Springeth Green

 

 The Tabebuia  bloom be 'bout as ephemeral as  teen lassie's affection...the few days each spring of her lovely canary canopy teases us such that we w are seduced bye her charm, fickle though she be.  When she dances overhead we gits as excited as any strapling youth at the annual do-si-do.

 

  Before ya' can git yore bones uncreaked, dawn-thirty, Uncle is itchin' to git in the dirt.

 'Round this time of year, keepin'  enough clean garden gloves is a challenge....

The last 20 feet  of Aunty's "annual bed" ( formerly 70 feet of glorious delphiniums, hollyhocks, snapdragons) waits fer Uncle to spade them in...it ain't as showy as we onc't had--mayhap on account of lumbago takin' it's toll, mayhap because when the Pork Rind bidness took a torpedo at midships, Uncle needed somethin' to boss around so he decreed,  "Heah I'se gonna grow mah collards."  

Aunty declines to perspire afore  a third cup o' cawfee.   
Lovely new porcelain mug in hand (Thanks Sis!!)  I wander about the place noting how
 the chillen is all doin' an how each one is a personality unto its ownself.





  The Amaryllis is elegant, a beauty that surprises us'uns wif'out fail, year after year.  Each spring the bulbs shoot skyward on cue, havin' lain asleep for months under the oak leaf decay, as if waiting her True Love.  She rises from hiding, her carriage as faultless as a Countess. Some wear a jeune fille  blush. But the cool, aloof green throat of  Limelight suits mah fancy. With little need of mah care, Amaryllis determines her own course, arriving when she will and departing as whimsically.



  An' if some is preening, an' showy, others-- the cast off orphans of un-labled pots from Easters long past--rise too, in some forgotten patch of undergrowth: A testament to the hardy determination of the species.  How can one withhold admiration? Minus all affection, an' anticipation of approval, they march unaided though the undergrowth on their own path to glory. We see, an' marvel.

 If Amaryllis do best when left to self-direct, the climbing old roses refuse to perform unless a hard pruning rehabilitates them. As some folks have discovered about their own kin: Some is spectacular once snipped of their dead ends, loved and cosseted, then shaped an' coaxed to grow to full potential. 

 Crepe Myrtles too burst forth after a severe retrenchment, a back to basics structure....a Lenten mediation in its own right, the Crepe Myrtles suffer their bald, stripped form--- not undignified, but in fruitful wait for the day of their perfection.



Uncle done earned his second breakfast ( Thank you Tolkien)  by the time Aunty is done musing....though iffin' y'ain't had enough spring, thar's more here (skip  65spam comments for products nice folks doan know about)




We hope Spring has sprung y'all  too! 

Ashes, Ashes We All Fall Down

Good Ash Wednesday Morning.

 Doan know if y'all Mardi  Gras-ed last night or not, some of y' all
may indeed feel like ashes...


 


 but anyhoo, it bears thinkin' about, no matter if ya' sing the nursery rhyme or go all high brow an' read T.S. Eliot's famous poem, Ash Wednesday or hie thee to church an get yore haid smudged wif' ashes made from burning the palms of last year's Palm Sunday palms.*

(Yore teeth is grittin'? Yep, I agree: task and grace are nouns and  should never be verbed nor should Fat Tuesday)

Flannery O' Connor, that soul of Southern Woman wit, said ours is a generation of "wingless chickens" by which she compared us to them hapless birds that can no longer jump, the better to fatten them fer the slaughter ( fer Fat Tuesday?)  

Wingless chickens lose their sense of up or down, and so has we, say Flannery.  Auntybelle ain't got no quarrel wif' Flannery on that.

 
All this by way of invitin' y'all to come visit Ether Capacious every Friday in Lent fer a looky-see into some famous an' infamous thoughts on man an' his  yearnin' fer infinity. ( or, why some confuse down wif' up)




* from the archives, an Ash Wednesday post or two

** from the archives comments on Ash Wednesday, which will helpo explain Karl's comments to the unitiatiated:

 
'Ya don't know... but I lived in Bay St. Louis for 4 yrs...was re-directed that way when gaming opened, and they fetched me from Reno for managerial experience.

I was raised a Christian, but Southern Baptists as dear as they are to me...(and we had Catholics in TX too...even more in Reno) never celebrated their beliefs like the Cajun Catholics did. We never had no umbrellas, or Jumbalaya, or Dirty Rice, or Napkins flying in the breeze on a dance... Naw...

Naw'Orleans taught me a thing or two about life. Mardi Gras is a thing to experience. But it's more than a parade, it's more than a tit or two flying. It's the whole concept...and a quite logical one at that.

Party your ass off for three weeks, then give a few weeks to the Lord for Lint. Seems like a small gift back for what the Lord has done for us all.

I remember the ashes. I remember the sentiment. I remember "getting it". I miss it all. I am sorry that somehow most of what I loved in that area is blown away by Miss Katrina.

Happy Mardi Gras to you Miss Aunty Belle... I have quite a collection of fancy beads (never showed a tit one to get 'em)... I live in Reno and get taunted and teased a bit each year when I wear them like I did today on Fat Tuesday. I have even raised a few eyebrows by bringing in a King Cake and having someone just be in bewilderment that I would endanger their health by placing a gold baby in a piece of not-so normal food.

I miss the Deep South... Wave a napkin and twirl an umbrella for me girlfriend. Try to be good for Lint... Damn...weeks are a long time :) "

Ash Wednesday: Chocolate

Movie Clip Wednesday is here

*
He said it again.





The priest at Mass:

"What does giving up chocolate have to do with your salvation? Give up being a grouch. Give up road rage. Give up cussing, selfishness, laziness. Eat the chocolate, but give up whining and complaining when somebody eats the last piece of chocolate."

He's right. Absolutely.

But, mebbe he is wrong, too.

Giving up some personal pleasure for Lent is less effective than tackling a real character flaw.

Still. Aunty is of a mind that the physical discipline that is required to give somethin' up fer a while is an exercise that most of us non-saints need to do occasionally, an when better than Lent? But thar' is a little catch.

Doan give up desserts for Lent if yore real motivation is to lose a few pounds while appearin' to the world a holy an' pious. Thas' a no-no. Whatever I give up might be a good thang--like movies--that I can take up again after Easter. The whole point is cheerfully give up something as a pure discipline to practice self control over --whatever. The Christian ideal is to subordinate all else to the will of God. Hard to do when personal will is king of the hill. Small acts of deprivation make larger acts of selflessness possible.



The Dogwood Tree is said to have been the wood used for the Cross. Ain't too shure of that. But it is a sweet tradition that the Dogwood flower bears the marks of the Crucifixion. Can you see them in these blooms? The cuts in the four petals, two hands, two feet? Our Dogwoods is in bloom an' they are glorious!

An' Azaleas too.


Once again, I am hoping to make it a good an' thoughtful Lent. I'se pretty weak at it. Someday...someday mebbe I will spend Lent in a Cloister. Do ya' reckon that would be much help? I always wonder iffin' that fantasy is jes' an attempt to escape the hard work of gettin' along wif' folks around me. I hear tell that even in the convent, ya' will have to learn to git along. An' thar's no escape. Hmmmnnn...mayhap, I need to be careful what I wish fer.

Aunty is wishin' y'all a wunnerful Lent, springtime--I'se goin' to blog less fer the duration. The Front Porch will sport some visuals but I'se gonna give up so much yakkin'. Verbosity ain't next to holiness. I will peek in to see what all y'all is doin'...but prolly not say so much.

Iffin' I can git to it, I might start the Back Porch Surprise Project in a few weeks.

I will be a mite more prayerful. Each of ya' will be remembered in a prayerful way this Lent.

See y'all on Easter!

Modern Mortification, but First, a Disclaimer

Jes' to keep thangs copacetic: I did NOT give up bloggin' fer Lent, so I ain't violatin' nuthin' an thereby extendin' mah time in Purgatory.

(A place of purgation--what? Ya never purged? Doan lie.

Ya ate a half a Baskin Robbins Mud Pie an' raced to the loo to get it up an' out, right? The very thought of them cellulite saddlebags brought up all that fat laden carageen, din't even need to poke yore finger down yore gullet--admit it, now.

No? well, mayhap after Skeeter's white lightening' hoe down ya upchucked yore toenails...everybody has had a purge or two intended or unbidden. Well, jes' think of spiritual cellulite hangin' in folds an youse gonna hug purgatory like a college kid hugs the toilet.)

It wuz Granny's woes that done kept me too busy to blog fer the most part, an' it dovetailed wif' Lent, so I'se bloggin' lite fer Lent.

Akshully, I gave up bein' cranky an' sarcastic fer Lent. Lemme tell ya' how much easier it is to give up the way of all flesh. I can make it a day wif'out carousin' or chocolate, but jes' try getting through a day wif' out ONE cranky comment or a cynical curl of the lip.)


When I'se a grade school kiddie we had wunnerful sisters (NOT nuns-- nuns is mostly cloistered, an' it's religious wimmen, Sisters, who's the religious ladies ya see in hospitals an schools an' orphanages) an natcherly they instructed us on the joy an' efficacy of makin' a good Lent.




I took 'em to heart...not that I wuz appreciated within the clan fer my serious demeanor --looky heah at what one of my siblin's thought was mah twin:


Oh yes, Sweet Thangs, this very wind-up, fire -eyed toy was given to yore long sufferin' misunderstood, unappreciated an' much malingned Aunty! Oh the pain of it! ( pain in mah sides from laughin' so hard). An' ya should know, jes' to git the full flavor of mah sufferin's, that it were Pappy Cracker hisself who started it--he done called me "Mother Superior" whenever I dutifully reminded folks that swearin' were a grave insult to heaven's occupants. This is how it went: Uncle Henry would bark, "JEsus Christ"! An' little Aunty Belle in petticoats would shout back "Have Mercy on Us!" to complete the antiphon.

Now, y'all, I does want ya to know that I have made real Lenten efforts. A friend sent me a tip she heard while at a retreat. It's a tip on the how-to of modern mortification.

Old World mortification has been widely explored in cynical renditions of self flagellatin' monks an' such (cf. The Davinci Code) Jes' the same, a certain physical control over yore fleshly temptations ain't out of order: "But I chastise my body and bring it into subjection: lest perhaps, when I have preached to others, I myself should become a castaway." I Corinthians 9:27 ) I reckon athletes git that, I mean, they subject their bodies to all manner of pain to acheive Olympic Gold, an them models on the Vogue covers do the same doan they--fastin' until all flesh falls off so they acheive the glory of fame?


But it seems ter me that modern mortifications is, well, tougher.,

Fer wimmenfolks, try this: leave the house wif'out any make up. Doan put none on yore face, an' leave yore make-up bag outa yore purse. NO make-up. Nada. None. Wanna increase yore Lenten offerin'? Do this no make-up routine on the day the big boss is comin' to town, on the day of yore book-club luncheon, the day yore former boyfriend an' his new bride is bein' introduced at the neighborhood BBQ.

(heah's a version of the power make-up has over a woman:

yup---a li'l powder an' paint goes a loooong way fer some ladies!)


Thas' mortification all right. Mortificāre "to put to death"---to killit daid. Mortify that pesky pride of yores. Heh. Jes' try it. Y'all will be amazed at how hard pride is to kill. Suddenly ya' see why givin' up chocolate is wimpy. Who wants a wimpy Lent? Might as well have a wimpy work out at the gym--whas' the point? If youse gonna sweat some, git rid of some cellulite, right?

I doan pretend to think like a fella...so I'se invitin' all y'all menfolks to lemme know what the male version of goin' out an' about wif'out no make-up would be. Mebbe it is to go out wif'out that creative comb-over job?

Doan worry too much...when I pass ya on the street wif yore raw face hangin' out, or yore bald spot shinnin' in the sun, I'll know y'all's havin' a good strong Lent.

Why She Ain't Here

It's Lent.

Mardi Gras!

Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras is today. Ya'll knows this is a whale of a party, the traditional day folks party hearty, eat plenty and revel in all manner of merriment, cause tomorrow be's Ash Wednesday.



Thas' the first day of Lent, the season when Christians observe the 40 days of prayer and fasting and abstinence until Easter Day. (lessen' youse Irish and take a day off when St. Patrick's day comes on March 17)















































In case ya ain't heard, it were the French explorer M. d'Iberville. who brung Mardi Gras to us from France--'member when he came over to New Orleans? An' lemme tell ya'...N'awlin's ain't been the same since. And other gulf cities celebrate too-Mobile and Pensacola...

Well, by the mid 1800s it were the Mystick Krewe of Comus who was the big cheese fer Mardi Gras. They ruled. Other "krewe"s developed and there was friendly rivalry ...an' ya'll knows there ain't nuthin' like a wee bit of rivalry to spur folks to put on the most lavish, outlandish, amazin' parade.


Costumes were a year in the makin' and top secret besides--why the espionage in 1800s New Orleans when this'n or that'n Krewes tried to ferret out what the other was up to was the first CIA playbook.

I'se boastin' heah, but it is a true thang that mah very own Gran-Mamee was wore an elaborate costume with a headdress of a peacock to Mardi Gras (long afore Aunty was born!) when they held masked balls and had supper at midnight. I never did know iffin' she was pullin' mah lag when she tole us how one lady the year afore had partied so hard she had twins nine months later, a boy an a girl that she name Revelry and Reverie.


I wish't I could story ya'll some wif all the fine memories me and Uncle have of our times in N'awlins. Mayhap the dearest is when Uncle tole me one mornin' that he had an early meetin' with the high hats in town, but he had a potential fat cat Pork Rind buyer comin' in on the 7:30 flight an' would I go meet fat cat and keep him happy til' Uncle could shake off the city fellers?

"Nope" said Aunty, "is you fergettin' I have young'uns to git off ter school? "

But Uncle promised he would get em' off to the schoolhouse at the same time he left fer town, so I'd best be gettin' to airport and meet fat cat, load him the buggy and bring him home til' Uncle was finished wif' the high hats in town.

Aunty ain't known fer no whinin' but I was miffed. "Wait a minute ...you done promised youse gonna take off the day and play wif' me since it is our annie versry!" Aunty wailed. (Yeah, that wuz then..an' I doan NEVER wail no mo. Thas' dern so true.)

Okay, ya'll's all ahead of the story now, and ya' figgered out that when I got to the airport to fetch the fat cat they warn't no fat cat, but Uncle done raced down a backroad and beat me thar'....an' took Aunty off to N'awlins fer Breakfast at Brennan's. Iffin' that ain't enough to tickle ya' gizzard then I reckon that I can up the ante:
In mah flute of Mimosa thar' was string of
pearls. (Fellas, Uncle doan make a habit of extravagance--he was jes' feein' sorry fer havin' kept aunty bar'foot an'....well, ya' know, so he done sized up the situation an' realized how he might show a his sincerest appreciation. An' I will say that his flights of unexpected fancifulness covers a multitude of irritations. An besides, he has that Rhett Butler Gun-runner image to keep up--an N'awlins is real good fer that.)







We wuz back afore time to read Uncle Remus to the chillen's, and
when I climbed in the sheets I wondered had it all been a dream?




We done had few excursions since that time to N'awlins' --mostly to keep company wif one of mah own wild uncles --he bein' a mere 8 years older (save yore Southern jokes!). How I loved to haunt Pirate's Alley and the bookstore of Faulkner fame jes' beyond the rose garden out back of St. Louis Cathedral.

An' the ache I still get in mah heart thinkin' of
how we strolled the back streets of the Vieux Carré
lookin'g at pastel creole cottages one chilly January
afternoon, munching cheap hot dogs bought from a one eyed man with a pushcart.























But what ya'll wanna know is that Aunty has fambly over thar' and so I is proficient wif' an iron pot an I can make a gumbo that ya would sell yore soul fer-- though mah price leaves ya enough fer the fare to heaven.






I wish't all of us could meet up one misty mornin' at Cafe du Monde fer them powdered sugar'd clouds known as
beignets. They's served wif hot chocolate or coffee that will
singe yore eyebrows.

An' we'd all marvel at how funny a krewe we'uns make --all different and many of us utterly unlike we imagine from inside the blogosphere... Oh! how we'uns would laugh.

Looky heah...see how many stories I'se tryin' ter get tole to ya'll in jes' one post?

Sweet Thangs, Aunty is signin' off.

I'se ole school, an' the good nuns learn't me how to give up somethin' fer Lent that really were a sacrifice. Ya'll take it as a compliment that youse so dear to me, that youse a fittin' Lenten sacrifice. Ya'll is more of a sacrifice than Prosecco or chocolate. (or Advil!??). So, along wif' other thangs, I'se givin' up bloggin' until Easter.

Oh, I might lurk, but the house rules is I cain't blog.
I'se gonna miss all ya'll every day, miss ya'll somethin' fierce.


Ash Wednesday. "Remember Man, thou art dust and to dust thy shalt return." It is mah favorite liturgical season--a time to reflect on the meaning of it all.

AFTER MARDI GRAS

Miss Louisa, a retired professor, dropped by on her daily walk down the lane. She is frail but I bet'cha she will out last the more robust of us.

"Belle, is that a new pot of mint growing here by your back door? " she asked.

"Shure is, Louisa...puttin' some in my taboule right now," I said.

"That is one of your Lebanese dishes, is not?"

"Thas' right. Today is a day of fast and abstinence, so taboule is one the menu," I replied.


"A day of fasting, my dear?"

" Why yes, Ash Wednesday, no meat today" I looked at her, puzzled that she had forgotten.

" Well, I declare, I had not remembered. Do people still observe Ash Wednesday? Oh, I see...I suppose that is the smudge on your forehead, ashes?"

"Of course folks still observe Ash Wednesday--same day it has been fer'ever...the day after Mardi Gras," I smiled slyly.

"Mardi Gras?
But, with New Orleans rather out of sorts, is there still a Mardi Gras?"

Now ain't that an odd question, I thought ter myself.
"Well," I said patiently to a professor who ought to have knowed better, "Mardi Gras ain't akshully about N'awlins, though the city made it sorta famous, I reckon. No, Mardi Gras--means Fat Tuesday in French--is the pig out day before Lent begins. Folks eat rich food and gorge a bit, an' mayhap they party a wee mite more'n they oughta since Lent means days of fast and abstinence, and simple livin'.

Miss Louisa looked aghast. "Do people do that still? How punitive!"

I tried to hide mah smile, "Why shure they do 'that' still. An' of course it is 'punitive' cause that is the whole idea--it is a penitential season. Doan look so surprised--looky, folks is always fastin' and abstainin' fer they own causes--to git skinny as linguine. So, why not fast fer Lent?"

"But why the ashes? You look dirty, you know."

"Louisa, I knows youse raised a Christian woman an' you must know the words: Man, thou art dust and to dust thy shalt return."

She looked out the doorway..."I recall--vaguely. I suppose I am just past smearing dirt on my head, Belle."

I was choppin' parsley and mint on the cuttin' board. "Ashes--not dirt," I said, "the ashes are from the palms of last years' Palm Sunday--we burn the leftover palms, bless the ashes and use them on Ash Wednesday. "

"Belle, my dear, I mean no disrespect, but why? Really, what is the point?"

She were lookin' out the door still, and I was quiet. Finally she turned to see why I was silent.

"Because I ain't been so good this year, thas' why, Louisa. Some days I try hard, thas' so...but many days I doan. Truth is some days my heart jes' ain't soft, but stony and proud. I ain't loved my neighbor as I ought, ain't always been kind when kindness were called fer...and I is guilty of smugness here and there...why I even entertained a few hateful thoughts toward Uncle when he set his dern jaw, stubborn as a baboon.

"I'se wearin' these ashes for the times I did the least I could git away with when I shoulda and coulda done a heap more. Fer the days I'se mewlin' around thinkin' about what I did not have when I have such a wealth of love and light and laughter that I need ter count my blessin's, but was blind to 'em. These ashes keep me from flights of fancy about my own worthiness.

"Why Lent is a time we'uns is called away from our self-absorption, excesses, and petty complaints about each 0ther. We'uns is called out of our dark lairs, out of our comfort zones, out of the moldy corners where we hide what we don't want to admit about ourselves--Ya' could say Lent is a house cleanin'! We are called in from the cold, off the moor, out of alienation, away from the precipice.....invited to come sit by warmth and light of the hearth, be kind to our neighbor, do good to our crotchety boss, forgive our mother-in-law, encourage the fainthearted, console the grieving....see how we can be good and useful to those around us.

"These ashes remind me that I did not make myself. Know what I heard right before I got these ashes? Listen now, Louisa, how true these words is:

"Almighty and everlasting God, you hate nothing you have made and forgive the sins of all who are penitent: Create and make in us new and contrite hearts, that we, worthily lamenting our sins and acknowledging our wretchedness, may obtain of you, the God of all mercy, perfect remission and forgiveness; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen."


Louisa turned her head again, lookin' back out the open door, over the trees beyond. She stood still, jes' lookin'. I worried I had sounded real preachy. (Ya'll knows how Aunty Belle is!)

After a minute she stooped over and picked a sprig of mint. I could smell its fresh clean fragrance. She put the herb ter her nose and smiled as if rememberin' ....then she said,

" We rubbed our Easter Lamb with mint and pepper. I used to give up chocolates for Lent when I was a girl. Easter Morning the smell of chocolate bunnies was intoxicating!

"Well..." she mused, "do people still give up something for Lent, Belle?"

I laughed, "Why, yes, some do. But others try to do something positive, like visit the nursin' homes or serve food to the homeless down at Daily Bread."

She looked back at me, "What have you given up for Lent, Belle? Something more difficult that chocolate, I hope?"

I glanced across the kitchen at the computer. A lump formed in my throat an' I almost choked. Forty days!! Groan.....

"I'se givin' up bloggin' fer Lent, Louisa, an' it is shure is harder to let go of than chocolate."








Pssst!! Not blogging? What about reading blogs, huh? Huh?