no more struggles

Diane called not long after we got home from Mass - Mr. Kibble wasn't doing well; she thought we might want him for a while to say our good-byes. Yes!

He was here about four hours; we prayed for him and sprinkled holy water on his little self when he seemed to struggle for breath. He was here with us on the kitchen table in his little bed the whole time, and we kept our vigil talking and stroking him; he gave up the ghost around four twenty.

With much gratitude to St. Joseph, for taking such good care of him all this time.

Kibble, in your orisons be all our sins remembered.

too much self

I've been reading a lot lately, I guess - and too preoccupied to post here....


"I now think the rampant individualism of our current culture is a catastrophe. The emphasis on self - individual success, self-fulfillment, individual freedom, self-actualization - is a catastrophe. I now think that living a good life requires a much vaster transformation."

"For six decades the worship of the self has been the central preoccupation of our culture - molding the self, investing in the self, expressing the self. ...When a whole society is built around self-preoccupation, its members become separated from one another, divided and alienated. And that is what has happened to us. We are down in the valley. The rot we see in our politics is caused by a rot in our moral and cultural foundations - in the way we relate to one another, in the way we see ourselves as separable from one another, in the individualistic values that have become the water in which we swim."


                                                        - David Brooks, The Second Mountain


Not that I didn't already know this, but he puts it very well, and I think has enough popularity and maybe influence to really get the point across.

too true

We strive with all our strength and soul

To do what life requires,

And somehow while we're on the way

Fulfill our hearts' desires.

And often as the days speed on

Too hard our small hearts beat.

Be still, my soul, the Spirit sighs,

Go sit at Jesus' feet.

There is a road we see too well,

Its features fill our eyes;

A quieter path not far away

We barely recognize.

And we must find our way on both,

Or life is incomplete.

Be still, my soul, the Spirit sighs,

Go sit at Jesus' feet.

The many things we hope to do,

The wholeness God bestows,

The center that unites the two

Are closer than one knows.

There is in us a holy ground

Where prayer and labor meet.

Be still, my soul, the Spirit sighs,

Go sit at Jesus' feet.

-  Michael Hudson,   from Magnificat, July 2019

dog days

A few days of excessive heat with air conditioner running morning and night; fit for eating light meals, quiet indoor activities and plenty of ice cream, iced tea and watermelon.

a cheerful courage

Awake, our souls! away, our fears!

Let every trembling thought be gone!

Awake, and run the heavenly race,

And put a cheerful courage on.

True, 'til a straight and thorny road,

And mortal spirits tire and faint;

But they forget the mighty God,

That feeds the strength of every saint.

                                                                          - Isaac Watts, from Magnificat, July, 2019

cotton nightgowns

Another one of the pleasures of summer.

the zucchini is coming

Yesterday the produce from the garden starting to roll in. We were going to have Reuben sandwiches, so I decided to also make some of the Neapolitan Zucchini soup we always enjoy to go with it.

It was a warm day, but we let it cool off before we ate it.

I'll have to grate some to freeze. I may try this.

being pilgrims together

"Being on a pilgrimage also means to recognize our need for each other. When we walk together we need one another's help. When one person gets tired, the other sustains him; when one runs too fast, he needs someone to stop him. This is what it means to be pilgrims in the name of the Lord; to discover that our brothers and sisters  are gifts to us, a richness in our lives..."

                                                            -   Mother Elvira Petrozzi

good summer for hydrangeas

The hydrangea is stunning this summer.

I had left it alone, which seems to be what it likes. Last year I made the mistake of cutting those dry sticks and it didn't bloom until almost September. They always look like dead things which should be pruned, but I guess not!

It even looks good blurry

that shade of blue!

or faded.

I just like taking pictures of it.

the pilgrimage

"To go on a pilgrimage means to embrace our spiritual poverty because a pilgrim is one who accepts God's call to be poor in spirit. Think about when people traveled on foot with a piece of bread in a sack and when it was gone it was necessary for them to extend their hand and beg. To have a spirit of poverty means to recognize that we are poor people in need of everything, above all the grace of the Lord that fills our heart."

                                                               -  Mother Elvira Petrozzi, (emphasis mine)

never at my best in the morning

Notice the above dress - notice how wrinkled. There's a story, probably as dumb as this one.

This dress is pretty new; I wore it to work the other day. Before long (thank goodness!) we were talking in the back room and I chanced to put my hand to my neckline. I felt the tag - Lord have mercy, I had it on backwards! Well, I'm sure I hooted and hollered and then went in the bathroom to switch it around.

It's linen.

My good co-workers protested that it really didn't matter if I left it on that way, as they thought it could be worn either way. This is the back - very nice tucks there.

But this is the front -

I suppose any dress designer who wanted to could put this smocked-look on the back of a dress. But it isn't likely. I sure wasn't going to. I mean, not deliberately.

But that's why it was so wrinkled in the front. Good grief.

journey to the North Star

"What is a pilgrimage? It is a symbol of our life that is sometimes long and sometimes brief. We do not know how long it will last, but it is a journey toward God. We walk toward the Lord because he is the North Star, the point of attraction on our compass which guides our journey. If we lose our direction, we go to the right or to the left and our journey wavers."

                                                  - Mother Elvira Petrozzi, from Magnificat, July 2019

foolish musings

We've had this set of dishes for Many Years; I believe they are from the supermarket, in the days when you could get dishes in boxes of laundry soap. That's a long time ago.

We don't tire of them. The scenes are so pleasant, like this one. But in recent days I looked at this more closely, and thought it couldn't have been so hot on this dish day, otherwise that lady could never have dressed like that, nor would they have seemed so calm. But I love it.

the necessary grace

"Let us hope! He who teaches us so carefully will give us the necessary grace to benefit from his lessons....  All that he tells us to do, all that he calls us to do, gives us the strength to do it, through the sheer effectiveness of his divine Word. ... By the very fact that his Word is divine, Jesus gave to all of us this grace that will be sufficient for all the moments of our life. Therefore we should never get discouraged.... No matter how laden with ingratitude, sins, and crimes, even at death's door, it is still possible for us to be perfect and saints during the moments that are left to us in this world and in life eternal...

                                                                  -   Charles de Foucauld,  from Magnificat, July 2019

fur and feathers

I wanted to name this post "two lousy photos", and you will soon see why.

An oriole showed up in the forsythia hedge along the side of the house; he wouldn't keep still.

His head is busy eating a black raspberry, I'm sure. They seem to be way inside the foliage this year and too hard to reach - the birds can have them.

A good year for orioles and rabbits, and here is one near our bridge -

I see them here, at work and yesterday we visited our cousins at the shore - there was one hanging out in the bushes there.

I used the digital zoom on the camera, and it's really a last resort.

home again

Diane came by all tanned and rested, picked up Mr. K., and now he's back at home. We really were pleased to be able to have him for a while, after all these years of seeing him outside and trying to help. It was a blessing for us. My brother took down the platform and everything is washed and put back. 

our little guest

Mr. Kibble is here. He is in very reduced circumstances, poor fellow. Meaning, his neurological issue is pretty bad, he can't close his mouth and his little tongue is out much of the time. He eats and drinks well, however, and is so happy to let you rub his tummy.

He is in the spare bedroom, in one of the cat beds Diane brought over and a radio near by, playing jazz. (of course) We keep the door shut to prevent the other two from bothering him - since he can't see, it wouldn't be fair if they were to come up and clip him or whatever and he not being able to see it coming.  He drools, and is incontinent sometimes. He is happy, rubbing against you when you pet his head. I tell him he is beautiful and that we always loved him.

We spent much of Monday clearing out that room; my brother built a platform under a window there with a ramp going down to the bed. This really won't work because he might fall off the bed, or tumble down the ramp. Probably. Except that he doesn't seem to move from his bed all through the night, or today when we were at work. He can get up, but he doesn't seem to. So, this morning before we set out for work, my brother put his bed up on the platform so he could smell the air and feel the breeze and hear the birds. He did enjoy this. We'd check on him frequently.

Diane had, I think, a brilliant idea to get him to drink water. She puts a handful of his dry food (which he won't eat) into the water bowl, and he can smell it and will drink willingly. The food gets wasted, but it flavors the water at least.

tea enough by morning

Last night the jar of iced tea was low and the hour was late. Too late to boil water, steep the tea and let it cool long enough to be put in the fridge. I suddenly remembered Carmella's method: put the tea bags in the water and put it in the fridge overnight. It's tea enough by morning.

And cold enough when needed.

getting ready for a visitor

Right after Sunday dinner I lamented to my brother that it's been almost four weeks since I saw Mr. Kibble at Diane's - I just don't want to be a pest over there. My brother hasn't gotten over there at all, and we do like to see him. Immediately after making this remark my phone rang; it was Diane. She and her husband are going on a family trip for a few days and would we like to take Mr. Kibble?

Well, yes!  From Tuesday night to Saturday afternoon we will have that little fellow here and we can visit with him all we want. I only have to work one day; we'll be home on July 4th, and I also happened to have taken the next day off - how perfect! Another neighbor will feed her other animals, but Mr. K. needs more attention and we are very willing to help him.

I am so psyched!

New England summer rain

After high humidity, today was to be looked forward to. Thunderstorms were predicted for late morning, but it was so sunny when we set off for church (mid-morning) that I couldn't believe it.

Well, mid-afternoon the gray clouds appeared and we did have a mild storm while I was making dinner. But the rest of the afternoon was an alteration of sparkling sun, streaming downpours and sun while raining, over and over. The rain would end and the sun shine so brilliantly that you'd be sure it was all done, and then rain again while the sun was bright and the breeze blew so briskly - it can only be described as delightful.

This picture is from right after the rain, but it was just as sparkling as this while it rained - the whole business was entirely charming! Of course I looked for a rainbow, but it was only the very faintest of things, something I almost imagined, except it really was there, palely trying to appear.

And now the air is dry!   For the time being - for this is New England in summer.

more from The Enchanted Hour

Megan Cox Gurdon tells a story of a man in 1865 named Saturnino Martinez who published a newspaper expressly for cigar factory workers; it was an educational and informational paper, but most were illiterate, so Senor Martinez arranged for public readers who would read to them while they worked, and the workers even chipped in to pay him. Eventually the Spanish government outlawed this (Cuba was a colony), afraid of the spread of "dangerous" ideas.

Some years later, Cuban immigrants in Florida in the 1870s, hired somebody to read to them while they rolled the cigars. In the mornings, it was from a newspaper brought by boat from Havana, and from noon till three he read from a novel; The Count of Monte Cristo being a favorite. Their inability to read wasn't going to keep them in ignorance.

Wonderful!

sacked out

I've posted before about cats on flip-flops. If they're going to lay on the floor and there are flip flops in sight, they will lay on them.

Our dear girl on a very warm day - too warm for people in their fur coats.

reading aloud through history

This blog is getting to be very boring with no pictures and me just talking all the time, BUT

Chapter 2 of The Enchanted Hour talks about the history of storytelling and reading aloud:

"To read at all was to read aloud... In his book, A History of Reading, Alberto Manguel points out that Aramaic and Hebrew, the 'primordial' languages of the Bible, draw no distinction between reading and speaking. The same word stands for both."  (emphasis mine)

"Plutarch writes of the way that Alexander the Great perplexed his soldiers, around 330 BC, by reading without utterance a letter he had received from his mother. The men's confusion hints at the rarity of the spectacle."

Amazing stuff.

Dolly in the front window

2nd century witness

"Christians are indistinguishable from other men either by nationality, language or customs. They do not inhabit separate cities of their own, or speak a strange dialect, or follow some outlandish way of life. Their teaching is not based upon reveries inspired by the curiosity of men. Unlike some other people, they champion no purely human doctrine. With regard to dress, food, and manner of life in general, they follow the customs of whatever city they happen to be living in, whether it is Greek or foreign.

And yet there is something extraordinary about their lives. They live in their own countries as though they were only passing through. They play their full role as citizens, but labor under all the disabilities of aliens. Any country can be their homeland, but for them their homeland, wherever it may be, is a foreign country. Like others, they marry and have children, but they do not expose them. They share their meals, but not their wives. They live in the flesh, but they are not governed by the desires of the flesh. They pass their days upon earth, but they are citizens of heaven."


                                              -  a Christian named Mathetes from the 2nd century, in a letter.




                                  Taken from the book Building the Benedict Option, by Leah Libresco

stuff and nonsense

I'm so bad at taking pictures lately - I just don't think of it!  But yesterday when we sat down to dinner I realized it was an all-white one: cauliflower, roasted potatoes (well, with some red skins on them) and chicken tenders (some green: parsley, and capers). Not only that, but I made a coconut milk ice cream for dessert; it was Midsummer Day so I fussed a little. I suppose a photograph would have been boring in its monotones, so I guess no one is missing anything.

Every day at work I end up seeing a rabbit outside, grazing in the lawn. We saw two today at different times - one was a baby. Doesn't everyone love seeing bunny rabbits?

Today I finished reading a book entitled Stories from the Old Squire's Farm by C. A. Stephens. I heard of it on a podcast, as something especially good for boy's to read. I knew we had it at work, so I picked it up. It was very enjoyable, and so believable, it was obviously based on truth. On a farm in Maine during the Civil War, an older couple has to raise several of their grandchildren because the sons of these good people were killed in the war. So, these cousins grew up together in the late eighteen hundreds and had to do so many things the hard way. Each chapter a story by itself - for any child willing to read it, a real eye-opener to see how resourceful and observant young people had to be back then  -  fascinating.

the place where I bought my hanging plant

more Phyllis McGinley

Phyllis McGinley wrote on many subjects, including commentary on some religious figures. This poem is about St. Bridget of Ireland.

The Giveaway

Saint Bridget was

A problem child.

Although a lass

Demure and mild,

And one who strove 

To please her dad,

Saint Bridget drove

The family mad.

For here's the fault in Bridget lay:

She would give everything away.

To any soul

Whose luck was out

She'd give her bowl

Of stirabout;

She'd give her shawl,

Divide her purse

With one or all.

And what was worse,

When she ran out of things to give

She'd borrow from a relative.

Her father's gold,

Her grandsire's dinner,

She'd hand to cold

And hungry sinner;

Give wine, give meat,

No matter whose;

Take from her feet

The very shoes,

And when her shoes had gone to others,

Fetch forth her sister's and her mother's.

She could not quit,

She had to share;

Gave bit by bit

The silverware,

The barnyard geese,

The parlor rug,

Her little niece -

'S christening mug,

Even her bed to those in want,

And then the mattress of her aunt.

An easy touch

For poor and lowly,

She gave so much

And grew so holy

That when she died

Of years and fame,

The countryside

Put on her name,

And still the isles of Erin fidget

With generous girls named Bride or Bridget.

Well, one must love her.

Nonetheless,

In thinking of her

Givingness,

There's no denial

She must have been

A sort of trial

To her kin.

The moral, too, seems rather quaint.

Who had the patience of a saint,

From evidence presented here?

Saint Bridget? Or her near and dear?

when there is a will

One of the books I'm reading is The Enchanted Hour, by Meghan Cox Gurdon; the subtitle - The Miraculous Power of Reading Aloud in the Age of Distraction. She reviewed children's books for the Wall Street Journal for many years, read aloud to her own children, has done gobs of research and is expert on the subject.

On page 19 she tells that British poet Roger McGough's mother was so resourceful in finding things to read at bedtime during WWII when books were scarce, but she made sure he had some kind of bedtime "story" every night. He says: "By the light of a burning factory or a crashed Messerschmitt she would read anything that came to hand: sauce bottle labels, the sides or cornflake packets. All tucked up warm and cozy, my favorite story was a tin of Ovaltine. How well I remember her voice even now: Sprinkle two or three heaped teaspoons of..."

I am flabbergasted and amazed at this woman.

a poem about toothbrushes

I received my used copy of Phyllis McGinley's poems. The woman wrote on every subject, and with such cleverness!

My Six Toothbrushes

 Against the pure, reflective tiles,

Northeast a little of the shower,

Gaudy as crocuses they flower.

The colors vary; but the styles

Are recommended and didactic

(Some Fuller and some Prophylactic).

I cannot, it is strange, recall

When impulse sent me forth to buy

These gauds, or where or even why.

But here they dangle on my wall,

Symbols of vanity and hope.

I watch them shimmer while I soap

And am astonished, more or less,

Discovering how has lived in me

Such rage against mortality

That I this morning should possess

Six, six! and all set dense as thistles

With tough, imperishable bristles.

Polychromatic, they confront

My startled, half-abluted eyes.

Do these, I think, epitomize

The frivolous trophies of my Hunt?

Is my one Creed. my guidestar polar,

In corpore sano*, sana molar,

Which has no care for kind or witty

Or learned ways or actual grace?

Disturbing. Well, in any case,

At least they do look rather pretty

Hanging redundantly in files

Against the cool, reflective tiles.

* apparently means "a healthy mind in a healthy body"

night sounds

Dolly is now happily listening to a Dave Brubeck recording; I thought she deserved it. Sweetie has been listening to the ball game in another room. (ahem)

A downside to sleeping with the windows open - there aren't many - is that you might hear something unpleasant. Last summer I'd sometimes hear chittery-chattery noises, and would imagine some unfortunate squirrel or rabbit being caught by a predator. I always felt bad.

I heard it again a couple of weeks ago and thought I'd try and find it on youtube. Well! Turns out it's just a raccoon noise, and nothing so horrible as I'd been imagining. What a relief!

Dolly hears The Who

I was playing "The Kids are Alright" - I made sure it wasn't loud - I'm not sure she cared for it.

I read Roger Daltrey's memoir, "Thanks a Lot Mr. Kibblewhite" (the name, right?) but my co-worker, whose cd it is, can't quite reconcile my desire to read the book with my insistence that I'm not a Who fan, and never was.

Of course, I am familiar with all their hits from the past, but never bought an album. I think what got me curious about Roger Daltrey was an article years ago somewhere that said he was a fish and game warden someplace in England. Well!, I thought, now that's a very normal thing for a rock singer to want to do. So when I heard about his book I had an interest.

Another thing going for it is its brevity. Some of these rock memoirs are very long (Keith Richards, anyone? - but I'm not a Stones fan, either). I've never even read a Beatles biography and I always loved them.

So anyway, I read this one - it was interesting. He got to his point, didn't beat about the bush. I'm glad I read it, but I still don't want to see "Tommy", don't want to listen to "Quadrophenia". I don't think Dolly does, either. 

using up the wine

Lately, Dolly's been wanting to go into the lower cupboards; she went onto a shelf where a few bottles of wine are kept, which reminded me that they need to be used, so I opened one.

Yesterday I defrosted a couple of Cornish hens and found a nice recipe which called for wine - well, white wine, but I had red to use up and that's what I used. It was delicious! Now, for the rest of the bottle. Maybe I'll make this cake and stick it in the freezer.