Forced waiting in public is a perfect people-watching opportunity that can turn into poetry or prose. Here’s what arose from my recent visit to the DMV to get my driver’s license renewed, when I waited over an hour for my number to be called. These ditties aren’t going to win any awards, but I entertained myself mightily!
I made a mistake yesterday by believing WordPress that my hastily-written post Homeward Bound, published from seat 8A on a small Embraer 175 aircraft, failed to upload. So I pushed the “Publish” button once more, as the plane revved up on the runway at Reagan National Airport.
Then I happily changed the iPad to airplane mode and settled in to finish a murder mystery set in Paris (Cara Black’s Murder at the Lanterne Rouge, for my fellow mystery lovers and Francophiles).
This morning, I noticed that there are two identical Homeward Bound posts at the top of the Glover Gardens blog – oops! For some reason, this makes me smile. An “oops” haiku instantly springs to mind:
i’m amused by my obvious imperfection love me as I am
I’m going to keep both versions on the blog as a reminder to myself that I’m flawed, but still lovable. As are you – would you agree?
just like Dorothy what we sought was always there in our own backyard
We went to Little House in the Rockies a few weeks ago, seeking the fall color.
We’ve had this tiny log cabin for five years, and for five years, we’ve managed a trip up there sometime in the fall color date window. Mid-September, late September, early October, mid-October. We travel all ’round each fall, going hither and yon, looking for that perfect vista of autumn leaves, that soul-satisfying mix of reds, yellows and oranges.
We’ve seen some nice colors on these treks, taken lots of pictures and made some lasting memories.
On the last afternoon of this most recent visit, our 2018 Fall Colors Roundup, after hithering and yonning for days, we hunkered down and just enjoyed Indian Mountain where Little House is located. The bright yellow aspen, birds, wildlife and big blue mountain-bordered skies were just as satisfying as anything we encountered on our day trips. It was always right there in our own backyard.
Just like Dorothy.
If you’ve read this far, I have a confession to make. I was almost guilty of self-plagiarism!It’s also known as “recycling fraud,” when an author uses his or her own work without citing it. I searched the Glover Gardens blog for other posts about Little House in the Rockies and I found this one from last year: Dorothy Was Right: It Was In Our Own Back Yard (fall colors). Can you believe it? How could I forget? But I’m going forward with the 2018 version anyway, now that I’ve properly cited my work. And also, although last year’s “backyard” colors are more vibrant, this year’s post has a haiku!
You have probably figured out that The Wizard of Oz is one of my favorite movies. It’s all allegory and human nature and fairy tale truths. And it was also a really good book.
My dad was born 80 years ago today in West Texas as the Great Depression was coming to an end in the shadow of another Great War in Europe, a time before regular Americans realized we’d be involved in that war.
With that backdrop and two incredible and resourceful parents, Dad was raised to be frugal, honest, fair and humble. To use his wits, respect people, and figure out a Plan B for everything. To find the humor and bright side in everything, even if you had no money and had to wash your clothes in the sink. The second of four kids, Dad worshipped his older brother and protected and respected his younger sisters.
Graduating high school in 1957, Dad attended the University of North Texas for a semester or two before realizing that he’d need help financing that dream of a college education and enlisted in the Army. He was innocent, idealistic and somehow, cool. Check him out with his trumpet in 1958; he called this picture Frank Cool.
Dad met my mom on a blind “coke date” and they married soon after, even though they said later that they initially didn’t like each other!
I joined Mom and Dad just a year later as he was finishing his service in the army. And then my brother Steve came along.
We were a close family. Steve and I were always going to write a book called Surviving a Happy Childhood. Maybe I still will. Dad was my role model, rock and mentor. Lots and lots of years, happy times and memories later, after Mom and my Steve each took their last bows, Dad and I grew even closer. He was immeasurably important to me.
Then Dad went over the rainbow in June of 2017. The grief was breath-taking, harsh and immediate, and yet…there aren’t words to express my gratitude that he was born into this world on October 16, 1938, and that I was born to him and my mom. My life has been incredibly blessed, parent-wise.
So sadness and grief take a distant second place today as I celebrate Dad’s second birthday in heaven. Happy memories take center stage, and this haiku and photo from last year’s Dad’s-Birthday-Post still seem just right.
Haiku for Dad
you nudged me into everything I’ve ever done you believed in me
Happy birthday, Dad, and I’ll see you on the other side.