I’m the best shoveler I know. Seriously. At age sixty-seven I can out shovel pretty much anyone. Need snow cleared or a new garden bed dug… I’m solid. But becoming a prodigious shoveler was not the dream to which I aspired as a youth.
Nevada D. Holmes was my grandmother’s maiden name… she was my dad’s mom. I remember her as a small, quiet, proper old woman who required quiet behavior inside and controlled behavior outside. It’s not like she yelled at anyone. She just passed her requests on to my father…
A friend of mine asked me why a poem by the Chinese poet Tu Fu is posted on the front of this site, so I thought perhaps others may be curious about that as well. And the answer is that I’ve loved this poem for many years… it’s long been one of my all-time favorites… and it stimulates a kind of merged physical, spiritual, intellectual response in me when I read it.
I simply cannot walk by a healthy young Green Wave mustard plant in my garden without plucking a leaf. Then I use my thumb to delicately wipe away any lingering drops of dew or, if already dried by the morning sun, to softly brush away what soil may have splashed up from recent rains and stuck around.
Thirteen years. There are so many different ways to think about this number. Some people think of it as unlucky. But me… I’ve decided to think about it as a sort of calendar of possible events. A Baker’s Dozen worth of opportunities to experience the world I now inhabit.