Thanksgiving Thoughts

Photo by Dziana Hasanbekava on Pexels.com

I’m thankful that 300 years after the Treaty of New Echota was signed, the American Congress is considering seating Kimberly Teehee as a delegate from the Cherokee Nation. It shouldn’t have taken this long. Not every tribe gets a seat at the table, albeit a non-voting seat. But it is a step.

I am grateful to Deb Haaland, Interior Secretary, for her support of Native language recovery, a reversal of the agency’s historic efforts to destroy Native culture. Throughout history, language has kept subject cultures alive, preserved the dignity of their peoples, and fostered a richer experience for all.

Mom Wants You Home

“You’re in trouble.” Lars was out of breath. “You’re gonna get grounded.”

“I’ve got to hold back the water.” Hans reached for his phone. “Here, alert the dike patrol.”

Lars took the phone and did as he was told. That was the difference between them. His brother almost never did what he was told. He was always off on an adventure. The younger one stayed home to placate their mother.

“The dike patrol, they’re coming.” Lars saw the strain in Han’s face and, surprised, saw fear in his eyes. “Can I help?”

“Tell mom where we are.”

The boy said, “I’ll hold the water. You call.”

A Spell of Plenty

“I can’t eat another bite.” Hansel closed his trick or treat bag.

“Do you think someone cast a spell?” Gretel counted her loot again. There was more now than when she started eating.

“Let’s take it to the witch.” They set off through the forest along a now familiar path. No need for breadcrumbs any more.

The Sugar House Witch welcomed them with fresh cookies and milk. “What’s in the bag, pet?”

“Multiplicative candy,” Hansel said.

“Wish I had that problem,” the witch said. “I’m constantly losing candy decorations.”

The children finished their snack and left behind their ever accumulating treats.

Faerie Rings

In the shadow of year’s end, a tired dribble of twilight musings unleashes thoughts muddled and unrestrained. They fall on damp forest floors.

The smell of pines might clarify, might of a sudden reveal the intentions of close-mouthed colorful shedding trees.

Autumn cold settles like a fog on layers of soft loam. Earthworms transform decomposing leaf mold into soil.

The worms feel sleep coming on and burrow deeper, warmer. Their heat keeps the planet humming even as cool air portends a slowing.

Spores burst from a deteriorating toadstool. Lacy umbrellas unfurl. The Little People sip warm cider at season’s turning.

Frog to Princess

“I want a frog, not a dog.” Merrilee stamped her foot, shaking her pretty mane like a recalcitrant horse until a crowd gathered around. Her mother turned ten shades of crimson. Some mothers would have marched her out. If her mother had that in her, Merrilee would never have perfected such a performance.

“Sorry, darling, I misheard. A frog, then.”

Merrilee pointed to a princely amphibian. The store clerk readied a cardboard carton with holes on top. As he lowered the frog into the container, Merrilee said, “Stop, I need to kiss him first to confirm that he’s the one.”

Lamp Luck

Aladdin served sheiks and veiled ladies at Bosphorus Square Lamps.

On slow days, he cleaned the trade-ins. Noting the component materials, he checked for dents, damage, and neglect. He assessed usability: plugs, wires, oil wicks. He cleaned the lamps up and set a price. But none of them was magic. Aladdin could tell.

An elderly gentleman came in with an old fener. “It needs a good home,” he said.

Holding the lamp, Aladdin felt a nervous energy inside. “I’ll keep it for myself,” he said.

“It needs tea and baklava. Four o’clock, without fail.”

Aladdin did a happy dance inside.

Heisenberg Cat and Mouse

Late as usual, HJ Rabbit sat down at the hookah bar and pulled in smoke, hiccuping and shedding huge tears.

Cheshire Cat materialized. “What took you so long?”

HJ snuffled into a linen handkerchief. “Couldn’t catch the queen.”

One-half of a smile appeared across the mushroom table. “You do know, she’s just a placeholder? Something of a nothing.”

“Really?”

The entire smile emerged. “So she’s easy to find.”

“However will we manage to do that?”

“You speed down x in real time. I’ll pop in and out of the imaginary axis. She never goes anywhere. We’ll meet her at zero.”

A Watch for All Time

His Excellency, Herman Jay Rabbit, leaned against a case displaying all manner of timepieces, all keeping time at different speeds. Most of Wonderland had learned to live with this.

Rabbit had not. “My good sir, you have perverted time itself,” he said when the shopkeeper arrived from behind a brown curtain.

Fingering a loupe, he said, “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“I always seem to be late.”

“For whom,” asked the man.

“Her Majesty.”

The man said, “There’s no watch fast enough to keep up with the Queen.”

“But I must arrive on time.”

“You’ll need a calculator.”

The Prodigal Fleece- An Ad

No one asks for woolens anymore. No bags full for BaaBaa’s master or his dame, especially none for the trekkers freezing in Nepal waiting to climb to the top of some freaking mountain. Which one? BaaBaa can’t remember, but he knows exactly when wool tanked and fleece took off.

Warm, washable, even woolly if you get the right stuff. And BaaBaa makes the right stuff. He has a reputation to live down as the black sheep of the family- a misspent childhood, years in Nepal’s wild, sacred heights. He’s redeemed himself.

This bad boy kicks the competition. Woolmark, eat your heart out.

Watching from the Window: Revised

Parisian Interior by József Rippl-Rónai 1910
Photo by Monica McHenney

After a day at the easel, Rippl-Rónai relaxes with a view into the Parisian streets. He’s nearly fifty. He’s colored a blue tablecloth red. Seeing the world in patches of paint stiffened textures like corn on canvass. A new facture. Rough like the times. Fractured like a world before war.

Four years later, the Father of Modern Hungarian Art will be interned in a displaced person’s camp. Paris Interior, will be displayed in San Francisco, then lost in America until 1924. Conflict, pandemic flu. His art reflecting unrest, impatient crowds, and French Soldiers Marching. A tired, then hopeful, 1920 seems almost normal.

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this:

Share this:

Like this: