They Were "Us" . . .

These color photos of the '30's and 40's (clickable) just emerged from the Library of Congress.

Haunting.  Haunting.  Why should color from the past - make it so much more real?

The anonymous people, our ancestors, battlefields -  were always 'then' . . . the 'past' . . .  a strange 'before now' time . . that peered from black and white photographs.  And now this.

Why does it affect me, so?   Perhaps because the same sun that colors our lives, now falls on their faces, on their shining hair, on the fields they plow.  It is a world of blood, sweat and tears.  No longer just a black and white recording of others in a strange other time.

It's unsettling to see these wraiths as no different from me.  After all, they lived so long ago . .  . in that less nuanced world .  . that static two-dimensional world where ghostly images drift.  And they are probably gone - vanished into that gauzy black and white world.  Surely different laws reigned over their lives, than do mine.  But no,  I am now disabused of the notion that  I am more 'now' than they could ever have been.

Truly.  I am moved and amazed at the difference that throwing the palette of common daily life across the past, makes in my perception.

Thank you, Laura.  You should have seen it in color.  Click for a very poignant song.



__________________________________________________

This Is More Like It !

Hubby made it upstairs with his new knee.   It was the siren call of his flight simulator that got him to the top of those steep steps.  I thought I heard him calling.  Raced to the bottom of the stairs.  "There's a bird outside my window with a red head," says he.

"Groan." says I.  Plod up the stairs to see what I know will be a Cardinal, a House Finch, a Red-bellied Woodpecker . . .

But waaaait . . . something's wrong with this bird.   A leucistic finch?  No.  There's more than one.
Holy Kamoly.  Grab the smelling salts!  My first White-winged Crossbills - Evah !

Thank you dear hubby.

AND.   In googling images of Crossbills . . . ended up on this unbelievable Flicker River of Indiana bird photography.   It goes forever . . . just like the perfect dream should . . . during the heart of January.

It's the Indiana Audubon Society's Bird Gallery and Archive
(That's a clickable link)

Update:  Did want to mention that after failing to get a pix of them in the tree limbs .. . they dropped into my birdbath . . whence . . . voila ! ^

________________________________

_________________________________________________

A Poem Born of Fatigue

Do not read this if you're feeling tired or blue.   The title and sense of the poem have been in my head for a few years.  The fatigue of the last days . . . settled onto the page.  Life is good,  just a little tough sometimes . . . and surely, too short.


                                  Falling Away

Some things don't change.

Mid January.

The sunlight finds a path
through the clouds 

that blanket the horizon.

The patterns it creates on the walls,

falling through winter branches,

are familiar.

It's the sun.  
Pushing back the covers.

Stretching its broad back

to start the year over again.

In this house, for years,

I've watched the seasons

blur one into another.

Buckling soil above greening shoots,

rhapsodic bloom,  resultant seeds, 

endless lawns,

leaf-drop.

Mid January.

I sit watching patterns.

Timeless.

Only I, have changed.

Only the family pictures,

on the sun-drenched sill,

mark time . .

falling away.



























________________________________

Just a new knee, but prayers please . .UPDATE :)

MADE IT THROUGH SURGERY IN AN HOUR.   ON ORAL AND VENOUS PAIN MEDICATIONS AND A NERVE BLOCK AND CRACKING US UP AND STILL TAKING CHARGE.

My best friend.  He's getting a new knee Thursday morning.