The Ice Age Creepeth
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
It’s easy to become downcast in winter, even as mild a winter as this, thus far, knock on wood, salt over shoulder, sign of the cross. I try to keep an upbeat attitude, but sometimes . . .
One seemingly ordinary day last week, I had a fright. The day started as usual: snow fall in the morning filled in my footprints and cat tracks of the day previous, a shout of afternoon sunshine, a bit of breeze. A good day, a good mild winter’s day, a day to bless and fill with murmurings of gratitude if not outright songs of praise. You get the picture.
In my warm and cozy house I had a canvas propped on the easel, paints on my palette and all the tools to paint a still life. At the same time I was immersed in three books, an Icelandic mystery by Indridison, poetry by Mary Oliver, and another book by Richard Hugo. Simultaneously I was tightening a batch of my own poems that I had left to simmer and cook down to their essence. Oh, and I had a pot of soup on the burner. I moved easily from canvas to book to keyboard to book to stir the soup and around again. Yes, a good day, indeed.
When I’m working, I go to my window seventeen times a day to look out over the hills across the valley, a view that refreshes me. But what was that? That creepy mysterious thing? That ominous line of luminescent white stuff which pulsed over the top of the hills? I watched, my feet glued in place. It, whatever it was, got bigger. It was whiter than white. It seemed alive. It seemed to glow from within like an intergalactic menace from a 1950’s sci-fi creature movie. It looked like a tsunami of ice, edging closer, threatening to carve the hills, grind them down and push them into town. I felt sure there was no stopping the on-coming disaster. Surely the next phase of glaciation was upon us, and with no warning. Global warming, indeed!
But, I hoped, if I hurried, I might flee to safety, somewhere far, far south.
The phone rang, a friend from Pender Island in British Columbia. “I’ve got the flu,” Kathy said. “I think I might die.”
“The flu? Is that all.” I said back. “I’m at my window watching the next Ice Age creep over the hills and down toward town. It’s eerie—a wall of ice, roiling with all the boulders in Canada. It’s headed straight for me. I’m going to jump in my van and race south as fast as I can go. In fact, I was headed out to warm up the car when you called. Oh, bother, it’s getting closer. Look, if I hadn’t answered the phone, I know I could have outrun the glacier. Now it’s iffy. But I’m glad you called. We get to say good-by.”
“Ice age, hmmm. Aren’t you afraid of saber toothed tigers?”
“Naaa. Alpha cat that I am, saber toothed tigers hold no fear for me. But I do worry about the wooly mammoths. I’ve always been afraid of wooly mammoths, ever since I was a child and had nightmares about them. To this day I have to cover my hands and feet and ears when I go to bed or I can’t sleep. The wooly mammoths might get me.”
“I see,” she said. “Have you thought about mastodons?”
“I try not to think about mastodons. Aren’t they extinct?”
“Does that make any difference?”
“Kathy, the glacier is grinding closer. I’ll call you from Denver. Give my love to Richard. Stay warm and drink lots.”
What with one thing and another, by the time I shut off the water, turned the furnace down, coaxed the cat from beneath the sofa, grabbed some books, located my passport, snatched my sock of money from beneath the mattress, and threw a change of underwear in my bag, whew, the glacier had gone. I don’t know where it went—just—gone .
I felt astounded. Clear horizon, the hills stolid in place, sky cerulean blue, a top hat of wispy cloud. I went back to my books and painting, but kept a weather eye to the north.
That night, I slept uneasy, what with wooly mammoths and hairy mastodons about. When I woke at my usual hour the next morning, there was no light in the room. None. It was dark as inside a stovepipe. I knew it—I just knew it—my house lay buried beneath that sneaky glacier. I should have gone to Denver.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
January 10, 2012
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Showing posts with label reading. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Friday, December 28, 2012
Winter Bounty—Baskets of Goodness and the Football Pool
Winter Bounty—Baskets of Goodness and the Football Pool
Winter sports do not excite me. In my daydreams I do not yearn to plunge down ski slopes, roar astride a bucking machine through snow-clad hills, or etch figure eights over the frozen river. As the daylight hours diminish, I harbor no nostalgia for mounting winter tires, finding the window scrapers or digging out the snow shovels. A roaring fire in the fire place, a pile of books in front of me, a steaming mug of hot chocolate at my side—that’s a picture to paint a smile on my face.
That doesn’t mean I consider winter to be eight months of confined inactivity. Impossible; there’s too much going on. As I see it, Halloween ushers in winter with witches and goblins—too much fun and too much candy. Hard on the footsteps of Spook Night, though a few leaves still cling to trees, though the last pieces of candy lodge hidden behind sofa cushions, Thanksgiving takes over. Families and friends gather ‘round dinner tables over-laden with platters of munificence. Every community, our larger family, opens hearts and doors to a neighborly feast. Nobody should feel left out. Then we munch turkey sandwiches while setting up the Christmas tree. As Christmas approaches, we can fill every weekend with bazaars, parades, festivals and celebratory events, all free for the showing up.
I haven’t bothered with a tree for several years. Last week, I set aside my “bah-humbug” and dragged my hat tree, the trunk of a juniper mounted on a horseshoe stand, adorned with vintage hats, from my bedroom to my living room. I wound the stubby branches with colored lights and shrouds of tinsel. Who knows—Santa might bring me a granddaughter or two for a visit. If so, they will collapse in giggles at my “Charlie Brown” Christmas tree.
While my garden snoozes beneath a blanket of snow, I decided to venture into the unknown and signed up for a cooperative program which periodically delivers fruits and vegetables to its subscribers. When, every other week the basket arrives, you never know what it might contain. It’s like Christmas. Since I live alone I had to justify this step to myself. If I buy it, I have to use it. I reasoned that I would feed myself a more nourishing diet. I figured I might juice, can, or freeze the overflow.
A tisket, a tasket, my first basket more than met my expectations. This week the basket exceeded all reason, heaped with Romaine lettuce, salad onions, radishes, green peppers, mushrooms, yellow onions, a wad of cilantro, acorn and butternut squash, broccoli, summer squash, a bowl of limes, a half- dozen avocados, a dozen bananas, heaps of tomatillos, cucumbers, dried red ancho chiles, jalapenos, limes, a lovely papaya, two chayote and a peck of persimmons. All that goodness.
Last winter I never ate this well. I’m not sure what to do with the chayote but I’ll figure it out. I’ll bake a couple of the persimmons and make jam with the rest. Meanwhile, I arranged the orange persimmons in a brown and yellow pottery bowl, art on my table. Papaya has never been my favorite tropical fruit, but I’m going to experiment with papaya pie. I’ll make salsa and freeze some of the squash. I wish I could roll back the clock and be cooking for my family. Instead I’ll invite friends to share a meal or two.
While I’m wallowing in all this seasonal bounty, I figure it is not unreasonable for me to wish for one more win of the football pool. Never mind that two of the men at the city shop, where we gather for coffee and fill out our predictions, have yet to win this year and give me the stink eye. I’ve won twice. They can’t stand it. They’ve threatened to ban me. Although I never watch football, I have a system, brilliant in its simplicity. Of each two teams playing, I choose the city I would rather visit. Plus I have four picks cast in concrete based on past connections. I always choose Seattle, Green Bay, South Dakota (SD) and Nebraska (NE). I have generously shared my system with the guys, but they ignore me. Three wins in one year would be mighty impressive. I figure if I win one more pool, I will have earned a place in the Hall of Fame with a plaque on the wall of the city shop above the coffee pot. I have three more chances.
Bountiful good will should carry me through Christmas and into the New Year and the depths of winter. Eventually the days will lengthen, gardening catalogs will fill my mail box, I’ll muddle through snow and cabin fever, and if the world doesn’t end, my early tulips will herald spring.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 13, 2012
Winter sports do not excite me. In my daydreams I do not yearn to plunge down ski slopes, roar astride a bucking machine through snow-clad hills, or etch figure eights over the frozen river. As the daylight hours diminish, I harbor no nostalgia for mounting winter tires, finding the window scrapers or digging out the snow shovels. A roaring fire in the fire place, a pile of books in front of me, a steaming mug of hot chocolate at my side—that’s a picture to paint a smile on my face.
That doesn’t mean I consider winter to be eight months of confined inactivity. Impossible; there’s too much going on. As I see it, Halloween ushers in winter with witches and goblins—too much fun and too much candy. Hard on the footsteps of Spook Night, though a few leaves still cling to trees, though the last pieces of candy lodge hidden behind sofa cushions, Thanksgiving takes over. Families and friends gather ‘round dinner tables over-laden with platters of munificence. Every community, our larger family, opens hearts and doors to a neighborly feast. Nobody should feel left out. Then we munch turkey sandwiches while setting up the Christmas tree. As Christmas approaches, we can fill every weekend with bazaars, parades, festivals and celebratory events, all free for the showing up.
I haven’t bothered with a tree for several years. Last week, I set aside my “bah-humbug” and dragged my hat tree, the trunk of a juniper mounted on a horseshoe stand, adorned with vintage hats, from my bedroom to my living room. I wound the stubby branches with colored lights and shrouds of tinsel. Who knows—Santa might bring me a granddaughter or two for a visit. If so, they will collapse in giggles at my “Charlie Brown” Christmas tree.
While my garden snoozes beneath a blanket of snow, I decided to venture into the unknown and signed up for a cooperative program which periodically delivers fruits and vegetables to its subscribers. When, every other week the basket arrives, you never know what it might contain. It’s like Christmas. Since I live alone I had to justify this step to myself. If I buy it, I have to use it. I reasoned that I would feed myself a more nourishing diet. I figured I might juice, can, or freeze the overflow.
A tisket, a tasket, my first basket more than met my expectations. This week the basket exceeded all reason, heaped with Romaine lettuce, salad onions, radishes, green peppers, mushrooms, yellow onions, a wad of cilantro, acorn and butternut squash, broccoli, summer squash, a bowl of limes, a half- dozen avocados, a dozen bananas, heaps of tomatillos, cucumbers, dried red ancho chiles, jalapenos, limes, a lovely papaya, two chayote and a peck of persimmons. All that goodness.
Last winter I never ate this well. I’m not sure what to do with the chayote but I’ll figure it out. I’ll bake a couple of the persimmons and make jam with the rest. Meanwhile, I arranged the orange persimmons in a brown and yellow pottery bowl, art on my table. Papaya has never been my favorite tropical fruit, but I’m going to experiment with papaya pie. I’ll make salsa and freeze some of the squash. I wish I could roll back the clock and be cooking for my family. Instead I’ll invite friends to share a meal or two.
While I’m wallowing in all this seasonal bounty, I figure it is not unreasonable for me to wish for one more win of the football pool. Never mind that two of the men at the city shop, where we gather for coffee and fill out our predictions, have yet to win this year and give me the stink eye. I’ve won twice. They can’t stand it. They’ve threatened to ban me. Although I never watch football, I have a system, brilliant in its simplicity. Of each two teams playing, I choose the city I would rather visit. Plus I have four picks cast in concrete based on past connections. I always choose Seattle, Green Bay, South Dakota (SD) and Nebraska (NE). I have generously shared my system with the guys, but they ignore me. Three wins in one year would be mighty impressive. I figure if I win one more pool, I will have earned a place in the Hall of Fame with a plaque on the wall of the city shop above the coffee pot. I have three more chances.
Bountiful good will should carry me through Christmas and into the New Year and the depths of winter. Eventually the days will lengthen, gardening catalogs will fill my mail box, I’ll muddle through snow and cabin fever, and if the world doesn’t end, my early tulips will herald spring.
Sondra Ashton
HDN: Looking out my back door
December 13, 2012
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Bookworms Anonymous
I just picked up a new batch of books from the PO so if I don't answer the phone...
Hello. My name is Sondra. I am a Bookworm. I have books on shelves, books in boxes, books stacked on tables, books hidden behind the sofa, books cradled in the laundry hamper. Books are crowding me out of the house. Lately I have asked myself some hard questions. After a fearless and searching inventory of my innermost motives, I have no doubt. I am a Chronic Reader.
Some folks are Social Readers. When it comes to books, they can take it or leave it. You see them at the airport picking up Oprah’s latest recommendation to read on the plane to Boston . If blessed with a chatty seatmate they will not open the book. I look at them with scorn. At the airport I am like a glutton checking to see if there are any books I have missed. I usually buy one or two just in case I am not in the mood for the three I brought with me for the forty-five minute flight to Helena with a touch down in Lewistown.
The Periodic Reader grabs light summer reading for her week on the beach in Maui . She will probably leave the book in the hotel room when she checks out. If I were in Maui that same week, I would browse through two or three bookstores. And I would not leave a book behind. Once I bought another suitcase to cart home my literary treasure trove.
The Maintenance Reader keeps three or four novels at his bedside. He reads for a few minutes or an hour before he turns the light out. I, however, have three or four stacks of books alongside my bed. Enough said.
The Binge Reader can walk by books without a thought. Until one day, hit with an overpowering urge to read, she will hole up under the cottonwood in her back yard, or lock the front door and feast in her living room, or spend hours in the library until she has the urge out of her system and her life returns to normal. She tends to read by category or by author, devouring all the books she can find by Dick Francis or Amy Tan or Joyce Carol Oates.
I, however, am a Chronic Reader. I am powerless over books. I can’t help myself. I cannot remember ever not reading. I grew up devouring Victorian literature because my Grandmother controlled what books she saw me read. I studied cereal boxes at the breakfast table. I poured over the “The Farm Journal” and “Successful Farming”. In high school I knew more about waste disposal systems on pig farms than any boy in my class. I read whatever was in front of me. I did my homework ignoring the television, with “Forever Amber” sneaked beneath the pages of my math book. Neither math nor television has ever influenced my life. I still don’t understand why “Forever Amber” was a banned book.
People ask me, “Does reading interfere with your social life?” A: “No, all my friends are readers.” Or, “Do you spend more time reading than you planned?” A: “Doesn’t everybody?” “Have you ever bought books instead of groceries?” A: “Doesn’t everybody?” “Do you miss work because of reading?” A: “Mmmmm.” “Have you ever lied about how much you read?” A: “Why would I lie?” “Do you read to escape?” A: “Doesn’t everybody!” “Have you ever denied your children essentials because of your book buying?” A: “Of course not. For example, I fed them nutritious meals and we all had our nose in a book while we ate.”
One question does make me wriggle uncomfortably in my chair. “Do you spend more money than you planned on books?” I have white-knuckled it past Barnes and Noble, eyes averted, more than once. But I ask you, how does one stick to a book budget when irresistible bargains crop up. I cruise the book boxes at yard sales and the sale racks at the Goodwill. I once carted home sixty three books for fifty cents each. I feel high just remembering it.
I cannot deny that I am a heavy reader. I know the location of every second hand bookstore in Montana , Idaho and Washington . I run a tab at the Havre Book Exchange. I once drove from Elliott Bay Books in Seattle to Powell’s Books in Portland in search of an out of print book of Richard Hugo’s poetry. Something wrong with that?
I am a Bookworm. I don’t intend to quit. I read books. I re-read books. I hang out at the library and at bookstores. Some weeks I spend more on books than groceries. Right now I am under doctor’s orders to read. Well, he didn’t exactly say I had to read. But I have to keep my injured leg elevated so what else am I to do? I feel like a pig rolling in gumbo. Do you know W. O. Mitchell, the Saskatchewan author of “Roses Are Difficult Here”? I have seven of his books, just arrived parcel post. Did you know you can order used books over the internet for practically nothing? Did you know there are two bookstores in Havre which not only have shelves of second hand books but also carry the latest by Montana authors? Have you read Kent Haruf? How about Ivan Doig? For me there is no cure. WooHoo! Bring on the books!
Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
August 6, 2009
*************************************************************************************
Hello. My name is Sondra. I am a Bookworm. I have books on shelves, books in boxes, books stacked on tables, books hidden behind the sofa, books cradled in the laundry hamper. Books are crowding me out of the house. Lately I have asked myself some hard questions. After a fearless and searching inventory of my innermost motives, I have no doubt. I am a Chronic Reader.
Some folks are Social Readers. When it comes to books, they can take it or leave it. You see them at the airport picking up Oprah’s latest recommendation to read on the plane to Boston . If blessed with a chatty seatmate they will not open the book. I look at them with scorn. At the airport I am like a glutton checking to see if there are any books I have missed. I usually buy one or two just in case I am not in the mood for the three I brought with me for the forty-five minute flight to Helena with a touch down in Lewistown.
The Periodic Reader grabs light summer reading for her week on the beach in Maui . She will probably leave the book in the hotel room when she checks out. If I were in Maui that same week, I would browse through two or three bookstores. And I would not leave a book behind. Once I bought another suitcase to cart home my literary treasure trove.
The Maintenance Reader keeps three or four novels at his bedside. He reads for a few minutes or an hour before he turns the light out. I, however, have three or four stacks of books alongside my bed. Enough said.
The Binge Reader can walk by books without a thought. Until one day, hit with an overpowering urge to read, she will hole up under the cottonwood in her back yard, or lock the front door and feast in her living room, or spend hours in the library until she has the urge out of her system and her life returns to normal. She tends to read by category or by author, devouring all the books she can find by Dick Francis or Amy Tan or Joyce Carol Oates.
I, however, am a Chronic Reader. I am powerless over books. I can’t help myself. I cannot remember ever not reading. I grew up devouring Victorian literature because my Grandmother controlled what books she saw me read. I studied cereal boxes at the breakfast table. I poured over the “The Farm Journal” and “Successful Farming”. In high school I knew more about waste disposal systems on pig farms than any boy in my class. I read whatever was in front of me. I did my homework ignoring the television, with “Forever Amber” sneaked beneath the pages of my math book. Neither math nor television has ever influenced my life. I still don’t understand why “Forever Amber” was a banned book.
People ask me, “Does reading interfere with your social life?” A: “No, all my friends are readers.” Or, “Do you spend more time reading than you planned?” A: “Doesn’t everybody?” “Have you ever bought books instead of groceries?” A: “Doesn’t everybody?” “Do you miss work because of reading?” A: “Mmmmm.” “Have you ever lied about how much you read?” A: “Why would I lie?” “Do you read to escape?” A: “Doesn’t everybody!” “Have you ever denied your children essentials because of your book buying?” A: “Of course not. For example, I fed them nutritious meals and we all had our nose in a book while we ate.”
One question does make me wriggle uncomfortably in my chair. “Do you spend more money than you planned on books?” I have white-knuckled it past Barnes and Noble, eyes averted, more than once. But I ask you, how does one stick to a book budget when irresistible bargains crop up. I cruise the book boxes at yard sales and the sale racks at the Goodwill. I once carted home sixty three books for fifty cents each. I feel high just remembering it.
I cannot deny that I am a heavy reader. I know the location of every second hand bookstore in Montana , Idaho and Washington . I run a tab at the Havre Book Exchange. I once drove from Elliott Bay Books in Seattle to Powell’s Books in Portland in search of an out of print book of Richard Hugo’s poetry. Something wrong with that?
I am a Bookworm. I don’t intend to quit. I read books. I re-read books. I hang out at the library and at bookstores. Some weeks I spend more on books than groceries. Right now I am under doctor’s orders to read. Well, he didn’t exactly say I had to read. But I have to keep my injured leg elevated so what else am I to do? I feel like a pig rolling in gumbo. Do you know W. O. Mitchell, the Saskatchewan author of “Roses Are Difficult Here”? I have seven of his books, just arrived parcel post. Did you know you can order used books over the internet for practically nothing? Did you know there are two bookstores in Havre which not only have shelves of second hand books but also carry the latest by Montana authors? Have you read Kent Haruf? How about Ivan Doig? For me there is no cure. WooHoo! Bring on the books!
Sondra Ashton
Havre Daily News: Home Again
August 6, 2009
*************************************************************************************
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)