No TV or computer, only a piano and an old manual typewriter. All relationships were real: family, neighbors, friends; our chickens and our dogs. This was life on the farm in the Eighties before we moved to Oregon. Writing on paper, tapping out lines, learning songs on the piano. Working on the farm and in the garden. Glad when someone came by. Glad when they didn’t. And now — yes, […]
A smile and a hug from my father — spring comes again to the farm. ~ [ 2092 ]
Knowledge, memory, religion, belief, no belief — may they sit lightly upon you, like dew on a dove’s wing. ~ [ 2091 ]
I’m enjoying Melville’s Omoo, and am now about one hundred twenty-five pages in. More story-like than Typee, it’s worth reading for its sailing and sea vocabulary alone. And it’s certainly not without its descriptive humor, as shown in the opening of the twenty-eighth chapter: In a few moments, we were paraded in the frigate’s gangway; the first lieutenant — an elderly, yellow-faced officer, in an ill-cut coat and tarnished gold […]
One thing I’ve learned is to not idealize the past. On the farm, for instance, in those later years before we moved to Oregon, I would eat a fresh lemon a few minutes after rising; then I’d have a small cup of coffee; then, depending on the time of year — our lemon tree was an ever-bearing variety — I’d either have breakfast, or I’d go outside to greet and […]
We broke the ice in the birdbaths and filled them with fresh water. The first drink was taken by a squirrel. Then a pair of juncos descended from the bare birches. They hopped around the rim, stopping for very quick small sips — stopping without stopping, you might say. More sun, more cold, not a drop of rain. The dry air inside makes the sinuses ache. My blood pressure was […]
Picking up a few wind-downed birch and fir branches, I found out just how soggy the backyard is. Each step was accompanied by a luscious squish — two words you don’t see together very often — the result of the frequent rains we’ve been having. This didn’t stop me, though, from making a fair beginning of the annual pruning of our fig tree, which is a fair-sized job requiring the […]
Well, that’s enough about ants, or whatever it is I was writing about. And anyway, we can be glad they’re not cockroaches. Yet I remember my father’s uncles and aunts using the term cockroach endearingly, with a smile that also signified ample affection for the nephew they’d known from birth and watched grow up on their sister and brother-in-law’s Depression-era farm — the sister and brother-in-law being my father’s parents: […]
As funny as it seems, I was once a chubby cherub, a 1950s Raphael, who weighed thirty pounds at a year. There’s a picture in our sitting room that proves it, a smiling baby of nine months propped up by his own sweet girth, rolls at his wrists, and a twinkling smile. No wings — they never quite developed. There was only a minor scapular deformity, or perhaps conformity, to […]
Where Dragonflies Sleep starts my memory in so many agreeable directions, it would take hours to account for them all, if I ever came to the end. This brings to mind a question: is my memory infinite? Is it even possible to know? And what of ancestral memory, cultural memory, bodily memory, and the collective memory of our kind? And isn’t instinct a form of memory which, having existed for […]
William Michaelian 