Green is for Granny's Green fingernail polish

Mrs. Nesbitt's ABC Wednesday is now a cooperative effort in it's seventh round, which has reached the letter G.







This is just to let you know that I'm still around, although not with the blue hair with which my Webcam portrayed me. I wanted to show off those new green fingernails that have become part of my new identity, but it was too hard to hold a camera in one hand to tkae a picture of the other. Hence the Webcam.


When I found that I would most often be seen in public in a wheelchair, I also found that I was invisible as a real person, especially when accompanied by one of my children (all still vertical).

"What would she like?" the waiter would ask. "When would she prefer the return flight?" "Can she walk a few feet through the door?" "What color does she prefer?" "What size does she take?"

"Hey!" I wanted to shout. "Ask me. I'm not brain-dead!" It seemed that I was only some inert freight to be carted from place to place but never required to speak.

So I painted my fingers with iridescent green fingernail polish. It worked! People said, "I love your green fingernails." They didn't say, "I love HER green fingernails." When I began going about unaccompanied on my electrical wheelchair, I regained most of my identity as a sentient being. By then I had become an acquaintance to many wonderful new friends here in Port Townsend. They would be disappointed if I ever appeared without green fingernails. I have bought enough bottles of it to last for several years.

At one time I thought the way to gain recognition as a real person would be to dye my hair shocking pink, like my favorite author and blogger, Laini Taylor. I'm still considering it. What do you think?

Faith

The Sunday Scribblings prompt is FAITH.

What better could illustrate "faith" than the utter confidence on the face of our tiny daughter, Candace, as she launches herself into space knowing, beyond a doubt, that her father, Otto, will catch her in his arms.

For other musings on "faith" click HERE.

C is for Chagall

Round 7 of ABC Wednesday is well on the way as it reaches C




This is a momentous day when this original Chagall etching, "Ezekiel's Vision", leaves my Berkeley house, where it has hung over the fireplace for more than thirty years. It goes to granddaughter, Daria Bishop, artist with her camera. I know she will take pleasure from when it hangs in her Vermont home. From the time we bought it, Otto and I knew that it should go to her some day.


When we bought it we surprised even ourselves.

I had loved Chagall's art ever since I first saw something of his in a magazine illustration, and when we went to see his etchings for his Bible series at the Hansen Gallery in San Francisco I already owned an unsigned lithograph (he only signed the first hundred and mine is #136) which was bought for me by son Otto at an exhibit and sale at Chico State University and one of his lithographed opera posters (for "Die Zauberflauta").

When we saw in the "events" section of the San Francisco Chronicle that Hansen Gallery would have a show of Chagall's etchings for his Bible series, we hied ourselves over to S. F. to enjoy an afternoon of art we knew that we would enjoy seeing.

But a signed rare Chagall etching had never found even a potential place in our budget. None-the-less we found ourselves the owners of "Ezekiel's Vision" by the time we returned home. It was love at first sight. To be sure we had to cut a few other things from our budget that had seemed to be necessary. Not that it was even in the car with us. It was marked "sold" but would remain for rest of the gallery show here then go on to other shows in New Orleans and Nw York before it was finally hung above our mantel.

Above is an oblique and frameless photo of my earliest Chagall lithograph - the unsigned one that Otto bought f0r me at Chico ('Solomon and Bathsheba'). It was shot at dusk last night by daughter Candace for me to use in this post - hence is both oblique and frameless to avoid reflections of the camera's flash.

For how other ABC blogger's responded to the letter C, click here or on banner.

Bye, bye,Berkeley

B is for beginning life in my new (to me) home. I shot the above photo at the height of the rhododendron season.

Bye, bye, Berkeley, the city where I was born and where I lived for most of my life, first as a child, then for the more than sixty years that my husband Otto was a professor of electrical engineering at the University of California.

This little house in Port Townsend, Washington, is now my legal address. It belongs to my son Otto and is right across the street from the house where he and his wife and my dear friend Kristin live. As I become more and more dependent on others because of age, arthritis, etc., they are the angels in my life, taking care of me in a thousand ways and claiming to enjoy it.


All of my children have been wonderfully helpful. Daughter Candace will meet me in Berkeley next week to help me with the disposition of a few of my belongings in the big house on the hill which I still own. The grand piano will be sent to Port Townsend, where it will dominate my small living room. But what is nicer than a house with home-made music?!

I have had a wonderful time redecorating the interior of my new home with sometimes unusual color schemes that I have dreamed of but never tried before. My dragons will move here too, in fact will be the theme of my house which I have named Dragonhaven. There will eventually be a sign out front proclaming it!

Since the photo above was shot, ramps have been built to enable me to encircle the house in my wheelchair or reach the wheelchair-friendly walks of Port Townsend or be loaded in an auto for longer trips. (I'll tell in some future blog of some of memorable trips we have already made.)

This blog is definitely egocentric, not to be confused with the educational, informative, and creative entries of other ABCers. For their entries, click here or on banner.

DREAMWHERE

You walked all night to beat the cold
so now you drowse on a sunlit bit of sidewalk
legs sprawled, head lolling on your knapsack
backed against a facade of patterned tile
from Mexico.

Your eyesballs move behind your eyelids
but your face is slack and inward turning.
Surely your dream is not here on the avenue,
hassled by corporate cops, muttered at
by passers-by who must detour around you
as they scan store windows for a way
to spend their money.

Where do you dream?

Do you toss a football to the brother lost in 'Nam'
Weave a mysterious plot that's fraught
with dream significance?
Walk a shaded path you know but can't say where?

Will you remember when you're wakened
by the grip on your shoulder
and the order to move on?

No. Dreams like that escape like noonday ghosts

You stumble to your feet,
grit grinding where your elbows met the sidewalk,
limbs still leaden with fatigue
mind struggling to retain the dream
where lost loves linger—
even your own lost self.
Phyllis Sterling Smith

Me Then and Now

For more self-descriptions by Sunday Scribblers, click here or on banner at left.


This poem was written in the year 2000. Since then I have aged in a multitude of ways. I am confined to a wheelchair, have been ill any number of times, am in pain much of the time with all the problems associated with pain control. Am I happy? Yes, almost always, blessed with children who not only take superb care of me, but who are also delightful company. My only sadness is mourning my dear Otto. I love my new little house and am enjoying redecorating and furnishing it. I am surrounded by music, both live, due to my talented son Otto and beloved daughter-in-law Kristin, who live just acrosss the street from me.

I THOUGHT THE WORLD WAS MINE

I thought the world was mine.
I thought that I could swim in any ocean.
Clouds below were my familiar landscape.

How could I know that wings that carried me
would be landlocked, horizons shrink and borders close forever?

Generals
Presidents
Oil executives
I object!
It’s my life that you circumscribe.
I miss my world!
Your oil is running short; so too my years
and I am bitter with thwarted expectations.

I know that somewhere children starve.
Their eyes rebuke my selfishness.

But oh! I want my steaming jungles, jangle
of unknown tongues, smells of roasting coffee,
lights of a city never seen before that mark
a thousand homes in each of which
I live a lifetime
for a moment.

Phyllis Sterling Smith revised September 11, 2000

T is forTalent

ABC Wednesday Round 6 has reached the letter T. Thank you, Denise, for starting this weekly spot where friends can meet to share their talents by following the link above or the badge to the left.

The talent I would like to showcase today is that of a young poet, the son of a friend. The poet, Kincaid Gould, is only eight (yes, 8) years old.

I will let his poetry speak for itself and let his wonderful feeling for words and nature shine through them.

RAIN
by Kincaid

splash and splatter
drizzle and splinter
dazzle my eyes
a dash of wonder
a dash of light


SHOWERS OF RAIN
by Kincaid

spirals of shimmering vapor
diamonds of puddles
swishing in the wind
flashing ribbon hitting the ground
opening the gate of drizzle.


ROSES
by Kincaid

glory full looks
bleeding for happiness
screaming for joy

gloomily reflecting the glittering sun
meek little leaves


MOUNTAINS
by Kincaid

mountains shimmer
snowy mountain peak
a stream of purple
a line of blue
a flow of pink
and a wave of white light
a rough surface
and a fuzzy inside

mountains shimmer
snowy mountain peak
mountain

THE WINTER BREEZE
by Kincaid

Shiny winds blow
and frosty chills tickle me
breezing past me quickly
diamonds blowing magestically


ROCKS

by Kincaid

smooth and tough rocks
pebbles are chunks of boulders
some rocks are cloudy
and some rocks describe the sunset
some rocks are grassy
and some watery rocks too.


FOREST
by Kincaid

forests gloom with trees
seas of frosted clover
dark and magically
takes me across the bridge of fairies
past the enchanted emerald ruby sky
of mystical dawn

I wish you could see the little scraps of paper on which these are printed. I took a few liberties with spacing, such as centering the lines which Kincaid had positioned from the left of the page. I thought it looked better on the blog. I also put in that line-break in ROSES because I interpreted the next-to-last line to refer to the meek little leaves not the happy flowers. I capitalized all of the titles (the poet used no capital letters) but signed each title with by Kincaid, since he used it with the title on every poem and may have considered it an integral part. Am I right, Kincaid? Consider me one of your first fans - and keep writing!