New Yorker Stories Podcast

Yesterday listening to Louise Erdrich read Lorrie Moore's "Dance in America," a New Yorker short story podcast, on my mp3 player, added a new dimension to my daily walk. The New Yorker website has a wealth of stories. I chose one to downloaded and put it onto the mp3 player. I thought the story was lost but then found it listed as music. Today I deleted that story and added a James Thurber story and lined up a couple more for future walks. It's a beautiful walk up and back my road, one I've enjoyed over and over, often with music playing. I look forward to more stories now from The New Yorker.

Stand Still Parade; Potato-Planting

Who ever heard of a stand still parade? The tiny town of Whalan MN held its Annual Stand Still Parade this morning. The parade-goers walk around the floats, cars, and various other parade items lined up on the town's two-block long main street. Along the adjacent bike trail, the local Lutheran Church members, sponsors of the event, and friends sell Norwegian favorites like lefse, rommegrat, and fruit soup, along with traditional lunch and desserts. Today at the microphone were Irish singers and other musical groups, interspersed with Ole and Lena jokes. The parade itself lasts just an hour, while other activities like the petting zoo, craft demonstrations, horse-driven cart rides, and music continue much of the day. This morning the weather was perfect for browsing the tables of crafts, plants, and other local interests. I bought handmade greeting cards from a woman who weekends in Whalan. Habitat for Humanity raffled a playhouse to raise funds for a house project in nearby Rushford. Actors from the Commonweal Theatre sold show posters. Several antique cars were on display, allowing many parade-goers to reminisce about the good old cheap-gas days. The Stand Still Parade is a unique and casual small-town festival with a big turnout. On the way home, I drove through the park at nearby Lanesboro and listened in to some old-time musicians from the Bluff Country Gathering.
I've waited for weeks for the perfect potato-planting day. Yesterday I set out stakes in the vegetable garden, and this afternoon I planted potatoes (more than last year, even), pole beans, and cucumbers. Ah! Garden time again.

May Project: Socks on Circular Needles

I finished a felted bag and also a pair of soft green socks in Austermann Step yarn with aloe vera. My present challenge is knitting socks on 2 circular needles. I read the Cat Bordhi book, practiced, and cast on with some brightly colored Regia Cotton yarn -- but frogged after 4". Boo hoo. The sock would be too big. I gave myself a little while to get over the disappointment, and cast on again this morning. Using English, rather than Continental style, my knitting's much tighter.
Why bother? I love the challenge, the beautiful yarns, and the finished socks. Now that it's garden season, I don't wear my knit socks all the time, but almost.
Wish me luck!

"So Much Depends" upon Poetry Month & April

Marianne Moore writes about poetry, "I too dislike it. . . ." Archibald MacLeash concludes, "A poem should not mean/ but be." These two poets' thoughts confuse me, yet they make me continue reading poetry, these mostly short word-images. Here's one of the first poems that baffles and intrigues people young and old. Remember it from high school?

The Red Wheelbarrow
by William Carlos Williams

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Back to Snow

Spring surprised me this morning with snow on the ground . . . just as I was starting to think it was garden time. I had a relaxing weekend felting workshops taught by Shawn Glidden and Elise Kyllo on a beautiful nearby farm. When I left Sunday afternoon, hostess Donna was felting a rug outside, made with wool from sheep she raised. Colorful wool, good conversations and music, and delicious food added to the memorable days.
When I came home, I helped stack wood we split through March and April, kitchen-cookstove wood for year after next.
Just two more days to celebrate Poetry Month:
The First Spring Day by Christina Rossetti
I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
Sing, robin, sing;
I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.
I wonder if the springtide of this year
Will bring another Spring both lost and dear;
If heart and spirit will find out their Spring,
Or if the world alone will bud and sing:
Sing, hope, to me;
Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.
The sap will surely quicken soon or late,
The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;
So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom,
Or in this world, or in the world to come:
Sing, voice of Spring,
Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.

Garden Time Again

SE Minnesota is finally warming up. Last week, on one of the first beautiful spring afternoons here, we shoveled a load of manure onto the garden, B. tilled it in, and I started planting. Just 2 rows of onions so far, with a row of lettuce mix in between. Though I'm eager to plant more, it's still a bit early. I'm pleased that two alpine pansies already blossomed in a protected spot near the drive. More soon . . . .
Inside, one pink bloom has almost opened on one of the 6 geranium plants I potted in March. Last fall I shook the dirt away from their roots and stripped off most of the leaves. The plants were stored in paper bags in my unheated basement all winter. Most survived. Next I'll divide some of the lankier ones into two plants each.
Sunday we hosed down the screen house, bleached and scrubbed the floor, and washed the chairs. Ready for summer!
No blossoms on the shamrock plants, but the leaves look healthy.

Just as I wonder / whether it's going to die, / the orchid blossoms // and I can't explain why it / moves my heart...

From The Orchid Flower
by Sam Hamill

Poem in Your Pocket Day

It may not look like one, but here's a poem I found at Poets.org.
Language
by W. S. Merwin

Certain words now in our knowledge we will not use again, and we will never forget them. We need them. Like the back of the picture. Like our marrow, and the color in our veins. We shine the lantern of our sleep on them, to make sure, and there they are, trembling already for the day of witness. They will be buried with us, and rise with the rest.

From The Book of Fables by W.S. Merwin. Copyright © 2007 by W.S. Merwin. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press.