SkyWatch Friday: Send me up, not down

Lord, I have loved Your sky,
Be it said against or for me,
Have loved it clear and high,
Or low and stormy;

Till I have reeled and stumbled
From looking up too much,
And fallen and been humbled
To wear a crutch.

My love for every Heaven
O'er which You, Lord, have lorded,
From number One to Seven,
Should  be rewarded.

It may not give me hope
That when I am translated
My scalp will in the cope
Be constellated.

But if that seems to tend
To my undue renown,
At least it ought to send
Me up, not down.

~Robert Frost~

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Happy Autumn Weekend!

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America is hard to see

It's not that I didn't know.

I knew Monday was Columbus Day. One week into my beloved October. No mail.

But for me, Monday was Allissa Day. Cool! And cool.

She arrived around noon, wearing pink and her plastic tiara as always.

I made her a grilled cheese as her daddy and I chatted, waiting for TG to be ready.

Then TG and his son-in-law went off on a grand adventure. Allissa and I followed suit.

If you'd like to see the picture gallery that was the result of her patient posing and my attempts at "real" portrait photography, click HERE.

At any rate, I didn't have time to blog about Columbus Day and now I'm going to. Sort of.

I hope you like the poet Robert Frost because you're going to be hearing from him again later in the week.

And no, not two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and no, not nothing gold can stay. 

Not that there's anything wrong with those. Au contraire, mon ami.

But there's more to the man and his work than catchphrases.

By the way are you one of those people who likes what most people like, or do you look around for your own things to like?

I do a little of both but mostly I find that if a person has been proclaimed one of the greatest poets in the English language, he is.

He was awarded not one, not two, not three, but four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry. And he deserves to be read.

He was handsome, too. So there.

I have owned my beloved volume The Poetry of Robert Frost -- containing all eleven of his books complete -- for at least thirty years. 

And I've never read it cover to cover.

So this is my autumnal reading, and when I dip into its pages on mornings that will soon become frosty (even in South Carolina) I am awed by Frost's genius.

I also love brick. I know, right? That was a segue as sudden as any. And I know lots of people enjoy brick.

But TG and I were in Columbia recently, walking in an alley (long story) and he got a phone call, and while he stopped to chat, I looked around and took these pictures.

I hope you like them and I hope you see as I do in their inherent beauty despite their simplicity, their structure, and their scars, the enduring spirit of America.

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Columbus may have worked the wind

A new and better way to Ind

And also proved the world a ball,

But how about the wherewithal?

Not just for scientific news

Had the Queen backed him to a cruise.

Remember he had made the test

Finding the East by sailing West.

But had he found it? Here he was

Without one trinket from Ormuz

To save the Queen from family censure

For her investment in his venture.

 

There had been something strangely wrong

With every coast he tried along.

He could imagine nothing barrener.

The trouble was with him the mariner.

He wasn’t off a mere degree;

His reckoning was off a sea.

And to intensify the drama

Another mariner, da Gama,

Came just then sailing into port

From the same general resort,

And with the gold in hand to show for

His claim it was another Ophir.

 

Had but Columbus known enough

He might have boldly made the bluff

That better than da Gama’s gold

He had been given to behold

The race’s future trial place,

A fresh start for the human race.

He might have fooled Valladolid.

I was deceived by what he did.

If I had had my chance when young

I should have had Columbus sung

As a god who had given us

A more than Moses’ exodus.

 

But all he did was spread the room

Of our enacting out the doom

Of being in each other’s way,

And so put off the weary day

When we would have to put our mind

On how to crowd but still be kind.

For these none-too-apparent gains

He got no more than dungeon chains

And such small posthumous renown

(A country named for him, a town,

A holiday) as, where he is,

He may not recognize for his.

 

They say his flagship’s unlaid ghost

Still probes and dents our rocky coast

With animus approaching hate,

And for not turning out a strait,

He has cursed every river mouth

From fifty North to fifty South.

Someday our navy, I predict,

Will take in tow this derelict

And lock him through Culebra Cut,

His eyes as good (or bad) as shut

To all the modern works of man

And all we call American.

 

America is hard to see.

Less partial witnesses than he

In book on book have testified

They could not see it from outside --

Or inside either for that matter.

We know the literary chatter.

Columbus, as I say, will miss

All he owes to the artifice

Of tractor-plow and motor-drill.

To naught but his own force of will,

Or at most some Andean quake,

Will he ascribe this lucky break.

 

High purpose makes the hero rude;

He will not stop for gratitude.

But let him show his haughty stern

To what was never his concern

Except as it denied him way

To fortune-hunting in Cathay.

He will be starting pretty late.

He’ll find that Asiatic state

Is about tired of being looted

While having its beliefs disputed.

His can be no such easy raid

As Cortez on the Aztecs made.

~Robert Frost~

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Happy Wednesday!

It beats working

I have so much to do! And I'm not doing any of it.

That's because I'm hanging out with Allissa, who is spending the day with me!

Happy Monday! Happy Week!

It takes to to tango

Hello, yes this is me, your intrepid girl reporter, letting my inner language-snob out for a long-overdue romp.

People.

I saw the above picture attached to a news story and I will admit, I experienced a moment of dysphoria.

Is it possible that there is an adult skilled enough to produce such a beautiful hand-made sign, who does not know the difference between the words two and to?

This is the burning question.

If only it were an isolated incident of spelling, definitional, and syntactical ignorance.

But no. That would be too easy.

By way of illustration allow me to share with you several examples of shockingly interesting word-choice faux pas that have fallen directly under me flinty pirate gaze in recent days.

(They're especially entertaining if, like me, you engage in the type of mental condescension peculiar to those who proofread everything ... even in their sleep.)

Here we go. Seen in print within the last few weeks, in various places including periodicals and the interweb:

I tell you this not to illicit sympathy.

Uhm, no. The word you wanted was elicit. Tricky little homonyms!

With all do respect.

Ahem. Let's go with due; shall we? Infinitely more respectful.

Please bare with me.

You're on your own. I may bear but I won't bare.

He will always have hundreds of people at his beckoned call.

Close but no cigar! Whoever he is, he must be quite special but the expression is beck and call.

I am a child of the king and an heir to his thrown!

We knew not to stow thrones but lo (not low) and behold we will inherit thrown ... something.

Needles to say ...

Uhm, I think all you need is one more itty-bitty letter s and we're good to go.

Nothing worthwild can come of this.

Perhaps not, but if you have patience, perhaps in time you'll see it was worthwhile.

I waited with baited breath.

Earthworms? Night crawlers? Don't answer that. Next time, wait with bated breath instead.

All the men were wearing suites and ties.

As a sartorial statement that would be difficult to ignore! But I hope the trend doesn't catch on because wearing a suite must be very tiring. Surely a suit would be more comfortable?

I am trying to figure out what secrete you are hiding.

This is one of those times when restraint would be the better part of valor. Quit while you're ahead! Secretions are best kept private.

We were saving the kingdom from the evil hoades.

OK ... that sounds valiant and commendable but there's no such thing as a hoade. I think (I hope) you meant evil hordes.

Here, here!

Thanks ever so. Now that we know where you are, please next time write hear, hear!

Our hamster has a long tuff of hair right in front.

I'm sure he's a bruiser and unique in every way but that thing in front is actually a tuft.

She was proceeded in death by two sisters and an uncle.

That must have been fascinating but the word you wanted was preceded. 

He was struck by lightening.

Unless you're talking about the late Michael Jackson, the word you want is lightning.

He could not be swade by lies or hate.

That's admirable but perhaps if he is not careful, he will indeed be swayed.

The musical interlude featured Pachelbel's Cannon in D.

Not to nitpick but I doubt Pachelbel had a clue what to do with a cannon. He did however know his way around a canon.

(It amazes me that when printing wedding programs, people take great care with the spelling of Pachelbel but then almost always drop the ball on an easy word like canon.)

Speaking of weddings ...

The groomsmen wore dove-gray tuxedos with chartreuse silk cumberbuns.

Again, as haberdashery goes that would be magnificent except the word is cummerbund.

My dad had a problem with dizziness. The doctor said it was vertebra.

Alfred Hitchcock may not have had a medical degree but at least he knew the condition is called vertigo. He even made a movie about it.

There are so many more. My mother once saw printed in a church bulletin that a member who had undergone surgery for cancer had been forced to relinquish several limp nodes.

That must have been a shock to the parishioner's lymphatic system! We hoped for a speedy recovery.

Many folks complain of pain in the rotator cup.

Mine hurts too but I know it's the rotator cuff. That's some consolation.

Notice I didn't even touch the ever-amazing daily ill-usage and apparent interchangeability of words like your and you're, loose and lose, its and it's, there, their, and they're, and so on.

That's because I've come to the fatalistic conclusion that for a vast portion of the population, when it comes to the English language there's really no hope.

Maddening malapropisms, sophomoric syntax, pathetic punctuation, and unusual usage seem to be our fate.

Nevertheless I think we've all arrived at a very special place. The cute pirate agrees.

Happy Weekend!

All fall down

I know it officially started a week or so ago. Autumn.

But I also know I have never -- ever! -- learned to color within the lines.

(I was actually sent home from school with a note once, telling my parents I HAD TO LEARN to color inside the lines.)

Ha Ha. I never claimed to possess artistic ability (although I am burdened with the artistic temperament).

What I do have are a few good lenses.

But anyway, my point (I will thank you not to snicker) is that for me, Autumn begins on October First.

And lasts until the last cranberry has been consumed on Thanksgiving Day.

And then it is Christmastime.

October is my favorite month. The cooling, the misting, the coloring, the poignancy ... I savor it like no other thirty- or thirty-one day period of time on the calendar.

I know I am not alone in this sentiment.

So on this beautiful First of October in The Year of Our Lord Two Thousand Twelve I justed wanted to say, let's get down with fall, y'all.

That is all!

Oh ... except for this, my favorite autumn poem by my all-time favorite poet.

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These are the days when Birds come back --
A very few -- a Bird or two --
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies resume
The old -- old sophistries of June --
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee --
Almost thy implausibility
Induces my belief.

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear --
And softly thro' the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.

Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh last Communion in the Haze --
Permit a child to join.

Thy sacred emblems to partake --
Thy consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!

Emily Dickinson

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