Claudia — Page 705

Small Things

March 13, 2019 at 10:45 am by Claudia

My little row of butter pats. I think I have about 14 or 15 now, most of them ironstone. Most of them, in fact, are from the same dealer where I found the egg cup cubby. I love small things.

Another Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs egg cup came up for auction. Unfortunately, it was Doc. Doc frequently comes up for auction, much more than any other egg cup in that collection. I’ll keep hoping for Sleepy.

This morning there was such lovely bird song! Tiny little birds were in the tree outside the den window. I tried to identify them but I’m not sure; sparrows? chickadees? I couldn’t get a good look at them. Several of them were in the tree and they kept flitting from branch to branch. Now that I look at my bird book, I’m thinking they were sparrows. Hearing their song was such a nice way to start the day.

The sun is shining and the snow is melting. That’s all I need today.

I ordered this book, originally published in Great Britain. It just came out this week here in the States. I reviewed one of Garfield’s other books, Just My Type, several years ago. In Miniature is all about our fascination with small things. Guilty as charged. Of course, I had to get it.

Today I have to sort through our many W2s – you have no idea – and send them off to our accountant in Los Angeles, so that we can file an extension. Since we have to wait for all of the W2s to arrive here, we almost never file our taxes by April 15th. And often, though not this year, one of us is away working. Then I’m going to clean the pew with some Murphy’s Oil Soap. And read, of course. I’m currently reading a book I’m going to review on Monday – all about birds! Stay tuned.

Happy Wednesday.

A View From The Pew

March 12, 2019 at 10:53 am by Claudia

I thought you might enjoy this view. Monty, still sporting his holiday garland, the pew, and off in the distance, the vintage dollhouse.

I see evidence of snow melt out there. I can tell the height of the snow has shrunk. Huzzah! The big piles that grew from shoveling will take longer, but eventually, they’ll be gone, too.

During our second cup of coffee this morning, I read the Mary Oliver poem I posted yesterday to Don. Then he read a poem by William Carlos Williams about Spring. In that poem Williams describes the brown and dead looking landscape perfectly. And we agreed that it’s hard to imagine my garden emerging from all that brown, dry, seemingly dead landscape. Or wildflowers emerging. Or daffodils pushing up from the ground. The rebirth that never fails to stun us with its beauty.

We spent the late morning and early afternoon with Rick, Doug, and Doug’s daughter, Alecia. She’s headed back to Japan today (where she teaches at a university) and we wanted to see her one more time. I got to know her last year, but Don was in NYC at the time, so he didn’t have that chance. They got to spend some time chatting together yesterday. As always, great conversation, lots of laughter, and time with Sam. We all went outside and threw his ball for him as he raced back and forth on the snow.

Then we realized that it looked like Don’s gas tank was leaking. Gulp. So Don drove over to his mechanic’s station and I followed. Turns out, it’s a leak from the line that goes from the gas cap to the tank and it only happens when the tank has been topped off. But we’re going to get the line replaced today.

All of this took up much of the day, so I will answer your comments from yesterday’s post this morning, right after I finish writing this post.

Contemplating sorting through all the stuff in the white armoire/cabinet in the living room. There’s much that can be tossed. And after it’s tossed, it will be easier to move the cabinet a few inches to the left. We’ll see if I get around to that.

Happy Tuesday.

A Favorite Poem

March 11, 2019 at 10:05 am by Claudia

It’s going to reach the fifties today. I can hear some birds singing.

Time to share this poem by the late, great Mary Oliver:

Such Singing in the Wild Branches

It was spring
and I finally heard him
among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness
and that’s when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree–
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying.

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward.

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing
and it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfect blue sky–––all of them

were singing.
And, of course, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn’t last

For more than a few moments.
It’s one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you’ve been there,
you’re there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then––open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

Mary Oliver

Spring is coming. There is still a lot of snow on the ground here. But we can sense it.

Happy Monday.

Small Things

A View From The Pew

A Favorite Poem

Lambs Like to Party

A Note

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