The Tale Of The Tail

Or, the tail of the rooster and the synchronicity of chickens.

The day before yesterday while at the bakery, a young boy demonstrated either Tourette syndrome or incredibly bad behavior. Standing in line—a very long line—of a sudden a rooster began crowing and all of us turned to look in the direction of the sounds. It was not the bird itself, but a young boy in a striped tee-shirt and blue jeans, arms then tucked in with hands under his armpits and flapping. He was running around the store, through the aisles and moving his arm-wings while clucking. It didn’t last all that long and when it stopped, the boy was leaving the bakery with his arm no longer flapping but being held aloft in the time-honored way of a parental escort. It was an interesting break in an otherwise boring and predictable normalcy.

The rooster demonstration made me think of the lovely photos of chickens I had seen a while back in “My Modern Met.” It was an article about the underrated beauty of chickens. I wished that I could see those beautiful feathered creatures again, and regretted not saving the article. I may have even posted a photo or two in a post on this blog.

So today, what do I see but a post on Facebook titled “The most beautiful chickens on the planet.” And there they were, and here they are—examples of the glorious feathered beauties themselves.


blkChickFor those of us who might want to refer to the full article now or in future, here’s the link.  Roosters


Memories Stored


Evangelical Pastafarianism

How do we store our memories? I love this photo as it so depicts the way many of us store our photos, and sometimes letters or thoughts. I’ve written in the margins not only to comment or argue with the writer, but also to capture the way the author’s words or sentences send me on a rollercoaster of my own.

The other day I came across a card my mother sent some many years ago. It was in a book I’d gone back to for a needed quote. I can tell the span of years wherein her thoughts were sent to me by the ones she includes in her comments. Or by the questions: How is Angela doing in first grade? How is the dog doing? All healed from the operation? Did you make the spice tea for the theatre group? And oh my! what a flood of memories those words unleashed. Overwhelming.

Sure I have boxes of photos, some actual albums and dates and times and events. But how sweet to open a past loved book, and find within, the stored memories of a life lived long ago. It’s like a phone call from the past. For a few brief minutes we are transported to that world and we see that face, hear the laughter, and feel the kisses deep.

Jigidie Jig

Home again, home again…

I’ve returned from a brief sojourn in Columbus, Clintenville. Tula and I went to visit my daughter and Sullivan (my grandog). We had a most lovely time and adventure on the boat, visiting small beaches, swimming in Alum Park Lake, having sandwiches delivered to a dock for lunch. Pictures should have been taken no doubt, but weren’t. It’s difficult for me to take photos in the midst of things as it can take you so outside of the moment or moments you are enjoying. That means photos will have to come in some future to be named later. When we do a drive by on the way to other things. When the intention is to take photos and that itself is the purpose.

Meanwhile, photos from Artistic Nature as we move on in this summer of heat and shimmer, sun and shade.




The Trouble With Photos

After spending most of the last few days writing, some of which felt pretty good—until it didn’t—I picked up the purging again. The Purging is the sorting through of old boxes to see what should be kept, given, or tossed. Necessary but unfortunate is the box(es) with photos. Photos of days gone by and people lost. By lost I mean gone the way of the cycle of life and death, stopping at the latter. It sends the mind on a collision course with itself and torments the soul.

Then today a friend in Colorado Springs posted this photo of the Evergreen Lake. My brother and his family lived in Evergreen for years, and I visited upon occasion with whichever dog I had at the time. From Manitou to Evergreen only took around two hours, an easy drive even in early winter. There were some heart-stopping places in winter of course. Especially during a storm.

He is gone now too, and only one nephew and family remain in Colorado. The rest have moved on. No more visits where the elk stand outside your window waiting to be fed, where the wildflowers grow, and where you can ski down your driveway. No more drinking at The Little Bear, where all of the names are carved in the booths.


Susie Willett

And that’s the way things are.

Christmas Splendor

Or rather, Christmas Eve Splendor. Taking a page from the Icelandic book of Christmas Eve, the night is made for the giving & getting of books, and an evening of reading. In such good company keeping, I opened the package that looked like books from the packages that arrived from my daughter. In all honesty, I promised to keep the packages wrapped until we could celebrate our Christmas together. And I cheated with just the right package and struck gold! One each for the four sign posts on one of the reading roads of the mind. So here we see the fiction area represented by the novel, then by the graphic novel. Next we see the powers of the mind, and then lastly, the mind of genius. Ah, sweet travels. Reports to follow at some point. For now, looking at them is enough.