Thursday, March 27, 2008
And to top it off, it's really only an excuse to post a picture in response to his Bobness's query as to garage sales. And Mel's and Wendy's pokes to get back at it. And...well all sorts of stuff.
So I will get back into it soon.
The above picture,btb, is of the Weaselboy lo these many years ago. The sign in front of him says "Not for Sale."
Just a brief mention today about the Girlface. I was having a discussion about the grueling deposition I had to endure on Tuesday when my cell rings.
Cell: This is greerger facazzzzzcmwiiitfrm of the Portland Police.
Me: Hello, who is this?
Cell: This is greerger facazzzzzcmwiiitfrm of the Portland Police.
Cell: This is greerger facazzzzzcmwiiitfrm of the Portland Police. No one is hurt.
Me: Okay, what is this about?
Cell: Is this Stephen Parker?
Me: Yes (close enough for a guy who no doubt has a gun.)
Cell: Your daughter and another young woman are hitchiking.
Me: Yes. Is that illegal?
Cell: Well, no. We have them here on Forest Avenue.
Me: Okay. Were they on the highway?
Me: Well thank you for looking after them, then.
It's always so nice to get phone calls from the police about your children.
An hour later I got another call.
Cell: Is this Mr. Parker?
Cell: This is the Brunswick police.
Sigh. They were only a quarter of the way to Winterport.
Here's a picture of Amina just because.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
It is a beautiful, cool, blustery day here in Maine. While we support the cast of the Out of Towners, I will post an old poem I had been looking for previously, thereby continuing my record of late-blobing.
The photo is Amina and Gertie on the couch.
Throughout the Summer the questions came.
"Granddaddy is sick
and I am sad" said my son.
He then cried.
Who will feed the hummingbirds
at Granddaddy's house?" he asked.
Before I could answer his tears had started.
"What will happen to the Osprey
on Granddaddy's island?" he questioned
with great concern and sobs.
"Will the beaver come back
to Granddaddy's brook" he demanded.
What will happen to the fish then?
Will the tadpoles still be there?"
"When will Granddaddy leave the hospital
and go back home," he asked
in a quiet voice, no longer
quite daring to cry.
I was not able to answer,
afraid to say he may never go home.
Afraid the concerns of an almost
five year old boy would not allow him
to understand and forgive his beloved
The next morning while still dark
as the long ride home began,
my son listened to the news
he did not want to know.
I was concerned how my son would react.
I could not take away his sadness
I could not take away his tears.
I could not take away my own.
At the end of the day
my son came to me and asked
where he could place a letter
so the wind would take it
to his Grandfather.
He missed him
and wanted to tell him
he loved him.
Saturday, August 4, 2007
A great time was had by all and following the parade was a BBQ and games. The highlight was the regional finals of the IBSR (International Belt Sander Races). I am sorry to say I forgot to record the names of the entrants but they wonderful (The Beltinator?) For your enjoyment, I present a picture of the Races
Afterwards at LLBean's Summer Music series I met up with Pierre, Shelia and some others to see the Robert Cray Band (insert photo here, hopefully) The Bean's Music series is a free series held out on the lawn at their flagship store. It use to be a very low key thing where you could come and sit and enjoy great music. As you can see, people have figured out there is some great music to be had and it has grown. Tonight, for example, I'm going to see Arlo Guthrie.
The music and company were great but we were constantly threated with rain. A little fell during the music but mostly held off. Afterwards I saddles up the motorcycle for a quick escape right after the fireworks. The rain still held off. The sparks hit the sky in all the requisite patterns and as the smoke cleared from the finale I roared off into the night and was IMMEDIATELY hit with a WALL of rain. A forty minutes later I arrived back home, throughly drenched, for what is normally a twenty five minute drive. I should have soaped up.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Something was been eating Girlface's garden. Or somethings. Or maybe just a very hungry and tenuous solo beastie but it has been causing a great deal of heartache to the girl, who has spent many many hours preparing, germinating, planting and all the etc.s that go along with a garden. I was called upon for a solution. I chose a final solution. The old picket fence, with its accompanying screens along the bottom had to go. In its place a new, steel, 2"x2" squares, not ascetically pleasing but ultimately practical.
If I can figure out this stupid picture thing, then this is a picture several weeks ago of the garden as it was being prepared. Otherwise the picture is above somewhere.
Same thing of picture of me showing how dirty I got from the oil on the steel fencing. It was nasty stuff. Picture is either her or above. (Stupid Blogger, looks like it's above...)
So, after putting the new fence up and burying the fence edges, it looks as if the plants are finally safe. Girlface had such an outpouring of generous contributions of new broccoli, brussel sprouts, cauliflower and other plants to replace the ones that were eaten she's had to take out two oregano beds to make room for it all.
The new fence should be better protection but the old picket fence was pleasing in its way. Just a little change.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The photo: the backyard, April 2007
The poem: 80's vintage. Girlface saw it and said she liked it. It fits today.
Heard You Had Snow
Heard you had snow.
Should I sing you a song?
how ya’ doing.
Such a long pause
and with life so
We’re in different worlds
I heard you had snow.
Monday, July 9, 2007
And a poem from the past.
Hot Flashes on the
Fourth of July
Whirly gigs of sparks and colors swirl
on the surface of the zodiac in Gasworks
Park, staining the dark bronze; remnants
of children’s delights. The hillside
overlooking the bay is surveyed and stalked
to the inch, a patchwork of flesh, picnic
blankets, spent beer cans and burnt paper
from an arsenal of popping toys. The crowds
strain upward, crane, count the minutes,
elbow into position, re-evaluate the area.
It starts. Fire in the sky. The dark
screen of night brightly colored
with searing light, shades of victorious
in the figure of a fire-haired woman. She
leaves on a motorbike, unnoticed.
First published in Maxtix 1980
Monday, July 2, 2007
Inasmuch as you are not a monk,
your vow of silence
seems to be less effective
in terms of resolving our problems
than it might.
While I weigh your 15 years
of rich experience
against my 48 years
of meager existence,
I still believe
could be of some help.