Asheville

Michael and I frequently discuss how lucky we are to go "home" to two of the most beautiful places in the country: Northern California and Western North Carolina.

It's a North Carolina Christmas this year and, coincidentally, I just read two things today that reminded me of where we'll be spending the holidays... in the mountains, cozied up by the fire, and spending time with friends and family.

I just saw on Facebook that Good Morning America selected Asheville as one of its most beautiful place in America (in addition to Point Reyes).

Then I opened up my email and American Life in Poetry featured a beautiful poem about the Blue Ridge (even though she refers to the Virginia portion of the Blue Ridge, the imagery she describes reminds me of NC).

American Life in Poetry: Column 351
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

In many of those Japanese paintings with Mt. Fuji in the background, we find tiny figures moving along under the immensity of the landscape. Here’s an American version of a scene like that, by Stanley Plumly of Maryland, one of our country’s most accomplished poets.

Off A Side Road Near Staunton

Some nothing afternoon, no one anywhere,
an early autumn stillness in the air,
the kind of empty day you fill by taking in
the full size of the valley and its layers leading
slowly to the Blue Ridge, the quality of country,
if you stand here long enough, you could stay
for, step into, the way a landscape, even on a wall,
pulls you in, one field at a time, pasture and fall
meadow, high above the harvest, perfect
to the tree line, then spirit clouds and intermittent
sunlit smoky rain riding the tops of the mountains,
though you could walk until it’s dark and not reach those rains—
you could walk the rest of the day into the picture
and not know why, at any given moment, you’re there.

Bless Their Hearts

I just received my Amercian Life in Poetry email and sometimes Ted Kooser finds a poem that highlights our American culture perfectly.  Hope you enjoy this... especially if you've ever lived in the South. 

American Life in Poetry: Column 347
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

My mother and her sisters were experts at using faint praise, and “Bless her heart” was a very useful tool for them. Richard Newman, of St. Louis, does a great job here of showing us how far that praise can be stretched.

Bless Their Hearts
At Steak ‘n Shake I learned that if you add
“Bless their hearts” after their names, you can say
whatever you want about them and it’s OK.
My son, bless his heart, is an idiot,
she said. He rents storage space for his kids’
toys—they’re only one and three years old!
I said, my father, bless his heart, has turned
into a sentimental old fool. He gets
weepy when he hears my daughter’s greeting
on our voice mail. Before our Steakburgers came
someone else blessed her office mate’s heart,
then, as an afterthought, the jealous hearts
of the entire anthropology department.
We bestowed blessings on many a heart
that day. I even blessed my ex-wife’s heart.
Our waiter, bless his heart, would not be getting
much tip, for which, no doubt, he’d bless our hearts.
In a week it would be Thanksgiving,
and we would each sit with our respective
families, counting our blessings and blessing
the hearts of family members as only family
does best. Oh, bless us all, yes, bless us, please
bless us and bless our crummy little hearts.

The Office Holiday Party

I subscribe to American Life in Poetry where former Poet Laureate Ted Koozer sends out emails featuring poets from around the country (and occasionally from around the world).  This isn't Shakespeare or Thoreau.  Koozer selects poems that capture everyday, simple emotions in short, little stanzas.

I thought I'd share today's poem because sometimes I feel like the annual holiday office party is a strange beast.  There's usually decorations, games, music, dancing, drinking... all the elements of a great party... but then you're forced to hang out with a bunch of co-workers that you would never hang out with outside of work.  I never really thought much about it before, but this can bring up some insecurities... as presented in this installment of American Life in Poetry:

At any given moment, there must be 100,000 of us trying to fit in, and finding it next to impossible. Here’s a wonderful portrayal of that difficulty, by Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, who lives in Astoria, New York.
At the Office Holiday Party

I can now confirm that I am not just fatter
than everyone I work with, but I’m also fatter
than all their spouses. Even the heavily bearded
bear in accounting has a little otter-like boyfriend.

When my co-workers brightly introduce me
as “the funny one in the office,” their spouses
give them a look which translates to, Well, duh,
then they both wait for me to say something funny.

A gaggle of models comes shrieking into the bar
to further punctuate why I sometimes hate living
in this city. They glitter, a shiny gang of scissors.
I don’t know how to look like I’m not struggling.

Sometimes on the subway back to Queens,
I can tell who’s staying on past the Lexington stop
because I have bought their shoes before at Payless.
They are shoes that fool absolutely no one.

Everyone wore their special holiday party outfits.
It wasn’t until I arrived at the bar that I realized
my special holiday party outfit was exactly the same
as the outfits worn by the restaurant’s busboys.

While I’m standing in line for the bathroom,
another patron asks if I’m there to clean it.

Retirement

I'm not a huge poetry fan, but I am a fan of Ted Kooser's American Life in Poetry emails.

As you all probably know, I am perpetually counting down the days to my retirement. Of course, social security will be dried up and my IRA won't last too long with all the plans I have... but, we can all dream. Here's Ted's pick of the week to highlight simpler times awaiting Michael and me in our old age.

American Life in Poetry: Column 252

BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE, 2004-2006

My grandfather, when in his nineties, wrote me a letter in which he listed everything he and my uncle had eaten in the past week. That was the news. I love this poem by Nancyrose Houston of Seattle for the way it plays with the character of those letters from home that many of us have received.

The Letter From Home

The dogs barked, the dogs scratched, the dogs got wet, the dogs shook, the dogs circled, the dogs slept, the dogs ate, the dogs barked; the rain fell down, the leaves fell down, the eggs fell down and cracked on the floor; the dust settled, the wood floors were scratched, the cabinets sat without doors, the trim without paint, the stuff piled up; I loaded the dishwasher, I unloaded the dishwasher, I raked the leaves, I did the laundry, I took out the garbage, I took out the recycling, I took out the yard waste.
There was a bed, it was soft, there was a blanket, it was warm, there were dreams, they were good.
The corn grew, the eggplant grew, the tomatoes grew, the lettuce grew, the strawberries grew, the blackberries grew; the tea kettle screamed, the computer keys clicked, the radio roared, the TV spoke. “Will they ever come home?” “Can’t I take a break?” “How do others keep their house clean?” “Will I remember this day in fifty years?”
The sweet tea slipped down my throat, the brownies melted in my mouth.
My mother cooked, the apple tree bloomed, the lilac bloomed, the mimosa bloomed, I bloomed.