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Archive for the ‘Quotes’ Category

I like trees because they seem more resigned to the way they have to live than other things do.
Willa Cather

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I call it “my tree”;  a stately copper beech, it holds court just east of the visitor center It is an anchor of the shade garden at the Morton Arboretum.

It isn’t really mine, of course. It is everyone’s, but, I call it mine as it is truly my favorite tree. I look for it each time I wander the Morton. It’s copper leaves, smooth bark, sturdy limbs and strength of character call to me.  It is a prescient presence, whatever the season. This copper beech is so wide of girth that I could never hug it completely. I know. I’ve tried to. Standing beneath its comfort and shade, however, seems to be all the beech I need.

Sir Author Conan Doyle knighted one of his stories  The Adventure of the Copper Beeches. Maeve Binchy gave Copper Beech  title to a book. Poets and troubadours have caught its essence in verse and in song.

Soon, very soon, “my tree” will turn  toward another season. It will shed its leaves, resigned to the way it must live, but, its strong trunk and encompassing limbs will still hold court in the shade garden.

Do you have a favorite tree?

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DSCN5211“Water does not resist. Water flows. When you plunge your hand into it, all you feel is a caress. Water is not a solid wall, it will not stop you. But water always goes where it wants to go, and nothing in the end can stand against it. Water is patient. Dripping water wears away a stone. Remember that, my child. Remember you are half water. If you can’t go through an obstacle, go around it. Water does.”
― Margaret Atwood, The Penelopiad

Oddly enough, or maybe just so, as I was mating Margaret Atwood’s words to my photo, the news came to me that Elaine Stritch had passed way. I gasped. It was as if the water, the words, and the woman were one.

I took this photo at day’s end, about a week ago, while walking the path at the pond in the Dean Nature Sanctuary. I was at the water’s edge, in those ethereal moments of light so bright that they make even color evaporate.

What a remarkable talent Elaine Stritch was – and how brilliantly she flowed through life.

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A poet could write volumes about diners, because they’re so beautiful. They’re brightly lit, with chrome and booths and Naugahyde and great waitresses. Now, it might not be so great in the health department, but I think diner food is really worth experiencing periodically.  David Lynch

Calbay

Denver omelets and grilled cheese sandwiches. Swiss steak with mashed potatoes and gravy. Being recognized by name with “Hi, Hon. Howyadoin’ today?” by the waitress as she pours your coffee into a thick, white mug. The cook, his papered head showing over the half wall of the grill, starts your order as soon as he hears you say it, the stub from the waitress just a reminder of whether to add Swiss or cheddar at the end.

With all our fancy, four starred, gourmet restaurants – gastronomical emporiums that I certainly have enjoyed – I think it is the homespun diner that I love the best, especially during a cold, white winter such as 2014 has been. Our favorite diner is Cafe Calbay, just around the corner from the “main drag”, across the street from the train station, a block from the post office, and on the way to anywhere I need to be.

How about you? Is there a diner, cafe, local restaurant where someone knows you name is Hon, Sweetie, of Dear?

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There is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand different versions.  

La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680)

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920“I often get up in the night and add to my list. Somehow the main function of a list is to make me feel well organized. Practically speaking, they aren’t much use as I invariably mislay them. I make careful grocery lists and leave them behind when I go to the village. But it is nice to know that when I get home, I’ll know what I forgot because it is under the coffeemaker right where I left it when I unplugged the pot. I put it back on the counter by the door and add to it. There is hope that I may once catch up with just one list for I notice they are smaller than they used to be. They are only one page. This is because I have discovered if I walk slowly down all the aisles at the market, ideas come to me! I look with interest at the soap shelves and I think SOAP, and get it.”  Gladys Taber. “The Stillmeadow Road”, November. page 246

I had just returned from a marathon of grocery shopping for our Thanksgiving dinner, settling the turkey in the refrigerator, piling sweet potatoes into a basket, placing a can of pineapple on the counter with an orange, an apple and cranberries for the relish. Turning around, there it was; the grocery list I’d forgotten! It was, of course, sitting right where I had placed it; that perfect spot where I wouldn’t forget it.

While waiting for water to boil for tea, I pulled out “The Stillmeadow Road” and turned to the chapter entitled November. I soon came upon the passage I quote. It was as though Gladys Taber was writing about me when she penned this more than 5o years ago. Gladys Taber‘s words still ring true today. I love it when prose is everlasting, don’t you?

It snowed today. Not much. Just enough to set the evening rush hour in a spin. Supper is in the oven. The table is set. Tom will be coming in the door in a bit. Until then, I think I’ll settle in a chair and see what else Gladys has to say about November – and maybe start a new list of all that I forgot.

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There are two momentous occasions that are being commemorated  this month in the United States. Just a few calendar days from each other, they occurred 100 years apart. The first occasion, yesterday, was the 150th anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s  Gettysburg Address. The second commemoration, November 22, is the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. I hope to find time to write about President Kennedy’s assassination in a few days. This morning, however, I felt a need to share President Lincoln’s address.

Many of you, growing up in the United States and of a certain age, know of the Battle of Gettysburg. The devastation  that battle wrought. The lives lost on that battlefield. The carnage. Many of you were required to memorize the Gettysburg Address, especially if you lived in Illinois. Less than 300 words in length, it was probably spoken by Abraham Lincoln in less than three minutes. It remains burned in our minds, still, and I hope that students are still learning of it.

It is one of the most memorable speeches by any U.S. President.

The photo, as well as this version of the speech are from the National Portraits Galleries site, Face-to-Face. It is a wonderful website and can be found here.

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot consecrate—we cannot hallow—this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

Abraham Lincoln. Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. November 19, 1863

metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/22.207

Winslow Homer

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DSCN1495“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. 
I am haunted by waters.”                Norman Maclean

On Monday, I passed by Salt Creek at Fullersburg Woods on my way home. The water was running swiftly, the sun was brilliant, warming the April air, and swales of daffodils and Siberian squill blanketed the earth around the Graue Mill. My undisciplined self could not help but to turn off of the road I was on, park the car, pull out my camera, and wander a bit in the luxury of Spring’s emerging carpet. Little did I know, at that same moment, what horrors were occurring in Boston, nor how the small town of West in Texas would become so explosively devastated a few days later, or how these very same waters I crossed would soon rise, bringing their own destruction and revealing their own dark secrets as more than six inches of rain pummeled the area.

This was a haunting week that tried our souls, brought out the measure of many, the evil of some, and both the beauty and the brutality of nature and of man. A week most of us will not soon forget. A week that reminds us to hang on tight to our roots and to all things that are good, to hold our loved ones close and live our fullest in each and every moment we are given.

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