On Wings of Song, Happy Birthday!

Dear Mrs. M_:

On wings of song my affections to you fly! Happy birthday!

The English poetess and writer, Christina Rossetti (1830-1894,) wrote a poem on her birthday. She was thankful for her special day underpinned by Providence’s care, “My heart is like a singing bird…/Because the birthday of my life/Is come, my love is come to me.”

When one was young, he hardly stopped to admire the “primrose by a river’s brim”. After all, it was “a yellow primrose was to him,/And it was nothing more.” So perceived Wordsworth. In the arrow of the time, similarly, Browning’s “Pippa’s Song” has become more endearing to those who are living in the last of the seven stages of man.

Notwithstanding these final August days of sultry noons and hot breaths, they do bring on the glories of soft evening hours and the tinkles of wind chimes. Would you mind then sauntering along with me to the sunset tree—sauntering slowly in the twilight breeze while listening to Handel’s “Where’er You Walk”? Perhaps the tenor voice of Richard Lewis would enthrall on your birthday this halcyon year.

Ever in His grace,

L'

It Ain’t Macbeth, Watson

Watson, '“something wicked this way comes.”'

I took this picture this morning; a few feet from the motion-sensor light unit where I set it across from the persimmon tree. Some wild thing was looking at the fruit last night. Notice on the left of the picture a deep scarring paw print; a less distinguished paw print on the right. I surmised it was a heavy animal. It could be the possums and or raccoons have returned for the summer season. See what comes tomorrow, I might put a ruler on the ground to measure the prints.

"Approprite and cleaver, Watson. You know your Bard. Now put on your Fedora. The game is afoot."

"Thank you, Holmes. If it is the same to you, I will wear my bowler. By the way, I liked your pun, too."

History of Their Deeds Can Tell

Fourth of July Ode
James Russell Lowell
1892

I.
Our fathers fought for Liberty,
	They struggled long and well,
	History of their deeds can tell—
But did they leave us free?


II.
Are we free from vanity,
	Free from pride, and free from self,
	Free from love of power and pelf,
From everything that's beggarly?


III.
Are we free from stubborn will,
	From low hate and malice small,
	From opinion's tyrant thrall?
Are none of us our own slaves still?


IV.
Are we free to speak our thought,
	To be happy, and be poor,
	Free to enter Heaven's door,
To live and labor as we ought?


V.
Are we then made free at last
	From the fear of what men say,
	Free to reverence To-day,
Free from the slavery of the Past?


VI.
Our fathers fought for liberty,
	They struggled long and well,
	History of their deeds can tell—
But ourselvesmust set us free.

Then Came Hot July, Boiling Like to Fire

Moments ago, I took this picture of a freezer thermometer in the shaded garage. The thermometer reading maxed out at 90°F. It is hotter still outside of the house. It is 104°F at this writing. I am not quite naked as Spenser intoned (ha ha). Nevertheless, few verses of his came to mind on this first day of July.

"Then came hot July, boiling like to fire,
That all his garments he had cast away;
Upon a lion raging yet with ire
He boldly rode, and made him to obey."

Filled My Heart with a Quiet Joy

“I can see it now: the little brown house, with its sloping roof, its clumsy old chimneys, and its vine-clad porch; where the brown bee hummed his drowsy song, and my silver-haired old father sat dozing the sultry summer noons away, with shaggy Bruno at his feet. The bright earth had no blight or mildew then for me. The song of the little birds, resting beneath the eaves, filled my heart with a quiet joy.”

— Fanny Fern, 1854.

L's addendum from Jeremiah 31:26,

"At this I awoke and looked, and my sleep was pleasnt to me."

May you fathers have a restful and quite joy in this Father's Day!

The Peoples Republic of Berkeley Days and Garden Entropy

Sather Tower (Campanile), UC Berkeley

Dear S_:

Did we ever meet and swan about at UC Berkeley?

While matriculated in the vicintiy of the west Science buildings (e.g., Biology, Operations Research, and Biochemistry), I was far away from the east Administration buildings and the UCB landmark Sather Tower (Campanile).

I remember hangin-out with some people. There was John, the astrophysics Ph.D candidate, David, the optometrist to be, and Patrick, the accounting or economics student. There were a few other guys in the group whose names I do not recall. After I earned my post-graduate degree from the People’s Republic of Berkeley, the people in the group scattered in these United States. It's par for the course; I’ve lost touch with them.

You are the only one left. The one and only UCB grad and the Lawrence Livermore person with which I am still in contact. Do you recall an email episode where you and I dwelled on the math (without using the WWII analog computer method) 'Angle on the Bow' of a submarine game? It was fun.

The Second Law of Thermodynamics is in effect daily and every moment with the living. It is still very undiscerning or unaware of to the populace. Entropy is most pronounced in spring. It is much more so after an abundant raining season; like the one we had this year.

Springtime is where entropy (chaos) is really visible in my gardens. I spent the last two weeks, cleaned the patio and bistros, examined the bubblers and their water hose, cleared the wild and massively scattered California poppies and weeds, trimmed three types of European lavender shrubs, manicured gardenia and roses bushes, and propagated the Echeveria and Crassula succulents; a total of 18 pots! Also, I had my annual ritual of 6-week springtime combat to contain (though hopelessly) the Hoplia beetles; the devouring insect of my pastel color roses.

And since there are no red ferns and coonhounds in our neck of the woods, the neighboring dogs just barks at the intruders so to earn their Kibbles. This past week I placed two motion-sensor LED lights with a slim hope of keeping the raccoons and the North America Opossums away from the house.

Energy of my was applied and will keep applying to keep my garden universe from descending into a chaotic mess (entropy).

Having quaffed several bottles of sports drink, enough was enough for spring garden maintenance. That leaves (pun) the gardener to trim the rest of the flora. e.g., the Bougainvilleas, the flowering vines, the Lilacs, the Clematis, the ornamental Pomegranate, and etc.

Of course, my preceding discussion on entropy is a microcosm of life.

The Bible already implied that life on earth (birth and growth) is invariably follow by death (dust to dust), the ultimate in entropy (Genesis 3:19). Humanity lost the privilege of entering God’s rest when mankind fallen from grace in Eden (Hebrews 4:3-5). All the generational evolving “better mouse traps” (i.e., updated version of whatever) are ways of making some form of entropy easier and better for life’s maintenance. Entropy resulting from sin does not ever go away. From the ‘A’ Train to Zarathustra it will always shadow humanity every moment until He comes again. Until then, God's love for His creation continues. What God creates, He also sustains. Therefore, Providence graces all humanity, evil and good, with sun and rain (Matthew 5:45). When God returns, He shall separate the redeemed (wheat) from the arrogant unbelieving humanists (chaffs). See Matthew 3:12.

Your last correspondence was much appreciated. It does not matter if Virgil’s Aeneid hoc opus, hic labor est applies. Your trip from California to visit the widow in Boise, ID, was much more than going the extra mile, literally. God "upholds the widow" (Psalm 146:9). Your gestures was an expression of Christian love par excellence.

May God’s countenance enwrap you and your loved ones.

L’

Kung Pao Chili and Rib Eye Steaks

3 June, 2023

Dear A_:

“'tis impossible he should; cannot creep into a
halfpenny purse, nor into a pepper-box.”
- Shakespeare

But, A_, I've kept all three bottles of your past and present gifts of homegrown chilies!

Of course, thanks for the delights of your gardens. I had the fresh zucchini last night for supper. Pan fried in Granoloa oil, and with a dash of garlic. It was delicious! As for the basil and rosemary sprigs, they are being air dry. And for the Kung Pao chili, I have plans for its use, too.

L'

p.s. I most likely would be shopping for a rib eye steak and thinking of smothering it with the Kung Pao chili after it is cooked. Francis Ford would probably be "horn-mad" what I proposed to do with the meat.

Thy Friends Are Exultations, Agonies, and Love

Thou hast left behind
Powers that will work for thee; earth, air, and skies,
There’s not a breathing of the common wind
That will forget thee; thou hast great allies;
Thy friends are exultations, agonies,
And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.

— Wordsworth

The Heart of a Mother Has Gone with Thee

Hast thou sounded the depths of yonder sea,
And counted the sands that under it be?
Hast thou measured the height of heaven above?
Then may’st thou mete out a mother’s love.

Hast thou talked with the blessed of leading on
To the throne of God some wandering son?
Hast thou witnessed the angel’s bright employ?
Then may’st thou speak of a mother’s joy.

Evening and morn hast thou watched the bee
Go forth on her errands of industry.
The bee for himself hath gathered and toiled,
But the mother’s cares are all for her child.

Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought afar—
From pole to pole, and from star to star?
Thou hast—but on ocean, earth, and sea,
The heart of a mother has gone with thee.

There is not a grand, inspiring thought,
There is not a truth by wisdom taught,
There is not a feeling pure and high,
That may not be read in mother’s eye.

And ever, since earth began, that look
Has been to the wise an open book,
To win them back from the lore they prize,
To the holier love that edifies.

There are teachings in earth, and sky, and air,
The heavens the glory of God declare;
But louder than voice, beneath, above,
He is heard to speak through a mother’s love.

Emily Taylor, 1888

Wherewithal the Seasonable Month Endows

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
      Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in the embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
      Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit tree wild;
      White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;
                  And mid-May's wildest child,
      The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

—John Keat