The Clock Turns Round

Seems I oughtta have something to say about
having to buy a new calendar for 2012 or
about September 2012 or about "The olde year
now her wing has spread, the new year it is
enter-ed .. .. .." or something profound or
even earthy, but I don't.


I say, it goes like this:
"A new day breaks for me each time the clock
   turns round."
"Not so!" Says science, nature, math, and God
   perhaps."
"There is nothing new. The same day's been
there at its proper trade. You spin away and
then spin back."

Profoundity's too tough for the likes of me
   to tussle with, but I will hollow tooth like
   worry it from time to time whenever it's
   spun back to me or I to it!

I really think that we do not have to have all
this brouhaha about flipping a calendar page to
a new day; I think that we might instead celebrate
each new day or moment with silent grace and awe,
and yes ~ Joy.

Deer Apple Picking

A week or so ago a friend said she was going to help her grandfather, a man of 75, with deer apple picking in his small orchard. She told me this because I had invited her for tea, and it is the reason she could not come. Instead I went to her grandfather’s orchard with her partly because I now had the time free and partly because I had never heard of deer apple picking. I was raised in dairy farm country.

For two and a half hours, we scrambled around under lovely apple trees picking apples off the ground, putting them into five gallon buckets and dumping two buckets full into one bushel basket which her grandfather would sell to people at $5.00 a bushel. There are approximately 50 pounds of apples in a bushel.

I loved the smell of the rich fruit and the sound the apples made hitting the bottom of the bucket; it was a clear thump until the bottom was covered then the sound was softer. When the bucket was nearly full the bigger apples would off to the ground. I tossed those spunky apples directly into the bushel basket.

My friend told me that people would come to their farm and orchard and buy several bushels of apples to feed the roaming deer and to protect their greenery from hungry deer in the deep winter months to come, and some people just like to feed the deer and other fruit eating animals.

During that two and a half hours, we’d stop and rest and chat and drink water or juice. It was chilly and damp, but not all that bad. The two and a half hours went very quickly. During one of our brief chats, grandfather told me that any apple that touched the ground was not allowed to be sold for human consumption. I thought that was odd because when I was a kid all the apples we ate were ones we picked up off the ground and many of the apples I picked up for the deer seemed perfectly fine to me.

Afterwards, we went to her grandfather’s farm for sandwiches and coffee on the porch. We weren’t allowed inside because we had mud on our shoes and clothes.  There was a mud room off the porch where we could wash, up but since I had no change of clothes, I could not get clean enough to be allowed inside the house. The coffee was hot and rich and dark and the sandwiches were hot and served on warm crusty bread.

I had had a wonderful morning and when I got home a long hot shower was a treat. I was tired but felt satisfied and fulfilled somehow with the labor and my small contribution to my friend’s family life and the survival of deer over coming winter.

The morning was so intrinsically satisfying that when a week later I saw an ad in one of the local free weeklies calling for Deer Apple Pickers for day labor and payment of a $1 a bag, I called and arranged to go. The man, Gary, said he would pick me up, ‘along with the others,’ in his red pick up at 7:30 AM and named a corner to meet. He stated that the work day was 8 AM to 4 PM. Payment would be in cash at 4 PM. I said that I would be there.

I began having thoughts and memories about when I was the lead DUI Therapist in Boulder, Colorado, working with men (mostly) who were paroled from jail, unemployed, and mandated for community service, education classes, and group therapy. My clients were also mandated to pay $10 a session for classes and for group as a condition of their parole.

Many of my DUI clients paid for their classes and groups by doing Day Labor. They told me they would gather on a street corner and trucks would come by. A man on the truck would point to men and gesture for them to get on the truck. Filling a truck took less than three minutes of pointing and leaping and driving off. There might be as many as ten trucks lined up at a precise time. Competition to get on the truck was fierce and sometimes fights would break out. When that happened all the trucks drove off before the police could come. At the time, this sort of employment was not legal in Colorado.

With these thoughts in my head, I prepared for my day by eating a good breakfast, boiling eggs to eat and packing water and juice. I dressed in my worn out jeans, a long sleeved undershirt and two sweat shirts. I found my old torn sneakers, put on socks, and wrapped my feet in baggies before putting on the sneaks. I had an old timey plastic rain hat that tied under my chin and took that, too. I carried my beat up old tight leather gloves along in my back pocket. For some reason, having the gloves in my back pocket made me swagger a bit.

There were five others at the corner, three middle aged men and two high school girls. The red pick up pulled up at precisely 7:30.

No one spoke on the cold ride to the orchard. The sky was dark and it had rained most of the night. It was 53 degrees. I hunkered down out the wind. I tried not to think of eight hours. I shivered.

At the orchard, Gary handed each of us a bundle of 20 orange mesh bags and a five gallon bucket. Each bag would hold 50 pounds of apples. He dropped each of us off at a row of apple trees and said he expected no less than 20 bags per person. His demeanor was pleasant, but his eyes were serious. He told us that two full buckets made one whole bag.

I stood and looked down my row of apple trees. They were beautiful against the deep grey sky. The row was so long that I could not see the end of it. I took a deep breath and set to.

I had filled and tied off three bags when Gary came by in his truck. I had been squatting and duck walking so standing up again took some effort. Gary pulled some apples out of the longer grasses behind me and tossed them in my bucket. “Pick the ground clean,” he said, and put a couple more apples into my bucket. I thanked him for the apples; he smiled and walked towards the grasses between rows. He bent and picked up an apple that I had pitched as not good enough even for starving deer. Gary told me that all the apples were deer apples except the ones that were brown all over, “the color of a paper bag”.

I took a break when Gary drove off and ate an egg and drank juice I looked back to where I had started then down the long row. I heard the wind in the trees and an apple fall. It was a wondrous moment of feeling totally alone in a magical space.

Growing up I got the idea that if my name was on something, I had to do my level best. So I went back a few trees and gathered the apples that were hiding in the grasses. That left me feeling a need to catch up, but to what I didn’t know.  I worked quickly for a while before I settled into a steady rhythm of pick up apples, drop them in the bucket, fill the bucket and empty it into the orange bag. I had another five bags filled when Gary stopped by again.

Each bag holds 50 pounds of apples



Gary said, “You’re a good picker.” That made me feel what I thought was inordinately good. When he left, I gave up any attempt at being clean and was on my knees in the mud picking up apples. My work was steady and the wind wasn’t bad near the ground under the trees. When next I took a break, I realized that it was raining lightly and that I had to pee. There was no porta-potty or outhouse. I stood on the turf between the rows and saw a tree about four trees up where all the branches reached the ground. There was no one in sight. So I went. I had handi wipes in my pocket and three napkins. So all was well if a bit cool.

I had 18 orange bags filled and lying on the ground when I went to dump a bucket into a bag and simply could not hold both the bucket and the bag to accomplish that simple task. I wasn’t even sure that I could will myself to go on. I felt I had used up all my reserves without even being aware of having done so. I was chilled and weak. I was sure my complexion had paled to grey. I didn’t even try to take my own pulse. It occurred to me that I had not carried my wallet this day and therefor had no identification on me.

A voice in my head said, “Move around.”  I rolled my shoulders and bent from the waste then made airplane circles with my arms. I did cleansing breaths and jogged the distance of seven trees and back. I tightened each muscle group then relaxed it. I did jumping jacks, then stood quietly to breathe. I ate my last egg, drank some juice and water. And felt my second wind start up with the flow of fresh blood warming my body. I went back to work thinking that I had chosen to do this and about so many laborers who do this type of physical work every day for similar pay and no hope of ever having my choice.

I began to make up songs about the labor, about the sounds, about the silence, about apples and deer and about survival. I remembered my first Clinical Supervisor and his commitment to working with the migrant communities near Longmont, Colorado. I opened to a new sense of community with faces and persons and cultures of people I had not met but felt I now shared some small insight into how they were made and how I am made. I felt a longing for that shared community where a look, a nod, a smile would mean, “I know.” I also wanted to be one who could look or nod or smile and show that I, too, “I know.”

Gary drove by calling out "Tie off the last bag!"

"WOW," I said aloud, "Can it be 4 O'clock?" I haven't counted my bags and realized, child of some small privileges, I didn't give a damn how many bags there were lying at the edges of my row of apple trees."

Gary drove slowly up my row, counting. He stopped and handed me my pay and told me to hop in the truck and he would take us all back to the corner where he'd picked up in the morning.

I gasped. $30! I couldn't believe it. $30 meant 30 bags; 30 bags meant 1,500 pounds of apples that I had lifted not once, not twice, but THREE times. Once off the ground, once from the bucket to the bag, and once moving the bag to the proper place on the row.

We picked up the last man and we sat in the truck and smiled shyly at one another. Although we had not seen each other since the ride in, we now shared something beyond words. We were a small community that could look at one another and nod and smile and show, "I know."

#  #  #

500 words about a shovel

Did you know that a vignette was originally something that could be written on a vine leaf? Interesting, hunh? In literature a vignette is a "short, impressionistic scene that focuses on one moment or gives a particular insight into a character, idea, or setting."

I already put my 500 words on a blade of grass here, so I decided to put my 500 words on a shovel here, too.

                                                             Shovel

It was the irregular plop, plop-plop, not the cats on the bed awaiting breakfast, that woke me. I sat up, and there it was again: Plop. Ah! Snow! I grabbed my Farquharson plaid robe, stuck my feet into my mocs and went out onto the porch. Already, there were bird tracks on the rail and rabbit tracks across the lawn. A squirrel chattered on the steps. Plop. The tall Spruce on the corner was slowly trembling the heavy snow off her limbs onto the ground. Plop.

With the chill seeping beneath my robe and the cold snow over the tops of my mocs, I shivered and the practical me said, “Shovel.” I came in, slipped on my jeans and two sweaters and my purple hand knit socks that a friend made for me. I slipped my feet into my very serious boots that will keep my feet warm and dry down to minus 40 degrees.

I wanted to shovel the snow off the porch and steps before my big footed neighbor mashed it down and it turned to ice. My own footprints looked huge.

But first, I went down the edge of the steps and looked at the clean even lawn. The snow had filled in all the dips. There were no humps and the plows had not come yet, so it was hard, unless you knew, to tell where the lawn ended and the roadway began. I stood there smiling and breathing the cold damp air.

Then I ran across the expanse to the street and turned to see my tracks. The first tracks in this snow not counting the rabbits. It gives one a sense of possession to be the first. I could see my shovel on the porch near the door. I wished I could just call it to me so that I could shovel my way back to the porch.

The shovel has a bright yellow plastic handle made to support 125 pounds which is more than I weigh and twice what I can lift. The blade is black plastic 18 inches wide. It’s a trusty tool. Plain and serviceable. It is a thoroughly functional object and beautiful for that. Not even someone from the desert could miss its purpose.

I got snow off my doorway then pushed the shovel so that its front edge was snug on the wood. There is nothing quite like the sound a shovel makes as it scrapes along a surface. I lifted the heavy snow and tossed it over the rail. Plop. “Just like the tree,” I laughed. And again. Plop. A rhythm. Scrape. Lift. Plop as the snow landed on snow below the rail.

My face was tingly cold. A cup of coffee would be nice. Cats first. I needed a box. I took one out, shoveled snow into it. I brought it in, dumped the snow into the shower so the cats could explore and play.  Be nice to be a cat and not have to shovel.

I and my peers are now nothing but bargaining chips.

WASHINGTON (Reuters) - "President Barack Obama raised the stakes in the third straight day of budget talks on Tuesday, warning that senior citizens and veterans may suffer first if the debt ceiling is not raised by August 2."
- - - - - - - - - - - -
http://news.yahoo.com/obama-lawmakers-fall-short-debt-deal-045247357.html
- - - - - - - - - - - -
I am both a Senior Citizen AND a Veteran. I feel fear and anger in equal portions.

"I cannot guarantee that those checks go out on August 3rd if we haven't resolved this issue," Obama said, according to excerpts of the interview released before its broadcast.

"There may simply not be the money in the coffers to do it," Obama said. He said veterans
checks and disability benefits could also be affected without a deal.

Does President Obama expect me and my peers to rise up against debt limits? Against the Republicans?

I may do those things, but I will rise up against him for making ME and my peers bargaining chips. How dare you, Mr.President? How the damn dare you?

USA Today: Pledge Tracker:

http://www.usatoday.com/news/washington/obama-campaign-promise-tracker.htm

• Promise: Allow payroll taxes to be levied on wages above $250,000 to help keep Social Security solvent.
• Quote: "The best way to approach this is to adjust the cap on the payroll tax so that people like myself are paying a little bit more, and people who are in need are protected." - Washington, D.C., Nov. 11, 2007
• Status: Obama has not advanced a plan to keep Social Security solvent since becoming president.

I, like millions of others count on my Social Security check to survive. I count on the VA
for my physical welfare.


Try this view: 

Deficit Predators: Everything You Need to Know About the Twisted, Dangerous Debt Ceiling Fight

The debt ceiling is an exercise in bad faith. And any deal that cuts social programs will be catastrophic for millions of Americans.

http://www.alternet.org/world/151593/deficit_predators%3A_everything_you_need_to_know_about_the_twisted%2C_dangerous_debt_ceiling_fight/

Okay. The whole mess frightens me.

Do you think Obama and Congress will send my cats food in August? Will they pay my

rent?

I paid into Social Security from 1961, when I was 16, until 2008, when I was 63. That is a

mere 47 years of full time work.

I served in the US Navy on Active Duty for four and a half years and did two years Active

Reserve. That's six and a half years.

From the above Predator article:

"Along with Medicare and Medicaid, Social Security is a powerful protector of the entire working population – young and old. It redistributes purchasing power, in loose relation to past earnings, in a way that meets the basic needs of a large number of Americans who would otherwise, in many millions of cases, be destitute or medically bankrupt.

"What economic purpose would cutting such programs serve? To do so would again redistribute incomes. Many of the future elderly would be much worse off, and of course many would die younger than they otherwise would. Survivors and the disabled would suffer as well. In return, what would the federal government and the country gain? A release of real resources to the private sector? Social Security does not take real resources from the private sector! Lower interest rates? The idea is absurd, and not just because interest rates are low today. The notion that cutting Social Security would help keep interest rates down is absurd because interest rates are set in a way that has no relationship at all to the scale of Social Security, Medicare or Medicaid.*"

"We the people" sold the Constitution when we accepted the passage of the Patriot Act. Are we

now going to watch outselves be sold in penury and worse?

500 Words about a blade of grass

A week or so ago, during a discussion, a friend suggested something about writing a flash fiction about a blade of grass ~ sort of a challenge. I stayed up an extra hour and did it! Here are 500 words about a blade of grass.<gg>

Blade



Soft morning sunlight narrowed to a slim green line that comes straight up then arches toward whence it had come; beneath it, right on its base, a small dark bug seems at rest on the shady side. “So much labor as to need a rest so early, eh?”

Ah! I see what stopped brown bug, it is early yet, and the grass is damp with dew. The bug has not labored, but is wisely waiting for the moment when sun wins the day.

I sit back, stretch, and yawn. I look again, sure enough the brown bug has moved to the top of the blade as the sun rose; the bug and the sun have traveled an equal arch.  Are those edges sharp? I blow on it and the bug spreads tiny wings and flies away. The blade sways in its wind wake.

I pick the grass near the ground and run its cool green between my fingers and feel how sturdy it is; its spine is strong. I bring it to my nose and it tickles. I like the smell.

A sound distracts me. I look up; there is a woman walking by on the sidewalk. I wait for her to pass. Then I bring the grass and lay it across my thumb. I look around to be sure the woman has gone and no one else has come.

I smile a secret smile. I lick my lips remembering. I feel a little bit silly being grey haired and wrinkled sitting in the grass preparing. I smile and without any other sound except the Cardinal chittering at me from the birch across the street, I stretch the blade on my left thumb and hold it with my right. I can see the straight blade of green in the space between my thumbs.

I take a breath and bring my thumbs to my mouth and blow. A loud high squeal! I laugh and laugh. I am so pleased with myself. The Cardinal has gone quiet.

I try it again aiming for a deeper tone but loosening the blade string just a tad. I remember my old piping teacher telling about tuning reeds; he said about the bridle on the reed, “You don’t really move it, you just pretend to move it.” That’s what I did. And lo, I dropped the blade’s pitch by a third.

I was going to try again, but the grass broke in my hand. I tried the longer of the two pieces but it was not long enough. My thumbs are much bigger than they were when I was a child. I feel just a little sad.

I roll the blade between my hands and the smell bursts forth as the green stains my palms. And I recall green stains on my knees and clothes and relish the fact that there is no one here to yell at me now.

I say thanks to the grass and the sun and the day for this joy.

An e-mail from cranky and ANGRY

An e-mail from a friend:

I am so ANGRY about what is going on in this country
re education, unions, plutocracy, ALL of it.

#1:  WHY are all the whackos appearing now, in this
period of time?  Is it technology?  Globalization?  What? 
What are they so afraid of?  Why can they not see they
are being manipulated???

#2:  What is going to happen here?  Will our culture
implode before climate change forces it upon us?

#3:  What can an angry person DO? 

I trust you to have all the answers, you know.

Yours, cranky and ANGRY,
- - - - - - - - - - - -
My response:

For President, I voted for the only valid candidate
I could find who had repeal the Patriot Act on his
platform. He was Wisconsin Green Party.

The pendulum does seem to be reaching an extreme.

People choose not to see and unfortunately, were
not taught to think. The Patriot Act reflects that.

Money and Power are the primary motives along
with a desire for easy answers and fear of loss. It
is safer to stay behind our own lines and fire than
it is to listen with an open heart and mind.

I think cranky and angry is an appropriate state
of mind. And you are not alone.

None of this is new. It is shift away from who we
are as a people, a country, a state, a county, a city,
a town, an individual. There is no longer a unifying
concept.

We can make a list of the problems:

immigration; race relations; environment; poverty; 
the transformative power of technology; healthcare
crisis; foreign-policy; importance of educating women;
ending political corruption; and securing jobs for
unemployed Americans.

But none of these can be effectively addressed without
a concept of WHO we are and WHAT we stand for. If
we had those things, then I believe, ALL of the issues
would be addressed effectively.

I want my Country back. I want my Constitution back.
I believe it is fear that caused so many to sell them out,
and it is greed and power that we have most to fear.

Personally, I continue to write my so-called representatives on all levels.

And more important to me, I practice my spiritual work
and try to be calm and share the best of me for the greatest good  one-to-one and in the groups I belong to like Yoga, Zen, AA, My Spanish study group, County SARC and the Humane Society.

The difference between now and say the 60s is that in the
60s, we believed that we could change things for the better. We actually believed in our government.

That is no longer true.

If there was a real focus, there would be a real revolution. Though it would be difficult as, like many, I believe that our Constitution as written is one of the great documents of the world.

Have you read Thich Nhat Hanh's Being Peace?

Chris
Never trust a government that doesn't trust you!

Camp Hollis, Oswego, NY

     I lived in a children's home from time I was six until the home closed when I was 11; at the end of that school year, I was fostered out to a farm in Pulaski, NY.     One of the genuine highlights of being a 'Home kid' was going to Summer camp at Camp Hollis. Yesterday I 'stumbled on' this website:    http://www.friendsofcamphollis.com/
     I was so pleased and amazed that Camp Hollis not only still exists but also still serves with such strong support that I wrote to the contact listed on the website.

Follows is our brief correspondence (so far):

     I stumbled upon the Camp Hollis website today.

     I remember Camp Hollis vividly. I am now 66.

     I lived in the old Oswego County Children's Home at 132 Ellen Street in Oswego from 1951 (when I was six years old) to 1958 (I think) when the Home was closing. I was fostered out to a farm in Pulaski.

     Two weeks at Camp Hollis every Summer was a highlight of my years. I learned to swim there; I remember walking at night on hikes and hearing about the man who said, "I want my Golden Arm" and running with terror!<gg> I remember sitting on top of the monkey bars sullenly watching other kids play and a counselor coming to sit quietly near me ~ wisely just sitting ~ so I knew I wasn't alone.

     I don't know what it is like there now, but in the 50's there was one large long low building with a girls' dorm on one side of the dining room . We slept on cots in rows and got to laugh and tell secrets and even cry.

     The path from the dorm to the beach was rough and steep and fairly short as the long buiding was not far from the cliff.

     I am so pleased and delighted that Camp Hollis still seems to exist.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Christine - Thank you so much for writing! You have some great memories of the camp...some that are similar to mine. I went to the camp when I was ages 8-14. I ended up working there as a counselor in my college years and then ran the camp from 1990-2010 (I just retired in January). In 2009 we produced a pictorial essay/book of the camp's early years. I am now working on the full history of the camp and would love to include personal memories like yours in the book. Would it be OK to use what you wrote?

     Also - if you live locally you can get a copy of the book by just stopping out to the camp (you should stop by if you are in the area...it is very different then you remember but still beautiful). If you don't live in the area and you can supply me with a mailing address I can mail you a copy of the pictorial book...no charge....a gift from the camp.

     Thanks so much for writing!

- - - - - - - - - - - -

     You are welcome to use anything I write and this picture.

Christine

(Remind not to go back and edit posts. The editing function seems to mess things up!)