A text to son; A work space; Waiting in a; Getting Light (revisited); Bob Sellars from my view

Simple fare on the menu last night

an entre I am well-used to

sauer kraut and spare-ribs

which Dee (Mom) prepares for me

whenever I feel like it.

I had my un-fill of it in my grandma's house

on Arcadian Avenue

- you know the place -

It's a German dish, the kind known

to poorish folk, simple taste types.

Aromatic, not much to look at, but real good.

Simmered down over hours in the crock pot

served over farmers market small potatoes and Cindy Helt's tomatoes

.......

where the raccoon happens

.......

Getting Light

I saw a golden cat as the barely rising sun

Still behind the West Virginia mountains

Made the sky slightly pink and not as blackened

As it was when my walk across the river

An hour ago had just begun

The cat lay on top of a garbage can

In kind of a no-man’s land

Off an alley I was walking

On Wheeling Island hawking

For queer things to expose my film at, and

It was soon after I’d passed an Hibiscus hedge

Following a tenuous crossing

From Wheeling to the island

On a pre-Civil War suspension bridge

An isolated community I so much annually enjoy

Though

I quiver looking down from such a high ledge

Through the swaying gratewalk at the water

Far below

The cat had likely been out all night

A satisfied smile showed just a trace

As maybe full of mice it looked benignly

Upon my out of town face

And we spoke in wow wows kindly

Then he graciously said signly

Take my picture Mr. Man, it’s quite alright

That’s how I read him all the same

So I raised my camera squinting through it taking aim

Got him centered for quick shooting because

He was sitting on his paws so nice and tame

His face turned to glowing phosphorus

I could see it through my finder

I could have not made him blinder

In incandescence he was one loud screeching puss

The mood of our acquaintance turned dreary

And he ricocheted round so bleary

And I knew in an instant I should have used

Available light

Would the cat have sat still for that though

Was something I did not know so

The flash went off and temporarily

So went his pussycat sight

Next year when I go back there

I hope to see his cat hair

Resettled and him once again

At his curmudgeonly ease

I shall pet his golden coif so

He will be ready when I show him the photo

And to his eyes and heart

I might hold the kitty cat keys

I’ll pledge to him in the sternest of stricture

Should I ever again capture his picture

There’ll be no flash in his face

When he says cheese

[D. Septix]

.......

Not a rude entrance,
the courtyard to the Odd Fellows hall
with lovely flowers kept by Fiona
who lives down the hall from us.

Note the Silurean-age limestone
rockpiles of which much of the downtown exists.
This courtyard used to be just a service alley.
That rockpile wall wasn't intended at first
to be so attention-getting.

Note also the new awning(s) just erected
across South Street on the bank building
which is now the Guzman insurance agency building.
That is a magnificent work in progress,
the restoration of another old dormancy
by a young couple long on energy.

.......

Green Canoe

by Jeffrey Harrison

I don't often get the chance any longer
to go out alone in the green canoe
and, lying in the bottom of the boat,
just drift where the breeze takes me,
down to the other end of the lake
or into some cove without my knowing
because I can't see anything over
the gunwales but sky as I lie there,
feeling the ribs of the boat as my own,
this floating pod with a body inside it ...

also a mind, that drifts among clouds
and the sounds that carry over water—
a flutter of birdsong, a screen door
slamming shut—as well as the usual stuff
that clutters it, but slowed down, opened up,
like the fluff of milkweed tugged
from its husk and floating over the lake,
to be mistaken for mayflies at dusk
by feeding trout, or be carried away
to a place where the seeds might sprout.

"Green Canoe" by Jeffrey Harrison, from Feeding the Fire. © Sarabande Books, 2001

.......

Whispering
[not known for]
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9NGFE7CLVk

.......

MY VIEW ON BOB SELLARS

Just gone

The church - Waukesha - lost a giant last week. 

Among hundreds (pick a number? Thousands?) of others, I lost a friend

the other day.

The service for Bob last Sunday afternoonwas thorough in tributes

- his children and grandchildren spoke eloquently -

so I only want to add a couple things of my own.

Bob in his last years, years of massive muscle debilitation,

relied on his computer and Email to reach out from his confinement.

I got and kept some good stuff from Bob.

At random, I will pass along just a few things.

First though, I've got two pictures from the meet the new

interim minister gathering held at the Sellars home

that showed Bob and Libby at their traditional

welcoming 'anything for the church' selves.

This was in 2009, when Rev. Deb Howland came to meet members

in individual homes in getting acquainted.  The Sellars dining room was

bathed in gold light, per the rudimentary camera I then used.

DH prepared the way in her protracted and stellar interim service to the Congo

for the eventual calling of our current pastor, Brittany Barber,

who so well conducted the memorial rite last Sunday for Bob.

A huge choir of friends of Bob sang his favorites.  They wore the stored

robes to fulfill Bob's wish.  Mark the music maestro worked everything Bob and

family wanted in,

including beginning the service with Debussy's Claire de Lune.

Raccoon readers have only to search the names 'Howland' (she too was in the choir)

and 'Barber' on our SRN blog/diary page.

Vocalists Sean DeBoth, Steve Hale and Dave Huber sang for Bob.

Dave used to zip Bob's choir robe on and off for those later years when Bob

couldn't manage.  When Dave wasn't there, Steve did it, including walking at 

Bob's side to and from the choir loft.  Bob loved to sing.

Singing for Bob at the service meant a lot for the 25 choir members.

a picture of a strive through desolate terrain from my Bob Sellars file

- he sent it recently -

From Bob via E:

Perhaps hard to believe. But this is true. I saw this more than once in Beer Halls

in some of the European cities while attending IDF meetings.

           

Those of you who are or were IDF - USDA members – perhaps have seen this yourself.

I looked at one of the waitresses’ after she had delivered the steins and saw the muscles

in her arms, decided she would not be one with whom to have a problem. 

WOW. One of the things I was most impressed with them was the length of their fingers

–      long enough to hold them without significant spillage. I could not tell but I believe she

had some of the handles over her forearms?   

Hope all is well with you.              BOB                                                                               A little-known fact: The Congregational Church does an historic pancake supper annually. For many years our batter was renowned for a delicious flavor. Some, but not many, knew that Bob Sellars had devised and introduced a pancake enzyme through his professional effort and affiliation. He did not ballyhoo this fact, sought no credit or compensation for the secret ingredient.  When Bob retired from his company the free additive was no longer available to our church.  Bob once told Steve Hale, under his breath, that if the true cost of this augmentation were passed along to us, there would have been no profit for our labors shown on the balance sheet. Such were the many kindnesses of Bob Sellars! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1u6KCzMc3Lw ....... Progress by Julie Cadwallader-Staub I did not just drag and drop. I did not just haul a burden so heavy that my hands, arms, and shoulders gave way and I had to let it go. Neither did I just browse. I did not get on my hands and knees and join the gentle cows to slowly sample whatever the open field had to offer. Instead, I sat here at my desk manipulating a mouse which is not, in fact, a mouse and I searched for something on the web that is not, in fact, a web. And isn't this how we move forward: with horsepower for jet engines and candlepower for light bulbs we take what we understand from one era to describe what we don't in the next. "Progress" by Julie Cadwallader-Staub. © Julie Cadwallader-Staub.  The Writers Almanac for today, September 7, 2013 .

Are we there yet?; A matriculation; Odd Fellow bloom; Quite frankly; Essay

from current New Yorker

.......

On Aug. 30, 2013 
grandson MIKE DIX of Dousman WI, daredevil,
see:  http://raccoonnews.blogspot.com/search?q=mike+dix
heads off to Carroll University.
He joins an august rank of Carroll grads:
grandmother Gina, brother Chris, and sister Melissa.
Good luck - all the way!

.......

Odd Fellowan bloomed

the other day

Plant has lived though some said NAY

It's been alive more time than thought......

(Search these pages; in vain naught:

'Morning Glory')

(makes a great screensaver)

.......

Quite Frankly

by Mark Halliday

They got old, they got old and died. But first—

okay but first they composed plangent depictions

of how much they lost and how much cared about losing.

Meantime their hair got thin and more thin

as their shoulders went slumpy. Okay but

not before the photo albums got arranged by them,

arranged with a niftiness, not just two or three

but eighteen photo albums, yes eighteen eventually,

eighteen albums proving the beauty of them (and not someone else),

them and their relations and friends, incontrovertible

playing croquet in that Bloomington yard,

floating on those comic inflatables at Dow Lake,

giggling at the Dairy Queen, waltzing at the wedding,

building a Lego palace on the porch,

holding the baby beside the rental truck,

leaning on the Hemingway statue at Pamplona,

discussing the eternity of art in that Sardinian restaurant.

Yes! And so, quite frankly—at the end of the day—

they got old and died okay sure but quite frankly

how much does that matter in view of

the eighteen photo albums, big ones

thirteen inches by twelve inches each

full of such undeniable beauty?

"Quite Frankly" by Mark Halliday, from Thresherphobe. © The University of Chicago Press, 2013. 

.......

Essay by D. Septix

Trip to the farmers market

Sat. 8/24/13

It was a perfect morning to step outside and go across the street to the farmers market along the Fox river, so at 8 AM I descended the back stairs of the Odd Fellows hall and stepped into the early sun on Main Street.  Crossing the Five Points intersection I strode down to the Clinton Street entrance, where the market vendors begin displaying their wares.

Already at 8,  the crowded attendance began accumulating.  Key Westconsin outdoor cafe already had lots of breakfasting or coffee-sipping table-sitters.

I pause at the cheese factory table and got some more Caraway Havarti.  I see Beth Lawson with her weekly shopping sack over here wrist.  We chat.  She has a fine shoulder tattoo of a tamarack sprig.  This is an archived picture:

I stop at the honey man's stand.  He says he thinks he knows me from his 1960s Carroll days when he was an art student there. We chat.  Yes, indeed we had common friends there:  Wis Guthrie, Dik Schwanke, John Tyson - his art professors, and some others.  I remark that probably Wis will be appearing that very day for he frequents the market from the Avalon, where he lives.  Moments later, Wis rolls up in his electric chair.  The three of us chat.  Meanwhile, Craig is selling lots of honey........

Next stop, the steaming Cup coffee canteen, right next to Craig's honey. I fill our thermos I'd brought and into which I put some vanilla ice cream before I left home, to chill the hot dark roast coffee so I can drink it comfortably while I walk through the market hordes.  It's getting crowded.

A smiling Asian vendor spreads beauty in Waukesha, setting up between the stand counter and the family van.  Agrees to pose.

The Catholic nun, another regular I recognize, approaches and I do not disappoint her by forgetting to tender my "Nice costume!" plaudit.  She passes, smiling and wordless, as her vows may dictate (one vow might be never talk to that guy), and continues her own hunting and gathering in determined efficient silence.

I eventually return home - to the Odd Fellows - by way of the stoop at the old National Bank across from the old Frideman's men's store at the Five Points near where I started.  It's such a beautiful day I decide to put down the heavy fern plant next to one of the bank columns and sit down.  In the shade at that still early hour I linger and drink my ice-creamed dark roast coffee from the thermos.

Many people, walking and driving, pass by that focal intersection.  I enjoy speaking with those going by on the sidewalk who  I know.  Mitzi and Chris Keadle stop to talk.  They're on their walk down from near Fountain Ave where they live.

And here comes Phil Runkel.

Phil won't recognize me and I greet him and say as much.  He looks quizically at me as I give him some identifying facts.  (I was at his mother's funeral not terribly long ago; she was laid to rest in a quick bio-degrading rush basket coffin; I belong to her church where her sculpture of the flying bird made of drift wood hangs over the former SS stage in the now fellowship hall; I've been in a couple of peace marches with him; have done some civil disobedience things myself which I don't specify......)

He loosens and begins to converse at length.  He tells me of a recent demo he was on in Wash. DC, protesting drones.  He tells me of a good picture I might find in the internet.  I do find it.

See:  http://warisacrime.org/content/activists-arrested-decrying-killer-drones-cia

Eventually I stand up and ask if he would mind if I take his picture myself.  He acquiesces kindly;

I get to thinking as I continue to linger at that focal locus that I am sitting beneath the 360 degree Opti-Cam mounted
on a high pole atop the Friedman's store.  I know it is there and I think nothing of it because I have no plans to commit any crimes currently.  But there it is up there, the spy camera:

And a couple days later, I'm coming out of Dave's Cafe near there with my brother Steve. We had breakfast together. As we stand chatting (MORE chat!), four (4) squad cars pull up to the five-way stop. The first squad cop looks at me and smiles and waves.  Then the second car pulls up, and the same thing happens - a smiling wave.  The 3rd one, the same,  the 4h one the same.  Why are all these cops waving at me?

Then after a couple of regular cars go by, a sheriff's deputy car comes even with us, and this guy does the smiling wave bit, as well.  Steve and I laugh at all the apparent friendliness the local constabulary are paying little old me.

Then later I get to thinking of that spy cam. 

And I say, WTF?

.......

vis-a-vis drones

'The Strip'
NY Times Op-Ed
8-25-13

Jockey; Belly dancer; American cheese; The Sleepy Man Banjo Boys; Cucumber sandwich spread; Myrtle

WHILE IT LASTS

There was a great read in last Sunday's New York Times

Sports section, a part of my weekly delivery here at the

Odd Fellows I usually do not pour over for I am not a

sport fan.  But in looking through the sheaf, I could not miss 

the front full page of the usually ignored sports section.

The picture was of a jockey on his race horse at Golden

Gate Fields racetrack.  Where but in the Times might

an eager reader find that sort of lengthy devotion to good

journalism?  A full page given to a picture of an aged and

successful  jockey, speaking, hollering ? into the back-turned ears

of his charging mount.  This was a time that I would

dig into the Sports section and see what it was all about.

Nowhere but the Times.  They devoted 6 (six) full pages

to this story, with pictures.  

http://www.nytimes.com/projects/2013/the-jockey/?_r=0#/?chapt=introduction

................

Belly dancer

KD shows her white v-shaped patch
while performing an exotic routine.

..................

American Cheese

by Jim Daniels

At department parties, I eat cheeses

my parents never heard of—gooey

pale cheeses speaking garbled tongues.

I have acquired a taste, yes, and that's

okay, I tell myself. I grew up in a house

shaded by the factory's clank and clamor.

A house built like a square of sixty-four

American Singles, the ones my mother made lunches

With—for the hungry man who disappeared

into that factory, and five hungry kids.

American Singles. Yellow mustard. Day-old

Wonder Bread. Not even Swiss, with its mysterious

holes. We were sparrows and starlings

still learning how the blue jay stole our eggs,

our nest eggs. Sixty-four Singles wrapped in wax—

dig your nails in to separate them.

When I come home, I crave—more than any home

cooking—those thin slices in the fridge. I fold

one in half, drop it in my mouth. My mother

can't understand. Doesn't remember me

being a cheese eater, plain like that.

"American Cheese" by Jim Daniels, from In Line for the Exterminator. © Wayne State University Press, 2007

See Spamwich, below

..................

The Sleepy Man Banjo Boys
sent here by Bob Sellars

PLAY 
http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=GXcRI0BdioE&feature=related

............

Cucumber sandwiches
ala Ruth Hale

Take some good sized cucumbers
peel with one of these:

(or a plain tool, optional)

After peeling, slice cukes in half
and then into quarters;
 cut seeds easily in that form, and discard;

Place in blender (food processor)
the cucumbers, sectioned;
blend to a mash;
put pulp into a cheesecloth 
and squeeze most of the water out;
return cucumber mash to blender;
add about half a medium onion (to taste);
- a few green onions are much better -

add two dollops of mayo (to taste);
sand and pepper (to taste);

re-blend to a nice sandwich spread consistency.

Ideally, use thin white bread with the crusts cut off
to be tea-time proper;
If I don't have that, I use Rosen's rye bread.
Crusts always OK here

We find using green onions and experimenting
with the amount of them is vital to the end result.
(See brother Steve on this.  Also, he says, be sure to get
all the seeds out.  He gets gas, otherwise...)

This is a food that our mother made for us each summer.

Another lunch dish she was in the habit of providing
us boys was Spam sandwiches. 

I had some of those recently.  I think they hark back
to WW II days when Spam was big as an inexpensive meat.
But for an unhealthy but good tasting sandwich,
try one or two of these:

Ingredients:  Spam, onions, tomatoes (Amela-pay's [Pam's] best), Kraft American single-slices

.............

Ruth Hale

- late -

as a great-grandmother

still lookin' good.

...............

Today's Almanac

Myrtle

by John Ashbery

How funny your name would be
if you could follow it back to where
the first person thought of saying it,
naming himself that, or maybe
some other persons thought of it
and named that person. It would
be like following a river to its source,
which would be impossible. Rivers have no source.
They just automatically appear at a place
where they get wider, and soon a real
river comes along, with fish and debris,
regal as you please, and someone
has already given it a name: St. Benno
(saints are popular for this purpose) or, or
some other name, the name of his
long-lost girlfriend, who comes
at long last to impersonate that river,
on a stage, her voice clanking
like its bed, her clothing of sand
and pasted paper, a piece of real technology,
while all along she is thinking, I can
do what I want to do. But I want to stay here.

"Myrtle" by John Ashbery, from Notes from the Air. © Ecco, 2007

 Myrtle Dix with her boys

husband Ray (search him in the SRN),

Roderick Leland (search him in the SRN)

Leslie (search him in the SRN)

Maynard (search him in the SRN)

and Meredith (search him in the SRN)

...

The Mighty Fox

(wants to stay here; ibid)

These eyes; May you grow and bloom forever;.....Firebird

These eyes

play  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sw8nXCx5qgo

.........

Edelweiss

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzqVuieinTg

.........

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TtEzZEe_5kA

..............

The Death of Santa Claus

by Charles Harper Webb

He's had the chest pains for weeks,
but doctors don't make house
calls to the North Pole,

he's let his Blue Cross lapse,
blood tests make him faint,
hospital gown always flap

open, waiting rooms upset
his stomach, and it's only
indigestion anyway, he thinks,

until, feeding the reindeer,
he feels as if a monster fist
has grabbed his heart and won't

stop squeezing. He can't
breathe, and the beautiful white
world he loves goes black,

and he drops on his jelly belly
in the snow and Mrs. Claus
tears out of the toy factory

wailing, and the elves wring
their little hands, and Rudolph's
nose blinks like a sad ambulance

light, and in a tract house
in Houston, Texas, I'm 8,
telling my mom that stupid

kids at school say Santa's a big
fake, and she sits with me
on our purple-flowered couch,

and takes my hand, tears
in her throat, the terrible
news rising in her eyes.

The Death of Santa Claus" by Charles Harper Webb, from Reading the Water. © Northeastern University Press, 1997

(Thanks once again, once again, to Bonnie Camp for introducing me

way back when to the G. Keillor WRITERS ALMANAC)

..............

Andrea Bocelli and friend
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Andrea_Bocelli

Play:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qNXX2scMqCI

.............

From THE SHEPHERD EXPRESS, MILWAUKEE

http://expressmilwaukee.com/mobile/articles/articleView/id:21555

...............

Airship race around the world
May pass over Alaska or Hawaii
Details forthcoming

http://www.ktuu.com/news/alaska-seeks-to-build-support-for-airship-race-ktuu-20130810,0,3187084.story?track=rss

The doctor says he sees a dark mass on the X-ray
Could it be........
a zeppelin?

Trouble in River City US of A?
'Z' and that rhymes with P
and that stands for POOL!


Ya Got Trouble by 
Harold:
Well, either you're closing your eyes 
To a situation you do now wish to acknowledge
Or you are not aware of the caliber of disaster indicated
By the presence of a pool table in your community.
Ya got trouble, my friend, right here, 
I say, trouble right here in River City. 
Why sure I'm a billiard player,
Certainly mighty proud I say 
I'm always mighty proud to say it. 
I consider that the hours I spend 
With a cue in my hand are golden. 
Help you cultivate horse sense
And a cool head and a keen eye. 
Never take and try to give
An iron-clad leave to yourself 
From a three-reail billiard shot?
But just as I say, 
It takes judgement, brains, and maturity to score
In a balkline game, 
I say that any boob kin take
And shove a ball in a pocket. 
And they call that sloth. 
The first big step on the road
To the depths of deg-ra-Day--
I say, first, medicinal wine from a teaspoon,
Then beer from a bottle. 
An' the next thing ya know, 
Your son is playin' for money
In a pinch-back suit. 
And list'nin to some big out-a-town Jasper
Hearin' him tell about horse-race gamblin'. 
Not a wholesome trottin' race, no!
But a race where they set down right on the horse! 
Like to see some stuck-up jockey'boy 
Sittin' on Dan Patch? Make your blood boil? 
Well, I should say. 
Friends, lemme tell you what I mean.
Ya got one, two, three, four, five, six pockets in a table. 
Pockets that mark the diff'rence
Between a gentlemen and a bum, 
With a capital "B," 
And that rhymes with "P" and that stands for pool! 
And all week long your River City
Youth'll be frittern away, 
I say your young men'll be frittern!
Frittern away their noontime, suppertime, choretime too!
Get the ball in the pocket,
Never mind gittin' Dandelions pulled
Or the screen door patched or the beefsteak pounded.
Never mind pumpin' any water 
'Til your parents are caught with the Cistern empty
On a Saturday night and that's trouble,
Oh, yes we got lots and lots a' trouble.
I'm thinkin' of the kids in the knickerbockers, 
Shirt-tail young ones, peekin' in the pool 
Hall window after school, look, folks! 
Right here in River City. 
Trouble with a capital "T"
And that rhymes with "P" and that stands for pool!
Now, I know all you folks are the right kinda parents. 
I'm gonna be perfectly frank.
Would ya like to know what kinda conversation goes
On while they're loafin' around that Hall? 
They're tryin' out Bevo, tryin' out cubebs,
Tryin' out Tailor Mades like Cigarette Feends!
And braggin' all about
How they're gonna cover up a tell-tale breath with Sen-Sen.
One fine night, they leave the pool hall,
Headin' for the dance at the Arm'ry!
Libertine men and Scarlet women! 
And Rag-time, shameless music
That'll grab your son and your daughter
With the arms of a jungle animal instink!
Mass-staria!
Friends, the idle brain is the devil's playground!

People:
Trouble, oh we got trouble, 
Right here in River City! 
With a capital "T" 
That rhymes with "P"
And that stands for Pool,
That stands for pool.
We've surely got trouble!
Right here in River City, 
Right here!
Gotta figger out a way
To keep the young ones moral after school!
Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...

Harold:
Mothers of River City!
Heed the warning before it's too late!
Watch for the tell-tale sign of corruption!
The moment your son leaves the house,
Does he rebuckle his knickerbockers below the knee? 
Is there a nicotine stain on his index finger?
A dime novel hidden in the corn crib?
Is he starting to memorize jokes from Capt.
Billy's Whiz Bang?
Are certain words creeping into his conversation?
Words like 'swell?"
And 'so's your old man?" 
Well, if so my friends,
Ya got trouble,
Right here in River city!
With a capital "T"
And that rhymes with "P"
And that stands for Pool.
We've surely got trouble!
Right here in River City!
Remember the Maine, Plymouth Rock and the Golden Rule!
Oh, we've got trouble. 
We're in terrible, terrible trouble. 
That game with the fifteen numbered balls is a devil's tool! 
Oh yes we got trouble, trouble, trouble!
With a "T"! Gotta rhyme it with "P"! 
And that stands for Pool!!!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LI_Oe-jtgdI

.............

'Z' and that rhymes with T

and that stands for pool

http://raccoonnews.blogspot.com/2007/12/zep-origin-of.html

.................

LIFE-GIVING

Morning pills on the day

Of my daughter’s 53^rd birthday

Rest on a crumby napkin

But not just any crumbs

Were they today.  And never are.

They were crumbs of home-made

Granola pancakes served

By a wife not this daughter’s mother

With blackberry sauce

From Mike and Bonnie Camp’s patch.

Then Dee ate her own pancakes

Scrumptiously;

then she asked if I’d taken my pills.

I plopped them on the crumbed napkin

In a rainbow array; all was good.

DZD 8-13-13 @ de septics

........

Igor Stravinsky 
directs his own Firebird Suite
at age 82, in 1965

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2geXJ5Oiq60

Baton-less
he urges emphases
with only his turned wrists
and the knowing musicians respond.
He is read like a favorite book.

When, at 26 minutes and 34 seconds in,
Stravinsky points at his French hornman
to begin the concluding phrases
it is ecstasy for the listener.

^.^

If this were to be the last entry
in a Sewer Raccoon News
it would be alright.