Thanks for all the frass

Whole lotta action on the patio!  It's a three-ring circus worthy of Sneelock, my spiritual advisor.


And just by the way of the way I'm okay today I say I'm very grateful for:

Play

And also:


To Dr. Seuss for the words and pictures.
To Dave Brubeck for the music.
To Cliff Hillegass for the roses, 
and Jerry Garcia for the rainbows.




To Ms. Janie and the other Ms. Janie for curiosity and compassion.
To the Woolly Mammoth for the macro world of digital photography.
To owls of Omaha, red-tailed hawks of Oklahoma, and the Allman Brothers for saving my life more than once.

To Gail Butt for rich, bright, and delicate.


To Dale and Norma for screened porch serenity, rope swing risk, sandbar simplicity, and fishing bobber patience.
To Bernd Heinrich and John Janovy for cosmic biology.
To Fritzi for the curse and gift of perfectionism.
To hummingbirds and anoles for joy.

This little anole is about 1/4 the size of that Giant Swallowtail caterpillar.  It is hopping from one mint leaf to the next, making the patio a tiny popcorn popper.





To Aunt Em for cursive perseverance.
To Coach for the opera backstage.
To Maurice Sendak and Pierre for care.
To Ms. Heather for wisdom and basil.
To Howie for graph paper and blue prints.


To all the red wiggler worms named Dave for taking it below ground.
To Juliet for being my artistic muse, O These Many Years.
To the Buick Skylark for hanging in there for 175,000 miles as my alter ego. I'd like to think it will emerge soon from its chrysalis transformed just like the caterpillars.

In all the whole world the most wonderful spot is right behind where you are in the big vacant lot. Clean up the cans!


It's a Barnum and Bailey world.  Grab onto the trapeze.




© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder


So long, and thanks for all the frass.

Webbed bliss

When I got the spider on the left in focus I didn't even notice the spider on the right. I love that digital photography lets me see things I wouldn't otherwise. Are these two frolicking in webbed wedded bliss?

Trouble with those pesky little b's and d's is rampant as the preschoolers prepare their Father's Day project. I love my dabby!  I love my baddy!

I love these turtles just hanging out in the sunny curve of the creek far below the trail. They seemed pretty blissed. I may need to find my inner turtle today.










© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Grocery Cart Lady

Took this snapshot through my dusty windshield.  I was struck by the sunny halo over Grocery Cart Lady when I was leaving the parking lot.

Grocery Cart Lady weighs about 105 lbs. She is somewhere between thirty and sixty years old, nationality of origin unknown. I don't remember her ever speaking, and I've probably never verbally acknowledged her presence even though I see her at least three times a week. Her eyes are dark, bright crow's eyes. Her face makes me think she was horribly burned at some time.

This grocery store is on a hill. Pushing a long train of carts up from the parking lot to the store must be extremely hard work in all kinds of weather. Sometimes she wears a plastic rain poncho.  She always wears a cloak of invisibility, existing outside the range of awareness of those she serves.

Her presence, her work has scratched my consciousness now. I have taken her picture if not her portrait. I need to be a better human!

What does Grocery Cart Lady do at the end of her shift?  Does she ride a bus to another part-time job, putting on a different shirt with a different logo to scoop ice cream cones or clean offices?  Does she have a home?  A family?  Does she save her earnings and send them to her family?  Can she walk safely down her sidewalk after dark?

What about all the other workers laboring on the hazy fringe of my consciousness?  That's the trouble with with letting that little ray of awareness in!  You get a shot of responsibility with a call to action on the side.

Call for public morality or Christian kindness.  Call suffering inevitable.  Call me with a personal arrogance foul for assuming Grocery Cart Lady is unhappy, overworked, or underpaid. Maybe her life is vastly more authentic and sublime than mine.  My house is built of flimsy cards.

 © 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Hark, hark, we must ponder bark

Backward brain slowly notices the nursery rhyme setting the rhythm for my walk around the Galatyn trail. Backward brain wonders about the chicken or the egg.  First?  Seeing bark everywhere? OR the rhythm?

Unwinding from the high-pressure multi-gabilliozon-dollar world of a Montessori spring festival set designer.  Oh!  The glitter!  The press!  The enquiring minds!  Holy cow.

But back to the bark.  Om.  It's unseasonably warm and dang muggy on the trail.  I'm getting a bad case of sweaty cap hair.  This trail is a little "gem" preserved between a telecom business district and the DART light-rail train line.

Hark, hark, the dogs do bark!
Beggars are coming to town,
Some in rags, some in tags,
And some in velvet gown.

What does this mean???  For answers, I checked here. And it was "some in rags, some in jags" in early versions.  Jags are those slashings in the sleeves of Tudor costumes!

That is all the pondering for now.  Happy walking!

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

New growth on prickly pear

I love the tension between sharp greens and heavy-laden grays of spring,.  I love the sprouts and the storms, the dang piccolos versus kettle drums, Peter Rabbit vs. Old Mr. MacGregor on Pay-Per-View.  The contest gets me through the sinus headaches and aggravations of sticky, green pollen coating my windshield.  The pollen defies the washer fluid and gets smeared by tired wipers. The cobalt violet of blooming redbuds adds the neon shock of pain and ecstasy, much like the time the otorhinolaryngologist rammed his scope into my deviated septum.  This is spring.

en garde  (ä gärd)

interj.

Used to warn a fencer to assume the position preparatory to a match.

---

[French : en, on + garde, guard.]

[Disc 3 of my "Carmen" cd is damaged right where Don Jose and Escamillo fight.  And I dreamt I forgot to shave my legs.  Knew the crossword puzzle answer for the clue "Gillette blade" though--ATRA]

Felt like I'd been through the woodchipper even before arriving home from work.  The elementary students did the printmaking for the music festival invitations, and the results will be totally awesome.  Tonight this art teacher will have a bad case of brayer shoulder and should go to bed early.  Thanks to the glittergoods blogger for this perfect spring green brayer illustration:

The lawn service guys for the condo are sending today's prunings through a real woodchipper.  The high-pitched whine makes the hairs on my arms stand straight up and shriek.  Yup.  Spring.  Now 'scuse me while I ice my March madness injury! 

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Bogged down, blogged down

Grover is in the pits.  The tar pits.  He has fallen, and he can't get up.  I can really feel the suck of the asphalt immobilizing the Sesame Street inaction figure in the condo parking lot.  My walking buddy and I discovered Grover on our walk right after the rain ended this noon.

Sucks, mired, immobilized.  Sounds like my life lately, and it is time to pull myself out.

I'm starting a bucket list just so I can put the La Brea Tar Pits on it.  For now my bucket is half full of rubber bands, not half empty.


© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Hobgoblin of little minds

Hodblogkins are in my sinuses with tiny sledgehammers, tapping, driving the golden stake, and hitting their own little thumbs. Tree pollen is high. Grass pollen is medium high. Wind is from SSE at 24 mph gusting to 34 mph.

It's been a bad day all around. Our newest preschool student hides in the restroom when she isn't making herself gag or shrieking about the terrible bunny rabbit. I feel a C-clamp squeezing on my skull.

Just getting past the trouble with the letter C s-s-s- making the k-k-k sound is a trip. Cluck! Again the trouble with my brain being switched with that of a chicken!  Settling Dad's estate has become far more problematic than I ever expected.


Lately I've been buying eggs from the farmer grandpa of a student for $3/dozen.  Love their look and the deviled eggs are to die for. And those tiny hammers are cracking the shells...

"A foolish consistency," according to Mr. Ralph Waldo in his Self-Reliance essay, is the real "hobgoblin of little minds".  Parental inconsistency is the biggest problem facing preschoolers. Self-reliant is what our kids need to become. Tough enough to peel the shell off a hard-boiled egg all by themselves!

On the first date I ever had in my whole life the guy try to get past first base by claiming to adore Emerson's Over-Soul essay.  Unlike Barbra Steisand's Judy/Burnsie in What's Up, Doc? I did not adore anyone who adored Emerson that much:

Mr. Larrabee: I must point out that "foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."

Judy: Emerson!

Mr. Larrabee: I beg your pardon my dear?

Judy: Ralph Waldo Emerson, born 1803, died 1882.

Mr. Larrabee: You like Emerson?

Judy: I adore him!

Mr. Larrabee: I adore anyone who adores Emerson.

Judy: And I adore anyone who adores anyone who adores Emerson. Your turn.

And now, back to reading Thomas Mallon's Watergate with a lengthy cast of cracked eggs and hobgoblins.  Dad followed the downfall of  his "Tricky Dick" with such concentration that I couldn't skip this novel.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Spring cheers and Shipoopi dances

Twiggy the cheerleader wants me to give her an S.  Give her a P.  Give her R--I--N--G!  What's that spell?  What's that spell?  Spring!

Twiggy has her pompoms.  She's doing a Herkie.  If you squint you can see her tiny top and hot pants.

The preschoolers celebrated Pee In Your Shoes Day with an outpouring of, shall we say, enthusiasm.  Who marked the calendar for this special occasion?  No one consulted with me, or I would have brought more towels and disinfectant, plus spare socks. 

Spring is sprung.  The grass is riz.  Entirely too much puddle-wonderful wiz on those goat feet.  The grape hyacinths are channeling the Buddy Hackett "Shipoopi" number in The Music Man.

Well a woman who'll kiss on the very first date
Is usually a hussy.
And a woman who'll kiss on the second time out
Is anything but fussy.
But a woman who waits 'til the third time around, 
Head in the clouds, feet on the ground!
She's the girl he's glad he's found--she's his 
Shi-Poo-Pi! Shi-Poo-Pi! Shi-Poo-Pi! Shi-Poo-Pi!

My biggest moment in theatre occurred in the summer of '95.  I was subbing for the children's theater director doing the lights, woefully unprepared, and excited to blow the train whistle.  My eldest was holding the heavy satchel as Charlie the anvil salesman.  

Danger Baby had the words for "Rock Island" written on his hand.  The youngster portraying Marcellus Washburn deserved an Oscar for staying in character all the way through the "Shi-poo-pi" number even though his belt broke and his trousers sank further and further toward his shoes as the song went on.

Whatddya talk?

Thanks for the hyacinths.

Thanks for the daffodils,

jonquils and narcissus.

Ever met a fella by the name of Hill?

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Row. Such a simple word. Row.

Inspired by the rowing Geico guinea pigs, I am trying to teach penguins to surf.  True, the penguins are inside a paperweight I received from a coworker on Valentine's Day.  I've got time on my hands, though, since Windows insists on downloading and installing new updates by the hundreds.

Think outside the cube.

Mr. Hopper's penguins.

When penguins bowl.

Whistling in the glass elevator.

Huddle in the corner office.

Midnight in Paris.

As my elementary school principal calmly suggested, "Use your time wisely."


© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Where to begin? Where do we end? What to wear? Will there be treats?

So far behind.  Lately I've been very happy to wear my New Balance walking shoes because they ARE NOT WHITE.  They look more like short hiking boots than peri-geezerette non-running shoes.

I don't believe in a heaven or a hell, and I know Howie didn't either.  Still, he might be hanging out just anywhere, maybe under the overpass.  There was a wire circle there that made me think of recycling halos.

My dear Organic Cousin's Ex-Wife lost her elderly mother recently.  Well, her mother is not really lost, just departed after a fall, many broken vertebrae, and pneumonia.  My OCExW says that the deceased have forty-one days to move on, but until then they can make phantom telephone calls, ringing and ringing on a nonexistent cellphone.  She and her husband and a friend heard it several times.  For real.  Okay, just so the deceased don't send text messages.  I don't have an unlimited message plan!  Maybe Dad is just messing a bit with my computer and/or my condo mailbox.  Something is definitely messing with both of them.

When I walk the under/over trail in Richardson, I keep tabs on the new grass growing through the plastic netting used to control erosion.  Get fun sparkly effects as the sun heads down.

And that is all for now.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Mud thoughts

No, not musing on ugly campaign tactics, walking under the freeway.  Wednesday was so beautiful I made another trek  under Over World.  And there was joy in Mudville when mighty CollageMama looked up.

With color on hiatus, texture is much more visible.  The many installations of mud tubes on the concrete support columns and beams under the freeway ramps impressed me with their structural precision and beauty.  Thanks to a former teacher/365photographer in Tennessee, I've learned they are made by organ pipe mud dauber wasps.  [No, that was not Mork's wife.]  Male mud dauber wasps guard the nest while the females go hunting for orb spiders to stuff into the pipes to feed the little ones.  Okay, I'm not going to make the manicotti for supper tonight...

There are many mud bird nests under the freeway access ramps, but not any under the main lanes of US 75.  Too much noise and vibration?  Or maybe to far a first flight to open sky?  There is a shortage of graffiti, too.  Will the birds and spray paint artists return to nest in the spring?  What can I learn about teaching clay projects for children from the birds, the wasps, and the tire tracks?

Heading back toward the trailhead, a word that sounds ridiculous in this urban setting, I annoyed a great blue heron in the creek on beyond the graffiti column.  The heron flew away against the traffic.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Monet pops bubblewrap/writes cursive with sparklers

 Not exactly waterlilies, but still plenty of ripples.  My visual meanderings and Art History 101 flashbacks were interrupted by a buzzer.  ZZZZZ!  Still your turn?

Splendid tiny milkweed pyrotechnics.  Sparklers sold in a sulphur tent.  Spinning faster than that busy bird buzzes ZZZZ.

Small.
Crest.
Gray.
Noisy as all get out
Smoke detector
Restaurant pager
Seriously pissed
Seriously buzzing tenor
with a chickadee
singing soprano.
Even a do-si-do or two.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Prairie Creek Park

After work on this dark, misty afternoon I followed a sign to a nearby park knowing I needed to get in some nature, walking, and photo time before I could watch Dad eat jello with his fingers and soup with a fork.  Prairie Creek Park was lovely.

NEEDED ...  


Indeed I felt knee-dead, and knee-deep in the muck of preschool world.  I needed my sewing sore shoulders kneaded, but that wasn't likely to happen.


The park is a jewel.  Now that I've found it, I'll return often.  

 More Eve's Necklace berries.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Shared sightings

The trails loop around and crisscross in the woods above Rowlett Creek.  I was trying not to follow the young couple on the trail.  First spotted them as they were having such fun balancing like gymnasts on the big fallen log that blocks the trail.  I struggle just to get up and over the log each hike, praying not to break my hip.  I instinctively like the pair, as they seemed to be good friends, not just hormonal adolescents.  I miss having teen sons and their good friends gathered around my dining table.

The second time our paths cross, the couple was studying something in the tall grass.  They excitedly waved me over to see their find, a very big orb spider.  They were trying to take a cell phone photo without disturbing the web or getting into the weeds.  Sensible young spider enthusiasts!

"I feel like I'm cheating," I told them.  "I hike these trails looking for spider moments.  You found the spider, not me."  They finished their photo shoot then told me, "She's all yours now."

Fitting for a cheater, my photos of their spider did not turn out.  This photo is a similar spider I found all by myself two weeks ago on the other side of the creek.

Third time we met I thanked the teen couple for sharing their spider and followed them on the shortcut out of the woods and back to the pond.  Then they headed left to be hormonal adolescents, polite but glad to be rid of my chaperoning.  I headed right looking for a great blue heron.

Bumbling along taking photos of dried seed heads and cattails, I met an older cyclist paused and staring at the empty fishing pontoon pier.  He waved me over to see what he saw.  What the hey-ho?!!  A big dang water snake was writhing and slithering on the pier.  It was at least as big around  as a toilet paper tube.  I can speak with some authority here, having spent part of my day with the preschoolers making festive Thanksgiving napkin rings using toilet paper tubes and gold tempera paint.  It was a seriously goose-bump inducing snake, but the older cyclist was cute in a mature nature-watching way.  The snake slid off the edge of the pier back into the pond.  The moment was over, just a pushpin on the Geography of Bliss trail map.

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder