“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ. In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace that he lavished on us.” (From the Holy Bible’s book of Ephesians 1:3,7, and 8.)
What would I say were you to ask me when my love of country first had gone astray? I’d look you in the eye, pick up my pen, and write my heart as best I can convey.
America, my love for you stands strong, and that’s why my respect for you has died. For almost all that once was right is wrong — now gone the principles that edified.
Once welcoming of those who are in need; once sticking to the promises you made; now inhumane, you lie and bleed with greed. How is it possible you’ve so far strayed?
The question, then, is when I lost respect. It’s as these vile months in have gone unchecked.
I’m scorching hot. My clothes cling to me in the smothering humidity. Add to that the people-laden, sticky black tar church parking lot without a shade tree in sight. Ugh.
Yet, the air is saturated with inviting aromas: potent garlic; sweet onion; roasted peppers; spicy Italian sausage; yeast bread rolls; sweet dough twists with cinnamon sugar; cotton candy … and cheese puffs. My cousin Tom and I make a beeline for the deep-fried sweet dough filled with ooey gooey cheese. Yummmmm!
We race toward the Ferris wheel, dodging through the crammed masses and attractions. My nostrils are suddenly assaulted with the fishy stench of smelt. Eew. This booth boasts a line of cuffed pants; brimmed hats; men’s black shoes; and long-sleeved shirts soaked with sweat, each revealing the standard white muscle T beneath. These older Italian men puff cigars (again, eew!) and pass the time in line playing the loud, fast-paced game of Morra.
“Quatro!” (four!)
“Sette!” (seven!)
“Otto di fuoco!” (eights on fire!)
Roars of laughter rise with the cigar smoke above the cacophony of festival sounds.
From a game booth, a hoarse female voice hails, “Roll down, roll down! Six tries for a dollar!”
Various carnival rides summon as well: Creeeek … screeeeeech … tic, tic … whoooosh!
A button accordion pumps out a Polka, accompanied by the “oom pah” of a tuba. We pause to watch smiling couples bob as they step, quick-step, step, hold their way around a make-shift dance floor.
We spot Nonna at the Bingo Tent with an array of cards spread before her, fervently trying to win an “Infant of Prague.” This uniquely Catholic carnival prize is a plaster figure of the jewel-crowned infant Jesus, clothed magnificently in a robe of rich red, royal blue, or gold. Game booths and tents flaunt eye-catching displays of the satiny fabrics, glistening jewels, and outstretched arms of the holy infant. I feel the contrast of Nonna’s satiny cheeks and stiffly sprayed hair as she pulls us close, and presses a quarter into each of our palms.
Continuing to the Ferris wheel, a small stand topped with a six-foot twirling glass of yellow lemonade beckons. Soon soothing icy lemon slush slides down the back of my throat.
I nurse my treat while in line for our ride. Cold sweat drips off the cup into my sandals, and squishes between my toes. A silvery car grinds its way to the bottom of the giant spoked wheel. We hop on, my bare legs sticking to the hot metal seat. Tom slams the safety bar shut, and we rock precariously forward and back.
The car jerks and jolts as we inch up a notch so the one below us can load, and so on –
one
car
at
a
time.
Stuck at the peak, we get a birds-eye view. The setting sun creates peach, mauve, and midnight blue hues. Glistening stringed lights of sapphire, emerald, ruby, and gold crisscross the grounds. Suddenly, my hair flies up and my stomach drops, then settles back in as it grows accustomed to the whirling sensation. For just a moment, I close my eyes and relish the breeze.
The last time joy was here was in the center of sad among the angry in the midst of misperception and the hub of hunger during discord in intense illness and within the worst worry, for my Lord never leaves me nor forsakes me, and in His presence lies fullness of joy.
One Man’s Play is His Neighbor’s Labor (a poem of silly American English spellings)
He would have / should have chopped some wood and would have, if he only could. A livelihood of chopping wood would likely be misunderstood by those who live in his neighborhood whose labor for their livelihood feels more like floating on driftwood. He noted that their income’s good, not having fought for what they’ve got (a yacht named “We Just Tied the Knot”) which left him fraught with just one thought atop his head like a 60-watt: That someone surely chopped the wood that made his neighbor’s fancy yacht, which now he knew was headed straight for the passage known as Taiwan Strait. And as they cruised, his thoughts defused, and then he snoozed, quite unamused. And then he bought a nice hot brat, and gave it not another thought.
ood and ould make the same vowel sound: would, wood, could, should, good, livelihood, driftwood, neighborhood, understood
a, ai, ay, ait, aight, ey, and eigh make the same vowel sound: play, straight, Strait, labor, they, neighbor
o, a, augh, ough, ach, ot, and att make the same vowel sound: chopped, on, got, not, knot, hot, yacht, fraught, bought, thought, atop, watt, brat
live and live make a different vowel sound in these words: live, and livelihood
ote and oat make the same vowel sound: note, float
not and knot sound the same
u, ui, ew, and oo make the same vowel sound: knew, cruise, defuse, snooze, amuse
defuse, snooze, cruise, and amuse also all make the z sound
The e at the end of like gives the i its long sound, but not the i in live, unless it is the verb live (I need food to live) and not the adjective live (We are going live in 10 minutes)
The ai in Strait makes the long a sound, but the ai in Taiwan makes the long i sound. (In all fairness, Taiwan is not an American English word. wink wink.)
Photos by Keith R. Good, who attracts and cares for our birds
IF YOU FEED THEM, THEY WILL COME
Aging comes with what seems almost an expectation: Bird beguilement. But my own love of birds began in junior high on Audubon Lane, where pheasants favored our backyard. And though those days have long passed, I can still enjoy the crimson male cardinal singing to his autumn-color lifelong partner. Our bluejays, if not for being common, would be coveted. I’m captivated by the bold ladderback and bright red splash on the red belly woodpecker. The soft sorrowing song of mourning doves does not sadden me in the least. It makes me smile. I giggle at the quirky little honk of the nuthatch as he darts up and down our trees. I find the cheerful little black-capped chickadee entirely enchanting. Goldfinches, bright as lemons, titter as they sail the air as though on waves. When we hear the intricate trill of tiny wrens, we know spring has entered. Orange orioles take our breath away with their arrival. And, of course, the minute emerald body and ruby throat of the hummer is electrifying. These and countless more captivate and delight us. They make our home, home.
Doing what we can to attract the vocalists that color our yard.
pictured words 