MY TWO DAUGHTERS

Kristen, left, and Val

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I've been looking for photos to go with a post I'll be writing next month when my daughter receives her master's degree.

I found this one and thought I'd post it now with a memoir of the time when I had not one but TWO daughters.

When Kristen was a senior in high school, the family of one of her friends hosted a foreign exchange student from Venezuela. I first met Val in October when she went trick or treating with Kristen and her pals. Little did I know that she soon would be part of our family.

Unfortunately for Val, things didn't work out with her first host family. Val was about to be sent back to Venezuela when Kristen asked Dan and me if we could host her instead. At first, I thought our house was too small and shabby to take her in, but in the end I couldn't abide the thought of Val having to cut short her year in the U.S. (Dan and Kristen would have worked on me until I gave in anyway).

So, for the second semester, I had two daughters. We had extra fun on Valentine's Day, which is also Val's birthday (her full name is Valentina in honor of the day).

I loved making two Easter baskets. Even more, I loved Val's reaction to receiving an Easter basket. She was thrilled! (In fact, when she left, she carried the pastel green wicker basket onto the plane!)

Val and our family got into serious trouble when we let Val take a trip to Canada. (That was a big no-no, but since we never formally applied to be exchange hosts, we didn't know the rules.) I thought Val couldn't possibly be safer, because she was escorted by the wife of the warden of the state penitentiary. (Who better to keep kids out of trouble??)

The exchange agency didn't see it that way. They were highly miffed and were going to send Val back to Venezuela. We fought back. We contacted one of our senators and he intervened. We were delighted to have won, especially since the agency had gotten its knickers in a twist over such a niggling (to us) issue.

Val was always up for anything, even eating Dan's wild-game meals. I remember when we were eating elk steaks. Dan was going on and on: "Isn't this good?" Val, Kristen and I exchanged meaningful looks that clearly said, "Yuk, no, it isn't." The only time Val palled is when she found some buckshot in a pheasant breast.

That year, I went to two graduation ceremonies, one in the morning and one in the afternoon. Val had started the year at Century High School and thanks to carpooling friends, was able to continue there. That's why you see Kristen in Bismarck High School maroon and Val in CHS red.

The graduation ceremony for Val was a formality, as she had already graduated from high school or its equivalent in Caracas.

Right after graduation, Dan and I took the girls to Medora, North Dakota's "Wild West" town. When we toured Theodore Roosevelt National Park, Val loved the prairie dog towns, and kept looking for some "boofalo" (her pronunciation). We were afraid we weren't going to see any but as we were nearing the end of the drive we saw an entire herd and Val was able to get photos of her "boofalo".

Having a second daughter was a great experience for us, and having a sister was wonderful for Kristen, too. Val is sweet, smart and funny. I'll always remember her pretty rosy-pink cheeks, her bubbly personality, and how fast she talked when she spoke in Spanish. Va introduced me to a phrase which I hadn't heard at the time: "It's all good!"

Yes, it was all good, a truly positive experience, except for one thing. With the two girls around, I could NEVER get on the computer. And because we had dial-up Internet back then, I was forever getting a busy signal when I tried to call them at the house.

Val and Kristen still keep in touch, and Val visited Kristen once at Georgetown. Knowing Val, I was sure she would end up living in the U. S., but it hasn't happened yet. I'm hoping she will at least come back to ND for a visit someday.

A WEEK IN THE LIFE

I lifted this painting from Joyce's blog so I can't tell you who painted it. Sorry. I tried finding it on the web, but I was too tired to continue. That's why I chose the painting in the first place: I'M SO TIRED!! (The lady might be sad instead of tired, but Joyce and I like to think of her as being tired. Or maybe she is tired of being sad because she's been crying her eyes out. You know how tired your eyes feel after crying your eyes out. Anyway, she's all tuckered out.)

(Note added later: See first comment by Joyce.)

I haven't been blogging, reading blogs, commenting on blogs or answering emails. I issue no apologies for the first three, but I am sorry for ignoring emails and I will try to reply to them soon.

This has been my life this week:

My first week on the new job: A half day of orientation, two full days of new software training, then two half days of training. I was excused from attending the break-out afternoon sessions yesterday and today. Yay!

Most of the 15 women attending the training have worked in conference, enrichment classes and event planning for years. The instructor, learning I was brand new at this, told me my training experience would be akin to arriving at a play at the beginning of Act II, all the while trying to find out what went on in Act I. She was right, although it felt more like coming in at the beginning of Act III.

The software we are learning has been used for such massive events as the Olympics. You wouldn't believe how many variables are involved in setting up a conference: registration, transportation, meals, accommodations, break-out events, instructors, contracts, contacting the media, medical condition of participants, setting up websites, receiving money, accounting for money, printing brochures, booklets and pamphlets, etc. etc.

And I cannot BEGIN to tell you how many ways there are - for EACH of these variables - to enter, track and generate reports on them. My mind has been well and truly boggled this week. I am exhausted. I think every one's mind was exhausted.

On the home front:

Gracie is in heat. For those of you who have a female dog who hasn't yet been "fixed", you get the picture. For those of you who don't, I won't go into details.

I attended book club Wednesday night, which is always a wonderful experience, but due to the combination of stimulating conversation, coffee (even though it was decaf) and a huge slice of sinfully scrumptious Bacardi rum cake, I was awake until 3 AM.

Dan needed my car this week, so he had to give me rides to and from work. Every morning, he paced to and fro and and champed at the bit in a hurry to leave the house. "Wait", I wailed, "Give me a minute to check my email!!" It's amazing how much I revel in the freedom of having my own transportation.

On the weather front:

We had a thunderstorm in the wee hours of Monday morning. Unlike most people in Bismarck, I wasn't awakened by the loud thunder. Oh, no, I was already awake, with new-job jitters.

We've received about 2/3 of an inch of precipitation this week. It's a start, but it's not enough to break our severe drought. We need several two-day soakers, NOW! Winter has returned to North Dakota, with some of that precipitation arriving in the form of snow. Wednesday afternoon, it was raining/snowing/sleeting/thundering and lightning all at once. High temps have only been in the 30s, and there is a blizzard predicted for the extreme southeastern corner of the state for tonight.

On the positive front:

Two days off, lunch and a bit of shopping with my sis tomorrow (I need nicer work clothes desperately), good meals all weekend, a terrific book to read ("A Thousand Splendid Suns" by Khaled Hosseini), blogging and reading blogs, naps and more naps.

This very boring view of a week in my life was written as an all-inclusive answer to those of you who posted or emailed to inquire about the job and the rain situation. Thanks for your prayers and good wishes.

AT THIS MOMENT IN TIME

"THE ROOM OF FLOWERS"

Childe Hassam

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At this moment in time, 3:30 on a Friday afternoon, I sit at my computer table, composed of a wooden top affixed to the stand of an old Roberts brand treadle sewing machine. As I type, I gently move the treadle with my foot, as if I were actually sewing. I'm not sure if the rhythm of my typing creates the rhythm of the treadle, or vice versa.

I bought this table at an antique shop a few years ago. I was immediately entranced by its unique makeup and its top painted with white wisteria on a sage green background. It was never meant to be a computer desk, but now I wouldn't dream of using anything else.

As I look to the left I see the stone fireplace, made of rounded, river-polished rocks. Centered at the top of the fireplace opening is a Native American stone club, probably Lakota (Sioux). And probably a war club.

If I look to the right, I see the Gothic arch between my living and dining rooms. Beneath my feet are red oak hardwood floors. These three things, combined with the arched brick nook that holds my kitchen stove, are what prompted me to fall in love with, and buy, this house 26 years ago.

Like the one in Childe Hassam's painting, my living room is chock full of dark wooden furniture, little tables, a chintz-covered couch and chairs, books and more books. Some might call it cluttered, but nothing is out of place; everything is carefully positioned.

There are other treasures in my living and dining rooms: my precious Roseville, my mother-in-law's antique clock topped by the figurine of a Grecian woman, my beloved blue and white china.

As in Hassam's painting, the walls are crammed with pictures and paintings. No single color- coordinated picture above the couch for me! I consider my wall-to-wall picture style as English Style. The pictures include my Scottish castle oil painting, my print of the Washington Cathedral gardens, a large faux-oil dog painting above the fireplace, a Maxfield Parrish print, my bucolic English Lake District print, all combined with a couple of wildlife prints as a concession to the fact that my husband lives here too. (That shabby old recliner is his as well.)

There aren't any fresh flowers or plants at the moment, but there often are, most recently Easter lilies and daffodils.

In the kitchen, Gracie, my puppyish German short-haired pointer, is chowing down yet again. Penny, "The Big Red Dog", a golden retriever, sits patiently - oh so patiently - beside her ball, waiting for me to throw it outdoors. Every once in a while, if she is being ignored, she lets out a plaintive little groan.

I have left the patio door open on this glorious "finally-it's-spring" day. Through the doorway, I can see our giant American Elm's budding branches, which sweep down so gracefully over our deck. Though the dogs are free to go in and out as they please, they check on me frequently, worried that I might abandon them again, as I did earlier. Horrors, the thought that they might be left alone for an hour or two!

For once, I'm dressed up, in a nice pair of black slacks and black shoes, with a flowered top in magenta, tan and black. And for once I have put on earrings - magenta glass beads. I am dressed this way because I had a job interview at 1:00 p.m.

On my way back from the interview, I ran into a book lover's/rummage sale goer's dream: a rummage sale that was all books. I came away with seven books for $3.50. Afterward, feeling optimistic, I went to a Mexican restaurant for chicken fajitas, selecting one book to read while waiting for my meal.

Now, I type, with Oprah and Dr. Phil as background TV noise.

**********

With these few paragraphs, did you get any sense of me as a person? The reason I ask - the reason I wrote this post - is that one of my book purchases today - the one I brought into the restaurant to read - was "Writing the World" by Kelly Cherry. In the book's prologue, Cherry does a similar point-in-time "exercise" about herself (she may not have considered it an exercise). I got a very good sense of her personality, so I thought I would give it a try too.

I didn't put a lot of time into this exercise - I wanted it to be off the cuff and spur of the moment.

Also, I was using it as a way to calm my nerves and pass the time until I heard the result of the interview.

**********

At 4:45 PM:

P. S.: I just got the job. I'll be working in the continuing education department of our local state college. It is part time to begin with and hopefully it will become full time. I start Monday, so please pray for my success in this endeavor.

**********

Also, please, PLEASE pray for rain here in Bismarck and all of North Dakota. We need it so badly.

We have had two grass fires this week WITHIN the Bismarck city limits. In my lifetime of living in North Dakota, I have seen prairie fires and river bottom fires. Three years ago, three area volunteer firefighters were, sadly, burned and/or otherwise injured when a prairie fire engulfed their fire truck. But I have never, ever, seen grass fires within the city limits.

MY FATHER, FORREST "SONNY" ROCKNEY

FORREST "SONNY" ROCKNEY

U. S. NAVY, WW II

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This is going to be such a difficult post to write. I can scarcely continue. One of the reasons I started my blog 15 months ago was to write this very post.

I grew up not knowing who my natural father was. I have written previously that my mother was a Florence Crittendon girl - a young pregnant woman who went away to have her baby at a home for unwed mothers.

Mom never shared my father's name with me, and never once said anything about him. Even my blabbermouth Aunt Mary never mentioned him.

I had given up ever knowing anything about my father's side of the family. But three years ago, I learned the truth. It was a lovely April evening, and Dan and I were watching the UND Sioux hockey team play in the national Frozen Four championship (as they will be tonight).

The phone rang and I answered it. A male voice on the other end said he was looking for relatives of Myrtle Munro of Crosby, ND. That was my mother, I said. Well then, he said, I'm Mark, your second cousin.

Mark, from Missouri, is the official genealogist of my father's family. He became the caretaker of a packet of letters and cards my father left behind after his death. Knowing my mother's maiden name and hometown, Mark tracked me down via the Internet after my Uncle Dave's obituary was published in the Divide County (ND) Journal.

We talked. Or rather, Mark talked. I cried. I cried a lot. I hung up dazed. After 55 years, I finally knew the truth.

Over the next few months, Mark called, sent me DVDs, and emailed me photos, a genealogy chart and family histories. I learned that I was 1/4 Irish, from my grandmother Hazel Johanna Cody.

One precious evening, Mark phoned to read me the entire series of letters and cards that my mom sent to Forrest. They started out on such a light note - all about their dates, and how much my mom enjoyed his trips to Crosby, where he worked in construction. Then came the letter that began something like, "You know how you mentioned that I was getting fat the last time you were here..."

Obviously, the news did not go over well. And who could blame him, I think in my more rational moments. To learn that he's going to be a father would be hard on any single young man (he was 24), especially back then. I could tell that my mom was in love with Sonny, but he was distancing himself more and more over time. One of her last letters before I was born says, "You promised to pay for half of my fee here, but you haven't sent it." So it had come down to mere money.

Mom sent Sonny news of my birth, about how difficult it was. But there was no offer of marriage, perhaps even no acknowledgement. If you're a regular reader, you know that my mom, bravely, did not give me up for adoption, but brought me home to live with her, my grandma and aunt and uncles. Surprisingly, mom wrote Forrest a couple of letters over the next two years, and included a picture of herself with "little Julie".

Forrest kept that picture and letters all his life. Does that mean he cared about mom and me? Did he follow my scholastic career, which was easy enough to do. Did he ever intend to track me down, or did he close that chapter on his wayward young life forever?

Forrest never married or had any other children. Mark told me he died in Denver, Colorado, in 1982, alone and probably "from the drink," as the Irish say.

I have written before what it felt like to be "a little bastard" in the 1950s. I have not written about the anger I felt that my real father never came to rescue me from my stepfather. Yes, that's how I pictured it - being rescued by a knight in shining armor whom I could call Daddy.

After I saw my grandmother's photos I was angry all over again - angry that I was denied knowing her too. Did she even know she had another granddaughter? Apparently Forrest - called "Uncle Sonny" by his nieces and nephews - was great with kids. Why couldn't he have been great with me?

FORREST AND HIS MOTHER, HAZEL, 1950s

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It would be terrific to end this post on a happier note, telling you that Mark and I are still in touch and that I am still learning a lot about my family. But that is not to be. I haven't heard from Mark since August 2005. He abruptly - childishly, I feel - cut off all contact after I declined to attend the Rockney family reunion. I could not afford to fly to Missouri, and I would not accept his offer to pay for the plane tickets. More to the point, I also felt that I didn't want to be thrust into the spotlight in the midst of a bunch of people who were still very much strangers to me.

I have come to accept the fact that Mark has dropped me as quickly as he found me. What I cannot accept, cannot tolerate, is the fact that Mark is still in possession of my mom's cards and letters - letters that Mark promised he would send me. I feel that these letters - sent by MY mother to MY father, belong to ME. I have emailed and written Mark; I have threatened him with legal action, to no avail.

Going back over Mark's emails today, I realize I learned quite a bit about my mom and dad's relationship. But really, I haven't learned much about Forrest's family. Yes, I can now say I'm 1/4 Irish, and I can add another 1/4 Norwegian from my Rockney grandfather, so I'm finally able to complete my genealogical "pie".

The Rockneys farmed near Jamestown, ND. My dad fought in the Pacific in WWI and my grandfather Clarence fought in France in WWI. I'm related to famous football coach Knute Rockne and may be related to Buffalo Bill Cody. Who knows, Mark might have made that connection by now. He might also have tracked the Codys all the way back to Ireland by now.

It suppose I'll have to be content with what I do know. Fortunately, I have quite a few pictures. It's more than some people have.

AWARDS

I have been blessed and fortunate to be on the receiving end, lately, of a number of blogging awards. Moncha Eilis of "Dreaming of Avalon" has awarded me the Arte y Pico award, above, which is given to bloggers based on their creativity, design, interesting material, and contribution to the blogging community, no matter what language.

Here's what Moncha has to say: "Julie shares lovely stories about Celtic culture and her own life, together with beautiful pictures. I love the Celtic look her blog has and as I am very interested in Celtic culture, I can learn a lot by reading the stories."

The Arte y Pico award originated in a blog of the same name, by a creative lady named Eseya in Uruguay. I can guess what arte means in Spanish. Any one know what pico means?

Karen (KJ) at "eye-dyllic" and Carol of "Charli and Me" both gave me the "E" award for excellence in blogging. Carol chose my art blog, "Julie Julie" for this award, which is very flattering, to say the least.

And last but by no means least, Louise at "At the Pink Gate" has awarded me the "I've got a friend in you" award.

Now comes the part I dread - sharing this award with others. Not that I dread sharing. I dread singling out just a few blogs from among the 50 on my sidebar. I believe this causes hurt feelings among those who are "left out". Having been left out of things plenty of times in my childhood - and adult life, come to think of it - I choose not to perpetuate those feelings.

I have actually thought about not accepting awards at all. But that wouldn't be fair to the bloggers who were gracious enough to choose me. And even though I am almost through reading Eckhart Tolle's "A New World", and know that the ego needs to be suppressed, I still have a big enough ego to be thrilled to be singled out.

I've thought of not passing along the awards I receive. One of the awards came with a stipulation that to even accept it, I had to obligate myself to name at least a dozen other recipients for the award, so perhaps I should not even include it in this post. The trouble is, I am a bit of a rebel. As Craig Ferguson says, "I just can't live by your rules, man!"

Fortunately, some choices have already been made for me. My friends Robyn at "Tales of Inglewood" and Annie at "Bimbimbie" have already been awarded the Arte y Pico award. Hear, hear, I second that! Janet at "The Lavender Loft" has already been given the "Friend" award, and I couldn't have named a better blogging friend than Janet. And my friend Joyce at "The Secret Gardener" has already won the "Excellence" award, and you couldn't find a more deserving person.

So that leaves me only 46 names to choose from. I could say, "I award all three awards to all of you." But that would be a cop out.

Or, I could choose some people - maybe 2, maybe 5, maybe 10, who knows or needs to know how many - and let the recipients know privately. Which I will be doing.

And thank you, thank you to those who gave me these awards. "Due to circumstances beyond my control" I haven't been much of a blogging friend lately. Therefore I will try harder to deserve the "Friends" award. For the same reason, I haven't been very inspired lately, so I will try to be a more "Excellent" blogger. And I haven't posted as much about the Celts as I had planned to when I started blogging, so I will try harder to live up to the expectations of the "Arte y Pico" award.

CAN YOU SPOT IT?

(Photo from The Bismarck (ND) Tribune)

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Caption: "This eastern screech owl is perfectly camouflaged as he naps in a Bismarck elm tree on Monday. Eastern screech owls average 8.5 inches and 6 ounces, and come in three color variations, but gray, like this one, is the most common in the Midwest."

**********

Isn't Mother Nature fantastic?

TWO AND A HALF MEMES

WISH I LOOKED LIKE THIS NOW!

ONE IS NO LESS A BLESSING.

It's been a while since I posted, but I'm still here. I've been busy working on my first ever round robin art project - an altered book that I need to mail out by April 1. I've posted some scans on my art blog and hope to post some more this evening or tomorrow.

But I haven't forgotten that I was challenged to do some memes a while ago (okay, QUITE a while ago). Both Mary from "Across the Pond" and KJ from "eye-dyllic" challenged me to post a photo and write a six-word biography to go with it. I couldn't find one of the photos I wanted to use, so I went with two others (two taggers equals two photos).

The first "autobiography" is self explanatory to any woman over the age of 40! Oh, for the days when I was slim, had no dark shadows under my eyes, and no turkey neck!

The second one might be a bit more enigmatic. "One is no less a blessing" is a retort to a question I've been asked for over 20 years: "You only have the ONE child?", or "Why didn't you have more children?"

My first answer might be to say, "None of your beeswax!" But I'm not as rude as Daniel Day-Lewis, who told a reporter "None of your ------ business" after a harmless question during the post-Academy Awards Q&As.

So, I usually answered, "I was pregnant five times and was able to carry only one child full term. It wasn't my choice." If I had to have "JUST" one, I couldn't have picked a better kid. It was true when she was a child, and it's true today as she nears the end of grad school. Dan and I have been truly blessed by our ONE child.

(P. S. I am also irked when the hostess asks "Just one?" when I'm dining alone. I usually retort, "One is enough", or "One is plenty!")

This meme was very fun. I thought it would be difficult but I could have done many "Mini Bios". I am not going to challenge anyone but would love to see what you come up with.

I was also asked by Noni (Mary Anne) of "Peacock Blue" to list six non-important things/habits/quirks about myself. I've already done the five random/weird things about me several times before so I hope I can think of six new ones.

1. I love Russell Stover raspberry whip eggs with dark chocolate. They are only sold at Easter and they take them off the shelves right after Easter. I know - I've checked at a number of stores this week.) I am jonesing for one right now.

2. I was working for Pan Am when I got married (no, not as a stewardess) and my husband and I flew to Greece for our honeymoon at a deep, deep discount.

3. I hated my green/hazel eyes when I was young. I thought blue eyes were the prettiest. I told my friends I had had blue eyes until I got the measles and this made them change color. (I think this fib came from the fact that when I had the measles I was kept in a dark room because it was believed measles could "settle in the eyes".)

4. When I had the measles, I was given two dolls. One had a red dress with white polka dots and one had a white dress with red polka dots. I called them my "measle dolls" because of the occasion and because of the "spots" on their dresses.

5. The smell of citronella mosquito candles makes me sick to my stomach. So does most incense. I could never be a real hippie because of that! I recently found some "Pure and Natural" incense from Target that doesn't make me sick so I often burn it when I am on the computer (but not when Dan is home).

The smell of eucalyptus and potpourri makes my daughter sick. I used to take her shopping with me to home decor/gift shops. One step inside the door and she could detect it: "Ewww, potpourri." Now that she seldom makes it back to North Dakota, I can have potpourri out most of the year.

6. Since my husband used to love to order escargot in restaurants (back when we had money), I bought an escargot kit and invited another couple over for a gourmet dinner with escargot as the appetizer course. Everyone got food poisoning but me. You think I'm crazy enough to eat snails?

ALBAN EILER

THE GODDESS EOSTRE AND SPRING HARES -

SYMBOLS OF THE VERNAL EQUINOX

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For those of us in the Central Time Zone, the vernal equinox occurred in the wee hours this morning, at 12:58 a.m. I never knew that today was such an important day! I've always known about the vernal - or spring - equinox, when days and nights are of equal length. But I didn't know about the sacredness of the vernal equinox and its place in the wheel of the year until I started exploring the Celtic World.

I discovered that the vernal equinox was a holy time of transition for the Ancient Celts, who called it Alban Eiler, Light of the Earth (or Alban Eilir to the Druids). This rare balance in nature made these days a powerful time for the Magic of the Ancient Druids. It's a time of renewal and new growth, when the natural world is re-born. On this day when the earth tilts on its axis away from winter, the God of Light conquers the God of Darkness.

But the Celts weren't the only ones who held this day in reverence. It was celebrated long before them, by the Megalithic people who lived in Britain before the arrival of the Celts, the Romans and the Saxons. Ancient Greeks, Ancient Romans, Ancient Mayans all celebrated the equinox, as did Native Americans. Ancient Persians called it NawRaz, their New Year's Day. The Ancient Germans called it Ostara, after the Germanic fertility goddess. To the Ancient Saxons this day was called Eostre.

You can see that the word closely resembles the word Easter, a Christian holiday that became extremely intertwined with the pagan spring celebrations. The Legend of Eostre tells how this goddess found an injured bird. To save its life, she transformed it into a hare. But the transformation was not a complete one. The bird took the appearance of a hare, but retained the ability to lay eggs. The hare would lay these eggs and leave them as gifts for Eostre. Other names for the vernal equinox are White Spring and Bird Festival.

For some, it is the Feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. "The old and accepted folk name for the vernal equinox was Lady Day," writes Mike Nichols at geocities.com. However, Wiccans have appropriated this name for their celebrations of the equinox. "Christians sometimes insist that the title is in honor of Mary and her Annunciation," says Nichols, "But Pagans smile knowingly."

I am not a witch or Wiccan. However, I see no harm in observing some of the ancient pagan rituals associated with the equinox. Egg decorating, egg rolling and egg gathering are three such rituals, but to me those are best left to Easter.

It is said that on the spring equinox, the sun dances with the water at sunrise. Neopagans gather at lakes or ponds at dawn to see this occurrence in warmer climes, but that's not very fun to do in North Dakota in March!

Some things that a Northerner could do would be to tie colored ribbons or strips of fabric to a tree chosen to represent the Tree of Life, plant a pot of grass seed, buy spring-flowering plants, force lilac or forsythia branches indoors. Every culture that celebrated the equinox considered it a time for feasting, and I celebrate that!

THE CELTIC WHEEL OF THE YEAR, WITH ITS

FOUR MAJOR AND FOUR MINOR HOLIDAYS

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Here in North Dakota, the trees and flowers have no buds, the grasses are not green, the birds are not yet laying their eggs. It's too early for riotous spring festivals. But we can observe the equinox in quiet ways too. Since this is the day when daylight and dark are equally balanced, we can use this day to examine the balance or lack thereof in our own lives. We can spring houseclean, either literally, by decluttering, or figuratively, by cleaning our psyches.

Today is a day to seek equilibrium, to re-balance our energies. It's a time for new hope, new beginnings, new relationships, a time to make life changes if we so desire. And also for me, time to see if I can find some pussy willows to bring home.


NOTE: I first published this last March 20. Added this year:

Have you wondered why Easter is so early this year? In fact, do you wonder how the date for Easter is determined, and why it jumps all over the spring calendar?

It's simple. The date for Easter is calculated to be the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox. The equinox is today, the full moon is tomorrow, and hence Sunday is Easter. This Easter falls on the second earliest date that Easter can ever be observed. It has not been this early since 1913, and the next time Easter falls on March 23 will be in 2160.

It is supposed to snow later today, and snow showers are forecast for tomorrow and Saturday as well, so there will be no Easter parades, wearing of Easter bonnets, egg rolling or egg hunts in Bismarck this weekend!

For all of you who are in the same (cold) boat I am regarding crummy Easter weather, take comfort in this: Those of us alive today will never again see Easter fall this early. We won't be around in 2160, nor on March 22, 2285, when Easter will fall on absolute earliest date it can ever be held.

Some of us might still be around to see the latest possible Easter date, April 25, in 2038.

But cheer up, it's only 3 years until Easter happens on the second latest possible date, on April 24, 2011! Start planning your Easter parade finery now!

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY

THE CLADDAGH – THE TRADITIONAL IRISH SYMBOL FOR
FRIENDSHIP (HANDS), LOVE (HEART) AND LOYALTY (CROWN)

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NOTE: I wrote this post on Saturday, March 17, 2007. Since no one was reading my blog back then, I thought I would reprint it this year.

This is only the second St. Patrick's Day that I've known I am of Irish descent. Before then, I didn't know who my birth father was. After being contacted by a second cousin who found me out of the blue, it turns out I am a Cody through my paternal grandmother. I have a great-great-grandmother named Bridget Cody. How Irish is that? I might even be distantly related to famed American frontiersman Buffalo Bill Cody. (My Cody family genealogist cousin is still working on that one.)

I have mixed feelings about this, being rather bitter that I missed out on celebrating my Irish heritage from childhood on, as I was able celebrate my Scottish and especially, Norwegian heritages. I have always FELT Irish, if that makes any sense. When I was a kid I even fibbed about being Irish on St. Patrick's Day. For years after I grew up, I wore an "Irish At Heart" pin. When I was researching the Scottish Munro clan, I discovered that the Munros may have come from Ireland. "There's the connection! I am validated!", I thought. Now that I know without a doubt that I am one quarter Irish, I feel that I should celebrate the day in some way.

However, I didn't wish to drink green beer, wear a stupid plastic green hat, and go around spouting "Sure and Begorrah” and "Erin Go Bragh.” Neither my husband nor I are into corned beef and cabbage. There are no Irish parades in this primarily German city. Thanks to my Irish-by-marriage niece Lisa Kelly, who has sent me St. Patrick’s Day boxes for years, I have a large collection of Irish decorations. However, I didn't put them up this year. (Lisa is incredible. Only she would think to send me a pair of her daughter's Irish dance shoes. Such a personal and authentic touch to add to an Irish vignette!)

I don't like the images of Irish people as drunks and Paddys. I don't like silly little leprechauns and pots o’gold. I'm not good at blarney and hopefully I'm not too maudlin.I did wear green today, even though I was seen by only two other people, who were working overtime like me. I also pinned on my four Irish pins: a shamrock, two claddaghs and an Irish angel holding a shamrock (all four are small, so I pin them on in a diamond pattern to make a bigger impact).

After work I brought out my collection of vintage St. Patrick's Day postcards to peruse. They are part of my collection of holiday cards from the Golden Age of Postcards from the turn of the century to the 1930s. I am lucky to have some Ellen Clapsaddle cards, as they are highly valued.

But what else could I do? I searched some websites about St. Patrick’s Day celebrations and came up with only one that spoke to me. If I lived in a large city, I would have leaped at the first suggestion: to attend a play by an Irish playwright, like John Millington Synge. However, the next suggestion was appealing: have a glass of Irish whiskey, sit by a fire, and read some good Irish stories, poetry and ballads.

Thanks to Lisa, I have just the book: "Ireland in Poetry", edited by Charles Sullivan. It's a collection of poems by Irish poets, dating from the Celts to modern-day writers. They are accompanied by a selection of drawings, paintings, sculptures and photographs by Irish artists.
William Butler Yeats once wrote,"Wherever green is worn, a terrible beauty is born." Ireland's troubled history is full of terrible beauty and terrible tragedy. What is admirable about this book, the jacket says, is that it covers both sides - that of the green (the Republic of Ireland) and the orange (Northern Ireland), the Catholics and the Prods (Protestants).

I don't have any Irish whiskey, and probably wouldn't like it if I did, but I am going to have a glass - or two at the most - of Black Velvet, a nice Canadian whiskey. Better than a couple of pitchers of green beer any day, and a much better way to spend a St. Patrick's Day evening. I will read my book, sip my whiskey and raise my glass and say Slainte! (rather than the Skoal that I was brought up to say). I will toast all the Codys I have never met, and never will.

And I will save my celebrating for a true Celtic holiday like Alban Eiler, Beltane or Samhain. Meanwhile, for all of you, an Irish poem with which I was already familiar (see below), and this greeting: “Beannachtai La Fheile Padraig Duit” (In Gaelic: Blessings of Saint Patrick's Day.)

*****

THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE

*****

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, and a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
*****
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all aglimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of linnet's wings
*****
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

*****

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939

"MEETING ON THE TURRET STAIRS"

Fredrick Burton

SUZANNE

SUZANNE VERDAL

**********

I mentioned several posts ago that The Dave Clark Five was to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this past Monday. That same day, Canadian poet/songwriter/performer Leonard Cohen was also inducted. Although I don't agree that Cohen should be in that particular hall of fame, he should be in some hall of fame, somewhere, for his haunting lyrics. Perhaps the Modern Poets Hall of Fame?

One of my favorites of his poem/songs is "Suzanne." I have read several bloggers who identify strongly with the song. I did as well. I wanted to be Suzanne. I thought I WAS Suzanne.

Reading the lyrics now, I see that Cohen actually used very few words to describe Suzanne. But with those words, I can conjure up this Bohemian, artistic, half woman half child. I can imagine her eccentric but pretty clothing, watch her choreographing her dances, and be with her as she whiles away the evenings with her compatriots in funky little cafes. I can visualize her quaint place by the river, with its houseplants, several cats, beaded curtains, fabrics draped on furniture and scarves draped over lamp shades.

I wanted to be a girl like Suzanne. I still do.

Did you know there was an actual Suzanne? Her name was Suzanne Verdal. She really did have a place by the river in Montreal in the early 1960s, and she really did feed Cohen tea and oranges. She was the muse of dozens of poets in Montreal's beat scene, but Cohen was the one who immortalized her.

She recalls, "I went and was very much interested in the waterfront. The St. Lawrence River held a particular poetry and beauty to me and (I) decided to live there . . . Leonard heard about this place I was living, with crooked floors and a poetic view of the river, and he came to visit me many times. We had tea together many times and mandarin oranges."

She says she and Cohen were never lovers in the physical sense, but they did have a deep spiritual union.

I took the above quotations from The Story of Suzanne, an interview she gave to BBC radio. You can read the entire interview here: http://www.leonardcohenfiles.com/verdal.html

At the end of the interview, Suzanne was asked what the song meant to her now. Her reply:

"There’s a little bit of a bittersweet feeling to it that I retain. I guess I miss the simpler times that we lived and shared. I don’t mean to be maudlin about it, but we’ve kind of gone our different ways and lost touch and some of my most beloved friends have departed from this planet into the other spheres. And there’s sometimes a very real homesickness for Montreal and that wonderful time."

(Interviewer) Saunders: "So it almost has become a symbol of your youth, if you like?"

Suzanne: "Oh absolutely, and for many of us, I hold dear this time, very much so."

**********

I, too, hold those days very dear. And perhaps that is why this song means as much to me now as it did then.

**********

"SUZANNE"

By Leonard Cohen

Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NOTE ADDED FRIDAY:

I am not really a fan of Leonard Cohen's singing. I actually prefer listening to his beautiful poetry performed by other artists. The most beautiful song, ever, in my opinion, is "Hallelujah" as performed by Jeff Buckley on Buckley's CD "Grace".

Another CD that I listen over and over again to is a Cohen tribute: "Tower of Song: The Songs of Leonard Cohen." On this, "Suzanne" is performed by Peter Gabriel. Other artists who interpret Cohen's songs on this CD include Tori Amos, Suzanne Vega, Don Henley, Sting and The Chieftains, Trisha Yearwood, Bono, Elton John and Willie Nelson ("Bird on a Wire").