Magnolia

A Rumphius Challenge

Last Friday in April! Get outdoors! The whole world's a poem!

Peepers 

emerge,

announce

themselves 

one by

one

building

a consensus

of rhythm 

and night songs.

Daffodils appear 

too

along the hillside,

a startling display

of dazzling yellow,

but magnolia

trumps them

all,

lasting only

a day or two,

she bursts

on the scene

a head full

of pale pink.

A swirl of

wind 

could wisp

her away...and

so 

I'll stop

this day,

and look

and savor,

for soon

that burst

will 

be gone.

My Own Backyard

Yesterday, I left the backyard of my dreams...in a way. Well-manicured, shady in just the right spots, a lazy river and a kind person that brought food or drinks at my beck and call. Well, that's jut not reality, and I know that even I would get bored with that after a while.

So, we packed up, just the two of us and hit the road...cuz heck, we were having way too much fun! We hit the road with our bags and our heads stuffed full of the sounds and sights of  another great time at the beach. 

Traveling with a wheelchair is a huge hassle, so...we put on our patience. I dragged the wheelie monster suitcase, and we rolled that wheelchair homeward. There were bags slung over my back too. I cursed myself for all the stuff I packed (Eight books, all read--and then my sketch book and journal, laptop too.) We put on our armor and got ready to do battle with the airport, on this the weekend that marks the end of spring break. What we found, though, was what we almost always find: the miracle of the stranger...willing to hold the elevator, watch the bags, wait that extra second or even extend a hand when we needed it. It always happens. So...even as we progress in this crazy process called illness, I have to remember not to awfulize, we are not alone. I sometimes tell myself we'll never be able to travel again...well, no. People are happy to help. Well most normal people...that crabby butt guy last night at the airport? Karma, and not me, will bite his butt! Miracles of kindness abound. It is at the core of human nature.

As for me? I'm happy to be back to the rhythm of my unmanicured backyard...where there's sunlight, hawks nesting, daffodils and magnolias in bloom, and a calm I can count on today! The rake will have to wait, though, for at least another day!

Alli-gator Inspires Fear: Paradise Lost

Okay, well...I've been warned. We are living in their ecosystem. But...

all's quiet on the western front, in fact who would imagine anything

was lurking there? 

     Well, today, "Ali" decided to go for a swim in my backyard. But not to worry, I've gotten a lesson in how to run away from an alligator. If it's a girl alligator, she's won't be more than ten feet long. No big deal, right? Wrong!

So...I'm thinking maybe a girl originally from New Jersey, transplanted in Connecticut should be happy with the icky things we have like daddy long legs, wood spiders and itty bitty mice and forget about any plans of relocating to this sunnier locale. It sure is tempting, though, especially after the two million feet of snow I shoveled this past winter. Brother. There is no paradise after all!

What no Vampires?

Rollin' out some garlicky meatballs today, a memory popped into my brain and I found myself in the kitchen laughing away. My BF is used to this. If I'm not talking to myself in there, I'm often laughing...and sometimes singing too. I know, a bad scene. 

But today, I started thinking about those Sherman Avenue Murphys again...you know, my roots. What a street that was! Many small homes, cape style, but Dutch colonials and a few old farmhouse from the days of the apple orchard too. Ours was a cape...very cute, I like to think. My dad was meticulous about it.

The Cucurellos lived in a Dutch colonial down the street. I could sit on my porch and just about inhale the smell of garlic coming from Grandma Cucurello's (Angie) kitchen. It was there that I first tasted the love of my life: pasta! When I'd come home from their house, my dad (aka Archie Bunker) could smell the garlic. "Go right upstairs and change your clothes!" Oh brother. "I didn't come all the way across the ocean to smell that abnormal smell." 

"But Dad!" Well, you know what ensued after that. Archie, I mean DAD, always got his way. Then one day, the Cucurellos invited Mr. I'm-ALL-Irish-ALL-the-TIME to dinner. We were all so excited, we could barely stay glued to our skin! Imagine. Well, he went alright, but not after a WHOLE bunch of dawdling and dilly-dallying...something he'd never allow in me.  

We sat down at the table and they stuck a medium-sized bowl in front of him. The larger bowl of pasta and "gravy" with that wonderful garlic smell was divvied out by Rose Cucurello, the diminutive mom of the household. I could see my dad's expression of fear from the corner of my eye. I feared for the Cucurello household. Big Dan (weighing in at about 350) was in his place, at the head of the table, getting ready to say grace. A few words were mumbled by my not-so-grace-filled Dad under his breath. It was then that Angelina, his partner in prayer (another story), hopped up from the table and grabbed another bowl from the kitchen. This time, it was the butter and pasta for wimps bowl. Archie B. was saved! Boo-hoo!! But...what my dad didn't know was that he needed to pace himself. He fired down the pasta...believe it or not, he'd never even had THAT before! And then came the leg of lamb and all the trimmings! I thought my father was going to die! It was so worth the price of admission, I laugh even now thinking about it.

But that was the end of our garlicky pasta days...in fact, we didn't even have pizza in our house until my dad died. As sad as his death was...there was a silver lining. As he would say, before he was even "cold in the ground," we were concocting all sorts of things in his kitchen.And what did we fire up first on that Irish stove of ours? It wasn't meat and potatoes, that was for darn sure! 'Twas our own bootleg version of Grandma Cucurello's pasta sauce that we'd tried so many times before of course! (Don't tell Dad!) 

I Can Hardly Wait!

National Geographic's  Africa (1996) is a wonderfully epic series entitled, Africa, which explores the vast regions of this immense continent through the eyes and therefore the lives  of its people. There's a spiritual essence that grips and binds the viewer to the very real day-to-day struggles, the simplicity and the camaraderie of a people fighting for their livelihood, for their day-to-day survival and for an embedded system of beliefs that has endured there for centuries. The cinematography is breathtaking. But what stands out for me is the carefully crafted respectfully told stories within the narative of these productions.

Then comes along a little book with a very strange title: The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. It was placed in my hands and honestly, I gave it little attention at first, setting it aside for the larger stack of books on my list. When I finally got around to it, I fell in love. Precious Ramotswe is a highly endearing character. Kind and confident, she takes on the small problems/mysteries that fall upon her doorstep as a most unlikely private investigator in Botswana. The authentic voice of Precious is most unmistakably captured by Alexander McCall Smith. Imagine that! A white Anglo-Saxon tells the story in the voice of a Botswanan female!

And now, HBO offers its fans the a seven part series beginning March 29th. Facebook has established a 'fans page,' with interviews with the master-storyteller, Smith. He speaks of the idea for the detective agency as a "literary device," a useful tool in exploring the lives of the occasional agency visitor. Small plot lines become entwined in the life and travels of Precious, of course. "Everyday somebody can come in with a fresh issue."

More than a few editors at the SCBWI mid-winter conference challenged authors to think outside their comfort zone. They spoke of creating stories that were less known to them, residing instead in the outer realm of possibility for us all. Stretch ourselves, they said...invent rather than recreate. In my estimation, that is exactly what Alexander McCall Smith has done. He has captured the very nature, the spirit of Botswana in a way that is so very real and appealing. And yet this is no travelogue, no recounting of his own experiences there. Could it be that he is the reincarnated Precious Ramotswe in the body of a 20th century white gentleman? 

Kathleen's Irish Soda Bread Recipe

The story goes that good Irish cooks never measure, so when I took down this recipe at Kathleen's table some twenty-five years ago (on the back of an envelope), I was given that disclaimer. It took me many a try to get it all straight. 

Irish Soda Bread: Preheat the oven to 375*

Sift together: 

2 1/2 C flour

1/2 tsp. baking soda

2 "generous" tsp. baking powder

("a bit of salt") 1 tsp.

"a few" spoons of sugar (3-4)

Cut 3 tbsp. of softened buttered into the dry mix.

Add 3 tsp. caraway seeds

1 egg

1 C buttermilk

1/2 box of raisins ("In good times, I always add more!")

Roll out onto a lightly floured bread board and knead for just a few minutes. Shape and cut with the "sign of the cross" using a sharp knife. ("Always remember to say a small prayer.")

Bake for 45 mins. Serve with a generous amount of butter, and a good hot cup of tea!

I make two loaves at a time and bake them on a greased cookie sheet.

(Be sure to read the story below for a bit more of the backstory on this recipe.)

My thanks to Mrs. Vokes for all the wonderful loaves that were dropped off on our doorway. We never caught you! You were a true Irish rascal!

The Sweet Taste of Soda Bread

On any given March 17th one thing in the Murphy household was certain.

Kathleen Vokes would come and go, leaving a warm loaf of Irish soda bread on the front step for sure. My brother and two sisters and I would fight for the chance to be the one to find it there, but in truth...she was a sneaky one, so you just never knew when she'd come.

There were other times too, when Mrs. Vokes would turn up with her soda bread, quite often in fact, for she was the quiet white-haired matriarch in the neighborhood, and she had a very watchful eye and a kind spirit to match. We were a bit of an oddity in our neighborhood, having lost both parents by the time I turned eleven. My brother, ten years older than I, was the breadwinner, as was my sister Carol.  Mrs. Vokes had always played a quiet role in our family, tending to my mom when she was sick...for she herself was a nurse. She'd come up with one of the two daily pain injections, and sometimes Carol would run down to her before the time was up, because Mom was desperate and unable to wait.

But I was oblivious to most of that. Mom died when I was just a bitty girl, and then Dad later.

Mrs. Vokes, to me, was a mystical character. She had wild white hair and pinky toes that stuck out at the ends of her cloth sneakers. She always wore an apron or held a trowel in her hand. She, like my dad, tended that small plot of land as if it were a farm in Ireland. I'd skip down the hill and knock on her door and often find her in either place, the garden or the kitchen, and then I'd be enlisted to roll out the pie dough or dig up some lost bulbs, hidden deep in the soil.

But my favorite, by far, was the making of the Irish soda bread. 

I hadn't seen Mrs. Vokes in many years, having left to go off to college, to begin my first teaching job and to buy a home of my own and have my first baby. But, to my delight, on a trip to my brother's, I discovered her there once more. Matt was just six months old, and so I propped him up on the kitchen table. She was pulling an apple pie out of the oven and so the kettle went on and we talked. I asked her if she'd give me her Irish soda bread recipe, which of course she did. There was no recipe, really...it was a 'bit of this and a bit of that', but I've managed to figure out the this and thats and have made more than a few over the years. 

When I got in my car to leave that day, we were both teary. It'd been so long, and in that short visit, I realized just how much she meant to me as that bitty girl so long ago. As fate would have it, though, my car wouldn't start. We went back in amidst the fitful cries of my little guy, Matthew. He was starving. So, as only she would, she slipped him onto that generous hip of hers and got him smiling and laughing again. But then it all stopped and the crying started again. It was then that I realized the secret incredient of all my visits to Mrs. Vokes. She switched him then from her hip to a seat atop the table, dug into that sugar bowl of hers and shoveled a heaping teaspoonful of the white stuff right into his mouth! I was horrified, but hysterical at the same time. We both laughed and laughed, and Matt's crying of course stopped. Good old Tommy Sullivan rescued us then and we were off on our way. 

Sadly, that was the last time I saw her, but I have a lifetime of memories from that kitchen, some of which are stored in my Middle Grade novel, Forever and Always, a story of a young girl growing up with only a dad, who learns to find mom in the small places, in the stories of people and the events that shape her life, those nooks and crannies of the universe. 

Tomorrow's entry: Mrs. Vokes's Irish Soda Bread Recipe. Stay tuned!