Saturday, February 21, 2015

Note from Cindy; All that we have is now; Time; Cat alarm; Coffee in the afternoon

John and Cindy take Emerson for a sleigh ride
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)

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. 


Sarah, Cindy (Grandma), and Emerson
whose Dad is my godson Aaron Helt

Helt's train intro



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.


Pink Floyd

-  "the tolling of the iron bell"  -

even a child can ring it

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 


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 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...

Bill H. oils it


Dee now, zips up for the present cold temp.


Cat Alarm


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