving family and friends, and have much time to do my favorite things: read, write and play music. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But YES!!!!! I am so happy to have escaped my encounter with the spider without permanent damage....other than a likely scar. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Oh well, I'll just call it 'the spider's tattoo.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60947002013-01-27T04:21:01-05:002020-01-13T11:07:28-05:00The Greatest Nation on Earth
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<div class="text_exposed text_exposed_root" id="id_51055edad2ac26a36880882" style="display: inline;"><span class="userContent">When did America go from being a nation of enterprising, innovative people who loved science, technology and were the leaders in progress, to a scared, hateful nation of superstitious idiots who put conspiracy theorists on news programs alongside scientists and the scientist is the one who gets sneered at? We produced and hosted people like Tesla, Einstein, Ford, Gates and Wozniak, the Wright brot<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline">hers and philosophers like Maya Angelou and Martin Luther King. We were the first nation to produce airplanes and cars and micro-electronics. We built things people thought couldn't be built using advanced engineering and science. If someone told you he had a master's degree or a PhD, he was revered as a scholar and expert in his field and treated with respect for the amount of work it took him to get those degrees.<br></span></span></div>
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<div class="text_exposed text_exposed_root" style="display: inline;"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline"><br>Now? We have creationists legislators in Louisiana trying to sneak superstitious myths into public science classrooms and sneering at the Nobel laureates with "little letters behind their names" who disagree with them. And they are applauded for it. If someone tells us they have an advanced degree, we scoff and call them an elitist fancypants liberal bookworm, like that's something to be ashamed of. Now we produce the Kardashians and Honey Boo Boo, and people like Sarah Palin actually make it into national politics instead of being laughed off the stage the way they would have been 50 years ago. The only thing good this nation is at making are weapons that blow up other countries. We've outsourced everything else.</span></span></div>
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<div class="text_exposed text_exposed_root" style="display: inline;"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline"><br><br>We've gone from a nation that saw our poor and uneducated as neighbors to be brought up to a better level, not leeches, trash and dredges on society. We put conspiracy theorists and cranks on news networks and call them "analysts" while the actual expert is a "guest" who is more often rudely interrupted and outshouted by the crank in the 5 minutes he's allowed to speak and we admire that. We teach our kids that it is more important to have a bigger, more expensive birthday party than his classmates than it is to read. We do their homework for them so they won't fail. Everyone gets a trophy for playing and there are no losers because we don't want them to feel bad about failing, and we're surprised when an entire generation can't find a place in the workforce and we call them lazy.</span></span></div>
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<div class="text_exposed text_exposed_root" style="display: inline;"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline"><br>While every other advanced nation has universal healthcare, we still require dying, poor people to pay money they don't have for the right to treatment and life, and scream "socialism!" if anyone tries to change that. Only in America can a middle class person working 40 hours a week become homeless for the crime of getting cancer of having a sick child. And we call ourselves a "pro-life" country. We do everything we can to keep women from having abortions, but we don't provide access to birth control, healthcare, childcare, Headstart, school lunches or anything for that child once it's here.</span></span></div>
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<div class="text_exposed text_exposed_root" style="display: inline;"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline"><br><br>We are not first in education, health, overall happiness, care of our old people, or equality of its citizens, yet we brag that we are. Other nations look on in horror as disturbed individuals go marauding through our schools with military style weapons, killing 30 people at a time, and yet we still proudly proclaim we have the right to own those weapons and will do nothing about it. We are a violent, angry culture that glorifies war and weapons, and wonder why the rest of the world looks at us warily and with distrust.<br></span></span></div>
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<div class="text_exposed text_exposed_root" style="display: inline;"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show" style="display:inline"><br>And the best part? We still call ourselves "the greatest nation on earth."</span></span></div>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946942013-01-23T06:52:01-05:002020-01-13T11:07:27-05:00Tiny Tryptic - Three Decades Distilled
<p style="text-align: center;">(1) Lost at U.Va.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I drink way too much</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Study too little</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Stare out the window</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Aimlessly fiddle</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Diddle poor ditties</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">That fizzle and fade</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In short, broken threads</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And there goes the day</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(2) </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Consider fate</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And how it plays</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">With cruel improvidence</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">It shreds my heart</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">With broken shards</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Of loves that might have been</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">(3) Minute by Minute</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Minute by minute, I'm counting the minutes</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The minutes that I have left</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Subtracting the minutes as they tick and tock</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I'm coming unwound just like an old clock</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I cringe as each minute falls off the cliff</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Vanished forever, into the abyss</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
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<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946992013-01-09T13:39:45-05:002020-01-13T11:07:27-05:00Brothel Dancer (Dancing For Toulouse Lautrec)
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Some of my favorite paintings at the Musee d'Orsay in Paris were by Toulouse Lautrec. Though born into a wealthy family, Toulouse chose to live with members of the Paris underclass. His usual subjects were show girls and prostitutes. Indeed, he lived, for much of his life, in a brothel. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Toulouse's body was misshapen and his stature was dwarfed. I suppose his physical disabilities must have given him an appreciation of and sympathy with others who were social 'misfits' and outcasts.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Many of his paintings were done on brown cardboard.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">DANCING FOR TOULOUSE LAUTREC</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She's over ripe and one hot mess</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Been ridden hard and put up wet</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Blowzy, bloated, painted face</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A floozy that's seen better days</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Breasts as soft as feather beds</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Flop near as wide as her short legs</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">As in the gassy heat of lamps</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">She pirouettes in child like dance</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A shy old whore, with bashful laugh</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Still innocent, despite her past</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Innocent of love's sharp thorns</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Guiltless as a babe just born</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Convent or brothel?</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> She had to choose one</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">When she was a colt of a girl so young</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">For was she not cursed with the heart of a nun</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Destined to comfort the souls others shun?</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I hesitated to publish this poem, but my husband, who is a REAL writer and whose criticism I respect, liked this one. And so, I toss it out into the world not knowing where it will go or whom it may (or may not) please. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946902012-12-30T06:23:45-05:002020-01-13T11:07:26-05:00The Weaver Bird
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#339966">Antique Image of Weaver Birds</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#339966"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/dfd95bf6fecb1ba99aedb639e7b472617d144518/original/lovely-antique-weaver-bird-chromolithograph-print-1894-3307-p.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDAweDQ4NiJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Weaver Bird 2" height="486" width="400" /></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The weaver bird mourns</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In plumage of black</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color:rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color:rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469)">For stories unraveled</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">By murder en masse</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The mechanized slaughter</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color:rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color:rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469)">Of innocent lives</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Pierces and pockmarks</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The fabric of lies </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">That men tell each other </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">About who they are</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">While clinging to guns</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And filling graveyards</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The weaver bird grieves</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In her dusky mask</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">For twenty six souls</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Who shall not be back</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color:rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color:rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469)">So gently she weeps</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color:rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color:rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469)">'Neath skies overcast</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color:rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color:rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469)"> Funereal, gray</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color:rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color:rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469)">As shrouded babes pass</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#339966"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#339966">Be Well and Good Luck in 2013,</span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#339966">Martha Maria</span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">copyright Martha Maria, 2012</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color:rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color:rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469)"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color:rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color:rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469)"><br></span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946812012-12-18T07:38:16-05:002020-01-13T11:07:24-05:00In the Landscape of My Story
<p>I have come to believe that we all choose our parents and each of us gets exactly the mother and father we need in this particular life on this earthly plane.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I was afraid that when my mother died, I would fall apart. I didn't, not for long anyway. And truly, she is not dead but lives in me. My mother is the well that I go to for every one of my creative endeavors. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And Daddy? Daddy is the source of my intellectual curiosity and passion. I still hear his voice clearly as he explained all sorts of phenomena to me, always, of course, from a very scientific point of view. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>How many times have my own boys asked me the same questions I asked Daddy, and automatically, my voice began channeling his voice as I answered? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The parents we need may not be the ones that would have been 'easy' or undemanding. Believe me, nothing was very easy at our house. But easy is not what life is about, is it? </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And though my parents have both been gone for several years, in some ways, I feel their presence more intimately now than I ever did before their deaths. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The landscape of my own family history, which I thought I knew so well when I was younger, is now continually revealed to me from new perspectives. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>This poem, titled <em>In the Landscape of My Story</em>, is for Mother and Daddy. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">In the landscape of my story</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">I re-plow and revise</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">I winnow ancient memories</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">The chaff, I cast aside</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 10.0px Verdana; min-height: 12.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 15.0px Verdana;">The vapors of old<span style="font:16.0px Verdana"> phantoms</span></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">From across the River Styx</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">Rebound from distant shores</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">Now changeable, unfixed</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 10.0px Verdana; min-height: 12.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">And luminous as starlight</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">I run to their embrace</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">Disappointments are forgiven</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">And old wounds are erased</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">Engulfed by sweet compassion</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">Mistakes are swept away</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">In the landscape of my story </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 12.0px 0.0px; text-align: center; font: 16.0px Verdana;">Now only love remains</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">=======</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/ce50073f8d5e8939f6236875ca6e7267a3bddae7/original/dscn3146-resized.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NDUweDYwMCJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Mother" height="600" width="450" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/04a231831ee8771a20d917a05e3929b0fb4ec6be/original/dscn3124-3.jpg/!!/b%3AWyJyZXNpemU6NjAweDc5OSJd.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="Daddy" height="799" width="600" /></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">copyright 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946742012-12-17T02:13:50-05:002020-01-13T11:07:22-05:00A High In The Pines Whiskey Christmas, by Mike Childress
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';">As much as any other Christmas recollection those that come from my childhood in Oak Ridge stand out. For me Christmas was never wholly defined in theistic terms but as much in my recollections of songs and family members and the television shows of the era; Perry Como, Andy Williams, and the lot of them. I have very few memories of material gifts but credit should go to the folks for always putting something useful under the tree on Christmas morning. I got a used “English” bicycle once that I nicknamed the Green Lantern.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';">Memories of Christmas on Ogden Circle are vivid and close at heart. My father’s aunts lived a door apart at 112 and 116 Ogden Circle, sandwiching the Smyser family on either side. We must have worn paths through Dick’s and Mary’s yard, never mind they were great people and very good friends with my folks: the Simmses and the Mahegans. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';">In Uncle Dave and Aunt Catherine Mahegan’s yard was a twenty foot blue spruce. The blue spruce is no longer there but that doesn’t diminish the alpine sort of air that pervades in one of the highest altitude neighborhoods that existed in old Oak Ridge. Ogden Circle has a tremendous view of the Cumberland Mountains, one that on a clear day will take your breath away with all its distant blue hues and snapshots of real East Tennessee in the form of Frost Bottom farms far below. It was a lovely place to be as a child and we were there frequently, sometimes for days in a row. Aside from the Smysers, we were acquainted with the Smiths (Gin was Tom Dunigan’s secretary for years), the Wendolkowskis, the Hubers, Marshall Lockhart, the Snyders, the Vanstrums, the Shapiries, the Ripleys (couldn’t ever skip school up there), the Korsmyers, the Gregorioffs, the Battles, and, of course, Carmen and all her Trammells. Much as you could claim for your own neighborhood, all these folks knew and liked one another.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';">Every Christmas until he became ill, Uncle David strung the spruce with Christmas lights; the ones that are the size of sparrows, predominantly blue and green lights that when lit seemed to actually lower the temperature to its rightful winter mean even if it was a balmy December. After a few years of expertly decorating that tree it became a neighborhood tradition that spontaneously drew all the folks from around the circle in a wonderful display of fellowship. Being the hospitable folks that they were the Mahegans began offering hot chocolate and coffee and seasonal goodies to all who came in an open house sort of atmosphere. When I grew a little older and began thinking, of course, that I was wiser than I really was I began noticing a considerable amount of tippling going on at this event and that folks came from other enclaves in Oak Ridge to equip themselves with a good seasonal buzz. As you would imagine, the kids, revved repeatedly on hot chocolate sugar, ran extremely wild while the predisposed grown folk laughed and joked and tossed one down after another. What hellacious fun it was!</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman';">After a fair amount of mood altering fortification we set out around the circle to sing carols. There were times it snowed and we crunched and steamed and sang like birds all around that tight little circular road. High in the pines off Outer Drive. It wasn’t until I was on my own that I noticed that not everyone mixed alcohol and the tidings of the season so unfetteredly. I guess my folks reasoned that God not only gave his only begotten son, but that he also gave us whiskey so that we might laugh and forget all our travails for a while.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px 'Times New Roman'; min-height: 12.0px;"> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946852012-12-14T00:37:06-05:002020-01-13T11:07:24-05:00R.S.V.P.
<p style="text-align: center;">R.S.V.P.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Thanks, but no thanks," is what you said</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I get your drift, our friendship's dead</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Your answer's curt, you're clearly peeved</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">You wear your hurt on your shirt sleeves</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I haven't called and you feel miffed</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Sorry that you take offense </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">But you want more than I can give</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I only asked you to be nice</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">So worry not, I shan't ask twice</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">R.S.V.P., so short and sweet </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">You're in my trash, I hit delete!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p>There is no more sure way to kill a friendship than to demand that certain expectations be fulfilled. Friendship, like love, must be freely given and cannot be forced into pre-conceived parameters of behavior.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And like the party, life will go on, with or without you. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck! </p>
<p>Martha Maria</p>
<p>copyright 2012</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946722012-12-03T06:49:42-05:002020-01-13T11:07:21-05:00Things I Learned in France
<p>1. It's just as important to appeal to the eye as to the palate when serving food.</p>
<p>2. French women don't get fat because they walk (or bike) everywhere.</p>
<p>3. Flowers are not a luxury, but a necessity.</p>
<p>4. It is important to say bonjour, merci, S'il vous <span style="color:#366388">plait</span> and au revoir to EVERYONE (hello, thank you, please and goodbye) or as my mother used to say, 'it never hurts to say howdy to anyone.' </p>
<p>5. Eat real food, real sugar, real butter, real full fat, but don't eat too much.</p>
<p>6. Make sure you have a good pair of walking shoes that are NOT athletic shoes. Athletic shoes are for the gym and sports. Flats and boots are for city and town walking every day.</p>
<p>7. There is no outfit that a scarf cannot improve. This applies to both men and women.</p>
<p>8. If you need a mid afternoon pick up, grab an expresso. </p>
<p>10. Well behaved, leashed dogs should be welcomed in stores and office buildings. </p>
<p>11. The patina of age only adds to the beauty of everything and every face. Embrace it!</p>
<p>12. Spend time in cafes watching the world go by and talking to friends. </p>
<p>13. There's more to life than production, consumption and accumulation. Value experiences over things. </p>
<p>15. A fried egg is delicious on salad greens. It sounds unlikely, but really, one of the best lunches I had was in Lyon, a salad topped with a beautiful fried egg. Bon!!!!!</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946372012-10-16T02:21:22-04:002020-01-13T11:07:00-05:00The Power of Oft Repeated Lies (republished from May entries)
<p>I hear a lot of oft repeated lies: lies about where the President was born, the danger that gay marriage poses to heterosexual marriage, the bias of the 'liberal media,' the threat that feminists and the National Organization for Women pose to our nation's values, Obamacare and so called Death Panels, and about a zillion other, divisive lies that are broadcast daily on radio, TV, and yes, shockingly, from some church pulpits!</p>
<p> Words are very powerful, creative forces ("In the beginning was the Word" the Gospel of John) Oft repeated, false words, even outrageous lies, come to be regarded as truth and create their own realities.</p>
<p>Since oft repeated lies have power, I'd like to suggest that we change the narrative of our lies. Here's a list of lies that I suggest we start repeating both privately and publicly.....and perhaps, they will become true. </p>
<p><em>''We are a nation of peace lovers."</em></p>
<p><em>I love my neighbor as I love myself.</em></p>
<p><em>I wish to make sure that all children get all the benefits that my own children get.</em></p>
<p><em>We, as a nation, and I, as a citizen of that nation, regard all citizens of every color, social class and sexual orientation as being of equal value and worthy of equal civil rights.</em></p>
<p><em>I recognize and love all people all over the world as my sisters and brothers. </em></p>
<p><em>I do not judge others because I do not wish to be judged.</em></p>
<p><em>I love Planet Earth and I do not use or take more than my share, but rather conserve and reuse in order to leave more for future generations.</em></p>
<p>These are just a few of the lies that I would like to hear oft repeated, until they become true. </p>
<p>How about you? </p>
<p>Here's a little poem I wrote this morning, when I was thinking in this vein:</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Tis better to lie</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Than be unkind</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>Just say it: I love you</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>And you may find</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>The words feel right</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em>A lie's become the truth</em></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><em><br></em></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946652012-10-15T09:16:19-04:002020-01-13T11:07:20-05:00Anniversary
<p style="text-align: center;">Thrash in the ashes</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Oh, my keening heart!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Plundered asunder</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Life falls apart</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">While wandering wastrels </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Plow ancient roads</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Furrowing brows</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">With sorrows untold</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">As from ever more</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">It ever shall be</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The journey unfolds</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">With joy, but more grief</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Last night, I saw you</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Again, in my dreams</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Sixteen autumns have passed</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Since you were with me</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I bid you farewell</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">My love, rest in peace</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946642012-10-14T11:42:37-04:002020-01-13T11:07:19-05:00Inferno's Disco Ball
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;">Sometimes when I'm walking on Frozen Head Mountain and the only sound is the soughing of the wind in the trees, I am at peace. I feel my heart, breath and mind all slow down, and as they do, my sense of time slows as well. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;">When that happens, I wonder about our ancestors who lived in similar peaceful, rural settings without electricity, traffic, and all the other hubbub of the 20th and 21st centuries.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> I find myself imagining that their lives, measured in years, though likely shorter than ours, probably seemed longer, just because of the slower pace of life in general.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;">With all the noisy distractions of modern life, I feel like time races by in a blur, every moment filled up with computers, television, radio, traffic, and everything else we call 'progress,' which relentlessly competes for and demands our attention. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;">Aren't most of us multi-tasking nearly all the time? </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;">Don't get me wrong. I love many of the conveniences and distractions of modern life. But nothing is free, and I wonder, what is and has been the cost of 'progress.'</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;">Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and live in the early 1800s in a log cabin on Frozen Head Mountain, spend my days listening to the wind, going to bed and getting up with the sun, focusing intently on nature, really seeing and listening to friends and family without the background noise of electronics and traffic, and having less stuff but appreciating it more. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;">It's not going to happen, of course, but I can at least go, for an afternoon, and seek the quiet companionship of my old friend, Frozen Head Mountain. Whenever I go there, I always feel like God is there too. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;">I know, God is everywhere. But it's hard to notice or hear him with all the background noise. I hear him best in the quiet of the mountain. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Inferno's Disco Ball</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">In the gaudy mirrors</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Of inferno's disco ball</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Progress cracks the whip</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And goads the dancers on</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Weary dancers shuffle</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Some slump or even crawl </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">But progress is relentless </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And brooks no rest or pause</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">The dancers are not festive</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And most cannot recall</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">How this party started</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Or why they're at the ball</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">I don't know why I'm at this particular 'party' instead of a quieter one, a long time ago. I've wondered, since I was a little girl, why I am Martha, right here, right now, instead of somebody else in another time and place.</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Oh well, as the old hymn says, 'We'll understand it, oh by and by.' </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">I hope so anyway.</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 18px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 22px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">copyright 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946662012-10-14T02:17:03-04:002020-01-13T11:07:21-05:00Life is Messy
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> The laws of thermodynamics tell us that heat energy always flows spontaneously from regions of higher temperature to regions of lower temperatures and, in so doing, reduces order in the original system.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Hence, the study of entropy reveals the natural tendency of the universe to favor random disorder over concentrated order.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">In other words, <span style="color:#ff0000">life is messy!!!!</span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ff0000">To live is to leave a trail of disorder while navigating the disorderly trails of everyone and everything else. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ff0000"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color:#ff0000">Yet, how many people do you know who cannot tolerate disorder? They are the same ones who cannot tolerate unpredictability or unknowns: who obsess over the superficial maintenance of an outwardly tidy appearance. </span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I know a few....you probably do too. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Actually, I kind of feel sorry for those people because, as the laws of physics tell us, the quest for tidy predictability and order are ultimately hopeless.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I was at an antiques festival on Saturday when an acquaintance asked me if I did not miss V's. She was referring to a shee shee and, in my opinion, over priced decorator who closed shop in Oak Ridge. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">"No," I replied, "not a bit."</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> "Why not?" she asked. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">"Because I don't aspire to live in a magazine." </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p>However, I know a couple who does. To me, their tidy ranch house looks frozen in amber and the man and woman (haughty in demeanaor) appear fossilized.</p>
<p> My husband caustically refers to their house as 'the merry tomb.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But a scribbler can never tell where or when inspiration will strike, and as I passed their house the other day, this little rhyme popped into my disorderly brain as I pondered the effects of the laws of physics on human behavior. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> It's not much of a poem really, just a ditty. I give it to you now. </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Priority Manor</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Sits frozen in amber</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Tidily crystallized</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A lifeless reflection</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Of haughty perfection</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Insects suspended inside</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Corpses in gold, fossilized</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">copyright 2012</p>
<div><br></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946632012-10-11T05:31:43-04:002020-01-13T02:51:39-05:00The Merits of Silence
<p style="text-align: center;">The merits of silence, the rabble disdain</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Babbling like heathen, they grouse and complain</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">So eager to judge and quick to condemn</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Their gaze focused outward, alas, not within!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Casting stones without shame, while covered in sin</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Their sonorous prayers clang pride and contempt</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">But what would He say? What would Jesus do?</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I leave that to others, I dare not presume</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Okay, I admit, in my poem there actually IS some judgement: judgement of those who presume to judge! </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> "Mea culpa, mea culpa</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> My fault, my fault, my most grievous fault."</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">All I can say is, 'Thank God for a forgiving God!' We all need forgiveness, sooner or later. Let us begin by forgoing judgement if we are able, and if we are not, by speedily forgiving each other.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And please, if we are not able to stop ourselves from judging, let us begin by first focusing inward, on our own most grievous faults. Amen.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">copyright 2012, Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946622012-10-03T04:22:31-04:002020-01-13T11:07:18-05:00Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep
<p>Every night before I go to sleep, I mentally say that old prayer from childhood:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Now I lay me down to sleep</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I pray the Lord my soul to keep</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">If I should die before I wake</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I pray the Lord my soul to take</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And every night, I tell myself, this may be the night, for surely death will eventually come as a surprise. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I'm 60 years old now. I've had a very generous slice of life. Compared to most people over the millennia, 60 is very long lived indeed. And though in our generation, we have come to expect to live, on average, at least a decade or two beyond 60, there is no assurance for any of us. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"No assurance of tomorrow." </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">The other day, I was in Krogers. A young woman who works there, Tracy, told me that Ellen, another cashier, aged 47, had died in her sleep. There was no apparent reason for her death....it just happened and to many of her coworkers and friends, and probably to Ellen herself, her death came as a surprise.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Last Friday night, Bob and I went to a reception for the death of Richard, aged 50, son of our friends, Jack and Marie. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">And then, there are the 58 souls who have already passed from my high school class of 1970.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Death is inevitable, and indeed, dying is every person's duty....our last duty. I pray to face my own death with grace and serenity, and frankly, not to use up resources in prolonging life unnaturally.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I wrote a song, Death May Come As A Surprise, last March, as I approached my own 60th birthday. No one has heard it other than my husband.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Now, I think, is the time for me to release it publicly. And yes, I know, it will not be to the liking of many. After all, who amongst us enjoys contemplating our own death.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">But, I think the contemplation of death is a good thing. And no, I don't mean in a maudlin or obsessive way. I mean in a way that makes one 'carpe diem,' seize the day. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">The only true wealth is time. I don't want to waste a moment of mine, for who knows when Death will come, to me personally, as a surprise.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I am posting my song, "Death May Come As A Surprise" on my Music page, ironically under the heading "Writing From Life."</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well, good luck and seize the day!</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946612012-09-21T10:07:02-04:002020-01-13T11:07:17-05:00Saturday Morning, Gatlinburg, Tennessee
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I am at the Smokey Mountains HIghland Craft Show and Sale at the Convention Center in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. I am with Daddy. It is a glorious, sunny fall day in the mountains and it is a good day. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I am eleven years old, drifting through the exhibit hall, perusing the wood carvings, hand made brooms, rockers, sun bonnets, soap, candles, braided rugs, corn shuck dolls and dried flowers with some small interest. I have $5.00 spending money in my pocket. I'm wearing my old Alice in Wonderland watch with the pink leather band. Daddy has turned me loose until 2:00 p.m., when I'm to meet up with him again in the lobby.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Suddenly, I hear, through the din of the crowd, the most wonderfully captivating string music wafting from an unseen booth on the far side of the hall. It is unlike any music I've ever heard: though oddly familiar it is strangely exotic. It seems like I'm listening to something magical, the music of fairies, gnomes or wood sprites perhaps. The music is strongly rhythmic, quick and lively; the tone is earthy, primitive, and evocative of deep dark, enchanted woods. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">With the instinct of a homing pigeon, I stride purposefully through the crowd, intent on discovering the source. I pause some small distance from a booth occupied by an elderly couple. She is small, bespectacled and plump. He has a long gray beard and wears overalls and a hat. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I watch and listen as the old woman strums a small wooden instrument in the shape of a figure eight. It has three strings and four heart shaped sound holes. She slides a wooden stick up and down over the strings with her left hand and uses a triangular pick to strum with her right. I recognize the melody she's playing. It's a hymn, one of my mother's favorites: I Am Bound for the Promised Land. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Tentatively, I approach the table. Shyly I ask the old man to tell me the name of the instrument his wife is playing. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> "A dulcimer," he says. "A mountain dulcimer." </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">The old fellow is surrounded by dulcimers. They're laying all over the tables and several are hanging behind him. They're all beautiful; some are shaped like tear drops and others like figure eights; they are made of many different shades and grains of wood, some with three and some with four strings; some have diamond shaped sound holes, others have round ones. But I like the heart shaped ones best. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">The old fellow tells me that he makes all the dulcimers and his wife plays them. She plays beautifully!</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Entranced, I linger as long as I can, listening to the old woman play the dulcimers and talking to the old man. They're both very kind and patient. He lets me hold the dulcimers and she shows me how to use a stick as a noter. Pretty soon, I've managed to pick out a melody, Red River Valley. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I can't wait to tell Daddy about the dulcimers. I'm sure I can learn to play one and I WANT one. I want one more than anything I'e ever wanted in my life!</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">When it's time to meet Daddy, I drag him back through the hall to hear and see the dulcimers. I show him how I've already learned to play The Red River Valley. Daddy listens and watches attentively. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">The old man has a few copies of a paper back book about the history of the mountain dulcimer authored by a Dr. Jeffries, who is a professor of Music at Randolf Macon College in Virginia. Daddy buys one. When we get home, Daddy orders a record from Dr. Jeffries. It's a recording of Paul Clayton singing and playing one of Dr. Jeffries' dulcimers, for Dr. Jeffries makes dulcimers too.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Even Mother, who is not much of a music lover, likes the Paul Clayton record. We all listen to it, usually both sides, every night. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Well, I'm sure you can guess what Daddy gave me for Christmas that year: a beautiful little butternut and maple dulcimer made by Dr. Jeffries. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">That little dulcimer is the best Christmas present I ever got. I still play it, though I've acquired several more dulcimers since then, both strummed and hammered. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">And truly, that little Christmas dulcimer changed the trajectory of my life. It introduced me to the world of folk music and singing, for as soon as I got the dulcimer, I began collecting and singing mountain ballads. My interest broadened to English, Irish and Scottish ballads and instrumental music. I also discovered that I had a voice and could sing. I've been singing ever since.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Daddy never doubted that I could do anything I put my mind to and he nearly always went out of his way to help me achieve my dreams.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Thank you, Daddy. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946602012-09-20T16:03:33-04:002020-01-13T11:07:17-05:00Eating Love
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">My mother grew up on a farm during the Great Depression in the 1930s. Frugality was bred deep down in her bones. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> No scrap of string was too short to be saved; no brown paper bag too wrinkled or worn out to be carefully folded and put away in a kitchen drawer.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> We took fastidious care of our good clothes, taking them off and hanging them up in our closets as soon as we got home from school or church. I wore my sister's faded and worn out hand me downs for play. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Mother's frugality extended to her cooking as well. We ate plentiful, wholesome, but cheap food; lots of beans and cornbread, sweet potatoes, Kraft American cheese slices, hot dogs, apple sauce, canned fruit, Jell-O, Campbell's tomato and vegetable soup, iceberg lettuce, and whatever vegetables were in season.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Mother nearly always bought inexpensive cuts of meat. Chicken legs, ground beef and pork chops were every day fare, with the luxury of a chuck roast on Sunday. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">But, since my mother was a farm girl and grew up where they slaughtered and ate entire animals, she bought and cooked a lot of organ meat too.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">There often was a carton of pig brains in the refrigerator which she incorporated into scrambled eggs. Occasionally, she cooked a whole beef tongue, which sliced, made delicious sandwiches.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> Kidneys smelled particularly nasty while cooking (and I remember they required several laborious steps to make them edible though they were never what I would call fit to eat) and had a rubbery, chewy texture, no matter how long they were cooked or how finely they were chopped.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> Every once in a while, Mother would even buy a pancreas, which I never did develop a taste for. And of course, once a week, there was the loathsome pork or beef liver, which made me gag as I tried to swallow the requisite two bites.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">But when I was very little, what I really thought the most special treat of all was the sweet, tender meat of a cow's heart. Yes, sometimes my mother would buy an entire beef heart, which she would braise ever so slowly all afternoon long on top of the stove until it was fork tender. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I can remember the four of us, Mother, Daddy, Anita and I, sitting around the gray, formica table eating dinner in the kitchen at the old East Village house.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><span style="color:#ccffff"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"><span style="color:#ffccff"> <strong><span style="color:#ffffff">I see a little girl, me, about three years old, greedily eating slice after slice of beef heart while her mother and father watch, with looks of bemused indulgence, amazed at such a voracious appetite in a tiny little girl. </span></strong></span></p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">What Mother and Daddy did not know was that I was not just eating meat; no, I was eating love. After all, had I not been told repeatedly that hearts are full of love?</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">And I was ravenous, famished, starved for love. My own heart felt like a yawning, empty little chasm. How I longed for it to be filled with love!</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">From <span style="text-decoration:underline">Snapshots from the Secret City, A Memoir</span> by Martha Maria </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">copyright 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946592012-09-15T06:32:39-04:002020-01-13T11:07:16-05:00Far Too Clever
<p>Every time I go to Kroger's, I stop by the free book box outside Mr. K's Book Store in the same shopping center. Sometimes I don't find anything worth picking up, but just as often as not, I find that the book fairy has magically gifted me with precisely the right book at the right time. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Last night, the book fairy was particularly generous: she left me several old poetry journals, a volume of modern Russian poetry in translation, and most impressive, a shabby, blood red volume, dated 1928, entitled, <span style="text-decoration:underline">The Story of the Inquisition, What It Was And What It Did.</span></p>
<p> </p>
<p>From what I know of my father's family history, the Inquisition must have played a major part in the lives and movements of my ancesters.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The frontispiece of the book boasts, "Over 100 Illustrations." As I flip through the encyclopedic 527 pages, my eyes light on drawings with captions such as "Old Print Showing Various Modes of Torture, Men Flogged, Flayed, Hanged, Burned, etc., etc." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As I study the print to determine the specifics of "etc., etc.," I am amazed at the inventiveness, indeed, the very cleverness of the human mind in coming up with unusual and novel acts and instruments of sadism. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I've felt something of the same sense while watching reality T.V. shows filmed in U.S. prisons. The cleverness of prisoners in fashioning deadly weapons out of the most innocuous materials is mind blowing. Who knew that Saran wrap could be tightly wound and tempered into a razor sharp blade? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And then there is the cleverness of the Wall Street bankers who bundled, sliced and diced mortgages into financial instruments which made a few of them into gazillionaires while nearly collapsing the U.S. financial system.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I remember having the same sinking feeling as I watched on T.V. the slow motion train wreck of BP's Deep Water Horizon well gushing tons of toxic oil into the Gulf of Mexico. It seemed to me that the Deep Water Horizon Well was like the Biblical Tower of Babel, in reverse, a monument to outsized pride in immense human cleverness. </p>
<p>It must have taken a great deal of cleverness to drill that monster deep well, but cleverness in the service of what? CERTAINLY NOT IN THE SERVICE OF WISDOM!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Consulting the dictionary, I look up the definition of <em>cleverness.</em> </p>
<p> 1) mentally bright; having sharp or quick intelligence; able</p>
<p> 2) superficially skillful, witty or original in character or construction; facile: Ex. of Usage: <em>It was an amusing, clever play, but of no lasting value.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Most telling, I think, is the word's origin: 1175-1225 Middle English, cliver, akin to old English <em>clifer,</em> claw. </p>
<p>Hence, in its original sense, 'clever' meant nothing more than adroit, or literally, handy. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>What is handiness or cleverness worth when not employed in the service of wisdom? At best, not much. And at worst, as history has repeatedly shown, the consequences can be truly horrific: wholesale genocide of human populations, slaughter and destruction of entire species and habitats.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now I consult the dictionary definition of 'wise.' </p>
<p> 1) having the power of discerning and judging properly as to <strong>what is true and right</strong>; possessing discernment, judgement, or discretion.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Cleverness is no great feat. The devil himself is fiendishly clever, though unwise. We are rich in cleverness. Our schools and cultural values over emphasize 'cleverness' to the detriment of wisdom. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I think it's critical that we search for and cultivate wisdom in both our personal lives and public policy. We don't need clever pundits, preachers, teachers, bankers, venture capitalists and politicians. We need wise men and women to lead us toward discernment of what is right and true.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And what is 'right and true?' As John Donne observed long ago, 'No man is an island, entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.' </p>
<p>What is right and true, in my opinion, is that which benefits the whole of mankind and the entire planet Earth, not just a few greedy, opportunistic narcissists at the top. </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p>copyright 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946582012-09-14T00:48:33-04:002020-01-13T11:07:15-05:00I Remember
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I Remember</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember the flat brown mole on the right side of my small, smooth hand.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember wearing starched white blouses that chaffed my nipples and made them raw and sore.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember stiff white petty coats we called 'stick out slips,' wearing them over and under everything, so I could feel like a princess.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember a big brigazee before school one morning when I was in kindergarten. I wanted to wear my stick out slip under a kilt, but Mother wouldn't let me. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Then Daddy got involved; then his belt came off and things got nasty.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember lying in bed in the morning, listening to my mother in the kitchen, noisily cooking, banging pans and scrambling eggs for Daddy.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember fantasizing about tying her up on the kitchen floor and walking on her as I triumphantly waved wooden spoons.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember my bedroom door, the heavy oak grain that looked like a giant rabbit standing upright on its hind legs. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember furtively painting MARTHA in red nail polish on my chest of drawers.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember Suzie and Bear Boy, my teddy bears. I lost Bear Boy at the A & P.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember the smell of coffee in the A & P, the rich aroma emanating from the grinder as housewives pulverized red sacks of Eight O'Clock Coffee Beans. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember Mr. S., the small, bald, and dour A & P manager. He was smarmy nice with the housewives, demeaning and ugly to the hired help.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember standing on a chair, head bent over the kitchen sink, while Mother washed my hair with a raw egg she had beaten foamy. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember Tommy Falkenberry patiently sitting at the formica table, waiting for Mother to finish washing my hair so I could go outside and play.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember Tommy's cap gun: how thrilling it was to hold; the loud pop and smell of burning matches when we fired it in the woods.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember playing Go Fish with Tommy on the living room floor while Anita watched from the couch and protested that Tommy was cheating. I didn't care. I just wanted to be with Tommy.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember Saturday morning, a Gene Autry Western playing on the black and white T.V. in the living room. Mother had set up the ironing board in my bedroom and was ironing the blouse she was going to wear to take Anita shopping. She unplugged the iron and told me not to touch it, then left the room.</p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I remember sitting on the bed, eyeing the iron and wondering if it had gone instantly cold the moment it was unplugged. </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> I remember I did not cry out and there were no tears, but I was careful to conceal my hand the rest of the day as the palm throbbed, burned and blistered. </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946572012-09-12T06:59:35-04:002020-01-13T11:07:14-05:00Insomnia Remembered - circa 1955
<p>I am three years old. I am lying in bed, listening to sleep.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Sleep is not silent, but has rhythms: breath rolling in and out of the lungs, up through the throat, mouth and nostrils, mother smacking, Daddy snoring.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> Anita sleeps in the bed next to me. Her faint breath is punctuated by an occasional sigh and soft mew, almost like my kitten's. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I study the shadowed closet. The witch who lives behind the clothes and toys is utterly silent as she watches me. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I don't sleep much. I do a lot of nocturnal waiting. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I wait for the first wan rays of morning sun and the rattle of the milkman's glass bottles; the quiet murmurs and foot falls from Mother's and Daddy's bedroom as they rouse; the squeak of hinges on the bathroom door as it opens and closes. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>At last, the night is over. I too can rouse and make noise. But I don't. I lie still, listen and wait. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p>Martha Maria</p>
<p>copyright 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946562012-09-10T05:53:32-04:002020-01-13T11:07:14-05:00Refugee From A Dream
<p>Last week, I went to my high school reunion. Many folks, I had not seen since high school graduation, some 42 years ago.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Reflecting on my classmates, our common past and how life has unwound for many of us (and, indeed, ended for some 58 souls who have already passed) I wrote this little poem: Refugee From A Dream</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I am a native of Fantasy Land</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I'd like to go home, but there's not a chance</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">My train's been derailed, I've run out of gas</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Refugee from a dream, is all that I am</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I'm running on empty, lost and off track</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I'm not broken yet, but fragile as glass</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">It's true, when you leave, there's no going back</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">No going home and life goes too fast</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">They say 'you can't go home again.' Well, I still live in my home town. I married my high school sweetheart and we live in the house in which he was raised. But, after having gone to my high school reunion last weekend, I realize how poignant that expression really is.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">copyright 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946362012-09-05T06:05:33-04:002020-01-13T11:07:00-05:00Yard Monkey
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">There is nothing more beautiful to my eyes than the wild freedom of a forsythia waving in the wind.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">So why, oh why, do some folks clip and torture them into ugly, perfectly symmetrical and static spheres? </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">What IS the drive to make absolutely everything fit into a proscribed neat little box? </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">I suspect it must be the small confines of a tidy, unimaginative mind.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;"> And so, the yard monkey arrives, at an address that shall go unmentioned, with his industrial mowers, gas powered weed wackers (he even weed wacks the woods, if you can believe that!) and Round Up herbicide, every Wednesday morning, with the regularity of a clock. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">Old Billy's yard monkey arrives with machines</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">To torture and shred every thing that grows green</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">Wild is verboten, no shrub may grow free</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">Old Billy's obsession is clipped symmetry</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">The monkey's big mower devours grass and leaves </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">He uproots and poisons those dastardly weeds</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">This yard's near as tidy as Billy's small mind</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">But lucky for monkey, it's not fossilized</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">The weeds will come back as wind scatters seeds</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00">And grass will be high again by next week</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#00ff00"><br></span></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Our yard, on the other hand, couldn't get much more chaotic and free. Not exactly a model to follow either. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I shall aspire to the golden mean....gotta get on my own weeds. But I think I'll wait until the weather cools off. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p>copyright Martha Maria, 2012</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946552012-09-02T04:20:51-04:002020-01-13T11:07:13-05:00Sunday Morning Passion Play
<p style="text-align: left;">Last Sunday morning, I was walking by myself at the top of the street when these words came into my mind. </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Passion Play, August 26, 2012</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In the Passion Play </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Of my most secret mind</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I am the Roman soldier</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Who cruelly crucifies</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Our Lord upon the cross</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">With my most grievous faults</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And every time I sin</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I pierce his side again</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Lord, I am not worthy</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To kiss or wash your feet</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Yet by your precious blood</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">You make me whole and clean</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Lord, I beg your mercy</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I never shall be worthy</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Only say the word</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And my soul shall be healed</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and Good Luck</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">copyright 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946512012-08-30T07:42:47-04:002020-01-13T11:07:10-05:00Insomnia
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">I was an insomniac even as a little girl. My insomnia made me anxious and afraid for many years. It doesn't so much any more. </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">Sometimes my most lucid moments are in the middle of the night. There is an acute clarity of perception in a dark, silent house. </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> On Insomnia</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">A tumult of lucidity</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Assaults me in the night</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">I toss and turn, fret and curse</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">My anxious, jumpy mind</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Insomnia's my punishment </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Nocturnal cross and plague</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">I close my eyes, squeeze them tight</p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Breathe slowly, pray and wait</p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">For the sleep, perchance, that binds</p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And then I feel afraid</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">I wish you sweet dreams and good sleep.</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">MM</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">copyright 2012, Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946542012-08-23T14:39:19-04:002020-01-13T11:07:12-05:00An Obituary Foretold
<div style="color: #000000; font-family: Verdana, 'Trebuchet MS', Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffff; margin: 8px;">
<div style="color: #000000; font-family: Verdana, 'Trebuchet MS', Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffff; margin: 8px;">
<p style="font-size: 12px;">When my father died, nearly sixteen years ago, he thoughtfully left his papers, financial records and all of his personal effects, in perfect order, along with instructions, addresses and phone numbers, which we, his heirs, would need in order to close his estate and wrap up all the loose ends of his life.</p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"><br></p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"> He even wrote his own obituary. He left it, along with the photo he wished published, on his desk, before making what turned out to be his last trip to the hospital. </p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"><br></p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;">My father had an orderly mind. He was a mathematician and an engineer: a brilliant one. I remember running into one of his old colleagues some months after his death at the United Grocery Outlet.</p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"> </p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"> He asked me if I was not Andy de la Garza's daughter. I said yes. And he remarked, "You know, Andy was one of the great technical geniuses of his generation. But more than that, Andy was a real gentleman." </p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"><br></p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;">Yes, he was a real gentleman, even in death.</p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"><br></p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;">I, unlike Daddy, do not have an orderly mind. On the contrary, my mind tends to be messy pretty much all the time, and even veers into the chaotic as often as not.</p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"> </p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;">However, I have decided to take a page from Daddy's orderly book and pen my own (sort of) obituary. Lest you think I'm sick, I'm not....unless you count eccentricity and a small vain glorious streak as mental illness. </p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;">And so, I give you now, a little poem, An Obituary Foretold. </p>
<p style="font-size: 12px;"> </p>
</div>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Diversions beguiling</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Intrude and obstruct</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">The myriad chores</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">On the list that I must</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Pretend to begin</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">With some gesture, at least</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">My intentions are good</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">But my industry's brief</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">For music and books</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Sneak up and preempt</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Laundry and dishes</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">My house goes unkempt</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And if I should die</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Tonight in my sleep</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">It shall not be said</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">She was tidy or neat</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">But oh, life with Martha</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Was wickedly fun</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Though beds went unmade</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And dishes piled up</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Be well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Martha Maria</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">August 27, 2012</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 19px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">copyright Martha Maria 2012</p>
</div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946532012-08-03T13:37:27-04:002020-01-13T11:07:11-05:00The Relentless March of Days
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"><em>The other day, I read a piece in the Huffington Post which suggested that some of us who are alive today may live forever, as we evolve from <strong>homo sapiens</strong> to <strong>homo immortalis. </strong></em></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"><em>And I could not help but wonder why anyone would WANT to live forever, at least here on this earthly plane. </em></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"><em>If our days were without number, would it not devalue each day that we have? </em></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"><em>As I age, I am increasingly aware that each day is precious, ever more so as my store of days diminishes. </em></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"><em>I suspect, however, that with unlimited days and years stretching before me, I would waste my days in unappreciative lassitude and laziness. </em></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"><em>No, truth be told, I am glad for the limit placed on my time here on earth. It is the urgency of that limit which sets me to creative and productive work every day. </em></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"><em>How well I know that I will never have enough time to finish every project, read every book on my list or experience every new place and adventure I would wish. But I will make the most of every moment I am granted....until I am granted no more.</em></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">At Dusk</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> Martha Maria, Aug. 3, 2012 </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 35.0px Helvetica;"><em><br></em></p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Voracious night devours sweet light</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">So ends a tender day</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 42px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">In liquid gold , the sky unfolds</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">The blush of dying rays</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 42px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And I bear silent witness</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">To luminous, cosmic death</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 42px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">My span one day diminished</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">I close my eyes to rest</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 42px; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">And pray for resurrection</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;">In this world or the next</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: center; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 35px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">copyright Martha Maria, 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946502012-06-25T14:41:26-04:002020-01-13T11:07:09-05:00Good Morning, from the north side of the ridge
<p>I like to sleep with the windows open. Oh sure, it's hot when I go to bed, customarily between 11:30 and midnight. But I turn on the ceiling fan above the bed and it stirs the warm, sticky air just enough for me to drift off to sleep. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I listen to the night sounds from the woods that surround the house: katydids dominate the sonic landscape in the nocturnal summer heat. The higher the temperature, the louder they sing. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It's been very hot this June, so they're already pretty loud. By August, they'll be deafening.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Some sounds that emanate from our woods are a regular nightly occurrence. It seems to me that animals have their own little routines that they faithfully follow.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Around 10:30, I hear the rattle, rattle, thump of the raccoon family that climbs the chain link fence out back. They're headed toward the front door to check out any scraps that may have been left by the cat. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Between 11:00 and 11:30, I hear the gentle, faintly audible pad of deer, quietly moving about twelve feet away from the window. Their gait is interruped by long pauses, as they stand like statues, listen and silently chew tender greens. Eventually, they'll make it around to the side of the house where they'll browse my husband's vegetable garden. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We've given up on cucumbers, blueberries and tomatoes. At this point, we are growing vegetables and berries not for ourselves, but rather for numerous fat, sleek deer. Of course, our freezer is always well stocked with venison, so I guess it evens out. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I usually wake up around 4 a.m. I don't get out of bed. I just lie there and doze, think, meditate, or sometimes, like this morning, sit up in bed and nibble a couple of ginger snaps. I keep a bag of ginger snaps on my night table. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>This morning, as I nibbled my cookies, I noticed that the katydids were diminished but still going strong. I lay down again and pulled a summer weight blanket under my chin. By the wee hours, the outside temperature has dropped to a comfortable mid sixties. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I closed my eyes and drifted, waiting for the roosters in the valley below to welcome the first suggestion of morning light. Their crowing will shortly be followed by the noisy little bird who sleeps in the tangle of wild grape vines about five feet away from the north window. He's a little fellow with a great big voice. He never fails to wake up with a song his heart.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the sun rises higher, so does the music in the landscape. Birdsong fills the woods. Cows moo enthusiastically in the valley, greeting the farmer, who noisily scrapes their feed from buckets with a metallic ring. A few moments later, a donkey brays impatiently: "Feed me, Feed me. Hurry up!" </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As the sun rises, the woodpeckers begin their search for breakfast and the trunks of oaks, poplars and linden trees become huge, vibrating drums. Finally, as I get out of bed to go hunt up my first cup of coffee, I hear the high pitched electronic beep of a truck backing up. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>And so another day begins on the ridge. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Happy Monday from the north side of the ridge. I hope you have a good, productive and happy week.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be well and good luck.</p>
<p> Martha Maria </p>
<p>copyright 2012, Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946452012-06-13T14:41:58-04:002020-01-13T11:07:06-05:00Books and Music
<p>I just sneaked into the house with my latest bag of books. My husband is watching the news on the couch in the living room and so I safely smuggled my new treasures, unseen, out to my studio behind the house.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>What did I bring home this time? Not much, really. A couple of music books, a folio of transcripts of interviews conducted by Bill Moyers with a variety of interesting folks, and an old American Home magazine.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> I didn't pay much for any of them either. They were all bought for a pittance at the local Salvation Army.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I still have a copy of a letter my grandfather wrote to my father when he was a young, unmarried man, first arrived in this Tennessee backwater called Oak Ridge. He was worried that my father would not be able to find good reading material in Tennessee. After describing the Emil Zola book he had just finished reading (in which he mentions that Emil Zola's description of the New World Man reminded him of his then 21 year old son, destined to one day become my father) he wrote, 'Remember, son, money is never wasted on good books.' </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I quote my grandfather frequently to my husband as I search book shelves in thrift stores and pick up old volumes at flea markets. His reply is always, "You waste money if you don't read them. You have more books than you will EVER read." </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Perhaps....but perhaps not. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> I remember when I was reading Marcus Aurelius and felt that I knew that good Roman soul, now gone for nearly 2000 years, better than most people I will ever talk with in the flesh. I count Marcus Aurelius, as I do so many other great writers (and composers!) as a true friend. When I buy a book, it is because I have a sense that the author might become, even from the realm of another age, a cherished friend and soul mate.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It's true that I have too much stuff. Heck, we're drowning in stuff. We live in the house where my husband grew up, so when we moved in, the house was already full of his parents and brother's stuff. We brought all of our and our children's stuff and when my parents died, we brought a lot of their stuff over here too.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Our house is way too crowded. I understand that on several levels, less could be more.....more room to breath and less stuff to clean! But I'm one of those people who can't live without music, LOTS of music. And I am happiest when I am surrounded by books. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: center;">Less is really more</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: center;">Let it go if you don't use it</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: center;">Except, of course, for books</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: center;">They're friends and so is music</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: left;">Be well and good luck. MM</p>
<p style="padding-left: 30px; text-align: left;">copyright 2012, Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946482012-06-12T13:13:29-04:002020-01-13T11:07:08-05:00While You Are Asleep
<p><img src="//d10j3mvrs1suex.cloudfront.net/u/429717/276db4631810a04637883750f398b497a7fe5578/original/545593-458397497521830-1526381425-n.jpg/!!/b%3AW10%3D.jpg" class="size_orig justify_inline border_" alt="While You Are Asleep" /></p>
<p> </p>
<p>I saw this sign on Facebook last Friday. It immediately resonated with me. I often feel like a sleepwalker among other sleepwalkers. Do you ever feel that way?</p>
<p>When I woke up around six a.m. on Saturday morning, I turned on the light while still in bed and wrote a song, "While You Are Asleep." </p>
<p>I recorded it on Monday. It's a free download on my Music page. It's under the section titled: Music and Songs Inspired by the Occupy and other Progressive Social Movements. </p>
<p>Enjoy it and share it as freely as you wish.</p>
<p>Be well and good luck. MM</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946462012-06-02T01:53:11-04:002020-01-13T11:07:06-05:00What's happened to strawberries?
<p>Have you noticed that the berries that come from California keep getting bigger and bigger and BIGGER? Does it seem to you that the bigger they get, the more tasteless they become?</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I heard a story a couple of weeks ago on National Public Radio about how California strawberries are grown. They nearly all come from one intensively farmed area and guess what! Just about all the plants are clones! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mickey's Produce on Jefferson Circle in Oak Ridge has been carrying Tennessee strawberries this spring. I thought all the Tennessee berries were gone, but Mickey's had more yesterday.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> There's nothing like the taste of a real strawberry grown in good old Tennessee dirt! </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Oh, I know, they're not nearly as BIG as those tasteless and cloned monstrosities from California. Who cares? Not me! It's all about taste in my book. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Driving away from Mickey's yesterday, this little rhyme flitted through my head:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Those Golden State berries </p>
<p>Don't taste like they should</p>
<p>They're spongy and bland</p>
<p>And not any good</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>They're more manufactured</p>
<p>Than they are grown</p>
<p>I heard on the news</p>
<p>They all come from clones</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Give me strawberries</p>
<p>That taste like the earth</p>
<p>Small, red and juicy</p>
<p>From Tennessee dirt!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Later this week, I'll write about Mommy Jean's company strawberry dessert. It's delicious and makes a beautiful presentation as well.</p>
<p> Hope ya'll have a good weekend.</p>
<p> Martha Maria </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>copyright Martha Maria, June 2, 2012</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946442012-06-01T00:20:20-04:002020-01-13T11:07:05-05:00Disembodied Souls
<p>On my solitary hikes</p>
<p>I am not alone</p>
<p>But walking with the dead</p>
<p>And talking to their ghosts</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>My mother and my father</p>
<p>And other kindly souls</p>
<p>Often walk beside me</p>
<p>On empty country roads</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Listening to the wind</p>
<p> We talk in quiet tones</p>
<p>Or shake our heads in wonder</p>
<p>And ponder where time goes</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I walk most every morning</p>
<p>With those whom I've loved most</p>
<p>My best and dear companions</p>
<p>Are disembodied souls</p>
<p> </p>
<p>copyright Martha Maria </p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946422012-05-31T07:40:13-04:002020-01-13T11:07:03-05:00Why I Climb & Good Luck, Walker!
<p>Looking back, I have a sense</p>
<p>That each year's like a precipice</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Stair steps on a steep ascent</p>
<p>A bridge across a deep abyss</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Sometimes I climb in dismal mist</p>
<p>Stumbling blind, at mortal risk</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But oh, the glory, when I glimpse</p>
<p>The beauty of the solar disk</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Majestic, radiant, golden eye</p>
<p>Above the clouds, a Love sublime</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Everlasting Warmth and Light</p>
<p>Then I remember why I climb</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Copyright Martha Maria, May 31, 2012</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Today is a big day in our family. My younger son, Walker, is graduating from high school. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I was nearly 42 when I had Walker, an older mother for sure. So, as Walker marks the end of childhood and the beginning of the seasons of his adult life, I am keenly aware of the foreshortened vista of my own.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>We are all, I believe, pilgrims of sorts. The pilgrim's journey is more arduous for some than for others. I was blessed to have been born into a world of physical ease and comfort. In all honesty, the steepness of my climb has been a function of my own willfullness and stupidity more than circumstances.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> I hope that Walker's learning curve will be less steep than mine, his climb easier. But we all have to find our own way. It's time for Mom to let go and let Walker find his. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I suppose it is the hope of all parents that their children's path be less steep and arduous than their own. Good Luck, Walker....you're still my baby.</p>
<p>Love, </p>
<p>Mom</p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946412012-05-28T04:15:29-04:002020-01-13T11:07:03-05:00A Poem for the Living
<p>A few months back, a friend, younger than myself, lost her husband. He died as the result of a medical accident. Her mother asked me if I would write a poem for her daughter. </p>
<p>Later that morning, as I walked up and down our circle, these words came to me. It seems fitting on Memorial Day to post a poem for the living who grieve the dead. Whether we lose someone we love from accident, war, disease or old age, we all, eventually, grieve someone. We immortalize them in our memories. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I don't have any words</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To soothe your aching heart</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">If there are words of comfort</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I don't know what they are</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And even though we all know</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A truth, it's hard to face:</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The tragedy of living is</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">That life is never safe</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Our earthly journey's brief</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">We're spirits clothed in dust</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Traveling to we know not where</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Immortalized by love</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">I hope you have a good Memorial Day and that you and your kin are immortalized by love. That's all I hope for in this life.</p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and good luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="text-align: left;">copyright 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946392012-05-20T14:52:01-04:002020-01-13T11:07:02-05:00Sing a Song of Sorrow
<p>Sing a song of sorrow</p>
<p>For those who close their eyes</p>
<p>And study willful ignorance</p>
<p>Pretending to be blind</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And sing a song of sorrow</p>
<p>For the sickness that infects</p>
<p>Those who love the children</p>
<p>And show it with neglect</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Sing a song of sorrow</p>
<p>A woeful threnody</p>
<p>For the people we once were</p>
<p>And who we've come to be</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Sing a song of sorrow</p>
<p>For you, and yes.....for me</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Copyright, Martha Maria, May 20, 2012</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be well and good luck. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946382012-05-17T10:43:14-04:002020-01-13T11:07:01-05:00Energy Equals Many Citizens Working Together
<p> </p>
<blockquote style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: medium;">
<div style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; -webkit-line-break: after-white-space;">
<div style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 42px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><strong>E = mc2</strong></div>
<div style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 28px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">Energy Equals Many Citizens Working Together</div>
<div style="text-align: center; font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">There's no doubt that Oak Ridge could use a facelift. I applaud City Manager Mark Watson and our Oak Ridge City Council members for recognizing and attempting to address this need with their "Not In Our City" initiative. I think, however, that "Not In Our City" has some problems: 1) it's a whole lot of stick and not much carrot 2) it creates an adversarial relationship between the City and its residents and potentially pits neighbor against neighbor and 3) it is piece meal in its approach and lacks an overarching vision. </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">How about this as an alternative? It even has a catchy slogan. In honor of Einstein, let's call it E = mc2, Energy Equals Many Citizens Working Together</div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">Did you know that all of the Oak Ridge cemesto and flat top neighborhoods are already on the National Register of Historic Places? That's a great plus for our city and something we should be capitalizing on! </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">My idea for the Oak Ridge Historic District neighborhoods makes three assumptions: 1) words matter 2) a fresh coat of paint can go a long way toward creating charm and beauty and 3) there can and should be a certain panache to living in a National Historic District. </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">The words we currently use to describe Oak Ridge's WW II era houses are devoid of charm. (Realtors and Chamber types, listen up, please!) The words 'cemestos,' 'alphabet houses,' and 'flattops' are NOT words that captivate the imaginations of potential buyers, especially newcomers to the area. I like the words 'cottages' and 'bungalows' and I think that they are actually appropriate for the style of housing we have. In fact, it's my understanding that the cemesto house plans were modeled on Cape Cod style gabled cottages. I think it's time to rebrand and market our cemestos as "Oak Ridge Historic Cottages" (floor plans A,B,C,D, and F) and our flattops as "Oak Ridge Historic Bungalows." </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"> </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">New exterior paint could really freshen up a lot of our old houses and give the historic neighborhoods a facelift. But we need a carrot to incentivize home owners to paint. I propose GIVING them the paint! That's right. I'm suggesting that the City of Oak Ridge buy house paint in a range of compatible colors and give it to home owners free of charge. Right now, you're probably thinking, "That woman's crazy, where does she think Oak Ridge is going to get that kind of money?"</div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"> </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">Well, here's an idea: let's fire our D.C. and Nashville lobbyists! They never bring home the bacon anyway and in this age of fiscal austerity, they're not going to either. We could buy enough paint for every single WW II era house in Oak Ridge with what we're currently wasting on extravagant lobbyists' fees. And really, isn't it time to stop waiting for DOE largess to materialize? It's not going to happen. Instead, let's take control of our own destiny and undertake an initiative with home grown energy and resources. </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;"> Once home owners have completed exterior painting and passed a City inspection (which would necessarily include a check list, some of which will come from the current 'Not In Our City' initiative, like paved or graveled parking spaces, no junked cars, etc.) I think the City should offer two more carrots: a small break on property taxes (for a period of years to be determined) and the right to display an Oak Ridge National Historic District plaque on the home exterior. </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;"> Historic plaques are key to developing a sense of pride and panache in living in a National Historic District. I envision three plaque designs: an atom, an oak leaf and a wild cat. Qualifying home owners would be permitted to purchase a plaque at cost from the City. </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">And finally, while we're at it, let's encourage a few window boxes, gardens and flower pots because, honestly, they are the kind of small and inexpensive things that lend an air of grace and charm to a neighborhood.</div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">Of course, realistically, carrots are not always enough and a stick or two would be built into the system. Free paint would have to come with a commitment from the home owner to complete painting within an agreed upon time period. Incomplete paint jobs would meet with the City stick, in the form of escalating City fines. And, of course, given the variety of materials that have been used over the years to cover the original cemesto exteriors, paint cannot be the only route to qualifying for the tax break and plaque. A checklist of eligibility requirements will have to be developed. And yes, implementation of E = mc2 will necessitate the willingness and cooperation of our City agencies and employees, but that's what we pay public servants for, right? </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">I have a feeling that now might be the time for Oak Ridge's older housing stock to enjoy a Renaissance. Why? McMansions are out and small, economical housing is in. The age of excess appears to be over. In fact, if you Google 'micro houses' you'll see what I mean. The internet is full of information about the micro housing movement, where to get micro house plans, etc. Oak Ridge already has an abundant stock of micro and semi-micro housing in bungalows (flattops) and cottages (cemestos) A and B floor plans. Most of the historic houses are comfortable and have amenities people want: hardwood floors, brick fireplaces, light filled rooms, yards with mature trees, and walkable neighborhoods bordered by lush greenbelts. </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">I know E = mc2 sounds like a big, even grand vision. That's because it is! It really will require 'Many Citizens Working Together' and it won't happen over night. But Oak Ridgers have a history of collectively taking on big challenges and seeing them through to completion. There's not much Oak Ridgers can't do when they put their minds, hearts, hands and considerable energy together. </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;">So what do you think? Do you like any of these ideas? Have you got some of your own? Let's start a public dialogue, write some letters, call our Council members and see what happens. </div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 20px; margin: 0px;"></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 17px/normal Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><em><br></em></div>
</div>
</blockquote>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946352012-05-10T07:12:22-04:002020-01-13T11:06:59-05:00A Series of Moments
<p> </p>
<p>A series of moments</p>
<p>Slips through my hands</p>
<p>Life's more elusive</p>
<p>Than fine grains of sand</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>If I could just capture</p>
<p>Each moment in glass</p>
<p>I'd take out and savor</p>
<p>The jewels from my past</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The call of the dove</p>
<p>In the glow of first light</p>
<p>The screech of the owl</p>
<p>At the falling of night</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>But I'm no magician</p>
<p>And moments don't last</p>
<p>A series of moments</p>
<p>Is all that I have</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A series of moments</p>
<p>Eluding my grasp</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martha Maria, May 10, 2012</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946332012-05-04T12:19:02-04:002020-01-13T11:06:57-05:00Long Lost Friends
<p>In the world I used to know</p>
<p>I heard many stories told</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>By wind and rain, trees and grass</p>
<p>Birds and clouds, my dolls and cats</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Even rocks were so alive</p>
<p>Imbued with spirit, breathed and sighed</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And I was tuned to every voice</p>
<p>That droned and hummed with joyful noise</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I was never lonely then</p>
<p>I walked amongst a host of friends</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>All Creation was my kin</p>
<p>I'd like to find that world again </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I need to hear those long lost friends</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I like to walk on Frozen Head Mountain. That's where I'm most likely to hear the voices of my old friends, the wind and the trees and the gurgle of living water. I NEED to walk on Frozen Head Mountain this weekend, to reconnect with the earth, sky and myself. </p>
<p>I hope you find your old friends this weekend too.</p>
<p>Be well and good luck.</p>
<p>MM</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946342012-05-04T03:18:51-04:002020-01-13T11:06:58-05:00Silence
<p>Poems emerge from silence</p>
<p>Prayers from gratitude</p>
<p>Hymns from the embrace</p>
<p>Of blessed solitude</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>For in the space of silence</p>
<p>There is a Higher Mind</p>
<p>Generous, overflowing,</p>
<p>Creative and divine</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Composed, in the space of silence (except for bird song!) on May 3, 2012. </p>
<p>For me, living creatively requires a lot of silence and solitude. I used to flee solitude. Flee myself, really. Perhaps it is one of the comforts of age, but I find that I spend most of my time in solitude now. In fact, I rarely leave home and studio, except for a twice weekly yoga class, walks, and an occasional foray to the Good Will. And, of course, grocery shopping. </p>
<p>I'm also keenly aware of how lucky I am to enjoy the luxury of solitude. Frankly, if I had to make my own living, I'd probably be cashiering down at WalMart. I owe my husband, Bob Fowler, thanks and love every day for being my support, both literally and figuratively. Bob is, and always has been, the wind beneath my wings. I am grateful. </p>
<p>Be well and good luck,</p>
<p>MM</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946312012-04-27T14:26:30-04:002020-01-13T02:51:33-05:00Dogs and Cats (but mostly cats)
<p> The other day, my husband and I drove down our driveway. As usual, Kitty was perched on top of my van, looking down on his kingdom. </p>
<p> "There's Lord Kitty," my husband observed. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>It's true. Kitty does have the self satisfied demeanor of one who is lord of all he surveys. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>A couple of years ago, my neighbor told me a funny joke. Like all good jokes, it's funny because it's so true.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>QUESTION: What's the difference between a dog and a cat?</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>ANSWER: The dog thinks, "She feeds me, she loves me, she takes care of me. <em>SHE</em> must be a goddess!"</p>
<p> The cat thinks: "She feeds me, she loves me, she takes care of me. <em>I </em>must be a god!" </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here's a little poem I wrote this morning: </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Little Lord Kitty</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Little Lord Kitty</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">In furry white britches</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Sits by the back door</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Alert to the kitchen</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Mama's been cooking</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And it smells delicious</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Biscuits and gravy</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And country fried chicken</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Nodding and dozing</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">He sits in the sun</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And waits for the signal</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">That dinner is done</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The sound of forks raking</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">On dishes for scraps</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And Mama's voice saying,</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"Give this to the cat." </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Contentedly smacking</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">He says to himself,</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">"I am Lord Kitty.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">They worship me well.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">I must be a god,</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">If not me, who else?" </p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Hope you have a good weekend, this last weekend of April, 2012. It's half price weekend at the Good Will stores of East Tennessee! I'll look for my fellow treasure hunters there. </p>
<p style="text-align: left;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946322012-04-27T09:03:58-04:002020-01-13T11:06:57-05:00If These Walls Could Talk (Famine Walls)
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I just posted a new instrumental piece, "If These Walls Could Talk (Famine Walls)" on my Music Page, under the heading 'Celtic Notebook.' I wrote this piece in memory of the victims of the Great Irish Hunger. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">The Great Hunger (also known as the Irish Potato Famine) occurred while Ireland was under British control in the years 1845-49. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">The British overlords did not believe in freely giving charity to the starving Irish peasantry. Rather, they demanded work in exchange for food. Hence, Ireland is crisscrossed with what are commonly known as 'Famine Walls.' </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">What is a Famine Wall? It's a wall of piled stones, about as high as a man, frequently built to no purpose other than to make work. For a long day of hard labor carrying and piling rocks, a worker might be given a bowl of soup or a penny.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> While I was in Ireland, I saw plenty of Famine Walls. Some of them were built on stark, bare rock inclines--evidence of the utter uselessness of the walls other than to force starving people to labor. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">While I was in Ireland, I also passed many former sites of English Manor Houses. I say former because many of them were burned to the ground when the Irish succeeded in finally getting their independence from the British. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Looking at the Famine Walls, I understand the rage that fueled those fires. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">In Ireland, by the way, most people refuse to call the Potato Famine a 'famine.' Instead, they call it the 'Great Hunger,' emphasizing that the starvation and death of millions was caused not as much by the natural disaster of the potato blight as by the genocidal policies of the British. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">The following was written by W.E. Forster, 1847, County Mayo:</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> ' ….a strange and fearful sight, like what we read of in beleaguered cities, the streets crowded with gaunt wanderers…..walking skeletons, the men stamped with the livid mark of hunger, the children crying in pain, the women in some cabins too weak to stand." </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Martha Maria </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946302012-04-19T05:29:52-04:002020-01-13T11:06:56-05:00Like A Rose
<p>None of us goes through the world unscathed and nobody gets out alive. </p>
<p>These are uncomfortable truths that most of us take pains to avoid. How many times have I fled the solitude and questions of inner life for distractions that served to distance me from myself?</p>
<p>Excavating my inner cellar, where I keep my wounds, fears and doubts, isn't comfortable for me. Is it comfortable for anyone? </p>
<p> But in a curious way, I have come to embrace, even cherish, every uncertainty and grief that I find in my personal cellar. It is those discomforts, I believe, that teach and enrich me the most and connect me most intimately with my fellow humans, God and creation.</p>
<p>I give you my latest poem:</p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Like A Rose</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Scars from just living</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Wounds new and old</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Pockmark and pimple</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">My body and soul</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Unspeakable doubts</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Lurk in the dark</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And innermost chambers </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Of my secret heart</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">My faith isn't pure</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">But steady and true</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">It grows like a rose</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">From the muck of dank roots</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: left;">Be well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946292012-04-11T06:05:58-04:002020-01-13T11:06:54-05:00Spirals of Eternity: Meditation and Poem
<p>When I'm sitting endlessly on hold, with the telephone glued to one ear, waiting for a live operator, I usually doodle. My doodles haven't changed much over the years. Ever since I can remember, I've been doodling the same flowers, birds, stars, Saturns and spirals. I'm not sure where I originally got those images. They've been with me so long I can't remember. The spiral, especially, feels as if it has always been in my mind and hand. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Recently, I was in Ireland, where spirals of eternity and decorative knots abound. They are not only decorative, but rich in spiritual meaning. Various knots are associated with love, friendship, the Holy Trinity and eternity.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> A little while ago, I was reading an article on line by a fellow who specializes in tattooing Celtic designs. He said that the spiral, in Celtic lore, is not only associated with eternity, but also with the notion of birth, death and rebirth. He likened it to a path connecting the soul's transitions through eternity. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>I've been thinking a lot about spirals since I got home and wondering what it is about spirals in general and Celtic art in particular that has always attracted me. As far as I know, I don't have any Irish history on either side of my family. All I can come up with is that I must have been Irish in a past life and my recent trip was a journey of sorts on my own personal spiral.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here's a poem for you: Spirals of Eternity. I wrote it this afternoon. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">A woman with no shadow</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">And a ghost who is not dead</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Rise and walk together</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">From an earthen grave and bed</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Beside the crashing waves</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Along the teeming shore</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Entwined, they walk together</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">One dies: one is reborn </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">The ocean swells with love</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">And says, "Don't be afraid."</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Drown to be transformed</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Rest in my embrace</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Drown to be reborn</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">In the spirals of My waves </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">My trip to Ireland was a wonderful blessing and I will probably be sifting through memories and insights for a while. Thanks for visiting. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Be Well and Good Luck! </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial;">Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946282012-04-07T10:56:35-04:002020-01-13T11:06:53-05:00Just Back From Ireland
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<p>I'm just back from a magical two weeks in Ireland, the Emerald Isle and the land of 50 shades of green.</p>
<p> Ever since I've been back, my mind has been flooded with new melodies. Every time I recall a place I visited, I find myself humming a new little melody, which for me, epitomizes my feelings and impressions of place. I will be posting lots of pictures of my trip and new music in the next couple of weeks. I must have taken a thousand photos!</p>
<p> Oh! Good news! Several people have asked me to produce a physical cd (instead of just downloads on iTunes, Amazon, etc.) So, my good friend Seva, who is a master engineer, is mastering my new cd right now. </p>
<p>I hope everyone has a blessed Easter and Passover. Be well and good luck!</p>
<p>Martha</p>
<p>P.S. Listen for Dogwood Daughter on Radio Kerry, Killarney, Ireland! And though I LOVED being in Ireland, there's NO PLACE LIKE HOME! I'm so happy to be back with my family, dog, friends and not least of all, my own bed and yes, even my kitchen. I also picked up lots of ideas for new recipes while I was in Ireland. The food was to die for, especially the soups and the ice cream. </p>
<p>More later. And thanks to my wonderful friends and their good wishes for a safe and happy journey. It was, it was! </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946272012-02-25T11:15:06-05:002020-01-13T11:06:53-05:00Retrograde
<p>I remarked on Facebook the other day that as I get older, I am more certain that beautiful melodies and lyrics are more often discovered rather than composed. Why do I say that? Well, honestly, a lot of the time, rather than composing music or lyrics, I feel as if I'm taking dictation. It is as if the music and lyrics arrive already composed, practically gift wrapped. All I have to do is write them down.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> I've talked with other creative people who say they have had similar experiences. One woman, a fellow composer, told me that she often feels as if melodies float through the air and all she has to do is reach out and pluck one.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Another curiosity, to me anyway, is how as soon as I write something, whether music or words, I immediately forget it. I only record a small fraction of my work. Frankly, a lot of it's junk and isn't worth recording. I also lose a lot of it since I'm terribly disorganized and undisciplined. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p> But I guess the main reason is because recording is my least favorite thing to do. I put it off until, too often, I never get around to it.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p> I love writing, however. I do it compulsively and everywhere. My house and car are full of scraps of melodies and lyrics I've jotted down on the backs of checks, store receipts, envelopes, book pages, etc. The funny thing is that usually, when I come across one of those scraps of paper and read it, it's as if I'm getting a peek into a somebody else's head, certainly not my own. That's because I almost never remember anything about it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The little poem that follows is one that I discovered a couple of days ago. When I read it, I had a vague memory of perhaps writing it in my bedroom a few months ago. </p>
<p>I offer it to you now. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Retrograde</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Pinpoint of light</p>
<p>In retrograde</p>
<p>Love grown remote</p>
<p>Pinprick of angst</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Yet do I linger</p>
<p>Frozen in place</p>
<p>Eyes fixed on you</p>
<p>As you speed away</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be well and Good Luck and May Your Work Be Creative! Martha Maria</p>
<p><br></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946262012-01-02T01:50:30-05:002020-01-13T11:06:52-05:00Unbidden Premonitions in the Dark
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">I almost never sleep through the night. Like most people of a certain age, I get up several times to wander around, use the bathroom, get drinks of water, pet the dog, etc. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Typically, as I thread my way through the night shadows of our peaceful house, I'm not fully awake or asleep, but rather hovering in the twilight between. My mind is paradoxically totally relaxed, yet keenly alert.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Last night, it was in just such a state that I was startled by an unbidden insight or premonition….or maybe just a crazy thought. I'm not sure which. But whatever it was, it stayed with me through the night, because when I woke up this morning, I found myself still pondering my midnight epiphany.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">I suppose it was prompted in some measure by a conversation my husband and I had yesterday. As we were driving to Knoxville, he told me about a story he'd read in the New York Times. The story was about a company that is marketing million dollar survival pods in anticipation of December 21, 2012.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">December 21, 2012, the Winter Solstice, is the last date noted on the ancient Mayan calendar. Hence, many people, world wide, think some kind of cataclysmic or even apocalyptic event is going to happen on that date…..perhaps the end of time.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Anyway, here is my startling and frankly unbidden midnight premonition. It has to do with December 21, 2012 and fracking. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">My thought was that the caldera (an underground super volcano which last erupted 640,000 years ago) at Yellowstone in Wyoming will erupt in 2012 and the eruption will be due, in part at least, to fracking in the mid state region of the U.S.. That region is already undergoing seismic shifts which many people think are related to fracking. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Here's a link to Wikipedia's page about the Yellowstone caldera.(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yellowstone_Caldera) An eruption of the Yellowstone super volcano would likely be an extinction event. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Just like our old high school physics teachers told us, every action has a reaction. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">The earth's reactions to fracking occur deep underground and are not always immediately visible. That doesn't mean, however, that they aren't there. Last week, there was a 4.0 earth quake in Ohio which officials believe to have been fracking related.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Just as the butterfly effect suggests that the tiny flutter of a butterfly's wings an be magnified as it reverberates through the earth's atmosphere to ultimately cause weather shifts a thousand or more miles away, how much more likely is it that deep drilling and the injection of millions of gallons of water and chemicals underground will not have a cumulative, potentially enormous effect, hundreds of miles away….like in Yellowstone? </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Some people will suggest that if the gods (or God) have predestined an apocalyptic event, especially on a date certain, it does not matter what man does, so we might as well continue our violent assault on the earth, for that's what fracking is: deep drilling and the injection of millions of gallons of water and toxic chemicals into our earth is a violent assault, each well a wound.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"><strong><em> I choose to believe, however, that what we do DOES make a difference.</em> </strong></p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> What is destiny but a destination? And ultimately, we are all headed for the same destination: Death. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Since we all know our ultimate destination, isn't HOW we make the journey the only thing that REALLY matters?</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Behaviors which corrupt the earth and yes, our spirits, for the sake of greed and ease are inherently the wrong way to make the journey. They do not honor God, nature or man. They are dis-spiriting. They bring empty ease and distraction, not true joy, to the present. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">And my midnight premonition tells me that they may bring far worse, cataclysmic events in our common and not too distant future.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">I'm not preaching. I like a warm house and convenience as much as the next person. But I don't believe that my warmth and convenience should necessarily be delivered cheaply and heedless of the consequences. Instead of giving tax credits to oil and gas corporations, why aren't we giving credits to green energy production and consumption? </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">December 21, 2012 is less than a year away. What will happen on that date? Probably nothing out of the ordinary.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">But of course, one day, we'll all arrive at our appointed out of the ordinary day. I'd like to face mine with the serenity of knowing I made a good journey.</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">I don't think fracking has been a good detour for any of us. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">For more blogs, music and poetry by MM, please visit www.dogwooddaughter.com </p>
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<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Best Wishes for 2012. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica; min-height: 19.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Helvetica;">Warmly, Martha Maria </p>
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Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946242011-12-16T01:49:58-05:002020-01-13T11:06:50-05:00Jean Walker's Sugar Tree Tea Cakes
<p>At this moment, I am looking at a yellowed paper with the only recipe I have that my mother ever wrote down for me in her own handwriting: Jean Walker's Sugar Tree Tea Cakes. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>That's her title at the top of the page followed by the date, 9/21/93. Sugar Tree is the little town in West Tennessee where my mother grew up. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>What are tea cakes? Well, really they're just simple cookies.... except for one VERY important function: they are vehicles for the most delicious, rich, buttery concoction you will ever put in your mouth, TEA CAKE ICING!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Every one in my small town loved my mother's tea cakes. She always kept a tin of them in the freezer ready to pop out at any time. She never went anywhere without bringing a little gift of tea cakes to people: bank tellers, shop cashiers, beauticians, doctors, etc. Mommy Jean (that's what we called her) was known all over Oak Ridge as the cookie lady. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now I will tell you out right that my tea cakes are never as good as my mother's were. I do fine with the cookie part, but I'm often flummoxed by the icing. It's a cooked icing and although Mommy Jean could tell when the icing was ready just by looking at it (and she tried to teach me) I've never completely mastered the icing. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>To tell the truth, my icing is hit or miss. Sometimes I don't cook it quite enough and it's too thin and other times, I over cook it and let it get too hard. BUT....even when I mess it up, it STILL always tastes good. It just doesn't look as pretty as Mommy Jean's did. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Oh, and one more very important thing. My mother was very GENEROUS with the icing! Each cookie should get a BIG dollop of icing, not just a little dot in the center. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Now, here's the recipe, exactly as she wrote it. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>2 sticks butter at room temperature (may use half margarine)</p>
<p>2 jumbo eggs, or 3 medium or large</p>
<p>1/8th teaspoon salt</p>
<p>1 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar</p>
<p>4 tablespoons buttermilk</p>
<p>3 1/2 cups flour, will need a little more on waxed paper for kneading</p>
<p>1/4th plus 1/8th teaspoon soda</p>
<p>1 teaspoon baking powder</p>
<p>1 teaspoon vanilla</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Cream butter and sugar, beat until smooth and fluffy. Add eggs, beat well. Stir in vanilla and buttermilk, then add flour, baking powder, soda and salt. Pour out on waxed paper for kneading, using flour on waxed paper. Chill dough.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>After chilled, role out dough and cut rounds. Bake on ungreased cookie sheets at 300 degrees. You must not over bake; keep them white.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>(My mother doesn't specify how thickly the dough should be rolled out. They're not a real thin cookie. They should be like a thick sugar cookie. They won't be crisp, they have more of a soft texture.)</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>ICING</p>
<p>2 1/2 cups sugar</p>
<p>1 stick butter</p>
<p>1 cup evaporated milk</p>
<p>1 teaspoon vanilla</p>
<p>Boil as you would any icing. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That's it. 'Boil as you would any icing' is the extent of my mother's written instructions. You can see why I'm frequently flummoxed about when it's ready. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>So I did a little research in my Joy of Cooking cook book. No, there's no recipe for Tea Cake Icing in there. But, the closest icing recipe I can find instructs the reader to 'Cover and cook (the icing) about 3 minutes until steam has washed down any crystals that may have formed on the sides of the pan. Then uncover and cook to 238 to 240 degrees. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>So, if you're not an expert at boiled icing either, you might want to use a candy thermometer. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Christmas Eve would have been unthinkable in our house without tea cakes and my mother's home made boiled custard. But she never made special shapes or colored icing for Christmas tea cakes. No, Mommy Jean was a purist. Her tea cakes were ALWAYS round and her icing was ALWAYS white.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mommy Jean died in the early evening of the Winter Solstice, December 21, 2008. It was snowing. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well, Good Luck and Merry Christmas!</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946252011-12-15T13:19:28-05:002020-01-13T11:06:51-05:00Mommy Jean's Fresh Coconut Cake
<p>In East Tennessee, where I live now, the traditional Christmas dessert is Tennessee Stack Cake. My niece's great grandmother, Mamaw Manning, excelled at making that cake. It's a scrumptious stack of thin golden cake layers filled with a sweet tart apple filling. Mamaw Manning's secret ingredient was her wonderful old apple tree which produced the most delicious little green June apples I've ever tasted. They were fabulous for all kinds of apple confections: apple butter, dried apples, apple sauce, apple pies, and her wonderful stack cakes.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Mommy Jean, however, grew up in West Tennessee. I don't know of anyone in her family that made stack cakes. In the Walker family, Christmas dessert was always Fresh Coconut Cake....best washed down with plenty of boiled custard.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The way my mother made coconut cake was practically an all day project requiring the assistance of my father whose job it was to crack, peel and drain the coconut and then grind the coconut meat with a hand cranked grinder.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>My mother used what she called the Lady Baltimore cake recipe. It's a standard old white cake recipe. The only ingredient she changed was to substitute fresh coconut milk for the regular milk called for in the recipe.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here's my mother's recipe (followed by my suggestions for some labor saving short cuts.) </p>
<p> </p>
<p>LADY BALTIMORE WHITE CAKE </p>
<p>Preheat oven to 375 degrees</p>
<p>3 1/2 cups White Lily Flower (or any good cake flour...White Lily is a soft white flour milled in Tennessee that makes very tender cakes and biscuits.)</p>
<p>4 teaspoons baking powder</p>
<p>1/2 teaspoon salt</p>
<p> Sift above ingredients twice</p>
<p>1 Cup butter</p>
<p>2 cups extra fine sugar</p>
<p> Cream butter and sugar well</p>
<p>1 Cup Fresh Coconut Milk</p>
<p> Alternate adding flour mixture and coconut milk to the butter/sugar mixture. Stir batter until smooth. Add 1 teaspoon vanilla</p>
<p>Whip seven egg whites (should be at room temperature) until stiff, not dry. Fold gently into the cake batter. </p>
<p> Bake in three well greased round pans about 25 minutes. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>(Mommy Jean always cut a pieces of waxed paper into circles the size of the bottom of the cake pans and lined them. That insures that the cakes come out of the pans cleanly without sticking or breaking up.)</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Meanwhile the cake is baking, heat the left over coconut milk gently with a little sugar in a sauce pan until sugar is dissolved and you have a thin, sweet, syrupy mixture.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>7 MINUTE ICING RECIPE </p>
<p>Place in the top of a double boiler over rapidly boiling water: </p>
<p>2 egg whites</p>
<p>1 1/2 cup sugar</p>
<p>5 tablespoons cold water</p>
<p>1/4th teaspoon cream of tartar</p>
<p>1 1/2 teaspoons light corn syrup</p>
<p>Beat the ingredients together over the boiling water for 7 MINUTES (best done with a hand held electric mixer)</p>
<p>Remove from heat, add 1 teaspoon vanilla</p>
<p>Continue beating icing, away from the heat, until icing is the right consistency to spread over the cake.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>CAKE ASSEMBLY</p>
<p>After the cakes have cooled, turn them out of their pans.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Take a toothpick and gently poke tiny, widely scattered holes in the layers. Then ladle a LITTLE bit of the slightly warm, sweetened coconut milk over the holes...not too much....you don't want the layers to fall apart....you just want them to be VERY moist and sweet through out.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Divide the icing in half. Mix half of the grated coconut in one half of the icing. Stack layers, icing between the layers with icing/coconut mixture. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Ice the top and sides of the assembled cake with the rest of the icing. Sprinkle entire cake with the remainder of the grated coconut so it looks like it's snow covered. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>That's it...you're done!</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>One word of caution: This is a fragile cake. The weight of the icing and coconut may make the layers want to crack and break apart. My mother used to hold it all together with strategically placed tooth picks. We all knew to watch out for tooth picks while we were eating our cake. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>The is a fabulous cake. But it's also a whole LOT OF WORK! So, if you're short of time, patience and/or baking skills, here are some substitutions I've been known to make and even with these modifications, it's still makes a very good and festive cake.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p><br></p>
<p>MY LABOR SAVING SHORT CUTS AND SUBSTITUTIONS</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Buy a white cake mix, what ever brand you like. (I like Betty Crocker.) Prepare as directed except substitute canned coconut milk for any liquid. Don't get that super sweet thick coconut milk they sell in the cocktail mixer section of the grocery store. Look for a can of real coconut milk. (I've seen it at Earth Fare and United Grocery Outlets.) </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Bake cake as package directs.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>While the cake is baking, gently heat a little canned coconut milk and sugar together in a sauce pan as above. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>There's a Betty Crocker icing mix called 'Home Style Icing, Fluffy White.' It comes in a box. It's a dead ringer for 7 minute icing. I use it all the time. You don't even have to cook it and it never fails (like 7 Minute Icing sometimes does, especially on a humid day.)</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>You can also buy delicious frozen, grated coconut in the freezer section of the grocery store. It's very moist and works great for this cake. (DON'T use dried coconut, it doesn't make a good cake.)</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Assemble the cake as above.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>And what about the boiled custard? Well, I've never made it. But what I serve does taste almost like home made. Here's what I do.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Krogers makes a very good boiled custard as well as a vanilla egg nog. I can't tell them apart. I've read the ingredient list on both cartons and they're identical. I don't think there is any difference, so get either one that is available at your Kroger store.</p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Here's the trick: I don't serve it straight out of the carton. It's way thicker and sweeter than Mommy Jean's boiled custard ever was. Hers was not terrifically sweet or thick. So I mix the Kroger boiled custard (or vanilla egg nog) half and half with regular white milk. The result is still plenty sweet and just thick enough and it has very much the same feel and taste in the mouth that my mother's custard had. </p>
<p><br></p>
<p>Be Well, Good Luck and Merry Christmas!</p>
<p>MM</p>
<p>P.S. If you have any special Christmas tips or recipes, I invite you to share them here. That's what the comment section is for. </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946232011-12-15T13:15:28-05:002020-01-13T11:06:50-05:00All Time's For (And Why Christmas seems to role around sooner every year!)
<p style="margin: 0px;"> Once upon a time, I was thirteen years old and mystified by Algebra I. I still am. Math has never been my strong suit. But I do remember reading the preface to the text book. Don't ask me why I read the preface; I don't know. But I'm glad I did because the single thing I do remember from Algebra I, I read in that preface. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">The preface asked a question: </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> 'Why does time seem to speed up as we get older?'</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">According to the author, there's a simple mathematical explanation: When you're four years old, one year feels like an endless wait between Christmases because one year is such a huge percentage of your life. However, with each additional year, one year becomes a smaller percentage of the life you've lived and so, pretty soon, like when you get to my age, it feels like Christmas roles around almost before you know it.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">It's a simple explanation, but it's not satisfying. In fact, subjectively speaking, I think of it as a cruel joke. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">It's a sad irony that as time speeds up, I want desperately to slow it down, to hit the pause button, to savor the time I have left in slow motion. To no avail however; my perception of time continues to accelerate and life gallops by at warp speed.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">And then, of course, there's another question: What is time for? Algebra can't explain that one.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">When I was young, I thought time was for making a splash and turning heads, for manipulating the universe so as to insure that I was the center of my own little galaxy and everything and everyone in it was firmly in my orbit. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> Sort of the definition of callow youth. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Now, however, the time I have left is for one thing and one thing only: LOVE. Time to love my family, my dog, my friends, music, poetry, good books, long walks, and just sitting quietly, drinking in the beauty of the surrounding woods. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">My husband was out West last week. He spent a week in Steamboat, Colorado skiing. (Bob might well say that skiing is what his time is for!) Even though my two sons were home with me, the house was gray and empty without Bob. While I was missing him one morning, I wrote this little poem.</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> But this poem is not just about Bob. No, it's a love letter to the entire festival of life. I am so grateful to the gods for having invited me to this party and I wish it never had to end. </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Everything would be so fine</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Except for time: it slips away</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Lifelines etched across my palms</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;">That once were long, now scarce remain</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;">Truth be told, as I get old</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;">I love you more, that's all time's for</p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center; margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Be Well and Good Luck</p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin: 0px;">Martha Maria </p>
<p style="margin: 0px;"><br><br> </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946162011-12-01T00:29:21-05:002020-01-13T11:06:44-05:00My Old (Cosmetic) Reliables
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">A landmark in my little town is closing. The old Jackson Square Pharmacy is now defunct, like nearly every other old business in my sad little town. A few months back, my high school class had their reunion. Prior to the reunion, an e-mail was circulated. People were adding names of businesses that were thriving when we were kids that are now closed. It numbered well over a hundred.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">The Jackson Square pharmacy is where my mother took me to buy my first lipstick when I was thirteen years old. I don’t know the name or even clearly remember the face of the woman who worked behind the cosmetics counter, but it was she who helped me pick out my first lipstick color: Persian Melon. I still wear it. Revlon Persian Melon is my ‘go to’ color when I want to feel confident without being TOO made up (which I sometimes feel in red lipstick, but oh how I love red anyway!) Persian Melon is still my perfect pink: not too pale, not too bright, not too blue, not too peach…but just right! </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">When I was thinking about how many years I’ve been wearing Persian Melon, I started thinking about other ‘old reliables’ in my cosmetics drawer. I admit, I’m a sucker for a lot of the ads and manipulation of the cosmetics industry. I guess I really WANT to believe that the latest innovation can make me ravishing, radiant and restore lost youth. And when I buy a new product, I do get a rush, but I notice it doesn’t last very long and more often than not, I go back to the old reliables I’ve used, some for as long as I can remember. </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Most of these old reliables haven’t been with me for as long as Persian Melon, but some do come pretty close.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Most are drugstore cheapies, and a (very) few are department store brands that I’m loyal to because they seem to be worth the cost.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Here’s my list:</p>
<ol style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 32px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; font-size: 14px; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; padding: 0px; border: 0px initial initial;">
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Persian Melon lipstick, Revlon</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Red Diamond lipstick, Elizabeth Arden</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Cover Girl Aqua Fresh foundation, Creamy Natural in the winter, Buff in the summer</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Nars Orgasm Blush (goes with any color lipstick, eye make up or clothing, so it’s probably cheaper than having several drug store colors)</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Revlon Brow Fantasy in medium brown (has pencil on one end, gel on the other)</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Cover Girl Eye Pencil in Brown/Black</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">L.A. Pressed Powder in Dark (I use that as a contour under my cheekbones and in the crease of my eyes)</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Dior Show mascara in Black</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Dove unscented beauty bar</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Stridex Pads, sensitive</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Vaseline (around my eyes at night</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Blistex</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Clairol Herbal Essences Shampoo and Conditioner</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Vaseline Intensive Care Lotion</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Buf Puff Singles (actually, I use the CVS knock off)</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Chanel #5</li>
<li style="margin-top: 4px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Oil of Olay (I still like the original cream, but I'm using their Regenerist line now. I use the Regenerist moisturizer, SPF 50 every day before I step out of the house.)</li>
</ol>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">And, there are a few products that I can’t find any more that I really miss. Two were lip pencils made by Nat Robbins: Sparkling Burgundy, which I used with Persian Melon, and Claret, which I used with Red Diamond. I don’t think Nat Robbins is even in business any more….I can’t find them at all. </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">The other product I really miss is Basic Eye Emphasizer by Clinique. It was a neutral powder in charcoal and taupe and I used it for shadow, liner and to fill in my brows. My favorite eye make up ever, and they went and discontinued it. So aggravating!</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">So, that’s my list. I love cosmetics and I’m curious about other women’s old reliables as well. I hope you’ll share yours with the rest of us.</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 18px; margin-left: 0px; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; padding: 0px;">Be Well and Good Luck, Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946222011-11-30T09:54:11-05:002020-01-13T11:06:49-05:00The Heifer's Christmas (A little Poem for my favorite charity, Heifer International)
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">I just received my 2011 Heifer International catalog. Have you heard of Heifer International?</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">When you donate to Heifer International, you help a needy family to become self sufficient by providing them with the means to develop a home industry and feed their families. Gifts include a variety of animals (goats, pigs, sheep, bunnies, chicks, heifers, donkeys, water buffalos, camels, llamas, ducks, geese, oxen, guinea pigs and honeybees,) as well as tree saplings and seeds. </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">I love looking at my little Heifer Catalog. It's a thing of beauty and inspiration. I love giving Heifer Christmas gifts in my children's and husband's names. To me, a Heifer International gift exemplifies the true meaning of Christmas. </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">If you want to know more about Heifer International, you can find them on the web at</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;"><a style="text-decoration: none;" href="http://www.heifer.org/gift" data-imported="1"><span style="color:#ff0000">www.heifer.org/gift</span></a></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;"><span style="color:#ff0000"><br></span></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; padding: 0px;">Now here's a little poem I wrote, inspired by my Heifer International Christmas Catalog. </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: left; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">The Heifer's Christmas</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"><br></p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">When Mary and Joseph took a trip</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">To Bethlehem from Nazareth</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">Mary said, "He's coming soon!</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">Hurry Joseph, find a room."</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">But everywhere that Joseph went</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">The inns were full, no rooms to rent</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">Until a woman finally said,</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">I guess that you could make a bed</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">With the beasts out in the barn </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">And Mary said, "How kind you are."</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">And so upon a bed of hay</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">She birthed Lord Jesus where she lay </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">A heifer watching very near</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">Whispered, "Look, a baby's here!</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> I wish that I could give a gift</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">He's beautiful, just look at him! </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> She thought a bit and then she mooed,</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">A lullaby, a heifer tune</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">Goat murmured to her friend the sheep</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">"I'll give him milk, you give him fleece."</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">Three bunnies and a clutch of chicks</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">Shyly gave the babe a kiss</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">Then donkey brayed, "He'll ride my back</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">To Egypt, and I'll hide my tracks!"</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">The old ox groaned, "Just let him sleep,</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">They need to rest before they leave."</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">So Jesus slept and Mary dozed</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">And when the night got very cold</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">The beasts stood near to keep them warm</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">The Virgin and the babe just born</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">The good beasts watched the whole night long</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">And Heifer wished she knew more songs</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> She tried to sing the baby's name </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">But 'Moo' was all her lips would say</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">So Heifer mooed her joy and praise</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;">For Jesus Christ on Christmas Day</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: left; padding: 0px;">Be Well and Good Luck, Martha Maria</p>
<p style="margin-top: 0.75em; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0.75em; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 1.5em; text-align: center; padding: 0px;"> </p>
<div><br></div>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946192011-10-25T07:21:40-04:002020-01-13T11:06:46-05:00The Face You Deserve
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Call it Karma. Call it reaping what you sow. Call it just rewards. Doesn't matter what you call it, it still boils down to an inescapable truism in life: You get what you give!</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> And by the time you're fifty, what you have given is written all over your face. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">You know the old saying: "BY AGE 50, WE ALL GET THE FACE WE DESERVE"</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I know some very beautiful old women whose faces radiate the goodness of the soul who dwells within. Sometimes, when I see a particularly beautiful old woman, I am reminded of the frank, innocent beauty of a little girl. It is the beauty of a face that greets the world with the serenity of no pretense. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;"> I love to look at Grace's beautiful face. Grace is in her 80s. There is such a sweetness in her demeanor. Her silver hair is simply cut, and held with a barrette. She wears little or no make up and usually has on a pair of tennis shoes and a cotton dress when she goes to church. And what a good soul Grace is! She's a retired nurse, the widow of a doctor, mother, grandmother, and friend to many. She is and always has been a generous benefactor and proponent of dozens of charities. Grace's life has been about giving and her good works and love are written all over her beautiful face! </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">And then there is my friend Peggy, The Rock. Peggy, also is in her 80s. She had open heart surgery a few years back but it didn't keep her down for long. And she NEVER complained. She was up and taking care of everyone else in no time. She has a wry, quirky sense of humor, an infectious laugh and eyes that invite one's gaze to linger. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">And then there's beautiful Ruth M., eighty something, still playing tennis and working as an advocate for elder citizens as well as the poor and homeless people of Knoxville. Ruth, who some years back, defied convention as well as the law, by opening her home and giving sanctuary (for several year) to a young, undocumented Guatemalan couple who had been targeted by a death squad. Ruth opened her home to them AND their two small boys. Fearless, glorious Ruth!</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Yes, Grace, Peggy and Ruth are the three women I aspire not only to BE like, but to LOOK like when I'm in my 80s. May I grow into that kind beauty! </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">But then, there are the unfortunate old faces that are permanently etched in scowls. We've all seen them. I know such a woman, also in her 80s, who frankly, bears an uncanny resemblance to a lizard….well, a dolled up lizard with dyed curly hair, long, witchy fingernails, and blood red lips. </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">I've had several unpleasant encounters with the Lizard Lady over the years. Until this year, I thought I was the only one that had a problem with her. But lately, I've discovered every time her name comes up, somebody else tells me another horror story about her meanness. Apparently, she has always been mean and petty. And believe me, she's got the face to show it…..reptilian! </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">So sure, there are many reasons for being kind, generous and unselfish. It's really the only decent way to live. But if decency isn't enough, perhaps vanity will be. Just remember, you WILL eventually end up with the face you deserve. Wouldn't you rather end up with lovely, crinkly laugh lines instead of a permanent, ugly scowl? </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px;"> </p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Be Well and Good Luck,</p>
<p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica;">Martha Maria (Dogwood Daughter)</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946182011-08-03T08:49:33-04:002020-01-13T11:06:45-05:00Unbidden (and Sometimes Unwelcome) Shadow Animal Guides
<p>A few nights ago, I opened the door from my foyer to go into the garage. I was heading out to the big freezer to get some frozen berries. I was barefoot. As soon as I opened the door, with my first step out, I stepped on a snake, a black snake, so black, he almost looked blue. I screamed and the snake took off. I guess we scared each other. The last I saw him, he was slithering under a tarp next to an abandoned kitchen cabinet. My husband and son poked around the garage for a long time, but, so far, the snake's hiding place remains his secret. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Now I'm not only putting on boots before I go in the laundry room, but also the garage. Yes, a few months back, we found a snake skin in the laundry room. We couldn't tell for sure what kind of snake it was, because the skin was tattered and shredded as he slithered along the wall. All I can say for sure is that it was a big snake and mostly brown in coloration. I hope it was a king or corn snake and not a copperhead. We did call a critter buster, but the critter buster said that snakes are almost impossible to find unless you manage to keep your eye on them up until the moment they're caught.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I'm wondering why the very thing that scares me the most is invading my life and home. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Yesterday, my friend Carol sent me some information about animal spirit guides. I don't like to think that my spirit guide could be a snake. I have always been terrified of snakes! I'm so scared of snakes, I scream and shut my eyes when I see them on a TV. I can't stand to look at pictures of snakes in books either. They almost evoke a visceral response in me, the kind of intense fear that makes me feel nauseated.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But I suppose it would be wise for me to pay attention to the fact that snakes have started appearing, albeit unwelcome and unbidden, in my life. Here is what Carol sent me about 'Shadow Animal Guides' in general and about snakes in particular. I'm wondering if anyone else has thoughts about their own 'shadow animal guide.' If you do, you are welcome to share your thoughts and experiences in the comments section. In fact, I'd be most interested in reading them. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be well and Good Luck,</p>
<p>Martha Maria </p>
<p>www.dogwooddaughter.com </p>
<p> </p>
<p>COPIED AND PASTED FROM CAROL'S E-MAIL:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>A Shadow Animal Guide is one that invades you with fear. Its purpose is to teach a lesson you have not learned from repeated mistakes because of anger, avarice, greed, insecurity, or other negative thoughts. A Shadow Guide will return again and again bearing strong feelings of fear until its message is acted upon or a change in lifestyle or actions are incorporated into your life. The Shadow Guide is powerful. It can help you to overcome fear by bringing truth and turning fear into a helper animal guide or spirit animal guide. However, if ignored the Shadow Guide can become dangerous and its powers will have a negative effect on your life. The Shadow Guide lives in the spirit world and usually arrives during a time of testing.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Snakes are fascinating creatures that deserve respect. Throughout history the snake has had many legends associated with it linking them to creation, fertility and transformation. </p>
<p><strong>SNAKE MEDICINE</strong></p>
<ul>
<li>
<p>The snake has many symbolic meanings among various cultures across the world. In the Middle East, snake is seen as Mother Earth and immortality. To Christians, the snake is portrayed as evil, lust and temptation. In Asia, the snake is the life force awakened. To American Indians the snake is a friend who shares its secrets of the water element. Altogether, the tremendous symbolism placed on the snake makes it a powerful and worthy spirit guide. </p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Snakes regularly sheds its outer skin as it grows and a new layer of skin develops. Crawling out of its skin is an important aspect of snake medicine because it symbolizes ways we must move away from old and useless habits and thought patterns as we grow spiritually. It symbolizes death and rebirth.</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>A snake does not have ears or eardrums but instead has small bones in its head that conduct low frequency vibrations that travel through the earth. Among all creatures of earth, the snake is best equipped to hear the heart-beat, or magnetic resonance of Mother Earth and is therefore able to continually communicate with and be in perfect harmony or balance with Mother Earth. </p>
</li>
<li>
<p>As a symbol of renewal and transmutation, land snakes do not require food to generate body heat and they lay motionless and soundless against the earth absorbing the heat of the sun and the earth. To those lives to whom the snake slithers into, be aware of its subtle and silent messages. Before this may be possible, it is necessary to become balanced in your path and ground yourself to Mother Earth and all of its elements.</p>
</li>
<li>
<p>Just before the snake begins to shed its skin, its eyes turn pale blue or opaque giving it a trance-like appearance as if the snake is looking right through you. Snake spirit guides teach ways to look into the hearts of others and find ways to help them along their spiritual paths.</p>
</li>
</ul>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946152011-06-20T02:41:12-04:002020-01-13T11:06:44-05:00By and By
<p>I read an interview with Knoxville native and writer Cormac McCarthy a few years back. I wish I could remember the exact quote, but I can't. I can, however, distill the substance of his comment to a deceptively simple and brief gist. In short, McCarthy said that a writer who does not deal with death is not really a serious writer. </p>
<p> Well, if that's the case, I've been a VERY serious writer lately. That's not necessarily to say a good one, but, by Cormac's criterion, I am (no pun intended) a 'dead serious' writer.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>But aren't we all 'dead serious?' Oh, I know, on a daily basis, most of us don't keep our fear of death on the front burner. Life gives us too many other pots to stir on the front of the stove. However, doesn't every man, woman and child (above the age of 5) have an awareness of the inevitability of death permanently simmering, unwelcome, on the back burner?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Still, I don't think that pot on the back burner is particularly morbid or unhealthy. In fact, I think it's fair to say that remembering and stirring our own mortality a little bit every day is one of the things that makes us feel most alive. It's an urgent reminder of how precious the present is; none of us have a moment to waste. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>So here I sit, in my studio. The windows and doors are open, I hear bird song and insects droning in the woods. A humming fan wafts cool air my way as my fingers move on the computer keyboard. I am aware of my own breath, my beating heart and my searching thoughts. I am fully present in this moment: I am gloriously alive.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>And yet, I find myself, at a fairly advanced age, frequently and oddly adrift, befuddled, discombobulated by this whole mysterious trip and the way it will inevitably end. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I will, in fact, be VERY surprised if I don't take my last breath still asking, "What was that all about anyway?" I just hope the old hymn got it right: "We'll understand it, oh by and by." </p>
<p>This morning, I wrote this little untitled poem: </p>
<p> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">In the window, I can see</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">a silhouette that looks like me</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">curtains open, lights ablaze</p>
<p>a shadow player on a stage</p>
<p>looks around and hesitates</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">in quavering voice, I hear her say:</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Does anybody know the plot?</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">'cause somehow, seems like I forgot</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">is this the middle or the end?</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">do I go out or come back in?</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Can anybody help me, please?</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">I can't remember my big speech</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Beneath the carpet of the sky</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">silence is the lone reply</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">a window shuts on mundane breath,</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">the silhouette is still as death</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">but there's no sound or fury here</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">just twinkling stars and crystal tears</p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; min-height: 14px; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: 12px Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;"> </p>
<p style="font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Helvetica; text-align: left; margin: 0px;">Be well and good luck! MM</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946142011-06-15T09:54:21-04:002020-01-13T11:06:43-05:00The Most Beautiful Woman in All the County of Anderson
<p><strong> </strong></p>
<p>I notice that the older models in glossy magazines like “More” and “Oprah” NEVER look like me. Their arms are smooth (in those inevitable sleeveless tops), bellies flat, torsos slim, faces unlined and their sparkling, even white teeth all but twinkle in radiant smiles. Mind you, these are the models whose ages are often prominently displayed in the text, as if to say, “If YOU would just get with it, YOU could look like this too!’”</p>
<p>Yea….right. And I’m not buying the Brooklyn Bridge today either. Those photos are a sham. And the purpose of the sham is to make older models appear unnaturally young, untouched by time.</p>
<p>Those models don’t look like me because I don’t have an army of attendants and magicians to coif, paint, inject, corset and dress me. I don’t have any techno wizards to photoshop my pictures either. And GUESS WHAT?</p>
<p><strong>I DON’T WANT ANY! </strong>And what is more, I don’t care to peruse photographs of those who do.</p>
<h2>Keeping it Real</h2>
<p>How about let’s see some real, UN-retouched, UN-Botoxed, surgically and dentally UN-enhanced women in those glossy pages, women whose faces and bodies show evidence of lives well and fully lived: who have carried and birthed babies, lost sleep over children and grandchildren, picked up dirty socks and wet towels, ironed shirts and folded underwear, cooked uncountable meals, washed a million dishes, planted trees, cultivated gardens, cut the grass, walked dogs in sun, wind and rain, worked long hours both at home and in jobs, made cookies for bake sales, volunteered in their community, put children through college, and cared for elderly parents. THESE, my friends, are the real beautiful women of the world!</p>
<p>And yes, they have been visibly touched by time.</p>
<p>Now I’m going to relate a true story. A few years back, I was in Clinton with my mother. She was in her early eighties. We ran into Gary on Main Street and stopped to chat briefly. That evening, my sister called to tell me about a little conversation she’d just had with Gary in the grocery store.</p>
<p>“Hey Anita,” he said, “I saw the most beautiful woman in all the County of Anderson today.”</p>
<p>Anita: “Oh no, don’t tell me you saw Martha!”</p>
<p>“Martha????” Gary said, apparently incredulous. “No, I’m not talking about Martha. I mean, you and Martha are okay, but neither one of you can hold a candle to your mother.”</p>
<p>That’s right. Gary was referring to my eighty something year-old mother as “the most beautiful woman in all the County of Anderson.” (For the record, Gary is a little younger than I am.)</p>
<h2>My Beautiful Mother</h2>
<p>It’s true. My mother was a beautiful old woman. Her hair was long, she wore it in a bun, her face was lined but still beautiful. She dressed in her own quirky style: denim skirt, plaid flannel shirt, often with a vest and always with a silver bola, dangly earrings and brightly colored Keds with ribbon shoe laces. My mother had Alzheimer’s and was more than a little lost in time and space, but she was still engaging and lively. I can truly say, she never met a stranger, and she always made an effort to say a little something to lift everyone else’s spirits. She was the master of the sincere compliment. I really think people thought she was beautiful because they liked her so much.</p>
<p>My mother died on December 21st, 2008. I’m happy when people tell me I look like her.</p>
<p>My hair is long too. Like Mother, I usually wear it in a bun. I inherited a lot of her silver bolas, big earrings and flannel shirts and I wear them. Sometimes I even wear her glasses. Her prescription bifocals, I’ve discovered, are perfect for me too.</p>
<p>I don’t waste my time, energy or sanity trying to look like what I’m not and never will be again: young. If I’m lucky, I’ll live to be truly old. I hope to be the kind of beautiful old woman my mother was, one that even a young man may call “the most beautiful woman in all the County of Anderson,” just because he likes me so much.</p>
<p>By the way, I don’t BUY any of those glossy magazines any more. They do, however, help to pass the time while I’m standing in line at the grocery store.</p>
<p>Be well and good luck! Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946132011-06-13T02:28:02-04:002020-01-13T11:06:43-05:00Quickie Fruit Cobbler
<p> </p>
<p>Hi, I want to share this recipe with you. It's a staple in my repertoire of simple family desserts. I didn't create this recipe. I read it in the Knoxville News Sentinel Food Section at least ten years ago. I have, however, enhanced and modified it somewhat. How? Well, I've changed it to make it a little bit healthier. </p>
<p>Not low calorie, mind you, just healthier, by substituting whole foods for refined and processed flour and sugar.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Here's the basic (UNmodified) recipe: </p>
<p> </p>
<p>1 stick margarine</p>
<p>1 cup self rising flour</p>
<p>1 cup sugar</p>
<p>1 cup milk</p>
<p>3 cups (more or less) of any fruit</p>
<p> </p>
<p>For a family size cobbler, take a square pan. Put a whole stick of good quality margarine in the pan. (NOT the light, low calorie kind, which is watery. You need full calorie margarine with a high oil content.) </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Preheat your oven to 350 degrees. After your oven signals it's reached 350, put the pan, with the margarine, in the oven and let the margarine melt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>While the margarine is melting, do the following:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Mix together one cup sugar, one cup milk (whole, low fat or skim, doesn't matter) and one cup self rising flour. Stir until well blended. I like to add a little vanilla too. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Prepare your fruit. How much? Well, I play that by ear and tend to use what I've got. Optimally, for a family sized cobbler, you'll probably need at least three cups of fruit. You can use fresh, canned or frozen fruit (It's best to let the frozen fruit thaw a little. I zap mine for about a minute in the microwave.) If your fruit is not very juicy, you'll need to add a little liquid, to get a juicier cobbler. I like to use white grape juice with just about any fruit. It blends well with all other fruit flavors and adds a nice sweetness. If you don't have juice, just use water. And if your fruit isn't very sweet, add a little sugar to taste (a squirt of lemon juice is good too, especially if you're using a bland fruit like blueberries.) </p>
<p> </p>
<p>When the pan is sizzling hot and the margarine is completely melted, take the pan out of the oven and quickly pour in the prepared batter first, followed by the fruit, If you like, dot the fruit with a little more margarine. You can even sprinkle with a little nutmeg (I like that on peaches) or cinnamon. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Finally, pop the pan back in the oven and watch the magic: the batter will rise to the top as the cobbler bakes. Depending on how juicy, your cobbler may set and be done in about 30-40 minutes, or it may take a little longer, maybe even up to an hour. As I said, it depends on how juicy your fruit is. You don't want to over cook it, but you don't want the batter to be raw in the middle either, so just keep an eye on it. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>I like to serve it warm with either real whipped cream or an all natural vanilla ice cream ( Breyers Vanilla is good and has the added bonus of NO corn syrup…I'm a compulsive food label reader and Breyer's vanilla only has the good stuff…cream, milk, sugar and vanilla.)</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This recipe is a winner. Really, it's next to impossible to mess up and always tastes good!</p>
<p> </p>
<p>NOW, if you want to make it healthier or even gluten free, as I do, you can make a couple of substitutions.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Instead of white self rising wheat flour, I use Bob's Red Mill Gluten Free All Purpose Baking Flour. It's not self rising, so I add one teaspoon of aluminum free baking powder to a cup of flour. You can add a pinch of salt if you like, but I don't.</p>
<p>If you are not concerned with gluten, you can substitute any kind of flour: whole wheat, oat, buckwheat, etc. Sometimes, I like to mix up several flours. I keep coconut, corn, sorghum, and rice flours in my freezer all the time. Almond meal is a good addition too. Some flours are a little more absorbent than others, so you may have to slightly adjust the liquid content.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I also substitute organic Sucanat for refined white sugar. I do that in just about every recipe I cook now. Have you heard of Sucanat? It's dehydrated sugar cane. The granules are very coarse, brown and irregular and it has a rich molasses flavor which I think is much more interesting than the simple sweetness of white sugar. I may be fooling myself that it's actually healthy, but it is, at least, a whole food that is minimally processed and retains all of the (perhaps slight) nutrients of the entire sugar cane. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>This recipe is a cinch to modify in terms of number of servings. Want a smaller cobbler, maybe just for two? Easy! Just keep the proportions the same. This afternoon, I made a very small blackberry cobbler for my husband and myself in a shallow little aluminum pie pan (in the photo.) I used one third stick margarine, one third cup of milk, Sucanat and flour, and one third teaspoon baking powder. I'm going to guess that today I used about a cup (or less) of frozen blackberries. As usual, I didn't measure, I just used what I had. We ate it warm and because I didn't have any whipped cream or vanilla ice cream, we topped it with a little bit of vanilla yogurt. Yes, it's good with yogurt too. In fact, it's just plain good! </p>
<p> </p>
<p>By the way, cold left overs make a terrific breakfast with yogurt, a sprinkle of granola and, of course, a big cup of hot, STRONG, coffee.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I hope you enjoy using this recipe, especially this summer, and all year long. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Be Well and Good Luck, </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Martha Maria</p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946122011-05-11T10:32:05-04:002020-01-13T02:51:26-05:00Creepy, Crawly Things (like the snake in my laundry room)
<p>My house and studio are down a long drive way and in the woods. The woods are beautiful, but there are some major drawbacks to living deep in the woods. </p>
<p>Right now, one of the disadvantages that I'm really NOT liking a lot is the snake in the laundry room. </p>
<p>The WHAT???????</p>
<p>Yup, the snake!</p>
<p>We found the evidence last weekend: a (big) tattered snake skin. It's hard to tell what kind of snake, because it was left in tatters as he slithered along the edge of a wall. I'm hoping it's a corn or king snake, NOT a copperhead.</p>
<p>So, right now, I'm keeping the laundry room door tightly closed AT ALL TIMES!!!! And putting on a pair of stout boots every time I go in there. Oh yea, I'm also looking up at the rafters and studying the walls before I enter. If a snake drops on me from the rafters, I think I'll probably have a heart attack on the spot.</p>
<p>Then, there is the small (in fact, pin sized) matter of the deer ticks. Lordy, lordy! What good ARE ticks? And why are there so dad gum many of them? I don't know how many ticks I have picked off of myself this spring. This is the worst year I ever recall for ticks. And not just the pin head sized deer ticks, but those big old nasty dog ticks too. Yuck! </p>
<p>The other night, I woke up because my back was itching. I reached around and felt it: a tick! I passed a restless night waiting for my husband to wake up so he could get the nasty thing off of me.</p>
<p>So, for those who romanticize the woods, I say: yes, they are lovely to look at, and even lovely to spend time in.....when it's winter. But the summer is another matter. If a snake or the ticks don't get you, then the mosquitoes will. And if not the mosquitoes, then the chiggers, the poison ivy, the hornets, or some other kind of creepy, crawly thing!</p>
<p> You know me, I'm a compulsive rhymer. So here's a little diddy for you.</p>
<p> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">CREEPY, CRAWLY</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">This ain't a poem, it's just a rhyme</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Yes, it's creepy, crawly time</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The woods are lovely, lush and green</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">But full of creepy, crawly things</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Ticks and spiders, snakes, oh my!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And all those creepy things that fly.</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Mosquitoes, suckers, hornets too</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">A zillion bugs that think you're food</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Leaves of green, let them be!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Get poison ivy, you won't sleep!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">You'll toss and turn, at least two weeks</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And scratch yourself, until you bleed</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">So if you venture in the woods</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Long sleeves and pants are always good</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Best put on a pair of boots</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And try to make sure they're snake proof</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><br></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">The woods aren't for the faint of heart</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">You watch your step and be on guard</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Oh yes, they're lovely, lush and green</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">But full of creepy, crawly things!</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">And that's the word from Tennessee</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Be well and good luck. Martha Maria </p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946102011-05-06T02:22:29-04:002020-01-13T02:51:26-05:00A Murder of Crows
<p> I suppose our woods are healthy, if the abundance of animals is any indicator. We have lots of deer, raccoons, skunks, rabbits, gray squirrels, birds, possums, foxes, bob cats, and even an occasional coyote.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sometimes I sleep on the screened porch attached to my studio. It's sort of like an enclosed tree house, sitting high on stilts amongst the trees. You'd be surprised at all the activity in the woods at night: much rustling of leaves, little foot falls and maniacal cackles of barred owls as they survey their nocturnal domains. There are some unsettling noises too. Nature isn't gentle and predators aren't squeamish, often eating their prey even as it's still alive and screamsing. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>This morning, I woke to the raucous brawl of a murder of crows in the woods. Yes, that's what you call a flock of crows: a murder. Telling, isn't it? </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Crows belong to a genus of birds called corvids. The corvids include the crows, blue jays, magpies and ravens. They are supposed to be the most intelligent of birds. In fact, as scientists learn more, corvids are deemed to be some of the most intelligent of all the animals, nearly as smart as dolphins. Amazing, isn't it? Little bitty bird brains that are so smart! I guess brain size isn't all that important. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>There's one thing I notice: the corvids that inhabit these woods are noisy and contentious. I often see jays and crows alike mobbing other animals. I've seen jays mob my cat. Crows seem to enjoy mobbing the squirrels. When mobbing, they do act in concert. But when not acting in concert against a common enemy, crows seem to relish a good, noisy brawl amongst themselves.</p>
<p>This morning, sleeping out in the studio, I was awakened at about 7:30 a.m. by a loud murder of crows brawling in the woods:</p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">Crows</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">I wake to a cacophony</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">Crows brawling over some small thing</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">A scrap of food, who owns the tree</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">Who has the biggest, blackest wings</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">Every crow thinks he's the king</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">The Lord of everything he sees</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">I wonder if crows ever dream</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">Of peace and quiet when they sleep?</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">Probably not!</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000"> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">Be well and good luck. Martha Maria</span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000">P.S. I've got a new name and website! It's <a href="http://www.dogwooddaughter.com" data-imported="1">www.dogwooddaughter.com</a> </span></p>
<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color:#ff0000"> </span></p>
Dogwood Daughtertag:dogwooddaughter.com,2005:Post/60946092011-04-27T02:32:59-04:002020-01-13T02:51:26-05:00Some Have Entertained Angels
<div style="color: #000000; font-family: Verdana, 'Trebuchet MS', Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #ffffff; margin: 8px;">
<p>Today is April 27th, 2011 and I am adding "Some Have Entertained Angels' to my music page. This was the second piece I composed while hosting the angels for a week in my studio. (See "The Three Angels Project" on The Listening Room page.)</p>
<p>A friend (one to whom I had sent the angels after I had them) said to me, "I wonder why I had to have someone else tell me that I had angels with me, when I know that really, they must be with me all the time."</p>
<p> </p>
<p>I felt the same way. Why did I forget for so many years, that I am surrounded by loving spirits and guardian angels? Why did I forget the love and goodwill that enfolds me every moment of the day and night?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When I was a little girl, I had an old prayer book that had been my father's when he was a boy. My father was raised as a Catholic. My mother was a Cumberland Presbyterian. My mother took me to church with her when I was a little girl and I still have so many wonderful memories of the kind souls who cared for me in that little church. But when I was an older girl, I was baptized at St. Mary's Catholic Church and actually, became the church organist there. That was back when the Mass was still in Latin. I loved the mysteries and rituals of the Catholic church. I especially loved the old Gregorian chants. </p>
<p>Anyway, I remember every night I used to say the prayer that was in my father's old Catholic prayer book. It was not a prayer to Mary, to Jesus, to the Holy Spirit or God the Father. It was a prayer to my Guardian Angel. </p>
<p>I had been wondering what had become of that old prayer book. Then, a couple of months ago, I was at my sister's house and spotted it on top of a pile of old books stacked in her living room. She let me take it home. </p>
<p>Here is the prayer entitled "To Our Guardian Angel" from that old book.</p>
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<p style="text-align: center;">Angel of God, my guardian dear,</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To whom His love commits me here,</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">Ever this day be at my side,</p>
<p style="text-align: center;">To light and guard, to rule and guide. Amen. </p>
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Dogwood Daughter