in their solarized back yard where Cindy's story takes place
in shadow of Holy Hill
To the Helt family, plus a few friends:
(Now Raccooned, Ed. note)
(Now Raccooned, Ed. note)
I wanted to share a story about an event that happened today.
Around 2pm, John and I both heard a loud "thwump", which sounded like a bird
hitting the windows. It has happened frequently in the past, until we learned
that moving feeders either 3 feet or thirty feet from the house could prevent
this tragedy. (This advice was given by birding experts). As I scanned the
perimeter of the house, I spotted the upside-down body of a bird I recognized as
a woodpecker lodged in the snow, with only his feet and tail showing.
Panic-stricken, I threw on my coat and boots and ran out to see if there was any
chance it was still alive. I picked it up, and its eyes were still open. I
quickly thrust it under my coat, knowing that it needed to be kept warm. I ran
to the garage, secured a small box, and went in the house. John got a soft towel
to line the box, and I followed him to the shower room, where he shut the
doors. We placed the bird (a red-bellied woodpecker) in the box, and shut the
lid. He would remain in the box for a half hour. I know from past experience
that in this time the victims either recover or perish. Sometimes they just seem
to need some quiet recovery time to gather their wits.
After about 15 minutes, we heard a "tap-tap" noise from the room. John
thought the bird got out. I checked, and saw the lid was still in place. So I
quickly got my coat and boots on, and got the box.I could see the tip of the
bird's bill poking out around the lid; I took this for a good sign. John opened
the back door, and I stepped out toward the back yard to open the lid. With a
leap and a flutter the woodpecker flew off to the nearest tree. I heard a
squawk, and chose to interpret it as a simple thanks, instead of a scolding for
the temporary confinement. I love happy endings. 
Stay warm.
Cindy/Mom
Sarah, Cindy (Grandma), and Emerson
whose Dad is my godson Aaron Helt
Helt's train intro
^,^
Sarah, Cindy (Grandma), and Emerson
whose Dad is my godson Aaron Helt
Helt's train intro
^,^
JESSE WINCHESTER again:
Like cousin Steve Dix, author of FINDING HONOR, Winchester - the late - went to Canada instead of Vietnam.
He stayed there until the last 10 yrear of his life
when he returned to the US, pardoned.
Steve says he knew of JS but did get to meet him.
Funny thing is that one of the commmenters under the U-tubed song is another Canada-flight Viet avoider,
poet Michael Lee Johnson. I contacted him thru his link below; we are now in touch with things in common.. + Steve and Michael
are exchanging books, a nice thing.
^,^
time
Pink Floyd
- "the tolling of the iron bell" -
even a child can ring it
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z-OytmtYoOI
Ticking away the moments
That make up a dull day
Fritter and waste the hours
In an off-hand way
Kicking around on a piece of ground
In your home town
Waiting for someone or something
To show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine
Staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long
And there is time to kill today
And then the one day you find
Ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run
You missed the starting gun
(Solo)
And you run and you run
To catch up with the sun
But it's sinking
Racing around
To come up behind you again
The sun is the same
In a relative way
But you're older
Shorter of breath
And one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter
Never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught
Or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation
Is the English way
The time is gone
The song is over
Thought I'd something more to say
Home
Home again
I like to be here
When I can
When I come home
Cold and tired
It's good to warm my bones
Beside the fire
Far away
Across the field
Tolling of the iron bell
Calls the faithful to their knees
To hear the softly spoken magic spell...
Dee now, zips up for the present cold temp.
^,^
Cat Alarm
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/20/cat-alarm-clock_n_5001252.html
^,^
| Coffee
in the Afternoon by Alberto Rios
It was afternoon tea, with tea foods spread out
Like in the books, except that it was coffee.
She made a tin pot of cowboy coffee, from memory,
That’s what we used to call it, she said, cowboy coffee.
The grounds she pinched up in her hands, not a spoon,
And the fire on the stove she made from a match.
I sat with her and talked, but the talk was like the tea food,
A little of this and something from the other plate as well,
Always with a napkin and a thank-you. We sat and visited
And I watched her smoke cigarettes
Until the afternoon light was funny in the room,
And then we said our good-byes. The visit was liniment,
The way the tea was coffee, a confusion plain and nice,
A balm for the nerves of two people living in the world,
A balm in the tenor of its language, which spoke through
our hands In the small lifting of our cups and our cakes to our lips.
It was simplicity, and held only what it needed.
It was a gentle visit, and I did not see her again. "Coffee in the Afternoon" by Alberto Rios from The Theater of Night. © Copper Canyon Press, 2007  |
