Scrambled Eggs

My grandmother’s scrambled eggs

were different than my mother’s

a darker yellow

a more dehydrated yellow

an earthier taste from the pan

handed down by her mother

with the eggs containing

flecks of whatever had been

in the pan, previously, usually

bacon, or hashed browns,

and far too much pepper.

This is another in a series of poems about growing up in the South, suggested by my friend Nancy Rosback. I'm still trying to figure out how I can remember the taste of those eggs more than 50 years later.

This poem will also be submitted for Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. The links will be live at 2 p.n. Central time today.

Boris Johnson's "Life of London"

We don’t have elected officials like Boris Johnson in the United States.

The American-born Johnson is mayor of London, a former member of Parliament, a former journalist and editor, and an author. And in “Johnson’s Life of London” he has utilized all of those experiences and more to create to tell the history of London through the stories of the key figures who helped make the city.

Johnson’s Life of London: The People Who Made the City That Made the World is a delightfully insightful and entertaining work. And, yes, the title is a play on James Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson.

Johnson presents a series of 17 vignettes that accomplish two things: tell London’s story and make his case for London having likely influenced the modern world more than any other city. For the English language alone, it’s hard to argue against him.

Some of Johnson’s historical Londoners are familiar – William the Conqueror, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Winston Churchill, Samuel Johnson and Florence Nightingale. Others were once better known but are somewhat forgotten (at least by Americans) – Richard Whittington, John Wilkes. Lionel Rothschild, W.T. Stead. But all of them have been important to the history of London, and by extension, to the history of the world.

Fifteen hundred years before the London blitz of World War II, Queen Boudica conducted her own blitz of the city, leaving behind tens of thousands of dead and ash that’s almost 18 inches thick. The Roman emperor Hadrian made London the capital of Roman Britain. William the Conqueror built the Tower of London, the symbol to the Anglo-Saxons that they were going to stay defeated. We know about Chaucer and Shakespeare, but we learn the scientist Robert Hooke designed the plan for London after the great fire of 1666. And John Wilkes not only gave birth to the ideas of one man – one vote, he challenge of the tyrannical doings of King George III was an inspiration to the colonists in America; Johnson calls him “the father of liberty.” J.M.W. Turner created Impressionism decades before Renoir, Cezanne and Van Gogh.

Each mini-biography sets the individual in the context of his or her time, because it is in the context that the reader sees Johnson make his case for London. And each story presents its character with all the warts – for example, the chapter on Churchill is one of the most realistic I’ve read on the man, and it does not diminish his well-earned reputation in the least.

Johnson sprinkles side stories and vignettes throughout the volume, proving looks into the King James Bible, the flush toilet, the Bow Street Runners, the origin of the men’s suit, the bicycle (perfected if not invented in London), sports, the sewer system, and the Tube, among others.

“Johnson’s Life of London” is a gem of a work – well-written, impressive for its understated command of history, and comprehensive in its coverage of London’s history. The mayor has served his city well here.

Saturday Nights

No central air, so we’d sit

in the one air-conditioned

room and watch Lawrence Welk

on summer Saturday nights:

aunt, uncle, grandmother, me.

We’d watch in silence until

the uncle would bark

Ignorant! at the screen and

throw his shoe. It was usually

the Lennon Sisters who sparked

the outrage; no harm was done: 

the shoe never hit the screen,

and the Lennon Sisters never knew.

This is another in the series of poems about growing up in the South, suggested by Nancy Rosback. Like all the poems in the series, it is true.

Saturday Good Reads

Talking to a grandmother and finding a map. The gift of a good dad. A photograph of a boxcar. Playing a piano like a waterfall. The story of a cellist who made music in the midst of chaos. A poem about natural instincts, and a poem about secrets. Good stuff was all over the internet this week.

Prose

“Dazzled by Lewis. Finding Peace Beyond the Anxiety of Influence” and “As birds sing because they must even so I write” by Anita Mathias at Dreaming Beneath the Spires.

“Demystifying Graduation Correspondence” and “Being special” by Kathy Richards at Katdish.

“The Shadow of Your Wings” by Jeanne Damoff at The View From Here.

“Life’s Soundtrack” by Billy Coffey at What I Learned Today.

“Shaking My Head in Wonder” by Jody Lee Collins at Three Way Light.

“Coming Back Early to See My Grandma and Finding a Map” and “Atomic Fireballs, Father’s Day, and a Church Door Always Locked” by Shawn Smucker.

“Another Look: Making Music in the Midst of Chaos” by Chaplain Mike at Internet Monk.

“Accessing Infinite Creativity” by Jason Stasyszen for Soulfari.

“Lie to us, too, please” by Perry Block at Nouveau Old, Formerly Cute.

“Field of Dreams” by Travis Thrasher at The Journey is Everything.

“They Want Our Symptoms But Not Our Stories” by Marilyn Gard at Communicating Across Boundaries.

“Graceful Summer: A Day of Small Things” by Michelle DeRusha at Graceful.

“The Gift of a Good Dad” by Diana Trautwein at Just Wondering.

Poetry

“Remnants” and “In gratitude” by Brian Miller at WayStationOne.

“Secrets” by Chris Yokel.

“Natural Instincts (Found Poem)” by Maureen Doallas at Writing Without Paper.

“The Hive Jive” by Chris Galford at The Waking Den.

“Mary Oliver: I am breathing” by Louise Gallagher at Recover Your Joy.

“Bleeding” by B.K. McKenzie at Signed…BKM.

“15” by Nancy Rosback at A Little Somethin’.

“Diary of An Old Soul (George MacDonald)” by Michael at Longing’s End.

Paintings and Photographs

“Eastern Oregon Study,” watermedia on Yupo by Randall David Tipton at A Painter’s Process.

“Outside My Office” by Tim Good at Good Photography.

“Box Car” by Steve Gravano at Take a Look Around.

“Color-Full” by Susan Etole at Just…A Moment.

Videos

“Waterfall” by Jon Schmidt of The Piano Guys.

Photograph: Washington, D.C. Metro by David Fettig via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

My Uncle and the Neighbor's Cats

On back porch steps facing

the garden and an open field,

I’d sit next to him,

a lanky compilation of gruffness

and garrulousness, saying little

because you weren’t supposed to,

this was serious business, waiting

for the neighbor’s cats to jump

the fence. He was so fast and his aim

so sure that the rifle would catch

the cat in mid-leap before I knew

he’d pressed the trigger.

The neighbor, his son’s in-laws,

had lots of cats. My uncle, like

Robert Frost, believed in fences.

He didn’t believe in cats.

This is another poem in the series begun this week on growing up in the South, Suggested by Nancy Rosback at A Little Somethin’. Although she probably didn’t envision a poem quite like this one, which is entirely true.

Photograph: Cat Behind the Fence by Jiri Hodan via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.

Time just ran out today

Time got away from me today, and I missed my blog post on Chapter 3 of The Hidden Life of Prayer by David McIntyre. The discussion is being hosted by Tim Challies over at Informing the Reforming. The chapter is about the direction of the mind during prayer, and it’s a good one – realizing the presence of God, being honest in prayer, and faith in prayer. I wish I had had time to write about it.

The week started with good news – the doctor’s office called with test results we’d been waiting for, and everything was OK. I haven’t said much about this except to family, but for a few weeks the possibility of surgery was there. But the tests came back negative.

Things have been busy at work and at home (things are always busy at work). Mornings and evenings at home have been revolving around watering plants – a bunch of new plants were put in, the weather’s been dry, and so we’re running around with sprinklers and soaker hoses.

When I’m not watering (my wife does it, too) (she would want me to mention that), I’ve been focused on the writing. The manuscript for A Light Shining went to the editor and publisher Monday night. Getting it into final shape has been a rather intense experience, but it’s done.

This morning, I started working with a personal trainer – and we’ve scheduled out the next five weeks, twice a week, for “strengthening the core.” This is part of my recovery from my back problems, which started almost exactly one year ago on the Saturday before Father’s Day. I finished with physical therapy in early April. The trainer comes from the same school of thought as my physical therapist – and that’s the School of Sadism. Every part of my body feels sore right now.

I was able to get a bike ride in last night, and once again saw Mr. Beaver. The beavers are new. I’ve seen deer (almost crashed with one once), wild turkeys, the usual rabbits and birds, and once even an eight-foot-long black snake stretching the entire width of the two-lane trail I was riding. But the beavers are new this year. This one was right next to the pavement of the trail, gnawing contentedly away on a plant. Fortunately, he ignored me.

I hope to be back to regular posting tomorrow. But please do check out Tim’s discussion on The Hidden Life of Prayer.

Annie Dillard, Poet

I think of Annie Dillard, and I think of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, her 1974 work on nature and life that won the Pulitzer Prize for non-fiction when the author was 29. Or I think of An American Childhood (1987). Or The Writing Life (1989). Or even Holy the Firm (1977), a book Frederick Beuchner loved. In her writing, Dillard spoke for a generation, and beyond.

What I don’t think of is Tickets for a Prayer Wheel: Poems, published in 1974 but largely overshadowed by Pilgrim. It was republished in 1988, and then again in 2002. Other than those by famous poets, few poetry books continue to be published over a three-decade period. But then, this one is by Annie Dillard.

To continue reading, please see my post today at The Master’s Artist.