?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Answers to Your Questions

  1. Yes, I try to blog every day; but I don’t always make it.
  2. Yes, I feel guilty when I miss a day. But, at my age, not so guilty that I beat myself up about it.
  3. No, there is never “writer’s block.” There is always something each day to write about.

But Spring came early this year, and I’ve been in my gardens for the past few days. Usually I don’t plant until the middle of May because there’s always a danger in Zone 5, where I live in terms of gardening, that frost will sneak in and ruin all my hard work.

I checked the forecast for the coming two weeks and decided to chance it. So the petunias, geraniums, zinnias, marigolds (Jumbo ones this year), and herbs are all in their allotted spaces. They seem happy to be released from their tiny plastic containers.

And I am happy that much of the hard work is done.

Any more questions?

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Mending Wall

I’ve always been struck by Robert Frost’s poem, “Mending Wall,” about the spring ritual of two neighbors meeting to repair the stone wall that divides their properties. There are so many things about the poem to ponder. To read the poem yourself, go here:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44266/mending-wall

Is meeting to repair a wall necessary?

Will one’s pine trees really eschew the other’s apple orchard?

Why do walls make for good neighbors?

Today, craftsmen came to repair the fence that encompasses our patio. It’s been here 15 years and needed a redo. No, there was no neighbor to work with me, no philosophical musings. Only two workers who will be paid. Still, the work reminded me of Frost.

Perhaps good fences make good neighbors, as the poem says. But perhaps they also inspire gardeners to put their best feet forward with or without neighbors.

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Paraprosdokians

Yes, I know. The first thing about this word is its pronunciation. For the record, it’s – and this is my version – pair-a-prose-doke-e-an. If you look it up you see something like /paerepros’doukien/.

Second, Wikipedia tells us all about its etymology. Paraprosdokian comes from the Greek, but is not a term of classical Greek or Latin Rhetoric. In fact, it was first used in 1896, long after the Greek and Latin eras.

So . . . you probably want to know what a paraprosdokian is. Well, it’s grammatical construct – again according to Wikipedia – “the latter part of a sentence, phrase, or larger discourse is surprising or unexpected in a way that causes the reader or listener to reframe or reinterpret the first part.”

While this definition is accurate, perhaps examples explain it better.

“I’ve had a perfectly wonderful evening, but this wasn’t it.” – Groucho Marx

“He taught me housekeeping; when I divorce I keep the house.” – Zsa Zsa Gabor

“When I was a kid my parents moved a lot, but I always found them.” – Rodney Dangerfield

“There are three kinds of people in the world – those who can count and  those who can’t.” – Unknown

“Always remember my grandfather’s last words: “A truck!” – Emo Phillips

Even though I consider myself knowledgeable about many types of word play, the term “paraprosdokian” was new to me. I bet it’s new to you too.

For more, visit https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paraprosdokian#Etymology or https://www.yourdictionary.com/articles/paraprosdokian-funny-sentences.

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The Minutes

It’s been a cultural weekend. Yesterday I attended a piano recital; this afternoon I attended a production of Tracy Lett’s play, “The Minutes.” Both were well done, but the former was about melting into the music while the latter was about jarring your beliefs.

“The Minutes,” written by Letts during the 2016 presidential election, is (per the internet) “a satire of small-town bureaucracy that grows progressively darker as it careens toward a frenzied finale.” Various websites call it a comedy. I disagree.

Here is a synopsis of the story from www.broadway.com. I couldn’t have written anything better, so I’m deferring to someone else.

The Minutes, the record-breaking hit production from Steppenwolf Theatre Company, takes a hard look at the inner workings of a city council meeting and the hypocrisy, greed, and ambition that bubble to the surface when a newcomer to the small town of Big Cherry starts to ask the wrong questions.

Why is someone on the council mysteriously missing? What happened to all those bicycles? Is there skullduggery afoot with the city’s finances? What’s the deal with the available parking space? What the F is going on with the Lincoln Smackdown? And why are the minutes from the last meeting being kept secret? 

Part Parks & Recreation, part Twilight Zone, this powerful, resonant, and funny portrayal of democracy in action proves that everything you know can change—it’s just a matter of minutes.”

Today was the last performance of the production at the Ghostlight Theatre in Benton Harbor, so I can’t encourage you to see it there. Still, I encourage you to see it or read about it or somehow learn its message. It could stand you in good stead in the 2024 presidential election.

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Piano Recital

My piano teacher has a fall and spring recital featuring the skills of her beginning students to her graduating high school seniors. It is always worth attending.

It’s been held in various venues over the years, but today’s recital was at the Hanson Theatre at Lake Michigan College, a smaller cousin to the larger Mendel Center there.

The Hanson Theatre is the perfect venue for this event. It’s small and intimate; there isn’t a bad seat; and the acoustics are pleasing. And, because it’s a professional stage, instead of a local school auditorium, the students always rise to the occasion.

I don’t mean in terms of their playing; that’s a given particularly because their piano teacher is so good at what she does. She customizes her teaching for each student depending on the age, skill level, and musical curiosity.

But what the Hanson adds could be described as “demeanor.” Most of the girls wore dresses this afternoon; the boys showed up in pants, although the occasional high schooler didn’t get past jeans. However, one young man wore a dress shirt and bow tie. The atmosphere is one of solemnity befitting Carnegie Hall.

As a piano student who began her studies in middle age, I am always impressed with how easy the younger students make it look.  Middle school pupils and high schoolers attacked the works of Chopin, Bach, Grieg, and others with a confidence that I’ve yet to acquire. It’s compounded by the fact that not one of the performers was born when I started lessons 21 years ago.

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Mustard

One casualty of the Wild Game Dinner was the sleeve of my light blue spring jacket that went home with bright yellow mustard stains.

Anyone who does laundry knows mustard is one of the more difficult condiments to get off clothing. First it kerplops only on clothing you really like. And you’re usually at some event where taking off the garment and heading to a washing machine is not possible.

The internet isn’t overstating anything when it says, “Mustard, as most things in the real world, has complicated chemistry,” which also contributes to its being difficult to remove. The internet also has a ton of suggestions for removing mustard, but time is of the essence in all of them.

In my humble experience, which includes not only the light blue spring jacket but a brand new white shirt and a favorite pair of jeans, what not to do is just as important. The first reaction is to grab a napkin or tissue and wipe off the excess mustard. Doing this just seems to imbed the stain into the clothing. Don’t dip a paper napkin in your water glass and dab the mustard either. And don’t panic.

When you get to a washing machine, squirt the offending mustard with a really viscous cleaning agent: Spray n Wash, Dawn, Percil. Then let it rest for about ten minutes before gently – and I mean really gently – rubbing the soap into the garment. Then put it in the washing machine on a brief cycle. This allows you to see what progress you’ve made. If there is still mustard, repeat. If there is no mustard, either rewash or put your garment in the dryer.

That is how it’s best to “cut the mustard.”

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Wild Game Dinner

The Wild Game Dinner, sponsored annually by The Chapel, EFC, is an unusual event in many ways. As a member of the sponsoring church, Earl loves the whole idea: the camaraderie among men who are the majority of those in attendance, the food, the message, and the door prizes (although we’ve never won any). I’m not sure we’ve attended all eight annual events, but we’ve shown up to most.

What makes it unusual in my eyes?

First, the sanctuary is turned into a to a hunter’s delight with all kinds of deer heads (There’s probably a more technical term for a taxidermied deer, but I don’t know it.)  covering the entire stage where Sunday services are held. There’s also a stuffed bear or two.

Second, the menu is definitely about wild game and its processed remains. We were offered kangaroo and ostrich snacks, as well as wild boar pulled meat and some kind of wild animal bratwurst. Although there were vegetarian options such as salad and mashed potatoes, I doubt vegetarians would have been comfortable at the table.

After the meal, there is an inspirational speaker who is a cross between a hunting/fishing icon and some kind of preacher. To be truthful, I’ve never researched the speaker’s credentials, but in the years that I’ve attended every speaker uses the outdoors as a pulpit for accepting Jesus into one’s life. This speaker, Jimmy Sites, was no different.

Sites was a most entertaining speaker and kept my attention throughout his longer-than-I’d-hoped presentation, He ended his comments with requests for those who just now, right now, in the moment, maybe because of the emotions involved, accepted Jesus into their lives. He even told the non-Christians in the audience to commit as well.

That’s when I checked out mentally. I understand most religions think theirs is the only true one. But I’ve always felt it was insulting to suggest from the “pulpit” that anyone who is a fervent believer of a different faith should abandon it. It is like telling vegetarians to get over it right now and have a wild game brat.

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Tim Foley

Today’s local newspaper reported the death of Tim Foley, local restaurateur and chef extraordinaire, on the front page. There were few specific details as to how he died; rather there were testimonies to how he lived.

According to the paper, everyone was his friend, and this was evident whenever M and I went to his restaurant, bread+bar. He worked the room effortlessly and tirelessly just as he’d worked equally so to make Bit Of Swiss the gourmet pastry shop it is.

I didn’t know Tim personally, although I felt I did. He always came by our table when he and M and I showed up on the same night at the restaurant. M just returned from Florida, and I think the best way to remember Tim is to visit bread+bar soon, as the paper said it would remain open during this time, “as Tim would have wanted.”

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Time . . . to go

I’ve subscribed to “Time” magazine for decades. At first, when it was in its heyday before there was instant news, I looked forward to its drop in my mailbox every week. It was contemporary, informative, and succinct.

But that was in the last millennium. Now it’s relegated to a feature approach to most articles instead of a news approach, partly because it comes out twice monthly since 2020. You can’t be the forerunner of news with a schedule like that.

The most current issue is a collection of what “Time” call the “world’s most influential people.” It  is divided into six categories of “influencers,” such artists, titans, leaders, etc. Granted, the people who were chosen are recognizable in their genre; but are they worldly influential? I don’t think so.

Patrick Mahomes of Kansas City Chiefs football fame is on the cover of my edition. He is a great football player, but I’ve never considered him an “influencer” beyond the realm of his profession. Maybe he supports Little League teams; maybe he has a foundation to help underprivileged children play football; or maybe he donates a ton of money to worthy causes.

Still, I don’t think that makes him one of the world’s most influential people? Rather it makes him someone to help “Time” sell magazines.

All in all, I think “Time” should wrap it up. The information is old and cold before it arrives in my mailbox. And, actually, the fact that I subscribed for two years for $20 should have told me how desperate the publication was.

Sorry Patrick, but I do not plan to resubscribe.

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Pancake Breakfast

I’m not a breakfast person, but once a year I get up at 7 AM and go to the Sodus Fire Department’s annual pancake affair.

It’s one of those events where the whole community – infants, teens, families, seniors – turns out to pay ten dollars and be served by local volunteer firefighters in their natural habitat: the firehouse. The engines and trucks are moved outside to be replaced by rows of folding tables and chairs from the local church. The Miss Blossomtime beauty pageant is usually the week before this event, and the winners act as servers along with the firefighters.

Guests choose any combination of the following three items — eggs, pancakes, sausage – which enables vegetarians to dine too. Veterans eat free.

The food arrives on the best economical paper plates and is accompanied by a variety of juices, coffees, and noise. Unlike some breakfast establishments that want to turn tables, we linger and run into people we haven’t seen all winter.

It’s quite a production. Volunteers solicit donations from other businesses to defray costs. Others prepare condiments while still others sign on as cooks. And then there’s the clean-up crew.

For someone who rarely eats breakfast, I always enjoy the whole thing and appreciate what goes into creating a slice of Americana.

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