Leftovers

Leftovers, a photo by Sparky2* on Flickr.

We had such a wonderful Thanksgiving with family ... and as a family we've survived some scary times and continue to be grateful for so very much. This year has been unsusually hectic and busy so I didn't have time to write a gratitude poem, take photos for posting with my good wishes for you all and didn't have time to make my mom's traditional Applesauce cake - always the shining star of our Thanksgiving dinner and a necessity for heralding the holiday season.

However ... when it had just hit me that I hadn't made that special cake I got a call from my youngest daughter, Kelly ... "Mom, I still have a half of Nonnie's last Applesauce cake in the freezer; should I bring it?" So the tradition continued without that dreaded misstep. :-)

I enoyed many leftovers this morning: the last of the the fall pumpkins and squashes mixed in with apples and Clementines, the last of the flowers that graced the Thanksgiving table and the last of the yummy cake. It seems only fitting that I share it all with you and this leftover Thanksgiving poem written years ago.

I personally had much, much to be thankful for this year... I hope you all did as well, and had a wonderful love-filled holiday.

Pilgrims

We make our journey home
each year to pick clean
the Thanksgiving turkey
and rattle family bones.

We know our roles
play them well,
shrink or swell to fit
our place at table,
our spot in photographs,
our corner.

I wander about the overflowing house
to an empty room and a seat by the window.
Voices fade, the moment surreal,
I strain to see and feel
the ghosts that swirl among
the bronzed leaves of autumns past.

They're all here.
They come to me, chilled
I will them to stay
warm themselves by the fire
that burns in the heart of a family.

Copyright ©2000 Susan M. Kennedy

Love + Laughter + Joy + Noise = Lukas

I heard somewhere that little boys are mostly noise with dirt on it.  lol!  That sounds about right to me!  What a treasure this noisemaker is!



If a rose blooms and there is no one there to see, does it smell as sweet?

The house behind us is vacant ... I'm afraid under sad circumstances. But while we were playing around I noticed over the fence top the most beautiful roses, clematis, tulip vine. It saddens me to know that there is no one there to enjoy their fragrance with morning coffee or tell them secrets as they trim spent blooms. Maybe I will sneak a few shots through the fence to welcome a new neighbor should one come soon.

My Leonardo

One of Zachary's historical heroes is Leonardo da Vinci. He studied and researched him over the summer - and even built a model orthinopter. You can imagine how thrilled he was to have the honor of portraying da Vinci in his school's recent Multi Cultural Living Museum. He researched period clothing and we scoured Goodwill with happy results ... he wrote his own dialogue, perfected his accent and performed with style and gusto! A touch of a "button" brought each player to life to recite (he says it "felt like about 100 times" throughout the evening.) Leonardo would have been as proud as we were, I'm sure. :-)

Summer hesitating, reluctant to go ...

And I find myself torn between rushing it into fall and holding on ...


and then there is a magic moment when the sun slants just so, the temperatures dip slightly and there is something special on the wind - and I feel as if I've been kissed by autumn and open my heart in welcome.

The poetry of earth is never dead:

The poetry of earth is never dead:, a photo by Sparky2* on Flickr.

On the Grasshopper and the Cricket
by John Keats


The poetry of earth is never dead:
When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury,--he has never done
With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.
The poetry of earth is ceasing never:
On a lone winter evening, when the frost
Has wrought silence, from the stove there shrills
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever,
And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills.