It seems an apology needs to preface this post (well, probably all that follow as well). After having the pleasure of reading entries from Andy, Kristi, and Melissa last week, my random musings of interest will surely be a letdown. And, this is in no way said while wearing a self-deprecating girlfriend, friend, or former student head adornment. I have, instead, merely been rocking my reader’s hat the past few days. As I have indulged in, reread, and stewed over their respective posts, I have been continually impressed with their insights, their wit, and their ability to make something personal matter (and be relatable) to an audience that may seemingly otherwise have little in common with either the author him/herself or with other readers. Beyond the obvious trademarks of correct grammar, logical transitions, and quirky titles, all three are writers, therefore, because they have an ability to inspire imagination among readers, an imagination that allows readers to see themselves as characters in the play that the author has created.
Apologies aside, however, this is exactly what fascinates me about writing. I love
that I get a glimpse of a personality, a mindset, a relationship, or a desired persona that may not be accessible, as a result of circumstance or character, in face-to-face contact. I love that I am somewhat forced to “hear” an explanation that might otherwise be interrupted by questions, comments, or “that reminds ME of” tangents that I might be so narcissistically inclined to add to an actual conversation. The written word gives a depth to my perception of others just as it allows my ideas to dance around in a community head of whimsy and intrigue. Readers’ hats are really, really big.
I feel it imperative to point out, however, that by “writing” I do not solely refer to well thought-out blog posts, poems, or books. In fact, as Linda Brown and I were discussing this weekend, these “new glimpses” can be seen even in seemingly innocent or unimportant status updates, photo captions, and wall comments. Yes, I know that Facebook is the mecca of foolishness, inaneness, and the occasional venting of personal matters that no one should ever have to hear about. But, I love that at the same time, Facebook is also a tool that allows me to see just how funny some people really are.
Below I have listed some of my favorite things to follow. Since most of you who read Pillowbook are probably Facebook friends as well, I hope that you have noticed and get a kick out of these too. And by the way, we all “creep” so I refuse to feel bad about knowing the stuff that follows…
*Becky Ballard's status updates – Mom and Leigh have always said that she is one of the most quick-witted people they know; I “see this” in her comments
*Tammy Hall and Becky Ballard’s comments to each other and on others’ pages – one word: hilarious
*Jessica Cossel and Morgan Staley’s photos and comments – I love that I see some of my relationship with my sisters in Jessica and Morgan’s funny remarks to one another
*Lori Sells’ posts – Her lifejacketed kids at the top of the Alpine Hill entertained me for days
*Linda Brown’s pictures – Always interesting and beautifully shot; I also enjoy Linda’s status updates as well as the comments she, Melissa, and Courtney share
*Misty Dubre’s entire page – If you need to know anything about Cumberland County, Misty is your girl
*Stephen Pickering’s profile pictures – Stephen is my dear friend from graduate school; I love seeing his new profile pictures (ranging from Charlie Brown montages to a photo of Larry from
Perfect Strangers) and the fact that he can post some renowned history professor-related post right after commenting about his dog, Linus, sitting on his stomach
*Anything related to Isabella – I especially love Leigh Ann’s picture captions:)
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Rather than leaving you with a recipe today, I choose a poem for two reasons: 1) I watched
Bright Star last week and became interested in John Keats (if you get a chance, watch this movie…I thought it was fantastic); and 2) I’m already done with summer…it’s too damn hot. Written in 1819, "Ode to Autumn" glorifies fall, characterizing as a goddess reflective of simplicity and contentment, even as it closes with a somewhat melancholy foreshadowing of inevitable decline.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Plan to spend a couple of hours this morning staking my tomato plants... and continuing to revel in the excitement of finding my first cucumbers. I don't even like this prickly, pale green vegetable that much, but I do love homemade pickles. If any of you have a sure fire recipe (or really any knowledge that extends beyond "pickles are made from cucumbers"), please let me know. 
The World's Largest Catsup-Bottle Festival (Collingsville, IL)
Names intrigue me. Listening to my maternal grandmother talk about my departed ancestors, I am fascinated by the way she proudly articulates each person’s name. Besides how impressive it is that she, at 85 years, can remember these names in full-- first, middle, and last—I am intrigued by the names themselves: Birtie Neal Thomas. Buford Rosenfield Breeding. Flora Hovious Rice. My grandma Margie is not a genealogist, but she has carefully studied the neat print on the documents and photos in the boxes under her bed. She knows that even though these people are gone, their names are important.
