Category: MerryThoughts

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Numbers

Recollections scrapbook paper

Whenever I have a birthday or when family and friends have birthdays, I like to figure out what kind of number the new age will be. Is it a perfect number, abundant, deficient, perfect square, or prime? I learned of this from a math professor. She commented that her mother was depressed about turning 64, but she had pointed out what a great number 64 is! My ears perked up. There’s the Beatles song, “When I’m 64,” very fun, of course. “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” But that was my only thought at the time.

She elaborated on the fact that although 64 is a deficient number, it is a perfect square (8 x 8). Thus, as she had told her mother, it was a very cool number and could portend wonderful things. I suppose I probably had learned such things about numbers from high school math, or at least college algebra. Or maybe we didn’t learn fun things about numbers in those classes. In fact, I’m pretty sure we didn’t. Anyway, I was excited to learn about this later in life, particularly with respect to birthdays (which I love) and age (which I don’t mind).

An abundant number is one whose distinct factors add up to more than the number itself. Seventy (my current age) has the distinct factors of 1, 2, 5, 7, 10, 14, and 35 (you don’t count the number 70 itself). Add these up and you get 74. Thus, 70 is an abundant number. Yay! Anyone can readily see that this means 70 will be an abundant year.

A prime number cannot be divided by anything. Thus, it also is very exciting and probably magical. You will have a prime year when you are, for example, 59 or 19. According to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, “prime” refers to spring; youth; the most active, thriving, or satisfying stage or period; the best or chief part; original; not derived from anything else. Wonderful! Certainly we all want to have prime years, and certainly we all will. Oliver Sacks tells, in The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat, of twin autistic savants who took great satisfaction from going through the files of prime numbers in their brains and discovering new ones, as well.

Then there are perfect numbers. Their distinct factors equal the number itself. Six, for example, is the sum of its factors–1, 2 and 3. There are only four of those–6, 28, 496 and 8128. Sadly, if you’re past 28, you won’t have a perfect age ever again. But think back fondly to 28. We can tell ourselves that it was just about perfect.

A deficient number, such as 32, has distinct factors that add up to less than the number itself. The factors of 32 are 1, 2, 4, 8, and 16. This only adds up to 31. Poopoo. Whenever I do have a birthday and age with a deficient number that is not a prime or a perfect square, I just figure, who cares about this crazy idea? This is so childish. It’s ridiculous! It can’t possibly mean anything.

And then I just wait for the next birthday.

“It’s like asking why is Ludwig van Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony beautiful. If you don’t see why, someone can’t tell you. I know numbers are beautiful. If they aren’t beautiful, nothing is.” ― Paul Erdos

“What music is to the heart, mathematics is to the mind.” – Amit Kalantri, Wealth of Words

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Messy Studio

I am lucky to have a room in my house designated “my studio.” I feel a little bit pretentious when I call it that, but that really is what it is. In the state that it’s in, it could not possibly be used for anything else. I don’t imagine accountants are embarrassed to call their office “my office,” but I think it’s a hurdle for people who make art, even for a living, to say the words “my studio.” I usually have to say “the.” Anyway, I know I’m lucky to have this 9’ x 26’ space with lots of windows, all for making art. So lucky!

But it is “a bit of a dog’s breakfast” (see Merrythoughts, 9/20/21) all of the time. It’s a giant mess. I really hate that it’s such a mess and the mess is all mine, so wouldn’t you think I could just tidy it up and make it more pleasant? You’re thinking yes. I’m thinking yes, too, but also how?

When Covid hit and the shutdown happened, I thought it would be a perfect time to straighten and clean up my studio. Did I do it? No. In the Before Time, I had sometimes had Open Studio Shows, during which people would actually mill around back here. For those (although not always) I would make myself clear off the biggest flat surface (not the floor) so that I could display things properly on it. That only lasted for the duration of the Open Studio, though. And then, since Covid, there have been no Open Studio shows, so that has only exacerbated the problem.

Like most creative people (lately called by the dubious word, “makers”), I have accumulated scads of art supplies and pieces of thing that I imagine one day might go into the making of something amazing. Some of this I have never used. There are books about art and art-making. Blank books to fill up in some cool way. Sketchbooks. Washi tape. Pastels, crayons, markers, special colored pencils. Baskets full of framing supplies, gewgaws, ribbons, fake jewels and embellishments, rubber stamps, etc. Cigar boxes. Various (empty) containers in various shapes. All manner of glues. Old dictionaries, maps, and other paper stuff for collage. Packing materials for shipping cards and stuff that I sell online. And my giant rack full of handmade papers, which I’ve already cut down to half its original size, in an effort to make room and tidy my studio.

To complicate things further, I began painting this past summer, which brought in a whole other area of supplies that lie around in piles–paints (so many tubes of paint!); paper, boards and canvases to paint on; brushes and all sorts of mark making tools; masking tape; a large art journal; parchment paper; a hair dryer AND hairspray(!); and several stacks of things that I have painted. (I am hesitant to call them paintings, just yet.) And that large flat surface (not the floor)? Covered with paint now.

The largest flat surface (not the floor) upon which to work

People say, “Oh well, it’s a happy mess!” “You’re an artist!” “It’s fun!” Blah blah blah. But all of this stuff really does get in my way. I have very little surface upon which to work. I’m always having to shove something out of the way, or move one of the piles of thing two feet to a different spot. A friend has offered me an easel, since I took up painting–but I think, where would I put it?? It is stifling, really, this mess. I do feel that physical clutter does clutter up the mind. And yet.

Help me, Marie Kondo!!

“A sane man who is untidy seems crazier than a tidy man who is insane.” Mokokoma Mokhonoana

“There are three approaches we can take toward our possessions: face them now, face them sometime, or avoid them until the day we die.” – Marie Kondo

“Putting your house in order is the magic that creates a vibrant and happy life.” Marie Kondo

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Words

Part of my dictionary collection

I am a word lover. The other day, during a pickleball game, I remarked to my partner that my shot had been lackluster. He was clearly amused, as he repeated, “lackluster,” with a smile and a slight shake of the head. Not the sort of word you normally hear during a pickleball game. However, another guy who plays with our group often says, “Piffle!” when he muffs a shot. Also not your usual sporting term, but one for which I have a great deal of respect. As a noun, piffle means “trivial nonsense.” I used the word Piffle as the name of a character in my ABC book for children (below). Thus I am charmed by my friend’s use of it at pickleball.

According to Merriam-Webster, synonyms for this wonderful noun include “applesauce, balderdash, baloney (also boloney), beans, bilge, blah, blarney, blather, blatherskite, blither, bosh, bull, bunk, bunkum (or buncombe), claptrap, codswallop [British], crapola, crock, drivel, drool, fiddle, fiddle-faddle, fiddlesticks, flannel [British], flapdoodle, folderol (also falderal), folly, foolishness, fudge, garbage, guff, hogwash, hokeypokey, hokum, hoodoo, hooey, horsefeathers, humbug, humbuggery, jazz, malarkey (also malarky), moonshine, muck, nerts, nonsense, nuts, poppycock, punk, rot, rubbish, senselessness, silliness, slush, stupidity, taradiddle (or tarradiddle), tommyrot, tosh, trash, trumpery, twaddle.” Piffle can be used as a verb, as well, but I’ll spare you the list of those synonyms.

From my ABC book, A to Z With Puff & Piffle

Whose vocabulary could not be improved by the use of these wonderful words? And of course, there are so many more where these came from. And yet, we slog along, using very few of the 40,000 words the average English speaker recognizes and can define. Instead, we generally use only about half of those in speech and writing. I myself am guilty of over-using the word “awesome,” as well as many other common words.

The New York Times Mini Crossword for September 19 gives as a clue, “Adjective that’s been called ‘possibly the worst word in the English dictionary.’” The word I eagerly attempted to divine turns out to be “moist.” This judgment seems harsh. Why is this innocuous word deemed “the worst?”

On the other hand, I can think of many words I would judge to be among the best. Palaver is one. Pandowdy. Kerfuffle. Flummoxed. Befuddled. Bumble. Shivoo. Allwither. Rapscallion. Scallawag. Scofflaw. Hooligan. Penultimate and Antepenultimate. Whiffle. Diphthong. Knackered. Bandersnatch.

I adore, as well, imaginative phrases, most of those being British. In the online painting class I took this summer, I was delighted to hear the British teacher refer to one of her own paintings as “a bit of a dog’s breakfast.” !! I find myself repeating the phrase often, but alas, out of context. Then there’s “Bob’s your uncle.” “I’m chuffed to bits!” “We just need to crack on.” And “Just stop whinging and get on with it!” I also love the phrase “More anon,” used by a retired English professor I know.

Particularly great estate sale find

I feel we are all missing out by not using or even inventing more words. Shakespeare is said to have invented 1700 words and Lewis Carroll conjured up 24 absolutely frabjous ones, many of those portmanteaus. Language is evolving every day, with words being given new meaning or actually being dreamed up. Speaking is a pastime in which we all engage, so why not jazz it up a bit?

“Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.” – Rudyard Kipling

“Don’t gobblefunk around with words.” ― Roald Dahl, The BFG

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems on my blog.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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School

The other morning, Miles and I were heading for a street he inexplicably likes to walk on and ended up going past the elementary school just as the kids were arriving. They were shouting, happy, eager, and full of energy, at least to my eye. How nice. When I was a child, I absolutely hated school. From the very first day of kindergarten to the very last day of high school I longed to be anywhere else, preferably at home. I was a very shy child, adored my mother, and kept myself quite busy in our cozy home with my own projects. I had six siblings for company, including two younger sisters to play with. Who needed all those strange children and frightening adults?

To make things worse, for kindergarten I went to a public school where none of my siblings were. No familiar face could be seen even from afar in the entire building. No allies, no big sister or brother to rely on. Terrifying! They had all moved on to the Catholic school, where I would go the next year. Great. Two brand new places in a row without my mother. Aiyiyi!

I somehow believed that my kindergarten teacher was a man disguised as a woman and that made her seem both cunning and frightening. I was too afraid of her to ask to go to the bathroom, so one day I peed my pants while we were all sitting in a circle on the floor. And then I was scolded for not asking. Some mornings I tried hiding behind the couch when it was time to walk to school with a neighbor girl (stranger), but that didn’t work.

From kindergarten it somehow got worse. First grade, Catholic school, crabby, horrifying nuns, a rule of silence while doing practically anything, including lining up to get coats and lunch boxes. I whispered to a tall boy to take down the lunch box I could not reach and Sister John Something-Or-Other pounced on me. “NO TALKING!” she boomed. I was made to stay after school and write “I must obey” ten times, the worst of that being that I did not know how to spell “obey.” I later had the thought that only the meanest nuns were assigned teaching positions in elementary schools. It sure seemed that way.

But perhaps I’m being unfair. The absolute worst teacher I had at All Souls was a lay teacher. Mrs. Schmidt, my fourth grade teacher, was pure evil. She was cruel to a boy in our class who had flunked the previous year, frequently making him cry and then ridiculing him for his “crocodile tears.” He was made to sit with his back to the class right up against the blackboard, where he really couldn’t see much of anything and undoubtedly didn’t learn much. I often wonder what became of him.

Believe it or not, she also filled our heads with horrifying images of things the Nazis had done to children and terrified us by saying we would have to die for our religion if the Communists took over. This was 1961. Cold War. The school basement was designated a fallout shelter. I had nightmares about all of it and diarrhea that whole school year. There is a special place in hell (if you believe in hell and I don’t) for people like Mrs. Schmidt.

A now retired handmade card, “Free! Free!”
My all girls Catholic high school was not my cup of tea, either. I was still shy and quiet, went basically unnoticed, and achieved underachiever status while opting to just endure those four years until my release. On the last day of school, I rolled my eyes at the girls who cried and burned my uniform in our backyard barbecue grill. I had zero interest in going on to college and no one suggested it, either.So when my boys went off to elementary school you cannot imagine how relieved and thrilled I was when they actually liked it! And my piano students all seem to like school, too. (I always ask.) That warms my heart, as well. Even the photos on Facebook of my old school make it seem as if the kids are happy there. I’m glad for all of them. I want all kids everywhere to be happy. Isn’t that their job, really? I think so. Mine was a part-time job. I was happy at home.
If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”
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My Book of Walks

2020 was the year of walking, for so many people. People streamed by my house with kids or dogs. There were memes and jokes on social media about dogs hiding from their owners who were wanting to go on yet another walk. An idea sprang up for people to put teddy bears in their windows for kids to count as they passed by–a Teddy Bear Hunt. I put some of my bears in the living room window, too. People decorated their windows, doors or yards in ways that would be fun for passersby. It felt very communal.

I was one of those walkers, too, since I was already walking with my dogs every day, and I loved seeing all the cheerful messages around the neighborhood, greeting new people with their dogs, observing the ways people kept their houses and yards, checking out all the Little Libraries in my area. I love walking anyway, and I’ve been at it still. Some of those walks have been with both of my dogs, with just Miles, by myself, or with a friend.

On my birthday last year I started keeping a book of my daily walks. I had a blank book that had belonged to a friend who died. Since it has French words on the cover, I had assumed she bought it in Paris. And in my typical way, I imagined some Romantic meaning (mai oui! because it’s French) but when I looked up Mon Carnet De Poche I found it just means My Pocket Notebook. Oh well. C’est la vie.

So each day I put down the date and write a little something about the walk–who I was with, where we went, who we met (including any dog’s name that we learned), what I saw, what the morning was like. It has resulted in me speaking to people I see and asking their names, which is nice. And I started picking up little bits of thing that I’d see–leaves, flower petals, things like that–and I tape them into the book. It is now a year later and the book is fatter (me, too, despite the walking) and full of lots of little bits of thing. And with pages to go! It has been a fun little project that I will likely stop when there are no pages left.

One of my friends’ houses that Miles always likes to go visit

I always have some kind of record-keeping thing like this to add to my routines and make life just a little more interesting. I imagine I’ll think of something else to keep track of, write down, or collect when I’m finished with this. What about you?

“Now shall I walk or shall I ride?

‘Ride,’ Pleasure said;

‘Walk,’ Joy replied.”

― W.H. Davies

“But the beauty is in the walking — we are betrayed by destinations.”

― Gwyn Thomas

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Goodness

I just had a landmark birthday–70. First, let me say, I feel incredibly cherished, loved, and treasured by my family and friends, having had a wonderful birthday. All stops pulled out. No holds barred. It was an amazing birthday. I am immensely grateful.

But 70. This is really going some. I was only ever once bothered by a number, and that was 40. It took me by surprise. I had been thinking I look young, I feel young, so who cares? And then, the night before, I suddenly realized the true meaning of turning 40. Forty years of my life were gone. Now, with 70 years behind me, I feel grateful for a very full and lucky life, while also acknowledging that I am pretty far along in an average lifespan.

I do always ponder age, life, and my intentions when I have a birthday. But this one, so soon after the death of someone I very much admired, perhaps makes the question of intentions more urgent than usual.

Drawing by E. H. Shepard

When I turned 60 I set out to do 60 new things, and that was loads of fun. But for 70 I’m thinking I’d like to do one thing really well. And that one thing is this: I want to get really good at being a good, kind, loving person. I believe I’ve written about this before. A Winnie-the-Pooh, perhaps. I do also have human role models but Winnie-the-Pooh has been captured forever in a book, with drawings and quotes and so forth, and I will never lose him.

“So from then on, he looked at all his choices and said, What would a good person do, and then did it. But he has now learned something very important about human nature. If you spend your whole life pretending to be good, then you are indistinguishable from a good person. Relentless hypocrisy eventually becomes the truth.” – Orson Scott Card, Ender in Exile

I love this. Pretend. Pretend to be that person. Do as you hope to be.And then, too, Deepak Chopra says that our true self is perfect and cannot be altered by life, circumstances, detours, bad choices, or mistakes. The true self is never damaged or broken. It is forever perfect in each of us. I so love this idea, too. I immediately feel lighter when I think of it.

“I shall hereafter be more myself.” – William Shakespeare

So there’s my intention for 70, for my new decade, for this last part of my life. I shall be more myself; that is, I shall be more my true self.

I apologize for the lateness of this letter. I was busy all weekend being loved to pieces by many people and feeling tremendously thankful for my good fortune.
If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”
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Losses

My pickleball community just lost one of its best loved members. At this writing, it’s not even been 12 hours. We are, as a group and as individuals, immersed in this loss right now and I am hard pressed to think or write about anything else. Life sure does turn on a dime. I cannot very well write about nature or my dogs or anything else at all today.

Dick was a truly beautiful person. Oh, you hear that said about people all the time. But he really was one of those people that everyone loves. And I don’t think I’m stretching anything or hurting anyone’s feelings to say that he was, hands-down, the most beloved person in our community, having just joined us three years ago. Always joking, always fun to play with or against, and a very good player, too. Plus, he was adorable! One day when he was coming off the court and I was going on, he said as he passed, “I saw in the news that Hallmark is going out of business. The article specifically stated that you and your cards were the reason.”

For maybe ten years I have said I only want to live to be 82. And then Dick showed up. He was 82 then. He moved like a young guy. I was flabbergasted. I asked him where he had come from, etc., and he said he and his wife live here but had been wintering in Arizona. Oh, well, that explained it. Those people in Arizona are crazy over pickleball. They play all the time. “So you’ve been playing out there for a long time?” No, he said, he only just started playing. “You played tennis, though?” No. “Racquetball?” No. “Ping pong?” Nope. He just took up pickleball in his 80s and played like a young guy.

So that’s great, but the truly wonderful thing about Dick was his fun-loving personality. If you snuck in a clever dink that he couldn’t get to, he’d give you the stink eye, big time. It was all in fun, of course, and he’d make some remark about how we were supposed to be friends or how mean you were. But in reality, I don’t think Dick ever once got mad or even irritated at pickleball. He was pure joy to be around.

I wonder if it takes effort to be that sort of person–or did it just come naturally to him? Was it easy for him to be wonderful, kind, fun, and lovely? Or did he have to talk to himself about it? Did he have to work at it? Or was he born with an adorableness that you’d have to inherit genetically? Could I ever be even somewhat like him? I don’t know but I sure would like to be. I sure would love to embody his spirit for this last part of my life.

“Genuinely good people are like that. The sun shines out of them. They warm you right through.”

― Michael Morpurgo, Alone on a Wide Wide Sea

I know I should count myself lucky when my losses are hard, because they tell me I’ve had someone wonderful in my life. If I hadn’t met Dick or had the pleasure and fun of his company on the courts, I would be feeling very differently today. But what a loss that, too, would be.
If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems on here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”
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Our Birthday Month!

August is my birthday month. Mine, that is, and Miles’. I like having my birthday towards the end of the month because then I feel entitled to celebrate all month long. And since Miles’ birthday is also this month–on the 19th–it’s extra great. And his is coming up this week.

I know the exact date of his birthday because he came from a breeder. I did not buy him myself. He was given up to a woman who routinely called breeders to ask if they had any dogs they were planning to give up. Her idea was to save the dogs from being put in the pound or worse. Miles is supposed to be a miniature poodle, but he is rather large. He’s taller and beefier than miniatures usually are–a great size for a dog, I feel. But I imagine he was not a very good advertisement for that particular breeder. So she gave him to the woman and then that woman could not keep him and passed him on to a gal who finds homes for dogs.

Miles with a new toy when he was one.

As it happened, I got Miles on his half birthday–February 19th. He was exactly six months old. And having been in a crate or a variety of crates and other enclosures for most of his six months, he was quite exuberant to be out. I can still see him, in my mind’s eye, on the day I met him, bouncing with excitement at the end of the leash. And then, on our first walks in the neighborhood, he tried to go up the walks and front steps of just about every house we passed. “Who lives here?” he was asking. “Is this our house? Is there a dog inside? Can we go in? Can we??” He sure was a happy dog. (He still is.) The breeder had reputedly said, “He has a gentle soul.” And he really does.

So we have two birthdays to celebrate this month. I usually get him a large rawhide bone for his birthday and then he gets a slightly bigger helping of dinner, even though he’s watching his weight. I like to sing “Happy Birthday” all throughout the day. To be fair, I sing it throughout the day on my own birthday, too. Miles gives me many kisses and his usual super soulful, loving looks. Same as every day, as he makes a fuss over me every day of the year. Every time I come home from anywhere, he acts as if I’ve been gone for weeks. Still, even twelve years later. That’s my darling Miles.

I wrote this poem after having traveled, as I often do, to California to see my siblings. Miles was not quite three years old then.

Home

How simple a thing it is to be at home
again where one’s heart is
to occupy one’s own bed, the covers skimming
one’s bones as they are known to do
the familiar clock and lamp at the elbow
the special mug for tea now full, now empty
to see the neighbor’s green house outside the window
to feel upon one’s thigh the known weight of a beloved dog
whose two baby teeth lie downstairs in a small blue bowl
where they could be found, admired, touched
whenever one wanted.
How simple, how simply grand.

I still have those two baby teeth. 😉

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Wild Things

The coronavirus seems to have made more opportunities for wildlife to live in town, at least here in Columbia. Last year traffic in town was so light! My dogs and I could cross Broadway at almost any time of day without waiting at all. Last spring, to my complete delight, I started seeing red foxes in the neighborhood. I cannot begin to say how thrilled I’ve been to see them from time to time. And sometimes in the wee hours, they are out in the middle of the street barking. I recorded them one night. It’s a sound like no other.

We have barred owls nesting nearby and red-tailed hawks, too. The owls are especially fun to hear, calling out, “Who? Who? Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?” I often think I hear one right outside my bedroom window.

And the deer seemed to multiply in town last year. It became almost an everyday occurrence to see one or two or a family of deer in and around our yard. One doe in particular had a bad leg and was very thin. But it was the fawns, in their speckled coats, that stole our hearts. We often saw a family of two adults and two fawns out beyond the dog yard, sometimes lying peacefully or foraging for food, and quite often out in the street, bounding across to travel through the yards. Yes, they ate my beautiful lilies but I haven’t minded that much. I just love seeing them. My dogs had long ago given up barking at them and the deer were unimpressed by them, as well.

Yesterday morning took a bad turn, though. My dogs and I were returning from a short walk across Broadway, where we’ve also seen the deer family. A police car was stopped with lights flashing, right where we were about to walk. Then I saw that one of the fawns was lying in the grass there. The other one, across the street. Both yearlings had been hit by a car or cars. When? In the night or early morning? But both? How?

I had a rough morning. I told a few of the neighbors who also walk in that direction, so they would not have to see what I had seen. As much as we’ve loved seeing them in the neighborhood, we’ve worried for their safety. Our town has encroached on their wild area and while it’s been lovely for us to have them right in the neighborhood, it’s clearly not the best arrangement for them. So we need to be extra vigilant. They are here and we have a responsibility to keep them as safe as we can.

“The Fawn” by Mary Oliver

“Sunday morning and mellow as precious metal
The church bells rang, but I went
To the woods instead.

A fawn, too new
For fear, rose from the grass
And stood with its spots blazing,
And knowing no way but words,
No trick but music,
I sang to him.

He listened.
His small hooves struck the grass.
Oh what is holiness?

The fawn came closer,
Walked to my hands, to my knees.

I did not touch him.
I only sang, and when the doe came back
Calling out to him dolefully
And he turned and followed her into the trees,
Still I sang,
Not knowing how to end such a joyful text,

Until far off the bells once more tipped and tumbled
And rang through the morning, announcing
The going forth of the blessed.”

If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”

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Olympics

Larry Young (photo credit unknown)

Are you watching the Olympics? I always do and I have been this week, as well. You get just about everything with the Olympics–drama, heartbreak, human trials and tribulations, joy, camaraderie, leadership, and mountains of inspiration. Yes, ma’am, if you ever need inspiration for any sort of endeavor, watching the Olympics is sure a great place to find it. Those athletes put their all into the games. Need a role model for dedication? Take your pick.

The year I turned fifty, a guy I knew told me I could enter the Senior Games, being held right here in Columbia MO. The only sport I was doing at the time was running, and I was a slow runner. I couldn’t really see myself competing in that. But I noticed something called “race walking” in the line-up of sports–a 1500m event on a track and a 5K road race. I happened to know the gal who was in charge of the Games, so I asked her how I could learn more about race walking. She said that Larry Young, a local sculptor whose monumental works have been placed all over the U.S. and the world, won bronze medals in race walking in both the 1968 and 1972 Olympics! He also won golds in the 50k race walks of the Pan American Games. In fact, he is the only American to win a medal in long distance (50km or roughly 31 miles) race walking. Wow! She felt certain he’d be happy to help me.

In 2015, Larry was inducted into the Missouri Sports Hall of Fame.

I called him up and he was very generous and quite willing to have me out to his home and studio to show me a few things. My sister remarked, “What are the odds that you would decide to take up race walking and an Olympic bronze medalist would live right in your town?” I shrugged. I guess it was pretty remarkable.

Out at his place, he watched my form and made some suggestions for improvement. And then he showed me his case full of medals and ribbons, the shoes he’d worn in one of the Olympic games, and other memorabilia. It was thrilling! He also played a tape of one of the finishes, pointing out how this guy’s form was not good (in the Olympics!) and so on. It was really wonderful. What a generous guy. I asked if he ever race walked anymore and he said he tends to go all in on whatever he’s doing, and at that time, it was sculpting.

Silver medal in the 2018 Senior Games

A few weeks later, I went off and competed in my first Senior Games, in both the 5K and the 1500m track event. That was in 2001. That year, I met the woman who, at 68, was the national champion in all age and gender groups the previous year. Very cool. I competed again in 2017 and 2018 in the 1500m, and she was still racing! Cooler still.

“Failure I can live with. Not trying is what I can’t handle.” — Sanya Richards-Ross, gold-medal track and field athlete

What might the Olympics inspire you to try?
If you’re looking for my cards or art, you’ll find all of that on my website. And if you enjoy these letters, feel free to forward this one to anyone you think might like it. Finally, you’ll find past letters and poems here.

Thanks for listening,
Kay

P.S. MerryThoughts is the name of my first book, out of print at the moment. The word is a British one, referring both to a wishbone and to the ritual of breaking the wishbone with the intention of either having a wish granted or being the one who marries first, thus the “merry thoughts.”