The Muse

Showing posts with label The Muse. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Muse. Show all posts

Monday, January 3, 2022

Did This Happen at Your House?

"Christmas, that holiday, that comes every ten years when you are a child and every ten days when you are an adult," (Tom Robbin's) tiptoed on down our street on Christmas night. The following day using the new-fallen snow as a skateboard, it skidded right into 2022.


Daughter dear suggested that we perform a ceremony at midnight on New Year's Eve. So, at her suggestion, we wrote out irritations from the past year (some I'd say, not all), put them in a bowl, and struck a match to them. 

We smoked up the house and set off the fire alarm.

Good thing we only wrote out some of those irritations.


A thought: Little Boy Darling's birthday is next month on 2/2/22. (A time of balance.) Ground Hog's Day too. He can keep doing it over until he gets it right.


In thinking about my Newsletter, The Muse, (I'll keep doing it until I get it right.) I'm pondering: What's a Newsletter supposed to say?

  • Why am I writing it instead of just blogging?
  • Does it sound like a blog?
  • Who wants to read it?
  • Why charge?


I guess I'm writing it to offer suggestions where a person can read more if they want. I can throw everything in one basket, so to speak. And I love the idea of The Muse and sweeping the house in preparation for her visit. 

Some people have a stroke of genius, which is to say, the muse has visited them. Don't get too puffed up when the muse comes, though, and neither take too much blame when she doesn't. (Haha, some balance here.)


In the Muse Newsletter, I can offer things I'm pondering, not assuming, of course, that you don't have your own ponderings. I wonder, though, are two ponderings together better than one?


If I were a scientist, I would hope the muse whispers an answer to some dilemma [‘m having. However, I'm a writer, so that's my reference point. Writing, unlike scientific discovery, is something everyone can do. It doesn't have to be creative writing or even good writing. Journaling is a way to take another look at an event, sad, happy, whatever. A happy event? Relish it. A sad event? Lay it to rest. 


"And what, you ask, does writing teach us? First and foremost, it reminds us that we are alive and that it is a gift and a privilege, not a right."

— Ray Bradbury


I just finished Tibetan Peach Pie, Tom Robbin's book about his life, thus the Christmas quote. Man, that man can use similes and metaphors. He spent an entire page extolling the virtues of jelly donuts after hearing that President John F. Kennedy, addressing an audience at the Berlin wall, said, "Ick bin ein Berliner."

A novelist in a spy novel said, "Ick bin ein Berliner" meant "I am a jelly donut." A magazine picked it up, and people believed it without checking. 

 …it would be suggested that Kennedy had got the translation wrong—that by using the article ein before the word Berliner, he had mistakenly called himself a jelly doughnut. In fact, Kennedy was correct. To state Ich bin Berliner would have suggested being born in Berlin, whereas adding the word ein implied being a Berliner in spirit. His audience understood that he meant to show his solidarity.

At the climax of his speech, the American leader identified himself with the inhabitants of the besieged city:


 "Freedom is indivisible," said Kennedy in his illustrious speech (Second only to "Ask not what the country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.”) "and when one man is enslaved, all are not free. When all are free, then we can look forward to that day when this city will be joined as one and this country and this great continent of Europe in a peaceful and hopeful globe."

His conclusion linked him eternally to his listeners and to their cause: "All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin, and therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words Ich bin ein Berliner."


Even if Kennedy had called himself a jelly donut it would have endeared him to the people, the same as he did that day.


Okay dokey, let's give this the old college try:

 This will only go to my email, no fancy do-das to fill in.


Tuesday, December 28, 2021


On this past Christmas Eve, Daughter Dear said to me: "I have something for you, but you need to go outside for a while,"

"Great, I'll take your dog for a walk. It will be like my first and best Christmas ever."

That First Christmas that I remember happened long ago when I was perhaps three years old-- before my dad went away to the war. My mother, father, and I lived with my grandmother, and they told their only child (me) that since we didn't have a fireplace, Santa would come in through the door. However, he wouldn't come in when a child was present. So, Daddy would take me for a walk while mother and grandmother hid.

I remember walking down the street, listening with eagle ears. "I heard him," I'd say, "Listen, Daddy."

Oh my, when we returned to the house, the tree was lighted, with toys encircling it like Santa's workshop. The trees' lights were all a glitter against silver tinsel icicles, and there was a tricycle.


Magic exploded abundantly that year.

And this one!


On this Christmas Eve, as Lafayette, daughter's coon hound, and I walked to the end of the street, I listened carefully, but I didn't hear bells jingling or Ho ho hos ringing through the night air.


However, when I entered the house, oh my, a life-size lighted pink flamingo was standing on the coffee table. 


                                     Pink outside in the snow.

 I was astounded and overjoyed. Daughter Dear had made it out of chicken wire, sprayed it white, and lighted it with pink bulbs she had ordered.

This was a lesson on asking and receiving.

 It's a long story that I'll shorten.

 I had said I wanted a lighted pink flamingo to put in the yard. I thought of making one but didn't have the energy or inclination. I wondered, too, if pink bulbs were available for Christmas lights. Other people had deer, horses, carriages, and sleighs, but I never saw a lighted pink flamingo. I shelved the idea and didn't put any more effort into wishing for one.

With three jobs, I don't know where Daughter Dear found the time to build a Flamingo, but she said it was easy. "I'll give it a try," she said and gathered up a table leg and some chicken wire we had on the property, plus a flower pot frame for the body, ordered the white light string and pink bulbs, and viola’ a pink flamingo.

We both slapped ourselves on the side of the head, "Sometimes it doesn't have to be hard."

A few years ago, my daughter and I called ourselves The Pink Flamingos. We will again when Daughter Dear has her own Real Estate Agency, and I will be an agent. I never understood the phenomenon of plastic pink flamingos in a yard. Still, I thought they were funny and pertinent to houses. Four years ago, when we signed, as fledgling Real Estate Agents to an agency, we couldn't use the name The Pink Flamingos—when Daughter Dear starts her own agency, we can.

After taking a break from my Real Estate Studies, (my license lapsed, and I'm back to square one, with 69 study hours out of 150 completed), I began a new project.


Here it is:


(I got my first subscriber, so, I'm committed to 12 issues at least.) 

Much Love,