Here's my oh-so imaginatively titled poem about Cantigny Gardens:
Cantigny Gardens
by Jane Hoppe
out of the overflow
of vision and wealth ...
fountains
flowering chestnuts
like pillars ...
majestic
grape arbors
arching above ...
serenity
yellow hello, blue angel,
purple petals ...
play
Here's my takeaway from the First Division War Museum at Cantigny:
A World War II-era poster with the beginning date of 1778 and ending date of 1943 said "Americans will ALWAYS fight for liberty."
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Hope Springs Eternal
Twenty-nine days (but who's counting?) after our eight inches of snow fell, I'm still carrying my new spring purse and wearing my parka, which I've washed and put away for the season twice now. Guess the new spring purse was wishful thinking. Hope springs eternal in a Midwestern heart.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Eight Inches of Springtime
At left: the new spring purse I got ready to use because hey, it's spring! At least, I thought it was.
At right: what I woke up to the morning I first planned to carry my spring purse
Three days later, we're back to spring. Purple crocuses are visible again; bright green garlic shoots push upward; big fat buds along tree branches promise green leaves; and yellow forsythia brighten views everywhere in the neighborhood. Whoohoo ~ spring! Time for flowers, even on a purse.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Mirrors, Mirrors Everywhere
On a sunny day last month, a neighbor and I wheeled her infant around a few blocks. We encountered another young mom, who after goo-gooing the baby, looked up from the stroller and wondered (unfortunately, aloud) if I was my friend's mother. In the white light of the sun, my graying hair ~ pulled back in a chic, funky aqua barrette; didn't she see the youthful barrette? ~ probably shone like Granny's frumpy bun on the Beverly Hillbillies.
A few months earlier, I was asked by a new neighbor, a middle-aged man, if I was my husband's mother. I envisioned a snappy comeback, "Haven't you ever known anyone who was prematurely gray?" Alas, when you're pushing sixty, you are not prematurely gray ~ you are right-on-time gray. What I actually said was, "Nice to meet you"; then I ran full-speed home and hoped he'd hear "How many old ladies do you know who can run this fast, Buster?" instead.
The other morning, my dog pulled me toward another young neighbor's dog and toddler on the sidewalk. During our chat about their recent family vacation, she mentioned, "A lot of people in your generation go there." Two days later, it occurs to me I could have then asked if the people in my generation go there for the mountain climbing, the parasailing, or the bungee jumping into active volcanoes. Oh, does my resentment show?
Sigh. The facts of life are sometimes hard to face. This gray-hair business is a tough transition for me. Coloring my hair is no longer an option for health reasons. When the jarring images were just between me and my mute bathroom mirror, they were easier. Now outside mirrors are speaking up. Their perceptions seem to be "goosing" me toward an old-age attitude. But I think I still have other choices, like remembering my value to God doesn't diminish as I age. Like remembering Proverbs 20:29, The glory of young men is their strength, gray hair the splendor of the old. So now, whenever I can muster the energy in my sagging arms to squeeze the bellows toward the smoldering ashes of my gray-haired life, I'll be a new woman.
Well, I'm going out now to buy some collagen cream and look up splendor in the dictionary. When I get back, I think I'll phone a colleague to ask if we can be LindedIn contacts. Then I'll probably have to ask her how to extend the invitation via the computer, which is of course the intended way to do this. Oh, yeah, then there's the digital-age transition. At least that doesn't involve mirrors.
A few months earlier, I was asked by a new neighbor, a middle-aged man, if I was my husband's mother. I envisioned a snappy comeback, "Haven't you ever known anyone who was prematurely gray?" Alas, when you're pushing sixty, you are not prematurely gray ~ you are right-on-time gray. What I actually said was, "Nice to meet you"; then I ran full-speed home and hoped he'd hear "How many old ladies do you know who can run this fast, Buster?" instead.
The other morning, my dog pulled me toward another young neighbor's dog and toddler on the sidewalk. During our chat about their recent family vacation, she mentioned, "A lot of people in your generation go there." Two days later, it occurs to me I could have then asked if the people in my generation go there for the mountain climbing, the parasailing, or the bungee jumping into active volcanoes. Oh, does my resentment show?
Sigh. The facts of life are sometimes hard to face. This gray-hair business is a tough transition for me. Coloring my hair is no longer an option for health reasons. When the jarring images were just between me and my mute bathroom mirror, they were easier. Now outside mirrors are speaking up. Their perceptions seem to be "goosing" me toward an old-age attitude. But I think I still have other choices, like remembering my value to God doesn't diminish as I age. Like remembering Proverbs 20:29, The glory of young men is their strength, gray hair the splendor of the old. So now, whenever I can muster the energy in my sagging arms to squeeze the bellows toward the smoldering ashes of my gray-haired life, I'll be a new woman.
Well, I'm going out now to buy some collagen cream and look up splendor in the dictionary. When I get back, I think I'll phone a colleague to ask if we can be LindedIn contacts. Then I'll probably have to ask her how to extend the invitation via the computer, which is of course the intended way to do this. Oh, yeah, then there's the digital-age transition. At least that doesn't involve mirrors.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Comfort Food
Today was going to be tough for my husband, so I planned comfort food for dinner. So, how does this menu sound: black cherry Jell-O, topped with cottage cheese and mandarin oranges, pot roast, and baked peach/blueberry crumble? Right out of the 50s, I know. Oh well, he liked it.
Next rough day, I'm thinking macaroni and cheese.
Next rough day, I'm thinking macaroni and cheese.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Super Bowl
Okay, I guess we didn’t really need an excuse to have guacamole and chips for dinner, but we decided the Super Bowl was one. (Friday night, we thought a DVD from the library was a good excuse to have popcorn and pecans for dinner, too.) The dining table seems better suited for steamed spinach, garlic mashed potatoes, pork loin roast, and tossed salad. The TV room, especially on Super Bowl Sunday, is strictly yoo-hoo-dippity-doo. Robert made yummy guacamole, and we kicked (no pun intended) back for our annual foray into football. Since we don’t follow football, pregame chatter was the sole basis for who I’d root for, and I chose the Steelers team—and Larry Fitzgerald of the Cardinals.
Most of the commercials were creative and fun. Some were a bit edgy and in poor taste, I thought. After a few commercials, Robert and I looked at each other and said, “Did you understand that?” and we both shrugged.
During the fourth quarter, my attention wandered to the last half hour of My Big Fat Greek Wedding on another channel, where I wished a mob of caring women waving blush brushes would crowd into my bathroom to make me look beautiful, too. Back to the Super Bowl, with three minutes left in the game, I considered toddling off to bed. Robert had crashed right after Bruce Springsteen (hey, boss, didn't you get the memo? a goatee goes at the bottom of your chin.) finished screaming, leaving me to cheer both Larry Fitzgerald and the Steelers’ Holmes into touchdown territory in those precious final three minutes. What a whoop-worthy game!
Most of the commercials were creative and fun. Some were a bit edgy and in poor taste, I thought. After a few commercials, Robert and I looked at each other and said, “Did you understand that?” and we both shrugged.
During the fourth quarter, my attention wandered to the last half hour of My Big Fat Greek Wedding on another channel, where I wished a mob of caring women waving blush brushes would crowd into my bathroom to make me look beautiful, too. Back to the Super Bowl, with three minutes left in the game, I considered toddling off to bed. Robert had crashed right after Bruce Springsteen (hey, boss, didn't you get the memo? a goatee goes at the bottom of your chin.) finished screaming, leaving me to cheer both Larry Fitzgerald and the Steelers’ Holmes into touchdown territory in those precious final three minutes. What a whoop-worthy game!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Taste Bud Bits
Sadly, I placed my two warmth-craving, bushy basil plants in the zero-temps of the garage this week. I had dug them up during our exuberant harvest season to winter over in our sunny bay window and provide piquant tastes of summer until next season’s harvest. Their paraglider-canopy leaves summer-scented the whole room. I noticed the spider mites in December and kept washing them off. But this week, the pests had spread to the point that I knew I would no longer eat a basil leaf from these plants. Goodbye, basil. Ironically, some of my warmth-craving basil from last summer is preserved for winter enjoyment in pesto batches—in our freezer.
Several weeks ago I got blissed out by the butternut squash and pumpkin soup at Le Titi de Paris restaurant. The rest of the meal was exquisite, as always, but this silken soup, I simply don’t have words for. Every spoonful produced tears of joy. You just can’t imagine food can taste like this. If you’re anywhere in the Midwest and can get to the Chicagoland area, Le Titi is a worthy destination. www.letitideparis.com
Some friends gave me a little bow-tied package of Chewy Choco Wally Bites, gluten-free cookies which turned out to be both chocolate-y rich and softly cakelike. My new favorite is by Whole Bakers. www.wholebakers.com
Another friend invited me to an olive oil and balsamic vinegar tasting by The Olive Tap at a local library this week. Not only did we learn helpful culinary facts, but we also had an education in how to taste olive oil—tip of the tongue first, then back of the tongue, and finally, the don't-try-this-at-home professional loud slurp-and-cough method. I came away with a small bottle of garlic-infused olive oil, which I’ve already used to decrease the amount of butter I put on macaroni, and I’ve got garlic mashed potatoes on the menu for tomorrow. Can’t wait to try my new blood-orange olive oil on vanilla ice cream; it’s supposed to taste like a Creamsicle. Who would’ve guessed? www.theolivetap.com
Several weeks ago I got blissed out by the butternut squash and pumpkin soup at Le Titi de Paris restaurant. The rest of the meal was exquisite, as always, but this silken soup, I simply don’t have words for. Every spoonful produced tears of joy. You just can’t imagine food can taste like this. If you’re anywhere in the Midwest and can get to the Chicagoland area, Le Titi is a worthy destination. www.letitideparis.com
Some friends gave me a little bow-tied package of Chewy Choco Wally Bites, gluten-free cookies which turned out to be both chocolate-y rich and softly cakelike. My new favorite is by Whole Bakers. www.wholebakers.com
Another friend invited me to an olive oil and balsamic vinegar tasting by The Olive Tap at a local library this week. Not only did we learn helpful culinary facts, but we also had an education in how to taste olive oil—tip of the tongue first, then back of the tongue, and finally, the don't-try-this-at-home professional loud slurp-and-cough method. I came away with a small bottle of garlic-infused olive oil, which I’ve already used to decrease the amount of butter I put on macaroni, and I’ve got garlic mashed potatoes on the menu for tomorrow. Can’t wait to try my new blood-orange olive oil on vanilla ice cream; it’s supposed to taste like a Creamsicle. Who would’ve guessed? www.theolivetap.com
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