The Year of Not Shopping Continues

OK, it's not really not shopping. I shop for food, I shop for gifts, I shop for plants and mulch to put in the yard. But I am still not buying things for myself. Still no new shoes, clothes, furniture, books, towels or gardening tools. The Bed, Bath & Beyond Store was a real challenge, with all the neat kitchen utensils, but I bought not a thing. I've gone to the mall (to buy my son some new clothes), but I hurried past the Nordstroms shoe department. Oh, the cute summer sandals, the darling little flats I saw from the corner of my eye, but I didn't even stop.

I've been shopping, too, for a sink and toilet and marble tiles to redo my first floor powder room. I haven't bought anything, but I've been to the Expo Design center twice now, dragging my husband along, to look. Some time this year I will get hold of Ivan, who repaired the kitchen ceiling when it got leaked on, who installed the pot lights above the fireplace, and who painted the outside of the house, and ask him if he can install tile and bathroom fixtures. I suspect he can do all of that. Once I show him what I want, and get an estimate, I may have the bathroom redone. I'm not in a hurry.

I read a book recently called The Good Husband of Zebra Drive, by Alexander McCall Smith. It is the latest in his series about the No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency; I really enjoyed it. His main character is Mma Ramotswe, in Botswana, who is a detective, but not a typical one. There is no violence in these books, not even a lot of suspense. They are simple, cheerful little stories. I'm including an excerpt:

From The Good Husband of Zebra Drive
by Alexander McCall Smith

"The world, Mma Ramotswe believed, was composed of big things and small things. The big things were written large, and one could not but be aware of them –wars, oppression, the familiar theft by the rich and the strong of those simple things that the poor needed, those scraps which would make their life more bearable; this happened, and could make even the reading of a newspaper an exercise in sorrow. There were all those unkindnesses, palpable, daily, so easily avoidable; but one could not think just of those, thought Mma Ramotswe, or one would spend one’s time in tears—and the unkindnesses would continue. So the small things came into their own: small acts of helping others, if one could; small ways of making one’s own life better: acts of love, acts of tea, acts of laughter. Clever people might laugh at such simplicity, but, she asked herself, what was their own solution?"

I got a poetry collection for Mother's Day called Dancing With Joy. This poem seems to fit with the above quotation:

A Brief for the Defense
by Jack Gilbert

Sorrow everywhere. Slaughter everywhere. If babies
are not starving someplace, they are starving
somewhere else. With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives because that’s what God wants.
Otherwise the mornings before summer dawn would not
be made so fine. The Bengal tiger would not
be fashioned so miraculously well. The poor women
at the fountain are laughing together between
the suffering they have known and the awfulness
in their future, smiling and laughing while somebody
in the village is very sick. There is laughter
every day in the terrible streets of Calcutta,
and the women laugh in the cages of Bombay.
If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,
we lessen the importance of their deprivation.
We must risk delight. We can do without pleasure,
but not delight. Not enjoyment. We must have
the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless
furnace of this world. To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.
If the locomotive of the Lord runs us down,
we should give thanks that the end had magnitude.
We must admit there will be music, despite everything.
We stand at the prow again of a small ship
anchored late at night in the tiny port
looking over to the sleeping island: the waterfront
is three shuttered cafes and one naked light burning.
To hear the faint sound of oars in the silence as a rowboat
comes slowly out and then goes back is truly worth
all the years of sorrow that are to come.

What a Friend We Have in Jesus

I've heard people say they have a personal relationship with Jesus, but I've never really understood what they meant until I read this poem:

Heaven on Earth

I saw Jesus at the bowling alley,
slinging nothing but gutter balls.
He said, "You've gotta love a hobby
that allows ugly shoes."
He lit a cigarette and bought me a beer.
So I invited him to dinner.

I knew the Lord couldn't see my house
in its current condition, so I gave it an out
of season spring cleaning. What to serve
for dinner? Fish—the logical
choice, but after 2000 years, he must grow weary
of everyone's favorite seafood dishes.
I thought of my Granny's ham with Coca Cola
glaze, but you can't serve that to a Jewish
boy. Likewise pizza—all my favorite
toppings involve pork.

In the end, I made us an all-dessert buffet.
We played Scrabble and Uno and Yahtzee
and listened to Bill Monroe.
Jesus has a healthy appetite for sweets,
I'm happy to report. He told strange
stories which I've puzzled over for days now.

We've got an appointment for golf on Wednesday.
Ordinarily I don't play, and certainly not in this humidity.
But the Lord says he knows a grand miniature
golf course with fiberglass mermaids and working windmills
and the best homemade ice cream you ever tasted.
Sounds like Heaven to me.

Kristin Berkey-Abbott


Then there is this poem by ee cummings:

no time ago
or else a life
walking in the dark
i met christ

jesus ) my heart
flopped over
and lay still
while he passed (as
close as I’m to you
yes closer
made of nothing
except loneliness

Two Poems for Mother's Day

You raise your children to be independent, and to think for themselves, but you still cry a little when they leave the nest.

Only a little, though. I still remember the thrill of accomplishment I felt the first time my husband and I said, "You kids feed yourselves, we're going out to dinner".


For my daughter:


To a Daughter Leaving Home

When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.

Linda Pastan



For my son:

Sentimental Moment or Why Did the Baguette Cross the Road?

Don't fill up on bread
I say absent-mindedly
The servings here are huge
My son, whose hair may be
receding a bit, says
Did you really just
say that to me?
What he doesn't know
is that when we're walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand

Robert Hershon

And no, my son's hair is not receding. It's just a poem.