Happy President's Day!

 

Small Kindnesses

 Some days we need to be reminded -

Small Kindnesses

I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk
down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs
to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you”
when someone sneezes, a leftover
from the bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying…
Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.
We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,
and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile
at them and for them to smile back…
We have so little of each other, now. So far
from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange.
What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these
fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here,
have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”

              - - -  Danusha Laméris

Paris Bound. Soon!! (edited)

A few weeks from now I will be in Paris.

Those of you who know me know I'm a lover of Paris.  I cannot get enough of Paris.

Paris and Meat Camp, NC are the places I love best in the world.  The places I get homesick for.  And, of course, they could not be any more different.  

But both are beautiful.

This trip to Paris is a girl's trip.  No husbands allowed.

No Donald and Annabelle.  No Brent and Roxie.

 

With long time gal pal, sister of my heart, partner in crime, Vickie.  

Vickie and I will be spending 10 days doing what we've decided will be a different sort of Paris trip.

We've decided to stay in a part of Paris neither of us have stayed previously.

The Latin Quarter.  

In a hotel with our very own balcony overlooking the Pantheon.

Squeeeeeee!

My first trip to Paris was also a girl's trip.  With Vickie and Lesa and Lisa.

It was wonderful, of course.  We did "all the things."

All the things you should do - The Eiffel Tower, a Seine River Cruise, museums, famous gardens, etc.

I loved it so much I went back a year later with Donald.  And, of course, we did "all the things."

And then Donald and I went back the following year to do a little more than "all the things,"  which included searching out carousels, which had to include visiting the Musée des Arts Forains, which just might be THE MOST fun museum you'll find in Paris (or maybe anywhere).

 

All of which resulted in our book, CAROUSELS OF PARIS.  

One of my heroes, Dorie Greenspan, had this to say:  "Carousels are an unexpected pleasure in Paris, a sight you come upon on a random stroll, see in a small park you hadn’t visited before or find in a plaza strung with holiday lights. Some are permanent, some ephemeral, all magical. Merci to Kaye Barley for creating this book and giving us all the chance to be charmed by these Parisian delights daily.”

—Dorie Greenspan, James Beard Award-Winning Author

Donald and I have been back often enough that we've broadened our exploring to include much more than " all the things, " including French villages well beyond Paris.

Honfleur

So.

This trip we will do some of the things simply depending on what feels right on that particular day.

There are, of course, a few things that we have on our "must do" list.  

Some of these are - 

A Saturday at a large flea market, probably Puces de Vanves which is not as large as Puces de Saint-Ouen, but every bit as fun and rewarding without being confusing and exhausting.  But.  We'll see.  We may decide that morning that we really need to go to Puces de Saint-Ouen.  Who knows.

A day exploring the covered passages.

Bookstores, galleries, art supply shops and needlework shops.

Shopping at nearby outdoor street markets for goodies to have for apéro on our hotel balcony overlooking the Pantheon.  

Vintage clothing shopping.

And so much more . . . 

Me and Vic

Paris

2017

Horizon (to Tristan Tzara) by Philippe Soupault

The whole town has come into my room
the trees have disappeared
and evening clings to my fingers
The houses are turning into ocean liners
the sound of the sea has just reached me up here
In two days we’ll arrive in the Congo
I’ve passed the Equator and the Tropic of Capricorn
I know there are innumerable hills
Notre-Dame hides the Gaurisankar and the northern lights
night falls drop by drop
I await the hours

Give me that lemonade and the last cigarette
I’m going back to Paris

(translated by Rosmarie Waldrop)

Latest book recommendation

 

As a person trying to stay sane in a world gone crazy, i escape into books.

Not every book works.

And just because I start reading a particular book does not mean I'm going to finish it.

Life's just too short to waste time reading a book that does not speak to me.

RED CLAY by Charles B. Fancher hit all the right notes.

There’s nothing I love more than a saga. There just aren’t that many being written these days.

RED CLAY by Charles B. Fancher Description from Amazon

An astounding multigenerational saga, Red Clay chronicles the interwoven lives of an enslaved Black family and their white owners as the Civil War ends and Reconstruction begins.

In 1943, when a frail old white woman shows up in Red Clay, Alabama, at the home of a Black former slave—on the morning following his funeral—his family hardly knows what to expect after she utters the words “… a lifetime ago, my family owned yours.” Adelaide Parker has a story to tell—one of ambition, betrayal, violence, and redemption—that shaped both the fate of her family and that of the late Felix H. Parker.

But there are gaps in her knowledge, and she’s come to Red Clay seeking answers from a family with whom she shares a name and a history that neither knows in full. In an epic saga that takes us from Red Clay to Paris, to the Côte d’Azur and New Orleans, human frailties are pushed to their limits as secrets are exposed and the line between good and evil becomes ever more difficult to discern. Red Clay is a tale that deftly lays bare the ugliness of slavery, the uncertainty of the final months of the Civil War, the optimism of Reconstruction, and the pain and frustration of Jim Crow.

With a vivid sense of place and a cast of memorable characters, Charles B. Fancher draws upon his own family history to weave a riveting tale of triumph over adversity, set against a backdrop of societal change and racial animus that reverberates in contemporary America. Through seasons of joy and unspeakable pain, Fancher delivers rich moments as allies become enemies, and enemies—to their great surprise—find new respect for each other.

Aloka and The Monks vs. The Monster (edited)

The past several weeks have brought emotions that have kept us on a roller coaster like none we've endured in the past.

On one hand, we have this ridiculously demented corrupt evil man living in our White House, wreaking everything he touches or breathes on.  And, for all intents and purposes - nothing much getting done by a spineless and/or compromised congress to remove him.  

On the other hand, we've been privileged to follow a group of Buddhist monks led by the Venerable Bhikkhu Pannakara accompanied by their rescue dog, Aloka. 

Their walk from Fort Worth, Texas to D.C. has been to promote peace, compassion, and mindfulness across the United States.

I have cried because of both.

For one - The Monster - because he angers me, and he frightens me.  

For the other - The Peaceful Ones - because they fill my heart with their goodness.  And maybe some hope.

Aloka, The Peace Dog, has stolen hearts and brought joy to thousands of us.

Amazing, isn't it, how easily we trust and are made to feel safe by one of these, and so terrified and terrorized by the other?

A day for poetry

 

Winter is the best time

to find out who you are.

Quiet, contemplation time,

away from the rushing world,

cold time, dark time, holed-up

pulled-in time and space

to see that inner landscape,

that place hidden and within.

- - - by David Budbill

Photo by Parisian Moments 

Loving Hugo Marston

In case you think I've stopped reading in order to rant and rave against fat ugly hateful evil men in corrupt government positions, you'd be wrong.

In between rants, raves, letter writing and phone calls to members of congress, there's always time for a good book.  

A girl makes time to do what needs to be done AND what she wants to do.  Otherwise, its just making excuses.

So.

Here's my latest - 

I have had a huge crush on Hugo Marston since Mark Pryor introduced him in THE BOOKSELLER in 2012.

I'm a fan of Mr. Pryor's work and have enjoyed everything he's written, but as far as fictional boyfriends go, Hugo owns my heart.  And he's back!  Yay!  

Thanks to NetGalley, I was able to enjoy the first in this new series and it was worth the wait.

Description from NetGalley.com

Hugo Marston, former head of security at the U.S. embassy in Paris, has retired and is ready to realize his lifelong dream of owning a mystery and antiquarian bookshop. But when a blackmail scheme targeting a chocolatier leads to murder, Hugo is again called to investigate in the first Paris Bookshop Mystery for readers of Charles Finch, Tasha Alexander, and Lev AC Rosen.

Hugo has led an exciting life as an FBI profiler and the US embassy’s head of security, but now he’s ready to embrace a quieter existence as a bookseller in the Marais district of Paris. His former employer, however, has other plans for him. A prominent American citizen is the COO of a boutique chocolate emporium in Paris, where they’ve received a mysterious and threatening note. A blackmailer who goes by the name The Shadow wants half a million euros or else their “darkest secret will be revealed.”

Eclat de Chocolat is housed in a chateau dating back to the 1700s. The building, which served as a convent in the first half of the twentieth century, where the angelic Sister Evangeline and her order of nuns helped countless orphans during World War II, has been beautifully converted into a chocolate factory. So what dark secrets could a chocolatier be hiding? The COO has no idea.

Involving his friend, Lieutenant Camille Lerens, Hugo begins to investigate. But soon a second note appears on the premises, canceling the blackmail threat. The same day, the body of an employee is found in an old graveyard behind the chocolatier. Now Hugo and Lerens have a murder on their hands, but is it connected to the blackmail attempt? As they dig for secrets and motives, it becomes clear The Shadow’s grave work has just begun . . .

Snow Day

Use the good china," she said,

 "Use the good china,"

she said,

as I set out the

teapot,

the cups and saucers,

the sugar bowl

(with those wonderful cubes

of Demerara piled high),

the milk, and the lemon

off to one side,

with a plate to pinwheel cookies,

their sides glinting

with that extra crunch.

It was just

the two of us,

sitting on this gloomy

day,

the fog hiding

the next-door neighbour's

porch light

and the ball of

the afternoon sun.

"Use the good china,"

she repeated,

"this is the perfect occasion!"

"Occasion," I repeated,

the question in my tone,

and my slightly furrowed

eyebrows.

"The world continues to spin.

The sun rose,

and the night sky will

come again...

and, in between,

we will have a million chances

to change the world

for the better.

Isn't that an occasion

to be celebrated,

today

and every day?

Use the good china, lad."

And we picked up our cups,

(the ones you can see the light through),

and marveled at the beauty

we held in our hands,

as we sipped and supped.

And, refreshed,

we made our way into the gloom,

the murk and the haze,

to see what we could do,

if we shone just a bit of light,

and a whole lot of love,

a moment of joy

on our lips,

and in our hearts.

Use the good china, friends.

           - - - Richard Bott

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said . . .

So here's my choices for today -

A little song

A good poem

A fine picture

A few reasonable words

It's fair to say these things can change often

❤ ❤ ❤

Home. Snow. ❤ Photos and Poetry (EDITED)

Edited - twice.

Our little area of the world was not as badly hit as predicted, and not as badly impacted as others.  

Roads are bad, as expected.  Lots of businesses closed.

Surprisingly however, we did not lose power.

That said, because we're warm, have food and water, and we don't have to leave the house, I don't have one single thing to complain about.  As unpopular as this will sound to some people, I am enjoying looking out our windows at the beauty of these snow covered mountains.

So.  Back to my coffee, my book, my doll and my pins.

Stay safe, everyone!

I love this picture.  It's Elk Knob as seen from our bedroom window taken many years ago.  Since then, the trees between our house and this view have grown, hiding the magic of witnessing the sun rising over this snow capped peak.
I miss it. 

These two photos were taken by a neighbor and are from our neighborhood.

-  -  -  -  -

So.

We have snow, ice, sleet and all that winter storm stuff in the forecast.

Chances of us losing our power are "very high" to "pretty darn sure."

https://www.nytimes.com/live/2026/01/23/weather/winter-storm-snow?unlocked_article_code=1.GlA.JfvX.DtSV3yZNZJNN&smid=url-share

I've collected a few snow pics we've taken from previous years, along with with snow poetry.

Enjoy!

SNOW AND SNOW

by Ted Hughes 

Snow is sometimes a she, a soft one.
Her kiss on your cheek, her finger on your sleeve
In early December, on a warm evening,
And you turn to meet her, saying "It''s snowing!"
But it is not. And nobody''s there.
Empty and calm is the air.

Sometimes the snow is a he, a sly one.
Weakly he signs the dry stone with a damp spot.
Waifish he floats and touches the pond and is not.
Treacherous-beggarly he falters, and taps at the window.
A little longer he clings to the grass-blade tip
Getting his grip.

Then how she leans, how furry foxwrap she nestles
The sky with her warm, and the earth with her softness.
How her lit crowding fairylands sink through the space-silence
To build her palace, till it twinkles in starlight—
Too frail for a foot
Or a crumb of soot.

Then how his muffled armies move in all night
And we wake and every road is blockaded
Every hill taken and every farm occupied
And the white glare of his tents is on the ceiling.
And all that dull blue day and on into the gloaming
We have to watch more coming.

Then everything in the rubbish-heaped world
Is a bridesmaid at her miracle.
Dunghills and crumbly dark old barns are bowed in the chapel of her sparkle.
The gruesome boggy cellars of the wood
Are a wedding of lace
Now taking place.

First Snow by Mary Oliver

The snow
began here
this morning and all day
continued, its white
rhetoric everywhere
calling us back to why, how,
whence such beauty and what
the meaning; such
an oracular fever! flowing
past windows, an energy it seemed
would never ebb, never settle
less than lovely! and only now,
deep into night,
it has finally ended.
The silence
is immense,
and the heavens still hold
a million candles, nowhere
the familiar things:
stars, the moon,
the darkness we expect
and nightly turn from. Trees
glitter like castles
of ribbons, the broad fields
smolder with light, a passing
creekbed lies
heaped with shining hills;
and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain — not a single
answer has been found –
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one.

“My Old Aunts Played Canasta in a Snowstorm” by Marjorie Saiser 

I ride along in the backseat; the aunt who can drive

picks up each sister at her door, keeps the Pontiac

chugging in each driveway while one or the other

slips into her overshoes and steps out,

closing her door with a click, the wind

lifting the fringe of her white cotton scarf

as she comes down the sidewalk, still pulling on her

new polyester Christmas-stocking mittens.

We have no business to be out in such a storm,

she says, no business at all.

The wind takes her voice and swirls it

like snow across the windshield.

We’re on to the next house, the next aunt,

the heater blowing to beat the band.

At the last house, we play canasta,

the deuces wild even as they were in childhood,

the wind blowing through the empty apple trees,

through the shadows of bumper crops. The cards

line up under my aunts’ finger bones; eights and nines and aces

straggle and fall into place like well-behaved children.

My aunts shuffle and meld; they laugh like banshees,

as they did in that other kitchen in the 30’s that

day Margaret draped a dishtowel over her face

to answer the door. We put her up to it, they say,

laughing; we pushed her. The man—whoever he was—

drove off in a huff while they laughed ’til they hiccupped,

laughing still—I’m one of the girls laughing him down the sidewalk

and into his car, we’re rascals sure as farmyard dogs,

we’re wild card-players; the snow thickens,

the coffee boils and perks, the wind is a red trey

because, as one or the other says,

We are getting up there in the years; we’ll

have to quit sometime. But today,

today,

deal, sister, deal.

Snowy Night by Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed an indeterminate number

of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.

I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –

it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,

so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more

than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried

over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out

my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,

whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless

“Winter Grace” by Patricia Fargnoli 

If you have seen the snow
under the lamppost
piled up like a white beaver hat on the picnic table
or somewhere slowly falling
into the brook
to be swallowed by water,
then you have seen beauty
and know it for its transience.
And if you have gone out in the snow
for only the pleasure
of walking barely protected
from the galaxies,
the flakes settling on your parka
like the dust from just-born stars,
the cold waking you
as if from long sleeping,
then you can understand
how, more often than not,
truth is found in silence,
how the natural world comes to you
if you go out to meet it,
its icy ditches filled with dead weeds,
its vacant birdhouses, and dens
full of the sleeping.
But this is the slowed down season
held fast by darkness
and if no one comes to keep you company
then keep watch over your own solitude.
In that stillness, you will learn
with your whole body
the significance of cold
and the night,
which is otherwise always eluding you.

SNOW DAY 

by Billie Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,

its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows

the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.

In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.

But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news

that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children's School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with - some will be delighted to hear -

the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and - clap your hands - the Peanuts Play School.

So this is where the children hide all day,
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.

And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

Harley was such a good boy ❤
And loved the snow

Loving the snow must be a Corgi thing.

Annabelle loves it too

And chewing on sticks

Annabelle has a real thing for sticks

Always has

The Silence of the Snow by Ruth D. Velenski

The night sky is a dull grey white.
An opaque dust sheet floats so light
Upon the roofs and lamps and cars.
It settles so softly like falling stars.

It sneaks in crevices and onto window sills.
Piles up in soft layers over roads and hills,
Weighs down branches, envelopes bark,
Skips and flutters across the depth of dark.

With dawn a scene of raw meringue.
From bough and bridge and roof does hang.
Through night's deep slumber - a silent world
Descended - a ghostly shroud unfurled.

In slow motion, life begins to show.
The traffic crawls in a funereal row.
Children squeal in soundless delight.
Pedestrians slide in voiceless fright.

A world transformed into monochrome,
An aerosol sky spraying its white foam,
Floating in breathless, boundless speed,
Submerging all with voracious greed.

Source: Peter Pauper

And - don't forget!

If you lose power, you can play with your dolls!

Stay as warm as you can, my friends

And

As safe as you can!

❤ 💗 💖 ❤