1. I harvested a third squash from the back corner of our yard. Yesterday, I said these hubbards(?) were about the size of a medicine ball.
Upon further review and with, I guess, a cooler mind, I now confess to all of you that I exaggerated.
My assessment today is that each squash is about the size of a rugby ball.
Who knows what they will look like tomorrow?
2. I downloaded Amazon's internet browser on my Vizio and watched two sessions of Billy Collins' poetry broadcast today. In the second session, I loved hearing Billy Collins talk about and read excerpts from the book Meet Me at Jim & Andy's: Jazz Musicians and Their World. He focused on passages about alto saxophonist Paul Desmond, who once remarked that he tried to make his horn sound like a dry martini.
I also enjoyed Billy Collins' reading and short discussion of Richard Wilbur's poem, "Barred Owl" and how, on some AP literature exam, Wilbur's poem was placed side by side with Billy Collins' poem, "The History Teacher". Students writing the exam were instructed to compare/contrast the two poems. I'll just say that both poems explore the way adults often try to cushion children from the things in the world that are frightening, like the sound of an owl or, in Billy Collins' poem, the harsh realities of history.
If you'd like to read either or both poems, both are easy to find via your internet search engine.
3. Life is unfair in any number of ways. I find it unfair that a guitar player as skilled and fun to listen to as Bill Davie is afflicted with Multiple Sclerosis. The insults of MS come and go in Bill's life, often exacerbated by warmer weather. Lately, he's had discomfort in his left arm and hand and has been unsure of just how much his pain would affect his guitar playing during his weekly Tuesday evening Tree House Concerts, live on Facebook and easy to find archived on YouTube.
Somehow, so far, he has always performed in these concerts. Two things: the playing sometimes helps the pain and he gives himself some time to rest during his concerts by talking about different things, announcing the upcoming, or just passed, birthdays of listeners, and by devoting a chunk of time in the concert to reading poetry.
It's poignant. The joy of playing gives Bill some relief from pain. We watch him walking on a tightrope every Tuesday night, never knowing if he might have to stop things and say, "Sorry. I just can't play any longer." (This has never happened.) The topper? He plays and performs a riveting show every week, moving between songs that are driving and surreal like, "Fascination" and others that are tender and moving like "Raise Your Heart".
His poems were also moving as he read some of his own deeply affecting works and then moved to equally moving and arresting poems by Mary Oliver and Gregory Orr.
Tonight was Tree House Concert #22. These weekly concerts grew out of how the pandemic is restricting Bill's ability to perform at live venues, so he decided to perform live online. I cannot repeat often enough that I've now heard Bill play more often in 2020 than I had heard him in the previous nearly forty years and I cannot repeat enough how much I enjoy being in the virtual audience with Kathy and Loras, reliving the many times we heard Bill perform live in Eugene, Corvallis, Yachats, and possibly elsewhere in Oregon, and being with longtime friends like Val, Colette, Jeff, Bridgit, and others who heard Bill play in the early 80s on campus, downtown at Henny's, and who knows where else and now, here we are again, together and listening to Bill perform.
As I've said before, I've decided that the rational (not scared) thing for me to do these days is spend a lot of time at home. With Debbie living in New York, spending her days helping Jack with his remote schooling and providing a lot of assistance in helping care for Ellie, I am home alone most hours of the day. I am doing my best to make the most of this time by myself and knowing that I'll be joining Bill and Diane and longtime friends every Tuesday evening to enjoy Bill Davie perform makes this time of isolation not merely bearable, but a source of spiritual and emotional vitality.
A limerick by Stu:
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