SkyWatch Friday: So brief a thing

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So brief a thing is beauty, hold it close,

As closely as your heart would hold a wing

That soon is flown again, unraveling

Its splendor down the lyric way it goes.

Drink sunsets deeply; drink their dregs of rose

That linger in the darkening sky. A thing

Of beauty is a glory that will sing

Its way into your soul. Your blood that flows

Will quicken into music in your veins.

Look long upon all beauty that you see --

Hushed lavender of lilacs and a tree

Armored in sudden silver of the rains.

Hold beauty closely; never let it go

Till eyes are blind and lips as pale as snow.

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~ by Daniel Whitehead Hicky (1902-1976) ~

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klaatu42 it's up to you

When I need a good laugh I click into YouTube and watch Ultimate Dog Tease.

Yeah. You know the one. I posted it here a few months ago.

So the other day I required a good laugh and I went over to see what klaatu42 -- creator of Ultimate Dog Tease -- was up to.

WHO ELSE would risk life and limb and warm toes in order to videotape a beaver in the middle of a busy Canadian highway, then make up a beaver voice so real, you actually buy it?

Because friends, I buy it. This guy can talk to the animals and they talk back.

Merci beaucoup, man. All I've got to say.

I am officially stupid. Or maybe just nuts.

I will thank you not to snicker or mutter News Flash or any other such pejorative commentary relative to the title of this post.

See, what happened was, I got to flapping all around in two upstairs bedrooms over the weekend.

One bedroom at a time.

Even I, flapper-arounder extraordinaire by anybody's reckoning, cannot flap around in two bedrooms at once.

One such flap-worthy location was Andrew's Room. The other was Erica's Room.

But.

Neither of those individuals have lived in this house for some time now. So why have they rooms here?

The short answer would be: They don't. Anymore.

Instead I now have three upstairs guest rooms where before I had only one, and I now have three offices (two up, cleverly disguised as guest rooms; one down, clearly an office -- which in my boundless magnanimity I share with TG) where before I had only one.

You read that correctly. One office was not enough for me. Two offices were not enough for me. It had to be three and now there are three.

One office for each computer, including an office that is the occasional venue for simultaneous use of two computers.

I won't bore you with the details of the computers that exist in this house and how I hog most of them and employ them for different tasks. Suffice it to say they all get a workout.

So anyway, in the room that used to be Erica's, there was a dresser. It was on the cheap side and didn't match anything. Soft white with four drawers. White enamel-look plates with pink flowers painted on them served as anchors for brass-look pull handles.

We bought the dresser for the girls when they were small. It's been moved many times. On one corner of the topmost surface there was a spot the size of a deck of cards where the paint had mysteriously been damaged and scraped at and effectively removed, leaving a scar you had to cover with a box of tissues.

Speaking of office, I imagine Bill Clinton was in the Oval when that happened.

A decorative piece that long ago got knocked loose and was partially broken leaned across the bottom of the dresser. If you opened the drawers, they immediately lunged forward and down. You had to catch them or risk losing some skin on your shin.

It was a piece of junk. I wanted an empty space where it stood. I slid out each drawer in its turn and, taking care not to let them fall, I emptied them of clothes Erica has not worn since before she went away to college.

All said articles of clothing I deposited on what used to be her bed.

Then I called TG to come and haul the dresser out of the room, down the stairs, into his pickup, and from there to the place he takes all our trash.

But first he had to interrogate me. Was I sure I really wanted to jettison the dresser? Would anybody want it? Could we sell it? Maybe we should have a little garage sale?

Yes. No. I doubt it. Uhm, sure, Dear. Knock your lights out. Thus were my tender and considered responses to each eager query in turn.

Because I was certain I wanted the dresser to G-O go and I was positive nobody would want it and why would anyone give good money for it?

Also I knew without having to think about it for longer than a nanosecond that TG's the last person in this house who's going to organize a garage sale. I'm the second to last and I won't do it until paisley-clad swine are airborne in the skies over Columbia.

So I gave a little tug to the fake-enamel and fake-brass pulls and I let the dresser drawers fall out, and I caught each one and I stacked them at the top of the stairs so TG could carry them away. Then I walked the empty shell of my girls' old dresser out of the room and to the stair landing. When I looked again, it was gone.

The next day I glanced out the window of one of my two new offices and saw the dresser sitting at the end of the driveway next to TG's pickup. Which made sense.

I figured he hadn't heaved it into the truck bed yet because he was waiting until time to go to the trash facility. He was busy blowing and raking and bagging the acorns raining down on our house by the thousands from the big oak which is having a remarkably fruitful year.

The front yard glistens with acorns.TG has netted fifty pounds a day several days running.

The backyard pool area has become a bona fide squirrel sanctuary and all-you-can-gnaw buffet.

Well.

Not a half hour after I noticed the dresser in the driveway, TG came bounding up the stairs into one of my offices. He was clearly all worked up about something. And he was brandishing my wallet.

Now, like most ladies, I do not like people -- ANY people -- going into my purse without my knowledge and assent. TG of all people should be aware of not only that salient fact, but also that I do not carry cash.

However, he'd given me a five-dollar bill the previous Sunday when he'd needed a few singles I had squirreled away, on account of the little kids in our church pass brightly-colored baskets around in evening service as a collection for their summer camp fund.

TG's a sucker for basket-waving kids.

He'd cadged my errant singles and given me the fiver as a sop. So he knew it was in there.

At least he was gentleman enough not to pinch the cash in don't-ask-don't-tell fashion.

I was clueless as to why he needed money and I didn't inquire because he was obviously in a great hurry.

Then from my lofty perch in the oak branches I saw there was a battered black pickup sitting in the road at the base of our driveway.

And the white dresser was in the truck bed.

As I watched, TG trotted toward the driver's side window. Money changed hands.

I was speechless and motionless. No words. Momentarily flapless.

A minute later he was back in my office. He tried to hand me a twenty but I waved it away. As though I could be bought so cheaply.

"Don't tell me you got money for that old dresser," I said.

"YEAH! I did! Ten bucks! She wanted it! I pointed out the big scraped-off spot on the top but she said she's going to paint it black anyway so it doesn't matter!"

TG, gatherer of acorns, marketing genius, was out of breath and practically levitating. The thrill of the deal had seized him and was rattling his back teeth.

No, we don't get out much. Step off.

So now? Now all I can think of is that dresser painted black, with new, edgy drawer pulls that don't scream I Hold Girl Clothes. My mind's eye can effortlessly see how cool and clever that would be.

I can picture it occupying any one of several spaces in my house, its stylishly repurposed self being put to myriad homespun uses. A cache for linens or gift wrap or spare acorns or even Pirates of the Caribbean DVD's and memorabilia.

But no. No, it's gone. It's black now and it's not coming back. It's enjoying another, second, more exciting life. One that has nothing to do with me.

A cautionary tale with a bittersweet ending.

I think I'll go sulk in one of my offices.

To the trained eye

Last July when we were in Northwest Ohio to see family, we drove over to Pettisville.

That's the small farm community where my late father-in-law grew up. We wanted to visit some kinfolk in the local graveyard.

There were so many Webers in there, it gave even me a slight case of the back-of-neck prickles.

TG called his cousin, Joanie, who lives across the street from the cemetery.

Moments later she came into view, waving, and they had a mini Weber reunion. Minus the meatloaf, jello salad, and yeast rolls.

After the cemetery we were melting so we stopped at Sunday's Market & Ice Cream Parlor.

It's right next to the railroad tracks. You can't miss it.

During the Great Depression, Sunday's extended so much credit to folks for food and other necessities, that many still talk about owing its proprietors a debt of gratitude for their very survival.

We went inside the screen doors that, when let go to close of their own accord, still slap with that wood-and-stretchy-spring twang I remember from when I was a kid.

Everybody located a cold drink and within minutes, while we paid, someone asked TG why we were passing through.

In no time he was chatting about Webers gone by to a Pettisville old-timer who remembered them well.

The folks who live around there don't even pay for their purchases. At least not right then. They put their bread, mik, and newspaper or whatnot on the counter and the clerk tots it up on an index card she withdraws from a worn box.

I reckon once a month or so, the patrons wander in to settle up. Nobody has a computer or worries about whether the math was done right.

It's downright refreshing, all that small-town trust. And you thought it was a thing of the past! It's not.

So then I wanted to take a picture of a train coming at me. Do you see it?

And yes, I was scared but I stood my ground. Until it got so close I felt it would be wise to step aside.

The massive object was making, shall we say, swift progress.

As the train approached I remembered I have HD video on my fancy camera. So I nudged it on and stood stockstill even though it was loud and gritty and my skirts were blowing in the strong wind generated by the train.

It was so exciting, I forgot to re-orient my camera to landscape. I take ninety-nine percent of my photos in the portrait orientation because they look better on my blog.

So what we have here is a very loud train going right over your head. Which come to think of it, I rather like. At least it's not your ordinary train footage.

Make sure you turn your sound way up and make it full screen! And don't tilt your head. Watch it the way it is. Much more better.

This weekend, train your eye to see one thing that's always been there but that you gave no particular notice. Then take a picture of it. Try several angles.

That was free. And that is all.

Deauxdie Dodie Dody

Cary Gorgeous GrantDid you know Cary Grant never actually said "Judy, Judy, Judy" in a movie?

At least that's my understanding.

It's, like, one of those urban legends.

(Actually when quoted it comes out much more Cary-Grantish: "Juday Juday Juday!")

But here are a few possible explanations for why Cary Grant, the Johnny Depp of his day, is credited with the expression.

And doesn't he have the most unusual signature? Sort of reminds me of my own.

No kidding. I've posted a picture of my signature below. If you can forge it, you're welcome to keep whatever it gets you.

I don't know what made me think of all that except the different ways my Uncle Dodie has rendered his name over the years.

Oh! I forgot to tell you why I was thinking about my beloved Uncle Dodie in the first place.

It was due to this email I received on Wednesday evening:

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 I get my coffee in the mornings and come upstairs and get on the computer. Check email, see how many hits my vids got on youtube, make a quick scan of FB, and read "I'm having a thought here." I love your blog Jenny, can't wait to read the book.

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I've been blessed in my life with only three uncles, so it's a good thing they're of the over-the-top wonderfully loving variety.

L to R Dodie, Linda, Sherrill, Ann circa 2007

My father was an only child. No uncles there. My mother has two brothers -- Sherrill and Dorsey Jr. (Dodie) -- plus a sister, Linda, whose husband was my unique, funny, crazy-talented Uncle Don.

Uncle Don passed away in 2001. I still miss him.

I could never choose one of my uncles over the other, but Uncle Dodie is extra special.

For one thing, he's only ten years older than me. So when I was little, we were buddies. He used to tickle me until I nearly passed out.

Dodie's the one for whom my mother -- Pirate! -- stole the Southern Cross of Honor from a Confederate grave.

L to R Linda, Sherrill, Ann circa 1943

Which sacred item is now in my possession.

All three of my uncles are and were immensely creative and artistic people.

Uncle Don was a musician, comedian, and photographer. He excelled at all three.

Uncle Sherrill in his youth could dance on roller skates like Fred Astaire on a gleaming studio set. Again: no kidding. You have never seen anything more stylish and graceful.

And although I'm not sure he can quote it flawlessly anymore, as a mature adult he memorized William Cullen Bryant's Thanatopsis.

I have heard him recite it verbatim several times, impromptu and on demand:

• O him who in the love of Nature holds

  Communion with her visible forms, she speaks

  A various language; for his gayer hours

  She has a voice of gladness, and a smile

  And eloquence of beauty, and she glides

  Into his darker musings, with a mild

  And healing sympathy, that steals away

  Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts

  Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

  Over thy spirit, and sad images

  Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,

  And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,

  Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart;--

  Go forth, under the open sky, and list

  To Nature's teachings, while from all around--

  Earth and her waters, and the depths of air--

  Comes a still voice--Yet a few days, and thee

  The all-beholding sun shall see no more

  In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,

  Where thy pale form was laid with many tears,

  Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist

  Thy image. Earth, that nourish'd thee, shall claim

  Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,

  And, lost each human trace, surrendering up

  Thine individual being, shalt thou go

  To mix for ever with the elements,

  To be a brother to the insensible rock,

  And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain

  Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak

  Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.

   

  Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

  Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish

  Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

  With patriarchs of the infant world--with kings,

  The powerful of the earth--the wise, the good,

  Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,

  All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

  Rock-ribb'd and ancient as the sun,--the vales

  Stretching in pensive quietness between;

  The venerable woods; rivers that move

  In majesty, and the complaining brooks

  That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all,

  Old Ocean's grey and melancholy waste,--

  Are but the solemn decorations all

  Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,

  The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,

  Are shining on the sad abodes of death,

  Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

  The globe are but a handful to the tribes

  That slumber in its bosom.--Take the wings

  Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,

  Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

  Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound

  Save his own dashings--yet the dead are there:

  And millions in those solitudes, since first

  The flight of years began, have laid them down

  In their last sleep--the dead reign there alone.

  So shalt thou rest: and what if thou withdraw

  In silence from the living, and no friend

  Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

  Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

  When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care

  Plod on, and each one as before will chase

  His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave

  Their mirth and their employments, and shall come

  And make their bed with thee. As the long train

  Of ages glides away, the sons of men,

  The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes

  In the full strength of years, matron and maid,

  The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man--

  Shall one by one be gathered to thy side

  By those who in their turn shall follow them.

   

  So live, that when thy summons comes to join

  The innumerable caravan which moves

  To that mysterious realm where each shall take

  His chamber in the silent halls of death,

  Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

  Scourged by his dungeon; but, sustain'd and soothed

  By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

  Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

  About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

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No, I didn't expect you to read all that. Although it wouldn't hurt you.

That leaves Uncle Dodie, who is a gifted musician, painter, and sculptor.

He also has bags of charm and charisma.

And by the way, all three of my uncles were/are exceptional cooks. I mean yeah y'all. I'm talking about the kind of Southern and Cajun cuisine that makes your tongue slap your brains out. Grab a biscuit and pass the butterbeans.

So when I read in his email about monitoring hits on his YouTube vids, I thought: What YouTube vids?

I went to check it out and found this one:

Which made me mist up a trifle because first of all, Aunt Leslee could have gotten the camera on his face a little better instead of on the red wagon so much, and also because of the way he talks about baby Trey.

But mostly it was because of how much as he ages, Uncle Dodie looks and sounds so uncannily like his father: my Papaw.

Before I put this thing to bed let me show you one other, older, video of Uncle Dodie playing the harmonica.

That's Papaw too. He's been gone seventeen years and I can still hear the sometimes tender, sometimes urgent whine of his harmonica.

He's playing as the long train of ages glides away.