Lost In Space

Since my last post, it seems that I have been lost in space. Valentines Day was the 14th of Feb. and here it is the 28th. Exactly 2 weeks and no post! Good grief, where does the time go? You may suppose that I have been having fun because you know time flies when you are having fun.
If that is what you were thinking, you would be right! A lot has happened since the 14th. I wont bore you with all of the details, but just enough of them so you understand what has been happening.

Shortly after Valentines Day, Jude and I went for a late Valentines getaway. Jude found this bed a breakfast place called the Cottonwood Inns up in Taos, NM. We got a little different perspective on the Rio Grande River going this way. The Rio Grande that we are used to seeing is a sluggish brown meandering shallow ditch as it flows through Belen and Albuquerque. But on our trip we found a different river.

Yes Virgina, that is actually white water suitable for rafting.

The Cottonwood Inn is about half way between Taos and Arroyo Seco. It is owned and operated by a really sweet couple named Brantley and Shantal. Shantal keeps chickens in a nice large enclosure. I think she has a special relationship with them that folks without chickens might find a little unusual. She lets them out to wander the parking area and side yard of the Inn every morning and talks to them. They furnish fresh eggs for all of the cullinary delights for the Cottonwood guests. Shantal loves to bake and she makes the best fruit scones I have ever tasted.

Jude and I stayed in the Territorial room which is on the second floor and takes up most of the upstairs space of the main house. It is quite beautiful as you can see.

View from the bedroom area.

Also there is a killer hot tub IN the room.

Hot tub

Down pillows and down comforter just add to the luxurious feeling. If you are thinking about a weekend getaway or a week on the slopes, this is worth looking into! There are also great little coffee houses and restaurants in the area to take care of most varied appetites. And the shops!! The Taos ski area, Arroyo Seco, Taos, and surrounding villages are rife with specialty shops. Small little quaint buildings that have been refurbished and restored into great little spaces that fill up the senses and delight the eyes. From potters studios and galleries, to hand made clothing and artworks to general merchandise and antiques.

If you choose to go to the Taos area for any reason, make sure that Arroyo Seco is on your itenerary, you will not be dissapointed. The Taos cow coffee house and Firenza Gallery are just two of the stops you must make.

Standing across from the Taos Cow coffee house, looking both ways down the main drag.

Walk the entire main street of the village, visit the church, talk to the residents, have lunch. It is a great place to relax and see some special things. Take lots of photos as you will want to look at them time and again. If it sounds like I am writing a travel brochure for the Arroyo Seco chamber of commerce then you get the idea that it impressed me. (For those of you who are a little Spanish challenged, Arroyo Seco means "Dry Ditch"). Just go and see for yourself.

One of the great things that happened while we were there was the placement of Judes creations in the Firenza Gallery.

Inside the Firenza Gallery

They loved her wallets, clutches, and tote bags and wanted to carry them in their gallery. Judes wallets, clutches and tote bags on the front counter by the door.

Jude agreed and when they asked if she did anything else, she pulled out a painted and altered denim vest for them to look at and they fell in love with it and wanted to carry them in their gallery too!
Well, that is just a little of what has been going on. That along with working on the house, doing some finish work that never seems to get done, has been taking up my time.
I hope the last couple of weeks have been kind to you as well.
Thanks for tuning in. Have a little fun when you can.

On the occasion of Valentines Day

Today, being the day of love according to the calender, is dedicated to all the ladies in my life present and past. So here are a few poems that I have written to you. I confess that perhaps one or two of you have never known that they were written for you. I hope you forgive my silence, but know that fear of criticism kept them hidden. For those following my blog, I love you and hope that you find these pieces either inspiring or topical.

When I'm Alone

Sometimes at night when all alone
I sit and ponder the things that mean so much,
Children, you, and home.
Then to my heart I clutch
Memories, childhood, people I've known,
and lessons that have shown
to me so much
of good things that I can touch
when I'm all alone.
(April, 1980)

It Fills My Soul

Love doesn't think twice,
It just reaches out and whispers across the distance
and can come all at once.
That beautiful flood that fills your soul
that touches you in those innermost spots
where bazillions of starts explode
in that exquisite passionate place
where the universe begins,
where the "me" exists and no one has tread
like some night blooming jasmine
unseen by light
brought on by the night, exploding like a living fireworks display
to fill that dark place within with light
and imbue desire where there was only the lonely,
calling the primal there
waking the animal
beginning a hunger that can only be filled by one.
(June, 1996)

Those Words

I love you. It comes out without thinking, sometimes in a whisper. It comes out so easy, but sometimes, hard. We think that if we don't say it often enough that it will not be true or the other person will think that we have stopped loving them for a time. It reinforces what is already there, making it real. Once in a while, there is a panic thought that if we don't say it, it really isn't true. Hoping that those words will make something that isn't become something that is, forcing the issue. I love you, those words like the rain, falling so gently like raindrops upon the lips, but like the rain, sometimes becoming like a flood, large heavy drops almost bruising, rising in passion until the fervor is quenched, lessening until once again falling like gentle raindrops. Those words,
easy, real, unreal, meaning nothing, meaning everything, saying one thing, meaning so many things. Words that are feeling, not merely just an expression of a fleeting moment, but an expression of a lifestyle, an inner being. I love you, sometimes said in hopes that it will make the other one understand our heart,
as if they do not already know.
Said to allay the fear inside that maybe the other one does not feel the same way and that if we say those words often enough, they will start to feel that way. The easiest words to say, yet impossible for some to say. I love you, said alone suffices and that is all there is that needs to be said. Sometimes it is just inserted, usually at the end of things said, or interjected, almost as an afterthought, as if it can cover the weak parts. It says that sometimes I may hurt you or disappoint you or say something that you may misunderstand but I hope that you remember that I love you no matter what and that I hope that you love me too. If we could read minds we would never need, those words, I love you.

(December, 1996)


In order to disclaim responsibility that anyone else might think that they have incurred, I am the sole person to blame for the content of any poems you might find on this blog site (unless I pass the blame on to the author of anything else I might post here) but all of the poems that appear on this site are my own unless indicated as I give credit where credit is due.

Thanks for tuning in. Have a little fun when you can. Happy Valentines Day to you.

Surprise!

When I looked out of my bedroom window this morning, this is the sight that greeted me .

Below is the view from the covered deck of my firewood preparation area. This is where I chop wood in preparation for a day like today.

Next is our "Charlie Brown Christmas Tree".


The gate to our courtyard/driveway.

Ooooo! The snow is beautiful. There is a fire in the wood stove, popping and crackling! Hot coffee, turtleneck, denim, wool sock day.
This is a day for hot tea and homemade soup and fresh homemade biscuits. A 'Stick to your ribs' food day. Warm flannel and denim, snug warm lap blanket, cup o hot soup in your hands, curl up on the couch with your favorite book day. Back up to the wood stove with hands behind your behind, feeling that warmth. Ummmm.
I think you get the picture. "But," you start, "I have to work today!" But you can be there. With the awesome power of your mind, you can. Close your eyes and imagine. See, you were really experiencing it. If you have ever experienced something, you can relive it over and over by closing your eyes and just remembering.
Rule number one: Never confuse the important for the immediate. The immediate clamors for our attention making noises like it's really important. Don't be fooled by imitators. Important things sometimes are also immediate. On occasion it's hard to tell the difference. Spending time with your children or significant other is important. Telling a loved one that you love them is important. Sharing yourself is important. Polishing the silver is not important. Dusting the top of the refrigerator every week is not important. Respond to the immediate but never let the important things wait. They will wait until they shrivel up and die. Think of the important as flowers. If you tend them a little on a regular basis, they will thrive. Neglect them for a while and they wither and die, then no matter how much attention you give them, they will not revive.

The Meaning of Life

I sit and am still.
Yet things inside seem to rush on
like leaves and twigs on the surface of a stream,
pushed inexorably on to keep a date with who knows what,
controlled but out of control,
with a life of its on, pushed to the limits.
Seemingly serene, just part of the landscape
not minding anything save nature and its own being,
busy with essentials of life,
of which I have pondered the meaning.
Now I know the meaning of life,
for life is spread out like a living canvas for us to see.
Life is not supposed to mean,
but be.

Today is a good day. May you be blessed with goodness even when you don't deserve it. May you be treated with kindness and respect when you are cranky.
Thanks for tuning in. Have a little fun when you can.

BLOOK (A blog book written by readers)

I am proposing a twist on an old summer camp game that many of us participated in when we were sitting around in a group on that warm evening or around the camp fire. The game had different names in different parts of the country. The basic premise was that someone would start a story, "Once upon a time there was..." and then the next person would add something, "a princess who lived in a large castle..." then the next person would add something, "who was ugly as sin and had a huge wart on her nose!" Of course we were a little younger then, and our tastes were a little more juvenile, but the principle is the same.
I propose that we (you lovely readers out in web land and I) write a book or story together using the above convention. We will develop characters, story line and plot. Create a beginning, a middle and an ending by each of us contributing a name, a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter and eventually, a book or completed story together. Each of us can be either anonymous or proudly proclaim our identities.

I AM ME!!!!

(or not)

The only caveat is that editorial license belongs to me to cull out any offensive or obscene language or socially offensive material, huge warty noses notwithstanding, and that all submissions will be deemed void of any intellectual property claims by the contributor. (Sort of legal stuff to keep anyone from suing me for stealing or altering their copyrighted or licensed material.) After all, this is envisioned as a fun and lighthearted exercise to engage the mind and stimulate group creativity.
Submissions:
Submissions for the story/book should be made by e-mail to: tatonkaani@gmail.com with the subject line Blook. I will publish the beginning of the story for all to have (sort of like starter dough for sour dough bread) who are interested in participating. Each week, I will e-mail those interested, an updated copy of the manuscript as it exists at that time. For those who may come in later, they can get a copy of the up to date manuscript also if they let me know at the above e-mail. I will keep information on the manuscript in the sidebar titled, are you ready? Blook report.
It is hoped that participation will be based on the idea of having fun and not on the fact that you might think that you have no writing skills etc. (Boo hooing yourself is not condoned on this blog. Sorry! Creativity is encouraged, however small you might think it to be. Yay you!! So go out there and create and send it to me.)
All comments, suggestions, attaboys, ect. should be entered in the comments section of the blog or if too long in length, sent as e-mail to me. I do not encourage negative critisism but anything of a positive nature is appreciated. Constructive critisism is always welcome because I am after all, just like you, human and prone to rutitis (infected with the desire to stay in my own little rut 'cause it's so comfy here).
So there you have it.
Or here you have it.
Title: "Incident In The Alley"

Characters:

• Tom Bradshaw, middle aged, divorced former independent insurance rep.
• Betty Sterling, next door neighbor, 2 doors down.
• Frank Batterly, Tom's best friend.
• Celeste Tudor, possible love interest for Tom.
• Oakmont, bedroom community of 48K pop. of metropolitan area where Tom lives.
• Tiger, Tom's pet

"How come morning comes so early? Holy cow! Wow does my back hurt!" Tom Bradshaw stretched and yawned. He climbed out of bed slowly, scratched an itchy place on his lower back. "Should have gotten help lifting the lawn mower out of the trunk. Like those guys across the alley, working together." As he walked over to the window to get a better look at the two men, his phone called to him. "It's Been A Hard Days Night" streamed out of his shirt pocket. He stepped to the chair where his shirt from last night was tossed and reached into his pocket to get his phone. He came around with a start as he stood straight up. "What the?" He furtively moved back to the window and peered around the drapes. He could see nothing. The men were gone and so was the car. Well, not nothing exactly. There was something there. Where there was nothing before there was a pile. The pile sort of looked like a bunch of bumps covered by a cheap looking oriental rug.
"My glasses, where did I leave my glasses?", he thought as "I've been workin' like a daw-a-awg" wafted through the early morning dimness of the room. "Aha! There they are on the dresser!", he thought as he reached for them.

Okay gang! Your turn.

Go go go! I can hear those word processor programs just whirring.

In the dark

Sometimes, when we're afraid,
we go and hide in the dark.
Clasping hands to shoulders,
breath coming in gasps, almost a whine.
Our vision turns inward to that sublime
movie screen of the mind,
showing images of the worst kind.
With imagination in full speed,
rational thought like a hobbled steed,
stomach muscles quiver we slump toward the floor,
thinking we hear a scratch on the door,
fear creeps under our skin,
we think of goodness and light.
We hope and hope with all of our might
that fear has a bite less than its bark,
when we are afraid and in the dark.

Thanks for tuning in. Have a little fun when you can. Enjoy and create!
P.S. Hope you like the new layout and colors.

All we are is dust on the wind....

I don't know what image reading that title brought to your mind, but for me, I think of the dust bowl of the 30's that wiped out the bean industry, farmers dreams, and blackened the skies of the Eastern seaboard cities. It is also a line and the title of a nice song. There are numerous other references in different religious philosophies that reference that line in one way or another also, however I am not nearly that deep in my subject matter for this blog. I really am focused upon the dust part and not so much on the wind part.

For most of my life, I lived on paved roads and streets. You only lived on dirt roads if you were a farmer or very poor. I did live in a town when I was young that only had 8 paved streets up until about 1970 when they got enough money to start paving all the streets and putting in sidewalks. The one thing that set even that event off from just living on dirt roads was the fact of oiling. Every summer the municipal street department would dredge up oyster shells from the bay and crush them up and spread them on the streets.

Here is a photo of an oyster shell road before being oiled.

Then after a few days would bring out the rollers and crush and pack the shell down into the road and then take used recycled motor oil and "Oil" the streets. If you can, imagine a water truck with the long pipe running from side to side where the rear bumper of the truck is usually located, and think of the pipe with holes in it for the water to spray out onto the dirt as the truck drives along. Now replace the water with oil. Black oozy oil spraying out onto the surface of the street. Not really too bad if you factor in the cost of the used oil instead of asphalt. Back then, used oil was something that people would pay to just to get rid of it. That and the fact that the city got the equipment donated to it added up to great savings for the city, AND it worked! It was just one notch short of actually paving the street. Cars and trucks passing over the street, packed down the material, it was black, and sort of looked like asphalt. You had to be careful for several days after the "paving" if you rode a bike. Too sharp of a turn and you would end up with very black road rash. Yuck! Mom was not very happy about the permanent stain on your jeans.

All of this rant is just the lead in to say that I miss the oil on the road. No really! Because I live on a dirt road. "So what?" you might say. Well, if you were thinking that or something like it, let me be the first one to tell you that living on a dirt road in New Mexico is not quite like living on a dirt road in other places. The dust here is almost like volcanic ash after an eruption. The dust here covers everything after a storm (which more likely than not does not include rain, just wind) with a reddish layer ready to whirl into the air at the slightest breeze. With the lack of humidity, most things have a static electric charge which causes the dust to cling. If you do brush it off, it immediately is drawn back to the surface that you just cleaned.

I never thought that this would be an issue. Unfortunately, or fortunately, however you wish to look at it, it has become an issue with me. Call it snobbery or unreal expectations of life, there it is. To bring home the point even more, we, Jude and I, went into Rio Rancho for our regular scheduled dental check up and had the car washed. My car, which is affectionately known as Belle, is a Chev. Trail Blazer (some would say SUV, but actually it is classified as an MPV or multi-purpose vehicle) and is dark blue in color with black trim. The car wash was a delightful event and made us feel like real city folk, what with a clean car and all.

Belle clean and swell.

Well, that feeling crashed and burned when we got back home and took a look at Belle.

Belle not so clean and swell.

I will leave you today with a poem that I penned waaay back in the last century, 1997.

BETIMES

Shackles rattling in the darkness, not very close but too near for one to feel at ease,
bringing thoughts and ghosts from beyond memory,
to harass and haunt what we like to keep to ourselves in our innermost parts,
protected, undisturbed, unenlightened, secure in unchanged ignorance, primeval.
A name, a face, a culture reaches across the barrier to invade and make chaos from order.
Alien feelings thrust forward like little toad tongues snapping up fleeting irrelevancies like tiny insects,
making us gag emotionally as we teeter in our apathy and watch unseeing.
The hand of conscience never still but working like a shuttle, back and forth, back and forth guided by the
expert hands of guilt, weaving our "used-to-be's" into a pattern of sorrow and joy,
completing the fabric of our life that we use to cover those naked places where none save one tread.
Even barefooted we leave deep socketed tracks through the emotional loam of our character,
sometimes tripping on a stone of a hard memory, a thing regretted, painful, but deeply embedded.
On occasion we feel it and worry at it like a sore tongue on a chipped tooth.
Left alone it will heal, but do we?
All of this for the sake of what we have been in order to make up what we are and what we will become.
Willfully or not,
we will become.

Thanks for tuning in. Have a great day and have a little fun when you can.
Remember, don't take life too seriously because you will never get out of it alive anyway.

OAT

OAT stands for Of All Things. This is an homage to Dick Bothwell. Dick was a feature writer for the St.Petersburg Times Newspaper located in St.Petersburg Florida. His articles appeared in the Evening Independent newspaper and then later in the Times. I worked with Dick in the day room of the paper back in the early 60's. I just loved his matter of fact style of writing and his grasp of the obvious. He just had a unique way of delivering the information sort of tongue in cheek most times. Hence the title of his feature. Of All Things. Dick was also one of my fathers favorite news men and he read his article first when he got the paper in the evenings. When my dad found out that I was working in the same office as Dick, he asked me 100 questions about him and the office and what it was like working with him. I think my dad really liked the man, but he never met him.
I progressed through the ranks of the paper from paper delivery boy operating from my mobile office and delivery vehicle, a Schwinn bicycle. My next office was the day room cubby called the copy room where copy boys whooshed in and out at the speed of desperation powered by the threat of losing your job and therefore what little income you had coming in. A little later, I became head copy boy and got the opportunity of being scrutinized by the one armed pirate named Harry Sulthas (sic) over the years, I am now not sure of the spelling of his last name, my apologies to his family. But be assured that I now look back on that time with fondness. He was a crusty curmudgeon, an imposing figure over 6 ft. tall and about 250 lbs. with curly jet black hair and a barrel chest presiding over the copy boys, the teletype machines, the fax machines, and all the copy and other paper stuffs that seemed to be in constant orbit about the room and sometimes seemed to be whirling about his head like a blurred crown. I can still hear his gravelly bass voice booming above the din of the teletype machines; tat tat tat tat tat tat...dit dit dit dit dit..whirrr... ding ding ding ding!!! ALERT!!!ALERT!!! DING DING DING! " COPYYYYYYY!!! " Woe be unto you if that series of dings and alerts went to the third repitition because the pirate himself would be in front of the poor machine clamering for attention and if he had to tear off the copy, someones head would roll! Don't be thinking that these faxcimile machines were like the ones we are familiar with nowadays. Oh no, these were the wire services machines that transmitted at all times of the day or night. The teletype machine was a typewriter with keyboard and paper in the platen from a roll that neede to be changed constantly. The fax machines were black and white picture transmitting machines that were line printers. A photo was feed in one city and a light sensitive receiver scanned the photo one line at a time and printed with dots, a line by line photo on the receiving end. A long and boring process which I found fascinating. Just watching a picture apear one line at a time made up of only dots. Seeing him operate with one arm and doing what we boys were just able to do with two was awe inspiring. Someone said that he lost his arm in The War. Someone suggested that he lost his arm in an accident. Whatever the truth, he never let it slow him down or become a disability.
What does all this have to do with Dick Bothwell you might ask? This was meant to set the stage so that you could just get a small glimpse of the goings on around him that he reveled in and worked in for over 35 years in the newspaper business. This is not even including all the clackety clack of the numerous typewriters on desks all around him
and the many impromptu consultations of his colleagues and the telephones ringing constantly, being answered and voices raised in animated one sided conversations to the unseen informants and sources. Even though he was a senior member of the news staff, he did not want an office of his own, he insisted on sitting out in the middle of the day room with the other writers to absorb the energy. Plus, the above, I hope, is in the style of Dicks writing and reflects his style. After all, he is the one who got me interested in writing with his gentle ways and his matter of fact delivery. Dick was one of the nicest and most memorable people that I have ever met.
I actually had the responsibility of doing the Pelican Pete short weather piece that appeared on the top margin of the front page that gave the most basic stats for the days forcast. I also ended up doing the obituairies in B section. I didn't write but a few of the obits, mostly I did layout and paste up and had to take them to the linotype chief for setup and printing.After a while, I ended up being the personal gofer for Henrietta Poynter, wife of the Editor in chief and owner of the paper, Nelson Poynter. She is really the one who ran the day to day operation of the papers (Times and Independent) that furnished most of the Tampa Bay area with their news. The Tampa Tribune was just gaining on the Times for readers at that time. The daily distribution was from Jacksonville and Pensacola in the North down to Miami and Key West in the South.
I suppose that this is sort of a trip down memory lane and my way of telling a little of my life when I was a boy growing up in Florida. For those of you who don't know any of that, sorry if it seems a little boring. For those who are interested, you are welcome for the information. I will try to create a little side bar column that will in the future contain information about events and times and attitudes of my life growing up in the 50's and 60's (I was there for a little of the 40's too but was pretty young and don't really remember much of that.) So now you understand the title of the blog, Prattles and Poems.


And now to end with a little poem after all my prattling.

When in danger or in doubt,
run in circles,
scream and shout!
And when all those about you are losing their head,
pull the covers up under your chin and stay in bed.
Don't be fooled by shouts of doom,
or swayed by folks wearing looks of gloom.
Just turn the music up louder and stay in your room.

Happy Birthday!!!

Happy Birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birth...well, not exactly to me, but to my blog, or to be more precise, my web log. Sort of an abbreviated version of a journal. Happy Birthday to my web log. (Doesn't really have the same sort of ring to it does it?)
So, here I am, blogging. Seems that several people in my life have been bugging (or is that blugging) me to start a blog or at the very least publish some if not all of my writings (musings) that I find appropriate for me at the time and the subject but never thought that anyone else would be particularly interested in. Today was, I suppose, the straw that broke the camels back. (Does the younger generation understand the references to half of what we grey heads take for granted anymore?) For example: It's a doggy dog world. (Could that even possibly be: It's a dog eat dog world.) There are so many more examples that I have heard that counting them all would be a full time job for someone. (That is STILL a 40 hour work week spread over 5 days isn't it?)

I need to know things. Like, why are apartments called apartments when they are smack up next to one another? Why is a piano, by it's real name, called a Pianoforte. I mean, in music, (which is what a piano is all about), piano means soft and subdued and forte means loud and expressive. So we have a musical instrument named "Soft and subdued Loud and expressive thingie". Just an Oxymoron or are there more diabolical forces in play here? And while I am questioning, what is the big deal over the conversion of SDTV (not a sexually transmitted disease) but stands for standard design television to DTV, digital television. It's not the TV that is the problem, but the way the signal is received and translated to the inner brains of the TV that is the issue. Someone figured out a way to get more money out of supposed free transmission television that they sort of missed with the technology boom. Digital signal receiver boxes is the answer to that. It is a national security issue apparently. One that deserves millions of dollars of advertising on all the networks during prime time and other times of the day for the less than 13% of all TV watchers in this country. Breast cancer screening and awareness doesn't get this time nor money nor government sponsorship. Is it because not having a digital converter box will kill more people than breast cancer? Or colon cancer or diabetes? It seems that if you still use the(God forbid) antennas or even worse, RABBIT EARS, the government will kick in and you can get a government coupon for money off on the purchase of a new converter box. I suppose then that you could say that those who are still stuck in the last century (That was the 20th, remember) that this is sort of part of your government bail out or stimulus package. I mean after all, you will spend your money on what the government wants you to spend it on, the converter box, remember?

I wonder if those people who do the polls on television shows and movies and all that had anything to do with say, putting in the smart chips in the boxes. You know, (at least those who are paranoid) tracking what shows you watch, how much you watch, what times of the day your TV is on etc. Sort of a big brother in a box. I wonder if the same people are making the computer chips that are going into all new cars per government mandate. Hmmm, well I suppose that if you were not a little paranoid before, then perhaps you might be now. At least it is something to ponder. Also, don't waste time looking for a government coupon for money off for a mammogram or colonoscopy, or diabetes testing. I guess that these causes are not as important as Digital Television converter boxes.

I guess you might be getting the feeling that this blog is just a rant session or a soap box for issues that you may or may not already believe. There are many many other topics that will be expounded upon in future installments. Just thought that I would get this off my chest right out of the gate.

A little lighter note now. Here is a little poem that I wrote to describe our present culture.

A Three Line Poem:

This is a poem with only three lines,
It is short and it rhymes,
We just call it a sign of the times.

Thanks for tuning in,
Roy