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The Poppy.

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The pacasandra had choked out everything on the corner leading to the porch. Frantic, I took to my steel rake to dig out, searching to find the frail giant poppies which had survived a mindless mow-over years ago, now desperately needing sun to flourish.

Thank God, there it was. The poppy sapling unearthed, I kept up my frenetic pace — and, NO! — tore one poppy leaf. Then, inexplicably, another. This was not happening. Not this.

I called Stan’s. Will was so kind. He said if even some portion of one leaf survived my onslaught, the poppy could still take sun and bloom. I went back, to look. Yes; one leaf remained, as did the stem, still curled above the soil edge ready to open. I cleared about five inches around and, following Will’s advice, stuck a couple nitrogen spikes into the dirt to help the poppy along.

Then, sun setting, I went inside.

This morning, early for me, I was outside by 10:15. My first visit: the poppy patch. Aghast, I could not believe my eyes; there was NO SIGN of the sprout, at all – and, the dirt looked fresh, as if somebody or some creature had deliberately and completely c.o.v.e.r.e.d. it.

A walking dog? A feral cat? A skunk? Kids?

My fingers small but deft, they scrambled around in that spot, desperately hoping. Finally, the frail sprig emerged – still rooted, it’s one remaining leaf weighed down by soil. Dusting it gently, I spoke to it, righting the stem of the leaf.

Then, I set to work. Running to the backyard, grabbing three white picket fence pieces intended for the raspberry patch, SOMETHING had to protect this flowering treasure! In minutes, I had them hammered around the border of the sidewalk corner leading to the porch. Then, the Cutco scissors, to trim back even more of that choking pacasandra.

Here’s hoping people with their walking dogs have both mercy and respect. There’s already a dead spot, right at the corner, and another up close to the hydrangea around the side of the porch. I’ve rapped on the window at the offender, and actually spoken to him. He wears a brimmed hat, and walks a white toy poodle. The guy snarked at me, calling me Karen, like some lowlife scumbag.

How can we maintain what we love, with attitudes like this among neighbors? What if somebody were to threaten his poodle? I love dogs; I don’t love all dog owners. It’s really hard for me to forgive people. Life is a challenge, every day.

But, it’s spring, for God’s sake. Let’s live, LET live, and treat every living thing – including what grows on the land belonging to those other than ourselves – with enduring care. If we do, then the whole earth really will be ours to share and enjoy.

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Copyright 5/5/23 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. Photo also that of the author, whose name appears above this line. Please respect original material, written and captured by actual living human beings.

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“CHAPTER ONE.”

 

OldLadySat

 

” The old lady sat

       on her side porch stoop

With a snack and a book

      in the sun

Which was low in the sky

      burning hot on her calves

so the lap cloth she moved

     ’til it hung

Just below both her knees

      shading ankles and feet

Which she tucked underneath

       her chair;

Then a bee smelled the ginger

      ‘tween thumb and finger

And, her afternoon read

      was done. “

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© 6/17/2020 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.    p.s. Homage to “The 100 Year Old Man….”  by Jonas Jonasson — a truly hilarious read.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

The Autograph.

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Mammy had an autographed photo of Billy Sunday’s wife.
She kept it in her Bible.
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But, why?
According to Wikipedia, William Ashley Sunday was an American athlete who, after being a popular outfielder in baseball’s National League during the 1880s, became the most celebrated and influential American Christian evangelist during the first two decades of the 20th century. Helen Amelia Thompson Sunday was his wife, an indefatigable organizer of his huge evangelistic campaigns during the first decades of the twentieth century, and eventually, an evangelistic speaker in her own right.
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Mammy was my grandmother. Born in 1890, she and Pappy moved to Erie from Scranton/Wilkes-Barre when Pappy was hired by BuCyrus-Erie to build cranes.
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She used to tell me of the tent meetings down state which she had attended, where she met Pappy. These were huge gatherings of people, who came together from all points rural to hear the Gospel preached by Billy Sunday. I believe Mammy recounted that she was led to the Lord by Helen Sunday, after one of these meetings. I also remember that, while she used to enjoy playing Solitaire alone in her bedroom, Mammy gave up the deck of cards once she got saved. I often wonder if thereafter she stopped playing the Key Game, which celebrated psychic skill and at which she excelled, as well.
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Mammy’s name was Mae Elisabeth Learn. She’d been second maid to a wealthy, Jewish brewer in the Poconos before meeting Henry. He courted her, to and from Sunday’s tent meetings, until the day he declared: “ You Mae Learn to be Sweet.”
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Pappy’s name was Henry Thomas Sweet, and his parents had hailed from Cornwall, England. When he and Mammy married and traveled to Erie, Pappy carried on Billy Sunday’s evangelism by preaching on the street corners. His was a hellfire and brimstone, Bible brandishing English orator’s style; with his booming, a-tonal baritone, he’d hand down God’s order to the vagrants: get up from the gutter! repent! and, get a job.
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When I look at images of Billy Sunday, I can’t help but note how much he resembled my grandfather. They shared cut features and a strong jaw and the same, resolute expression. Mammy did not resemble Helen Sunday; she had a softer countenance, and always bore a sweet smile.
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But, together, they had both responded to the call of evangelism proposed by Billy and Helen Sunday. They’d pulled up stakes and moved all the way across the Commonwealth to carry it forward. And, Mammy, who spent the rest of her days raising their four daughters, tending two flower and vegetable gardens and, together with Pappy baking hundreds of loaves of bread and both hooking and braiding rugs, sat in her rocking chair when day was done, Bible in hand, praying for everyone who came to mind, with Helen Sunday’s photograph just inside the cover of her Bible.
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I remember the year I met my husband. We’d been introduced through a mutual friend, whom we both respected greatly. Our friend, and his private teacher, was the principal oboeist of the Erie Philharmonic during the years when Maestro Eiji Oue held the baton.
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I had developed a deep respect for our maestro, which bordered on fixation. He had aroused every passion within me, from artistic to sensual to spiritual. He, however, had a strong preference for his principal oboeist, whose petite stature and feisty nature matched his own.
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My husband to be was enamored of her, as well; but, she was soundly married to the love of her own life, consumed by their mutual performing careers and and the raising of their four children.
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And so, each of us foundlings was brought together by stronger forces, upon the common ground of emotional commitment to another – he, to our mutual friend, and I to my Maestro. When my husband proposed marriage to me, the act was spurred by her very challenge; when I accepted, my anticipations extended to include the potential for an expanding realm of human connection which a bond with him would create. I would marry up, into a world which could include, by scant degrees, the object of my passions.
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Maestro Oue did not attend our wedding, though I believe we sent him an invitation, and both of us were sure to include our beloved oboeist in the musical ceremony. Our marriage lasted just over two and a half years (not counting the year of courtship), the second of which my husband spent living and working in Indiana, and it ended seven months after my mother’s death.
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I have two, framed companion photos of myself with our maestro. And, there is a Wheaties cereal box which features his image, nestled on the top shelf of my entertainment center in the music room of my home where I have practiced, rehearsed, and provided private lessons for 30 years.
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At the top of the box, just above the logo, in Japanese:
his autograph.
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© 9/18/19 Ruth Ann Scanzillo.   All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. No copying, in whole or in part, permitted without the author’s permission. Thank you for respecting original material.
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