...this morning—almost as good as Mimi's renowned lemon cake, which was last night's piece de resistance.
So, waffles, along with sausages, the making of Halloween decorations, a reprise of Dooly and the Snortsnoot, and a good bit of fun at the Starin Park playground (Mimi brought towels to dry thing off), and then back to Oconomowoc and a return of the loan. Oh, the joys of grand-parenting!
Busy Barns, UWW, cake baking, art projects, book reading. And all on a rainy day.
...as day descends to dusk. (But after a warm and sunny afternoon. )
Chores and errands, errands and chores.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
—Robert Frost
A very slight drizzle all day. Chilly, gray, and damp.
Young walnut getting ready for winter.
Sue down to Irene's, helping her pack up for the move to her new house.
Interesting article in the Manitoulin Expositor about the first annual Great Lakes Islands Summit—here.
Lit the pilot on the little fake wood-burning stove in the breezeway. Chilly day, gray and damp, so the minuscule warmth of the pilot-light actually felt good.
And...back to A Technique for Producing Ideas.
The five steps:
1) Gather raw material—specific, about the problem at hand (record on 3x5 index cards), and general, everything you have ever learned by being insatiably curious (record in scrapbooks).
2) Chew over all the raw material. Try to digest it. Write down partial ideas, however crazy or incomplete. Try to see if anything goes with anything else. Keep at this hopeless stage until you are sick of it. Try not to throw up.
3) Do nothing. Exert no effort of a direct nature. Drop the whole subject and put the problem out of your mind. Do something completely unrelated—whatever stimulates your emotions or imagination. (Sherlock took Watson to symphony concerts.)
4) Wait for lightning to strike—in the shower, while preparing baby formula, or while tying your shoes.
5) Take the brilliant new idea out into the cold, gray dawn of reality and let it fend for itself. Remain open to criticism and possible refinement.
...for Man Nor Beast. (The five steps to great ideas is postponed until tomorrow.)
But, the trailer is functional, working well, and made operational with minutes to spare. Three iceboats now in the fold. (The problem with the lights turned out to be blown fuses in the truck—from a short in some other trailer.)
Chilly, with a cold rain. The first hint of the changing season, but really not all that unwelcome.
...come from a process.
Ideas here from the book Curious, by Ian Leslie, and A Technique for Producing Ideas, by James Webb Young, a famous advertising man.
All five steps in tomorrow's blog......
"Every really good creative person in advertising whom I have ever known has always had two noticeable characteristics. First, there was no subject under the sun in which she could not easily get interested —from, say, Egyptian burial customs to modern art. Every facet of life had fascination for her. Second, she was an extensive browser in all sorts of fields of information . . . In advertising, an idea results from a new combination of specific knowledge about products and people with general knowledge about life and events."
James Webb Young's formulation is simple but powerful. Any task or project that requires creative thought will be better addressed by someone who has deep knowledge of the task at hand, and general background knowledge of the culture in which it and its users (or readers, or viewers) live. A mind well-stocked with these two types of knowledge is much more likely to be a fertile source of the serendipitous collisions that lead to brilliant ideas. Leo Burnett, founder of the global ad agency network that still bears his name, and a near-contemporary of Young's, said, 'Curiosity about life in all its aspects, I think, is still the secret of great creative people.'
New wiring harness on the old trailer, but, of course, it doesn't work (in spite of meticulous and methodical installation). It doesn't work because: 1) the LEDs are faulty, 2) there's a discontinuity in the new wires, 3) the plug at the front end of the harness is defective, 4) the plug at the back end of the truck has gone squirrely, 5) things never get properly grounded no mater how hard you try, or, 6) trailer wiring never works, no matter what, so why did you even waste a moment of your time trying to hook stuff up, you dodo?
Perfectly lovely (though on the warm side) summer day. (Climate change is really starting to freak me out.)
Katy and Will, and later Abby and Tony. Great fun on a day of plentiful weather. Right now, a fire in the chiminea being blown sideways by the cold-front that finally came through.l Manitoulin had a weather advisory—heavy rain.
And a little rain.
Still warm.
Trailer work for some and needle work for others. Wisconsin Friday fish fry, followed by Sequence with neighbors.
To Kewaskum, and a private junk yard on the banks of the Milwaukee River in northern Kettle Moraine. A beautiful place for piles of junk, but also the perfect place to buy an excellent used trailer at a great price.
Why another trailer? Because of the third iceboat—and the assumption that this winter will be a fine one for ice sailing.
Cleaning it up and converting to iceboat readiness will be a fun project.
...have lost their leaves so far, and there is little fall color.
One of neighbor Kathy's roses.
But a feeble thunderstorm did its best about 2:30 last night to remind us that weather was still possible in these parts. The barometer, however, had no use for this nonsense and remained high. Sunny and pleasant today, so who's to complain?
Mostly errands and chores. (And a little memory work, too.)
or lack there of.
But, at least there's the compass plant (Silphium laciniatum), which helped early visitors to the prairie find their way.
In light of Las Vegas, Speaker Ryan has decided to hold off for a while on legislation authorizing widespread sale and use of silencers.
Seriously, a great majority of Americans are in favor of sensible gun laws. It's just that the NRA, the gun lobby, and a relatively small group of gun fetishists have bought the Republicans in Congress. The only real solution to continued carnage is voting the moral cretins out. They have got to go.
for memorizing.
~~~~~~~~
Foolish Questions
American Folk Rhyme adapted by William Cole
Where can a man buy a cap for his knee?
Or a key for the lock of his hair?
And can his eyes be called a school?
I would think—there are pupils there!
What jewels are found in the crown of his head,
And who walks on the bridge of his nose?
Can he use, in building the roof of his mouth,
The nails on the ends of his toes?
Can the crook of his elbow be sent to jail—
If it can, well, then, what did it do?
And how does he sharpen his shoulder blades?
I'll be hanged if I know—do you?
Can he sit in the shade of the palm of his hand,
And beat time with the drum in his ear?
Can the calf of his leg eat the corn on his toe?—
There's somethin' pretty strange around here!~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sick
Shel Silverstein
"I cannot go to school today," Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps, A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry, I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more—that's seventeen, And don't you think my face looks green? My leg is cut, my eyes are blue— It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is . . . Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play! "
...of the memorizing kind.
~~~~~~~~~~
Jabberwocky
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
| The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
by the violence in Las Vegas and the unwillingness in this country to prevent it.
But, continuing on in my narrow version of existence—I'm going back to the topic of memorizing poetry...
Things have become competitive here in seeing who can get Guest down first. (I have to admit that the "poem" is repetitive, and that makes memorizing hard.) Hard is good though, and the brain is a muscle, so it might be good to think of memorizing as a visit to a fitness center. Here's a good article on the joys of memorization: Got Poetry?
And here is another possible subject in case Edward Guest is not your cup of tea. (More choices to come.)
If Little Red Riding Hood
by Jeff Moss
If Little Red Riding Hood had a dad,
Perhaps things wouldn't have turned out so bad.
He'd have taught her the useful things a dad can teach you,
Like the difference between Grandma and a wolf who'll eat you.
He'd have brought her two photographs to let her see
How completely different two things can be.
He'd show her a picture of his kindly old mother,
And say, "Grandma's one thing. A wolf is another.
Grandma wants to hug you and give you a kiss.
A wolf wants to eat you, and he looks like this—
Big teeth, big ears, and plenty of fur.
Now look at your grandma, does a wolf look like her?
Your report card was great, I know you're smart,
So it shouldn't be hard to tell them apart.
Now, please get to Grandma's before it gets dark,
Don't go through the forest, stay out of the park.
Don't stop to talk to any wolves you meet,
And don't wear that red thing when you walk down the street. "
Now is just as good a time as anytime to memorize a poem. And, we all should. Great for young people. Even better than Tai Chi for old people.
Actually, I was thinking of calling this post "The Unattended Garden" which has a nice ring to it, and is factual. But tonight I thought poetry should take precedence. (The photos, however, are of the unattended garden, which actually looks ready to provide quite a bountiful crop of squash and beets.)
But, anyway.
Memorizing poetry was at one time considered an important part of pedagogy. That idea faded in the glare of the technological revoulution; but, recently, those in the know have begun to remind us of the benefits.
"Memorize a poem. Find your kindred spirits across the centuries so that — as W. H. Auden counseled — you might, 'composed like them/Of Eros and of dust,/Beleaguered by the same/Negation and despair, /Show an affirming flame.'”
So here's the deal: anyone who reads this blog (and the Force be with you if you do) and everyone else within that sphere of influence (of any age), shall commit to memorizing a poem—haiku okay, but preferably something of more than a few stanzas. Below is the one I'm working on (and about halfway there).
Then, at various times, whenever in company assembled: recitations.
Any poem is fine, or this one, or any of those I will post in future blogs.
I know the piece below is by Edgar Guest, and a bit on the trite and schmaltzy side, but for this purpose, ALMOST anything goes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It Couldn't Be Done
Edgar Albert Guest
Somebody said that it couldn't be done
But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
Who wouldn't say so till he tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
On his face. If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it!
Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
At least no one ever has done it;"
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat
And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
That couldn't be done, and he did it.
There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
There are thousands to prophesy failure,
There are thousands to point out to you one by one,
The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing
That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.
In honor of Will's 6th.
...and a ride to the prairie. Another perfect (if dry) day with a cool north wind counterbalanced by a bright, warm sun. In spite of everything, Pax and I got in a bike/run to the prairie, which has now almost completed its annual cycle. (I plan to put together a photo essay of a prairie year, from spring burn to first frost.)
Big bluestem, about 7 feet tall.
But no rain for a month.
Now the summer perch flips twice and glides
a lateral fathom at the first cold rain,
the surface near to silver from a frosty hill.
Along the weed and grain of log he slides his tail.
Nervously the trout (his stream-toned heart
locked in the lake, his poise and nerve disgraced)
above the stirring catfish, curves in bluegill dreams
and curves beyond the sudden thrust of bass.
Surface calm and calm act mask the detonating fear,
the moving crayfish claw, the stare
of sunfish hovering above the cloud-stained sand,
a sucker nudging cans, the grinning maskinonge.
How do carp resolve the eel and terror here?
They face so many times this brown-ribbed fall of leaves
predicting weather foreign as a shark or prawn
and floating still above them in the paling sun.
Richard Hugo