Or Pak Lan, as it’s known in Hawaii.
A hybridized Magnolia, in fact. And it smells (if only you could) divine.
Growing on trees, often planted near Asian temples, I’ve heard it also referred to as the Temple flower.
Təˈmātō, Teˈmätō
How do you want to say it?
Half-full or half-empty.
It all depends on how you want to see it.
Yes, we are picking the last tomato harvest from this address. We could mourn the loss of our sweet home with each ripe cherry we pop in our mouths. Or with every juicy bite, we could consider the seeds we are sowing for a fresh garden bed in our new abode…which is yet to be determined.
I’ve said I’d keep the Archives abreast of my family’s moving process. And I’ll be honest. Craigslist remains a scant listing of resort-like condominiums renting at high rates in distant zip codes. Our friends offer encouragement and best wishes, but no leads.
We have 59 days between now and our move-out deadline.
I ask the Bohemian if he is nervous.
In his typical (and well-appreciated by me) fashion, he responds, “No. I’m not afraid.”
Seems you can only do so much to ‘control’ circumstances. How you see it makes all the difference, right? Perhaps all we can ‘control’ is our own mind.
The Bohemian, he’s out in the garden harvesting tomatoes. Working with what’s right in front of him. Grateful for an abundant crop.
He did the work. Put in his time and love to those tomatoes. Had the best intention. The rest was up to the garden gods.
Today, I’ll trust in that. Enjoy the garden abundance.
Stealing a Slice of the Moon
I wake at 4:30am with a thought that I’ve plagiarized my father.
It was that cheddar cheese moon line in my last post “Don’t Forget the Dolphins.” The words that were whispered to me, ever-so quietly, by the right-side lobe of my brain that was backseat driving.
It was offering artful angles on my daily practicalities. Reminding me of the beauty back-dropping my to-do lists.
“Come on, tell them about that rising full moon at dusk. The color of cheddar cheese and bigger than the sun. How it seemed to rise out of the two-lane road as you and the Bohemian drove, side by side, salt-coated from your sunset swim. Go on, tell them.”
Oh, that frontal lobe and its backseat cues. Did it lead me to steal?
Cheddar cheese, cheddar cheese. I wake with this thought that, perhaps, I’d just recently read a poem of my dad’s pairing the moon with a yellow-orange block of dairy.
He’s the poet of the family (and I’m proud to say he was recently given his second Wrangler Award for Outstanding Poetry Book by the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum – congratulations, Dad!).
Me, I’m only putting words on the page and justifying margins. And now, I’m wondering if I’m an inadvertent plagiarizer, as well.
I scan the posts from my father’s blog, Dry Crik Journal, trying to find a cheese reference. As I search, I recall growing up with chunks of cheddar as a staple in the family ‘ice box.’ The sharp, pungent scent that would rise from the block as it warmed on the cutting board. My father, passing through the kitchen, to slice a thick slab and snack.
I keep searching his words but my poem perusing turns up empty. I find no reference to cheddar cheese and the moon from my father. Was it some other poet?
Nerve fibers connect and fire some electrical storm of All-things in my head. Intuition and dreams are housed beside logic and systems. To-do lists get mapped to poetry. My brain is one big mix of what’s been soaked in and what wants to seep out. I don’t know where the cheddar cheese and moon came from.
Dad, if I snagged it from you, I apologize, and I’ll offer up credit where it’s rightly due. If I sourced from some other writer in the world, thank you for gifting me the shade of which to describe that rising moon. Cheddar cheese color it was, and you named the palette.
To anyone that loves the moon, or who can appreciate a good chunk of cheddar, let’s all gather round the cutting board in the kitchen. Have a snack and share a slice.
For the Archives 